This vast cavern provides an unexpected rush of optimism.

Until today I was not an efficient packer. When it comes to air travel, I’ve always been a two bag, over the weight limit kind of gal. Blame it on the fact that since the birth of my first child – 17 years ago - I don’t get out enough. So when I do, I go a little nuts.

In honor of the fact that I am starting a travel website and I am going to the Blissdom conference tomorrow in Nashville, I’ve challenged myself to pack in one little bitty old suitcase. This piece of luggage, my more intrepid husband’s 22″ Travelpro, theoretically could even be carried on the plane. I tell you right now, that isn’t going to happen. (I thought it might for around 5 seconds, but when I mentioned it to Dave this morning he seriously spewed his coffee.)

All women know the TSA regulations for carry-on bags are meant for annoying people: females who are size quadruple zero and don’t wear make-up and men who don’t ever change their clothes. Since I plan to change my clothes like Oprah on crack, the idea of carrying on my one and only suitcase will just have to remain conceptual. I’m more than a little willing to pay up.

But beware: I plan on testing the Travelpro 5’s expansion technology to the point of near rupture. Is that the entire contents of my flying closet sprinkled on the tarmac?  Not to worry – the xanax is in my purse.

As I begin, I can’t help but notice that this suitcase looks like it can really hold a lot. Then I remember these:

Premptive Strike: Yes, I've pulled the pair I'm wearing on the plane already. And yes,...

Read the whole entry... »

Lily the Labradoodle

Here’s love disguised as a mop! -  Peter Gray

(because I find myself wordless a day late)

Dave in this kind way of his that defies reason, except insofar as it kind of explains how he manages to  love me, mentioned a few weeks ago that perhaps I could go through some of my books.

“Just give some away,” he said, as if that were the easiest thing to do on earth.

He doesn’t know that I know he is farming me, I think as he walks away without making eye contact. The guy was planting a seed. I am the dense soil; he is the farmer. Action wasn’t expected. As all good farmers do, he sent up a prayer and moved on.

Imagine shelves lined with books neatly arranged according to genre and author. Now picture the exact opposite.

I could get a clear shot of this one because it is still pulled out from the wall from when the cable guy was here two weeks ago.

I’m trusting you with this image to not think less of me. Sharing’s not easy.

In my defense, my family isn’t great at respecting the boundaries of each other’s cornfields. Under the cover of darkness they have willfully turned my “office” into a memorabilia and mystery laundry purgatory.  Sure the farmer and the chillin’ give lip service to the contrary, but in truth my “office”  is a rather cushy storage area  for everyone in the family’s crap. Instead of an office, or even a  junk drawer, what we’ve got here is  junk room. In the clan’s defense, I’m certain that someday in the future everything in my “office” will be critical for our continued existence.

But when Farmer Dave throws his empty suitcase in here with the intent of  someday returning it to its appropriate closet – or...

Read the whole entry... »

The Traveler’s Chapel located on Rt. 501 just outside of Conway, SC

I could start this post for Unknown Mami’s Sundays in My City by saying that what I’m about to share is neither “mine” nor a “city.” But that would be too easy, and wouldn’t explain things very well.

Once or twice I may have mentioned that Myrtle Beach is a different kind of place to live. The general area, defined by the Atlantic to the east, and the Intracoastal Waterway to the west, is shaped like a long thin rectangle. Many know this geographic rectangle, which starts to the north with Little River and runs 60 miles south to Pawleys Island by the name, “The Grand Strand.”

For the first few years we lived on The Grand Strand, with the exception of Dave’s work, our lives stopped at the Waterway. Rarely did we venture across. Access has improved significantly in recent years with several new major roads making all of Horry County more accessible. (When I first saw the name, “Horry,” I couldn’t believe it either. You’ll be glad to know that it’s pronounced, “Ore-EE.”)

The county seat of Horry, the charming town of Conway, is located only 15 miles inland. The town is easier to reach than most of the Grand Strand’s beach communities. We often find ourselves there for the cute shops, great restaurants and most recently,  the large library. I love it because its details are so different than what I’m surrounded by everyday.

I wonder who puts up and takes down the flag each day

Formal dresses at a store in Conway also have their own special housing ...

Read the whole entry... »

Boxes  of postcards littered the vendor’s table. I could see Dave in my peripheral vision scratching his head. No doubt he was wondering if I was going to blow the next two or three hours sifting through them, each postcard like a little mystery, while the charms of Provence went on charming without us.

So as polite as the vendor was, it was clear as he started packing away his postcards, I had a time frame. Here at home the only way I keep myself from becoming too absorbed in any one thing is by using a kitchen timer. When I leave it upstairs and I am down, I often get lost spending the whole day doing one thing, something earth shattering like programming the DVR for the next six months, or wish list building on Amazon. Well intended to-do list go undone.

So among the 10 or so postcards I chose  is the one pictured above. When we got home I pulled my little collection out of their special postcard bag, which was almost beautiful as the postcards. I studied each one to see exactly what I had purchased. I had no memory of several of them. I studied this particular card, puzzled as to why I would have chosen it. Then I remembered that at the last second the vendor said that since I was purchasing four of one kind, I could choose another for free, which frankly made me feel panicky; but I made my choice as quickly and as confidently as possible, selecting one as if from a deck of magician’s cards.

As it turns out of all the cards I bought that day, this one is the biggest mystery. The text under the woman’s picture says, “Coiffure et Costume de la Provence,” which means “hairstyle and dress of Provence.” Other than that,...

Read the whole entry... »

I have not fallen off the face of the earth. I am not in the middle of a crisis. That is unless you too consider a bowl full of oranges a problem.

My husband received these edible rays of sunshine from a Chinese client. In certain areas of China (don’t ask me where – it’s a big country) it’s a custom to give oranges as a way to express good wishes for the coming year. The word “orange” in Chinese is “Ji,” which also happens to mean “good luck.”

He brought them home on Friday, and looked right at me and asked, “What shall we do with them?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling ridiculous because  a flutter of panic twisted in my gut, or maybe it was just in my head. Why am I like that?

Now he is on his way to Japan for a meeting. Yes, one meeting. That means he will get home late Thursday night which will be followed by four more days of re-adjustment.

In the meantime I am left with deciding what to do with the oranges.

They look very pretty in the bowl, but from experience I know that even in the dry and cold weather they will quickly become green and dusty on their undersides. That would seem such a waste. Yes, that’s probably what will happen.

I have a juicer, but no citrus attachment because it broke a few years ago. Besides even in a parallel life on a perkier woman’s cul-de-sac, I wouldn’t even think of pulling that behemoth piece of equipment out. To those of you who believe infomercials and don’t understand juicers, I will explain:

Juicing and cleaning up its aftermath isn’t easy.

Besides, my husband is on his way to Japan. I don’t embrace the new year’s...

Read the whole entry... »

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Every so often I play, “if I won the lottery.” Sometimes my husband joins me. Mostly it’s in my head.

Today, I need an entire staff: a cook, a housekeeper, a personal assistant, trainer and shopper all rolled into a few full time people. Next hired would be a perceptive, non-judgmental, nice person who would toss things at me to wear each morning based on my current mood, weight and cyclical fluid retention. Given my wardrobe of pajamas, jeans and yoga pants, this job would be easy- except for the pesky part of the job description that would read “perceptive, non-judgmental, nice person.” If such a person exists, hopefully they’re gainfully employed as someone much more necessary – like an arms’ negotiator.

By day four anyone in this position would justifiably be looking down her nose and reprimanding me. I would be more like her child than employer. Before you know it she’d rat me out to the neighbors, and if I were famous – which I am because this is my mind game – the tabloids. I’d miss my personal space and  find my new hire annoying. She’s fired, and I’m only on the third paragraph.

So I tone my lottery fantasy down. Maybe I don’t win powerball. Instead I win a relatively modest, $10,000. Instead of panicking over how to spend it, I limit myself to this concept of “staff building.” Let’s say I can afford to hire one occasional person. Who would this person be?

I can proof my own writing only with the emotional distance of time. With the immediacy of blogging, this proves impossible. So after glancing through a few of my...

Read the whole entry... »

Dear Technorati,

I hope you are well and had a marvelous holiday season. I’m really bad at sucking up, so I am keeping my fingers crossed that this greeting is enough for you.

I haven’t tried  to claim this little blog of mine for a few months. This past summer, to both my own and my reader’s (no, “reader’s” isn’t a grammatical error on some days) confusion,  I would diligently place your cryptic code IN A BLOG POST exactly as requested. If you are now thinking, “she probably doesn’t have an RSS feed,” you would be wrong.

Instead, in return I merely received comments accusing me of being either a spy or a mischievous alien.  Ironically, everyone could see the code except for you.

The hyper-polite interface on your website encouraged me to be patient.  I was patient. I, in unfounded late aughts’ optimism, got my hopes up. It didn’t do squat. Anguished, yet courteous emails sent to support apparently were invisible as well. Just so you know, you weren’t helping any self-esteem issues.

If Homeland Security were at all with the program, they would have probably sent clean shaven George Clooney look–a-likes in dark suits knocking on my door in the middle of the night to investigate the mysterious code. I believe if all of the big entities we, the American people depend on, worked as described, Clooney clones would have hunted me down.  I will not delude myself to the point of holding you totally responsible. I confidently CLAIM that you are not all together blameless.

I’m wondering these days if any large organizations, such as Technorati and The Department of Homeland Security, ...

Read the whole entry... »

Apparently there was a time in the 1930s when being draped in a snowy-white cute-but-dead fox, complete with an intact head, was considered the epitome of high fashion. My daughters were relieved to hear that this distant trend wasn’t from some other back-in-the-day decade like the 1970s. Both decades are the “olden days” to them, but I’m almost positive they know that I wasn’t alive in the 30s.

This week Dave and I were talking about how ready we were for the first decade of this century to be over. I don’t know about you, but we don’t think it was quite the greatest we’ve ever experienced.

With a trace of hurt in their eyes, both daughters were quick to say they thought the zeros were great. As parents we had forgotten to note that the oughts (aughts?) were the first entire decade of their existence.  I was quickly convinced that the  OOs really rocked.

How do you think we ought to refer to the now past tense decade anyway? And I’m talking about aesthetics here. I don’t care about being technically correct anymore than I am concerned with fashionable correctness in the 1930s. If you are among those party poopers who say  next decade doesn’t start until 2011, that’s fine with me.

The woman featured above with the entire fox around her neck was undoubtedly cold.

What I’m trying to say is I look forward to a new decade where people will lighten up. Not everything is relative, but I firmly believe this:

We shouldn’t judge others until we have walked around with their dead fox around our necks.  I’m not just talking to you, PETA. This statement is profound, especially coming...

Read the whole entry... »