Saturday, August 8, 2009
Dirt & Noise Featured on My NC!
Click over to about 2:52 to see what Ginny (of 30 Threads and Ginny from the Blog fame) says about Dirt & Noise on this morning's My NC.
Now visualize me reaching behind the stretched out bra straps and folds of back fat to give myself a big ol' pat on the back.
Grin.
Friday, August 7, 2009
5:00 Fridays
First of all, did you know that North Carolina does not sell liquor in liter bottles (that's litre if you're from across the pond where you speak and spell funny English and call sweaters "jumpers" and trunks "boots" and other such nonsense)? And I thought not selling beer and wine until noon on Sundays (after church, natch) was cuhrazy. Wacky liquor rules dumbfound me. It takes me back to the ridiculous 3.2 beer sold in Minnesota grocery stores.
Well, it turns out that you can buy a liter of liquor in our fair friend to the south. I was returning home from a beachy keen vacay and popped into a liquor store 30 miles shy of the North Carolina border. Word on the street is that Firefly has a line of fantastically flavored vodkas that are only available in the palmetto state. You know I love me some Firefly.
I snatched up a bottle (LITER) of Firefly Mint Tea Vodka.
Sidebar:
I absolutely loved John, the owner of the liquor store. Turns out he's a retired funeral home director. After a heart attack at age 50-something, he turned the reins over to his sons. It is a little known fact about me that I am fascinated with the whole industry and commerce of death. I have even done some reading on the topic. John was a gracious host who offered lots of drink tips that I've tucked into the back burner of my brain. He even offered me a little personal tasting from behind the counter. It felt oh so dastardly to be nipping from an open bottle lodged between the extra register tape and sleeve of plastic mouthwash size cups. Nothing like straight vodka and rum at noon on an empty stomach. On a Sunday! Stay tuned for some goodies from John's recipe box. And by the way, he's a bastion of health now. In his words, "people are a lot more happy buying liquor than buying caskets."
Now on to my concoction.
Mint Tea w/ a Twist (I really need a better name. Suggestions welcome.)
1 1/2 cups cubed, seeded watermelon (What a great way to use what I got from Farmer Tom this week!)
2 shots of Firefly Mint Tea vodka
1/4 cup ginger ale
sprig fresh mint
Put everything but the mint in a blender and give it a quick whir. Serve over ice in a goblet or tall glass with a mint sprig garnish.
Find yourself a porch, a rocking chair, a ceiling fan, and some fireflies to carry your dreams and light up your night.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
A Pedestrian Topic
Dear Walkers of White Oak Road,
Please do not glare at me as I drive along at the posted speed limit. Did I mention that I have never had a speeding ticket, much less a parking ticket, in 25 years of driving? I drive a small SUV, not a Hummer that hogs the road. The lanes are plenty wide for me. The yard services' trucks that regularly line the street consume all the space on the tiny shoulder that is smaller than Tinkerbell's haunches. I don't speed. I don't honk. I don't swerve. I drive to the right of the line and obey the speed limit. Always.
Yet you walk two, three, and even up to five in a row as if you are Queen Bees ruling the high school halls shoulder to shoulder. Plus, you push strollers (double joggers) and have a dog or two on a leash. Your posse literally takes up more space than my Highlander. I might curse you under my breath and keep my middle finger firmly in place on the steering wheel but I never honk or jeer. I do utter in disbelief that you'd be idiotic enough to take up all the room on a road as narrow as a neocon's mind.
But I see you, in your matching tennis skirts and visors, all turn in unison to glare at me as I drive by. Me, the one who's obeying the law of the road. Here's a tip to tuck in your tanned decolletage, don't walk two by two with a stroller and a dog on a road that has no sidewalks. I am all for pedestrian rights and respecting walkers, bikers, and the like. But generally there's mutual respect and a healthy fear of, oh, 3000 pounds of steel coming around a blind curve.
I happen to be a big fan of sidewalks and live in a neighborhood that has them. I walk with my sons in my neighborhood. I pushed their strollers and walked neighbor's dogs on those sidewalks. We decorate those sidewalks with chalk drawings and hopscotch boxes. We never stray from the sidewalks; that is a general tenet of city living. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people. There is no gray area here. One of the earliest lessons we taught our sons was to stay off the road and on the sidewalk. Danger! Danger! Danger!
From the myriad skateboarders, bikers, scooters, and ripsticks I see on White Oak Road (sans helmets!), I guess you are handing down road ownership to the next generation. Is this a symptom of the general sense of entitlement plaguing America these days or are you really that clueless? Let me reiterate, if the road doesn't have a sidewalk, is narrow, and is peppered with blind curves, don't walk on it. If you must walk there, walk against traffic so you can see what's coming and by all means, move to the freaking side when a car passes. That means walk single file, gather your troops, and squeeze in tightly.
You might own one of those big fancy houses but you're a fool if you think you own the road.
Sincerely,
An Irritated Driver Who Doesn't Want to Play Frogger
Please do not glare at me as I drive along at the posted speed limit. Did I mention that I have never had a speeding ticket, much less a parking ticket, in 25 years of driving? I drive a small SUV, not a Hummer that hogs the road. The lanes are plenty wide for me. The yard services' trucks that regularly line the street consume all the space on the tiny shoulder that is smaller than Tinkerbell's haunches. I don't speed. I don't honk. I don't swerve. I drive to the right of the line and obey the speed limit. Always.
Yet you walk two, three, and even up to five in a row as if you are Queen Bees ruling the high school halls shoulder to shoulder. Plus, you push strollers (double joggers) and have a dog or two on a leash. Your posse literally takes up more space than my Highlander. I might curse you under my breath and keep my middle finger firmly in place on the steering wheel but I never honk or jeer. I do utter in disbelief that you'd be idiotic enough to take up all the room on a road as narrow as a neocon's mind.
But I see you, in your matching tennis skirts and visors, all turn in unison to glare at me as I drive by. Me, the one who's obeying the law of the road. Here's a tip to tuck in your tanned decolletage, don't walk two by two with a stroller and a dog on a road that has no sidewalks. I am all for pedestrian rights and respecting walkers, bikers, and the like. But generally there's mutual respect and a healthy fear of, oh, 3000 pounds of steel coming around a blind curve.
I happen to be a big fan of sidewalks and live in a neighborhood that has them. I walk with my sons in my neighborhood. I pushed their strollers and walked neighbor's dogs on those sidewalks. We decorate those sidewalks with chalk drawings and hopscotch boxes. We never stray from the sidewalks; that is a general tenet of city living. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people. There is no gray area here. One of the earliest lessons we taught our sons was to stay off the road and on the sidewalk. Danger! Danger! Danger!
From the myriad skateboarders, bikers, scooters, and ripsticks I see on White Oak Road (sans helmets!), I guess you are handing down road ownership to the next generation. Is this a symptom of the general sense of entitlement plaguing America these days or are you really that clueless? Let me reiterate, if the road doesn't have a sidewalk, is narrow, and is peppered with blind curves, don't walk on it. If you must walk there, walk against traffic so you can see what's coming and by all means, move to the freaking side when a car passes. That means walk single file, gather your troops, and squeeze in tightly.
You might own one of those big fancy houses but you're a fool if you think you own the road.
Sincerely,
An Irritated Driver Who Doesn't Want to Play Frogger
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
High Jinks
The dude in 28A was picking his nose. Not in that subtle gotta-get-out-a-tiny-dried-booger way. I'm talkin' finger up his nose past the second knuckle. And this was not a quickie. The guy was on a trek, rather his finger was. Mind you that the dude was approaching 40, not 4. During the hour delay to change a flat tire (that somehow went undetected during the maintenance check before we boarded the freaking plane!), he went on to stick said finger into a bag of malted milk balls and nosh away. Sweet and salty treat, eh? I have a hunch this guy knows what ball sweat tastes like.
Three people within striking distance of me used seat belt extenders. Thankfully none of those people was seated next to me. I hate when someone else's person oozes over the arm rest onto me. I am very picky about the people I touch. I am a freak that way.
The man next to me looked like Jesus, right down to the Lord Boards on his feet. He was reading Rumi and chatting about mantras and tantras and such to a woman on his cell phone whom I suspect does not shave her arm pits. He was guzzling Diet Coke. Perhaps Jesus turned water into Diet Coke instead of wine? He snacked on something that reeked of three day old tapenade.
There was the baby who cried for 45 minutes. The gagging, can't-catch-you-breath kind of crying. It reached screech levels at times. Most passengers, and the two flight attendants who were irritable and childless (I know this because they said so.) were enraged. I just felt bad for the mom who was traveling alone. I've walked down the jetway in her shoes. I wanted to nudge her and tell her to put some socks on the infant's bare feet. That plane was a flying Tupperware popsicle mold, man. The poor kid probably just had cold tootsies. The flight attendants did not offer a blanket, which was for the better since someone like the guy in 28A probably had wiped boogers all over it anyway.
I got to sit next to the flight attendant's jump seat. Wow does she need to find a secure home on a therapist's couch somewhere and get out of the friendly skies. She looked me up and down as a school marm might and remarked, "Well, you're as cute as a button, aren't you?!" I simply smiled sheepishly. I must write to Miss Manners to find out the appropriate response to such a comment. Is it a compliment to be "cute as a button" at age 40? My inner jury is still out on that one. She went on to ask me if I was married. Dear God, was she hitting on me? I'm a little daft when it comes to matters of the heart. Then, because we were delayed an hour waiting for the Michelin Man to arrive with his tool belt, we all got to hear her life story.
Age 60.
Divorced for 32 years.
Was married to a gynecologist.
He cheated on her.
No kids.
Never wanted them.
Now doesn't like them.
Looking for a man.
A man with no kids, no parents, no siblings.
A rich man.
No pets.
Must live or want to live in Virginia (being a Virginia girl myself, I can hardly blame her for this criterion.).
I think I just wrote her match.com profile.
Waitress in the Sky played a loop in my head. I was trying desperately to not break into song.
Then the flight attendant started peering at all the men's feet within her range of vision. She was oohing and aahing over one gentleman's piggies. We learned that she once dated a handball player (Is that a job? Really?) who had particularly large hands (duh) and nasty feet. She apparently cannot tolerate bad feet. Must add that detail to her match.com profile. I would argue that there's no such thing as good feet. I nonchalantly tucked my bunioned foot behind the one on which I had endured bunion surgery eight years ago (worse than childbirth I'm telling you!). Crazy flight attendant goes on to ask the man if he's married. Man blushes. Deeply. And he's freaked out, not flattered. Those of us who are buckled into our seats by order of the pilot who controls the illuminated seat belt light are feeling a tish rashy under the collar as if we are watching a female version of George Costanza and Larry David rolled into one terribly frightful character.
The woman next to the man with nice feet fiercely grabs his hand and proclaims him her husband. Four kids. Six grand kids. A house in the country (or boonies, depending on your perspective). A house at the beach. A boat. 36 years of bliss. Cue Diana and Lionel. 'Scuse me while I gag into the courtesy puke bag. It's only a matter of time before airlines start charging us for those too.
Mercifully the pilot informs us we are ready to take off. Engines roar. Muffler moans. We have lift off.
Crazy flight attendant lady loudly remarks, as if she's heckling us all, "Gee, I hope that new tire holds!" Cackling ensued.
Upon closer inspection of her name tag, I realized her name was Jinks.
Three people within striking distance of me used seat belt extenders. Thankfully none of those people was seated next to me. I hate when someone else's person oozes over the arm rest onto me. I am very picky about the people I touch. I am a freak that way.
The man next to me looked like Jesus, right down to the Lord Boards on his feet. He was reading Rumi and chatting about mantras and tantras and such to a woman on his cell phone whom I suspect does not shave her arm pits. He was guzzling Diet Coke. Perhaps Jesus turned water into Diet Coke instead of wine? He snacked on something that reeked of three day old tapenade.
There was the baby who cried for 45 minutes. The gagging, can't-catch-you-breath kind of crying. It reached screech levels at times. Most passengers, and the two flight attendants who were irritable and childless (I know this because they said so.) were enraged. I just felt bad for the mom who was traveling alone. I've walked down the jetway in her shoes. I wanted to nudge her and tell her to put some socks on the infant's bare feet. That plane was a flying Tupperware popsicle mold, man. The poor kid probably just had cold tootsies. The flight attendants did not offer a blanket, which was for the better since someone like the guy in 28A probably had wiped boogers all over it anyway.
I got to sit next to the flight attendant's jump seat. Wow does she need to find a secure home on a therapist's couch somewhere and get out of the friendly skies. She looked me up and down as a school marm might and remarked, "Well, you're as cute as a button, aren't you?!" I simply smiled sheepishly. I must write to Miss Manners to find out the appropriate response to such a comment. Is it a compliment to be "cute as a button" at age 40? My inner jury is still out on that one. She went on to ask me if I was married. Dear God, was she hitting on me? I'm a little daft when it comes to matters of the heart. Then, because we were delayed an hour waiting for the Michelin Man to arrive with his tool belt, we all got to hear her life story.
Age 60.
Divorced for 32 years.
Was married to a gynecologist.
He cheated on her.
No kids.
Never wanted them.
Now doesn't like them.
Looking for a man.
A man with no kids, no parents, no siblings.
A rich man.
No pets.
Must live or want to live in Virginia (being a Virginia girl myself, I can hardly blame her for this criterion.).
I think I just wrote her match.com profile.
Waitress in the Sky played a loop in my head. I was trying desperately to not break into song.
Then the flight attendant started peering at all the men's feet within her range of vision. She was oohing and aahing over one gentleman's piggies. We learned that she once dated a handball player (Is that a job? Really?) who had particularly large hands (duh) and nasty feet. She apparently cannot tolerate bad feet. Must add that detail to her match.com profile. I would argue that there's no such thing as good feet. I nonchalantly tucked my bunioned foot behind the one on which I had endured bunion surgery eight years ago (worse than childbirth I'm telling you!). Crazy flight attendant goes on to ask the man if he's married. Man blushes. Deeply. And he's freaked out, not flattered. Those of us who are buckled into our seats by order of the pilot who controls the illuminated seat belt light are feeling a tish rashy under the collar as if we are watching a female version of George Costanza and Larry David rolled into one terribly frightful character.
The woman next to the man with nice feet fiercely grabs his hand and proclaims him her husband. Four kids. Six grand kids. A house in the country (or boonies, depending on your perspective). A house at the beach. A boat. 36 years of bliss. Cue Diana and Lionel. 'Scuse me while I gag into the courtesy puke bag. It's only a matter of time before airlines start charging us for those too.
Mercifully the pilot informs us we are ready to take off. Engines roar. Muffler moans. We have lift off.
Crazy flight attendant lady loudly remarks, as if she's heckling us all, "Gee, I hope that new tire holds!" Cackling ensued.
Upon closer inspection of her name tag, I realized her name was Jinks.
Rubbers Again
My sons are wondering what I'm up to with rubbers on my hands. Check out Deep South Moms to find out why.
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