Sunday Scribblings: Two Cents

Roadchick considers herself to be the idiot child of the Sunday Scribblings crowd - a bit of the Klass Klown, if you will. But, Roadchick read several of the selections that were posted on this topic and she was impressed. (She can recognize good writing, even if unable to perpetrate it herself.)

One writer sparked a chain of remembrance in Roadchick...all the advice that she has received over the years, usually unsolicited, mostly unwanted, and always from people that had her "best interests" at heart.

It amazes Roadchick that people are always so willing to offer the benefit of their wisdom and in doing so, rarely make the effort to temper their advice with kindness, because, after all - this is for your own good! No matter if it hurts. No matter if it cuts straight to the heart and makes you bleed. The Giver moves away, into their own life, never realizing that their careless words will be pulled out and worried over far into the future, in those dark moments in a hopeless void and be woven into the litany of self-doubt that is on an endless playback loop.

Roadchick cannot count the number of times she has been told: "You don't want to do that, dear. It cannot possibly work out." And sometimes, Roadchick would listen and let a dream or opportunity pass her by and be left to play the game of "What If".

Roadchick cannot count the number of times she has been told: "You MUST do this. If you don't, you will absolutely RUIN your life." And Roadchick has enough of the rebel in her that she will RUN the other direction from this type of advice because she has found that it usually comes from people trying to live vicariously through others. That was not her dream - it never was.

Roadchick is honest enough to admit that most of the Two Cents she has been subjected to has come from members of her family. The time that she wanted to pursue Fashion Merchandising in college and her mother was convinced that a secretarial school was a Much Wiser Choice. And now, twenty years later? Roadchick does neither and she loves what she is doing. But it took a lot of years and a lot of fights for Roadchick to be "allowed" to follow her own star and not hitch to someone else's. Roadchick had never hitched to another's star, but was wily enough to conceal it until her own course was assured.

And, in the interest of Honesty and Disclosure, Roadchick is guilty of putting her Two Cents in, often unasked and mostly unwanted. Roadchick's kindergarten teacher saw it early on: "Roadchick likes to "help" with others' worksheets." Translation: "Roadchick is a bossy, nosy little wench who won't keep her eyes on her own paper."

Roadchick's Best Friend knows this about Roadchick and loves Roadchick enough to tell her: "Keep your eyes on your own worksheet." This code phrase is enough for Roadchick to STOP dispensing advice like Lortab and mind her own business. Because, Roadchick is pretty convinced that if people would just listen to her, their problems would be solved because she can see it SO clearly. Obviously, Roadchick should run for public office.

Roadchick has resolved to keep her Two Cents to herself, in the bank and earning interest, until she is asked for her input. Sometimes, Roadchick has to bite her tongue. And sometimes, she has to walk away before the advice just pops out. But Roadchick has resolved to be a kinder, gentler Roadchick...like a million points of light (or something similar) so she keeps on trying.

But, if you're in need of advice, Patient Reader, Auntie Roadchick is ready and willing to assist you in managing your personal life. But you have to ask, first.

Turn Left on Memory Lane

In lieu of writing about adventures or dates or roadtrips, Roadchick is going to tell y'all a little story. It's actually a little bit of history, but that sounds so boring that Roadchick is calling it a story, instead.

This is the story of how Roadchick's blog came to be called "All-American Girl's Roadtrip"

Once upon a time, many, many years ago, Roadchick worked in a hotel. While working at the hotel, Roadchick had a very good friend called....well, in the interest of keeping private parties private, let's just call her Friendage. (Roadchick trusts that she will know who she is.)

Roadchick and Friendage found themselves in much the same situation that Roadchick and Best Friend found themselves in a few weeks ago EXCEPT the situations were reversed. Roadchick was the Smug Married and Friendage was the one that was needing to escape Nashville because she was not feelin' the love.

So, what to do? Roadchick and Friendage decided to go to Memphis. Far enough away to qualify as a roadtrip, close enough to not require plane fare. The best of both worlds. The itinerary was planned and a date was set. Saturday. To Memphis. One room reserved at the Holiday Inn Express in Tunica, MS. (Yes, Patient Reader, that was the extent of the itinerary.)

On the appointed morning, Roadchick and Friendage met up at the hotel. Rendezvous point, if you will. While plotti...err, planning, a long-term guest from Mexico overheard the conversation and asked what was going on.

"Going to Graceland."

He appeared very interested in this diversion and stood there looking hopeful. Well, Roadchick has a soft heart. Possibly soft in the head, but don't go there. Roadchick and Friendage looked at each other. There was agreement & Mexico Man was invited along for the ride. After all, a person can't possibly come all the way from Mexico, stay in the US for 8 months, and NOT see Graceland. Never mind that Roadchick had reached a grand age of approximately 30 years old without seeing it - that is NOT the point.

Mexico Man disappeared to his room for about 30 seconds and re-emerged with a backpack. For a weekend. In Memphis. Roadchick and Friendage had considerably more luggage than that. Looking back, it is best that he did not have more luggage - there wasn't room for it.

The first indicator that the three travelers might be in trouble was trying to fit three adults into a car designed to carry two adults and a monkey. Traveling by Saturn would be interesting. Mexico Man bravely sat in the back, Friendage was driving, and Roadchick was riding shotgun. With her seat pulled forward so Mexico Man would have room for his legs. Which meant that Roadchick did NOT have room for her legs. Remember this point. It's very important later in the story.

So. Onward.

Driving westward, it occured to Roadchick and Friendage that a bathroom break was in order. And snacks. And, look! an exit...for Bucksnort, TN. (Roadchick kids you not - check an atlas if you don't believe her.)

Roadchick travels through life mostly unencumbered by sayings and addages and tidbits of advice but there are times she has made exceptions to the rule.

It's NEVER a good idea to buy food from a bait shop, no matter how extensive the selection of Elvis memorabilia is.

After wandering, dazed, through Elvis keyrings and snowglobes and bottle openers and an entire SET of Elvis and Priscilla juice glasses, Roadchick approached the cash register.

"What ARE you doing???" Roadchick asked Friendage.

"What?" replied Friendage, looking at Roadchick as though she were the crazy one.

"What are you eating?"

"Ummm, just some of these pork rinds. They're giving away free samples." replied Friendage, waving an arm toward pork rinds dumped out ON A BAIT SHOP COUNTER with a sign that did indeed say: Free Samples
And possibly "Bust a Gut" or something similar. Roadchick could be wrong.

"So, you're saying that you are EATING pork rinds that are laying on a bait shop counter BECAUSE THEY ARE FREE?"

"They're bacon-flavored." As if that explained it.

Mexico Man watched all of this from a distance. Mexico Man, from Mexico, where tourists are told to not drink the water....DID NOT EAT THE FREE SAMPLES. This means something, Roadchick is sure.

Memphis. Still in the distance. Time to hit the road before happy hour started and the pork rinds kicked in.

Time spent in a car is a good time for discussions and memories and explanations so Roadchick and Friendage spent some of the time explaining American culture to Mexico Man. It reminded Roadchick of the scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's where the Brazilian diplomat, Jose de Silva-Perrera, visits Holly's apartment where a wild & swingin' party is taking place, and states: "Thank you for allowing me to observe life in a typical, American home."

Mexico Man listened intently and then christened the adventure: the Authentic, All-American Girls' Roadtrip.

And it was good.

America shuddered at the thought that Roadchick and Friendage were representing American culture as a typical example, but still - it was good.

Memphis drew closer. Roadchick turned to Friendage and asked: Where is your atlas?

Friendage looked at Roadchick.

"Didn't you bring one?"

(Obviously not.)

At that particular point in history, Roadchick had not spent any amount of time in Memphis. Neither had Friendage. And Mexico Man certainly had not.

Still, how hard could it be to find Graceland??? In Memphis. The home of the King of Rock and Roll. Surely there would be billboards, neon signs, and a golden line painted down the road to his front door. Wouldn't there? Well, no.

The timing of the trip had Roadchick and crew arriving in Memphis during a particularly busy time of road construction, the majority of which was centered at Elvis Presley Boulevard. And during this road construction, the workers found it necessary to take down all the exit ramp signs, billboards, and neon signs with arrows pointing to the King's home. Oh, and paint over the golden line in the road, too.

Roadchick, Friendage, and Mexico Man shot past the exit, chatting merrily the whole way. And wound up in Mississippi. Unless a visit to the King's birthplace in Tupelo was in order, new directions were in order.

The nice lady at the Welcome Center had heard the request a million bazillion times but still managed to be witty.

"Let me guess. You missed the exit because the sign is down, the neon is off, and the golden line has been painted over, right?" Nods all around. New directions were given. And this parting advice: "The King is home today, but he is resting so you probably won't see him."

Nonsense. If the King was in, he would want to see Roadchick and crew. After all, we were on the Authentic All-American Girls' Roadtrip.

Roadchick had always pictured Graceland in the middle of a beautiful, park-like setting with gently rolling hills. Roadchick was shocked to discover that Graceland is perched between the Heartbreak Hotel and a KFC.

KFC, Roadchick could understand. The King might get hungry. The Tiger Market and Quickie Car Wash threw her.

Friendage parked the car and Roadchick promptly fell out when she tried to untangle her legs. The entire episode was caught on tape by some Japanese tourists. There are probably copies on the Internet if you know where to look.

Mexico Man was laughing too hard to get out of the backseat. Friendage was collapsed on the hood of the car, wailing. Roadchick gathered the tattered shreds of her dignity, brushed off the seat of her jeans, and everyone headed inside.

The bargain price of $8.75 was the ticket of admission to the Shrine of Tacky. Roadchick was in heaven. Each guest is provided with a mini-headset and tape player for the "Guided Tour". Roadchick's tape player had dead batteries.

Inside Graceland, there are no living employees to assist you with these matters. Roadchick sucked it up and pretended she was deaf and Friendage obliged by explaining things in sign language. No, not real sign language. The tour through the house was all too short. Roadchick wants to LIVE in the Jungle Room.

The tour ends in the Garden. In the Garden is a Memorial Garden. And in the Memorial Garden, is the Eternal Flame of Elvis.

Roadchick was annoyed.

Friendage asked her what was wrong.

Roadchick explained that she came on the tour, fully expecting to see the place where the King of Rock and Roll mounted his throne for the last time.

Friendage gave Roadchick the look that is normally reserved for Very Dangerous People.

"You cannot possibly think that they were going to let you track through Elvis's bathroom."

And Roadchick held up her camera in evidence that she fully expected to be allowed to track through Elvis's bathroom and expected to take pictures as well.

Mexico Man had wandered away while this was going on and was gazing in wonder at the Japanese tourists from the parking lot. They were taking turns posing in front of the Eternal Flame of Elvis while pretending to light their cigarettes from the flame and videotaping the whole process.

It was time to go, before someone talked Roadchick into the same pose.

Roadchick, Friendage, and Mexico Man headed to Tunica. A word of warning. Make reservations. Roadchick and Friendage had reservations. Mexico Man did not. And on a Saturday night in Tunica, there are no rooms to be had. It was true - there was no room at the Holiday Inn.

Mexico Man had to bunk with Roadchick and Friendage. The room was divided up. Roadchick could not sleep. Mexico Man snored and was nearly smothered with a pillow. Everytime Roadchick would start to drop off, Friendage would start punching her pillow. And then, the pork rinds kicked in.

When going to Memphis, make reservations, NEVER, EVER eat pork rinds off a bait shop counter, and always pack an atlas, because contrary to popular belief, not all roads lead to Graceland.

Voodoo Healings

Do any of y'all know where Roadchick can get a voodoo healing? Because, evidently, she has either a.) been born under a BAD sign or b.) she has royally pissed off the gods/goddesses or c.) someone has placed a spell on her.

One of the new guys that Roadchick was liking pretty well called her up last night. This is a good thing.

New guy tells Roadchick: "Can we be friends?"

Never a good thing.

It got even worse: "Because I like you, but I'm moving to Another State."

This is the SECOND guy that has told Roadchick that he intends to move to Another State. Roadchick is beginning to take this personally.

So, because a little punishment is NEVER enough, Roadchick has met yet ANOTHER New Man. For lunch. And he was nice. And he paid. And he even looked like his picture. And he hugged Roadchick goodbye before heading back to work.

Roadchick has become a bit more cynical, a bit more reserved, a bit more cautious. The phonecall is coming. She is sure of it. It may be after the second or third date, but it is coming.

New Man #3 will call Roadchick to let her know that as it turns out, he is Gay. Or turning Gay. Or moving to Another State. Or going to Prison.

So, as you can see, Patient Reader, Roadchick is in desperate need of a Voodoo Healing. Because she has got some FUNKY mojo going on in her life.

Lost in Confusion

Roadchick admits it - she does not understand men. And she's asking for your help.

During the past couple of weeks, Roadchick has gone out with a couple of guys that on the surface were, Very Nice People. A good time was had by all. Enjoyment was the word of the day (or night). Frolic and frivolity. Dinner, caves, movies, motorcyles, swimming pools, movie stars. Well, no movie stars - Roadchick was carried away with the Beverly Hillbilliness of it all.

Roadchick has NOT been pushy. Roadchick has NOT been clingy. Roadchick has NOT registered for wedding gifts at Club Wed at Target. Roadchick has NOT even asked the fatal question, "When are we going out again?" Roadchick has been a good date. Roadchick understands that most of the people on eHarmony are chatting up other folks at the same time - she certainly is! But does talking to a new(er) person mean that you don't have to talk or email ever again with someone that you seemed to have a good time with?

Roadchick has followed up with a thank you email. She has used her Good Manners. She was not freaky weird in the emails. She mentioned that she enjoyed the evening and thanks for everything. She was friendly but not gushy. She expressed an appropriate level of interest for the timeframe involved. (See above: Not Registering For Wedding Gifts.)

Roadchick does NOT understand when manners went out the window. She has not heard from either of the gentlemen. Roadchick is not hideous, scary, weird, or socially retarded. In fact, both of these men told Roadchick, to her face, unprompted by leading questions, that she is pretty and has beautiful eyes. Both of these guys laughed when Roadchick was funny and appeared to be making an effort to impress Roadchick. There was EFFORT involved, people!

Roadchick is beginning to think it's just another plot by the Man to keep a Good Sister down.

So, Roadchick is asking YOU, Patient Reader, to give her some feedback. What's up with the guys? Why no contact? Do you know? Can you ask a Man in your life what the deal is?

I Put Your Picture Away

Roadchick sat down and cried today....



Her MAN - Kid Rock - is engaged to Pam Anderson.

Roadchick just knew he was lookin' for the Payback...

~sigh~

Pardon me, boy?

Is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo? Roadchick would not know because although she spent the weekend in Chattanooga, she did not indulge in any touristy activities.

Roadchick and Best Friend had been talking about getting out of town for several weeks. Roadchick needed to go because she was starting to feel burned out and she wasn't feelin' the love for Nashville anymore. Best Friend because she needed some time away from being a "Smug Married".

The original plan was to take a long weekend and go to the beach. Finances were checked and there was a serious lack of the necessary funds to get to the beach (what with gas being $84,000 a gallon) let alone stay for a couple of days or even eat once there.

Then Roadchick and Best Friend thought they would go to Memphis, because Memphis! is a fun place to go. Beale Street is not to be missed. But, discussions revealed that if a major body of water was not involved, neither Roadchick nor Best Friend wanted to drive that far.

What to do? Go to Chattanooga, of course!

On Saturday morning, Roadchick and Best Friend headed out with swimsuits, towels, and enough clothes to last a week but nary a plan in mind. The drive down was pleasant with much discussion about the men in their respective lives and what to do about them. No conclusions were reached although Roadchick did mention a fantastic entry on Crazy Aunt Purl about the state of boys and dating these days. (If you haven't read it - check it out!)

Roadchick and Best Friend made it to Chattanooga and began looking for a place to stay. There were two requirements - it MUST have a pool, and it must be reasonably priced. As they left the interstate at the Lookout Mountain exit, they were hopeful. There were several motels to choose from. Upon closer inspection - none of these had pools, or if they did, they were indoor pools which was not the point. Getting some sun was the point. Onward.

Best Friend drove to the mountain and started up and part way up, there was a little motel straight from Roadchick's wildest dreams. Straight out of the 1950s. Quick discussion took place and the travelers pulled in and made their way to the office. The office, Patient Reader, was a sliding window on the side of the property owner's house. Cuteness!



Roadchick and Best Friend asked if a room was available for the night and there was. Their hearts sang (SANG!) with joy. The lady broke the news - the only room left was the Honeymoon Suite. Roadchick and Best Friend looked at each other and consulted in whispers.

"Could the room be seen?" And, the answer was yes and they were treated to the grand tour. The room had a queen sized bed, a hot tub, a kitchenette, and a private balcony overlooking the river with a fantastic view of downtown. (Also included, at no extra charge, was a stunning view of the local mental hospital, where Roadchick may check in if her life doesn't calm down some. At least the walls would be soft and Thorazine darts would be abundant.) More whispered consultations.



"Ok, we'll take it."

The nice lady checked Roadchick and Best Friend in and handed over the key. A real key. On a plastic tag. From 1960. No digital security procedures here. No computers either. Or online credit card machines. But, truth be told, none were needed. There was no motel crime in the 1950s and that is precisely where Roadchick and Best Friend were. They were not on a weekend getaway - they had fallen into a time warp. Complete with pointed glances from the owners after Roadchick and Best Friend checked in and headed out for some lunch.

The whispers were almost audible:
"There are lesbians in the Honeymoon Suite!"

Which was absolutely untrue. But funny, nevertheless.

The pool was amazing although a little warm for Roadchick's taste but a pool is a pool and it was almost cool after laying (lying?) out in the sun. Roadchick relaxed and read and enjoyed herself completely.

If you, Patient Reader, would like to step back in time, by all means, plan a stay at the Sky Harbor Bavarian Inn on Lookout Mountain.

Roadchick's potential new Man was called as the sun started sinking in the western sky. Now, new Man had taken Roadchick out the night before and performed admirably - thought was put into the evening and a good time was had by all.

Roadchick, in a playful mood, called new Man to see what he was doing. "Nothing much" was the reply. So Roadchick suggested he get himself to Chattanooga to bring dinner to Roadchick and Best Friend. Y'all - he did. He came to Chattanooga, swam for a little while and then took Roadchick and Best Friend to dinner!
Needless to say, Roadchick was impressed by this show of good sportsmanship. The new Man won points for this behavior.

Dinner was at a little place at the bottom of the mountain and the neon out front bragged about BBQ and catfish. It was also full of Little Leaguers in town for a tournament. Roadchick, Best Friend and new Man found a booth, and prepared to order. The catfish was amazingly good, the ribs were passable, and the cheeseburger Roadchick ordered was pretty good but definitely needed a tomato on it. Roadchick was amused that the salad came in a plastic hospital bowl like you get on your tray when you're having something removed from your internal structure. There was discussion about which hospital had a going out of business sale with their dishware. It was determined that it was probably the mental hospital that featured prominently in the view from the private balcony. The good thing about the salad was...you got your own squeeze bottle of dressing so you could use as much as you wanted without having to pester for more little packets. Also, bravo for bringing an entire PITCHER of sweet tea and another of ice to the table so Roadchick would not have to suffer being thirsty and cursing the waitress for not bringing tea faster.

The downside to the Sky Harbor Bavarian Inn was that the pool hours were posted as 10:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. And, they MEAN it. The pool was padlocked at the witching hour and that was that. And not reopened until the precise moment of 10:00 a.m. which bummed Roadchick out because she woke up early and thought about doing a few laps before packing up and heading out. Alas, it was not to be.

Still, the weekend was an absolute success and Roadchick returned to Nashville rejuvinated and feeling much better about life in general.

Oh, and new Man? His fate is yet to be determined. Although he performed admirably in Good Sportsmanship by driving to Chattanooga and taking Roadchick and Best Friend to dinner, he is failing miserably at Good Manners by not answering Roadchick's email, thanking him for a lovely time. Oh, and no phone call, either. Roadchick is big on Good Manners, moreso than Good Sportsmanship. Because sometimes, in the immortal words of Vivi Walker, you have to "forget love and try good manners instead." Stay tuned, y'all...you never know what might happen next.

And they never let poor Roadchick

....join in any Redneck Games!

Y'all, Roadchick did not know there was such a thing until she was listening to the news this morning. Her invitation must have been lost in the mail. One young redneck was heard to proclaim, "There ain't a lot of teeth here, but there is a LOT of beer drinking."

Events include: the cigarette flip, the mudpit belly flop, bobbing for pigs' feet, the big hair contest, the hubcap hurl, the seed spitting contest, bug zapper spitball, dumpster diving, and the armpit serenade.

Roadchick has taken a personal inventory and is pretty sure that she coulda been a contenda in the cigarette flip and the big hair contest. Not that her hair is big as a rule, but Roadchick remembers back in the day when all hair was large. Roadchick had big rock&roll hair, but she could do big country hair if necessary.

And the cigarette flip...well...let's just say that she's had a bit of practice. Roadchick is proud to announce that in years past, she WON a Miller Lite lava lamp during a bar contest in which one had to flip a folded paper football (remember those?) through the "goal posts" (2 beer truck drivers holding their hands up) and the football that went the farthest, won. Roadchick came home with that lava lamp, much to the disgust of all the redneck boys who had practiced and trained for this very event during all those years in study hall and detention back in high school.

According to the website (linked above), it's $5 per carload to get in to the Redneck games, and y'all can be pretty sure that Roadchick will be marking next year's date on her calendar and planning a roadtrip. Whether or not she will participate will depend on her training schedule....now, where did she put Darlene Hair-Do's phone number???

Motel Stories

Y'all, Roadchick is trying a little something new. You may have noticed in the sidebar, there is a link to a website called "Sunday Scribblings". She is scribbling. Actually, she's been watching the site and this challenge called her name. Because, Patient Reader, Roadchick was in the hotel business. And y'all know there are stories there.

Working in the hotel business is definitely interesting. Just all the different people that you come in contact with during the course of a day make it interesting.

People have asked Roadchick if the stories are true - all the weird things that you hear about people staying at a hotel. Yes, people, the stories are true.

A few entries from files of the weird:

Once upon a time, a large manufacturer was building a plant in a nearby town and Roadchick's hotel was the closest lodging. Many, many executive-type men came and stayed. Executive-types in suits and ties with leather briefcases and cell phones. Professional men. One man, rather high ranking within said corporation was a frequent guest. He never gave off that "caution" vibe that causes hotel employees' antennas to vibrate like the robot on "Lost In Space" - danger, Will Robinson, danger!
Mr. Man called the desk and requested additional towels one fair afternoon. The housekeeper was called and took a stack of snowy towels to the room. The door was slightly ajar - not an unusual turn of events. The housekeeper knocked gently and was told to come in. When she entered, she saw Mr. Executive, clad in nothing but a blanket wrapped around his neck like a cape, jumping up and down on the bed, singing, "Na na na na na na na na BATMAN!" When Roadchick asked her what she did, she replied, "I put the towels on the chair and left."

Then there is the lost and found closet. This is always an interesting place. Y'all, it's AMAZING the things that people leave behind. Things you would think they'd miss before getting out of the parking lot - glasses, keys, wallets, luggage, false teeth. And then there are those items that you would think people would be SURE to take with them - porn mags, sex toys, and other such assorted goodies.

And, Patient Reader, Roadchick has discovered that people, when staying away from home, are pigs. Not all, but a great many of them. Mud on shoes = mud on carpet. Trash everywhere except the trash can. And we won't even discuss the bathroom. Y'all, if you're a guilty party - shame on ya. We always wondered if people lived like that at home and figured that yes, some do.

But along with the funny and the bad, there is the sweet as well. While Roadchick was working there, there was a crew of guys from Mexico that stayed for a long time - about 8 months. They were learning to operate a manufacturing plant that was being transferred to Mexico. They watched out for Roadchick on the nights she was there alone, after midnight. They brought her dinners and lunches. They kept her company and played backgammon. They allowed her to practice her very bad Spanish while they improved their already good English. And they celebrated their first ever Thanksgiving with the crew from the hotel. All the crew members from the hotel made food at home and brought it in. The Mexican guys brought a guitar and sang. And it was one of the loveliest Thanksgivings that Roadchick has ever had. Because those guys were grateful to spend the day with us, and learn about American customs.

So, Roadchick looks back fondly on those days and sometimes she misses them. No two days were ever alike.

But, it also means that Roadchick can do a MEAN housekeeping inspection and she is not too forgiving of nasty hotel rooms that she checks into these days. But, she always leaves the room clean and the trash in the can and takes ALL of her personal items with her.

What? Oh, Roadchick knows what y'all are thinking and shame on you. She meant shampoo.

And the Rockets' Red Glare

The sperm shooting in air . . .

No, Patient Reader, Roadchick has not lost her freaking mind. She went to the fireworks at Riverfront Park in Nashville last night with the Man. And they were lovely. And awe-inspiring. And amazing. Until. . .until. . .there were these white fireworks. And they were kind of squiggly-shaped. And Roadchick started giggling. And the Man was standing next to her, dumb-founded into silence for a moment. And he said it first - those fireworks look like....SPERM! And that was the point that Roadchick burst into all-out hysterics, glad that he said it first because she was wondering if it was her imagination. But no, it was not. Some people a little further back in the crowd were also announcing the stunning similarity to the aforementioned reproductive material. And there were a LOT of them. And they went all over the place. And Roadchick has not the words for further description. Only in Nashville, folks...only in Nashville.

What other activities of note? Let Roadchick ponder the choices. . .

Roadchick and the Man saw the real-life version of Bobby Hill (of King of the Hill fame) as a young adult at a local Waffle House. He was on a cellphone and had the same crewcut and even sounded like Bobby Hill.

Roadchick ordered coffee at the Waffle House and was given a cup with lipstick on it. Ewww. She asked the waitress for a new cup due to the lipstick and the waitress looked puzzled for a short moment until Roadchick explained: "Not my color." Roadchick received a new cup. Hopefully with new coffee, but she cannot be sure of that.

Y'all - Roadchick was under the impression that she had lots more adventures to share with you, but evidently, she does not. Or else, they've hidden themselves due to fatigue. Rest assured that if memory recovery is successful, y'all will be the first to know.

Only two more days until Friday.

On The Road Again

Because Roadchick loves y'all, she made an effort to get herself out of the house on this hot, hot weekend to scare up some adventure for you.

It came to her in a dream, Patient Reader. She woke up on this sunny Sunday morning convinced that she needed to choose a destination and go. Where did she go, you ask?

To Fayetteville. Now, Roadchick has been to Fayetteville before but she thought it would count because it's been years since she went and this time, she was going alone. With a camera and notebook. To see what there was to see.

The answer is - a lot, and not much. Timing, darlings, timing. Sunday morning is not the time to visit a small, Southern town. Unless one is interested in attending Sunday services at any number of churches. However, it is a perfect time to park wherever you would like and take pictures without people getting in the way. And Roadchick is about as patient as a hummingbird on speed so this was a decided advantage.

On a day when things are open, there are shopping opportunities galore, especially if you're looking for antiques or a sandwich. If you are going on a Sunday, take a page out of Roadchick's atlas and pack your own snackables and drink. Roadchick thought she would take advantage of a coffee shop to write down her impressions (how artistic!) while enjoying a latte. Alas, this was not to be. Elk Valley Coffee Company is closed on Sunday. As was the luncheonette (there is still such a thing in Fayetteville!) and the pool hall.

But, Patient Reader, if you love small town squares, Fayetteville is a gem.



Like Roadchick said, the streets were pretty much deserted. She does not know who owned the cars / trucks seen in the picture but they were not seen. Maybe there was a backroom poker game going on at the pool hall. Roadchick does not know.

As she prowled around, a lone skateboarded was parked around the square from her and he was watching her like she might whip out a badge and arrest him for public skateboarding. Cars slowed down to watch Roadchick taking pictures. She has never felt like more of a celebrity or "person of interest" in all her life.

As she wandered down an alleyway behind a church, there was a girl standing in the glass door of the church and she waved and said hi through the glass as Roadchick passed by. This startled Roadchick a little bit. But she managed to wave back to the young girl and then wondered how many Sunday dinner tables she would be discussed over this day. "Did y'all see that woman taking pictures?" "Yeah, maybe she's going to try to rob the luncheonette." "Maybe she's one of those big-time Hollywood location scouts and we're being considered for a movie." Roadchick's imagination gets the better of her sometimes.

In the interest of good reporting, Roadchick also checked out the Walmart. Because how can you go to a strange town and NOT go to Walmart? All right, Roadchick went to Walmart because it was just about the only place in town that she could go to and use the restroom and not have to buy something, like a Big Mac. And she didn't want a Big Mac - she had a nectarine and yogurt in a cooler in the car. Walmart is the same no matter where you go and sometimes that is a comforting thing. Like knowing where the bathroom is located.

There is a beautiful house that has been transformed into an antiques shop. Roadchick wants to live there. Minus the dusty, fusty antiques. It was so beautiful and made Roadchick think of other places - maybe New Orleans.



When Roadchick woke up this morning in a creative frenzy, she also woke up with the desire to paint. As in watercolors. So, Roadchick shot an entire roll of pictures of the things she loves best - buildings and doorways and flowers. She doesn't know that her talent for painting would bring accolades from anyone, but she loves to play with the colors. So, paint she will.

Roadchick and the Man went out on Thursday night. Things may be settling down for him a little bit - Roadchick hopes so, anyway, because she has missed him. But, Roadchick is also proceeding with caution. Her love life has been like a highway covered in black ice - it looks fine and then her ass is in a ditch before she knows it. But, a good time was had by all and there have been phone calls back and forth as well as some pretty amusing text messages. And, hopefully, plans to see Mr. Ronnie Milsap on the 4th of July. Roadchick hopes so, anyway.

Y'all, be careful over the holiday - enjoy & phone a friend if you've enjoyed it a little too much. Roadchick doesn't want to read about y'all in the papers.