You, me and Salvadore Dali

Or the things ya see when ya don't have a camera



Some of you might remember that our much beloved and frequently used little camera decided to take a little

trip

a couple weeks ago. We haven't gotten around to replacing it yet.

That's unfortunate for us. It's probably fortunate for you, dear readers.

Let me preface this by saying it has been hot here. I mean HOT. We ventured out early yesterday evening to visit our favorite Chinese joint and when we stepped out of the air-conditioned apartment, the heat hit us in the face like the slap of a hot, wet blanket. The car thermometer read 103. At 5-freakin-30! It's supposed to be 100 today with a heat index of 111.

Lemme tell ya...ya haven't really experienced life until you've chowed down on a couple plates of crab legs, watched the flotsam and jetsam of Peoria society do the same and listened to the dulcet tones of the Chinese version of "Wait For the Wagon" as covered by Zamfir and his pan flute play on the restaurant's sound system. (Big deep breath. HowZAT for a run-on sentence?)

I'm tellin ya...it's like living a Salvadore Dali painting.

Aaaanywho, it was so hot that we came home and jumped into the pool.

Oh. I didn't tell you we had a pool? Uh huh. Ziggy...ah...installed...it on the patio Saturday.

Ok, so the installing consisted of blowing it up and filling it with water from the garden hose that we ran from the kitchen faucet. And only one of us can sit in it at a time. But still....

Ahhhhh...there's just something about skinny-dippin in the privacy of your very own pool on a blistering hot day.

And did you know that ferrets can swim?

Who knew?

Just call me "Pammy Trendy"

Not.

Normally, when I see something that seems to becoming a trend, I run screaming the other way. And, when given a choice, I'll pick some kind of natural material over plastic any day. That's especially true for my choices in handbags and shoes. I want the real stuff. Leather.

But when looking for a pair of beach shoes for our yearly trip to the Keys in April, I grabbed a pair of bone-colored Crocs. They just made sense. They're not exactly plastic...they're some kinda really dense foam...but I figured they were just what I needed to walk around on the beach or wade in the shallows (lotsa broken coral in that area). They only weigh a couple of ounces. The water wouldn't hurt 'em a bit and they'd be easy to clean.

What I didn't realize was just how damned comfortable they are. And I'm all about comfort. Especially comfortable shoes. Like I said, they don't weigh anything, they're not a bit hot thanks to all the vent holes and they're just so handy to slip on to run to the basement...or to the grocery store. I'm thinkin with a pair of socks, they'll even be ok this winter. Unless we have six inches of snow on the ground, anyway.

They just make my feet really happy. "Barefoot" makes my feet even happier...I don't wear shoes at home...ever. Unfortunately, I can't go barefoot everywhere.

See, I have ape feet. Look at a picture of an orangutan. Look at his feet. That's what my feet look like. Except I paint my toenails. They're damn near as wide as they are long. Paddles. I don't have feet, I have paddles. And yea...I can pick up things with my toes. To say I have a hard time finding comfortable shoes would be an understatement.

So anywho, I liked the first pair so much I used my Mother's Day gift certficate from my daughter and ordered another pair from Amazon. In red.

Bright RED.

Yea, they're just plain dorky-lookin. Yea, they're definitely NOT a natural material. Yea, they seem to be a trend right now. But they make my feet happy.

I'm thinkin I really need a pair of sage green next.

Who writes this stuff?

And what the hell kind of college did they go to?

I read our local newspaper online every day. And I'm constantly amazed (and more than a little dismayed) by some of the stuff that's supposed to have been written by "journalists". (cough)

Case in point: "An unrestrained (insert name) was found in a heap on the dashboard."

Uh. "...found in a heap on the dashboard"? It must've been an awfully small person. A midget, maybe? And no...they weren't talking about a child. It was an adult.

And I don't know how many times I've read that someone's car window was "busted" out. I'm big busted, but I've never seen a car window that was. I have, however, had one "broken". Not my bust. A window.

I'd be willing to bet that I could find a good amount of grammatical mistakes in every, single edition of the PJStar. I might be nitpicking, but I notice little things like that. And it bugs the hell out of me. Especially in a newspaper.

Sadly, for many Americans the local newspaper is their only reading material. It's no wonder that we're "dumbing down".

Now on Lolly, I write in the vernacular. But Lolly's not a newspaper. I write like I speak casually. Yea, I say "ain't" sometimes. I don't use proper English sometimes. But I DO know the difference. I DO know when and how to speak and write properly. I DO know the difference between personal writing and professional journalism.

Believe it or not, I used to be a journalist at a small weekly newspaper. I didn't have any credentials. Just a love of the English language and all it's quirks. Hell, I didn't even have a college education at the time, let alone a journalism degree. But I was evidently good enough to hold the job for several years. I'd probably still be there except for the fact that I had an editor that was far more nitpicky than I.

"Little Hitler" was quite the stickler (oooo...I made a poem!) about grammar and punctuation. She was anal about stuff like that (though not necessarily about her personal hygiene), but I learned a lot from her. I also learned to say, "I quit." after one too many brow-beatings from her. But I digress.

The whole point of this particular little rant is that journalists influence, good OR bad. They're supposed to be unbiased, honest and correct.

Just the facts, ma'am...write it and, fer gawd's sake, spell it correctly.

I'm not a smart man, Jen-nay...

...but I know who

is

.

So, I'm feelin a little Gumpish this morning. Actually, when it comes to political or economic topics, I'm downright...well...slow most of the time. I should be ashamed.

I ain't. But I should be.

Thankfully, there are a lotta smart bloggers out there that keep me thinkin all the time. And Guy is one of 'em.

"In 1965 wholesale price of West Texas sweet crude oil..the crude oil benchmark..was about $2.10 a barrel. The price of gasoline average about 25 cents a gallon. The price of a gallon gasoline was roughly 1/8 the price of a barrel of oil.

Today the wholesale price of crude oil is around $75 per barrel and the price of gasoline is $3 bucks a gallon average. This means that the the price of a gallon gasoline is about 1/25 the price of a barrel of oil.

Does this mean that the oil companies were REALLY gouging us back in the 1950s? Oh and keep in mind that in the 1950s the oil companies had one hell of a tax break because of a thing called a inventory depletion allowance..a tax break based on a finite inventory."

So, in percentages, we're paying less for gas than we did in 1965. And when we compare what we pay at the pump to what most of Europe has been paying for a long time, well...we've really been pretty lucky. So far.
Though I know this probably won't make those of you who hafta fill up those big SUV's feel any better, maybe it will put a little perspective on it.

Also from Guy: "If the price of gasoline has risen accordingly with inflation since 1955 it would be over five bucks a gallon."

But unknowingly, Guy has opened up a whole new can 'o worms in my little pea-brain. Since he's not nearby to give me one of his insightful answers, I'll pose this little question to y'all.

After Katrina hit, I read a news story about a guy from the midwest who decided to buy up 50 gas generators, rent a truck and drive down to the affected gulf states and sell 'em. Now, his motives were essentially pure. He knew that no generators could be found in the area and people needed 'em. He was willing to provide a much-needed service. But he figured that he'd jack up the price just a bit...50 bucks per generator...for his trouble.

He figured, and rightly so as far as I'm concerned, that it was something people needed, they couldn't get it there, so they'd be more than willing to pay just a little extra to get it. He knew that people were hurting already. He wasn't out to make a killing...just a teeny profit for his time.

If you consider the hours it took to buy the generators, rent the truck and drive down there, well he might make a couple bucks an hour. At most.

The poor guy gets charged with price gouging, gets the remainder of his generators siezed (and probably sold for WAY higher than he was lettin 'em go for) and gets slapped with a big, fat fine to boot.

Soooo...my question is this. Why is it "price gouging" if Joe Blow off the street makes a couple of extra bucks, but Exxon can make billions in profits and it's all good?

Is it simply a matter of taking advantage of people who are already in dire straits?

If that's your answer, it doesn't fly with me. There are people and businesses out there that were already in dire straits and gas prices have pushed 'em over the edge.

Or is it simply, as Ziggy said, a matter of who's doin the gougin?
Joe Blow doesn't have the bucks to pay off the politicians. Big oil companies do.

It ain't right. It just ain't right.

Oh, and while I'm mentioning intelligent bloggers, I need to add

Mark

to the list.

Gotta love those smart men!

Four little words

In my vast and varied experience with men (cough), I've discovered that there are four simple little words that can come out of a woman's mouth that will strike terror into the heart of the strongest...the most stoic...the most macho man.

"We need to talk."

Why does this seemingly harmless group of words make a man want to run out, catch the first plane to the wilds of Northern Canada and become a hermit, subsisting only on tree bark, bugs and dirt for the rest of his life?

Well, mainly because these four words could mean just about anything. They could mean "You either need to start picking up your own stinky underwear off the floor or buy me a new pair of acid-resistant rubber gloves".

It could mean "I've met a man with a huuuuge dic....uh....yacht and a million in the bank. I'm in love with him and I'm leaving you and our seven kids. Yes, I know they're all under the age of eight...but YOU'RE the one who's manhood was threatened by the very thought of a vasectomy. Deal with it".

Or it could mean "I know we're both in our 50's, have a couple of grandkids and are planning our retirement, but the doctor says we're having twins. Stop that silly sobbing and tell me what color we should paint the nursery".

(Before you ask, NO. No, I'm not. And you should poke a fork in your eye for even thinking it.)

"We need to talk" just sounds...serious.

And, as we all know, having a "serious" conversation with most men is kinda like trying to poke a boa constrictor down a gopher hole. At least, that's the way it is around here.

There are some things that Ziggy just doesn't care much to talk about. They make him uncomfortable. Whenever I get a serious look on my face and say "We need to talk", he starts squirming, little beads of sweat pop out across his furrowed brow, his eyes roll back in his head, turn neon yellow and start flashing AVOID! AVOID!AVOID!...kinda like one of those warning signs on the I-74 upgrade. Then he starts channeling the Three Stooges.

Nyuk...nyuk...nyuk!

Now, humor is a wonderful thing. And I'll admit that that's part of what attracted me to Ziggy in the first place. Well...that and his big...uh...ego...yea...that's it. But it's also just plain maddening when I'm trying to discuss something important and he's going into his stand-up comedy routine.

He's hoping...nay, I daresay praying...that I'll get so tickled that I'll just totally forget about wanting to wax poetic about our amazing relationship...again. Or whine about my wayward uterus and why no one has ever invented a DIY hysterectomy kit. Or that we really ought to write up a Living Will of some kind because...well...you never know. I know we're gonna live forever, but it's just in case of the infinitestimal chance one of us gets hit by a renegade meteor or eaten by a shark.

He's discovered that most of the time it works, too, because he knows I'm easily distracted...

Ooooo....look! Something sparkly!

...Uh...where was I?

Oh, yea. AVOID - AVOID - AVOID!

Aaaanywho, I've decided to try a different plan of attack...um...I mean discussion.

There's currently been something moderately serious on my mind. So the other day, instead of saying those four little words, I just firmly told him that there's something serious that we need to talk about and that no, it wasn't the "M" word (marriage), thereby setting his mind to rest about that topic. We're not gonna talk NOW...but soon, and he should start planning for it. And he should go ahead and get the whole Moe/Larry/Curly thing out of his system ahead of time because I WILL NOT BE DISTRACTED. Period.

It just might work. I only saw a little bit of sweat, his eyeballs only flashed AVOID! once and...I'm not sure...but I think I only heard the faintest of Nyuk's.

This just might work.

Well I used to love her, but it's - - all over now

My uterus needs a vacation

I used to love my uterus. Ok, maybe ‘love’ is too strong a word. Let’s say that we had a good working relationship. For over 40 years, she’s worked the way she was supposed to, without fail. Every 28 days, regular as clockwork, she sprang into action doing what...well...what uteruses (uterii?) do. Except for that 9 month hiatus back in 1971-72.

Nowadays, she’s behaving more like a 19 year old drunken sailor on shore leave in Taiwan.

I suppose after 40 years of dedicated service, she’s entitled to have a little fun. But frankly, I’d rather she do it somewhere else. Like...I dunno...Montana, maybe.

Because she’s been such a good and faithful servant for all those years, I had expected that she’d handle menopause with as much grace and aplomb as she did everything else. Evidently, she’s decided that it’s time to have it her way. That means she might decide to call off sick and miss a whole month. Of course, like most dependable workers, that means that THIS month, she’s gotta work feverishly to make up for lost time and be really...uh...productive.

That'd make most employers really happy. Not me. In fact, it makes me really, really UNhappy.

I think it’s time for retirement. Unfortunately, much like Caterpillar management, I‘ve drastically cut retirement benefits.

Maybe I oughta do a little ‘blegging’. I could install a PayPal button and beg for donations to send my uterus on a permanent vacation to Montana. Or Utah. Send 'er skiing...or maybe sightseeing in Salt Lake City. I bet she'd love the Mormons.

Gawd knows, I’ve seen blegging done for all kinds of things. Trips to blogmeets. Dental crowns. Vet visits for sick pets. College classes. Car repairs.
The way I look at it, sending my uterus on a permanent vacation is every bit as important as any of those things.

Wanna feel like you’re helping your fellow man...uh...woman? Wanna give something back? Wanna ‘pay it forward’?

Nothin’ says “warm and fuzzy” like donating to the Send Pammy’s Uterus on Vacation fund.

Do it today. You’ll be glad you did.

As for me, I'd be tickled to death to be rid of the obnoxious bitch.

Now, c'mon....ya just KNEW this'd happen, didn'tcha?

So, I was readin

this

story about Peoria's new noise ordinance in today's issue of the PJStar. An ordinance, btw, that I'm highly in favor of.

The tagline?

Some concerned noise ordinance an excuse for racial profiling

Didn't ya just know it?

Fifteen of the individuals who were stopped and forced to turn their vehicles over to police were black, two were white and five were female. Five of the cars stopped for loud music violations were also arrested on prior charges, like driving without a license, fleeing or eluding, obstructing police, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, as well as incidents related to drugs and weapons.

In the last five years that I've lived here in Peoria, I figure I've driven around town...oh....probably close to 1500 times. (I tried to do the math, but got stuck...I'm guessin here). I think it'd be safe to say that on EVERY single one of those 1500 trips, I've had the pleasure to encounter some moron with the volume on his/her car stereo turned up to "make-yer-ears-bleed". It's especially pleasureable when stuck at a stop light in the summer...with my windows down.

Once last summer, when stuck on Main at an especially long light, it actually made me nauseated...I learned later that there's a theory out there among musicians called "the brown note theory". If you hit just the right decibel, it can make you throw up...or shit your pants. Hence "brown" note. To really simplify the loooong medical explanation a bit, you've got a nerve (the vagus nerve) that pretty much runs from your brain, near your inner ear, alongside your heart and stomach and right down to your asshole. It controls the gag reflex, stimulates vomiting and/or diarrhea. It's why you get sick to your stomach when you're dizzy. Your inner ear gets irritated, which in turn, irritates the vagus nerve. It's also why so many people who have heart attacks throw up...or die on the shitter. The heart is injured, the nerve gets irritated because it's next to the heart and it stimulates your body to throw up or poop.

I have no doubt that if I'd had to sit at that light any longer, I'd have puked in my lap. The minute I got away from it, the nausea passed. I can't believe that there aren't those offenders out there that haven't pooped their pants whilst chillin in their 'drive-by' positions.

Aaaanywho...I'm pretty sure I'd be safe in saying that, of those 1500 morons who have SURELY got to be partially deaf by now, a good 80% of them were...black. Suprise!

Now, I KNOW that I've taken a long time to make my point. Hang on. I'm almost there.

My point is...how can someone POSSIBLY take something for what it IS...a FACT...and twist it into "racial profiling"? It IS what it IS. Black kids make up the majority of the offenders. Period. Finito. End of argument. It's a fact I've seen with my own two eyeballs, fer gawd's sake.

If it was white redneck kids listening to Willie Nelson at full blast, would there be screams of "racial profiling"? Uh huh. Sure there would.

Ya just gotta love Peoria Police Department spokeswoman Ann Ruggles' comment, though. If I ever meet her, I wanna shake her hand for pointing out the obvious.

Peoria police spokeswoman Ann Ruggles said police are monitoring for loud music the same in all parts of the city, regardless of race or address. As for why cars had largely been confiscated from certain areas and from blacks, Ruggles said: "My rationale would be that they're the ones playing the loud music."

Duh. Ya think?

My kinda town....

...Peoria is...my kinda town.

Ok. Sinatra, I'm not.

Sometimes, it seems as though

Eyebrows

, Zig and I are the only three people who live in Peoria who actually like it here.

I know that's not the case. It surely can't be. But it seems as though I hear a lot more negative things about Peoria than I do positive. Maybe it takes 'outsiders' like us to see Peoria from an objective point of view. I mean, isn't that usually the case? They do say that familiarity breeds contempt.

And yea...even after living here a little over five years, I still feel a bit like an outsider. But that's more than ok with me. I just happen to like the relative anonimity of being an outsider. After spending all of my childhood and most of my adult life in a couple of little towns where everyone knew your business...even before YOU did, in most cases...I LIKE people not knowing what I'm up to. Since Ziggy came from similar circumstances, I believe he feels the same way I do.

But being a teeny-weenie fish in a big pond isn't the only reason that I like Peoria. And believe me, coming from a hometown of about 200 people, Peoria IS a big pond.

Peoria really does have everything. Well, everything we'd need or want, anyway. Especially coming from a town where the most exotic thing you'd find on a restaurant menu is fried buffalo. And I ain't talkin about the big, hairy, four-legged mammal.

It has restaurants out the wazoo, a museum, libraries, three major hospitals, a gorgeous riverfront area, a plethora of grocery stores, a zoo, several theatres and tons of shopping. I really can't think of anything you'd need that can't be found here. The traffic's a piece of cake, even at rush hour. Don't believe me? Try driving in Atlanta during rush hour. Ya want culture? There's a local ballet company, an orchestra and a theatre company. The real bonus? Drive 10 minutes in one direction, and you're right 'uptown'. 10...ok, maybe 15...minutes in another and you're in the middle of a cornfield. It's the best of both worlds.

Like I said. It's got everything. Uh...except for an Amtrak station...never have figured THAT one out.

But it DOES have three...count 'em...THREE...Starbuck's. Life is good.

It's big enough to feel like a big city, but small enough to be able to get around without a GPS system.

Crime? Sure. Show me a city this size that doesn't have crime. Hell, show me a town of whatever size that hasn't had their share of crime.

High taxes? "High" is a relative term. Go buy a home...or a car...or a roll of toilet paper in New York, then come back and tell me how high the taxes are here.

Power-mad, limelight seeking politicians? You bet. Believe me...they're a buncha pantywaists compared to small town politicians. Ain't nothin worse than those bubbas.

A school board that seems hell-bent on having it their way or no way? Uh huh. It happens in small towns, too. You wanna see somethin ugly, watch a consolidation push in a small town sometime. As far as I know, there are still some people that aren't speaking to each other and haven't for the last 15 years or so.

The "not in MY backyard" mentality? Hell, NO town wants it in their backyard. A prison. A toxic waste dump. Whatever "it" is. But everything's gotta be someplace, don't it?

Ho's and pimps and druggies? Homeless people? I betcha I can find at least ONE of each of those in every town in Illinois.

No matter where ya go, no matter the size of the town, there's somethin to bitch about. No matter how bad ya think ya got it, there's somebody that's got it worse.

This outsider just happens to really like living in Peoria. I appreciate it for what it is, warts and all.

Comparatively speaking though, Peoria's warts are more like a mild case of acne.

What did us procrastinators DO before the internet?

We got smacked with late fees, tickets and other assorted and sundry fines, charges and general ass-chewins, that's what.

On my way home from the....(shudder)...grocery store, I was noticing license plates. I do that a lot. I like to try to figure out what kinda message people are trying to get across with their personalized plates. Sometimes, it's easy. 'CUB FAN', for instance. But I like the more...obscure...ones. Ones ya hafta think about.

Aaaanywho, at a stop light, I was lookin at the plates on the car ahead of me. Frankly, I don't even remember what the plate was. But I DID notice that the sticker expired 03/07. And I thought..."Oooo...March can be a cold, windy, rainy month. Kinda nasty to hafta go out and wipe the plate off and stick the new sticker on. (I know. My mind works in some pretty strange ways.) I'm soooo glad MINE expires......uh.....07/06. 07/31/06, to be exact. Let's see...that would be....IN ELEVEN FRIGGIN DAYS!"

Ooops.

So after gettin home and puttin the groceries away, I fired up the ole laptop and, in a matter of...oh, I dunno...5 minutes, tops...I had found the state's website and purchased my sticker. It'll be here in 5-10 days. No muss. No fuss. POOF! Done.

How cool is that? I mean, really?

Oh, I suppose those that have grown up with a computer in their lives don't appreciate it. I do. Because as a bonafide (my new 'favorite word', thanks to several viewings of "Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?") 'old fart', I can remember when the same scenario would have turned out much differently.

It would have meant making a trip to the local driver's license facility. Depending on where you lived, that could mean a long drive and an even longer wait. It would have meant standing in line with the other rude, obnoxious procrastinators. When you finally got to the front of the line, you'd either be met with an "Out to Lunch" sign or a rude, obnoxious state employee. After much eye-rolling and being subjected to being treated like a dog with a behavior problem and a nasty case of the screaming squirts, your sticker would be bestowed upon you as if ole De'Shaniqua-ella there had worn her bejeweled, two inch nails to the quick by making it herself.

Soooo sorry to have bothered ya there, De'Shaniqua-ella. I understand that as a state employee, you have the Governor-given right to treat me the way you do and, that should I dare to complain you will, no doubt, accuse me of racism, be given a raise for your fine customer service and some kind of award for your tolerance.

(Okkkk...I KNOW they're not ALL like that. But the one I had the pleasure to encounter year before last WAS.)

So, yea. As a procrastinating old fart, I think it's pretty damn cool that I can sit in the comfort of my own home, stark nekkid if I wanna be, and buy my license plate sticker. Or renew my nursing license. Or bank. Or send mail without having to make a trip to the post office for stamps. Or go shopping. Or chat with friends.
Or order a pizzzzzzza.

And nary a De'Shaniqua-ella in sight.

Like anybody really thought he wouldn't

Bush vetoed the stem cell research bill.

I'm not a bit suprised. But it still pisses me off.

"This bill would support the taking of innocent human life in the hope of finding medical benefits for others," Bush said in announcing his veto. "It crosses a moral boundary that our decent society needs to respect."

"...taking of innocent human life..."? Uh. It's ok for us to just incinerate any unused embryos just like any other 'medical waste' (yes, they do...I've seen it. What? You thought they just saved them in perpetuity?), but gawd forbid, we use them to help someone with some debilitating disease.

And:

"Human beings are not a raw material to be exploited, or a commodity to be bought or sold, and this bill will help ensure that we respect the fundamental ethical line,"

You don't think he (or any other poltician, for that matter) looks upon his constituents as "raw material to be exploited"?? Hah.

If there's one thing that never fails to raise my hackles, it's some fucking hypocrite spouting off about "ethics" and "morals" and "decency".

He's an idiot.

Because it really IS all about me

Found this at my second-favorite

Curmudgeon's

place. My first favorite? Zig, of course.

Though I think it probably started out as one of those annoying email forwards, he's turned it into a meme. Sorta.

A) Jobs I have had in my life:

1. Spoiled rotten only child - hey..it's a dirty job, but somebody hadda do it.
2. Car hop at the A and Doubleyew drive in - not on rollerskates, though.
3. Snack bar attendant at a dragstrip - where I first fell in love with Harleys.
4. Wife and mother - no experience in either position.
5. Waitress - no tip? How'dja like a booger on your burger next time?
6. Assistant loan officer (no shit) at a big farm credit place - it's NUMBERS, dammit!
7. Floral designer - gawd, I loved that job.
8. Telemetry tech - what's your rhythm, baby?
9. Licensed Practical Nurse - no...I wasn't a real nurse.
10. Registered Nurse - in other words, ass-wiper, pharmacist, psychologist, dietitian, nutritionist, priest, mother, social worker, diagnostitian, physical therapist, respiratory therapist, cook and management-butt-sucker.
11. Kept woman - again, it's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it. And I do it SO well.

B) Four movies I would watch over and over (and have):

Fargo (He was the funny lookin one, 'eh?)
Sling Blade (Ah like them french frahd pa'taters.)
Goodfellas (You motherf%^@er!)
Casino (You motherf#$%er!)

C) Four places I have lived:

Bath/Havana, Illinois
Venice, Florida
Birmingham, Alabama
Peoria, Illinois

D) Four TV shows I love to watch:

South Park - The answer to all of society's ills can be found here.
The Sopranos - (You motherf$%#er!)
Dirty Jobs - Mike Rowe makes me feel funny in my pants.
Just about anything on HGTV - I think I'll paint it....beige.

E ) Four places I have been on vacation:

Eureka Springs, Arkansas - 4 times
Minnesota - fishin - twice
Galena, Illinois/Iowa/Wisconsin - too many times to count
Florida Keys - 3 times


F) Websites I visit almost daily:

Look at my links

G ) Four of my favorite foods:

Rare steak
Seafood - Shrimp, fish, oysters, lobster, scallops, crab...if it swims, crawls or just sits in the water, I like it.
Chinese
Italian

H) Four places I would rather be right now:

Quite honestly, at this very minute...I can't think of anyplace I'd rather be. I love our home. Other than here, though, I'd hafta say the Keys.

(Since it's not an email, I'll skip the final question..."Four friends who will respond" If the spirit moves ya, feel free to snag it.)

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The last week or so around these parts has been miserably hot. I mean HOT. Florida-middle-of-summer-oppressive-humid-hot. In fact, yesterday I noticed that most parts of Florida were actually cooler than here. It's been dry, too. Dry as a popcorn fart. (I dunno how dry that is, either...it's somethin my dad used to say.)

I ran to WalMart for a couple things this afternoon. I thought I was gonna die. It's only about...what?...10-15 blocks, maybe...from here, but by the time I got back, I wasn't glowing like women are supposed to do when they're hot. I was SWEATING. Old-man-farmhand-baling-hay kinda sweating. Beads of sweat were running down between my boobies, my hair was plastered to my head and my fat thighs were...uh...nevermind. You get the idea.

I even hate bitching about it, though. Poor Ziggy. He works in...guess what? A friggin STEEL MILL. In this heat. It breaks my heart.

Aaaaanywho, we just had the most awesome thunderstorm. I'm not sure I've EVER seen/heard so much thunder and lightning and it got BLACK...almost like nighttime. It rained like a cow pissin on a flat rock, too...(another Donovan-ism). Even got a little hail. And the temp dropped like...20 degrees.

I threw those patio doors open so fast...gawd...the smell...the cool air. It was like takin a plunge in a cool river on a hot day. Heavenly! It looks like our tomato plants took a bit of a beatin, but they were fairly protected by the overhang of the patio. I bet they just loooooved the rain, though.

But, it kills me. All during the storm, one of the local channels kept breakin in and sayin we were under a thunderstorm warning, but "DON'T PANIC!. There's no tornadic activity anywhere around. If you'll notice, there are NO purple areas on the map...only yellow and red. It's only some much-needed rain."

Two minutes later, they're reporting a tornado just touching down about 25 miles south of here and for that area to "TAKE COVER! IT'S A TORNADO!".

Now I realize that weather forecasting is a kinda 'iffy' business. Ya just never know what Mother Nature has in mind. Gawd knows I'm no meterologist, but I've lived here in the midwest for most of my life and I've learned just that. Ya don't EVER count on the weather. And I've learned that if it's just miserably hot, and ya get a big ole thunderstorm, ANYTHING'S possible. Especially tornadoes. Especially in this area.

But right here...right now? Just......"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Driving Miss Daisy

Uh...wait. I probably shoulda titled it "Driving me crazy".

We've done our share of driving on our nation's interstate system. But I'm sure ole Ike didn't have any idea of the caliber of morons that'd be taking advantage of his great idea. He's probably rolling in his grave.

As someone who has thousands of miles of driving experience (much of it on interstates) under her belt, I feel it's my civic duty to offer a little advice. Hey...I must be doing something right on the highways and byways...never had an accident and have only had one moving violation...for speeding...about 30 years ago. (Yea. I'm knockin wood.) So, without further ado:

1. It IS perfectly acceptable to look further ahead on the road than the rear bumper of the car in front of you. In fact, I highly encourage it. If a vehicle somewhere ahead in your lane happens to slam on his brakes, chances are everyone else will, too. If you know this ahead of time, you CAN take your foot off the accelerator, thereby eliminating the need to slam on YOUR brakes so hard that your forehead thwaaacks off the steering wheel.

2. Trust me. You will NOT get to your destination any faster if you are constantly weaving in and out of heavy traffic, jockeying for pole position. You're not in a NASCAR race, Jim-Bob. There's no checkered flag at the end.

3. If you're close enough behind me to see that I really need a hair-color touchup on my dark roots, don't be outraged if I slam on my brakes. I just wanna make sure you're awake. And remember...if you ram me in the ass, it's ALWAYS your fault.

4. Do not pull up beside me, running 85 miles an hour whilst chatting on your cell phone, eating a Slim Jim, checking your makeup in the rearview mirror and weaving in and out of MY lane and NOT expect me to mouth the word "fuckwad" at you.

5. If you even bother to use it in the first place, check your turn signal after you've used it. Unless you really ARE planning on going around the world to the left, that is. We can't read your mind, idjit.

6. Oh, and about those turn signals? That'd be that little lever on the left side of your steering wheel. USE IT. It's just a nice little courtesy to let your fellow travelers know that your 350 pound ass has just spied the exit that leads to a Moto-Mart and you've got a major hardon for a bag'o chips, some Cheezy-Poufs, a dozen Krispy Kremes and a Diet Coke.

7. Semi's have a lower speed limit than cars do and, as a general rule, are expected to pretty much stick to the right-hand lane. That's why the left lane is generally called the 'fast lane'. You WON'T hear any words of praise from me if you drive 50 miles an hour in the fast lane. Asshat.

8. Most cars nowadays come equipped with cruise control. It's a handy-dandy little gadget that ensures traveling at a set rate of speed. A set rate of speed saves gas. It also enables you to get to your destination faster than if you're using your car's accelerator like an antique treadle sewing maching pedal and alternating between 50 and 90 miles an hour. If your car comes equipped with cruise, USE IT, TOO.

9. Another handy little gadget that's found in every car is the rearview mirror. I KNOW your car has one. It comes in awful handy when you're trying to squeeze your penis-extending SUV with the over-sized tars into a space that's only big enough for a Volkswagon. USE IT, Bubba.

10. Please....PLEASE...for the lova gawd. If you're 93 and can no longer see over the steering wheel of your Buick, but can't stand the thought of giving up your independence, pleeeeeeease...stick to the secondary roads and not the interstate. The interstate REALLY won't save you any time because you're only driving 45 miles an hour, any-damn-way. Besides that, if you're on a secondary road and I'M on the interstate...well...that's a good enough reason all unto itself.

11. One final thing. If I'm running 85 miles an hour, in the right-hand lane, DO NOT get your panties in a wad and pass me, then slow down to 70. I swear...I will pass you, force you to stop and kick your ass up between your shoulder blades.
Ok. So I won't do that. But you can bet your ass I'll feel like it. And I'll say a LOTTA really bad words.

Where do I start?

Do I tell y'all about how my diet was blown to smithereens by four days of over-indulging? Believe it or not, it IS possible to gain five pounds in four days by eating two gigantic steaks, two humongous baked potatoes with 'the works', a couple of hamburgers, corn on the cob, a bratwurst, pizza, shrimp cocktail, hot wings, a couple of enormous breakfasts, enough 'snacks' to fill a 50 gallon barrel and uncounted cans of beer. Whoda thunkit??
Yea, I know. I swore I'd never drink beer again. I'm suuuuuch a liar.

I suppose I should be grateful that I didn't gain ten.

Do I tell y'all about me...fat ME...running waaaaaaaay down a mid-calf-to- knee-deep area of the VERY rocky/slippery-bottomed Meramac River, chasing after an escaped camp chair, two float/lounge things AND our camera? And actually catching the damn things and dragging them all back against the rushing current? Well...all of 'em except one of the (brandfuckingnew) floats and the camera. Yea. That's why there's no photos. (Fuck! No, DOUBLE FUCK!) Well, hell. The good news is that I didn't fall down...not ONCE! And I didn't have a heart attack, though I thought I just might.

Do I tell y'all about the group of us visiting a local watering hole in

Cuba

and being treated like royalty? I'd link to the bar, Loose Ends, but they evidently don't have a website. At any rate, they were just awesome to us. Do stop in if you're ever in the area.

Do I tell y'all about how it was hotter than a three-peckered billy goat? It was, though not quite as hot as last year. Only about 98 with a heat index of 105. LAST year, it WAS 105 with a heat index of 117. Why, it was downright....uh....less-miserable...than last year.

Do I tell y'all about sitting IN the crystal-clear, COOLCOOLCOOL water of the Meramac on said VERY humid 98 degree day, with the blue sky overhead, icy-cold beer in hand, Buffet on the boombox, great conversation with friends and the tantalizing aroma of a cheeseburger in paradise grillin nearby? (I actually took a pic of the cheeseburgers grillin with the intention of posting it with the title of "Cheeseburgers in Paradise". Unfortunately, the camera's prolly at the mouth of the Mississippi by now.) Anyway, can you say 'heaven'? It was. Even the chair/float/camera disaster wasn't enough to spoil it.

I WILL tell ya...I've never seen a friendlier buncha people than those that raft or canoe down the Meramac. As we sat in the shallows, just chillin, the rafters and canoers goin by would call out "Hello!" or "How ya doin?" or "THAT looks relaxing!" or "How cool is THAT? Those old farts just hangin and drinkin BEER!" heh

We might be old, but we ain't dead.

Do I tell y'all about a buncha middle-aged, drunk people who get the bright idea to sit out on the huge front porch of the secluded house at midnight and get nak....uh...no. On second thought, there are stories that are better left untold.

Like I said, we might be old, but we ain't dead.

Do I tell y'all about laughing so hard that my face hurt...EVERY single day of the trip? Well...except for Sunday morning. I'm absolutely NOT a morning person and I hatehatehate being rushed around. Ahhhh...the smell of drama in the morning. Makes me feel....aliiiiiive.

Geeeze...you'da thought the damn house was on fire. This was at 8fucking30 and we didn't even have to be out until noon. Ah well. In a group of 20 people, there's bound to be an anal-retentive drill instructor or two in the bunch. It wasn't enough to ruin the previous three days...it just wasn't a very pleasant way to end such a nice weekend. Kinda left me with a bad taste in my mouth about next year, though.

Other than the Sunday morning Chinese fire drill thing, it was a blast. But if we ever go again, I'm still thinkin that stayin in a motel might be a better option.

I can at least sit and have my coffee in peace. And I'm damn sure to be able to have a bathroom to myself. I'm not a bit shy and I don't mind showering with others, but there are just some things that require a little...ah...privacy...ya know?

Good intentions

I intended to post about this a couple weeks ago. Really, I did. But ya know the old saying about 'intentions'....at least I hope you do...because I can't remember it to save my butt. Just like I didn't remember to do this.

I'm tellin ya...ya gotta hit me in the head with a brick, people.

And

Eyebrows

did just that. Well. Not literally.

Anywho, go answer the challenge...the

Eyebrows McGee PeoriaPlayhouse Challenge

...and give Eyebrows a chance to wiggle her toes in the sand. Besides that, it's a great cause.

As an added bonus, if she meets her goal, we'll get to meet the mystery woman behind the eyebrows. And she'll buy us beeeeer!

Ohhhh...I just remembered the old saying. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." Guess where I'll be spending eternity?

S'ok, though. I'm kinda gettin used to the 90+ degree weather.

Hi ho, hi ho...it's off to the river we go

The Ziggymobile is pullin out in the morning for the wilds of Missouri for a loooong weekend of fun and sun on the Meramac River. 'Course, it's 'sposed to be hotter than a three-peckered billy goat. I figure it can't be any worse than last year's 105. Besides that, there'll be no paddlin our asses off...not doin the canoe thing, just gonna hang in the river.

And speaking of driving, what could be a more appropriate little blog ditty than this, found at

Accidental Verbosity

?

My results aren't the least bit suprising. Just why do ya suppose that Ziggy will probably do most of the driving? Despite my spotless driving record (really), I scare him. heh

Anywho, back on Sunday with stories to regale you with and photos out the wazoo.

Your Driving Is is: 67% Male, 33% Female

According to studies, you generally drive like a typical male. You're confident in your driving skills, and hardly any situation gets the better of you. And while you may have a few tickets under your belt, you're still a very good driver.

Do You Drive Like a Guy or a Girl?

Oh, and before I forget, please send out a good thought or two (or a prayer if you're so inclined) for one of my favorite bloggers,

Guy

, and his 'Sweetthing', who is having back surgery Thursday morning. I'm sure she'll do just fine and Guy will no doubt be an excellent nurse.

Beauty and the beast

There's a current crop of sitcoms that feature a dumpy-looking schlep and his gorgeous wife. I can't think of a single title to save my ass, mostly because I don't watch 'em, but it seems like there's one on every channel.

Though this isn't exactly the point of this post, I think it might serve as an illustration of the point I'm trying to make.

What IS it with the type of man who will ONLY consider a pretty woman as 'relationship material'? And I'm not even talking about remotely attractive men, here.

You know the kind I'm talkin about...the fat, bald, middle-aged doofus who never fails to leave skid-marks in his shorts; the scrawny geek with acne, crooked teeth and an IQ of 158 who thinks he doesn't need deodorant; the totally non-descript, personality-less drone who's idea of great sex is a five-minute session of what's essentially masturbating...with a partner.

In other words, men who are about as far from being an Adonis as I am from being a math whiz. Believe me....that's pretty damn far.

I mean, these guys wouldn't think of trying to date a woman who's NOT beauty-pageant material. The truly believe that they deserve...no...are entitled to have a beautiful woman on their arm. Or in their bed. They WANT a Drew Barrymore or a Pamela Anderson or a Nicole Kidman and they refuse to consider anything else.

To date a fat woman or a flat-chested woman or a woman that's not exactly "perfect" would be somehow...beneath them.

Oh, I know men like to look at pretty women. That's a given. Hell, I like to look at pretty men, too. I'm not talkin about just an appreciation for a beautiful person. I'm talkin about feeling that they're somehow entitled to have a beautiful, perfect mate and to accept anything less wouldn't even be considered, despite the fact that they're trolls, themselves.

Of course, in the end, they rarely wind up with one. Unless they're filthy rich, of course. They wind up as either single, lonely old men with six cats or they 'settle' for something less. I dunno about the rest of you women, but I sure as shit would hate to think of myself as being the one 'settled' upon.

They spend most of their lives searching for something that they can't have because they have this misplaced sense of...what?....machismo, maybe. How utterly sad is that?

I asked Ziggy about this. I figured that, as a man, he'd have a little better insight on this than me, though he's never been one of those kinda guys. He says it's because of the way we're all treated when we're little kids. The little girls get Barbie dolls and think that that's what they're supposed to look like when they grow up. The little boys are taught from the get-go, that everything they do is great because they're boys. That, despite all our screeching and wailing about "equality", there's this underlying idea that boys/men are still "superior" to girls/women.

I think that's part of it. But I think there's something else goin on, too. Otherwise, why don't ALL men have the same outlook?

I think maybe part of it is immaturity. Add to that an overblown ego and a false sense of superiority, and you've got one of these overbearing "non-Adonis'" on your hands.

But that's just my theory. What's yours?

Quite possibly...

...one of

THE

most...ah...stimulating...sentences that these baby-blues of mine have ever perused.
(Well...it stimulated a spew of coffee from my nose, anyway. Doncha hate it when that happens?)

"I'll be installing a control tower on my taint to direct the squadrons of flying monkeys departing from my bunghole before that feat of financial wizardry ever comes to pass."

That boy's another Shakespeare.

Luuucy...you gots some 'splainin to do

Actually, I'd like it explained to me, too.

From

Phil Luciano's column

in today's PJStar:

Bill Donahue Jr. could handle the previous bad neighbors, like the drug dealers and the speeders.
But he doesn't know how to stop the next-door residents from their particularly disgusting habit:

Dumping buckets and bags of human waste in their back yard.

I seem to recall a little blurb in the paper a couple months ago about a local woman getting a ticket for throwing a cigarette butt out of her car window...in front of a local gendarme. If I'm remembering right, the fine was something like $125.

We've got people screeching and caterwauling about litter, about the smell from ADM, about waste in the Illinois River. Gawd help ya if you throw a cigarette butt out your car window.
But evidently, throwing your poop in the backyard is perfectly acceptable.

The Peoria City/County Health Department has been investigating the waste issue. The agency's director of environmental health, Don Cavi, says he is not sure of the root of the waste-dumping, only that the house doesn't have "proper plumbing." Cavi says he has sent notices to the residence demanding that the problem be fixed.

"At this point, we're trying to get some cooperation," Cavi says.

If that doesn't work, the agency could deem the house unfit for occupation.

Matt Wahl, director of planning and zoning, says his office already has issued a warning to the address demanding a cleanup of the junk. If the trash remains there for a few more days, the county will issue a notice ordering the property owner to appear before a hearing officer.

Depending on what happens at the hearing, the hearing officer could ask the state's attorney's office to cite the property owner for a litter violation, which can go as high as $500 a day.

Uh..."...Don Cavi, says he is not sure of the root of the waste-dumping..."?

Now, I'm no rocket scientist. But as dumb as I am, I CAN figure out the "root of the waste-dumping". THEY DON'T HAVE A WORKING TOILET, SO THEY SHIT IN BUCKETS AND DUMP IT OUT THEIR BACK DOOR. Geeezus, people. GET A CLUE. And I'm pretty sure that if they can't afford to fix their damn toilet, they can't pay a $500 a day fine. So what...they throw 'em in jail? Then who's gonna clean up their mess?

It kills me. The Sheriff's department, the County Health Department and the damn Planning and Zoning office are all aware of the problem...and they're probably all shuffling papers back and forth and having meetings and trying to figure out just how the hell to handle this.

I have a little suggestion. Not that anyone would pay attention to me...I'm not important. But I think Sheriff McCoy oughta pay a little visit to Mr. Swearingen and Ms. Passwater (how ironic..."Passwater"), the feces-flinging scum. He oughta bring along a couple shovels, some garbage bags and a big gun. And he oughta stand there, gun in hand if need be, and make 'em fix their damn toilet and CLEAN UP THEIR DISGUSTING MESS.

Problem solved.

Gluttons for punishment

Some of you might remember me talking about our little adventure at

this place

last year. I'd link to the post, but it's gone with the wind...along with the rest of the six-hundred and some posts that I lost when I deleted the 'first' Lolly several months ago.

At any rate, last year when we went, it was...in a word...miserable. It was 105 degrees. No shit. I'm firmly convinced that, had I not lost about 30 pounds by that time, I'd have never made the 10-mile raft trip. They'd have been haulin my fat, dead carcass up that damn river. Though the river was as clear as glass and cool as hell, it didn't matter...you could get wet and two minutes later, you felt like you were literally boiling. I swear ta gawd...I've never been so hot in my life.

We were supposed to have stayed two nights, but wound up staying only one and driving all the way home...after we got off the river. I dunno how Ziggy made that 4.5 hour drive...we were both completely and utterly exhausted. I mean, drained. No sleep the night before, then spending 8 hours alternating between draggin the raft through the shallow places and paddlin our asses off. Lemme tell ya...honey, we slept good when we DID finally make it home at about midnight that night.

I should have realized that, as much as I loooove the group of people we went with, it's just not fun to share a house, no matter HOW big, with 23 other people. Especially when there are only beds for about 20...and TWO toilets.

Ziggy and I both agreed that it was an experience. But not one we'd necessarily care to repeat.

But of course, we are.

Yup, we're doin it again next weekend.

When they first started plannin it this year, we said "Nope". Then we decided that we just couldn't miss out on the fun, so we'd go...but we'd stay in a motel with a real bed and unlimited bathroom time. THEN we decided that we'd stay in a motel, but wouldn't raft...just hang out in the river all day.

And now? Well, we're still gonna go. We're still gonna eighty-six the raft trip, but play in the river all day. And yea...we're gonna stay in the big house again. But this time, there aren't as many going, so we'll actually get a real bed...instead of an air mattress...in the middle of the floor...where everyone hadda step over us to get to the kitchen. And I might actually be able to get a shower without someone drying their hair and someone else usin the toilet...all at the same time. Even though we are all close friends, sometimes it's nice to have a little privacy, ya know?

And it really is a gorgeous area. The Meramac is a beautiful river and the scenery is great. I really wish I liked wine...there are tons of wineries around the area, so some of the group will do that on Saturday, instead of raft the river.

But I figure just hanging around, playin in the river all day with some of our bestest

buds

and indulging in a little....ah...libation...hey...it's gotta be waaaaay better than last year.

And it SURELY won't be as hot.

Surely.

Overheard conversations

"You're like...the fire. And he was the wet burlap bag."

What the hell was I thinking?

Didja ever open your big mouth, only to be horrified by what popped out? Didja ever say something and wonder where in the hell it came from? Have you ever said anything that seemed to be the furthest thing from your mind at that particular moment...but sprang from your lips like some ginormous erection booooinging out of a pair of too-tight Speedos?

(Ok, maybe THAT was a little too descriptive.)

Has anything ever come out of your mouth and just hung there in the air like...like...like a fart in a crowded elevator?

"I think I wanna get married."

Yup, I said that.

What. The. Fuck.

What on earth possessed me to say that? I DO NOT want to get married. I don't feel a need to. And even if I did, I absolutely refuse to be the one to propose to him. Anybody's gonna be gettin down on their knees in this relationship, it ain't gonna be me. Well. Not for that, anyway.

I suppose, though, if ya wanna split hairs, I DID say "think". Which might be a little less...uh...panic-inducing...than me saying I DO wanna get married.

See, Ziggy and I have an understanding. At least, we did have. We've talked about it and neither feels that we need a piece of paper to make us 'legal'. We love and respect each other. We're committed to each other. I think the true fact of the matter is, our relationship is so damn good the way it is, we're both hesitant to disrupt the status quo.

Don't rock the boat, baby.

But right now, I feel like the one that should be committed. And I ain't talkin relationships, here. I feel like I kinda went off my nut there for a minute, no pun intended.

Ok, so it was at a particularly...ah...vulnerable moment. Afterglow can be a dark, scary place, despite the 'glow' part.

So I told him that it was just the hormones talkin and not to worry...it'd pass. He, of course, started singing show tunes. When faced with a sticky situation (again, no pun intended) he hums or sings. Kinda eases the tension, ya know?

I tell ya what, though...the next time we have sex, duct tape is gonna play a big part.

Oh, not for anything....kinky.

It'll be for my mouth. To tape it shut. Just in case.

Redneck for a day

We had a great time yesterday at 'The Boat'. One of my bestest friends, Mary, (which may or may not be her name) hooked up with us and we had the most fun catching up.

I spent part of the time there pointing out people to her and asking who they were.

"Ok, who's THAT? He looks familiar. I oughta know THAT woman...who's she?"

One guy, in particular stood out. He had on a straw panama-type hat with a tropical print band around it, a kerchief tied around his neck, shorts and a pair of those 'Croc' clogs in a lovely shade of sage green.

Not exactly standard attire for The Boat. Or for Bath, in general, as far as that goes, where the usual "manly" attire is a ratty t-shirt or a plaid shirt with the arms cut out (a la Larry the Cable Guy), jeans and a seed corn cap. Sunglasses are optional.

Ziggy looks at us and says, "Who's the old queen?"

Mary informs us that it's "so and so". (I ain't mentioning any names)

Me: "Nooooo. That OLD guy right there", pointing him out.

Mary: "I'm tellin ya...it's 'so and so'.

Me: "But he's OLD."

Mary: "So are we, dumbass."

Ok, so she didn't really say that. But she was thinkin it, I know.

It was hard to wrap my mind around that. The last time I saw this particular guy, was probably...oh...at least 25 years ago. He was always a fine lookin guy...one of Havana's "elite". Or at least one of the ones that thought he was. Ya know the kind I'm talkin about....the football hero with rich parents and every girl in three counties throwin her panties at him. The hard-drinkin, hard-partyin guy who coulda had the world by the ass.

And now he just looks, for all the world, like an old, wrinkled, gray-headed queen.

Hell, I dunno....maybe he is. If it makes him happy, well then...good for him. And it could be that he's just watched one too many episodes of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. But it was still hard for me to grasp the concept that he's old. And I'm not. heh

Anywho, it was just an awesome day, all the way around. And we plan to do it again next month during the Redneck Fishing Tournament. It's August 26 and 27 in Bath, Illinois and if you're up for one helluva good time, I suggest you try to make it.

See, Bath sits right smack-dab on an offshoot of the Illinois River, which just happens to be inundated with

Asian Carp

. The fish were introduced here to clear algae and parasites that were causing problems for our local fish. But they've become an ecological nightmare.

Anywho, this tournament was created a year or so ago by one of my childhood friends and her husband. Coincidentally, they're also the owners of 'The Boat'. She explained to me yesterday that the tournament isn't done in any kinda 'traditional' way...you catch these big suckers with nets. Or wait for 'em to just flop in your boat. Whoever catches the most, wins the grand prize, though I'm not sure exactly what that is.

Can you imagine? A buncha drunks in boats, trying to catch these humongous (up to 70 pounds!)

flying fish

using only nets...or their bare hands? Whatta hoot!

I'll post more details as it gets closer to tournament time, but there'll be a beer tent, food, lots of contests for the kiddies and LOTS of laughing, I'm sure.

Anybody got a boat we can borrow or rent for a day?

Overheard conversations

Me: (after spending 15 minutes drying my ridiculously thick hair)
"Damn! It's hotter than hell in here."

Ziggy: "Actually, my darling, it's quite comfortable in here. You've been in the bathroom, blowing hot air at your head."

Me: "Ah. Kinda like when we have a conversation, huh?"