"Big ol' jet airliner, don't carry me too far away" --Steve Miller Band

Here's the thing: Why do I always want to start every blog post with the phrase "Here's the thing"? Things? They get to me. And, life? Chock full of things. More things than should be allowed under the legal limit. I'm just saying, please eliminate three.

Maybe I should just re-title my blog: "Here's the thing."

So, anyway, none of that was actually the thing. Here's the thing: I'm going on vacation. Off to the beach.*

I've earned it. I cut way back on the cheesy tots (I heard you gasp!), exercised 27 times in the last 29 days (I KNOW, right? I'm the buffest 80-something you'll ever meet), saved my pennies, actually completed a few things at work, and now? I'm done. Outta here. Sayonara. Bedee-bedee-bedee, that's all folks!

What can I leave you with to chew on?

How about Five Truths About Air Travel:

• The person in front of you in line at the ticket/baggage counter will have 40 bags, and will speak no English. They will not understand what the agent is saying, with increasing volume, about additional charges and weight limits.

• No matter what seat you choose while waiting at the gate, there will be someone facing directly at you, barking into their cell phone. They will have nothing of consequence or interest to say. Yet, they will say it. For half an hour. They will pretend you are not giving them the "I hope you don't make it to the future" stare.

• On the plane, a passenger will come along and open the already closed overhead bin above your head. "Just to check."
  

• Upon landing, when the stewardess asks everyone to keep their seat-belts on until the plane has come to a full stop and the captain indicates that it's safe to move about the cabin, there will be the sound of tiny clicks all over the cabin as every single person unfastens his/her seat-belt.

• After taxiing, there will be some idiot that leaps up as soon as the bell dings and runs to the front of the aisle, only to wait another fifteen minutes with everyone else until the door opens.****

Question du jour: Aisle or window? Show your work.

Miss me! Of course, I will be spending every minute of vacation trying to think of clever things to blog about for you.

*slow-mo wavey-wave*




* Please don't rob me.**

** If you do come by, be sure and give Brucie, our pit bull, a big hug from us. He loves to snuggle.***

*** Oh, and if you have to take something, please, please, please don't take the highly-valuable-via-resale-on-Ebay rock CDs from the early 70s that my husband--er, we love so.

They're in the family room.

On the right.

Next to the TV.

Top two shelves.

Don't take those.

****That idiot might be me.

"Are you what you are--or what?" --Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians

Last Friday, I met a novelist.

I was at a happy hour drinking free, bad Chardonnay*, and I was introduced to someone who described herself as a novelist. That's not something you hear every day. She might as well have said, "I'm a rodeo clown" because she got the same reaction.

Then, so many questions. No, she wasn't yet published. Yes, she was working as a temp to support herself while she wrote. Yes, she had recently completed her first novel and was in the process of revising it. No, she was not self-publishing; she was going for the real deal. And so on.

She could have said she was a temp. She could have said she was an aspiring novelist. Instead, she embraced the title of novelist.

When does a novelist become a novelist? When they start to write a book? When they finish a draft of a book? When they get published? When they get annihilated by a critic? Really, rodeo clown is a lot better defined.

I envied her ability to believe that she was a novelist. I did. At the same time, it was like speaking to a five-year-old that tells you, "I'm going to be President." You smile broadly and say, "That's great!" because who's to say they're not? Yet, a part of you--that smarmy, dream-killing part, who maybe has witnessed their attempts to work a room with armpit fart noises and found their efforts subdued and watery, at best--says, snidely, "Yeah, good luck with that."

Everybody has a dream of being something grand. At some point, most of us let those dreams go. But there is that small segment... 2% maybe? ... that continues to believe, to strive, to embrace the dream. Maybe they give themselves a time limit--"if I'm not on Broadway in seven years, I'll quit acting." But they go for it. And I salute them. Even as I cock my head funny at them.

Question du jour: Are dreams life's way of encouraging us or some twisted joke?



* You know how everything tastes better when it's free? Not even the fact that it was free could help the taste of this wine. So, sad.**

** Big surprise, I drank it anyway.***

*** Also, can somebody please kill the Chardonnay trend already? Bleah.

"She thinks my tractor's sexy" --Kenny Chesney

[I googled funny sexy and that's what I got.]


First, let me take care of business and announce the winner of the All-Clad. My lovely assistant will reveal the name chosen via a random number generator and hermetically sealed in a mayonnaise jar on Funk & Wagnall's porch since noon*...


Oh my gosh! How exciting! Congratulations, Bethany! Send me your address at lacochran812@gmail.com to claim that fantastic prize from CSN Stores!

And now on to today's topic...

Hubby and I are watching a movie.

Hubby, noticing how engrossed I am: Do you think he's good looking?

Me, considering: Not particularly, no. ...But I do think he's sexy.

From my vantage, there are good looking people and there are sexy people and there are good looking, sexy people and then, there's everyone at the DMV. You know, all those tragically creepy people that wind up in line with you at the DMV and you think "Yeah, that's plenty close enough."

Clearly, it helps to be attractive if you're going for the sexy card, but, to my way of thinking, sexy is more about confidence and intensity. There are plenty of pretty, pretty princes and princesses that aren't the least bit sexy to me. In fact, if they're too pretty, I think it detracts. Your Bond players display this beautifully. Most people opt for Sean Connery or Daniel Craig over prettier but less intense Pierce Brosnan or Timothy Dalton.

But these are just my thoughts. Questions du jour: Are attractive and sexy the same to you? Is there such a thing as too pretty?


* 5 shiny blog points to whomever gets the reference.

Assorted Flotsam

• Can we all agree that Whitney Houston sang the National Anthem better than anyone ever has or ever will, and for anyone else to sing it is a crime? No, really. It should be illegal. Everyone else, at best, falls pathetically short and, more often, butchers it. I say, from now on, at baseball games, they just project Whitney on the Jumbotron. Done. Who's with me?

• There are long yellow lights in these parts but they're not infinite. Why is it that when we wind up running a red light, we feel better when someone runs it worse behind us? And, around here, 90% of the time, someone does. As if our illegal behavior is somehow less illegal than theirs.
  

• One of the local places to see big names in music has been renamed. It was bad enough when you were going to see someone perform at the Nissan Pavilion but, now, you have the honor of having friendship-ending conversations like this one:

Friend: They're awesome! I saw them two years ago at Madison Square Garden.

You: I know! I just saw them! They were amazing!

Friend: Really? Where did you see them?

You: *mumble**cough**mumble*

Friend: What did you say?

You, unable to make eye contact: I saw them at Jiffy Lube Live.

Ex-friend: *turns and walks away*

• There are two kinds of Scrabble players in the world. Those that time their moves, memorize the Scrabble dictionary, and hoard "u"s and those that don't. The two types should never, ever play together. Nothing. Not even hopscotch.
  

• Here's the scenario. You're trying to eat reasonably healthy. This may be because you know you will be on a tropical beach in a few weeks wearing very little. You order a sandwich and instead of the chips that come with it, you pay the extra money for a small salad. Your order comes. There, in your order, is the bag of chips. You complain that you were supposed to get a small salad in place of the chips. The clerk tells you he's given you both. Do you a) keep and eat the chips? b) keep the chips but do not eat them? c) politely give the chips back? or d) have the biggest hissy-fit Atlanta Bread Company has ever seen?

And remember: blahblahGiveawayblahblah.

"All I've got is a photograph" --Def Leppard

I heard on the radio this morning that a primary reason people friend you on social media sites is to have photos with which to... um... get busy. The story goes that people, well, guys, find something thrilling about having a picture of someone they know personally and that that is sufficient to... um... help the process, as it were.

The DJs went on to take calls from people who verified this. Turns out it doesn't even have to be that shot of you in your swimsuit at the beach. You can be fully clothed, standing next to the mall's Easter Bunny.

So, if creepy Wendell from Accounting wants to friend you, it may be to up more than his friend stats.

Lovely.

Now, I'll admit to being a voyeur. You post pictures of yourself, I'll probably take a peek. Saucy pictures? A longer peek. But, I have to say, I didn't see this coming.

*insert rim shot here*

*insert joke about rimming here*

*try to figure out how to get out of this reference chain here*

Question du jour to the Facebook/MySpace/TwitPic denizens: Do you care what is done with/to the pictures you post? Will knowing this tidbit affect what you post and/or who you accept as a friend?


PSA: Don't forget, if you want a chance to win that spectacular giveaway prize, leave a comment here (not here) by April 19th. But, by all means, comment here, too. Just don't expect a prize.