Making repairs.

Hugh, looking all shiny and happy from his bath.  

God, I love this car more than I should be allowed to. 

When Hugh came into my life in the fall of 2011, R and I had BIG plans for him.  He was already 80-90% restored, but since we both love working with our hands and we are both reasonably bright, intelligent, capable people, we were going to do all the work left to be done ourselves.

Our intentions were good.

We did a couple little cosmetic things, then replaced the radio.  We ordered copies of all the service and repair manuals, then... Well, then... Nothing.

Life kept happening and Hugh got pushed to the back burner for a while.  Quite a long while, actually.

I would occasionally drive him out of the garage and maybe around the neighborhood a few times, but that was really all.

Late last fall, I drove him out of the garage and he immediately began spewing bright red liquid all on the ground.

"OH MY GOD HUGH'S BEEN SHOT!  HE'S BLEEDING!  QUICK!  CALL 911!" I screamed, before realizing it was futile.  No one was close enough to hear me.  I was going to have to perform a lifesaving thoracotomy myself.  I've seen every episode of ER.  I could totally do it.

Oh wait.  Hugh is a car.

Well then, what the hell is this red stuff?

A little research combined with a couple texts to R led me to believe I had blown out the power steering pump.

So there he sat, parked.

And then it was Thanksgiving.

And then it was Christmas.

And then it was still winter, and I don't drive him in the winter anyway, so it was fine.

But then it was spring, and I started itching to take him out for a run.

So I began incessantly nagging and pestering asking R about it.  "So this thing that's wrong with Hugh.  Can we fix it ourselves, do you think?"  And he would agree that we probably could, and finally we set out to do just that.  However, neither of us has ANY experience in working on cars and what that might entail.

Oops?

R gamely crawled under Hugh to see what the exact situation was, and determined that there was a hose that was busted.

A hose!  Just a hose!  We could TOTALLY replace a HOSE!  They're just all round and hose-y and totally easy to replace, right? RIGHT?

So R ordered a replacement hose and left work early one day for the specific purpose of working on Hugh.

The first thing we needed to do was to get him up on ramps.  Since he wasn't really DRIVABLE, we decided to push, where push equals R was steering and I was pushing.

*cue circus music*

No bloggers, bloggers' spouses, or classic 1966 Mustang Convertibles were harmed during this incident.  Not permanently, anyway. 

Finally we decided that maybe we could drive him just long enough to get him up on the ramps, which, by the way? Totally not as easy as it sounds.

The next step involved removing the old hose and replacing it with the new one.  After three rounds of rock, paper, scissors in which I'm SURE he cheated some negotiations, it was determined that R would get under the car and I would be in charge of handing him the appropriate tools.

"Ok," he said, after he had situated himself under the car.  "I need a wrench."

"What size?" I asked.

"Uh, like this."  He handed me the end of the new hose, and I attempted to find a suitable wrench out of our pile of wrenches.  For people who don't really work on our own cars, we have a shit-ton of wrenches.

Half an hour later, I yelled "I FOUND IT!" which woke R up and made him hit his head on the underside of the car.

At this point, one might think that the changeout would proceed smoothly, but, alas, it was not to be.

The old hose, which had probably been on the car since the Nixon era, would not budge.

So it became a parade of tools passing through my hands into R's in an attempt to remove it.

"BRING ME A PIPE WRENCH!" he would yell from under the car, and I would furtively Google "pipe wrench images" on my phone and attempt to match them up with what we have in our tool arsenal.

"You ok?" he would yell when it had been more than 15 minutes or so between tool pass-offs, and I would mumble something vague about "the metric stuff is all in my way" in an attempt to sound reasonably versed in Tools You Need To Pry Off A Rusty Hose 101, then I would hand him a screwdriver, or a mallet, or something else in an attempt to distract him from what he was really waiting for me to find.

Finally, a combination of the mallet (TOTAL WIN FOR ME) and some other wrenchy-pinchy thing did the deed, and the rest was easy, relatively speaking.

So now Hugh is road-worthy once again, and he and I have been out for more than a couple quick trips around the block, but I'm dreaming of a long ride down the road, top down, Willie blaring on the radio, sunglasses on and scarf flapping in the wind, just me and my man.

Oh, and R, too, of course.  If he wants to come along.

Happy 80th Birthday, Willie!

Today is my man Willie Nelson's 80th birthday.

Seriously?  If I am lucky enough to live to be 80, I'd be thrilled to be able to do half the things he does now.

He still plays over a hundred shows a year.  He releases at least one, and usually more studio albums every year.  He has his own biodiesel company.  He is an activist for green living, the environment, and  *cough*marijuana*cough*.  He is a staunch supporter of farmers and American farming.  He founded Farm Aid.  That hits me close to home.

He is one of the most prolific American songwriters of our time or any other, having written such classics as Crazy, Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away, Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground, Family Bible, Hello Walls, On The Road Again, Pretty Paper, Yesterday's Wine, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys, and Good Hearted Woman, just to name a few.

By age seven, Willie Hugh Nelson (I named my mustang after him, by the way) had already figured out what he loved to do, and he has been doing it every day of his life since then.

If that isn't the definition of success, I'm not sure what is.

Willie is a singer, a songwriter, an activist, and an icon.

He's the very definition of old-school, while still managing to keep up with and even exceed the times with his attention to and focus on green living and the environment.

He's my absolute favorite singer/songwriter of all time.

In honor of his 80th birthday today, I'm going to share with you some of my favorite Wille songs and performances.

Some are old, some are new, but they are all my Willie.

Happy Birthday, old man.  Here's to many more.

Mayberry - the Movie!

Ok, I'll fess up here.

I'm a HUGE Andy Griffith fan.

And that's not just to say I watched The Andy Griffith Showa lot as a kid, although that is true.

No.

I mean I'm a FAN of the showNOW.

I think Sheriff Taylor is fair and smart and handsome, in a big-eared kind of way.

I think Aunt Bee was funny and a consumate hostess, something I constantly strive for.

I think Barney Fife was funny and well-intentioned, even though he managed to screw up nearly everything he touched.  I can truly relate to that.

Anyway, The Andy Griffith Showis good, clean, honest tv, and to this day, I love it.  It speaks to a simpler time, a time I think I would have thrived in.

I've seen every episode dozens of times, though.  A little new content would be nice.

And since movie versions of tv shows are all the rage these days (wasn't Willie Nelson AWESOME as Uncle Jesse in The Dukes of Hazzardmovie remake?) I recently did some research to see if anyone had ever tried to do a remake of The Andy Griffith Show.

Sadly, so sadly, the answer was no.

But not one to be easily discouraged, I decided to help Hollywood out a little bit by taking care of the casting.  Everyone KNOWS casting is the hardest part, right?  So now you don't have any excuses now, do you Hollywood?

I'm going to expect tickets to the premiere, thankyouverymuch.

So, without further delay...

The role of Sheriff Andy Taylor goes to:

Tom Hanks!

But not the newly-old-creepy guy Tom Hanks with the weird little gray mustache.  More like Tom Hanks 10-15 years ago,  around the time of Cast Away. He has proven that he can do both comedy and serious roles with equal measure, and he has the same type of charismatic-yet-not-quite-handsome charm as Mr. Griffith.  Have your people call my people, Tom.  We can get this project off the ground in no time.  

The role of Barney Fife goes to: 

Steve Buscemi!

Ok, I'l be honest.  I was fairly certain that this role would end up going to David Spade, but I just couldn't make it work.  I WANTED it to be him, but it just didn't feel right.  So, enter Steve Buscemi.  He usually plays a totally creepy serial killer type guy, but he has proven that he can do comedy, too (like in The Big Lebowski).Plus, he totally has the look.  Totally.

The role of Aunt Bee goes to: 

Kathy Bates! 

Out of all my very difficult casting decisions, this one was the no-brainer, really.

I think she's perfect, and since this is my fantasy world, that's enough.

The role of Helen Crump goes to:

Sela Ward!

They are both charming and classy in a totally southern way.  Apparently most of the world knows her for the tv show Sisters, but somehow I missed that one.  I do however, watch her nearly every week on CSI: NY.

The role of Thelma Lou goes to:

Andie MacDowell!

She's another kind of non-threatening, southern-charm-laden kind of actress who would fit in well with my made-up cast.  I guess my only concern about her is that she resembles Sela Ward quite a bit.  But then again, Helen and Thelma Lou could have been sisters, so I guess it fits.  

The role of Goober Pyle goes to:

Larry the Cable Guy!

Honestly, I'm not a huge LTCG fan.  Actually, I'm not even a small fan.  But Doofus, meet Doofus.  It's kind of perfect, don't you think?

The Role of Gomer Pyle Goes to:

Randy Travis! 

They both have freakishly large teeth and a beautiful singing voice.  'Nuff said.

The role of Floyd the Barber goes to:

Nathan Lane!

Seriously, could a more perfect casting choice be found anywhere?  I think not.  He's funny and fussy and slightly effeminate, just like Floyd.  They even wear the same glasses, for goodness sake.  It's serendipity.

The role of Howard Sprague goes to:

JK Simmons!

It took me FOREVER to figure out this guy's name.  See, he's in about half the movies I've seen, EVER, but no one ever really remembers him, his roles, or his name.  Which, in my humble opinion, makes him perfect for playing Howard.  Nobody ever remembers him, either.

The role of Otis Campbell goes to:

Troy Evans!

He's another you-know-you-know-this-guy-from-somewhere guy.  I know him best from ER,but he has been in about a million movies and tv shows in his lifetime.  Plus, just slap a hat on him and he's ready to roll as Otis.  They could be twinsies.  

Starring in a brief cameo appearance as Ernest T Bass is:

Jim Carrey!

Of course. 

It has to be a brief appearance though, because I can only handle Jim Carrey in really, really small doses. 

And last but not least, starring as Opie Talyor is:

I have absolutely, positively no freaking clue.  None at all.  And it's not just the red hair that's throwing me off.  I just can't find any happy wholesome child actors out there who would fit the bill.  Most of today's child actors are drug addicts, anorexic and involved in sex scandals before the age of, oh, say 11 or so.  And that just won't do.  It won't do at all.

So help a crazy Andy Griffith fan out, would ya?  Help me find my Opie.  

Who would you cast in this role?

Oh, and by the way, let me know if you think I got the rest of my casting right, too.  

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'Cause I'm a red-neck wo-man...

I'm a closet redneck.

I live in a perfectly average house in a perfectly average subdivision.  My taste in home decor runs more toward contemporary.  I dress perfectly nondescriptly and drive (most days I can't take the Mustang out because of, ya know, weather and stuff) a middle of the road SUV - black of course.  Although gravy and biscuits, beans and cornbread, and mashed potatoes and meatloaf are in my top five favorite food groups, I almost never cook or eat them, because they make me fat.

People who don't really know me would never, ever, ever guess that there is a raging redneck lurking just below the surface.

There is no place this is quite as apparent as it is when it comes to my taste in music.  Yo can take the girl out of the country...

Recently during one of our marathon texting conversations, I was telling my friend Natalie about a concert I went to several years ago.  Her reply?  "Sometimes I forget just how redneck you are until you say things like 'Ted Nugent in concert' to me."

See?  Mostly, I hide it well.

 Mostly.

I like to crank up Pandora when I'm cleaning house and folding laundry and such, and last week I realized  that cj, while still somewhat unclear on the ABC song, can belt out both verse and chorus to Coal Miner's Daughter, every single time.

I'm so proud.

Rj's taste in music is not, ummm, terribly compatible with mine.  He prefers alternative, pop, rock, and music sung cheerfully about terribly depressing topics.  Also, until he met me, he believed that John Denver was a country singer.

But he's very accommodating of my musical tastes.  Over the years, he's endured concerts like Kris Kristofferson and Waylon Jennings, The Oak Ridge Boys, Toby Keith and Ted Nugent, Alison Krauss, Willie Nelson at least a half a dozen times, and last year he paid an exorbitant amount of money so I could see Loretta Lynn in concert at The Louisville Palace.

He's a good egg, that one.

Most people who know me causally would never guess my dirty little secret, unless they catch me humming a George Jones song under my breath, and even then I'm usually safe, because no one can identify it.  "What's that song?" they ask, cocking their heads sideways in an attempt to remember.  "Oh, something by Adele, I think.  I heard it on the radio last week," I blatantly lie.

It's not that I'm ASHAMED of my musical tastes, exactly...

I prefer to think of it as one of the 50 million things I'm somewhat PRIVATE about.

Anyway, when I started this post, it had a point of some sort, but since I can't seem to remember what that point is, I'll just leave you with this, the best thing my man Willie has done in a while:




Some of you may recognize this as a Coldplay song.  Um, not any more.

Yeah, I just ran a mini marathon. My feet could star in a zombie movie. With redneck playlist!!!

So the running bug bit me a while back and it bit HARD.   I'm not an especially good runner.  My form is bad, my pacing is poor, my toes are black and look like they have been stepped on by an overweight elephant.  Also, I'm not really at a training level to run a mini-marathon.  Oh, and my feet... My poor, battered feet...  I am currently missing a toenail, am about to lose another one, and only have two that aren't black or bruised.  I have feet issues.  Serious ones.  But whatever.  I'd post a picture, but I don't want to run both my readers off.  It's ugly.  Maybe, just maybe, if you're lucky, I'll tell you all about my most recent shoe fitting, which led me to wear a pair of brand new, un-broken in, untried shoes for my longest race ever,  but for now, let's focus on the race, shall we?

Anyway, I signed up for, ran (mostly) and successfully completed this little mini, feet be damned.  Here's how it went down:

Starting Line - on the playlist:  Harper Valley PTA by Bobbie Gentry  I always wonder about the women at these races who have to get up at least three hours early to tease and/or otherwise bouffant their hair and carefully apply their makeup.  That woman up there has AT LEAST half a can of Aqua Net on her beehive.  That shit is going to melt once she starts sweating.  Hey!  Why is she in a faster corral than me?  Oh, here we go!!!

Mile one - on the playlist:  Van Lear Rose by Loretta Lynn  Ok, I wanted music to start that would help me pace myself, but... this song is so SLOW I'm practically running backward.  Hmmm... these shoes aren't feeling too great.  Actually, my left foot sort of seems like it may explode soon.  Hey Will, 5:30 Asics Pace Runner, do your really thing dropping trou and going pee in the middle of the race while a pace group is following you is a great idea? Ok, I guess you do.  Carry on, then.  And I kinda need to pee, too.  And what's that weird smell?

Mile two - on the playlist:  I Don't Want To Get Over You by Norah Jones and Willie Nelson  It's my man Willie's birthday today!  Love ya Willie!  Aw... isn't it sweet that the band kids are playing for us?  But could you crank it down a notch?  I'm trying to listen to Willie here.  And... my left foot is REALLY going to explode now.  It's ok, I didn't like that foot very much anyway.   Hi Mr. Policeman.  You are doing a good job keeping the traffic from crushing us on these side streets.  I appreciate that very much.  I'd appreciate it more maybe if you weren't the THIRD COP IN A ROW who was either playing Angry Birds and/or texting your wife/girlfriend/both on your iPhone.  I'm on to you.  I have an iPhone, and I know what it means when you hold it sideways...  And I REALLY need to pee.  And I STILL smell that smell.

Mile three - on the playlist:  I Feel Lucky by Mary Chapin Carpenter   Hmmm... this isn't the best neighborhood, is it?  Damn, my foot hurts.  Anyway, you adorable pit bull, you... you just stay on that side of the chain link fence, ok?  I really don't feel like being bitten today.  Unless maybe you could gnaw my left foot off.  Then it might be ok.  Hey, is that a hooker passed out on that porch?  Also, I'm thinking about peeing on myself.  REAL runners do that, right?  That smell... not going away.  What could that possibly be?

Mile four - on the playlist:  You're the Reason Our Kids are Ugly by Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty  OMG IS THAT A PORTAPOTTY LINE?  I'm totally stopping...  8 minutes later... Whew, that's better.  I can totally do this.  Well, I could totally do this if my left foot weren't about to explode.  Ok, and that smell keeps getting worse.  And worse.  Are we near a dog food factory or something?  Oh... I think I figured it out.  I'M THE SMELL.  It smells like teen spirit up in here, y'all.  And it's bad stuff.  

Mile five - on the playlist:  Tainted Love by Soft Cell  Not.  Feeling. Well.  Nauseous.  Foot. Hurts.  And how the HELL did that song get on my playlist?  Maybe I'll step over here for a minute... My sincerest apologies go out to the members of the Daughters of the American Revolution and/or their groundskeepers for any vomit I may have left near your building.  I can assure you that it is in no way a reflection of how I feel about your fine organization.  

Mile six - on the playlist:  Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles  Ok, I feel better, except for my left foot.  And I'm not sure that will ever be the same again.  Did that Grandma in front of me just Jump. Up. In. The. Air. And. Do. A. Leprechaun. Heel. Kick?  Why yes, yes she did.  Go Grandma.  Right now I hate you with a passion that is indescribable, you and your show-offy heel kicky 70 year old feet that work properly.  Bitch.  I think I'm going to step over here to the side and maybe do a quick amputation.  Or maybe I'll just take my sock off and try running without it...

Mile six point one - on the playlist: Did I Shave My Legs For This by Deana Carter Alrighty, the no sock thing was a bad idea.  Guess I'll get out of traffic and put that sucker back on...  My left shoe, however, I think I can do without. 

Mile seven - on the playlist:  Mind Your Own Business by Hank Williams Jr.  Hi Old Guy.  You must be Gene, since your shirt says "Gene's 38th Mini Marathon."  Either you're Gene, or you rolled Gene in the parking lot and stole his shirt.  Yes, I know I'm carrying my shoe.  Yes, I know it's a bad idea to wear new shoes on race day.  Yes, I understand that the same thing happened to you back in '78 in Memphis.  No, really I don't care.  Gene, I appreciate your wise words and witty anecdotes and all, but I think I might move on over to the side and put my shoe back on.  No, no, you go on ahead.  I don't want to hold you up.

Mile eight - on the playlist:  It's A Great Day To Be Alive by Travis Tritt  Great news!  Now my left foot is completely numb, so it no longer matters if it explodes.  Except exploded foot is going to be Hell to clean out of those shoes before I return them... Hey!  Is this Churchill Downs we're running through?  Awesome!  Also, the smell of horse piss is stronger than the smell of ME, and also considerably more pleasant.  Hey lady?  Why would you stop in the middle of a race to take pictures?  Don't you know you can buy a postcard?  Whatever.  Cool!  Beer tents.  I'm gonna be over there asleep under that pallet of Bud Light Lime if you need me.

Mile nine - on the playlist: Delta Dawn by Tanya Tucker  I love this song.  It's one of those songs I just can't help but sing along to...  Oh, what are you looking at, lady?  It's a good song.  Besides, you are dressed like a middle aged, overweight Wonder Woman.  Clearly drawing attention to yourself is something you know a little bit about.  These people who stand out here and hand out water to all us thristy folks are awesome, but this group from Walgreens is the only group who is keeping the cups and bottles and other trash picked up along the way.  Clearly, being of the retail sort, they are used to picking up after other people.  And... my foot hurts. 

Mile ten - on the playlist:  One More Last Chance by Vince Gill Why are all the people around me congratulating each other?  We have THREE.  POINT.  ONE.  FREAKIN'. MILES. LEFT.  That's a 5k, people.  There is a more than even chance that SOMEBODY will drop out past this point.  Like me, maybe.  Wonder how that works?  Do I just raise my hand and ask to be excused?  Get a hall pass, maybe?  Or do I just go sit down on the side of the road and a bus comes and gets me in a few minutes and takes me to the gladiator ring with all the other losers and we get fed to the lions?  Hmmm...  I should have researched that a little better.  I hate being unprepared.  Guess I better keep going.

Mile eleven - on the playlist:  The Church on Cumberland Road by Shenandoah Seriously?!?!?!  Do you guys really think a mini-marathon is a good place to come on a getting-to-know-you date?  Also, dude, I'm pretty sure a line that starts with "I've made lots of bad choices in my life..." is NOT the way to guarantee a follow-up date.  And honey, you are way cute, but you are a hot sweaty mess right now, and your ponytail, which was probably all cute and perky this morning, is all higgledy-piggledy and askew.  You really don't want a guy to see you like that until after the third date.  And... my foot cannot possibly still be a functioning limb at this point.  That's ok, though.  I'll just get one of those super duper replacements like the Bionic Woman has.

Mile twelve - on the playlist:  Bye Bye by Jo Dee Messina One mile and change to go!  At this point, it will be easier to finish than to quit, because of the car is parked pretty close to the finish line.  Smart thinkin', huh?  Hey, is that Austin Powers up there?  Dammit.  I must be dehydrated and delusional.  Nope, that really is some yahoo dressed like Austin Powers.  Also, maybe I'll just get a peg leg and become a pirate, since my left foot is going to fall off soon.  Pirates are in right now, aren't they?  I'd hate to be a pirate if they were so last week...

Mile thirteen - on the playlist:  Beer for My Horses by Toby Keith & Willie Nelson There are two free drink tickets in my pocket calling my name.  After I finish this #&!@*$# race, I will drink beer.  And eat.  Possibly a whole cow.  With a couple chickens and a loaf of bread on the side.  And a pizza for dessert. And maybe a bottle of wine.  Or three.  Oh, and ice cream... Right after I throw up again... 

Finish Line - on the playlist:  Ready to Run by the Dixie Chicks  I can see the finish line!!!  I'm running FULL OUT!  Ok, maybe not.  How about moderately paced?  Anyway, surely the 10,000 people or so standing around the finish line aren't done already.  Yep, they're done already.  Including all those folks over there who are actual marathon runners.  They've run twice as far as I have, plus they've all had time to cool down, dry off, grab a bite to eat, tell a few funny stories, and... OH WHATEVER.  I'm done!  I did it!  And I got a freakin' medal to prove it.  Hey, why does my medal say "Wal-Mart" on it?


And here I am a couple days later, happy I did it, proud I finished, sore, tired, and planning how to do better next time... and there will be a next time.  


Actually, it's kind of like being pregnant.  It sucks and you're miserable the entire time, but you forget quickly enough, and do it all over again, because the rewards are worth the pain.


So, here's to the Derby City Marathon in 2012. 


I'm thinking by then, I'll be ready to run the whole damn 26.2.

Oh Willie, try to keep yourself out of trouble, ok?

As most of my friends and family members are aware, I am a huge Willie Nelson fan.  

Even after he cut his hair and now looks like an ugly old lady, I persist in listening to his music, even the weird Reggae stuff, on a regular basis.

I'm a Facebook fan.

I follow him on Twitter.

And one day back in November, my iPhone began to LIGHT UP with messages from friends, family, and Willie's staff.

Apparently, he had done gone and gotten himself arrested.

For marijuana possession.

Imagine that.

I dutifully followed all the news stories, finding out up to the minute information about his incarceration.

One article quoted the arresting officer as saying, "It's kind of surprising, but we treat him just like everybody else."

Really?

REALLY?

It's kind of surprising?

I have never actually met Mr. Nelson, and was a thousand or so miles away, but I could have told you there was pot on The Honeysuckle Rose (Willie's Tour Bus, in case you didn't know).  I would have bet the farm on it, actually.

A few days later, Willie was back in the news.

This time, for a good cause.

I think.

On his website, Facebook fan page, Twitter and every other social medium he could find, he was asking for his fans to make donations to the Hudspeth County Sheriff's Office Christmas Toy Drive.

Oh Willie, you old dog.  After the tax thing a few years back, you sure have gotten good at playing the press, huh?

The Sheriff's department was inundated with donations in Willie's name.  

Go Willie.

A few of his more well-known friends took exception to the entire arrest.

Snoop Dogg said, "Willie Nelson is a legend.  Sometimes you need to back up off of certain people and have a certain amount of respect for your elders. And Willie Nelson is our elder ... If you got a problem with Willie Nelson, you got a problem with me."

Wow.  I personally would not want to be on his bad side.  

A court date has not yet been set, but I'll be interested in how it all pans out.  

In the meantime, I'll leave you with this:

By the way, this may be the most pointless blog post I've ever written.

You're welcome.

Girls' Getaway, or why hooker shoes are really just for hookers.

My friend Natalie and I took off on a wild adventure to Nashville this past week.

Actually, it wasn't very wild.

And it wasn't incredibly adventuresome.

But we did have a great time.

Long ago, Nat and I lived in the same city and worked in the same place.  We saw each other every day, one way or the other.  We spent our time together shopping, eating, shopping, making things out of beads and wire, shopping, drinking, writing business plans, drinking and shopping.

About nine years ago, I moved away.

We saw each other less and less, but scheduled regular phone dates.

Then we both had kids, and houses, and promotions at our jobs, and long distance friendships are hard.  Really hard.  But we kept plugging away at it.  Whenever we did get together, was very kid-centric.  Sometimes weeks would pass without having a conversation, but every time the phone rang, we would pick back up just like we were talking fifteen minutes ago.  She's that kind of friend.

Since I quit my job a few months ago, I've found myself with a bit more free time on my hands, and Natalie and I decided that it was way past time for a girls' getaway.  In typical me fashion, I did not care where we went, what we did, how long we stayed, or where we ate while there.  In typical her fashion, she made great suggestions that at some point I came to believe were my idea.

I got tickets for a show.  We love us some Boo Radley.

Nat booked us a hotel room.

We were set.

We spent the first day shopping and shopping eating at The Cheesecake Factory and shopping.  We both have a Pandora addiction that may require professional intervention at some point.

We checked into the hotel.  The photo at the top of the post was our view from the hotel room.  I'm still not completely recovered from that one time that Willie cut his hair but I still love ya, Willie.  Deep down where it counts.

Anyway, we got ready for the play.  Nat looked lovely in her black and red dress and matching hooker shoes red high heels.  I have troll feet.  I cannot wear cute shoes, especially heels.  So I only looked good from the calves up.  Whatever.  We took off walking the 12 or so blocks from the hotel to the Performing Arts Center.  

At about block three, Nat was slowing down.  By block six, she was limping.  By block eight, she was weeping from the gigantic blister the hooker shoes cute red shoes had left on her foot.

The play was great.  The actor playing Atticus was excellent.  The actor playing the sheriff looked exactly like a former boss of mine, and every time he was on stage I expected him to start yelling "Membership equals sales!" or to have everyone in the audience line up to high-five each other.  

After the play, we took a cab to The Melting Pot (Yum!), and then went back to the hotel for the evening so we could play games on our iPhones.  We're just not the party girls we used to be, I guess.

The next morning, I texted RJ to see how everything was going at home. His response:

"Cj and I had a bit of a rough night.  Zj slept fine."

I offered my condolences, and his reply was:

"If it makes you feel any better, he was often screaming for you at the top of his lungs.  Also, he threw his doll at me."

Hmmm...  Uh, sorry?

But there was more shopping to do.  I couldn't be distracted.  

We spent the second day shopping and shopping and eating at Red Robin and shopping.  Did I mention that we both have a Pandora addiction?

On the way home, we decided to do it again next year.  

Then we amended it to twice a year.

Spring shopping extravaganza plans to be determined.

Oh Willie. How could you?

It is the end times, people.

Life as we know it - gone in an instant.

Changed forever.

Just... gone.

Because Willie Nelson has Cut. His. Hair.

Off.

Gone.

Kaput.

Shorn.

Oh, Willie, how could you betray me this way?

Me?

You know, your biggest fan? Hello???

You know, the one that came to your concert last year while nine and a half months pregnant in the 120 degree heat outside at night and I couldn't even drink a beer?  Because hello?  Pregnant.  You know, the one who owns all your albums, legitimately purchased, not downloaded, even the ones in musical genres I do not like and you cannot sing?  Now that's dedication.

I'm crushed.

Devastated.

Because you have gone from being a semi-hot-for-an-old-guy-fabulous-guitar-player-best-songwriter-to-ever-walk-the-planet to a creepy old guy whose hat doesn't fit right.

I can only hope that your hair is going toward a good cause.

Like, maybe you donated it to Locks of Love for old people.

Or possibly it's being used in the development of a new biodiesel.

Or maybe it's being used to mop up that big oil spill.

Or, quite possibly, you are selling it on ebay to pay your growing back taxes and legal fees.

You were the last true rebel.

And now you've conformed.

Gotta go.  I think I need another beer.