Notice Anything Different?

Like old faces and old buildings, every now and then a blog needs a face lift. This time it's a pic of a place that looks inviting and an add-on to the title. Easy does it. Carry on.

A Day In The Life

Face it. Sometimes the best-laid plans just don't work out, no matter how hard you cry. Case in point. I was at the beach with my sisters, my Dad and his wife in South Carolina all week last week and the weather was nice every day. On our exit day, you guessed it, it rained like the Ark had pulled into position and was loadin' animals. Therefore, the drive back across the mountain, and if you've ever made it, you know what I'm talkin' about, was even more treacherous than usual. I was white-knuckled all the way, looking forward to getting home to go watch the Vols play Ohio, but not at the rain-soaked stadium. No, our plan was to take Mulligan's up on their $15 per person all-you-can-eat-while-you-watch-the-game buffet, since that was the same price as the pay-per-view and we thought it would be more festive with a crowd. PhillyTwo decided to go along, so the restaurant was definitely gonna turn a tidy profit on us, what with the beer consumption and all. So we scooted on over to Mulligan's at around 6 p.m. and by that time, Ron and I were starving. We probably would have gone a lot sooner, but PhillyTwo was against watching our gluttonous savagery for a full two hours prior to the game. So at 6, we walked into Mulligan's and every table in the entire bar area, where all the good t.v. viewing would have been, was either occupied or had a RESERVED sign on it. There was a t.v. on the other side of the restaurant, but it was positioned so high that we would have had to go straight to the chiropractor after the game. I should also mention that there was no hostess or manager anywhere in sight. The inmates had taken over the prison, for sure. I looked at Ron and said, "I'm not staying." So back to the car we went. Just as we were backing out of the parking space, a nice lady (an owner, I think) knocked on Ron's window and tried to persuade us to come back in, but she wasn't going to upset the inmates by giving us one of the reserved tables in the bar, so we politely declined. After all, there are other sports bars in Knoxville.
Our next stop was Rookies, because at this point, we were really trying to stay close to home and we love their cold shrimp and cocktail sauce, even if we do hate the smoke there. But the sign on the door said that $15 would get you in and all you could eat in hot dogs, bratwurst and burgers. No shrimp. No thanks. We'll go somewhere else.
So we headed down to Rick's in Downtown West. We'd been there before for a game and the food was really good. We parked. Went in. No available tables, which wasn't really all that surprising since it was at least 6:30 by then. Also, the smoke was really bad.
So back into the car we piled and drove a little further. All the way to Western Plaza, to be exact. PhillyTwo had heard about a new spot that opened: Level Ten. It looked promising. We went in from the back, where there was a pretty good-sized porch with t.v.'s. We might have sat down there and been happy, but on one side of the porch, the tables were full and on the other side, all the tables had RESERVED signs on them. So we went inside, where there were plenty of empty tables and several t.v.'s. We soon realized why. We sat down at one for a few moments, but we all agreed that we didn't like the smell of the place, and since no one had approached us in the time we were there, we exited without further ado. I was quite adamant that I couldn't have eaten anything in there with the smell they had going on. It was just plain sewage-y.
By this time, Ron had exhausted his patience and was just getting annoyed with the whole situation. Hunger does that to him. So as we drove back down Kingston Pike, the tension was mounting. That's when we decided we would go to Calhoun's on Bearden Hill. Surely they would have the game. Ron let us off at the front door, and I stopped at the hostess stand to make sure. The girl said, yes, they would have the game in the bar area. Thank goodness! We found a booth and Ron joined us after he parked the car. The waiter came to take our order and after we decided on which brews we wanted, Ron asked the waiter...just to be sure...that they definitely were gonna show the game. He said no, they weren't gonna have it. Wait! What? I just asked the hostess and she said, yes! Oh, she doesn't have a clue. Sorry. At this point, we weren't going anywhere. It didn't matter. We ordered our food and resigned ourselves to the fact that we weren't going to see the game. But at least we heard it while we ate our wings and pizza and drank our beer. Calhoun's had the radio broadcast on loud and clear.
Next time, we'll get the game at home and cook. As I said, the best-laid plans.

Can You See It?

I'm about as artistic as a slug, but I have never let that stop me, as demonstrated by the "shell picture" I made from the shells I collected during our recent beach trip. In case it's not immediately obvious, or in case you don't have several hours to stare at it to try to come up with a credible theme, I'll save you the trouble. It's a house. I'm perfectly aware that it's a work of art (yes, I said work of art, don't fucking laugh) done on an approximate third grade level, but I'm happy with it because that's pretty much where my artistic talents stopped progressing...the third grade. So I don't put any undue pressure on myself by expecting anything beyond that. The eight year old living inside of me is smiling proudly. If it behooves you to look closely, you'll see there's a front door made of white shells with a very interesting doorknob that looks like an eyeball. That's one of the more interesting shells I found. Of course, there's also a front porch and some shrubbery depicted, but I don't expect you to get that unless you really use your imagination. Like I did. I also used EV-ER-Y SING-LE shell that I collected, which is pretty much why my picture went all to hell. I got carried away with the glue gun and couldn't stop until I had glued every blasted one that I had bent over and picked up off the beach and then brought back and washed and laid out on a paper towels to dry. After all that frickin' work, I had to give them all a home.

Now, it just so happens that I'm going back to the beach in a few days, so if anybody wants me to collect some shells and let my inner child do a picture for them, just let me know. I'd be happy to do it, and I feel certain the damage I've done to my fingers with the glue gun will have healed by then.

A Major Train Wreck

The "Lane Train" has pulled out of the station and it appears to be headed straight down the track to another frustrating season for our beloved Tennessee Vols. Before it pulls into the Gainesville, Florida depot, next week, it's going to need a complete overhaul. Lane Kiffin may be the conductor, but it's the engineer, Jonathon Crompton, who holds the fate of the locomotive in his hands. Unfortunately those hands don't seem to be working so well. Neither do his feet. Or his head. It's not that he's not qualified for the job. He can execute with one arm tied behind his back and one foot in a bucket in practice. But put him to work in a real game, and well, that's where it ends. It's becomes just one big train wreck after another. His engineering skills blow the hell up, along with Kiffin's conducting skills. Personally, I'm thinking about changing trains. Maybe I'll become a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech. I'm already used to the concept.

Not Again!

Pants zipped?
Cellphone?
Wallet?
Keys?

I guess I'm gonna hafta post this on our bedroom door so that maybe Ron will actually leave the house with everything he needs.
The last episode took place during a recent period he was broadcasting from the City County building. It was mid morning when he discovered he didn't have his wallet. He called home to see if I could locate it. I did. It was still in the jacket he had worn the day before. Guess who got to go all the way downtown to take it to him?
Today, he had a speaking engagement at Central High School. On his way, he was going to drop by the post office and mail a letter for me, which he tried to do but couldn't because when he got there, he realized he didn't have his wallet. I got the call, only this time he knew exactly where it was. You guessed it. Yesterday's jacket pocket. And now I get to take it to him. Only this time, by God, he'll have to buy me lunch.

Don't go thinking I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. I can't tell you how many times he's left his cellphone at work. That, or his wallet. He is a forgetful man and I know why. It's not age, believe me. He's always been like this. It's that he does everything in such a friggin' hurry.

"I'm in a hurry to get things done,
I rush and rush until life's no fun,
All I really got to do is live and die,
But I'm in a hurry and don't know why." -"I'm In A Hurry", Alabama

Leave It To Me

I went for a walk around the neighborhood yesterday with my granddaughters: Abby, fourteen and looking all cool in her sunglasses, ripped up jeans and flip flops, and Reagan, two, chillin' in her stroller, sucking on a pacifier. We hadn't gone more than a few houses down the street when we walked past a couple of "hot" young teenage boys playing basketball in their driveway. I could have sworn they didn't even see us pass by, but I am old and stupid. About ten minutes later they rode passed us on their bicycles and bravely threw a "hello" in our direction. And even though I was pretty sure it wasn't intended for me, I gladly threw one back, because these days I prefer friendly to cool. Upon arriving back at the house, I suggested to Abby that she might want to sit outside for a while because I was peritty sure those boys would come cruising again. And sure enough, she wasn't out there long when they came tooling by on their bikes. When they spotted her, they threw a note in her direction which landed closer to the curb than to her. That's when she came running in the house and wanted to know if she should retrieve said note and I assured her it was imperative that she do so. It turned out to be an invitation to text them @ (their) numbers, an interestingly subtle approach that was sorely missing (due to lack of cellphones) back in my day. But back to the note. Exactly what did it mean? After consulting with me (the in-house expert on matters such as these) I explained that it meant she should text those boys. So, she sent a "hey" their way, to which they cleverly replied with a "hey" back. So figuring they were probably stuck in "hey" hell, I said, "What's the big deal? Tell them to come on over here and talk to you." At first, she was aghast at the very suggestion, because texting is easy. Talking? That's a whole nother level. But finally she decided to try this unique approach. Their response? "Be there in five." So, she met the two nice, age-appropriate neighborhood boys, who urged her to visit her grandmother more often, and I'm betting she probably will. So I'm not so stupid after all.

And....We're Back!

Things I missed while I was away:
1. My couch. Sure, there was a couch in the condo, but it wasn't my couch.
2. My t.v. Of course, there was a t.v. in the condo, but it wasn't HiDef and it was rather smallish, compared to mine.
3. My computer. Yes, my phone has Internet and I can check my email, but it's not the same as sitting in front of my computer. It's just not.
4. Being lazy. We were always doing something. Playing golf. Playing tennis. Swimming in the ocean. Swimming in the pool. Walking on the beach. I'm. Frikkin. Exhausted.
5. Solitude. After all that togetherness, I need a break.

Things I'll miss about the beach:
1. The beach.
2. The rocking chair on the balcony.
3. Eating out every meal, and I must say, enjoying exceptional food.
4. Quality time (whatever that is) with Ron and PhillyTwo.
5. Constantly quoting the movie, "Shag".