Miss America's
Poignant Pearl of the Week
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[heaving sigh]
People, I've changed.
It's true. And disturbing. My internal gadgetry has been altered, perhaps permanently, because of my new navigational coordinates. Most notably, my hair is thicker.
I know! Thicker should be a good thing, right? I mean, most of America, as represented by the HBO writers of HUNG, loves thicker. Thicker is something women lust for and worship, right? We are willing to pay a lot of cold, hard cash for thickness. The hair product commercials, made by experts in all real life matters, confirm that thicker is better, healthier, sexier.
Yeah, yeah.
The truth is, I already have thick hair. Thick and fine. However, the water and humidity and air particles in Central Florida make my hair practically explode with frizz and coarseness, which translates to untamed, unattractive, and, well, old.
Yes, now we're getting down to it. You know how I hate to feel old, right? A single midlifer looking for love (mostly inactively looking, but still quite available to the guy who can check off the appropriate asset boxes with nary a kinky whisper in the negative column) -- yes, moi -- cannot afford to feel old. Cuz it shows. It's like a big blaring yellow sign that says, I'm pathetic, don't come any closer. I mean, peeps, despite investing a small fortune on all my taming and smoothing hair products, I still wake up every morning and witness each hair follicle jolting its shaft to full attention and expanding up its length all the way to the tip, right before my eyes. And, incredibly, it stays that way all day.
Hey, I'm lucky to have hair at all, I know. But frankly, the staying power of uber-frizz is one of life's little cruelties. It's taken over, and makes me want to sit on the sofa all day, paralyzed and craving peanut butter crackies, hair strung up in a ponytail. Woe is me. What could possibly make me feel better?
Oh look, HUNG is on. Later, my friends. Later.
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Good people, I'm being "roasted" over at Eddie Bluelights today. I think I probably embarrassed myself, my family, and everyone who's ever known me; but since I do that regularly, it should come as no surprise. Now you have TWO things to do today (Please and thank you!). Before you head to Eddie's, check this out:
I've done it! I've conned my little sister into partaking in my addiction! What a proud moment in our history this is. You can go see her as she begins her deep descent into the dark world of blogging.
Her site is Udder Hysteria, and she's just getting underway. I'm over there today, too (as I will be from time to time), so please click on that link and head over to show Iskidadl some blogger love to help kick off her site -- and her rapid decline into Blogatory. Bwaah-ah-ah!
Along the road trip to Florida, I visited my daughter in Fort Polk, Louisiana, where she lives with her handsome hubs, an adventurous army guy. Before I could get on base, I had to present my ID, auto registration, and car insurance. Why car insurance is necessary to roll into army territory, I have no idea. I saw no tanks to accidentally run into. Anyway, I just said, "Sir, yes sir!" I am nothing if not cooperative in the face of uniforms.
Because I'd been carting around traveling paraphernalia, my wallet and ID happened to be sleeping deep in the bottom of my purse. As I was fishing for it, my cell phone rang loudly from somewhere in the same vicinity. It was a ringtone that, well, I just don't know how it got on there. Seriously. What rude person would play such an outrageously inappropriate joke on me? Frankly, if I knew who it was, I'd totally take them out of my will.
While I panicked in the ultra-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop army office, the very gruff-looking, tough-talking army guys (with loaded side arms) sitting on the other side of the desk -- who never *EVER* smile -- heard this repeatedly in the voice of Anchorman's Ron Burgundy (Will Ferrell):
Peeps, my sister and I left last Thursday morning for Florida and made two stops in Baytown and Fort Polk to take copious photos of nieces and grandnieces and daughters that we won't see for awhile. We took our time, which was a good thing since it rained almost the entire way. Wouldn't you know it, while we drove butt naked and laughed hysterically, nobody even noticed. What's up with that, Gulf Coast Road Trip Gods? You're making me look bad! Plus I caught a chest cold.
Then came our third stop Saturday night at the Sheraton in the French Quarter. Ooo-la-la! An important note about this hotel, people (especially if you are plagued by vertigo like I didn't realize I was): the windows of the rooms on the 21st floor are carpet to ceiling, so you can stand next to it and feel like you could fall right the hell out. To your splattery death. Were these windows openable, and you didn't fall to your splattery death, you could barf onto Canal Street passersby while looking down from WAAAAY on high, which is, quite frankly, where I'm meant to hang out, gazing down on mortal peons. Am I right?
NOLA dinner was at street level and we stopped in at Huck Finn's for gumbo and related Cajun eats. Then my daughter and her precocious son showed us around, and I was both impressed and grossed out in equal measure at the spectacle that is Bourbon Street. Had I visited there in my younger days as a singleton, I would have fit right in with the other drunks and worn many shiny, beaded necklaces. Now that I'm totally tame (heh, heh, quite possibly that should be lame), I just pose with big, fat, green grenades of the plastic persuasion, while a three-year-old clings to my back, and wonder how bad it would be if I poked a hole in Mr. Rubbery Girth just to watch him blow up and sputter around the piss-stained sidewalks. And just FYI, that is the real reason people get so drunk down on Bourbon Street--it's the only way to tolerate the stinkies. That said, I was completely mesmerized by it all.
The best part of Bourbon Street? I found the treasure of a lifetime. Oh yes. People, a TREASURE! You see, 25 years ago at a Sixth Street piano bar in Austin, a tawdry pianist (really, how do people say that word without laughing?) crooned about that little-known African pygmy tribe, the Fahkawees. They ran through the plains, leaping above the tall grass to see where they were, all the while shouting, "Where the fahkawee? Where the fahkawee?" I was so impressed by their plight, I held their story close to my heart all these years. And now . . . now, I'm an official Fahkawee, thanks to a little shop on Bourbon Street.
Life is good.
More later, peeps.
These two words are front and center of my weary brain—weary because my whirlwind decision to embark on a new adventure has resulted in a whirlwind unloading of 95% of my possessions (you would be surprised how painful letting go of a coffee maker can be); and front and center because . . . well, I'm doing it! I'm moving from Texas to Florida BY MYSELF!
I know. I'm wearing my big girl panties, but it's still a huge deal for me.
To help christen my journey into a new life, my sister is flying out from Phoenix to take to the highways with me on a girls' road trip. Austin to Ocala, baby! The last time we hit the pavement together was Spring Break 1976 and our destination was Rocky Point, Mexico. Si, amigos. El Baja. That trip was memorable for the many things that qualified as "shit you can't make up," and I'm torn between wishing for an uneventful, leisurely trip this time or one so fantastic that I won't need to make shit up. I even bought a groovy digital camera to record anything outrageous—just for you guys. Frankly, I'll be disappointed if I can't brag about at least something weirderific. Like what if there's an old broad tootling around naked in a red hooptie? And what if she's got a buddy and she's naked too? And they're laughing hysterically and snapping photos of people's shock as they drive by. I mean, if I can talk my sister into it, imagine the looks we'd get! Totally worth the cost of the camera, I'm betting.
I know. Just how juvenile can I get? Well, depends on if I can talk my sister into it or if she leaves me on the side of the road.
So there you have it. When last I blogged, I hinted at big changes on the horizon. Leaving the city I've called home for most of the last 17 years is a leap of faith in my commitment to make my dream a reality. The net promises to appear wherever and however I land so I can concentrate on my writing. What cool stuff is going to manifest in my future? Who will I meet? How will my life be changed?
I know. It's the hap-hap-happiest of horseshit, but it's MY horseshit, and I believe in it.
Wish me Vaya con destiny, people. I'll post some of our journey next week.
You know how you dream about being some place totally different than where you are right now? You know how you say, One of these days, when all the stars align, when the kids no longer need me, or when money falls from the sky, I'm going to do/go/be _______ (fill in the blank)? I'm going to reinvent myself and my life. I will finally do it, go there, be that . . . One of these days.
Followed by big sighs, slumps in your chair, and massive doses of reality and routine in the form of work, money, bills, kids, deadlines, whatever.
And then because the universe works in crazy wondrous ways, an opportunity comes along that answers the call your subconscious has been busily broadcasting across the galaxy—the opportunity that could bring you closer to your dream. It's a glimmer of realization that hits you, and your whole body stills to take measure of this tiny, hopeful spark. You stare at it, mull it over, toss around the possible pitfalls. You shake it like a Magic 8-ball, and the triangle that stares back at you reads, As I see it, yes. You do a double-take. Signs point to yes. Is this wishful thinking or just craziness? Outlook good. If I don't recognize opportunity for what it is, I can't accept it for what it is, and then will it be gone with one more shake of the 8-ball? That I will later regret? Most likely.
How many missed opportunities have there been in your life? Concentrate and ask again.
Yeah, that's the kind of thing I'm looking at RIGHT NOW. I've sent off the kids to Atlanta (boo-hoo big time!), my house is nearly empty, and I have a place to go across town. It's the safe thing to do but gets me no closer to living my dream. Outlook not so good. But a random rant to a beloved confidant has spurred something new and exciting—that hopeful spark. Yes, I'm moving toward the light. (Not that one.) Toward sunnier days. Now the safe thing doesn't feel like the right thing. So I'm about to take a calculated (repeatedly in my Excel spreadsheets) risk. Aahh, there's that troublesome little word: risk. If it's worth having, is it worth the risk?
If the stars continue to align, in three weeks, I'll be in a whole 'nother state. Mentally, emotionally, geographically. My life. In flux. On the cusp. It is decidedly so. Wish me luck.
What exactly is on the horizon for me? Better not tell you now.
But soon. You may rely on it.
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Ever feel overwhelmed? Like you're treading water and all your seeming A#1 priorities—in the form of gigantic, awkward, squawking birds that peck and nip at each other—are standing on your shoulders, weighing you down and throwing you off balance? And your one saving grace is that you can touch the bottom with your tired, shriveled feet so your head is above water? Barely?
Lots of demands and changes at home and at work are inciting the gi-gawk-squawks on my shoulders to declare war. They're flipping me the proverbial bird and fighting over which one I should feed first, and I've been vacillating between them because the cacophony makes my spine twist in knots, which means I have been getting my share of migraines. And who doesn't love a good migraine? Oh, oh, oh! Count me in! Bastards . . .
All that to say, I'm packing, moving across town, traveling, work-work-working, and becoming a bona fide emptynexter over the next few weeks, so I am forced to take a very brief hiatus. I hope you don't all run off, as I'll have things posted and check in occasionally. Plus, it's only temporary, barely a blip on the radar screen of blogging, right?
Thanks for your support, and I'll see you in a few weeks.
Miss America's 
It's Friday night, and I am all dressed up, leaving Planet Earth for a whole 'nother world. Or as the culturally sophisticated call it, the symphony. Oh yes. Contrary to rumors, I am totally cultural. Oh wait, that's gutteral. Whatever. So I have an evening out, thanks to my good friend AM, who's garnered free tix. But first we stop at Ironworks for mouth-watering barbecue and a gallon of tea. That goes together, right? Symphony and BBQ? Plus, the guy behind the counter says I am BEEE-UUU-TEE-FUL. That alone is worth the price of heartburn. 'course, if he could see my unshaved legs (which he can't since I'm wearing black slacks), he might not be so drooly over me.
So we arrive and traipse into the architectural wonder that is the Long Center. I depend on AM to shuttle me through the vastly aging expanse of urbane hobnobbers, but it’s clear that she is as much in foreign territory as I am, and we spin around mumbling, What's with the sequinage? Is there a door around here we should go through? Where's the john?
Eventually, we make it to our seats in the parterre. Without the glasses I lost five years ago during Hurricane Frances, I squint to see the orchestra that occupies the entire stage. I make out only the hefty guy who rises out of the back on cue to clash cymbals. I want his job.
So the first number is the Funeral March. Really? Seems like that should be the big finish when the event is effectively six feet under, doesn't it? Anyway, 15 minutes and only ONE NUMBER LATER, I notice that AM is bobbing her head in time with the music (a Chopin-Stravinsky thing that threatens to stretch long into the night). I think, Man, she is really getting into this. I don’t want to stare at her, but I’m astonished that my whiskey-guzzling, Harley-riding, rock-n-roll buddy is bewitched by orchestral strains. So I peek out the corner of my eyes and, yup, she’s all immersing herself, even going so far as to close her eyes to absorb every strum of strings, toot of horns, and tinkle of piano keys. Or wait . . . her head drops and she catches herself and a minute later, her head drops again, and then . . . THEN? She snores! This performance is better than what I can’t see on stage! I elbow her a good one. She tips her head toward me, peering over her glasses as if to say, Help. Me.
Finally, people clap and everybody rises. I get excited until I realize it's only intermission. What a tease the symphony is! Everybody gets up and COMES BACK! I think surely AM will drag me out, but instead we eat dark canned chocolate that resembles goat turds and laugh at people and sit through the second half—which gets surprisingly energetic and loud—as if they KNOW someone somewhere is nodding off! How do they KNOW!?
Anyhoodles, I have suggestions for you, Symphony. You can jazz up your repertoire by making these easy-peasy changes:
