tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79365584411383462882024-03-19T15:05:50.343-04:00Run Bitches RunIt's time to hit the road, bitches.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-54809819083340400392011-11-13T09:39:00.001-05:002011-11-13T09:52:58.221-05:00MovingI'm moving.<br />
<br />
I mean, my blog is moving. I'm still stuck in South Carolina.<br />
<br />
I just ... the name I picked for this blog was never very good. I realize that. But since I don't run, it's extra stupid. So, I bought a url based on a name that has been recommended to me by several people. <a href="http://elliepie.com/">Elliepie.com</a>. Isn't that cute? It's not about pie - that's just how my last name starts. Though I do love pie. And the new name gives me license to blog about food from time to time - especially, I suppose, if I bake a pie.<br />
<br />
But yes, if your'e wondering, Roomie does call me <a href="http://elliepie.com/">Ellie pie</a>.<br />
<br />
So, reset your readers, go, subscribe, be merry. (I say to my one or two loyal readers). Add me to your blogroll (and let me know if you do, I'll do the same).<br />
<br />
Those of you who also nerd out on blogs (you know who you are) may notice I don't have Intense Debate on the new blog. It's been glitchy from time to time, plus it simply won't work at all with the fancy new dynamic blogs that Blogger's rolled out. So, for now, you can subscribe to comments - but do feel free to bitch and complain and let me know if the notifications don't work.<br />
<br />
And, for your reading pleasure, I give you <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/11/dogs-dont-understand-basic-concepts.html">the best moving story ever to grace the internet.</a><br />
<br />Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-87788432270947267852011-11-08T17:10:00.000-05:002011-11-08T17:10:00.066-05:00I'm not a total slob. Just kinda.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actual conversation at my house this weekend, while I was
doing dishes and Roomie was studying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Hey B, can you come help?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He: “You need help with the dishes?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “No, I need you to come find the lid to the olive oil.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He: “You lost it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Yup.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I continue to wash dishes while he walks in the kitchen,
looks in three places, and turns up the lid to the olive oil.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “What would I do without you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He: “You’d lose everything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “I’d probably die.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He: “Probably.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Or I’d just have put a piece of foil on the olive oil
and put it back in the pantry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He: (shudder)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Maybe, if I was feeling fancy, I’d have put a rubber
band around the foil.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “If I could find a rubber band, I guess.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*At my house, right now, I do most of the cooking. I also do
the majority of the dishes, though Roomie helps. This isn’t because he’s a lazy
jerk or sexist (am I the only person who jumps to this conclusion when a
woman in a relationship with a man does most cooking and housework?), this is because he
teaches two classes (they don’t even create his tests for him, which I think is
total B.S.) and has a full time grad student class load + he’s supposed to be working on coming up with
research plans on some hard-to-find little suckers called diamondback
terrapins. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Backstory: When I was in college and working, I lived with
my boyfriend – a guy I haven’t spoken to in ages. One of the many problems with
that relationship was that he thought that, despite the fact that the number of
hours I devoted to schoolwork and my job waiting tables at a hamburger and
shake shack (any Ducks remember Jamie’s Great Hamburgers?) added up to far more
than his 40 hours every week, I should take care of the majority of the
housework. Because I made less money than he did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right. And since I wasn’t so great at keeping house anyway (I’ve
gotten better, but I’m still not stellar. Ask my bathtub.), we lived in total
filth. Most people do that in college, right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right. I’m not still traumatized by that experience, but it
was formative. So the way I look at it, if one person has significantly more
time on his/her hands, he or she should do more work around the house. </div>Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-45167048904303028892011-10-03T12:00:00.019-04:002011-10-03T12:00:03.457-04:00Shoulder seasonsI always complained about Central Oregon's lack of shoulder seasons. For the five years I lived there, spring and fall for me were just brief blips between winter and summer.<br />
<br />
While I did eventually come to appreciate the muted high-desert palette of sage on gray on dust on moss, I never got over missing the intensity of color where I'm from, the wetter side of Oregon. I missed Portland's spring and fall. I've previously written <a href="http://runbitchesrun-ells.blogspot.com/2011/03/on-why-you-might-find-me-with-cotton.html">here</a> about the glory of springtime in the south. Flowers explode everywhere - it's an assault of color and fragrance. My yard in the springtime includes flowering bradford pears, dogwoods, wisteria, Carolina jessamine, honeysuckle and gardenias. Every time you turn around, something else is blooming. Honestly, even Portland and the Willamette Valley is muted in comparison with the south; for the most part, it's just a place where green congregates; forest on kelly on fern on envy on chartreuse. <br />
<br />
The hiccup of autumn in Central Oregon was never anything to look forward to. After the glory of blue-skyed summers and their clear mountain lakes, summers of blessed, blessed dry heat, I wanted none of it. All fall did was remind you that winter was coming for you. October's frigid mornings and gray skies were winter's way of saying, "Get your ice scraper ready bitch. I'm coming for you."<br />
<br />
Contrast that with the relief I feel now that summer is over. It's physical. Goosebumps with each turning leaf. When I pulled my first sweater out of its summer storage (I'd never lived in a place where you actually store your sweaters all summer. In Oregon, you face at least a handful of chilly days and evenings even in August.) we cried and hugged like old friends reuniting at an airport - I swear I heard violins playing in the distance. I don't even want to admit what I did when I wore boots for the first time this fall - it's simply indecent.<br />
<br />
One thing about fall in South Carolina that's strange for me, that feels wrong for the season at hand, is that I'm opening up the house for the first time in months. Doors and windows, everything's open. No more mornings where you open the door to go outside and the air is hot and moist, like dog breath. After a long summer of sprinting from one air conditioned space to another, of keeping shades drawn against the heat, I've been throwing open all the doors and windows, letting a breeze blow through the house for the first time in months. It feels like spring.<br />
<br />
So I did some spring cleaning. Starting with brushing the dogs.<br />
<br />
Yeah, so that happened. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-momN9ggeQ_i0V9Aopd1-4pgGGVZKoj7b5Vhrg9Zi0w23KOJh5Z5_rdkmqSaQFAK4BDk_vg_EO5nE-3Fh0E6q-SD20YL4vuWArM4enloYN0nftoU3-Or9Q36d_ax2jcTFUEUWmwAKTtI/s1600/IMG_2300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-momN9ggeQ_i0V9Aopd1-4pgGGVZKoj7b5Vhrg9Zi0w23KOJh5Z5_rdkmqSaQFAK4BDk_vg_EO5nE-3Fh0E6q-SD20YL4vuWArM4enloYN0nftoU3-Or9Q36d_ax2jcTFUEUWmwAKTtI/s320/IMG_2300.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-66429853698786820892011-09-15T21:22:00.001-04:002011-09-15T21:23:11.831-04:00When southern girls get marriedI realize that there are probably weddings in Oregon that look and feel like southern weddings. I’m guessing that they’re for rich people whose families have ties to the East Coast - but I don't know a lot of those people. I’ve been to probably a dozen weddings since I turned 18. I've attended everything from a quick wedding for two 18-year-olds (graduating the next day) who rented the local Moose Hall and had their aunts hang some paper streamers to a $30K+ affair with late night dancing, gorgeous flowers, fancy cocktail dresses and passed finger food.<br />
<br />
I’ve only been to one southern wedding. <br />
<br />
However, I first suspected that some things about weddings would be different when, shortly after arriving in South Carolina, my boyfriend’s stepmother, I guess in an effort to gauge the seriousness of our relationship, asked if we’d picked out a china pattern.<br />
<br />
“Um, no,” I stammered. “Do people … still do that? People my age?”<br />
<br />
She laughed and said that maybe she was just old-fashioned.<br />
<br />
But the southern bride whose wedding I just attended, she’s not old-fashioned. Modern girl, this one. And she picked out formal china, informal china, Christmas china and FORMAL Christmas china.<br />
<br />
Touché.<br />
<br />
Also, the southern wedding I recently attended took place in a church. I have not been to a church wedding since I was a kid – I know they still happen, but I do believe they’re more rare than the ballroom, or outdoor park, or wedding venue style-affairs that are de rigueur out west.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my date and I arrived only 10 minutes early for the wedding, something I hadn’t intended (my beau’s wardrobe malfunction [read: lack of planning when it came to ironing] was to blame), but I still thought would be OK. But no. The chapel was full so we were put in the overflow room with the other derelict guests. There was a big screen TV with a live video feed from the chapel. This is another thing I’ve never seen before.<br />
<br />
But when the video feed went out, the other guests looked around and agreed it was time to hit the bar, I realized that there is at least one important nuptial factor that is universal from coast to coast: booze. <br />
<br />
Thank baby Jesus.<br />
<br />
The level of formality is another factor that is different from Oregon. This is something I anticipated. See, in the entire state of Oregon, there are probably two restaurants where you can’t wear jeans. And if you’re the governor of the state, you can wear jeans anywhere you damn well please. Not the case here. Example: A Southern girlfriend of mine believes that male guests at a wedding that is held at 6 p.m. or later should wear tuxedos.<br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
<br />
So, my beau and I had some trouble figuring out what to wear – mostly because we’re poor, but also because he spent the last decade working in the outdoors, so he doesn’t own a tie. Me, I pretty much only own dress-up clothes that could be seen as too loud/quirky for southern affairs (I had to be talked out of wearing a short black dress and hot pink tights to the wedding and I’m still kind of miffed about it). Also, my fancy clothes just aren't fancy by southern standards. I do not own a single sequin. I don't really do sparkles. Or bows.<br />
<br />
We figured it out, but we ended up looking dowdier than most of the other guests. No big deal, as far as I'm concerned. <br />
<br />
But this is all leading up to my proclamation. In my view, the 2 best things about southern weddings:<br />
<br />
1. *Seersucker suits with bowties. There were dozens of them, on everyone from little boys (!) to grown men. I will admit that, unfortunately, I didn't see any of the older gents wearing them, so suspect they could be trend that I just hadn't been exposed to before.<br />
<br />
*I do know some folks just see the seersucker thing as an affectation. Some sort of old-money, stodgy ... really, I don't know. I haven't been here long enough to understand the intricacies of Southern affectations. Regardless, I find boys in seersucker and bowties adorable and charming. If I still worked at a newspaper this post would be headlined "A sucker for seersucker." Or some such thing.<br />
<br />
2. The electric slide. <br />
<br />
Now, I don’t do the electric slide. I learned it at some point, but I’m terrible at remembering dances that require specific moves at specific times. But southern ladies like their electric slide. And we're all the better for it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyf0lK9IDUMcGmcBQjc9yuB49H-9YNOW5PzFgaONX4VzkTmVDTjxConcYEmb38QfGXFzvfbd6FGDd1fH69bcQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-29675181997676945992011-09-02T09:46:00.000-04:002011-09-02T09:46:30.337-04:00A video to charm your pants offIf this video does not make you smile, maybe even giggle a little bit, I'm worried about you. Genuinely. Deep in your soul, something may be broken.<br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/XaH_FexI3Dk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-41462715357002191522011-08-15T15:46:00.000-04:002011-08-15T15:46:02.254-04:00On swimmingIt's hot, y'all.<br />
<br />
I warned you there would be a lot of complaining about the heat, right? Because it's HOT. Like, really, really hot. All the time. And muggy. So very, very muggy.<br />
<br />
And here's one thing that pisses me off about this. Everyone told me all this humidity would be great for my skin. I expected to glow. So why do I have scaly patches spreading across my face? Oh, right. Because it's too frigging hot to go outside and soak up the humidity.<br />
<br />
I spent one night at my friends place at the south end of the beach (farther away from me but, from what I understand, slightly preferred to the resorty madness in Myrtle Beach). We did make it to the beach. It was nice. Stiff salt breeze, hilarious people watching of mahogany-colored blond girls who will doubtless end up looking like old luggage one day. Waves. Honestly, if I lived near the beach, I imagine I'd go there with some regularity. And since I wear sunscreen, my dry lizard skin might go away. But a) I don't live near the beach and b) have I mentioned that I'm kind of afraid of swimming in the ocean? <br />
<br />
It's not that I'm not a swimmer. I love swimming. I was on a swim team for awhile when I was a kid, and I actually would have been good if I'd had a drop of competitive spirit in my blood (I've since developed that drive, but not related to physical pursuits. For the only race I've ever participated in, a half marathon, my only goal was finishing. I don't even like competitive ping-pong. But get me on a monopoly board and I will make you my bitch - or pout when I lose).<br />
<br />
It's not that I fear swimming in natural bodies of water, necessarily. I grew up swimming in rivers and lakes. I have very distinct memories of swimming in the Santiam River with my sister when I was a kid. There was one swift channel that the little kids were too scared to swim across, and I remember with pride the first time I made it. I was finally big enough to hang with my big sister and the older cousins on the far bank. My older cousins were awesome.<br />
<br />
However, where I'm from, you do not swim in the ocean. First of all, it's cold. Year-round. Frigid. Numbing. There's also the fact that there's usually a giant, terrifying break far away, dangerous riptides, something called a sneaker wave, and great white sharks. But really, it's the cold. When you're a kid, you wade in until the water comes up to maybe your hips, you laugh and splash for about five minutes, daring your sister to go out a little father, then your feet turn blue so you return to your sandcastle. Before long, it's off to Moe's for some chowder. And that's if it's not raining on the day you make it to the beach, which it usually is, year-round.<br />
<br />
My first experience swimming in the ocean was in Mexico when I was in my early 20s. I didn't know that when a wave was coming for your head you were supposed to dive under it, so I just closed my eyes and got knocked into the sand. When I recovered, my top was around my neck and my sunglasses were floating toward my boyfriend's dad. Sweet. <br />
<br />
Plus. Jellyfish. Ugh.<br />
<br />
While explaining the ins and outs and complications relating to my many excuses for taking constant shelter in the loving, frigid arms of central air, a friend asked me why I don't go swimming in the river near my house.<br />
<br />
That's fucking hilarious.<br />
<br />
Here's an illustrative anecdote: Roomie and I recently tried to take an early morning kayak trip on the Waccamaw River. Not only was it 90 degrees by 9 am, but the river is largely swamp. So, you know, gross. And the parts that aren't totally swampy are still blackwater. As in, the color of black tea. I know I've covered this, but it bears repeating. The Santiam, when you stand above it, is green, but when you're in the water, it's clear. You can't see your own boobs in blackwater. In the Santiam, or the Deschutes, you can watch trout swimming by. You can check out the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_periwinkle">periwinkles</a> nestled in the rocks.<br />
<br />
I hope the "where I come from" rant hasn't gotten old, but if you haven't been, have you at least seen pictures of Oregon? Just google <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=crater+lake&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=MFF&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&prmd=ivnsm&source=lnms&tbm=isch&ei=ZTY_TuCXIsTagQeQtvDzBw&sa=X&oi=mode_link&ct=mode&cd=2&ved=0CBUQ_AUoAQ&biw=1263&bih=692">Crater Lake</a>. I'll give you a sec. Or, another of my favorites, <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=crater+lake&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=MFF&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&prmd=ivnsm&source=lnms&tbm=isch&ei=ZTY_TuCXIsTagQeQtvDzBw&sa=X&oi=mode_link&ct=mode&cd=2&ved=0CBUQ_AUoAQ&biw=1263&bih=692#hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=iuZ&rls=org.mozilla:en-US%3Aofficial&tbm=isch&sa=1&q=clear+lake%2C+oregon&pbx=1&oq=clear+lake%2C+oregon&aq=f&aqi=g3&aql=&gs_sm=e&gs_upl=19424l21253l0l21405l18l12l0l0l0l0l373l1963l1.6.3.1l11l0&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.&fp=39f3f4e6faf65909&biw=1263&bih=692">Clear Lake</a>. Crystal clear mountain runoff, kids. This is what I'm used to.<br />
<br />
And the thing is, no one can say that there's nothing to fear in the blackwater! Snakes! Venemous ones! Vicious biting turtles! Fucking alligators! No, for real. We had to turn around on our little kayak outing last weekend when we saw a 6-footer ahead of us.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what to do except whine, moisturize, and wait for autumn. I'll be the one sitting inside with the blinds drawn, dreaming of scarves, sweaters, boots, and pumpkin pies.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-50226232983071671662011-08-08T18:00:00.000-04:002011-08-09T11:34:32.273-04:00Review - Quaker instant gritsI didn't try grits for a very long time. I just wasn't really interested. They sound gross, for one. Just the name.<br />
<br />
Then when grits were served to me, they had been cooked with water and not seasoned much. I didn't see the point. Grayish, goopy and grainy? I think I'll pass.<br />
<br />
Then I started dating a southern boy (so many delightful stories begin with that sentence ... ). When I told him I didn't care for grits, he shook his head and explained that I hadn't had <i>his</i> grits.<br />
<br />
Apparently, that was not a euphemism.<br />
<br />
I now keep grits on hand, and make them as a breakfast or dinner side quite often. They're easy and good, and I usually add a bit of milk, cream or butter because what isn't better with butter and cream? He likes to spoon bacon grease in his. I recommend it.<br />
<br />
So, when I moved to South Carolina, I was excited to check out the grits selection at the grocery store - they can sometimes be hard to find out west. You may not find any, or you may just find one kind. Out here, the grits section is bigger than the oatmeal section. And they make instant grits in little packets--just like the oatmeal my mom wouldn't buy for me when I was a kid.<br />
<br />
Naturally, I had to try it out.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLG3DuVuu9OfGPgRkmnRqcd2zj0-obetEWKgkX-4pxoP1JiNYAyla1mxvOUukTSu4pb27_B5IG6iTWVhN8IVkHfjft5TvDq17NPk5NMktCrpC_BTgKUFRKSJPj8u8Svrfsd6cQ57oYMk/s1600/IMG_1845.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLG3DuVuu9OfGPgRkmnRqcd2zj0-obetEWKgkX-4pxoP1JiNYAyla1mxvOUukTSu4pb27_B5IG6iTWVhN8IVkHfjft5TvDq17NPk5NMktCrpC_BTgKUFRKSJPj8u8Svrfsd6cQ57oYMk/s320/IMG_1845.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flavors: American cheese, three cheese, cheddar cheese. I also plan to try the bacon-flavored variety.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJ9xYUw72gGuECO5uXYvyx-AQ5nEhS_G2XHuT6hycFPRHOZXOQx_Pir2kdl69aZwEkEqNpgu0MjNsqJYwwXC9CFgtbAcypCWnQb9-QlDI4RNOhDPmUPibR4-p8BRZwK0flnVHP-nZ4Kk/s1600/IMG_1846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJ9xYUw72gGuECO5uXYvyx-AQ5nEhS_G2XHuT6hycFPRHOZXOQx_Pir2kdl69aZwEkEqNpgu0MjNsqJYwwXC9CFgtbAcypCWnQb9-QlDI4RNOhDPmUPibR4-p8BRZwK0flnVHP-nZ4Kk/s320/IMG_1846.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvqWXZ1nAFCO_WoDXglBWKqoF3idQsvLaRbpoWi5WhmigjNJZeDAwoQXo8o4tksu-bwJKO57miXyXIUZqOHE_83FQbB7eNE1XvN6yQg5HULZO2qoZ4mk39hluhAVFgkFBu69xn9LdaBY/s1600/IMG_1850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvqWXZ1nAFCO_WoDXglBWKqoF3idQsvLaRbpoWi5WhmigjNJZeDAwoQXo8o4tksu-bwJKO57miXyXIUZqOHE_83FQbB7eNE1XvN6yQg5HULZO2qoZ4mk39hluhAVFgkFBu69xn9LdaBY/s320/IMG_1850.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail. Because I'm all about details.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPA9sflwNFlCzyjG6gnQLMoIJ5z0AcH-WHAjg5Pf7MMaLTtV_OepDbGGCkfweR2cdiMzPYgReq2LPpf5vXhD0HbTKGTsTdEpbAVvS6IUNLHJ5IY8yS3AK7JyIvu01wGF-_TSwgVsN1T3Q/s1600/IMG_1858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPA9sflwNFlCzyjG6gnQLMoIJ5z0AcH-WHAjg5Pf7MMaLTtV_OepDbGGCkfweR2cdiMzPYgReq2LPpf5vXhD0HbTKGTsTdEpbAVvS6IUNLHJ5IY8yS3AK7JyIvu01wGF-_TSwgVsN1T3Q/s320/IMG_1858.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grit-tastic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Difficulty: Can you figure out how to stir something and microwave it for 1 minute and 15 seconds? I hope so. This is a crazyshort cook time.<br />
<br />
Nutrition: There's 100 calories in a packet, plus the calorie content of the milk - if you use it. So, not a lot. And there's no nutritional value really, unless you're looking for more carbs in your diet.<br />
<br />
Taste: These are gross, y'all. I know, SHOCKING.<br />
<br />
Why am I surprised? I don't know, I like those little Quaker oatmeal packets. They're like the candybar of breakfast grains. But these were extra gritty and hard, and I swear they had enough salt in them to preserve an entire ham. And it's not that I don't like fake cheese flavored powder. I'll eat a tub of cheeseballs, cheetos, and a box of Kraft mac and cheese (Kraft dinner to my Canadian friends).<br />
<br />
My advice? Run far away from these things.<br />
<br />
Unless you're one of the friends to whom I've mailed a novelty package of instagrits, in that case, YUMMY! Enjoy! They're a southern delicacy!Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-12808452889084250962011-07-19T21:31:00.000-04:002011-07-19T21:31:59.273-04:00On finding the right wordsThis is not about how to find the right way to say something complicated.<br />
<br />
This is about how to throw a party.<br />
<br />
A friend of mine who lives in Oregon likes to have these parties at the beginning of every summer wherein guests bring some pasta salad, maybe a few beers, oh, I don't know, perhaps some Jello? No, probably not Jello. But, you know. Coleslaw maybe. The hosts crank up a grill and cook hot dogs and burgers. Condiments are presented. There may be a lawn game or two involved.<br />
<br />
In Oregon, such an event is called a BBQ. Or, spelled differently, a barbecue. The event is so recognizable as such, that my friend, should her last name be Windsor, could invite people to a Windsor-Q, and all attendees would know that it would be outside and that food would be cooked on a grill (fascinators optional).<br />
<br />
I tried inviting some of my South Carolinian friends to an Aynor-Q recently. Later, when I mentioned that the grill - the one we keep outside and cook food on - would be heated for the event, I got a surprised response. "Oh, we're grilling?"<br />
<br />
Right. Because not only was the Q not specific enough to suggest BBQ - which I get - but here, in the Deep South, the word BBQ (or barbecue) does not mean "a party where people cook outside." It is a noun that means "food that is cooked with smoke" or a verb that means "to cook with smoke." In the Carolinas, it can also be a noun defined as "pulled pork." Said pulled pork may be mixed with barbecue sauce, either vinegar or mustard-based, but NEVER, for the love of Jesus, will that sauce be tomato-based.<br />
<br />
Here, an event where people cook outside on a grill is called a "cook out."<br />
<br />
Oooooohkay. Lesson officially learned.<br />
<br />
I also learned another lesson at what turned out to just be a good dinner party: if you're a yankee (I hear I am), don't try saying "y'all." It works in writing - I've found it's quite efficient as a plural, gender-neutral pronoun in a casual email. However, when I tried it on my guests, my efforts were met with mockery.<br />
<br />
Bastards.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-35032498205631571892011-07-13T05:47:00.000-04:002011-07-13T05:47:55.285-04:00The gross post<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8596589762473814" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">WARNING: Do not read while eating. Or if you’re particularly sensitive to stories about poo or dead things. No dead people though. Just possibly somebody’s pet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">One weekday morning, as Roomie and I were making our morning coffee, I looked out the window and saw a pile of what looked like wet cardboard. No, wait, that’s fur. Wait, is that … an ear? That’s a cat. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“That’s a dead cat in our yard. How did it get <i>there</i>?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It was pretty far from the road, but since our bad dog hadn’t been out in the yard much lately (when she goes on walkabouts, she gets the ole “tied to the back porch” treatment for awhile. Until we get lax again.), we figured that the poor thing had probably gotten hit by a car and then dragged itself away from the road until it finally croaked. On our lawn outside the kitchen window. The nerve.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So when I put the dogs out, I again tied the bad dog, who enjoys nothing more than rolling in dead things or strange feces (thankfully not dog crap—but if there’s a pile of deer pellets, cat turds or—HEAVEN—people poo somewhere, she’s on her back lickety-split, rolling gleefully until she's smeared in shit) to the back deck. But I let the good one go wander around for her morning business, as she is wont to do. But when she came around the side of the house that I could see out of the kitchen window, I watched with great interest in what she would do. I generally think it’s interesting to watch the dogs when they don’t know we’re watching, because I am boring.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She had her nose to the ground and was sniffing intently. I watched her study the space in front of her, meandering closer to the dead cat, she circled, but she clearly wasn’t sure what she was about to find. When she finally came upon the thing laying in the grass, looked at it, realized what it was, she recoiled as if in horror and promptly trotted away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s like she’s not even a dog. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">However, the white/bad dog (I know, it's backward. In our house black is good and white is evil.) is really effing cute when I get home from work. It's kind of why we keep her around. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyAEbC9c3PdBPi_jgg1d3-f72sXW67QfWJGf4qFxzBiU5eL9m5hqbtj7XUGzmrQu4bcEvJJWQ00HyzRjS1txg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-90458948307549595232011-07-06T17:00:00.000-04:002011-07-06T20:19:45.134-04:00Two minor points1. There's a decent amount of farming going on where I live. This is not terribly new to me, Oregon has a lot of rural areas. Of course, what's different is what's grown. Oregon's all about seed, really. But you'll also see a lot of fun crops like strawberries and grapes. Here, I have tobacco fields growing literally across the street from my house.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPYI2qrAbrIOOJKCVuyOAS1_Fv7L1TX_qsn2FC75oNWLOhzQpF1fXtx-rFyQh2LBSloc3goBS2CtX9XmIg81f6bnVIsZM0ex2xRnq2kltB7mAV6jX0DY1SJdQG3NkwomQlOnAUqN7BBk/s1600/tobacco1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPYI2qrAbrIOOJKCVuyOAS1_Fv7L1TX_qsn2FC75oNWLOhzQpF1fXtx-rFyQh2LBSloc3goBS2CtX9XmIg81f6bnVIsZM0ex2xRnq2kltB7mAV6jX0DY1SJdQG3NkwomQlOnAUqN7BBk/s320/tobacco1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
The other day I decided to check the plants out, despite my fear of maybe being shot. Tobacco plants are really kind of pretty, with giant, crepey leaves. And since Bath and Body Works makes that really lovely fragrance called "Tobacco Flower," I assumed the pink flowers would smell good. They didn't smell like anything. I was pretty disappointed.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPYI2qrAbrIOOJKCVuyOAS1_Fv7L1TX_qsn2FC75oNWLOhzQpF1fXtx-rFyQh2LBSloc3goBS2CtX9XmIg81f6bnVIsZM0ex2xRnq2kltB7mAV6jX0DY1SJdQG3NkwomQlOnAUqN7BBk/s1600/tobacco1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kLYjDoM4S-ToZaVR-JyrCJjlBx8jrLDcpx5N9Is4eYzJAcM_DQ-qB-EDzxHyItJro-lDuxkkKD58rR0LuB_POzlwPcYXUYUddXbxMDgiq1JkZr18z-bW8qhge_3SeVHMk5DFBVL0GbM/s1600/tobacco2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kLYjDoM4S-ToZaVR-JyrCJjlBx8jrLDcpx5N9Is4eYzJAcM_DQ-qB-EDzxHyItJro-lDuxkkKD58rR0LuB_POzlwPcYXUYUddXbxMDgiq1JkZr18z-bW8qhge_3SeVHMk5DFBVL0GbM/s320/tobacco2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZTSeQXOpVreM2s-kQlA7Bl9O4RjNA2pj1r1w50uwczrg-b18jaotn1JAhLjQpPthiA8Wd9CXPu-Rs8SLfildz_dxazkgr33T84tSrTaIMWCKCA2BcP2uNLZNGxDhzupCnBHfMjTfyBk/s1600/tobacco3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZTSeQXOpVreM2s-kQlA7Bl9O4RjNA2pj1r1w50uwczrg-b18jaotn1JAhLjQpPthiA8Wd9CXPu-Rs8SLfildz_dxazkgr33T84tSrTaIMWCKCA2BcP2uNLZNGxDhzupCnBHfMjTfyBk/s320/tobacco3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
2. There are a few things that people out here say differently. Roomie says "cut on," in addition to saying "cut off." As in, "will you cut on that light for me?" This makes no sense to me, but he says it's a totally normal thing to say. They also use not just double negatives, but double-positives. As in, "how will we handle this situation? Well, we might could handle it this way ..." Well, maybe the "might" isn't a full positive, but a possible positive. Does that mean a "might could" is, like, a positive-and-a-half? Am I even making sense anymore?<br />
<br />
Anyway, that was all a lead-in to one really adorable thing southerners say: they use the word "buggy" instead of "shopping cart." Isn't that cute?<br />
<br />
They also, really, genuinely call people "yankees." I mean, I guess I knew that they did, but it still makes me giggle every time I hear it.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-39637976442343472292011-06-29T21:14:00.000-04:002011-06-29T21:14:50.899-04:00Sexy flower timeAs I expected, it's not yet July, and I want to cry when I leave the house in the morning. My glasses fog the second I walk out of the house, like I just opened a steamy dishwasher (Related: there is nothing that makes me feel like a dorky-ass kid as much as fogged glasses. It makes me feel like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Velma_Dinkley">Velma</a>.) I also cannot walk into my yard without 45 mosquitoes jumping my shit, and my electric bill is half my paycheck.<br />
<br />
I find myself wondering WHY THE SHIT PEOPLE LIVE HERE.<br />
<br />
Then I see some pretty flowers, and I think, "maybe this is why?" But that seems stupid.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, I feel like I need to know the name of every gorgeous plant and flower I fall in love with. Lately it's been these intense, hot-pink flowers that have exploded all over the ornamental trees that grow at my work. They have this gorgeous, pantyhose-nude colored bark, and these orderly, symmetrical leaves. They're like robot leaves. Part of why I'm fascinated by them is because they just look like they could never grow in the high desert. I'm no botanist, but these trees somehow look ... hot. Basically the opposite of the Central Oregon icon, the juniper. Exhibit A:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjutvIgLni0R_OQ1QPKeFoTomas4mk8gszfaJCRRZkZS39bJDGPCX-Qy6mk5M_trS4AixVuzPc6ETL3SZHfX3QYkWHsSFsMAHFqPZRYLFIsKcvnfdyWsaEgLA14ua30NN9nSgwM3NHdvfQ/s1600/stolen+juniper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjutvIgLni0R_OQ1QPKeFoTomas4mk8gszfaJCRRZkZS39bJDGPCX-Qy6mk5M_trS4AixVuzPc6ETL3SZHfX3QYkWHsSFsMAHFqPZRYLFIsKcvnfdyWsaEgLA14ua30NN9nSgwM3NHdvfQ/s320/stolen+juniper.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(image stolen from <a href="http://www.usefilm.com/image/1101770.html">this</a> weird site)<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>See that gnarled old beast? That's a juniper. They have a distinctive smell that makes me homesick, though some crazies say they smell like cat pee. Now look at the kinds of trees I'm looking at these days:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQ6lT7M2CmAyMmql5ifHxcnM9ZX92mAVXbCpb8dlAY0l1voHBHFPEBaX71Xys6voX6ZY7rF_RQc8y-7r-yh2is6gt5VBMs6o2oeooXap9RTRGe14vp_rOZz0kC4_fZR2D0B-66V415UE/s1600/crepe1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQ6lT7M2CmAyMmql5ifHxcnM9ZX92mAVXbCpb8dlAY0l1voHBHFPEBaX71Xys6voX6ZY7rF_RQc8y-7r-yh2is6gt5VBMs6o2oeooXap9RTRGe14vp_rOZz0kC4_fZR2D0B-66V415UE/s320/crepe1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89Zn6AWZefpOXAjZ_B097ndTQwrIPwbNFwGtbiGyyk2FuhRfLPUt3r8GXoV6DhU3erCF_A4GPHN_CPbGUzhJ3PNSpZTviUTtDKcRkp7u0HM3vIRUKS9NKSS6u2MmC6S9LdLPg7AS1egE/s1600/crepe21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89Zn6AWZefpOXAjZ_B097ndTQwrIPwbNFwGtbiGyyk2FuhRfLPUt3r8GXoV6DhU3erCF_A4GPHN_CPbGUzhJ3PNSpZTviUTtDKcRkp7u0HM3vIRUKS9NKSS6u2MmC6S9LdLPg7AS1egE/s320/crepe21.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
They're all exotic and shit.<br />
<br />
I pointed the sexy pink trees out to Roomie to find out what they were called, and he gave me the wrong answer. (jerk). Nonetheless, I was somehow able to figure it out through a series of internet clicks--which really is a hard task when you don't know how to describe botany accurately. Sexy flowers? Pantyhose-colored bark? Weirdly robotic leaves? Yeah. Not great search terms.<br />
<br />
But it turns out the trees are "Crape Myrtles." I have a hard time typing that, however, since I don't know the word "crape." I know the word crepe though. I've been informed that "crape" is simply the southern spelling of "crepe."<br />
<br />
Right. Because they do that here. There's also a flower named "Confederate Jessamine." It's a type of jasmine, but southerners decided that pronouncing the word crazy wasn't good enough.<br />
<br />
Anyway, in my sexy pink flower research, I discovered the best <a href="http://www.tytyga.com/product/Pink+Velour+Crape+Myrtle+Tree">website</a> ever.<br />
<br />
Go, click.<br />
<br />
Did you catch that?<br />
<br />
Yes. It's sexy people posing in front of trees. Are they Russian? Or gay? I can't tell.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-29302292192756227392011-06-26T13:10:00.000-04:002011-06-26T13:10:21.547-04:00What happens when you don't go to church<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">So I’m home alone on a Sunday, and I’m cleaning and cooking and working and cleaning dog beds. Typical Sunday. I take these two foam things we let the dogs sleep on out into the yard to hose them down because for some reason my three year old dog has started peeing the bed, and sometimes just peeing on the carpet, and a junker car drives by and honks. I look up, as though I know anyone out here, and then go back to my hosing. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But the car turns around, and then pulls into my yard - we don’t have a driveway, you actually have to drive through the yard to park on the landing in front of the barn-like garage and carport. He drives toward me, and I stand up, and it occurs to me what I look like: I’m wearing a tank dress (I’ve started to refer to them as housedresses) because it’s the only thing I can stand to wear in the heat and humidity. I’m squinting through my glasses, my frizzy hair is piled on top of my head, and I’m wearing no bra, though I do have an apron with a wild horses print on it tied around my waist – it was an ironic gift from my best friend, but I actually wear it because I cook and bake and wash dishes by hand. Also, as though I have new readers who need this info: I’m ultra white and have tattoos. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The fellow driving his beater car across my lawn is a black guy (p.s. more than once in the last few weeks, I’ve been in restaurants with people who have stage-whispered “black” when referring to perceived cultural differences. I’ve also gotten a stage-whispered “white” when someone was telling me which Taco Bell was preferred, because the employees were all, you guessed it, “white”) about my age, smoking a swisher sweet and wearing a white wife-beater tank top. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I say hello when he leans out his window. I’m thinking about where my dogs are. Inside the house.</div><div class="MsoNormal">He tells me he’s looking for “Heavah,” she lives somewhere around here and she looks just like me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I tell him I don’t know anyone named Heather out here. Then he points out my tomato plants, and tells me that he grows tomatoes, too, and eggplants and okra and beans, and his watermelons are doing well, too. </div><div class="MsoNormal">When he describes the wall he built to keep his tomatoes off the ground, I say, “yeah, we should have done something like that, too. Anyway, good luck finding her.” </div><div class="MsoNormal">Then he drove away.</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I told Roomie about it (we tell each other any time anyone comes here, as it happens so rarely) suggested that the guy was “fishing.” </div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m trying to picture how that would have gone successfully for him.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, Heather? I don’t know her. Would you like to come inside for a lemonade? Or some homemade salsa?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">Am I being innocent?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-47094769976073404812011-06-05T13:59:00.000-04:002011-06-05T13:59:11.993-04:00Have I mentioned lately that I hate bugs?<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">The other night as I was going through my evening routine (I’m very good about taking my makeup off at night. I heard Stevie Nicks claimed on Oprah once that her “secret” [as though she looks great?] was that she always took her makeup off, and my podcast girlfriend Julie Klausner did a hilarious rant about it on her podcast. Something like “maybe I passed out face first in a pile of coke, but I removed my makeup first!”), I heard a sound in the shower. Skittery. Sketchy.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The dogs had been acting weird—standing in the yard staring off into the distance, rather than running in circles or dragging their asses across the driveway—and Roomie was passed out on the couch. For some reason I pictured a raccoon in the shower. Or a snake. Or an alligator. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I live in the south now. I figure I should prepare for these things.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I opened up the shower curtain and found a huge <s>palmetto bug</s> cockroach crawling up the wall. I squealed like a little girl, of course, and slammed the curtain shut so hard I whacked my thumbnail against the tile, splitting the nail down so far it bled. Of course. Because I just painted my nails two days earlier and that activity is basically an invitation for fingernail destruction.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cockroach: 1 </div><div class="MsoNormal">So I wrapped a band-aid around my thumb to keep the broken nail from snapping completely off in the night and went to bed. I resisted the urge to stuff a towel under the bathroom door to keep the bug from crawling out of the bathtub, scampering across the floor, shimmying under the door, crawling over to the bed, up the blankets and then, of course, crawling onto my face or into my ear. For good measure, I took a swig of vodka and put in earplugs.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next morning, when I got up, I was so groggy, I’d totally forgotten about the bug until I whipped open the shower curtain and found the giant thing on its back, legs in the air. Dead. Apparent natural causes.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Serial: 1</div><div class="MsoNormal">I still count this as a win. You know, since the bug dead. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Though, instead of cleaning him up, I left the corpse for roomie and gave myself an Irish bath in the sink. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Come to think of it, maybe we all lost in this battle.</div>Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-8842951220887564772011-05-22T16:00:00.000-04:002011-05-22T16:00:00.839-04:00On humidity: Part 1Oh, humidity. You wicked, wicked bitch.<br />
<br />
On a recent day, I was feeling hi-tech, so I looked at the weather indicator on my iPhone. Our house is temperature controlled, and it seemed easier than going outside. It said the day's high would be 77.<br />
<br />
Since I'm an idiot, and I lived in the desert for five years, I put on a pear of jeans and a breezy black blouse with cap sleeves, plus a jaunty little blue hat I bought on impulse at some cheapass shoe store in the mall (I look really good in hats, as long as I can get them on my giant head).<br />
<br />
A pair of earrings, some flip flops, and I'm set to go.<br />
<br />
Ha!<br />
<br />
You southerners already know my mistake. 77 with 10% humidity is jeans weather. 77 with 99% humidity means you'll be peeling those fuckers off when you get back to the comforts of central air.<br />
<br />
Stupid.<br />
<br />
So I changed into a sundress, and I thanked Jesus for giving me blonde leg hair.<br />
<br />
Actual conversation between me and Roomie:<br />
<br />
"Uhg, I just don't want to shave my legs."<br />
<br />
"I don't care."<br />
<br />
"Well lucky me, because I'm lazy."<br />
<br />
"It just lowers the chances of some southern hottie stealing you away from me."<br />
<br />
That's love, people.<br />
<br />
*Update: The following day, when I woke up, I looked out the window and saw a sort of low-hanging fog that, if I lived in London or the Pacific Northwest, would mean a cool, gray day was ahead of me. Here, it's just the hot morning mist. I walked outside, and it felt like I'd walked into a dog's breath. The high tomorrow is 91. (p.s. It's still May, right?)<br />
<br />
I begrudgingly shaved my legs, and in the process shaved a chunk out of my ankle about the size of my pinkie nail.<br />
<br />
Blast you humidity! Blast you (said whilst shaking bloody Venus razor at sky)!<br />
<br />
It's going to be a long summer.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-57304082459605236592011-05-21T08:55:00.000-04:002011-05-21T08:55:01.391-04:00Conversation I had this week"So, what did you say about the rapture at work?"<br />
<br />
"Um, <span style="font-weight: bold;">nothing</span>."<br />
<br />
"What, really? No one brought it up?"<br />
<br />
"No, and I'm not going to. That would be a really quick way to get fired."<br />
<br />
"Oh, come on. You could have just said, like, 'Hey, probably won't see you all Monday, eh?'"<br />
<br />
"Right. Add in a 'I mean, I'll probably still be around. I'll hold the place down.' That is one valuable point I did not think to put on my resume. 'Definitely won't be called back in case of Rapture.'"Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-32152605582464799262011-05-07T23:00:00.000-04:002011-05-07T23:00:55.132-04:00Goodbye. Wish me luck. I'm sooooo going to need it.I kept wanting to write a post this week, about all kinds of things (for example: Have you noticed that people who drive with their arm out the window of the car, sort of gripping their entire car like it's their shaft, are always dickface drivers? I have.) but I'm leaving tomorrow morning for a huge conference. And not the fun kind, where you're an attendee and you can sneak off for booze. No, the kind that I'm helping run, where I work a kajillion hours and drive with coworkers in a rented car for 13 hours and where I'm not allowed to drink any alcohol the entire time I'm gone. The week leading up to the conference has basically been hell. And it was also finals week for Roomie.<br />
<br />
So here is one photo from a post I don't have time to write, because I have to wake up in four hours:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIgHxuIJIfp4NCLfQ6tlG4QF2DOjVNm53Uy0DbdBVaka-rPiyGPxA1ZT8CdcmsL4kNcqfgtk2ayUA1qa2ff83dkZITIQKdtMOiF33tnUY72-rXa6icEuGvUiNE4Fe8NMu-RRgt6v3gJs/s1600/IMG_1289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIgHxuIJIfp4NCLfQ6tlG4QF2DOjVNm53Uy0DbdBVaka-rPiyGPxA1ZT8CdcmsL4kNcqfgtk2ayUA1qa2ff83dkZITIQKdtMOiF33tnUY72-rXa6icEuGvUiNE4Fe8NMu-RRgt6v3gJs/s320/IMG_1289.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yeah. We had a car break down. So we got towed by a tractor.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-5253646260721203432011-04-25T15:00:00.000-04:002011-04-25T15:00:03.405-04:00Hugh Hefner of chickensSince my neighbors cut down a lot of the shrubbery between our yards, I now have a view of their chicken coop. It's not very close by, and it's partially blocked by what I've been told is a "dog run," a fenced in area in our vast yard where, if we were "real" southerners, I suppose we'd lock up our dogs, instead of snuggle with them on the living room floor. Instead, we use the area to make compost, and use the fence to keep our dogs out of it.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, the chickens. I absolutely adore the rooster. Probably more because he lives on the opposite side of the house from my bedroom window, so I never hear him crowing in the morning until I'm already up. Because in case you'd never considered this, rooster crows are entirely dependent upon where you are when you hear them. Roosters crowing when you're making tea and eggs = awesome, but rooster crowing when you're in bed and trying to sleep = feathery hellspawn. <br />
<br />
The best thing about the rooster is that he likes to hang out on top of the hen house. He stands up there, strutting, and quite often, there's a hen up there with him. Sometimes two. I like to think of the coop as some sort of bunny ranch. Hugh, the Rooster, decides who gets the top position and gets to come upstairs with him, based on whims. I haven't decided which hen to call Crystal. Wasn't there a Holly, too? Or am I confusing Hugh Hefner with Bob Barker ... ?<br />
<br />
Anyway, I like thinking of the coop as a tiny redneck bunny ranch. Especially since I've heard the bunny ranch <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1342643/Hugh-Hefners-Playboy-mansion-like-squalid-prison-say-Playmates.html">smells about as good as a chicken coop</a>.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-21205489220479768622011-04-24T16:26:00.000-04:002011-04-24T16:26:44.064-04:00The Sun NewsLook, I am not gonna go and knock Easter. I just want to share some cultural differences.<br />
<br />
Where I come from, you do not generally see this on the front page of your newspaper on Easter Sunday:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyAN4hHdBNLsuwjcr4OOTpEPUwWvlWC3-PEcmjF1AsPUS3WNqyFPU0gd0LA9H17F2-otpthafkRCE79PGuaarEleBkBtPe7-HUqLJr0WOKbuLFgV0qXnFUqRq51RcZExQuDLsZBGnnJc/s1600/Sunnews1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyAN4hHdBNLsuwjcr4OOTpEPUwWvlWC3-PEcmjF1AsPUS3WNqyFPU0gd0LA9H17F2-otpthafkRCE79PGuaarEleBkBtPe7-HUqLJr0WOKbuLFgV0qXnFUqRq51RcZExQuDLsZBGnnJc/s320/Sunnews1.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
What's that, you ask? Why, it's a fawning, front-page profile of the local carpenter who spatters himself in fake blood and faux-crucifies himself on Ocean Boulevard in Myrtle Beach every year.<br />
<br />
Oh, wait, I'm sorry. He used to do it. From 1993-1997.<br />
<br />
Oh, and it wasn't Easter. It was the day before Easter. <br />
<br />
But still! Cool headline! And he's a carpenter (made his own cross, people) and his initials are J.C. So. There ya go.<br />
<br />
I actually do like this quote, written about the phase before he became a Christian:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>To his dismay, his wife Elaine Curkendall, refused to let Jesus go and told him so.</blockquote><blockquote>"If you are asking me to choose between you and Jesus, then I'm choosing God," she said. "You ain't even a close second."</blockquote>That lady doesn't mess around.<br />
<br />
Honestly, my only real problem with the story is that it took away from the headline with the other lead story of the day. It's about a local run where people stop and eat a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts in the middle of their 10K.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kt7wtTdA6Dl7r5FhF2GPup447DG3z_S1kIg5hGInD929k_zYOrcMCxxF9MzKvEwDoq7HqbmPcx-ELdZkH9CxJIwQ4Gy8EbrZHIcjlcoZtYrOMhf-oG5_rrc_zWdS4-Tv1S5Nrct9_hQ/s1600/Sunnews21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kt7wtTdA6Dl7r5FhF2GPup447DG3z_S1kIg5hGInD929k_zYOrcMCxxF9MzKvEwDoq7HqbmPcx-ELdZkH9CxJIwQ4Gy8EbrZHIcjlcoZtYrOMhf-oG5_rrc_zWdS4-Tv1S5Nrct9_hQ/s320/Sunnews21.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Best headline ever?Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-44831992066339252902011-04-17T11:20:00.000-04:002011-04-17T11:20:02.391-04:00Severe weatherI've heard severe weather warnings before. But not tornado warnings. There was a tornado in Oregon sometime in the last year and everyone was like, "A TORNADO? In Oregon? Are you sure?'<br />
<br />
Here, my NPR news quiz was interrupted (the nerve!) telling me to evacuate if I'm in a trailer or vehicle. Because everyone knows tornados love trailer parks.<br />
<br />
The wind had picked up, and the light outside was changing rapidly, from ochre to white and back. Trees swayed. Dogs paced under my feet, then hid under the bed. Roomie was at Lowes, picking up supplies to protect our young tomato plants and lettuce from any hard rain or hail.<br />
<br />
The radio then said I might want to get away from windows, or maybe lay down behind the couch and cover my body with pillows. Also, if I'm outside and things get ugly, "lie flat in the nearest ditch."<br />
<br />
Y'all, the radio has never before told me to lay in a ditch.<br />
<br />
*Favorite comment on my Facebook post about this weather warning: "Exciting! Keep some red shoes on standby!"Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-27281620978865821312011-04-10T14:55:00.000-04:002011-04-12T11:00:45.285-04:00your best day (not to be confused with VH1's Best Week Ever)Since I drive so much, I listen to a lot of podcasts and books on tape (Pro tip: if you love fiction, you must subscribe to the New Yorker fiction <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/podcasts/fiction">podcast</a>. Start with the one where they read Bullet in the Brain. You will not regret this.).<br /><br />A darling friend who's also a commuter handed off the Dave Eggers book about Sudanese lost boys, <i>What is the What</i>. I'd heard mixed reviews, but I'm totally engrossed. If you're feeling at all self-pitying and want to get the eff over yourself, check it out. Though if you're sensitive to, like, children being eaten by lions, watch out.<br /><br />There's one part early on where the semi-fictional narrator is talking about how the walking boys -- refugees who have largely witnessed the slaughter of their entire villages -- have a hard time sleeping. They're orphans traveling across the desert with no water or food. Some of them have shoes. Boys stagger off the trail and die all along the way. I guess all that makes it a little difficult to catch Zs. One of their leaders (just a bigger boy) instructed them, as they lay down in a circle to protect themselves, to put together in your mind your best day. Think of your favorite breakfast. Then your favorite afternoon, your favorite evening. The narrator's best day includes a pretty girl, a bicycle, his mother's yellow dress.<br /><br />So as I lay in bed the other night having a hard time getting to sleep, I thought about piecing together my best day. But I didn't actually end up doing that, because I quickly thought of one day that -- front to back -- was nearly perfect in itself. My 29th birthday.<br /><br />My birthday is in December, and this year it was on a Sunday. It started at midnight, in a bar. I had gone out with my roommate, who'd just become my boyfriend, and one of my best friends. As we left one bar and staggered to the next, it started to snow, and we giggled and slid around. I honestly don't remember going to the last bar, but I found out later that when we walked inside, my glasses fogged up, so I took them off and stood, swaying and smiling. When someone (an acquaintance?) said hi, I blinked blindly and cheerfully said, "It's my birthday!"<br /><br />I do remember that my darling roommate had stayed sober and drove us home, and on the way, I instructed him to go do some cookies in the snow somewhere. He obliged.<br /><br />The next morning, my new love woke me with a thoughtful gift, and made me eggs benedict on croissants -- if you think that sounds too rich to be good, you're incorrect. Hollandaise cures hangovers, by the way.<br /><br />It snowed all day. If I lived in a different town than Bend, my party would have been canceled. But the troopers started pulling into my driveway right on time, and they hucked their shoes and snowy coats in a growing pile by the door, and started filling the kitchen, unloading bags of food and wine.<br /><br />I'd recently become enamored (via Lynn Rosetto Casper and a book that I refuse to link to Amazon for, because you should do like I did and order it from your local independent bookseller, goddamit, or at least from <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio?isbn=9781580089753">Powells</a>) with homemade Asian dumplings, but they're really time-consuming to make. So I assigned each of about a half dozen of my gals to a filling, then told them to come over early and be ready to roll, fold, crimp and stuff. My poor roomate was stuck with a house full of chatting women who pushed up their sleeves, poured glasses of wine and got to work. As the trays of dumplings piled up, I turned on every burner of the stove and started steaming, frying and pot-sticking. The house filled with glorious smells, and the windows fogged with steam. The house hummed with our cheerful chatter.<br /><br />As it got dark out, and we transitioned from cooking to eating, the husbands and boyfriends came knocking. Each time we opened the door, steam poured out into the night. Cars and even bikes piled up in the snow in my yard.<br /><br />One of the husbands showed up with his two boys (whom I adore not least because as soon as they learned my name they became quite fond of it, and every time I see them they shout "Elliiiiiiiie," and how can you not love that? ) to drop off a gift for me, tease me, and bring his wife a Chanukah gift. <br /><br />We ate until we were about to burst, then we tucked into the largest chocolate orange cream cake I've ever seen (The sad note here being that this cake was made by a former friend, one of those love/hate friends. We started teetering farther toward hate than love, and after I left the state without saying goodbye, she unfriended me on Facebook. I can't decide which of us is more petty.).<br /><br />Anyway. This is all to say: My best day. Hot boyfriend (yeah, you know there are details of the day I'm leaving out. Use your imaaaaaagination.). Cooking and eating good food. And piles of my brilliant, hilarious friends.<br /><br />Miss you guys.<br />Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-43352981124373561252011-03-31T22:01:00.000-04:002011-03-31T22:01:56.130-04:00Anyone remember that movie Ferngully?Of course we have neighbors we hate.<br />
<br />
No, that's too far. We don't hate them. They just seem like dicks.<br />
<br />
My house sits on an acre, just far enough back from a busy road. We have a big yard, and we like to spend time outside, usually tossing a ball for the dogs, and often with a beer (or large glass of wine) in hand. On one side of us, close to our house, is a house that's empty save occasional visits from the grown kids of the dead lady who used to live there.<br />
<br />
On the other side, past the vast expanse of our lovely yard, live The Jerkoffs. It's a couple and a kid, and someone who looks like a grandma seems to appear from time to time. Roomie has seen the kid shooting at birds. That's just a really good way to piss off this particular hippie. And, charmingly, while the kid was shooting at birds, Grandma was just chilling on a riding mower, watching.<br />
<br />
It's not like we have seagulls or some other kind of asshole birds around (like steller's jays, which are big, fat jerks), but sweet songbirds, cardinals, something called a titmouse, and amazing, huge pileated woodpeckers -- rare, protected Woody the Woodpecker birds. Roomie also saw the kid chasing the chickens around their chicken coop throwing rocks at them. Cool, right?<br />
<br />
(Don't get me wrong, I'm OK with eating chickens. I'm just not really into being an asshole to them while they're still alive. I get the irony, but as I see, it, 90% of the point of raising chickens is eating eggs -- or meat -- without feeling guilty about the horrible treatment the animals experienced while they were still alive.)<br />
<br />
While all that makes me think the kid is a turdface, I wasn't really pleased when I heard his dad yelling at him while they burned whatever they were burning (they do it so often I suspect it may be their garbage) in their yard one morning. I'm not sure, but I think I heard him smack the kid, too. Excellent. (Mom's an unknown. Guilt by association, I say.)<br />
<br />
Oh, and I haven't even mentioned the dogs. They have dogs, but they don't appear to be pets. They live in a pen outside next to the chicken coop, and they bark incessantly. I don't hold it against the dogs. They look out and see our off-leash pooches running around, frolicking happily with owners who love and snug them and throw balls for them. I mean, I'd bark, too. It's like the dogs are yelling, "Hey! We want to play! This is bullcrap! Did you guys see this? We live in a cage! Look, see how huge this yard is? Why can't we run in the yard?! That looks like fun! We want to come play! Come get us! Can we hump your dogs?!"<br />
<br />
So that's the background on how I felt when, one day, I heard the sound of large machinery coming from the neighbor's yard. It sounded angry, and hungry, and as I looked at the stand of trees and brush that separates our property from theirs, I saw limbs and leaves heaving and shaking as they clawed and cut them out of the ground. Tiny birds fled the destruction.<br />
<br />
My vision's not great, but it was totally a scene from FernGully (p.s. Avatar was basically an expensive version of FernGully, but without Tim Curry. Incidentally, I have loved Tim Curry<i> </i>since he was trying to figure out who killed Mr. Boddy. Anyone with me? My early exposure to Rocky Horror only confirmed my adoration).<br />
<br />
So now I think of my neighbors as the new embodiment of Hexxus.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4PLQ1XfaTuU" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
Except my neighbor is in no way sexy.<br />
<br />
In summary: Tim Curry is rad, my neighbors are dicks, and Hexxus destroyed enough bird habitat that we can now see the dickface yard better and hear said dicks yelling at their kids more clearly. Yay.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, I now have a much better view of the daily activities of their chickens.<br />
<br />
But that's another post.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-66033246389766708582011-03-28T15:00:00.000-04:002011-03-28T15:00:04.968-04:00Holly's House of Beauty - Aynor, SCI got my wig split the other day.<br />
<br />
OK. I don't think I pull that phrase off as well as other people I know. I really like it though, so I keep trying.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
I went here:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_yaRAEs6AIAsd_h7zPrFBUCnUK5uY0fPIrqDCpKtgM8FJTr-1ReWl8ciWmejzgzW0TBNZvd4U_LLGbxuNIHrGCfXvlcC8XO30PvoaLnitm2-tVVtWIuysz6wUQemXG3MQ8oiYhS63NQ/s1600/hollys1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_yaRAEs6AIAsd_h7zPrFBUCnUK5uY0fPIrqDCpKtgM8FJTr-1ReWl8ciWmejzgzW0TBNZvd4U_LLGbxuNIHrGCfXvlcC8XO30PvoaLnitm2-tVVtWIuysz6wUQemXG3MQ8oiYhS63NQ/s320/hollys1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It's called Holly's House of Beauty. My trim cost $12.<br />
<br />
Here's how it happened:<br />
<br />
Roommie and I went to Ned's, one of the four non-fast-food restaurants in town, to get burgers one night. While I waited, the woman working started chatting me up, and she asked where I'm from. Side note: Everybody around here asks me where I'm from. I'm not sure how they can tell.<br />
<br />
She asked if I lived in town, I told her yes, nearby, on Blahblah Street (back off, stalkers).<br />
<br />
"Oh, you do, whereabouts?"<br />
<br />
"In the white house across from the Business."<br />
<br />
"Oh my gosh! Holly used to own that house! Dan!" she said, shouting over the grill at the guy cooking our burgers, "they rent Holly's old house!"<br />
<br />
"I love that place. Nice wood floors," Dan said.<br />
<br />
They are pretty nice.<br />
<br />
So I got the quick rundown on Holly, where she lives now, who she lives with, and was informed that the cute little haircut shack two doors down from my house is hers. <br />
<br />
And the thing is, I'm not doing much with my hair lately. I call the long, undyed hair my "recession 'do." I miss color and cute sassy haircuts, but a) for some uneffingbelievable reason Roommie likes my hair long and b) with my hair this long, I can get away with applying product to my hair, scrunching it, and air drying. I'm not saying I like the way it looks. But I drive an hour to work every day. If I get up early enough, I'm not going to use that time on doing my hair. I'm one of those assholes who puts on makeup in the car now. <br />
<br />
Also, I love supporting local businesses (as the folks in Bend would say, Make Local Habit), so I called.<br />
<br />
Holly is the best.<br />
<br />
She talked non-stop, with one of the thickest accents I've yet to encounter. At first I was scared, because when I walked into the shop, Holly was touching up a scrubs-clad woman's long, curly mullet. They chatted about the Mullet's boss, 15 ex-boyfriends and I think probably half of the residents of our town. In between, they worked me for info about myself, starting with "where are you from baby?" (Seriously. Baby.)<br />
<br />
As I sat down for my trim, a dad and his kid came in for a trim, and the dad, Jeff, proceeded to tease me and Holly.<br />
<br />
"Now why'd you cut that bald patch in the back of her head?" Jeff asked.<br />
<br />
"So Holly, you get married or you still living in sin?"<br />
<br />
"I'm still living in sin; will you pray for me Jeff?"<br />
<br />
So good. Holly kept punctuating everything she said with, "Oh, lordy, Jeff," but the way she said Jeff it was like, Jay-eff.<br />
<br />
I seriously regret I didn't secretly record the chatter. I was also too chicken to take photos of the inside, but it's not nearly as cute as the outside. Not really horrifying, either. But the voices. Ohhhh the voices.<br />
<br />
I'll bring a secret recorder next time, kids.<br />
<br />
Oh, I did get a photo of the super adorable welcome mat:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxiWjPWus5BuT-FbCltat8sVl4SudbIBYD_96NMplxVA7hkxAg4FZuRxMgm0Qi0N_vu7ksxKDE1izzVRC7SKNic4OH6DZuI8uCYhjTTakY2eYujngydJIMJT-WBBLYTpNJjHYkMhdMrEQ/s1600/hollys2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxiWjPWus5BuT-FbCltat8sVl4SudbIBYD_96NMplxVA7hkxAg4FZuRxMgm0Qi0N_vu7ksxKDE1izzVRC7SKNic4OH6DZuI8uCYhjTTakY2eYujngydJIMJT-WBBLYTpNJjHYkMhdMrEQ/s320/hollys2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> So, my review of Holly's House of Hair? Go. It's totally worth $12.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4e74Q_E_m87HkFEBhoxQ0NsZ1LZjTxgiADzQyBvex06GN-u4hXjBqRsbtrbAraBbYj8YCkmF9wz1ggVb9lc5umnBdMXcqksIkJ4NikUqYBjNusdgdhuLYOFW2avwCa_oXV6qsd32zq4w/s1600/holly12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4e74Q_E_m87HkFEBhoxQ0NsZ1LZjTxgiADzQyBvex06GN-u4hXjBqRsbtrbAraBbYj8YCkmF9wz1ggVb9lc5umnBdMXcqksIkJ4NikUqYBjNusdgdhuLYOFW2avwCa_oXV6qsd32zq4w/s320/holly12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-51839054610982763372011-03-23T22:34:00.000-04:002011-03-23T22:34:50.531-04:00The Bootie Bros. - Florence, SCAn approximation of a recent IM convo I had with a friend at work:<br />
<br />
Red: Girl, I think I need to pay me a visit to the bootie brothers.<br />
Me: ?<br />
Red: The bootie brothers?<br />
Me: I don't follow. Who are the bootie brothers?<br />
Red: You've never heard of them?<br />
Me: That's what I'm saying.<br />
Red: We have to find one of their commercials on YouTube ...*<br />
Me: ?<br />
Red: It's a boot shop.<br />
Me: Oh! Boots! I know those.<br />
Red: I'm going over for lunch. Want to come? I need some cowgirl boots.<br />
Me: Of course I do.<br />
<br />
(*Apparently these commercials were awesome. I can't find em, but I didn't look very hard. If you come up with something, please share.)<br />
<br />
Now, I've been to Western wear shops before. There's a lot of phony-baloney cowboy crap in Oregon. But this place is something special. Partly, I was impressed because most of the shops I've previously visited have either been A) in a mall or 2) made to appear as though the buildings they were housed in were built from rough-hewn logs. I hate fake log buildings. To me, they reek of faux-country rich boy "ranchers" and "cowboys." Think George Bush. Or the Pioneer Wife's hubby (Or so I hear. I've never read her, I just read about how she never mentions that her "pioneer" husband comes from a shitload of money. And like any self-respecting liberal, I dislike rich people I don't know personally.)<br />
<br />
Alas, behold:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG423ot6t4B0z9GJPyUN3Hb2Q0hF-IMR9FFLzrUb-tsojrrYgg0qLUfC6MjE5bXIKIyh3VGUY7GgINb0wObZVtLpX8Gr4TCkBKTWmVRcs-tkzR0qOQ0CSg7fLUle4Qfc3PzHFmkMLALjI/s1600/bootie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG423ot6t4B0z9GJPyUN3Hb2Q0hF-IMR9FFLzrUb-tsojrrYgg0qLUfC6MjE5bXIKIyh3VGUY7GgINb0wObZVtLpX8Gr4TCkBKTWmVRcs-tkzR0qOQ0CSg7fLUle4Qfc3PzHFmkMLALjI/s320/bootie1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM74dHBrymggUn-6MuI1CunEOMyof0ljjS1D0ouv4360nI6WpD4Vur4LaUd5fK4k17VybaQmv-76ouOOKYaZOhG8RzbQdf9DfuTTuErT3lVnNF819wK7sMaSFApG4Mx4atx_nfw4JjPwQ/s1600/bootie2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM74dHBrymggUn-6MuI1CunEOMyof0ljjS1D0ouv4360nI6WpD4Vur4LaUd5fK4k17VybaQmv-76ouOOKYaZOhG8RzbQdf9DfuTTuErT3lVnNF819wK7sMaSFApG4Mx4atx_nfw4JjPwQ/s320/bootie2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
While you try on boots, a dude with a sick southern accent vaguely flirts with you (if you're as cute as Red, you'll get comments on your toenail polish and offers to help roll up your pant legs). Plus, these are damn fine boots.<br />
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If anyone's taking notes I want these:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfEM2dc3oKFDyBdq-qWdxCOo77GFxjodC4VKvQ6Kd2X-IM0maQiPPXyDjgvSYxuynMITbB5FnWPwvhOLWrEwLE_p-6Go277W89CNeRGEBSqIX5VZkkeIWG7t0WWP1Qg735sVxeTsRGqI/s1600/bootie6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfEM2dc3oKFDyBdq-qWdxCOo77GFxjodC4VKvQ6Kd2X-IM0maQiPPXyDjgvSYxuynMITbB5FnWPwvhOLWrEwLE_p-6Go277W89CNeRGEBSqIX5VZkkeIWG7t0WWP1Qg735sVxeTsRGqI/s320/bootie6.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg2DT5FIVeuVj3l8WhcZiCKoOfGW5mWhx3iJaX6C_VSgPKwoTFEpVnO1H2FJj4J17z4OATZlccgNKiV_IG7bi6S-aRMvF6vgw2IZN_79IO-SuXvLZcfaXklzmNzOv_BWvAQTb8S_m5_A/s1600/bootie4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg2DT5FIVeuVj3l8WhcZiCKoOfGW5mWhx3iJaX6C_VSgPKwoTFEpVnO1H2FJj4J17z4OATZlccgNKiV_IG7bi6S-aRMvF6vgw2IZN_79IO-SuXvLZcfaXklzmNzOv_BWvAQTb8S_m5_A/s320/bootie4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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They's so pretty I had to get multiple angles. But if you're not into $300+ boots, worry not. There's something for everyone at the Bootie Bros.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBhszlHCq7c-Ev9i5uvdLHbFHlu3tUyTRiuphqHxSQoKmszIRJZEX5u_JCbYwaCK-dyWOXY70E_XPwgufMQRGlbv7Zypx3BK2sBpdKOwDA18Rz3K_BUm1CSYWqfgCCwOZTbd_C1YtQo0/s1600/bootie3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBhszlHCq7c-Ev9i5uvdLHbFHlu3tUyTRiuphqHxSQoKmszIRJZEX5u_JCbYwaCK-dyWOXY70E_XPwgufMQRGlbv7Zypx3BK2sBpdKOwDA18Rz3K_BUm1CSYWqfgCCwOZTbd_C1YtQo0/s320/bootie3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA-8dNrSpmVm_2F4KbOXy8BbemS2AbtWjl7L5WREQGOsH4rM8oHXHFEr3wc4ZoPTBUCrrwhrsciWWoaYWHMiJGEgxNpQtVmZbLnTxYh4HAw34bEAd5JWz0kXn3Zqzg0tyA4RzqQM2874/s1600/bootie8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA-8dNrSpmVm_2F4KbOXy8BbemS2AbtWjl7L5WREQGOsH4rM8oHXHFEr3wc4ZoPTBUCrrwhrsciWWoaYWHMiJGEgxNpQtVmZbLnTxYh4HAw34bEAd5JWz0kXn3Zqzg0tyA4RzqQM2874/s320/bootie8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSa4uGI5gNrSwhwrPrXhB5L4xEhwp2XxT5BO_-7VltAVzndD0492OSbnddpOh6X_CLkDLIrBdi4L4mhyphenhyphenBzT3Al0pu8G0CIaX5_Ncnt0UNWctKDxwtp7pSLaIhfDQ8b5HIV3SWF3XlWNw/s1600/bootie5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSa4uGI5gNrSwhwrPrXhB5L4xEhwp2XxT5BO_-7VltAVzndD0492OSbnddpOh6X_CLkDLIrBdi4L4mhyphenhyphenBzT3Al0pu8G0CIaX5_Ncnt0UNWctKDxwtp7pSLaIhfDQ8b5HIV3SWF3XlWNw/s320/bootie5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIw5F3A5IROzwKVMwoPczgKbJoc0VWkPiWu7WlJbMviXC9RpJIzR3vuOk5vp9bplnAHuvIpVc9mGI1s1mE-ZFKkqAnSu7T8w2_l2_0MU6dzKH2autHkQX67D2-TolqCFfLFz-0qMx2O0o/s1600/bootie9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIw5F3A5IROzwKVMwoPczgKbJoc0VWkPiWu7WlJbMviXC9RpJIzR3vuOk5vp9bplnAHuvIpVc9mGI1s1mE-ZFKkqAnSu7T8w2_l2_0MU6dzKH2autHkQX67D2-TolqCFfLFz-0qMx2O0o/s320/bootie9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
These were the winners. Red said the insides feel like tennis shoes:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6l6UDSZlbL4sS1ACWvykReXza6QPybYY1LIASStk_E5N0073aY6bXyk7S3lJScAJsktL2oJtHhSjVatwgAYiiug_g3zN1N7rONUZOQP_SiE3RQMpVlXL_8bU6NsSf02FK5IaRftznTco/s1600/bootie7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6l6UDSZlbL4sS1ACWvykReXza6QPybYY1LIASStk_E5N0073aY6bXyk7S3lJScAJsktL2oJtHhSjVatwgAYiiug_g3zN1N7rONUZOQP_SiE3RQMpVlXL_8bU6NsSf02FK5IaRftznTco/s320/bootie7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
So, this may be the best part: Remember how I said I had <b>NO</b> idea what Red was talking about when she mentioned the Bootie Bros? Well, the night after we stopped there, I realized I drive by a gigantic Bootie Bros. billboard on my way home from work every single day.<br />
<br />
I'm super observant.<br />
<br />
Oh, and the following morning, I realized I drive by <i>another</i> Bootie Bros. billboard every day on my way to work.<br />
<br />
Really. I hope I never witness a murder.<br />
<br />
"Um ... I think he was wearing a green shirt? Well, it might have been a woman ... wait, did you say they were aliens? Huh. I didn't even notice ..."Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-26139820623275394362011-03-16T16:00:00.000-04:002011-03-16T16:00:01.711-04:00It's gourmet you guys.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG26HBW1SCHjnGS-LTRr4dliMe-t685aX6mz2GnjAB6YrQDExmDyIY-r1sn9KBqmTksy_IuSkFzwjzTBRvqN0PJWpWYTLKRlSb8SSCJM-tf9SQpyhdPGpdkDVfvf7sgd6VnWTfUKm17hI/s1600/IMG_0911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG26HBW1SCHjnGS-LTRr4dliMe-t685aX6mz2GnjAB6YrQDExmDyIY-r1sn9KBqmTksy_IuSkFzwjzTBRvqN0PJWpWYTLKRlSb8SSCJM-tf9SQpyhdPGpdkDVfvf7sgd6VnWTfUKm17hI/s320/IMG_0911.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Oh, gourmet Japanese sauce? That sounds fancy. I wonder what's in it?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcheqpfS-HsFxmRL980TT_yQcwpEKgbBj1oS5VOjq06lMHwTZBxwZd1x1pxJIui1oNcrG-J8Bx1JqWnmDi2xBwcK7YTTL6EoT6DWwuLVGZnhyphenhyphenvMhh0sH6Z-BG6a-zSJ83ybxoLtukXLk/s1600/IMG_0912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcheqpfS-HsFxmRL980TT_yQcwpEKgbBj1oS5VOjq06lMHwTZBxwZd1x1pxJIui1oNcrG-J8Bx1JqWnmDi2xBwcK7YTTL6EoT6DWwuLVGZnhyphenhyphenvMhh0sH6Z-BG6a-zSJ83ybxoLtukXLk/s320/IMG_0912.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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(I took these photos awhile ago. Do not misconstrue my terrible timing for insensitivity about the horrible earthquake tsunami nuclear reactor endtimes scenario everyone's understandably obsessed with right now. This particular post has nothing to do with Japan, and a whole lot to do with America. Still, I gave a little bit <a href="https://american.redcross.org/site/Donation2?idb=0&5052.donation=form1&df_id=5052">here</a>, and it wouldn't hurt you to do the same. xoxo)Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936558441138346288.post-73657894301044224332011-03-09T16:55:00.000-05:002011-03-09T16:55:00.573-05:00Swamps are pretty cool. Except for the dead deer rotting away next to where we parked. That was uncool.My first swamp guys!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpxQKBZ2yyl2txK3PZPUBhbBW0pR-xYll_J-e5yVnWjjDmobISoVBztjVLLyxsD1mAyKJLJOfVmKifqTQYgAQNoxFLoOiMjBDqK2j6cm-FW0L7HkYwvl5SqucBUp31Kk3ExzuXiQ5zEI/s1600/swamp11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpxQKBZ2yyl2txK3PZPUBhbBW0pR-xYll_J-e5yVnWjjDmobISoVBztjVLLyxsD1mAyKJLJOfVmKifqTQYgAQNoxFLoOiMjBDqK2j6cm-FW0L7HkYwvl5SqucBUp31Kk3ExzuXiQ5zEI/s320/swamp11.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Big change from the high desert where I've been living the last five years. Actually, I guess it's totally different from any place I've ever lived. Best part? We found a nice hut to hang out at when we become hobos.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmMqdrxGBVEXwVDj4xHGjSTxFjN6RWVbu3GuvcXF-aR3r2qxmbrfmZUTNy4FAUonzlw-tox0iIE8yPzsJUQDZ-SBl6NLD-ImtKxgSTFBMheFE1lLXpttZracV4iTQ-zLqFwEcsZZydVg/s1600/swamp6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmMqdrxGBVEXwVDj4xHGjSTxFjN6RWVbu3GuvcXF-aR3r2qxmbrfmZUTNy4FAUonzlw-tox0iIE8yPzsJUQDZ-SBl6NLD-ImtKxgSTFBMheFE1lLXpttZracV4iTQ-zLqFwEcsZZydVg/s320/swamp6.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It even came with an area rug. (Insert Lebowski joke here)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLVOmQ1UuhHxGL3O9qyq-C6DbP9cVuTyEqlNCTgKAFaauHLlA_tQVqFfF0nHN_XwiUoBkRn_0aZZAjDCZpymlHvVgK5omMqjGQnAht9Jez8ySE8u2UL7wUqZ5GZON2Xbmc_fpYXu1zUg/s1600/swamp7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLVOmQ1UuhHxGL3O9qyq-C6DbP9cVuTyEqlNCTgKAFaauHLlA_tQVqFfF0nHN_XwiUoBkRn_0aZZAjDCZpymlHvVgK5omMqjGQnAht9Jez8ySE8u2UL7wUqZ5GZON2Xbmc_fpYXu1zUg/s320/swamp7.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Roomie's trying to teach me some of his smartypants stuff. Like how to identify a few birds. Truth be told, I'm pretty terrible at it, because my eyes are so bad, but even people who can't see far away can hear calls and see shapes of large birds at a distance.<br />
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Also, did you know that cypress trees have knees? They're stubs of root that grow up out of the swamp around cypress, and they look vaguely phallic and eerily primordial. Most of the ones we saw today had these salmon-colored tips that really upped the tree-ween-of-the-swamp-floor factor.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAS7r5ASDpu-qrXOTB-CvLZraZQ4a6HK-wX3QhfcTcQTzVvpa11O-lbJKfCL59Xf3midEeR042GbMYwBfVjeMohixq57e3YBaGvkGNMdEH2cD4Kk8pBu4_CRI99yEfbAS4bvq3gNlXC3w/s1600/swamp13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAS7r5ASDpu-qrXOTB-CvLZraZQ4a6HK-wX3QhfcTcQTzVvpa11O-lbJKfCL59Xf3midEeR042GbMYwBfVjeMohixq57e3YBaGvkGNMdEH2cD4Kk8pBu4_CRI99yEfbAS4bvq3gNlXC3w/s320/swamp13.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Gross, right?<br />
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Here's a close-up:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqu6zrMDKHKUqniyaL8DMCJT-tVhUqj9Ugxno-zHm1oM-TtAiIUDZAS2qP_MvlNEp9tR2ybqCESUQpHIeWJf0Cl0gk1FvmbaVXQ-KUPjywCGZSFpGZP0nAlvPB402kmeSuMCadlb-mFc/s1600/swamp14.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqu6zrMDKHKUqniyaL8DMCJT-tVhUqj9Ugxno-zHm1oM-TtAiIUDZAS2qP_MvlNEp9tR2ybqCESUQpHIeWJf0Cl0gk1FvmbaVXQ-KUPjywCGZSFpGZP0nAlvPB402kmeSuMCadlb-mFc/s320/swamp14.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Also, we thought Margaux loved the desert, but that's probably just because we'd never taken her to a swamp before. I mean, mud and stink and neck-deep puddles and bugs and dead things? Brackish water you can swim in that's the color of over-steeped tea so you don't know what's at the bottom of the pool and there could be anything down there! Snakes! Sticks! Dirt! More mud!<br />
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Sister was in heaven.Ells (aka Serialmono)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10540332836455668735noreply@blogger.com