Jetlag

My brain is stuffed with cotton, and that cotton has been soaking in some kind of heavy syrup for a week and then woven into the tightest weave ever before being stuffed inside my skull. I'm not sure where my brain went. I think it's hovering about 2 feet above my cotton-filled cranium, watching everything I do through a haze of cotton plants.

That is how full my head feels at the moment. I'm not drunk, although my ability to think is more impaired than usual.

Jetlag.

I can honestly say I've never experienced it before.

Speaking of travel, I never want to fly again. I say that every time I get off of an airplane, so that statement doesn't exactly express intent. I'm going to Italy next year, after all, and I'm certainly not going to cross the ocean on a freaking boat. Given the choice of 12 hours of panic-ing out (plane) versus a week and a half of hysterics (boat), I'll self-medicate and do the 12 hour thing. I've seen Titanic. I don't think I can be sedated enough to even step foot on the Queen Mary 2.

Speaking of flying, those airlines really have a thing going there. People pay truckloads of money to go to DisneyWhatever and Paramount TakeMyMoney Studios and ride those crazy upside-down-stop-on-a-dime-with-a-side-of-heart-attack machines they call roller coasters. The airlines? Give you the same sensation but charge you $600 for a ticket and $10 for a sandwich. Oh yes, they no longer give you food on trans-national flights without charging you for the fake mayo.

The only fun thing about flying is the few seconds before landing. The Professor and I have a game where we try to guess whether the pilot is former Navy (the pilot doesn't slow much before the wheels touch and the landing is hard enough that it feels like you are going to actually tunnel under the runway) or Air Force (gentle landing from a pilot that knows he has space to not kill every organism on board, that then makes you worry that he is not slowing down enough and you will plow through the buildings at the end of the runway).

So either way I always think I'm going to die. But I get a few seconds every flight to play a game. Somehow, I never find that a worthy trade-off. Yay for games?

And yesterday - or two nights ago, more specifically (I think) - two of my three flights started with the pilot saying "The first half of our flight should be fairly smooth", which leaves my brain an hour and a half to wonder what the hell is going to happen in the second half of our flight. Is there a herd of pterodactyls waiting on the other side of the Rockies? Is the fake mayo going to respond unfavorably to the change in air pressure and spontaneously combust? Why is Blogger telling me that "combust" is not a word?

So, jetlag.

Jetlag

My brain is stuffed with cotton, and that cotton has been soaking in some kind of heavy syrup for a week and then woven into the tightest weave ever before being stuffed inside my skull. I'm not sure where my brain went. I think it's hovering about 2 feet above my cotton-filled cranium, watching everything I do through a haze of cotton plants.

That is how full my head feels at the moment. I'm not drunk, although my ability to think is more impaired than usual.

Jetlag.

I can honestly say I've never experienced it before.

Speaking of travel, I never want to fly again. I say that every time I get off of an airplane, so that statement doesn't exactly express intent. I'm going to Italy next year, after all, and I'm certainly not going to cross the ocean on a freaking boat. Given the choice of 12 hours of freaking out (plane) versus a week and a half of hysterics (boat), I'll self-medicate and do the 12 hour thing. I've seen Titanic. I don't think I can be sedated enough to even step foot on the Queen Mary 2 herself.

Speaking of flying, those airlines really have a thing going there. People pay truckloads of money to go to DisneyWhatever and Paramount TakeMyMoney Studios and ride those crazy upside-down-stop-on-a-dime-with-a-side-of-heart-attack machines they call roller coasters. The airlines? Give you the same sensation but charge you $600 for a ticket and $10 for a sandwich. Oh yes, they no longer give you food on trans-national flights without charging you for the fake mayo.

The only fun thing about flying is the few seconds before landing. The Professor and I have a game where we try to guess whether the pilot is former Navy (the pilot doesn't slow much before the wheels touch and the landing is hard enough that it feels like you are going to actually tunnel under the runway) or Air Force (gentle landing from a pilot that knows he has space to not kill every organism on board, that then makes you worry that he is not slowing down enough and you will plow through the buildings at the end of the runway).

So either way I always think I'm going to die. But I get a few seconds every flight to play a game. Somehow, I never find that a worthy trade-off. Yay for games?

And yesterday - or two nights ago, more specifically (I think) - two of my three flights started with the pilot saying "The first half of our flight should be fairly smooth", which leaves my brain an hour and a half to wonder what the hell is going to happen in the second half of our flight. Is there a herd of pterodactyls waiting on the other side of the Rockies? Is the fake mayo going to respond unfavorably to the change in air pressure and spontaneously combust? Why is Blogger telling me that "combust" is not a word?

So, jetlag.

Stream-Of-Consciousness Vacation Thoughts That Would Have Been a Weekend-Long Live Blog If I Wanted The Criminals to Know I Was Away From Home

Thursday, 6 AM: The only reason to get up before noon on the first day of vacation is because my sister, the pool and the adult beverages are 8 hours away and not in my backyard.

10 AM: This whole "travelling with a broken CD player and malfunctioning Zune" means that The Professor and I have two options: babble for hours (that would be me) or listen to stupid morning radio shows. HOW do these people get paid for that job? I'm way funnier (in that they are about as fun as watching paint dry) and I have much better taste in music. I just can't play any of it right now.

11 AM: Solution: Stopped to buy a converter so I can plug my laptop into the car. Peace and harmony are restored. This means it's nap time.

4:30 PM: Sister hugged, beverage in hand, pool in sight. We're making Big Plans for the evening that involve a trivia show, more beverages, beach walking, a meteor shower, and midnight swimming. People, we are serious Partiers. BE WARNED.

1:00 AM: We won the Trivia game, but The Meteor Shower That Wasn't has won in life, in that it is apparently an invisible meteor shower? But all's good, because my brother-in-law has taken over making my drinks. I probably should only have 1 of these if I plan to be able to walk tomorrow.

3:30 AM: Do I think I'm still 21 or something?

Friday, Noon: Yeah. Should've stopped the brother-in-law after one drink (where "one" equals "the first one *he* made for me, not the first of the evening). Life Lesson for us all: Just because you have a Master's Degree does not mean you possess a whole lot of intelligence.

3 PM: My niece put in season 1 of The Simpsons and then - OH DEAR LORD - informed me they have the first 10 seasons on DVD.

6 PM Cooking dinner, almost finished and Sis realized we have no wine chilling for dinner. How will we survive? Either push dinner back by 10 minutes or switch to Rum & Cokes earlier than planned.

8 PM: We will live dangerously and go to a LATE movie. Dear Inception: I hope I still have the brain power at 10:30 PM to understand what the hell you are about. I'm not holding out a lot of hope.

1 AM: Holy Dreamworld, Batman. I may never sleep again. Or maybe I never want to wake up? Either choice seems equally dangerous at the moment.

Saturday, 12:30 PM: The Simpsons is officially the stupidest show ever. Thank god for the Internet. The Professor is loving this, though. Wonder what that says about us?

3 PM: We only had the equivalent of 10 bottles of wine in the house. Obviously I needed to buy more while we were out scouring the area for seafood to make bouillabaisse. No crustacean will be safe from our big pot; no Red safe from our glasses. Red Crustaceans are doubly cursed.

7 PM: Sis just decided we've got this bouillabaisse making thing down, maybe could do it in our sleep. We won't, since we're drinking with candles burning and all. But she's right.

11 PM: If you pour the wine into a beautiful pitcher, it will taste better.

Sunday, 10 AM: We're going to race mother nature and take a trip to the beach as soon as we can all get ready. Who do you think is going to win this?

1 PM: We won - the beach was awesome. Then we came home and lunch has now defeated me. Vacations are for naps, right?

4 PM: Sis and I are making a quick trip out to buy something on sale, and as we're leaving she says gleefully: "By the time we get back, it'll be time for a drink". I love the way this woman thinks. PS: The Simpsons live on.

6:30 PM: Even The Professor has reached his limits on watching The Simpsons. I honestly didn't know this was possible. He has also resorted to rum & juice. Light on the juice, I believe.

6:45 PM: While cleaning the beautiful wine pitcher from the night before - preparing to refill it - Sis finds the warning on the bottom that says "for decorative purposes only; do not use to serve food or drink". Plus side of this: if we grow a third eye anytime soon, we'll know what to tell the doctors!

11 PM: Dr Horrible + Rocky Horror + bottle of red = Best Way to End a Vacation Ever.

Monday, 4 PM: Back home. The cats - oddly - didn't seem to notice we even left. I'm glad no one tried to rob us. The cats would've been useless on the defense front. At least they were smart enough to stay out of my rum.

Alabama? Ireland? Where the Hell am I Again?

And we're home. Home to a couple of (surprisingly) unstressed cats, thanks to the Bestest Friend. Home after a week of more fun than should be allowed, interspersed with many pints of beer, lot of food and very little sleep. I took over 500 pictures (that's all???), and getting them off of my memory card seems like almost more than my mind can handle. We got up 20 hours ago, and I'm determined to stay up til at least 11 tonight (2 more hours) to try and yank my body into the correct time zone. I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see if my brain follows my body back into the Central Time Zone.

Briefly

Yesterday: Beach, National Park, and many Beautiful Views. With a night cap at the local pub. Today: Wineries, with an end-cap at Powell's. Why yes, I am on vacation. How did you know?

I also moonlinght as a tour guide

In case you've spent 2 days wondering - the veggies all got cooked, the food all got eaten and we still don't have an empty beer fridge, but that's a result I can learn to live with. The damn gas on the grill gave out when the chicken was just this side of being safe to eat. Luckily, there was plenty of heat left and I just closed the top and drank a beer while I waited. Then I temped them all with my meat thermometer, and then - because I'm paranoid someone will croak one day as a result of my cooking and tarnish my perfect track record of not killing people - I cut them all open with a knife. Today, we got to play tour guide to the soon-to-be Alabamians. And did I mention they're coming from California? They have so much to look forward to. The Big City up the road really has some good stuff in it, if you ignore all the bad/crazy stuff (I'm looking at YOU Mr. Mayor!). We took them to an Indian restaurant for lunch, as it's one of The Professor's most favoritest places to eat when up in The Big City and our little corner of this county is not quite ready for that much culture exposure. They've given into Mexican, and someone was brave enough this year to put in a Japanese place with "Sushi" proudly proclaimed on its sign. The Indian subcontinent may have to wait awhile longer. We took them up the city park that has the public library, museum of art, city hall and county courthouse around it. It would have been a lovely stroll - except every fountain and reflecting pool was empty and being painted. There was so much fresh paint that the scent of paint hung over the park like a cloud. Everywhere we turned (it's a small park, but still) we smelled it. And Mrs Pregnant California had her first experience of not understanding a word out of a Southerner's mouth when one lady asked her when the baby's due. I told her to mark that one off of her Southern Bingo Card and see what happens next. It didn't take long. Next up was a trip to an antebellum home right in The Big City that survived the Big War (and I hope you know which war that is). Quite a beautiful house and the grounds were lovely, even if it is in a kinda bad area of town.

Arlington Antebellum Home & Gardens

The Californians really liked the look of the huge Magnolia trees growing around the property - some were absolutely huge. I simply love Magnolia flowers, but The Professor doesn't like the vast amounts of leavings these trees drape around your property, so we won't be getting one.

Sugar Magnolia, blossoms bloomin'*

*yes, I know it's not really called a Sugar Magnolia, but that's what the song says.

Ok remember the Southern Bingo Card? After the pretty house and trees, we set out through the city to visit the most famous landmark of all, but before we got there we passed a gas station with a sign that our guests took to mean "Welcome to Alabama". And they weren't far from the truth:

Are you hungry yet?

I'm glad there wasn't any traffic behind us at that red light, because we all wanted pictures of that sign. And now it's saved for posterity and I feel I've done my good deed for humanity for the day. After that, it was on to Vulcan park, which I hadn't visited since...well, since I was very small. And I haven't been very small in a while, so it's been a while. Vulcan, God of the Forge, called us to visit his mighty throne:

Hail, Vulcan!

The best thing about going up to see Vulcan (besides the naked iron butt cheeks, I mean) is the view of the city: After that, we visited another Professor with views of the city even more impressive than Vulcan, stopped for smoothies, tooled around the part of town that they're actually going to be living in, and generally had a good time. Here's to hoping there's one less person (or two) frightened of our fair state. More pictures of the day at my Flickr Photostream: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lildebbie77/

I < heart > Charleston

I know it sounds like I’ve been complaining non stop about this trip. And looking back Saturday on the problems that I’ve focused on…I need to make one thing clear: I have fallen in love with Charleston. Granted, anytime I get 70 degree weather in November, an open air market, a ton of history, easily walked streets, shopping to die for and food! Oh my gosh the food! Fresh seafood. I love salmon. Sing with me… “I love salmon in the springtime…I love salmon in the fall…” You know what else I love? PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA. What? He has nothing to do with Charleston? Well. Get your own blog. Anyway, I love the city. The conference is pretty good; I don’t know that I’m feeling the raptures I’ve heard from a couple of others, but, eh..that’s work. This post is about play. Wednesday night I took the time to stroll along King Street and all the shopping that: A) I cannot fit into the small suitcase I brought with me, and B) I cannot afford, and C) I drooled over anyway. Thursday I came across the market shops: Ok, these pictures aren’t great because I was so busy drooling over the overpriced handmade baskets and jewelry that I forgot to take pictures until I was leaving. Yes, I bought some jewelry. I also found a Harley Davidson store and grabbed an overpriced T-shirt for The Professor. I also found a street cart selling some kind of Caribbean jerk chicken on a stick that was absolutely delicious – the spices were crusted into the chicken and the whole thing was a crispy, spicy awesomeness that made me very thirsty. Luckily, there was a bar across the street and I popped in for a beer before I went back to work. Later in the afternoon, walking between two sessions of the conference, I had to cross Marion Park: And then after my last session for the day, I made it back to my hotel just in time for the beginning of the wine and cheese hour. I love this place. On Friday, I skipped an afternoon session and – after dropping by my hotel to leave off the laptop - I found a restaurant that's over the harbor. It seemed like a good place to get seafood, so I stopped in. Lunch: And the view from my table: I headed out from lunch - that was grilled amber jack with steamed green beans and red rice spiced with Andouille sausage - and had one of several places in mind to visit along Museum Mile. I ended up passing the Old Exchange & Provost Dungeon five minutes before the next tour, so that's where I ended up. That's the Tour Guide in the Dungeon with the Tea. I still had 45 minutes to kill, so I moseyed back down the street that's just dripping with history... ...to my hotel ... ...for a quick 20 minute lie-down before heading back to the conference. After the afternoon sessions, I went back to the market - one of the buildings has different vendors at night - and then stopped and found a great local beer and some Bruschetta Salmon for dinner. AWESOME. I never would have thought of bruschetta and salmon together, but it was great. Then I decided I didn't want to walk around the city after dark by myself. So I came back to the hotel, got some more free wine, and spent some quality time with the internets, which have greatly missed my presence this week. Now I'm just back from my last conference session, waiting for it to be time to wing my way back through the skies to The Professor, The Cats, and Life As I Know It.

More of the fun that I had on Wednesday

It was Wednesday night. I had survived the panic attack, I had re-met a lovely French lady (I don’t remember her name – is it bad that I call her Juliette in my mind? Complete with the pronunciation that Meg Ryan used in French Kiss? Because I totally think of her as JJhhuuliette); I got to my hotel with no incident, checked in and totally fell in love with my room – here’s why: This wing of 5 rooms has only been open for 10 days. Brand new, and I found out later that I was the first person to stay in mine. So, I lounge around for an hour looking at maps and restaurants online, chatting with my sister and watching TV– did I mention the free wifi? – and then head out to the conference reception where I find – blessed be! – free wine. I drink about a glass and a half and head back to the hotel on foot. My feet are killing me – I vow that the shoes I am wearing will never be on my feet again after I get to my room – and so I call the Bestest Friend to distract me for the 12 minute walk. It works (I developed a new mantra for her in her classroom: “The Children are the future and the volunteers are free” – say it, BFF!) and I arrive in my hotel ready for another glass of wine. Problem The First : My card key doesn’t work. No problem, they gave me 2! Problem The Second : It doesn’t work either. So I go back to the front desk – it is, of course, across the building - they cheerfully reprogram my keys and I head back. Problem The Third: They don’t work either. I stand in the hallway wondering if this is the kind of place that will mind if I run around in my socks and try to convince myself that someone with a master’s degree should really be able to open a hotel room all by herself. Unfortunately, the lock didn’t listen to me and I had to go back up front the lady working the desk. I want to say right now that this woman was incredibly nice, funny and just an all around great receptionist. I almost looked forward to going up front. Except…Have I mentioned my laptop was on the other side of that locked door? I was beginning the early stages of withdrawal. This time, she gave me some kind of master key that will open any door in the building. As I trekked back down the hallways – they were growing about a yard on each trip – I had fun imagining what was behind all the doors I passed, because some of them weren’t numbered. They could be ANYthing and I wondered if each one held the secret wine stash for the complimentary 5 o’clock cheese and wine fun that I had missed out on. Problem the Fourth: The master key did not work on my room. It did work on the unmarked door next to my room (it was a conference room, no wine in sight). So I begin walking back up front. Have I mentioned I’m lugging around a bag of conference materials which – since I am a librarian – is just full of publishers’ catalogs? This time, the lovely lady sends her assistant with me without pointing out that trained monkeys have fewer problems getting into hotel rooms. But… Guess what? His key doesn’t work either. The lock is completely malfunctioning. We begin our walk back up front. I’m terrified to look at my feet – I’m convinced that by now, they are oozing out of the seams on the sides of the shoes. But then something wonderful happens. Halfway between the desk and my room is the hospitality suite; we meet the angel from the front on our meanderings and she guides me in, seats me at a very comfy table, brings me the newspaper and asks would I like a glass of wine? Red or white? Do I need a cigarette? She has a Camel Light. I take the wine, refuse the cigarette and settle in to watch Brian Williams on NBC talk about President-Elect Obama, OMG I LOVE TYPING THOSE WORDS SO MUCH I HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN. President-Elect Obama. Can you see my grin? Angel floats in the room 10 minutes later to refill my glass and let me know the repairman’s on his way and they would be more than happy to give me another suite to wait in, if that’s what I’d prefer. Later they would bring my stuff to my new room. At this point, I was more annoyed that she was talking over Mr Williams recap of PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA’S life (because we don’t all know the story by heart by now), but she had brought wine, so I just said no thanks and settled back in. 45 minutes later, the repairman – also an incredibly nice person – came and told me he had replaced my lock. He escorted me back to my room – he refilled my wine glass on the way and apologized profusely for the problems. He’s the one that renovated this wing, and he was horrified that the first person to stay in this room was having a problem. I found out he lived in Birmingham 20 years ago, and we chatted about Riverchase. I did NOT add him to my Christmas card list, but I liked him enough to almost ask his name before I realized I was on the slippery slope of making connections with random strangers all over the place and never remembering any of their names. I may have flirted a little, but I blame it on the wine and the fact that he was reconnecting me with my laptop which I hadn’t touched in TWO AND A HALF HOURS. I have to say that a hotel that cures all its problems with complimentary wine is a place that I will be happy to stay in the future.

My Yankee Husband’s Bad Influence Has Made Me Suspicious Of Everyone

While I was sitting in the Atlanta airport finishing my last post and trying to forget that in another 45 minutes I’d be on yet another plane, I noticed a woman watching me. She was a little older than I am and she seemed to be alone. And she stared at me and her book for equal amounts of time during the 30 minutes that I typed. I had my back firmly against a wall and kept her in my peripheral sights as I did my thing. I’m not usually a paranoid person, but in large airports and strange cities I tend to be more aware. And when my dearest-darling-life-giving laptop is in my clutches, I’m like a mother with a premature baby in the middle of a crowd: convinced that every molecule approaching is the one that will bring an infection and yank the precious baby away. Where do I get my metaphors? Anyway, I kept her in my sights. She had a book, but she was only looking at it half the time. She stood up and walked in front of me once, and I waited to see where she would settle in a new seat so that I could discreetly get up a few minutes later and move in the opposite direction. Instead she walked away and then walked back. And sat down and kept glancing at me every few minutes. I started to tell myself that I was being paranoid – she’d never met my eyes as I glanced at her; maybe she was looking at someone else? Maybe there was a spider on the wall behind me, and she was waiting in case she needed to save my life? Maybe she was figment of my freaking-out imagination? I packed up my laptop and got in line to board the plane, and guess what? You’ll never guess. I wound up sitting behind the woman on the plane. I did meet her eyes as I passed her seat and she smiled at me, lowered her eyes and blushed. AHA! It could only mean one of two things: She had picked me out to commit some horrible act of violence upon or….she’s in love with me. Since it wouldn’t be the first time a woman has hit on me, and since I tend to go with the happier of two solutions, I silently voted for the love-factor. When she turned around in her seat to speak to me, I was still debating which was right. “You do not remember me, I don’t think?” An accent. She definitely had a French accent. The only person I “know” that is French is definitely male – and married to one of my best friends. IF he’d had a sex change operation, I would’ve heard about it. So, no, lovely yet strange French lady. I don’t know you. And now I’m chatting with a total stranger in a plane. Damn it, I have become my sister. “I think you were in France a few years ago?” she volunteered. Um. I was? Oh yeah! I was in Paris two and a half years ago. But…again, the only person I knew while I was in Paris is back in the Deep South, still male, and very still speaking sans accent. And I’m still chatting with her. Damn it, I don’t need another person to make cookies for. “You helped me. In the airport. My baby was sick on my blouse, and you picked up his toy and washed it for him? You remember?” Well, Holy Vomit Batman. Yes I do. She was walking into the bathroom in front of me in THE WORST AIRPORT EVER – Charles de Gaulle – and her very small baby chose that moment to lose his cookies all over her. She dropped his toy on the floor, and I picked it up and washed it for her and handed it to him on the changing table while she changed her shirt in the middle of the bathroom. We barely exchanged a word. I assume that I finished what I had gone into the bathroom to do – it was probably to remind myself that I still loved my husband, because I DO remember that we had a huge fight in the middle of Charles de Gaulle. So I ended up chatting with her for a few minutes (I did not ask for her address to send her a Christmas card – I may have become my sister, but I have not become my godmother. Yet.). I have no French beyond vous lez vous coche a vec moi, and I speak English entirely too fast, but she DOES speak English quite well. And right before she turned around to put her seatbelt on, I asked how in the world she recognized me – because I had looked her straight in the eyes and not known her at all. She smiled and said something to the effect that if I had had a small baby, and a total stranger helped me, I would remember too. “Also,” she smiled. “The eyes. You have very beautiful blue eyes and all that red hair. It’s a shame we are both married to men, no?” Well. I don’t know that it’s a shame – but I welcome compliments on my eyes from all comers. Moral of the story: Baby vomit creates international relationships.

Travelling. And also: I'm a dumbass.

Last week, The Professor and I went on a traveling adventure. I had to go to DC for a conference, so after much paperwork, I convinced the government that I wasn't going to waste a bunch of government funds that could be spent in a better manner, and got to stop and spend time with family on the trip. So, how am I an idiot? My aunt - no, the OTHER aunt - took The Professor and I to Monticello. And after we arrived, paid for tickets (scrounging for cash when their credit card system crashed), took the shuttle up to the house, and then walked out to the gardens, I saw one of the most incredible views in all of Virginia. It was gorgeous. We were on the side of the mountain, in the middle of a beautiful garden, looking out at a view that has to be seen to be believed. Me, being me, whipped out my handy dandy digital camera and snapped the first picture. I love my camera. It's AWESOME (Thank you BestFriend!). And I got something to this effect: "Error! Memory card unavailable. Idiot." Yes, dear readers, I had left the memory card, that so handily slides right into a slot on my laptop, INSIDE said slot on said laptop. So, I slipped the camera inside my purse and decided that at least I'll have the memory of Monticello. With an awesome aunt, and an awesome husband, and an awesome day. That was made even more awesome by the decision to skip lunch in favor of sampling some wine at a local winery. Also? The memory that I am an idiot.

Washington DC

So, click on the picture and you'll see the pictures that I miraculously remembered to take. Although right now I'm not happy with Google for not importing all the picture titles that I created when it imported the pictures. Flickr, you will always have my love. Even if you don't currently have my money. Update: Picasa Web Albums also - apparently - doesn't keep pictures in chronological order when it uploads them. It seems to put them in alphabetical order, which is interesting since they don't upload the titles at all. Google, you are SOOO letting me down here.

This wasn't here the last time I was

World War II Memorial

I found this buried somewhere and realized that in my post-London fog, I never posted it. Because I'm so brilliant at this blogging thing that I guess I assume things will just magically appear on the page when I want them to. Oh, and here's the link to the London pics on Flickr. Our last night in London, we treated ourselves to a Medieval Banquet. The basic premise is that if you give them an obscenely ludicrous amount of money, they will give you four courses of food, a few dancing girls, some men prancing around with swords, and all-you-can-drink-beer and wine. What's not to love? It was like a family night that was tailor-made for us. First, we're going to clarify the all-you-can-drink aspect. Because if you know anything about me, you know that when I saw that printed on the ad, I pulled The Professor's American Express out of his back pocket without asking any questions such as "Honey, is it ok if I use your credit card?" Or "Exactly what kind of beer and wine are we talking about?" Or even "Does anyone else want to do this?". I'm not sure what they did to the beer. I'm not sure that the wine even had alcohol in it. The beer came out of a tap and into a pitcher that was shared by the table. The wine just kept appearing in glass jugs. The beer tasted better - and went better with the meal - so that's what I drank. Our cups were small, but I had plenty. The first pitcher was kind of flat, so we drank it quickly to get a fresh one (there were 12 of us at the table, about 4 or 5 drinking the beer). It was better - but I swear they were serving the Non-alcoholic version. Which is probably a good thing, because if I had to watch the dancing girls whirling around and around and around while I was drunk, I probably would've ended up under the table. Best lines: The only other American at the table was some guy from Way Up North (which would excuse him for his lack of manners, if I were in a charitable mood. I wasn't). When the paté was served on a trencher with some crusty bread, his only comment was: "Liverworst! I haven't had that in years! Where's the mustard?" StepSon, upon being asked why he was watching the servers so intently: "I'm pretty sure those shirts are supposed to fall off at some point." Me, to the guy sitting next to my StepSon: "Your girlfriend is drunk and puking in the bathroom and she wants to talk to you." It was a great night.

It's like I'm a hard-core criminal. Almost.

If you've gone through customs to get back in the country, you know what a pain it can be. If you've gone through Customs in Atlanta, you know that there are moments when you think that the illegal aliens have it right - going through the desert and facing possible death might actually be faster than standing in one more line. Security is tight. Sometimes, there are so many one-way mirrors and people with official scary-looking badges walking around that I'm afraid that sneezing might look suspicious. And let's face it - after 8 hours on a plane with a couple of hundred other people - one being your 15 year old step-son and another being your attention-span-deprived husband - it's quite easy to look like a maniac bent on destruction. I feel like interrogating myself when I look in the mirror and I KNOW I haven't' done anything.

The basic routine is this: get off the plane, follow the designated (and only available) path down some stairs or an escalator, pass a few scary security people, go through a hall and into the "holding pen" to wait in line to get your passport checked while answering a few questions about why a good upstanding citizen might want to leave the country in the first place. Get a piece of paper stamped, move on to the next area to collect your checked bags while being circled by more badge-wearers who now have dogs with them. Take checked bags through another check point where you turn in the your stamped piece of paper and answer some more questions about what you might or might not have done while out from under the protective eye of our government. Get in another line and recheck your bags, before going through a security scanner that looks at you and and your carry-on bags. Get released to go forth and fly. (I think it might be faster to just get a pilot's license and fly myself across the Atlantic, but then I wouldn't be able to sleep for the entire flight).

As we were walking off the plane in Detroit, I realized that both of my shoes were untied. Since long trailing shoelaces aren't all that safe on escalators - and I had to get on one within 15 steps of the plane - I stepped to the side, against a wall, to tie them. Of course, this immediately made me look questionable, as I'm the only person doing something besides walking docilely behind the person in front of me towards the holding pen. My hubby took the opportunity to stand next to me, against the wall, facing the corner to take out his wallet and start re-arranging his different currencies so that the American money was easily reached. So I'm kneeling, and he's buried in the corner. Yes, security noticed. They came over and stood directly in front of me and looked over his shoulder watching as he methodically - and boy, was it methodical - counted out how much cash he had. He never noticed the guard, who gave me an "I've got a highly trained eye on you" glare and then followed us down the escalator at a discrete distance.

So we stood in line and got stamped and questioned and proceeded to pick up our checked luggage. I dropped my carry-on on the floor and told my stepson to watch it while I went up and waited for our suitcases to come around the conveyor belt. About this time, another security guy - this time with one of those killer drug sniffing dogs - headed our way. Killer went directly to my carry-on bag and started sniffing. And circling. And sniffing. And circling. He started to sit (Which, I believe, is the point where they put you and your bag in a tiny room to be searched), but then he apparently got indecisive and circled again. Then he repeated the entire procedure - complete with the almost sitting routine. Knowing that I had nothing in my bag that Killer would be interested in - I'm not a drug runner, and I don't carry raw meat across oceans - I left him to his sniffing and went to collect the baggage. He was taking so long with my bag I was beginning to wonder if a cute little "Miss Killer" had snuck in the side pocket and they were planning a rendezvous. By the time I got back with a suitcase, Killer and his scary looking escort were gone.

Fast-forward to the point where we're re-checking our luggage. The lady casually says "You don't have any liquids in your carry-on bags do you?" And I said "why, yes ma'am, as a matter of fact we have the equivalent of a small duty-free store between our two backpacks." And she proceeds to tell us that we're not allowed to take those on the plane. But we're welcome to open our suitcases and repack everything with the liquid safely stored and out of our carry on bags. So we grab our suitcases, open them up and take out our bags of dirty laundry and proceed to repack right there in the middle of all the TSA agents. Thank God the flashy red silk thongs with black tassels had not gotten bounced to the top of my suitcase, but several people did get a great look at my favorite blue Victoria's Secret bra.

Fast-forward to Saturday - we're home, recovered and unpacked. Best Friend is over for drinks and a recap of the trip, and I give her all the goodies I bought her. One of them - and the best thing I got for her - is a little blue and white flowered tin that opens up to reveal four miniature glass bottles that I got at an open-air antique market for about $5. And I mean these bottles are SMALL - maybe an inch and a half tall. But they're tiny and cute, which are the only things that are required for her to go crazy over something. Add the fact that they hide inside of something that's blue ... well, I really should keep smelling salts on hand.

She pulled out one of the glass bottles - making all the appropriate noises for a gift this cute - and stopped cold.

"D!"
"What?"
"Did you look at these bottles?"
"Yeah, they're cute, huh?"
"No! I mean yes, but look - they're all coated on the inside with white powder!"

Silence for a half a second as the alcohol fumes explain to me what this means.
"Oh my god! I bought you someone's old cocaine bottles!

And suddenly, the drug-sniffing dog trying desperately to get enough of a scent to incriminate me made all too much sense.

In Which I Have a Mind-Boggling Thought

I'm sitting in a MS Access class, dutifully following instructions while my mind thinks about the fact that I'm leaving in TWO days. I'm compiling lists of important information (which shirts make me look the thinnest) and working through some pretty weighty questions (Can I live without two different types of boots for a week?) and trying to think about what I'll have to leave out of my Carry-on bag (which will be most of my make-up, so London BE WARNED that when I get off the plane I will not be the nasty, homicidal crazed female out for blood and human sacrifice that I may look like). When all of a sudden my mind goes back to the ban on liquids for carry-on bags, and a entirely new implication sets in....

I CAN'T BUY LIQUOR IN THE DUTY FREE STORE AND TAKE IT ON THE PLANE WITH ME.

Those terrorists have a lot to answer for. They have now infringed on my right as an American to go to foreign countries and buy cheap alcohol.

But then I think - surely, this country is so great and wonderful that they've taken into account the fact that there are millions of us who have needs. Needs that include buying large bottles of cheap liquor half-way around the world and then bringing them home to share with anyone who stops by close friends and family.

So I go to the TSA website - which was on my list of things to study tonight - and now I know. The TSA loves me. Or maybe my husband bribed them to allow liquor temporarily so that he didn't have to deal with 12 hours of traveling with a woman who had been denied her half-price vodka and Bailey's. Or maybe the TSA didn't want to deal with the rest of the country when they came back from travelling empty-handed. It doesn't really matter, because I can do all the duty-free shopping I want.

London, here I come.

Williamsburg

Williamsburg
Originally uploaded by lildebbie_77.

We ended our Great Northern Adventure by heading south and spending a couple of nights with my aunt and uncle in Virginia. On Friday, we drove over to Williamsburg; I'd never been and my aunt's been dying to take me since....well, forever. Williamsburg is beautiful! And it wasn't too terribly hot at 11 AM. I pulled out my camara to start snapping pictures...and I got exactly one click before the batteries died. I had forgotten to charge them the night before. :( So this is the only picture I have of Williamsburg, and it really isn't a very good one. We had a fantastic time - although I didn't get to do much shopping. By the time we walked all over the colonial part and had lunch at The King's Arms, the boys were kind of tired of the Williamsburg fun. So we drove back to my uncle's house, cracked open a few beers and debated where to eat dinner for a while, before high-tailing it out for Mexican and more beer. Then it was home for cards (I totally kicked butt at Shanghai) and, of course, more beer.

I LOVE visiting family!

Rhode Island thoughts The beaches here are different from anything other beach I’ve ever seen (not that I’m a beach expert or anything). The beaches in Florida – the ones that I’ve seen the most of – are pure sand. Sand for miles – and I’d guess that the entire Florida coastline is nothing but miles and miles of sand. Sandy beaches are a wonderful sight; they all but reach out and beg you to grab a towel and a good book and stretch out in the sun for a few hours. The water begs just as shamelessly for you to jump in and play in the waves. And with the temperatures in Florida, the water usually looks very inviting. I love playing in the ocean– even after my encounter with a Portuguese Man O’ War last year. The ocean in Rhode Island looks just as tempting. Even though the temperature is only in the mid-70’s, it’s humid enough right now to make the water look like a place to cool off and splash around. Even without much sunshine, the water sparkles enough to make people jump in – even if they have to wear a wetsuit to stand the water temperature (and many of them are wearing one). What is dramatically different is the beach. The beaches up here are gorgeous, but in a wild, untamed sort of way. The only places I’ve seen sand are on the strips of coast line designated as public beaches. The rest of the time, it’s a mangle of broken rocks and debris from the ocean – seaweed, plants and the occasional shell. The rocks are dark, black, jagged things that seem like they’ve been tossed down like pebbles to coat the shore. And instead of being able to look up or down the beach at miles of the same landscape (as you can in Florida), you can rarely see more than a mile at a time. The coast weaves and waves in and out of the ocean – and that provides an entirely different sort of temptation. In Florida, I want to be lazy on the beach. There’s no need to explore or go to a new one – they all look the same (except that the color of the condos/hotels/houses vary slightly), so I tend to want to just stay in one area. Walking around pathways along the beaches here (you won’t get far walking on the beach itself), is a constant adventure. You never know what the cove will look like around the next curve, and the next cure always looks much closer than it really is. The lighthouse looks like it’s only a short walk away. I’ve never been a lighthouse fanatic. But seeing them sitting on a piece of land jutting out into the ocean with the waves crashing around them on the rocks and their light shining out over the waters, it’s easy to understand how their practical purpose can so easily be romanticized.

Homeward Bound

Well, I guess technically I'm not really homeward bound, since my parents' house isn't where I live anymore. But I love that song....and when you're going to see your mama, you're always going home. So I'm Homeward Bound. Tomorrow, the Hubby, StepSon and I leave for our next traveling adventure. We'll get to my parents house by dinner tomorrow (probably a couple of hours earlier than that). And the traffic better not slow us down, because Mom is making not only lasagna but also cheesecake. And she's hinted that she has something for me....are there nuts and bolts in my future???? {hint, hint} Saturday morning, we'll be up before the crack of dawn yet again to drive further north. All the way to Rhode Island. We'll spending 4 days with Hubby's family, and I don't think I'm going to have time to take a deep breath at any point. One day we're driving up to Boston with my in-laws for lunch, then continuing up to New Hampshire to enjoy the low prices of duty-free shopping. Since the car had a minor nervous breakdown this week at the thought of the upcoming trip, we won't be enjoying the shopping quite so much as we had planned. I have it on good authority, though, that my father-in-law has over 2 cases of wine for us to bring home. So I'm not going to complain. We're having a pool party one day at my brother-in-law's house, we're going to spend an afternoon sightseeing around the state, we'll go to the beach at some point, we're doing lunch at an aunt's house, dinner at the other brother-in-law's house...and there are a couple of other things that I've forgotten about. But the hardest part of the entire trip? My parents-in-law don't have any kind of internet access. They don't even own a computer. The computer part is no problem - my laptop goes where I go (much to Hubby's disgust). Hopefully there will be an unsecured network around somewhere that I can find. note to self: look up bookstores, cafes or nearby MacDonald's with wi-fi connections around their house. After all that, we'll be heading to Virginia to visit my aunt and uncle, and we'll get an entire day to go to Williamsburg. Luckily for me, I get paid the day we're there - so my shopping funds will be renewed and my aunt and I can drag the boys around to our hearts' content. After the night at my parent's tomorrow, I'm going to spend an entire week going places I've never been. So rest up, because I'm sure there will be a phenomenal increase to the amount of photos on my Flickr account in about a week and a half!

Florida Vacations

We're here in Florida! We left Thursday afternoon - I got home from work a little early, and we were able to get on the road a few minutes after 4. I convinced the hubby that we didn't really want to spend the money on a hotel room - and so we drove straight through. StepSon is the only teenager I've ever met who doesn't take advantage of those hours to sleep, but since he has good taste in music we sang through all three of Billy Joel's greatest hits albums and then threw in some Grateful Dead, Tom Petty and Simon & Garfunkel. Told ya he had good taste in music. We got to Florida at about 1 AM, much too early for me and sis to go to sleep. So we cracked open a bottle of wine while Hubby headed to his favorite place in the entire world: My sister's hot tub. He'll spend 75% of the next three days in there, but he'll be happy. And when he's happy, I'm happy. Especially when Sis is making Pink Lemonade Margaritas - which is my new favorite summer drink. There's Pina Colada's waiting for us, but we can't get away from these Margaritas long enough to find them. And of course we had to make a stop at the wine store today. Got Hubby a special birthday surprise there, too. So it's been an all around great day. Tonight, we head to the beach to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark. And then back home, to the pool, the hot tub, cheesecake and wine. Life is good....