Mid-week Snack

Few things so vastly improve a morning as a passing, "Hey, just so you know, there's food on the take table." One trump: the aforementioned food is candy from Kentucky, and is thus infused with bourbon.

One of our copy editors received a care package from the Bluegrass State today - a lovely assortment of five boxes of bourbon candies, bourbon cookies of some kind, and what appeared to be a bourbon fruit cake. She generously left them out to share, and the rest of us descended upon the stash. So what if it was only 11 a.m.? It was 5 o'clock in Edinburgh...

I understand the genesis of the bourbon ball; according to the Rebecca-Ruth legend, a fan told one of the ladies that he loved her chocolate and Kentucky bourbon, and so the two were mixed. (You can visit the factory in Franklin and...um...sample.) These weren't Rebecca-Ruth, but they were just as good. The chocolate balls I understand, and the bourbon fruit cake was, perhaps, a logical extension, but what amused me this morning were the two boxes of bourbon chocolate-covered cherries. (They weren't bad, but I wonder who came up with the notion.)

Following Gustav

Watching the hurricane coverage this morning, I'm relieved that so many people up and down the coast did the smart this this time and got the hell out of Dodge over the weekend. Yes, the surge is over the levee, but things seem to be holding for now...and fortunately for New Orleans, Gustav didn't make a direct hit. Of course, Fox just said they have two ships unaccounted for in the canal, which would be something of a concern.

My sincere hope is that the camera crews are getting combat pay for this. Geraldo just asked his cameraman to walk right up to the levee, then climb on top. One NBC reporter dragged his crew into the middle of the street and almost got blown away by hurricane winds. Someone yesterday said the media had to fill out release wavers to enter New Orleans, including next-of-kin information. You know, if the talent wants to be suicidal, that's their business, but Geraldo was saying things like, "Come on up here, right to the wall...I've got you...wow, look at the water surging over..."

Sure, Geraldo. Sure.

A Little Part of Me Dies

The following took place at FYE this afternoon, during a brief stop before heading to choir practice.

Me: Hi. Do you have a recording of Carmina Burana?
Male Clerk: Who?
Me: Carmina Burana. It's a big work. The recording I'm really looking for is by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra...
MC: Hang on, she'll help you. Hey! (Waves over Female Clerk, who steps behind the counter and opens her software)
FC: What are you looking for?
Me: Carmina Burana.
FC: Who's that?
Me: It's a...it's a piece called Carmina Burana. I looked in the Classical section, but I couldn't find anything.
FC: Spell that.
Me: C-A-R-M-I-N-A. Burana. Just check "Carmina".
FC: (Checks computer) Car-mihna Burana?
Me: Sure.
FC: Nope. Nothing.
Me: No version?
FC: None. Want me to order it?

I'm downloading it from Amazon as I type this, and for only $4. iTunes listed some 25 or so recordings. What is wrong with this picture?

Dog-sitting

Since Friday night, I've been the single parent of a border collie. There now remains no doubt in my mind that I am, as yet, unprepared for children. Seriously.

Don't get me wrong - I love this dog. She's great. She's just relentless.

When Cal was a puppy, she never stopped - never. She was probably the one dog I'd ever known who refused to nap. If you tried to sleep on the couch, she'd attack your head.

She's nearly two now, and has mellowed somewhat, but she's rather like a toddler - opinionated and just smart enough to cause trouble. The moment the floor creaks in the morning, she's awake and barking to be let out of her bed. She then likes to go for a walk (or a run, and boy, have my arms forgotten what it's like to run a border collie), followed by some quality ball time. We love our squeaky orange ball more than life. Of course, she's noticed the tennis ball on the front steps, and has realized that if I let her out to do her business, she can grab the tennis ball and make me play with her. (Hey, ever try to corral a displeased border collie?) Once I tell her it's the last throw, she refuses to return, but stands on the other end of the yard, watching. I then have to go to her, but while I'm reaching for the ball, she runs the other way and waits until I throw it. She's realized that I will simply pick her up around the middle and carry her inside if she gives me much trouble, but she's still pretty crafty for a dog.

In any case, we've played ball three times today, and she's giving me the Look.

Well, it's the only way I get any peace around here.

Scottish Fourth of July, Year the Second

Last year, seeing as it would have been silly to fly home for the Fourth, I celebrated it with my friends in Edinburgh. There's nothing quite like celebrating one's country's independence on formerly enemy soil.

Yesterday, my parents' neighbors, the Scottish ex-pats, had a backyard cookout and invited us to come over and hang out. With six Scots, two Brits, and eight Americans, the odds were fairly well matched - my sister's flag-topped trifle had to compete with star-shaped shortbread, and the chicken shared grill space with salmon. There was no haggis, but then again, I'm not sure how one would attempt to grill a haggis. Between the themed bouquet and the baby's red-white-and-blue dress, however, the afternoon was festive, and our neighbor's parents, wrapping up their five-week holiday, seemed to enjoy themselves.

As the afternoon was winding down, I opened the cooler in search of a diet soda, and felt my jaw drop. A familiar logo graced a bottlecap before me, and I pulled a bottle of Strongbow from the cooler, not believing my eyes. "Where did you get this?" I asked, hoping that the cider, unlike the annual haggis, wasn't a suitcase import. After almost a year of turning to Woodchuck for my cider fix, I couldn't believe I was holding a bottle of my favorite British beverage.

Well, it hadn't been sneaked out of the country, but they had purchased it in Florida, where the beer laws are significantly friendlier than they are here. Needless to say, I drank it, missing the Pear Tree and Three Sisters, and Teviot's 95p half-pints.

After the "Green Card Day" celebrations (our neighbor's co-workers had jokingly removed his name from the time off list for the Fourth), Jen and I headed downtown for Thunder on the Mountain, Birmingham's annual fireworks extravaganza. We called a couple of friends en route, and managed to snag Anna, who was heading home to her apartment at the time. She just so happened to be located on a hill with a fantastic view of the city, so when the fireworks began, the three of us and her friend piled into her SUV, drove to a clear spot, cranked the synchronized patriotic music, and enjoyed the pretty lights. Best of all, we didn't get stuck trying to drive out of UAB with 10,000 of our closest friends. Freedom from insane traffic? I'll take it.

Evanston weekend

It's a long, long way to Chicago, my friends, and it's a heck of a lot longer in the back of a rented Envoy.

Not that I have anything against the Envoy, aside from my mother's claims that the thing pulled left (I wouldn't know, personally, as I was ineligible to drive it), but 13 hours of anything gets old after a while. Fortunately, I had Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell to sustain me - all 850 or so pages of it - for which I'm exceedingly grateful. I can't believe it's taken me this long to read the darn thing, but I'm so glad I did. (Hey, something good came out of our Unclaimed Baggage Center trip after all!)

Why Chicago? Well, Evanston, actually - Northwestern's main campus is north of the city in a (mostly) charming suburb of ridiculous mansions. Jen got her first post-name letters this weekend, and so the three of us, plus some close family friends, made the trek from Birmingham to watch her walk.

I've got to hand it to my sister and her class - their patience knows no bounds. The first part of commencement happened Friday night at the stadium, when the undergrads and postgrads were officially graduated by the president, who wore Richard Levin-esque bling. This took roughly two hours, including a speech by Richard Daley that read more like a re-election bid (ass that he is, he still got a hood from Northwestern this weekend), and was followed by what can only be described as a reenactment of the Fall of Saigon as thousands of tired, damp graduates and their families tried to cram onto buses. It took us an hour to get seats, but we wrapped up the evening with a deep-dish dinner.

What made the day better, at least for my father, was his brief elevator conversation with Stacy London of What Not to Wear fame. Her sister graduated this weekend as well. In any case, Stacy had nothing to say about Dad's attire.

Saturday, we climbed aboard the buses yet again for Part Deux, the Weinberg graduation ceremony, in which Jen would actually walk and receive her diploma. As it turned out, what the graduates received was only a Northwestern-stamped box - their diplomas were held hostage until they turned their robes in, and even then, everyone who had received honors was informed that the modified diplomas would be in the mail. Sheesh.

As exciting as it was to see my sister and her friends walk - well, what I saw through the viewfinder was pretty exciting - the rest of the ceremony was just this side of torturous. Oh, their speaker was lovely - she's an English professor, and I'm sorry I couldn't have had a class with her - but Weinberg is the largest college at Northwestern, and better than 1,000 names were read during the ceremony. Three hours later, we collected Jen, her to-be-modified diploma, and her Stole of Gratitude, and boarded the buses, this time without the nagging suspicion that there was supposed to be a helicopter present.

Having recovered from graduation, we took Jen out to dinner, and everyone felt much better. I just pitied the poor graduates - at least I had a book to read during the second hour, and the lady in front of me had a crossword. The kids in purple had nothing to do but sit there and listen to their classmates' names get butchered in novel ways.

(All gripes aside, congratulations, Jen, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Mwah!)

Driving home today, I realized that the very sight of distant mountains in Kentucky lifted my spirits. Odd as it sounds, I find the wide, flat expanses of Illinois and Indiana depressing. Give me something to look at besides corn, please. Just a hint that the landscape varies will do.

And for the record, tea at the Ritz makes everything better, especially when taken with a glass of champagne.

Week in review

Last week was a week of assembly – putting together a flat-packed bookcase without annoying my neighbors (easier said than done), buying hanging baskets for the patio (keeping the plants alive has proven something of a challenge, however), cleaning up my crates of books, throwing away the last of the cardboard boxes, and, hours before my party Saturday evening, scouring every store I had yet to visit (and a few I had) for a patio table. I finally found one at Hobby Lobby – one within price range, unlike those $250 “sale” tables at Hollywood Pools, sheesh – and bought candles to put outside, in case the night turned cooler. Suffice it to say the candles came inside when they began melting in the heat, and the patio table has yet to be used. So it goes. Other than that, it was great to finally be able to host a get-together without inconveniencing my folks.

This was a weekend of culture, high and low. On Friday, a friend and I went to Jesus Christ Superstar (since he had free tickets, conveniently enough). I was expecting Phantom-esque spectacle. What I got was a version of the Passion, if it had been staged by Pink Floyd and a bunch of dirty hippies, and a very conflicted Mary Magdalene in a low-cut red dress. Jesus seemed a touch old for the role (maybe he was just vocally tired from the tour), but Judas, who used to sing in Living Colour, was pretty sweet. “Isn’t the music great?” my mother asked when I told her I’d seen it. Then she paused, adding, “Well, it’s great if you’re from my generation.”

Tonight, making a last-minute decision to not watch the Law & Order mini-marathon, I went to see Kung-Fu Panda. It’s pretty cute – there are certainly moments, though Jack Black’s “awesome” comments kept reminding me of Tenacious D & the Pick of Destiny. Best line? “We do not wash our pits in the Pool of Sacred Tears.” Priceless.

Aside from my…ahem, cultural pursuits, I tried Pilates tonight at the Rec. I’m feeling alright at the moment, aside from a cramped neck, but I’m foreseeing pain in the morning…

Bambi?

Driving home tonight, I decided to give my car's engine a quick trip past 40 mph and opted for the 280-to-459 route home. Slightly longer, perhaps, but it more than made up for any extra mileage with a lack of traffic lights.

Just as I was approaching the Acton Road exit, I happened to notice something, and glanced at the side of the road. There, caught like the proverbial deer, was...well, a deer, either a doe or a young buck. This is the first live one I've seen along 459, though I've seen the, erm, aftermath up at the Summit exit.

I'm still trying to figure out where they hide all day.

Apartment

After 24 years and 23 days, I have finally moved out of my parents' house.

Well, almost. I've left my baseball card collection in my closet, and a globe with "USSR" splayed across one hemisphere, and a rabbit tam, and a couple of other odds and ends, but 99% of my belongings, plus a few items I've, ahem, borrowed for the next few days are now in an apartment two miles down the road.

I've got to say, it's damned strange to be here. I'm in a two bed/one bath unit, so I have a bedroom, plus a "study", which is mostly holding Tupperware boxes filled with my accumulated library at the moment. That, and my desk, and a clothes hamper. I've yet to hang my diplomas, and I forgot to bring a lightbulb for the one lamp I have for the study, but my tackboard is up and better organized than it's been in ages, and the cable includes BBC America, so all is well for the time being.

I'm sore in places I'd truly forgotten about, like the little muscles in the forearms and lower legs. I've acquired an interesting set of bruises that coordinates well with the fading welts from my allergy test last Wednesday. (As it turns out, I'm allergic to all tree and grass pollen, all molds, almonds, cats, and - big surprise - dogs. The border collie still jumps on my bed, since I've somewhat acclimated to having her around. While I'm glad to have had the test, since the doctor can now begin the allergy shots, I'm a tad annoyed at how long it's taken the welts to go away. Being pasty doesn't help matters, I suppose.)

This weekend has been anything but restful. Since I built up a few hours at work earlier in the week, I was able to take Friday afternoon off to sign the papers and begin moving my stuff. My mother being in Virginia with my sister, I was able to borrow the Mercedes to ferry boxes, since my Cooper holds exactly two full-sized people and Brandon. (Sorry for sticking you in the back seat, Brandon.) The car's cute, but instead of a trunk, it offers a subtle nod to the idea that trunks usually come standard on vehicles, much like its subtle nod to the idea of back seats. Anyway, I made four trips over to my new place, during which time I grew to loathe the idea of being on the third floor.

There are 33 stairs between the sidewalk and my floor. I have no idea how many times I've walked them this weekend. I do know, however, that I have way too much crap for one person, and that 63 pairs of shoes may be slightly excessive. (I can't help it that my foot stopped growing early, can I?)

Once the initial schlepping was past, I hurried over early Saturday morning - 6:30, to be exact - so the Rooms to Go crew could move in my living room and bedroom. I still have no idea how those poor guys managed to get everything up here, but they deserve more than whatever they're making for being put through my move-in. That finished, I returned home, and my dad and I met a friend with a truck, who had graciously offered to come by and help me lug my furniture. As it turned out, "my furniture" included the aforementioned desk and its bookshelf, a tall chest, a hope chest, a wicker chest, and God knows how many boxes of books (I'd count them, but as I said, I don't have a lightbulb in here at the moment.) He and my dad did most of the heavy lifting - I make Dad nervous - and then I was left alone to begin the unpacking and the assembling of end tables.

Sunday, I slept in until 8, then began ferrying my clothes over. This took two trips in the Mercedes. The shoes took a separate trip, and they more than filled the trunk. So I like boots. Sue me.

By today, I'd completed most of the heavy moving (with the exception of the last remaining box of books), and so Mom took me to Target to complete my list - "little things" like pillows, cleaners, and groceries. We went to Pier 1 to find a couple of lamps for my living room, then wandered next door to Kirkland's and found a boxed set for my dresser for under $30. Once I dropped Mom off, I braved Wal-Mart in search of a co-ax cable and candles, and managed to get several of my Scotland pictures blown up and framed. I did receive bad news, however - two pictures I bought in Scotland, matted but unframed, are 9x9 and 10x12. Anyone know where to buy oddly-shaped frames?

I have yet to complete the unpacking, or to hang my tapestry and sword, but the air conditioning is functional and the dining room is scheduled to arrive next Saturday. In the meantime, I'm thinking it'll be nice to give my new bed a try. God knows I could use the rest before work tomorrow.

Columbia, etc.

It's been a weird few days over here in Columbia.

I had to drive through construction zones on two state borders to get here. Then I drove into North Carolina on back roads yesterday, killing time by hunting for antiques shops.

I've spoken with artists and experienced the drama of Baxter Village's resident street smoker first-hand. I have found a store that sells Doggles, and bought a sterling silver and lapis necklace for $20 at a musty shop in Fort Mill.

I have eaten meals at all three restaurants around my hotel - Cracker Barrel, Fuddrucker's, and the local Tex-Mex joint - and discovered I wasn't crazy about any of them. The waitress at Cracker Barrel shared my affinity for Sudoku, and the one at the Tex-Mex place kept calling me "sweetheart". Once, she touched my shoulder, and I was only slightly creeped out.

I have discovered that a little book of Sudoku is the greatest cure for boredom when dining alone. It works equally well as a soporific at night.

I have learned that a king-sized bed is sinfully large when you're in it alone, and that I never manage to cover more than two-thirds of it at one time.

I've been slightly grossed out by the Best Western cleaning staff, which has managed to overlook the short and curly someone left on my shower wall for the last three days. There's no way in hell I'm picking it off. I'll remove my hair from a tub, but not someone else's.

I ate a chocolate truffle with Balsamic vinegar, and liked it. I saw bottled Tennent's for the first time since leaving Scotland. I also saw an old red phone box strategically placed outside a pub that was flying all the flags of the British Isles, plus, for some odd reason, Australia's.

I have been beaten by a cheeseburger. The sandwich in question was a Main Street Jr. at Ida Roselle's Restaurant in Fort Mill. It was juicy and delicious, but enormous. "This is huge," I told the waitress. "How big is the Main Street burger?" "About a pound," she told me, taking the unfinished half of my lunch away.

I have discovered that three days is about all I can take of road food before I begin to feel gross. The best meal of the trip came today at lunch, at Enzo's in Winnsboro. If you're ever in the neighborhood and want some good Italian or barbeque, stop by. Try the fried mozzarella with pesto and the chocolate chip cannoli.

I have learned how wonderful Hertz Neverlost can be, but that it's not infallible. I've learned shortcuts the system hasn't quite figured out yet, and driven past my destination just to see where the road went. I ended up with a bottle of cold peach cider because the strawberry signs I was following ended at a U-Pick place that only allows picking on the weekends.

I have nearly memorized the order of the songs on the mix CDs in my rental car. I can sing along - harmonies included - with a good portion of Avenue Q. This I do frequently, though I try to tone it down in heavy traffic and at stoplights.

I figure that God has a reason for making me drive home through spring monsoons. I just haven't guessed it yet.

I've discovered that a black Mazda 6 with New York plates is an empowering vehicle. People expect you to be an asshole and to drive like one, and so they let you into traffic without a fuss. Then again, maybe South Carolinians are just nice to outsiders like that.

Last, but not least: I now have two vacuum cleaners in the trunk of my rental car. As I was killing time before dinner tonight, I happened to pass by a Tuesday Morning, which just happened to have a Bissell vacuum at half price. I bought one, plus a French press, and called my mother to tell her about all the money I'd saved. She then had me go back and buy one for my sister, which meant another conversation with the scattered clerk whose ex-husband, the druggie, was only caught when he took money out of an out-of-the-way ATM five times, and whose Bissell works like a charm, and who took all day to put it together in the first place. She also sprays Lysol in her hair in lieu of hairspray.

I'm coming home tomorrow. Let the rain begin!

A most excellent birthday weekend

My travel plans worked out last week, allowing me to come home Friday night in time for my birthday. Not that I have anything against Frankfort or the Derby, but I didn't particularly want to spend the weekend alone in a hotel. That's just depressing.

For a couple of hours, however, I thought I might not make it. I knew we were due for some thunderstorms, but I had no idea how intense the band was, nor how quickly it would hit. I had left Danville by 10:30, cleared 127 and the Cumberland Parkway, and gassed up before turning back onto I-65 for the straight shot home, and then it began to rain. Less than an hour later, roughly 20 miles from the Tennessee line, I pulled off at a Wendy's for lunch and managed to get inside just before the deluge. Lightning struck near the building, making the restaurant's power blink and my cell phone go haywire. When the manager turned the TV back on (who knew Wendy's was investing in flat screens?), she turned it to the Weather Channel, and we began to hear reports of how bad this system had been: tornadoes in Oklahoma and Arkansas, wind damage, hail...the list went on of thing one would rather not drive through. As soon as the rain lightened past flood conditions, I sprinted back to my rental car and tried to make tracks south, hoping to outrun the weather heading east. Of course, I was stalled getting back to the Interstate because half the traffic lights were out and everyone had to play chicken at lunchtime, and once I did get back on, the rain returned with a vengeance. Two or three times before I reached Nashville, the rain was so bad that everyone around, including the semis, slowed to under 40 mph and drove with hazards on. Driving through 20 miles of roadwork did nothing to improve my nerves, but everything cleared north of Nashville, and the skies were beautifully blue in Birmingham. Go figure.

Of course, what was lovely about coming home sans wet rental car was finding my new MINI in the driveway. Since Jen's taking the Beetle to grad school, my folks found a great car for me. It's adorable, it sips gas, and it has all the bells and whistles - the auctioneer who bought it knew what he was doing! The only downside for the time being is that I'll have to take it to Atlanta to get it serviced properly, but that's not for another 10,000 miles or so.

The weekend only got better from there. I did have to get up for a 9 a.m. Requiem rehearsal - which meant driving through the mess I'd skirted the day before, plus fog - but my mother made breakfast (including mimosas, maybe not the best thing to drink before rehearsal!), I unwrapped a new necklace to wear, and Coke always helps when you don't really want to be conscious. It's been two years since I last sang the piece, and I was surprised how much I still have memorized, including those awkward tenor lines for which the altos were recruited in high school. Thanks, Dr. Thomas!

When I came home, Mom declared we were going to get a new GPS (since I could never make my TomTom work again), then go furniture shopping, even though I don't technically have an apartment yet. First, we drove down to Alabaster to check out this warehouse...

Note to self: never, ever go furniture shopping at a place that bills itself as "Between: Alabama Thrift Store and Save-O-Lot" [sic]. Not only was their location sketchy to the nth, they couldn't even spell their neighbor's name correctly. Their brochure was a study in how to butcher English. I swear, I see fewer mistakes in my ESL clients' papers, and they've got a legitimate excuse to make errors. Pathetic.

We quickly turned around and headed back to Rooms To Go, picked out my rooms, did some shopping for Jen's apartment, and headed home. (We bought yesterday...my mother doesn't mess around.) I vegged for the rest of the afternoon, including a most lovely nap, and then it was off to a very late dinner at Hot and Hot Fish Club. I hadn't yet been, but the chef worked with Frank Stitt, and it shows. Great restaurant, if way out of my usual price range. (Shrimp and grits...yum.)

Yesterday, we had orchestra practice at 3 p.m., then a concert at 7. I've never quite done the Requiem twice in one day, but whatever. It was a benefit concert.

Frankfort day

The longer I walked around Frankfort yesterday, the sadder I was to be missing the Derby celebrations on Saturday. This town goes nuts for it - from Derby hats to mint julep cups, the Governor's breakfast, and free 7 a.m. libations, Frankfort becomes one big party for "the most exciting two minutes in sports." I'm sure it's even nuttier elsewhere in Kentucky, but the fever doesn't quite reach Birmingham - which is probably good for me, as I don't look so great in hats.

Having only one full day in Frankfort, I resolved to cram as much into it as I possibly could. Beginning at 7 a.m., I did the following:

1) Breakfast at a downtown diner that reminded me the Yankee Doodle, minus the attitude.

2) Got the car and drove out to Switzer Covered Bridge, which would be lovely if not for the graffiti.

3) Drove back to town and finally found a parking place outside the New Capitol. Why was it so crowded on a Thursday morning, you ask? As it turns out, all the baby lawyers were being sworn in yesterday. "I just passed the bar!" the guy before me in the security line gleefully announced.

4) Headed up the road to Rebecca-Ruth Candy for a 9:30 a.m. tour and sample of the bourbon balls.

5) Drove north to Buffalo Trace for an 11 a.m. tour of the distillery. Now, I find the production end intriguing - I had the chance to see a couple of distilleries in Scotland last year - but I can't handle the finished product. Whiskey gives me a monstrous headache (and I'm not talking about a hangover - one taste of Johnny Red started the pounding). It's come to the point now where the smell can send up warning signals, so when we spent a good ten minutes inside one of the warehouses...yeah. At the end, the guide offered the three of us on the tour samples of Rain vodka and Buffalo Trace. The lady and I demurred from the bourbon initially, she because of some remnants of bourbon-inspired sickness in her misspent youth, me for the headache reason, but eventually we both tried it. I took a tiny sip, strongly recalled other whiskies of my past, and set it aside. "What happened?" my guide sadly asked. I had to explain that it was very nice, but that I simply couldn't handle it. Rain's not bad, though.

6) After the tour, I called a fellow I'd met at the wine bar the night before who works at the Salato Wildlife Education Center, and he arranged for his boss to show me around. Salato's neat - they have lots of hands-on exhibits, as the hordes of grade-school munchkins were demonstrating, and they keep animals out back. My favorites had to be the bears - sort of like big, deadly puppies, my guide and I concluded - and the wildcats. UK's mascot, Blue, lives there, as does a companion. They were curled up, dozing in the sun, when we walked by, looking for all the world like slightly overgrown housecats. Adorable.

7) By this time, it was past 1 p.m., so I headed back downtown for a quick lunch before touring the Old Capitol. Our guide was very nice, but the poor thing couldn't quite pronounce "yeoman" or "Marquis de Lafayette".

8) I thought I would check out a tea room before they closed, so I drove a few miles back out of town. They had, in fact, closed, but still got me a pot of tea. The place was cute, but had an overabundance of doilies.

9) Thirst quenched, I drove back to Frankfort and browsed the shops for a bit. By now, it was close to 4 p.m., my feet ached, and I was beat. I crashed in my room with one of A&E's crime shows in the background, then got up and did a bit of editing for a friend before heading out for dinner.

10) I had hit the best restaurant in town Wednesday night, so I was at a loss for dinner. I didn't want to eat in the hotel - it's sad to do that, and anyway, the prices were ridiculous - so I drove out to a seafood place on the river. At the wine bar, one of the restaurant's employees had warned me against it, but I was curious. Let's just say he was right. I don't want to sound snobby, but those were the most obviously pre-frozen shrimp I've ever eaten, including the ones I've defrosted myself.

11) Hunger satisfied but nose going nuts with its reintroduction to oak pollen, I took the long route home, then holed up with my computer and began making notes on Frankfort before finding my emergency pack of antihistamines and going to bed.

It's off for a brief stop in Danville this morning, then home, hopefully before the rental car place closes...

Kentucky bound

There is this to say for Kentucky: what it loses in having a crappy, torn-up stretch of 65 at the Tennessee line, it makes up for in scenery. The middle section of the state rolls on in trees and wide swaths of grassland, including the famous bluegrass, which struck me more as a teal than a proper blue. Heading north, driving by flowering redbuds and dogwoods, I felt as if the Interstate were showing me a sort of bizarre backward time-lapse movie of April, culminating in yellow-green foliage and those damn oak pollen squigglies. (Surely there exists a scientific term for "oak squiggly", but I've never heard it.) The real payoff comes once you leave 65 for the Bluegrass Parkway: mountains, conifers, and long expanses of farms and forest. It's not nearly as dramatic as, say, West Virginia, but Kentucky offers a tamer version of the wilderness without the ridiculous number of tunnels.

Today...what can I say but one big string of "Well, that wasn't quite what I had planned" moments? I left almost 20 minutes late - not a big deal, but enough to annoy me - but my TomTom knew where I was going, and all seemed to be right with the world. The only real concern was whether we would be able to sign for our apartment today, and so, just to be safe, I pulled my phone from my purse so I wouldn't miss the call.

Quick: when one is desperately waiting for a phone call, which will be the one appliance one will forget to charge the night before?

Seeing the battery meter turn red did nothing to quell my nerves, but I pushed on, hopeful of an electronic miracle. Around Athens, however, the LOW BATTERY notice appeared, and so I pulled into the Shell station and ran inside, hoping they would sell chargers. They didn't, but the clerk pointed me to the Wal-Mart a mile up the road, which did carry chargers, and so, having thought to have my clamshell pre-opened, I plugged my phone into the lighter and sighed with relief as the juice started flowing.

Then I turned the TomTom back on and got nothing. Nada. It stayed stuck on its welcome screen all the way to Nashville, and then I turned it off in disgust. Thankfully, my printed Google Maps got me pointed in the right direction, and I headed off down the Bluegrass Parkway toward Frankfort.

As mentioned, the Parkway is gorgeous, sparsely developed, pleasantly winding, and - unfortunately - littered with the inevitable squashed raccoons and possums. By the time I hit it, lunch had come and gone, especially on Eastern Time. I began looking for a place to pull off, but saw few options amongst the prettiness. Finally, a sign came into view:

New Haven
Boston
2 Miles

Oh man, I thought, I've got to stop there, but alas, it was not to be; New Haven and Boston appeared to have a distinct lack of eateries near the Parkway, so I forced myself to push on to Bardstown, which at least had a cute historical district and a coffee shop-cum-café with a decent ham sandwich.

Now, I'm no stranger to odd roadside attractions - as my writing seminar knows too well, I spent a good deal of time looking them up for my dissertation novel last year. What got me today was the serendipitous juxtaposition of two signs along a stretch of Kentucky highway. On the left side of the road, a large billboard proclaimed:

HELL IS REAL

Just across the road, next to the tourist information center, an even larger billboard offered this to visitors:

ADULT

No need to specify - I had been seeing signs for this particular video and novelty store for a few miles. It's not the messages, but rather this mixture of roadside virtue and vice that gets me - it's so quintessentially American, and so much a part of the Southern Interstate experience.

Finally, after seven hours behind the wheel, I pulled into Frankfort, a capital city of roughly 30,000, and dropped my bags, including my busted TomTom, in my hotel room so I could take a quick walk. An hour later, we determined that the apartment was not to be, and then I determined that the TomTom was in inexplicably bad shape. Still, Frankfort has some cute shops, I had a lovely dinner (though the redneck next to me, who refused to take of his baseball cap during dinner, couldn't quite understand gnocchi), and then I stumbled onto the find of the evening - the local wine bar.

I need more quality wine bars in my life, and not those of the overpriced The Grape variety. These folks offered a variety of wines - including a large selection of Kentucky wines - and bourbons by the pour, plus cheese trays and other goodies. I'll need to pop back by tomorrow night, I think; it's two blocks from my hotel, and it's probably the most exciting thing happening in Frankfort after 6 p.m.

Moving on

I slept in this morning, figuring God would forgive me. Two nights in a row of Porgy and Bess until 11 PM takes it out of you. Still, we received five stars, a first this year, and largely thanks to our incredible soloists, even if the BCC does have an "earthy presence"...whatever the hell that means. One memorable moment of the show happened on Friday night, when a moth flew into poor Bess's mouth and she spat it out, loudly. We laughed, the audience laughed, and Bess, pro that she is, carried on like nothing had happened. That is talent.

This afternoon, I almost got a car and an apartment.

When she begins grad school in August, Jen is taking her beloved Beetle with her, leaving me without wheels. My parents have graciously agreed to buy me a replacement car, and we think we may have found it - a cream and black MINI Cooper with many of the bells and whistles, including leather and a dual moon roof. It's a 2005 just shy of 25,000 miles, and it's in perfect order. If they can make the price work, it's mine. Sweet.

Now to the second part. Seeing as I've been back in Birmingham eight months, I'm beginning to think that it's time I got my own place - my folks are great, and I couldn't ask for more from them, but I'll be 24 this Saturday, and I'm thinking it's high time I found my first apartment and boomeranged back out of the nest. Brandon and I looked at a few yesterday (with Kat tagging along as Counsel/Chauffeur), and found a great complex within our budget. The manager showed us a unit they were advertising as a discounted special, and we both seemed to like it. My only concern was that the unit was, for all purposes, in the basement.

My mother dislikes basements, and asked to come along today. When we got back to the complex, she got the manager to show us two other units, including a much better one with a full pantry, second coat closet, living room mirror, and deck. The manager revealed that the new one was also discounted, and we set off to sign the papers. There's a lesson here: parents come in handy, and can keep sub-par apartments from being foisted on their kids.

Unfortunately, we hit a snag in the form of the credit check. Both of us had to fork over $60 to have our credit history checked, and when he ran mine, the machine came back with an "Insufficient Funds" note. (Of course I have insufficient funds if you assume I'm paying for the apartment by myself, idiot machine...) My mother offered to co-sign, and so we'll hear tomorrow whether we can have our apartment. Fingers crossed...

I can't...I have rehearsal

Midway through hell week for Porgy & Bess, I'm beginning to feel better about the weekend's show.

My choir is doing P&B with the ASO and a group of professional soloists on Friday and Saturday night. It's a sung performance, not acted, which makes the fact that all but two members of the choir are Caucasian slightly more acceptable. As I told my neighbor, I never feel whiter than when I'm asked to sing a spiritual, and P&B was written in dialect, to the point that we've actually had textual issues.

On one song, we have a one-line echo of the soloist, which many of us interpreted as "Since she lost her man." Nice and grammatically correct, right? Wrong. "Read the words!" our pianist finally told us in exasperation. "It's 'Since she lose her man!'"

Like I said, we sound so white. The soloists, fortunately, make up for this by being fabulous. Porgy and Crown are great, but if I make it through "It Ain't Necessarily So" without cracking up - he's that over-the-top - it's going to be a minor miracle.

Anyway, as this is the week before, we've been spending some quality time with Justin Brown and each other, to the point that my nights are shot. Almost makes me feel like I'm back in Glee Club...anyone want to bring Sir David Wilcocks down?

Be Kind

When I woke a moment ago and checked out the MSN headlines, I was reminded that I arrived at Yale for Bulldog Days six years ago today.

No, I didn't tattoo the date somewhere, nor did I stick a big gold star on my calendar in memory of the event. You see, today is April 20, and I had a rather...unusual...welcome.

My host, a Calhoun frosh, lived in the Bingham tower on Old Campus. I followed her across the uneven stone walkway I would come to love and despise, and stared up at the neo-Gothic architecture with joy. This was college, this was what higher learning was all about, tall trees and towering edifices of stone that looked vaguely European...

Several floors above us, a guy leaned out a window and spotted us coming up the walk. "Hey, Lindsay!" he yelled down, catching my host's attention. "Be kind!"

She rolled her eyes and swiped me in. "It's 4/20," she explained, noting my confusion. "He's nuts. Ignore him."

Nothing like a pot celebration to welcome the pre-frosh. Still, the first time I visited Yale was in the middle of a March nor'easter, and I woke in my host's LW room the next morning to find her and her boyfriend in the bunk beneath me. Her roommate, who had been chaperoning me, had taken the couch, and started yelling in French when I shook her awake.

Man, I miss college.

Volkswagen saga

Several of my coworkers have been subjected to bits and pieces (or more) of this over the past two weeks, so if any of them happen to be reading this, ever, I apologize. Sincerely.

Sunday a week ago - April 6, this would have been - I was driving home from church, trying to avoid the semi in the other lane, when I noticed a new orange indicator on my dashboard. "CHECK ENGINE," it announced, and added a not-so-happy picture of what I assume is some portion of my engine, just in case I happened to be an illiterate Beetle owner with more than remedial knowledge of car repair.

Given that my knowledge of "car repair" extends roughly to filling the tank and washing bird poop off the windows, CHECK ENGINE gave me a nice cold shot of stomach-clenching dread. As I had been to my local dealership four months before to have a valve replaced, I knew that CHECK ENGINE didn't necessarily mean imminent flames, but I also knew it wasn't good. I called my parents and told them I was heading to the dealership, at which point they reminded me that it was Sunday afternoon, and that the dealership wasn't open.

One point to the parents.

On Monday morning, bright and early, I drove my car to the dealership and explained that the ominous orange light had flicked on. The service representative ran his diagnostics, then told me I had a bad turbo valve. My car wasn't about to explode, but I would have poor fuel economy until I had the thing fixed. The valve would be $40. Oh, and they were going to tack on another $30 for the time spent that morning, and it would cost me roughly $170 to have the valve installed, say in three or four days, after they ordered the part.

I told the man I had replaced a valve four months ago, and asked whether this would be a common thing. He assured me it would not be so.

Great, I thought, and tried to drive as little as possible until Friday, when I dropped the car off at 7, crossed my fingers, and hitched a ride to work on the courtesy shuttle. My driver, an old man from Michigan who sounded like a deep-bayou Louisianan, encouraged us to go see a redneck comedian that night - the bad rain, he had heard, was going to come through that morning.

Later Friday morning, the tech called and told me my car was ready for pickup (a call that, incidentally, pulled me out of the last five minutes of Java. Oy). The shuttle couldn't come to get me until 2, however, so I worked and stewed until the crusty Michigander returned to ferry me back to the dealership. We discussed why all the auto manufacturers are moving south, he ascertained that I'm not, in fact, British, and we slipped back to the ever-popular topic of weather. He had missed his prediction, and I planned to hang out with the weather radio back at the office for the rest of the day.

$170 and a conversation with a not-entirely-there tech later, I headed back to work, making sure to park under the deck. What followed wasn't pretty; long story short, I tried to leave, saw the rain coming behind me, started getting hailed upon, and turned back to the parking deck until it all blew over, because let's face it, no one likes frozen projectiles, especially not those of baseball size. On the way home, heading down Columbiana into Hoover, I was almost involved in a wreck when the car in front of me lost control, and then, in the midst of praying and attempting to make my adrenaline level subside, I noticed something new on my dashboard.

CHECK ENGINE.

The rant that followed wasn't pretty.

I coasted back to the dealership, rolled down my windows, and gave a couple of techs my best sarcastic smile as I pointed out that the problem I had waited five days to be fixed was botched again ten miles later. They told me to come back the next morning. "We don't take appointments," Not-Entirely-There Tech told me. "If you're late, you're at the bottom of the list."

Fearing that I was being fleeced, my mother accompanied me to the dealership the next morning when they opened - I was still fourth in line, as Not-Entirely-There Tech helpfully pointed out - and she expressed her displeasure with the service to that point. Nothing to worry about, we were informed. They'd take a look at the engine and give us a call.

Well, my mother had to make the calls, and we got my car back just as the dealership was closing for the day. It turned out that the new turbo valve had caused a hose to crack, and that was messing up the engine. Oh, and I had eight valves, so any of the remaining six could set off the indicator at any time. All I needed to remember was that unless the indicator started flashing, I was in no immediate danger of engine failure. Fair enough, I thought, and put it behind me.

Monday evening, I climbed back into the car to go to choir practice. When I was halfway to Briarwood, guess what dashboard indicator lit?

The rant that followed is best left to the imagination.

Two hours of Porgy and Bess practice with a tension headache will put anyone in a foul mood, and I was less than charming when I drove into the dealership on Tuesday morning. "I'd like to go more than three days without visiting you," I told the tech who signed me in. "Look, I travel for my job. I need a functional car, alright?" He assured me they'd fix it, and once again, I caught the shuttle to work. The driver, another older man, asked whether I'd need a ride back, then told me to call and schedule a pickup when I heard from the dealership.

Once 1:30 rolled around, I began calling them. Voicemail. Messages. Mumbled assurances that my car was being examined. At 4, the tech asked if they could keep the car overnight. Sure, I told him, and my dad drove me home from work.

Wednesday morning, I waited for word from Volkswagen, but nothing came. I began calling at 11, when the flustered receptionist gave me one of the techs' answering machine. When I had yet to receive a call at 1:30, my mother phoned the dealership and, in true parental fashion, let the tech have it.

The car was ready on my way home. As it turned out, a small hose that's virtually inaccessible unless you disassemble the engine had cracked. To figure that out, the techs had replaced nearly all of my $40 valves.

My grand total was $33, for the new hose. Volkswagen, apparently, is heartily sorry.

It would have been nice if they'd called me as well as my mother, but hey, at least I get to drive to work tomorrow.

Spamalot

Back in late October or so, I heard that the traveling cast of Spamalot was coming to Birmingham in April. I got all excited, asked a few friends if they wanted to go, and promptly neglected to do anything about it, like...oh, I don't know...get tickets.

Last week, I happened to notice that Spamalot was here. Whoops...

Fortunately, I have a co-worker who is not averse to a) Monty Python, b) $36 tickets, or c) impromptu Thursday night shows, and so we got our nosebleed seats and two hours of Pythony goodness.

I love Holy Grail. I can't remember if we watched it in seventh-grade social studies (we did see other historical films in that class, like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure and Aladdin), but it's a wonderfully wacky take on the Arthurian canon. (It's even better after Malory.) The musical, by necessity, deviates in several places from the film, but if you go into it with the understanding that it's a completely different creature "lovingly ripped off" the original, it's quite entertaining. While Spamalot does stand alone, familiarity with the film helps, if only because you catch a few of the gags. (The first "show" listed in the Playbill, for instance, is about Finland and features a moose ballet troupe. And while Castle Anthrax never makes an appearance, those girls' white outfits look awfully familiar.) What's brilliant is that the writers took a film that poked fun at the vehicle and gave it a Broadway treatment - numbers like "Whatever Happened to My Part?" (and the post-Spears lyric changes) are priceless.

My favorite moment has to be the duet between Galahad and the Lady of the Lake, when they appear onstage in a tiny boat, under a chandelier that had to have been used in Phantom in another life, and sing the romantic ballad of the show, "The Song That Goes Like This":

I'll sing it in your face
While we both embrace
And then
We change
The key...

Brilliant.

I'm not dead

I just haven't had the time, energy, or inclination to write in a while. And yes, that can partly be construed as laziness.


I had planned on a glorious prop sale last Friday, but that was not to be. No, I was laid low by a visit from the Allergy Fairy, who gave my mom and me such a bad go of it that we had to finally visit the allergist. As it turns out, this allergist is the doctor of choice in my department, and she sent us home with goody bags of antihistamines. I got a special gift: a second inhaler. "You probably have at least seasonal asthma," she told me.


"How the heck does that work?" I asked.


She explained that my years of singing have probably taught me to compensate, then gave me a ten-minute breathing treatment before she would let me go to work. My lungs still aren't at full performance, but I got through Porgy and Bess rehearsal Monday night, and that was a blessing.

At least my friends scored some fabulous prop sale buys.

We were supposed to host my sister and her friends on Saturday night, but one of them, thinking like - well, like a young-twenty-something male - gave up their seats on the plane. Poor Jen had to overnight in Tampa, then sit through endless hassles at JFK on Sunday. She had intended to pick up her spring clothes and other important things, like her keys, on their return trip, but Mom had to mail it all to her instead. The box arrived a day late, too - this has been a great weekend for Jen.

The most exciting thing to happen in days was that I sat outside for an hour without wheezing this afternoon. It's always fun to catch pollen showering down on you out of the corner of your eye...

Impulse buy

Joy, oh joy, we have two prop sales this week!

As I told my editor last night, I'm convinced it's possible to outfit a large house solely with prop sale finds. Some of the stuff is great, and the rummaging is just this side of insanity - if you don't move, or if you're not holding something large and spiky under your arm, you will get crushed.

Hyperbole aside, the only times I've seen crowds swarm the way the prop sale group does is back at college, when Master Schottenfeld gave us free food nights during finals. I remember a couple of times when there was no food left at the appointed starting hour, due to lack of crowd control. Thai take-out, fluffernutter sandwiches, art glass...it's all relative, really.

Yesterday was the first of the week's duo, and I made a few nice finds: a wall piece similar to one I'd seen at Bombay and couldn't afford, a candelabra, a great candelabra with a vase in the middle, and a set of eight ice cream glasses, which were free.

Then I, um, bought a tapestry. When they saw it, I got these "Dear God, what now?" looks from those who know how much I bought at the first sale. It's a nice piece, though, and it was only $25, so now all I need is mounting equipment.
And a wall to put it on.
And an apartment with a wall.
And a job to finance said apartment...

At least I know now what I need, and knowing is half the battle. Or something like that.

Busy week

The office is a ghost town.

Many of the editors (but none of the interns!) have taken spring break. Things are so depleted at the moment that for the last two days, our department has been down to four people, two of whom are interns. It's very quiet, but we've had a good chance to get work done, including, for me, all that goes into archiving an issue.

Last night, a group of us did Chinese food and watched Once, which is quite good for an indie. I downloaded a few of the songs today, though I doubt they'll do me much good on the track tomorrow morning. For that, there's the iPod club mix...

I do need to go to the gym tomorrow. Wednesday morning, I skipped due to the threat of severe weather, and this morning, I was too beat to drag myself out of bed at 5 AM. I did manage to get up at 6:30, when my dog tried to jump onto the bed, then headed down the street to check on my neighbors' cat.

I'm a dog person, mostly due to family allergies, but I have nothing against cats. They're cute, in a strange sort of way, and this one seemed not to hate me the last time I was over. She didn't bother to greet me when I came in - unlike my dog, whose favorite method of greeting is to jump all over the newcomer, then shove her nose toward her new friend's unmentionables and look up adoringly - so after checking food and water levels, I decided to make sure the cat was alright. "Mimi?" I called.

"Mrow."

I paused, trying to triangulate. "Mimi?"

"Mrow."

Thus began a groggy, albeit brief, game of feline Marco Polo. I found the poor thing eventually, having traced her meowing under a chair, and, ascertaining that she was just hiding and not nursing some massive trauma, left for the day. When I returned this evening, she seemed much more pleased to see me, probably because she heard me rummaging in her food bin. Good kitty.

Tomorrow, barring snow, my sister and her posse will descend upon us for a long weekend. If they arrive before midnight, they'll be lucky. If Sam Ruth knows what's good for him, he won't give me any shit while he's here. Just kidding, Sam.

But really.

Road trip, part the last

Atlanta. Traffic. Sucks.

That's really all there is to say for it. That, and I'm grateful for two things on Friday. First, I had my wonderful GPS, which guided me through the maze of streets in the city. Secondly, I got out of there long before the tornado hit downtown.

I've been rather tired since I got home, but the trip was successful. The party last night was pretty sweet, too.

Road trip, day the second

I woke this morning, seemingly healed from my close encounter with the Waffle House, and hit the treadmill for a brief workout (briefer than I would have liked, as the room had no air conditioning) before heading back to Georgia. The drive was pleasant, the GPS fairly reliable, and I had no problems until I got off I-75 and started heading to Colbert.

I've noticed that there is an inverse correlation between the urbanization level of a place and the number of auto shops and Baptist churches it holds. When you start seeing an overwhelming number of nondenominational churches, or churches housed in manufactured homes, you know you're getting out into the sticks. This relationship does break down, however; past a certain critical limit of salvage parts and sad-looking places of worship, everything disappears and you're left with only God's country, which in northwest Georgia means rolling hills of green that go on forever, crossed by oddly-named roads of dubious condition and pedigree. These are single-track roads masquerading as two-lane, their surfaces patched and pitted, and the trees grow overhead in a sort of half canopy as you pass through. It's almost claustrophobic in there, especially when you're not entirely certain where you're going, and once I stopped thinking of banjos, I recalled Stephen King's Lovecraftian story, "Crouch End," and hoped I wouldn't see signs for R'lyeh or some such around the next bend ("Beware the goat with a thousand young!" etc.)

Towns exist around Colbert, but most are wide patches that have grown up along the railroad tracks. To get there, I drove through Royston, the birthplace of Ty Cobb, and that was a booming metropolis compared to my destination. Again, thank God for the GPS, as there is no doubt in my mind that I would never have found the place if I hadn't been guided. Once I did stumble upon it, I realized two things: I had two hours to kill, and I wasn't going to find food in Colbert. Deciding a field trip was in order, I set my course for Athens and headed off in search of lunch.

Athens is a college town of the first order - it puts New Haven to shame - and to find the strip of restaurants and shops, I did what anyone would do: I programmed my GPS to find the nearest Starbucks to campus, then drove smack into the downtown area. I had lunch at Picante's, a decent Mexican place, then walked around, looking at shops and sweating in my dress clothes, as Athens was at least 70 degrees this afternoon. What was fun was explaining the nature and production of druzies to the girl behind the desk at the bead shop, who probably should have known, seeing she was trying to sell a gorgeous druzy and citrine necklace. A steal at $450, right?

Having eaten and strolled, and killed as much time as I could, I got back in the car and headed off to my interview, then set a course for Atlanta and my Holiday Inn, which is located in what appears to be a combination of Little Korea and Little Mexico. Fortunately, there's a restaurant on site, and the salmon was decent, even if the waitress hadn't the faintest idea how to operate the register. No matter; I've had a decent meal and I'm not sick to my stomach, which is all one can ask for, really.

Finally, a few interesting sights of the day:
1) Rhett Butler apparently sells real estate around Athens. Either someone's getting tacky with the agency's name, or someone's mom really loved Gone With the Wind.
2) A billboard for Bond, James Bond bail bonds. Yes, that's actually the name of the company.
3) This one was from yesterday, but I finally remembered to look it up tonight: there's a stretch of I-85 in Jackson County, Georgia named in honor of Lauren "Bubba" McDonald. Speaking as a Lauren...man, what did you do to your parents to make them hate you?

Road trip, day the first

If anyone from my writing workshop read that title and groaned inwardly, I swear, this has nothing to do with my dissertation novel, Rock City, or Layla and Wally. Really. Promise.

Currently, I'm sitting in my surprisingly well-appointed room at the Holiday Inn outside Anderson, SC. The bed is huge, the couch seems passable, and the Wi-Fi is free, so I can't complain. My only problem is the lack of local dining options - we're limited to McDonald's or Waffle House, and I'm having Scholars' Bowl flashbacks as I type. I could, of course, drive on down the road until I reached civilization and/or a real restaurant, but I've been driving all day and I'm really not feeling the whole I-85 thing right now. Besides, I have gourmet cake waiting, but more on that in a minute.

I left home at 7 AM in my spiffy, albeit cruise control-less, rental car, headed for parts unknown with only my Google directions and Hertz GPS to guide me. Once past Atlanta (and boy, that's a hurdle - I don't know how anyone learns to drive in that city, because if I had tried to learn in Atlanta, I would have ended up a whimpering mass on the side of the road), I had smooth sailing until I reached Anderson. Having allotted entirely too much time to driving, as usual, I found myself with nearly two hours to kill, so I parked and took a much-welcome stroll.

In many ways, downtown Anderson reminds me of Vicksburg, minus the casino boat. The storefronts are renovated 19th-century designs, and the downtown strip has plenty of pedestrian traffic and ample parking. I ate at a nice deli, then found a great little shop that sells beads and semi-precious necklaces, and bought myself a string of rough-hewn turquoise nuggets (it was either that or the lapis disks, and I went cheap at $50). Then I found a Thunderbird Motel and laughed - let's talk retro.

My interview went well, and concluded with a takeaway box of cake, which I am eagerly anticipating post-Waffle House and possibly pre-gym (we shall see whether the gym comes tonight or first thing tomorrow). I had called Brandon earlier to ask where her mother's store was located, and, thinking I had enough information, plugged what I had into my GPS and set off for Greenville.

Don't get me wrong, the GPS is fabulous. I would never have found Greenville without it, and I'm not sure what we did before these car systems came along. Nevertheless, half an hour later, I realized I was definitely on the wrong Main Street, and so I called Brandon back and got the address. I'm glad I did - her mother was as sweet as could be and gave me guides - and after I left the shop, I strolled through Greenville's shopping district until I found Falls Park. Must be nice to have a waterfall downtown; being from Birmingham, the great landlocked metropolis of the southeast, I wouldn't know. Birmingham needs to learn from Greenville - I'd definitely go back.

And now, slightly road weary but none the worse for my adventures, I'm off to find dinner. This may just turn into an early night after all.
-------

Post-dinner post script: Waffle House is as godawful as I remember. That has to be the greasiest omelet and hashbrowns I've ever had. Cake it is.

On the road again

After nearly a four-month stint in one place, I'm off on a road trip bright and early tomorrow morning. It'll be me, a selection of mix CDs, and my rental car - which, I should add, has a built-in GPS system but lacks cruise control - against the open road, all the way to South Carolina, but I'm hoping to come home with some good information. One of the other interns is also traveling this week, but in North Carolina. Sounds like someone's getting a phone call tomorrow...

The rental's built-in GPS means I won't have to rely on my new TomTom, which is sad, as I had programmed my unit to give me directions in the voice of Yoda. "In 50 yards, right you must turn" might get a little old after a while, but it would make me laugh. We'll see if I can't pull my faithful Jedi TomTom out at some point this week.

In other vehicular news, my Beetle is being repainted in the morning so it will no longer look like this:

Lovely, isn't it? I'm so good, I scare myself. The car was going to feature in a photo shoot today, even with its scrapes, but alas, the weather refused to cooperate and the shoot was moved, meaning they'll need another car. Too bad for me.

Finally, a moment of "Dear God, why does everyone think I have an accent?!?" randomness: while standing in line at Panera, waiting for my lunch, the lady next to me commented on my necklace and asked where I'd bought it. I told her it was from a Fair Trade store in Edinburgh.

"Is that where you're from?" she asked.
No, I explained, I just went to school there.
She seemed confused at this and asked where I lived. Eventually, we established that I'm a native, to which she gave me the old "You have a bit of an accent" line.
Yes ma'am, I know. I know.

Not the best day of my life

I had plenty on my mind Friday afternoon when I got ready to leave work. There was the traffic to consider. My upcoming trip. The movie that night. The possible rain.

The one thing that seemed to have left my mind was any sense of three-dimensional geometry. I got into the car, put it in reverse, and mentally did a slow-motion "NOOOOO!!!" a few seconds later when I cut the turn too sharply and scraped into the cement support pole.

I got out of the car and checked the damage. Not pretty. "It's okay," I thought, trying to calm myself down. "I'll just go to Royal and get them to buff it out."

Half an hour later, the idiot girl behind the desk at Royal's body shop gave me the bad news: $627 to repaint the car. "It's not that bad," she drawled.

"What do you mean, it's not that bad?" I exclaimed, resisting the urge to throttle her or say words of which my mother would not approve. "It's bad when you're on a minimum-wage budget!"

"Uh...yeah, I guess."

The man helping her suggested I take Pledge to the car and get the worst of the white marks out. Consequently, when my father pulled into the driveway, I was bending over the car with paper towels and the can of furniture polish, rubbing as well as I could and trying to avoid getting anything on my work clothes. Before then, however, I'd run by Estes, the place where we get our tires, and asked for a recommendation of anyone who could fix my car for under Royal's price. The owner gave me the name and number of his son-in-law, and I left him a message.

Saturday morning, I had resigned myself to forking over the exorbitant fee when the son-in-law called back. I drove out to his place in Pelham, which is so new that the main phone line doesn't work yet. I wasn't sure exactly what I would find, but he launched into his credentials almost immediately.

"When you said 'green Beetle,' I knew exactly what you were talking about," he began, examining the scratches. "Green and red are the two worst colors. Green gets milky, and red fades to pink. You don't notice it, but if you try to repaint it, it's obvious."

"It took Royal three times to get the paint right when they fixed the car after my sister's wreck," I told him.

He nodded, then reassured me he had done Volkswagons, even annoyingly painted ones, before. "I have a formula."

The turnaround was 24 hours. "And the price?" I asked, biting my lip.

He studied the car a moment longer. "$300?"

I could have hugged him. Instead, I took his card and said I'd call him. If all goes according to plan, the car will go in Tuesday night and be back when I return from my trip. Happy day!

Being spontaneous

I love moments of random spontaneity.

The following conversation (roughly) transpired at lunch yesterday, after someone got a few of us jonesing for Fun Dip by pulling a candy stick from her purse:

"Are there any candy stores in town?"
"Yeah, SoHo Sweets. It's sort of new."
"Where's that?"
"Homewood. SoHo. You know, by Zoe's."
"No."
"Do they have various kinds of gummy things?"
"I...think so? Maybe?"
"What about old candy? Necco Wafers?"
"I don't know." (Pauses, considers the half-hour left in the lunch break.) "You guys want to go now?"

What followed was a mass exodus in search of candy. Most of the party settled for gelato. Even considering that I only had the small size of the Peanut Butter Cup flavor, I was grateful for step class this morning.

Random fun

I've found a new way to waste time...

Futoshiki.

It's a logic puzzle in the same vein as Sudoku. Unfortunately, if you forget what it's called and try to find it by entering random parts of the word, you come up with some fairly obscene hits.

The main difference between Futoshiki and Sudoku is the addition of greater than/less than rules. Take this one, for example:
Fit the numbers 1-5 into the grid in such a way that no number is repeated in any row or column and the rules are followed. The box between the 5 and 4 could logically be either 2 or 3, but not 1. Simple enough, right?

Keeps me off the streets, at least...

Yessss...

It's slightly after 7 AM. I just woke up. The temperature is low, but the sun is shining and the electricity is still on.

I'm sore in a few places, so I stayed home from the gym today. This means that I got 10.5 glorious hours of sleep last night.

Good morning, world!

Blackout

I woke this morning at 3:30 to lashing rain, a lightning storm, and a lack of electricity. Fearing a puddle in the foyer, I grabbed a towel and ran to put a stopper at the door, then relaxed as the power came back on.

Then it went off again, this time for the rest of the night.

I don't sleep well once disturbed, and for the next hour and a half, I lay in bed, wondering whether 1) we would have any tornadoes, 2) we would get power by morning, and 3) it would be worth it to go to my intended 5:30 step class. At one point, I turned on my laptop and decided to play on Facebook to numb myself back to sleep, only to realize that, ha, the wireless router was also out with the electricity.

I must have slipped into a doze around 4:30 or so, because I woke again, this time with significantly less pep, when my Jeeves clock roused me at 5. Seeing no change in the power situation, I packed a change of clothes, shampoo, and a hair dryer in my gym bag and headed for the Rec. Class was good, even before caffeine, but the best part was being able to dry my hair afterwards.

My dad met me in the foyer upon my return, fully dressed and with our dinner table votive in his hand. I figured then that it would be one of those days, and began nursing a Coke.

Alabama moment

My mother graciously re-upped the family's membership at the Hoover Rec this weekend ($240/year is the senior family rate - that covers me until May, and then it's only $100 more for me to continue on the plan), so now I can sweat in relative comfort. Granted, treadmill running is boring as hell - I kept looking at the distance indicator and comparing it to lake laps, and wondering what was taking so long - but it beats having to run around in three layers, sweating through your gloves and wishing for June. The good parts about the gym are the weight room, the likes of which I haven't seen since I left Edinburgh last August, and the classes, which I'll try tomorrow. Come on, doesn't 5:30 AM Cardio Step sound like a great way to wake up?

Anyone?

Anyway, as I was driving home this morning - it's only a five-minute trip - the SUV in front of me came to a halt, and I peered around to see what the hold-up was, thinking it would be a cat.

It was a possum. Honest to God, it was a possum, just taking his sweet time crossing the road.

They do exist in Hoover. Fancy that.

Long weekend

For the first time since I started kindergarten, I had Presidents Day off this year. Staring down a long weekend is always fabulous, especially when you're coming off a week of dress rehearsals, one of which was on Valentine's Day. I'm sorry, but there's something horribly depressing about Requiem practice on Valentine's Day. It just doesn't bode well for my love life, ya know?

Anyway, we did our two Brahms concerts (3 of 5 stars, according to the Birmingham News critic, but he's a jerk and sits too close...and he only ragged on the sopranos and tenors, anyway), and by Sunday, I was ready for a day of rest. We had a farewell soup and sides luncheon for Sarah, who's off to rock Midland, Texas in a Ron Burgundy sort of way (She's kind of a big deal. People know her.), and I went to bed that night eagerly awaiting the next morning, when a group of us would make a pilgrimage to the Unclaimed Baggage Center in Scottsboro.

What, you may ask, is the Unclaimed Baggage Center?

It happens all the time - your luggage doesn't meet you at the carousel. Sometimes, if it's my sister's bag, it ends up on the wrong continent. Other times, it winds up lonely and discarded, and then the airlines sell it to this group in Scottsboro. They then dissect the bags, dry clean and tag as needed, and open the goods up to the waiting public.

I kept hearing "Schadenfreude" in my head all weekend, but swore I was doing my patriotic duty for Presidents Day by improving the American economy. As it turned out, however, the joke was on us.

Let me tell you a little about Scottsboro, Alabama. It'll have to be a little, because honestly, there's not much to say. Scottsboro makes Fort Payne look like a booming metropolis. It's tiny. It's tucked up near the Tennessee border, about 30 miles from I-59. Unlike Fort Payne, it doesn't even have a band or a claim to global fame - all it has is the Unclaimed Baggage Center.

We didn't know this when we set off, so Jason, Brandon, and I were looking forward to the excursion when piled into Jason's car for our day trip. After a pit stop to take pictures of Brandon's smashed car (including one of her hugging the car goodbye), we set off, stopping only for gas and for lunch in Fort Payne. Don't you love little restaurants where everyone stares at you as you walk in the door? Still, they make a good cheese sandwich.

Somewhat satiated, we headed out into what can only be described as God's country, hoping for bargains. What we found was, to put it mildly, disappointing; the place was rather like a flea market with a high price point. Granted, they had some jewelry and a few fur coats, plus a selection of iPods, a couple electric guitars, and two saddles, but the only thing any of us bought was a paperback, and that cost me a whopping $4.36.

There was one bright spot, however. They had this:

It's Hoggle, from that Bowie classic, Labyrinth. (Thanks, Roadside America, for taking a picture!) The puppet arrived in someone's suitcase and has lived there ever since. Go figure.

Frustrated, we tried the knock-off unclaimed baggage store across the street. This proved to be a mistake, as the proprietor was of the surly, probably-has-a-gun-under-the-desk variety, and the best item for sale in the shack was a giant box of Tampax. Doesn't get much better than that, I suppose.

Tiring of this exercise in futility, we got back in the car and headed home, planning to reconvene that evening for pub trivia. As I was driving back to Hoover, I couldn't believe I'd failed in my mission to acquire cheap goods. On a whim, I pulled into the TJ Maxx parking lot - I'd only been in once before - and took a look at the women's racks. Half an hour later, I emerged with a black Dana Buchman sport coat and a khaki linen Tahari jacket, for which I paid only $175. If I'd been at Saks, they would have set me back around $825, so I felt pretty good about myself. I'll be going back to TJ Maxx.

Trivia was fun but for the cigarettes, to which I am annoyingly allergic. We only missed one point all evening, but so did three other teams, one of which had fewer players and thus won. If only we'd known that a Black Velvet is Guinness and champagne, we wouldn't have had this problem.

Evil empires and all that

As a Republican Southern Baptist from Alabama who spent the better part of her undergraduate Sundays at Mass, doesn't care about her friends' orientations, wants to see women in the pulpit, and has a fairly strong conviction that the world is, in fact, more than 6,000 years old, I've been associated with various evil empires for most of my life. This week, it pays off.

Along with the preceding, I'm also a bred PC user. I grew up with an IBM my parents bought from the Spiegel catalogue, a computer with 5 1/4 and 3 1/2 drives but no CD reader, a sweet little machine running on an 386 processor with glorious Windows 3.1. My mother instructed me never to push the Delete key, as she was afraid I might remove something important. Consequently, I got cozy with Backspace.

My school computers were even sadder than what I had at home - they had actual boot diskettes, and you could only access SimCity through DOS. We had a few Apples floating around, but I never used those but for Oregon Trail and Scarab of Ra. Now those were some good times.

Around sixth grade, after I complained that my friends were teasing me because we didn't have a color printer and my mother realized that this newfangled AOL 3.0 needed more space than the old computer could give, we got a spiffy new one with Windows 95 and the Aptiva software package. It even had a CD-ROM. I loved that thing, and then I got my first laptop, a Gateway Solo that weighed about 10 pounds, and forgot all about the PC. Since then, the family has upgraded and I've been through two more laptops (a giant Averatec and a much smaller Vaio), and I spent many of my college vacations troubleshooting issues with the family computer. I've done things in the registry no novice should be allowed to do, but everything still seems to be working, at least for the time being. (We do need to re-up our anti-spyware software, after all.)

Suffice it to say I've seen my share of frozen screens, error messages, and the Task Manager, but I can't help it - I love my Windows, and I love my PCs. Don't get me wrong, Apple's products are intuitive and shiny, but there's somehow less of a challenge when the icon jumps up and down, practically screaming, "Pick me, pick me, you moron! Click the button!" These Apple features have come in handy, however, as I've been forced to jump in and use them at work since my college internships.

And yet, beginning tomorrow, some of my department's Macs will be replaced by - gasp! - Dell desktop computers. The staff isn't too pleased to be losing their Macs, especially since almost no one is comfortable with PCs, but we're all going to PC training on Thursday to get us on the same page.

The Mac tech called me today to see which programs he'd have to transfer to my new computer. While I had him on the phone, I asked how useful the three-hour PC seminar would be, since I already know my way around XP. "You're going to be bored for quite a bit of it," he said. Good times.

Other than that, today was a mixed bag. I had a great impromptu lunch with a friend at Urban Standard, a relatively new cafe/coffeehouse on the north side that has the best grilled cheese sandwiches I've ever tasted (they come with balsamic dipping sauce), but then I had a mall pretzel for dinner. I found a copy of Live at The X Lounge III at What's on Second for $2, but I fell down a few stairs on my way to purchase it. I had to drive to Brahms practice in a monsoon, but I saw a fox running across the road when I was leaving work, and that made it all better.

Taking the scenic tour of Birmingham

I realized somewhere around mile 10 of my half-marathon today why the iPod was invented. No, it wasn't so listeners could have their entire CD collections at their fingertips. It was so runners coming down off a hilly course and flagging with three miles to go wouldn't get that perennial classic, "Running on Empty," stuck in their heads.

Man, I missed my iPod.

I had heard headphones were allowed at Mercedes, but when I checked over my race instructions last night, I found otherwise. Reluctant to leave my Queen at home but unwilling to risk having my iPod confiscated, I left it behind this morning and decided to run my first distance race without music. Considering the last time I ran anything without music was ninth grade, this development only made my stomach knot more tightly.

I'm going to be honest, I was nervous going into this race today. Prior to this morning, I'd hit the half-marathon point exactly once, and that was a) on a flat course, b) in December, and c) before I was out for the better part of a month with an injury. Suffice it to say I was feeling under-trained already - hey, I've really only been running since October - and rumors were circulating about the course. Mercedes is a Boston qualifier, and they make you work for it. Birmingham's anything but flat, though you wouldn't know this from the Vulcan 10K, which has only one decent hill. The Mercedes course, on the other hand, is bitchy. The city's fine, but around the fourth mile, you hit the bottom of Greensprings, which is a solid uphill mile. Following that ordeal (the band at the top helps you on), you hit Valley, which undulates, and then the road descends (briefly) into English Village. Once in the Village, you head for the hill and start making the trek back into Birmingham proper. By mile 9, the worst of the hills are behind you, but that's small consolation when you're running on empty.

Undaunted (and blissfully unaware of exactly how demanding the course is), I was dropped off downtown at 6:15, bib pinned in place and chip strapped to my shoe, and spent most of the following 45 minutes waiting in bathroom lines. When better than 3,000 people are racing, there are long bathroom lines, especially for the women. We just can't be rushed. While waiting, I happened to notice that at least a quarter of the people around me had earbuds and iPods, and thought unkind things about reading the race rules. Slipping out of the waiting area just before 7, I entered the chute between the 9- and 10-minute mile groups, and waited for the 7:03 (don't ask) gun.

The first few miles were largely flat, and everyone seemed to be doing well, even the asses who had been smoking stogies in the chute before we started. Several people laughed when we came upon the first portalets and found racers lined up outside, but the biggest shock of the morning, at least for me, was looking down and seeing that the ex-Marine-type beside me was running barefoot. Some people just feel that need to be a little more hard-core than everyone else, I guess.

We left town, heading for Greensprings, and then the yells started - "Man, I love this hill! Yay, Greensprings!" - which were most definitely facetious. I didn't allow myself to walk on that hill - we were only four miles in, after all - but I was a bit shaky at the top, and midway down Valley, I gave up and walked for a few minutes. This pattern continued for most of the remaining hill course, running as far as possible and then walking to recover, but I wasn't the only one who hit the steep English Village hill, looked up, and said, "Ah, screw it, I'm taking my sweet time on this one."

To keep us from collapsing, refreshment stands had been set up at nearly every mile, and the small army of volunteers was busy handing out water, Powerade, gels, and bits of fruit as we passed. I became fond of those stands very quickly, and so when I saw one on the south side of Birmingham, I picked up the pace, hoping for another drink. Then I got close enough to hear them, and realized this stand was passing out Twinkies and beer. Something tells me it wasn't an official stop on the route.

Finally, wet, cold, and more than a little crusty, I crossed, got my medal and finisher's shirt, picked up a banana and couple of Powerades, wrapped myself in glorified aluminum foil to stay warm, and met my mother and Sarah, who had come down to watch me finish. It took me two hours, 12 minutes and change from the gun start to finish - the chip results aren't up yet - but by the gun time, I was the 493rd woman to cross. I'm not winning cash any time soon, but I finished respectably, and that was the goal in the first place - just finishing.

I changed clothes, hit the after-party, and discovered, once again, that I don't do well with food after a long run, no matter how good the barbeque sandwich tastes going down. Skipping the Michelob and the massages, I called my poor mother, who made her third 20-mile round-trip to Birmingham today, and went home before I could be sick or pass out. Once back at the house, Mom gave me a most welcome massage, and then I curled up on my bed, slightly sweaty clothes be damned, and didn't move for two hours.

It's 9 PM, and I'm going to bed. Something tells me I'm going to be a bit on the stiff side at 6:30 tomorrow morning, but there's no time for that - it's Brahms week.

One of those weeks

Ever have one of those weeks in which it feels like you're running on a treadmill and can't find the red emergency button?

To summarize: work, Brahms, proofreading, vote, doctor, work, emergency baby shower gift, House, proofreading, get Brahms score bound, work, proofreading, work, mix crabmeat dip, finally get a 20-minute run in, finally get back to Duma Key, which I haven't touched all week, work, bake crabmeat, dinner party (thanks, Jerry!), more Duma Key.

And...breathe. I'm going to the pre-race expo in a bit, then out for fro-yo with Sarah. Then I'm coming home and taking it easy, because tomorrow's race starts at 7:03, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I'm going to wake on the hour tonight. And that just sucks.

Next week: nightly Brahms practice, then two concerts. We were supposed to be at the Alys Stephens Center for our first rehearsal with the conductor on Monday night, but we got bumped by the Indigo Girls. That's fine by me; Briarwood's a heck of a lot closer than the ASC.

Super Bowl commercials

The best part of the game -the advertisements.



Bud Light: Jackie Moon


Bud Light: Caveman party


Bridgestone: Running over Richard

Whistlestop tour

This weekend has to go down as one of the briefest home visits in collegiate history.

Stuck in Chicago when her flight was cancelled on Friday, my sister made it home around 10:45 Saturday morning. Twenty-three hours, a shopping trip, and a salmon-and-field-peas birthday dinner later, we drove her to Nashville for her grad school interview tomorrow morning. A strange weekend, certainly, but it was great to see the kid again.

We made it home at 5 PM, just in time for kickoff. I don't particularly care for football, and I have no great love for New York, but I was so psyched to see that touchdown pass with two minutes to go. (Actually, I looked up just as they announced it - I began reading Stephen King's newest during the second quarter. I said I don't care for football...) Oh man, why can't Yale play like that?

Actually, Yale did play like that. They played like the Patriots to Harvard's Giants, only much, much worse...

Huzzah for democracy

It's sad, and yet somehow reassuring.

Poor Florida. I normally have no sympathy for Democrats, but the party has done them dirty. For holding their primary early, they get no delegates. As Fox put it, "The Democratic race is a beauty pageant."

Still, they've been voting all day. With 24% of the precincts in right now, Hillary already has nearly 300,000 votes, and Obama over half that. Nice that the democratic process lives on, even if the Democratic Party's national officials suck. Let them hold their primary early! Who cares? Heck, hold all the primaries on the same day and let's get this charade over with!

In other news, Ron Paul has a whopping 3% of the vote at this point. I'd say he's next to go, but then he's crazy.

Prop sale postscript

This afternoon, I bought a plastic bin in which to store my prop sale purchases, and, on a whim, a roll of bubble wrap. While I was taking the price stickers off my pieces and wrapping them, I finally got a good look at the markings.

Several pieces are handmade and dated.

One set, for which I paid $10, is signed, dated, and numbered (2/1000, to be exact).

And the real clincher: the two plates I'm not crazy about, the delicate ones with the blue and gold rims, are Wedgwood bone china.

I love prop sales.

Prop sale

Everyone (at least on the east coast of this country) has probably glimpsed a bit of news footage from the Filene's wedding gown sale. On a signal, the doors are opened and hundreds of brides-to-be stampede in, grab as many dresses as they can carry - whether they like them or not - and frantically strip in an effort to find the perfect gown at a fraction of the cost.

Today's prop sale was somewhat like that, minus the stripping.

What, then, is a prop sale? Periodically, one of the magazines' closets will get too full, and so they'll put out props from old photo shoots, priced at a fraction of the cost. This might not be so exciting if one has a nice, established home, but if one is a twenty-something female, the prospect of cheap plates is thrilling.

Of course, there are a ton of twenty-something females at the company, so one needs a decent bit of strategy to successfully manage a prop sale. Fortunately, our supervisors were only too happy to pass on tips.

First, you must arrive well in advance. As today's sale began at 12, a group of us interns gathered outside the doors at 11:15, sack lunches in hand, and ate in the hallway while we watched the pre-sale people leaving with their purchases. As soon as the hour rolled around, we rushed inside, grabbing items and only really considering whether we wanted them while we waited to check out.

Secondly, one needs to bring a bag of some sort. I neglected to do this, and ended up holding roughly 20 pounds of pottery in my arms for a good half-hour, waiting to check out. When I got back to my desk, my co-workers asked how I made out. "Well," I panted, "but I can't feel my arms."

Thirdly, one must not only go at the beginning of the sale, as the prices drop toward the end of the afternoon. When I went again at 2:15, everything was half-price. When my supervisor went shortly thereafter, everything was $1. And when I went for the final time, just after she returned, everything was 50 cents. I bought four $9 place mats and two chargers for a whopping $3. Not too shabby.

Fourth, one must look out for fights. I didn't see any today, but then again, this wasn't the largest prop show - they've had shows in the parking lot before. The things we do for castoffs...

Overall, I'm pleased with my purchases. I brought home two small plates I'm not crazy about - I grabbed them almost as soon as I got through the door - but most of the loot is nice, and I even managed to snag a bit for my sister. The crazy thing is thinking about how much this stuff would have cost at retail - my best buy of the day was a handmade bowl, originally $20, that I got for $2. They might not all match, but hey, now I have some serving pieces for my hypothetical apartment.

Come on, prop people, I need furniture.

Snow?

I'm feeling rather cheated right about now.

We were promised snow this weekend. For days, the weathermen cautiously built up the idea that Birmingham - yes, this Birmingham - would receive up to four inches of the white stuff. We haven't had a really decent snow since 1993, the infamous "Storm of the Century" that dumped a whole foot in places and paralyzed the city for a week, and we still have a Flexible Flyer in the garage that has yet to go for its maiden run, an impulse buy purchased in the hope that '93 would be repeated. To date, it has not, making northern transplants and southern kids who've never seen snow sad.

Anyway, we were gearing up for our four inches. Bread and milk were flying off the shelves. Firewood was purchased by the truckload. Pipes were dripped. And then...

...and then, we got maybe a whopping inch. Insult to injury, the temperature warmed enough to melt the damned stuff, leaving us with brown grass and sporadic patches of roadside ice. All the planning (and cancellation) came to nought, and the Great Blizzard of 2008 turned out to be a great big bust in Birmingham.

Still, Callie saw her first snow, and was predictably confused. She didn't like to pick up her snow-covered football, heaven only knows why. Border collies.

Sweeney Todd

My friend Roy braved the possible sleet (hey, this is Birmingham, and we take our winter weather seriously!) to see Sweeney Todd with me tonight. Having never seen the musical, I had heard that the movie was good but gory, and I was looking forward to seeing it, even if I ended up watching bits with my eyes closed.

I've got to hand it to Tim Burton and Johnny Depp - they make one heck of a weird, wonderful team. Add Helena Bonham Carter, Alan Rickman, Sacha Baron Cohen, and Timothy Spall to the mix, and you've got a great cast of slightly twisted actors. Spall's a great toady - I recognized him from Enchanted, then later realized he's Peter Pettigrew in HP3 - and Alan Rickman has 'unlikeable' down to a science. The scenery is classically Burton-esque, the blood is so over-the-top it's only slightly disturbing, and the eyeshadow is abundant. Plus, someone is singing every time you turn around. It borders on camp, but it's a good time.

The only downside to the evening was the theater lights, which came on sporadically throughout the screening. Bizarre...