Don't Walk - Run!

Living in Nashville, one has the opportunity to attend many music-related events. This is the week of Tin Pan South, a songwriter's festival that occurs annually here in the Music City. This is the 15th year this event has taken place.

At the risk of being labelled a hater, let the 'chick take a moment to admit that she just doesn't get it. The 'chick likes music. She likes live music. She has attended many, many concerts. But she doesn't get why people like to go and hear the people that wrote the songs sing them. They have musical ability and can play guitar and have good voices. But usually, they are the ones that never quite made it to the spotlight. They are the ones who write the songs that make the whole world sing but they're not the ones singing them.

On Tuesday night, the 'chick attended one of the sessions with a group of friends. It was in a bar - always a good thing for these events. There were familiar faces and the 'chick always likes being recognized. So far, so good.

Then the singing started.

There were three women and one man up on the stage. Each of them took turns showcasing different songs they had written and even recorded on the type of CDs that you have to buy at the event because you can't find them anywhere else. The man was excellent. One of his songs was funny, several were poignant - overall, just fine.

One of the women only sang songs about relationships gone wrong. She did finally figure out that the only common demoninator in all her failed relationships was her, but at the cost of the 'chick's sanity.

The other pair of women were a songwriting "group" and their songs all seemed to involve children and angels and puppies and kittens. The contrast between all the sweetness and light and the "he done me wrong" songs from the other female made the 'chick's head spin.

She turned her attention to the crowd instead. Seated at a table close by, there was a young blonde woman in jeans. Seated directly behind her was an older gentleman who, at first glance, appeared to be her father. It was her date.

Blonde woman was exhibiting the signs well-known to women everywhere of "leave me the hell alone - if you're hanging on me, I can't pick up that hot cowboy at the bar." Daddy wasn't getting the hint and actually followed Blondie to the bathroom.

This amused the 'chick to no end and she made sure to point it out for the viewing pleasure of everyone in the group.

As the evening drew to a close and the "done me wrong" singer finished her set, she chose the perfect song: You just can't walk away from a love like ours.

Judging from how fast Blondie was moving, apparently you can't walk away, but you sure as hell can run.

Goodwill Hunting

A new Goodwill store has opened a few blocks from the 'chick's house. Normally, members of the Roadtrip household are not much on shopping at thrift stores except for books or things like that. Digging through racks of previously worn clothing does not rate high on the fun-o-meter.

Last Saturday, Redneck and Roadchick made a trip to the new Goodwill store out of curiousity. There were no parking spaces left. People were parking in the road. Clearly, something good was going on.

It was the Grand Opening of the new store and in honor of the occasion, just about everything was 50% off their already low, low prices. People were carrying huge armloads of clothes. There were squalling children and strollers everywhere. (Did you know that you can buy wedding dresses at Goodwill? You can. However, you CANNOT buy underwear at Goodwill. This is a good thing.)

Redneck wandered off to the Men's Department to look for jeans. Roadchick strolled through housewares and books. Since Redneck was still picking through the racks, the 'chick headed to Women's to see if there was anything worthwhile. There was the usual Megamart-type crap but there were also a LOT of designer label item too. Intrigued, the 'chick dug a little deeper and started her own armload of clothes.

Several outfits later, she emerged from the racks and found Redneck wandering the aisles. He'd found a pair of brand new Levi's for $2.

The total bill for the excursion? $13.

Yesterday, Redneck and the 'chick returned. Once again - jackpot. The 'chick found two more skirts and a shirt and paid $5. Hard to say no to DKNY for $1.50.

It's entirely possible that next Saturday will find the 'chick hunting the racks again. Someone needs to start donating some Manolo's so the 'chick will have some new/used shoes to wear with her new/used clothes.

Open Wide

Lord, y'all, it's been a hell of a week so far.

This morning, the 'chick woke up healthy. By mid-afternoon, she was praying for death and still had a two hour drive ahead of her, just to get home. A lovely co-worker came to the monthly staff meeting with the flu last week. So, just to be on the safe side, considering that the 'chick was coughing her head off, she went to the doctor when she finally got home.

Luckily, her doctor's office does a walk-in clinic in the evenings since the 'chick's illnesses usually refuse to be scheduled or occur during convenient daytime hours.

Roadchick likes her doctor although she avoids going most of the time. He knows this about her so he was shocked to hear that the 'chick's symptoms started only this afternoon. Usually the 'chick will wait a week or two until one of two things happens. 1) She is nearly dead and frightens people in the waiting room. 2) She has battled her way through the initial illness but cannot shake the secondary infection, is nearly dead, and frightens people in the waiting room. The doctor always asks: "Why did you wait so long to come in?" And the 'chick always responds: "Because the 'chick was much too sick to come sit at the doctor's office."

As soon as he heard that there had been flu exposure, he stepped back, feeling for the doorknob.

"Um, I'll just have the nurse do a flu test. Takes about 10 minutes."

And with that, he was gone.

The nurse came in with a rather long cotton swab. The 'chick regarded her, wondering exactly where she thought that overgrown q-tip was going to go. Fortunately, it was only for a nasal swab. Although the 'chick has excellent control over her gag reflex, it does not extend to cotton swabs on long sticks.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Disappearo returned, looking much happier. No flu, according to the q-tip. The 'chick was happy when she saw that he was carrying a sample bag. It's just like Halloween for grown-ups. All you have to do is open wide and say ahhhhhhh. . .and sometimes you get good things.

Come to think of it, that might work well in other situations too.

Roadchick Will Show You Hers . . .

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

As Pacian said - all the cool kids are doing it. Never let it be said that the 'chick didn't jump off the cliff with the rest of the group. Get yours. Join the clique.

Since the 'chick is going to be spending most of the week on the road for work, this may well become The Week of the Meme and Blog Crap rather than leave the blog home alone. If you've seen a good one, feel free to send it the 'chick's way.

We All Wiki

1. Go to wikipedia and type in your birthday, month and day only.

2. List 3 events that occurred on that day.

3. List 2 important birthdays.

4. List 1 death.

5. List a holiday or observance. (if any)

6. Tag 5 other bloggers.

Birthday:

~~~October 27~~~

Events:

1904 - The first underground New York City Subway line opens; the system becomes biggest in United States of America, and one of the biggest in world.

1961 - NASA launched the first Saturn I rocket in Mission Saturn-Apollo 1.

2004 - Curse of the Bambino: The Boston Red Sox defeat the St. Louis Cardinals in Game 4 of the World Series, winning their first championship since 1918.

Birthdays:

1967 - Scott Weiland, American singer (Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver)

1984 - Kelly Osbourne, English television personality (Ozzy Osbourne's daughter)


Deaths:

2003 - Rod Roddy, American television announcer (b. 1937) (from "The Price Is Right" game show) - Guess he was finally told to "Come on down!" Rest in peace, Rod.


Holidays:

United States - Navy Day

Tagged:
Pacian
Autrice
Kim G.
and anyone else that would like to play

Yo Quiero Los Pantalones!

The other night, Redneck and the 'chick went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. It's just a little place in the town where he lives and the food is really good.

As they drove through the parking lot, a mariachi band was entering the restaurant. Redneck asked the 'chick if she still wanted to have dinner there, since it was pretty apparent that the band was going to be playing. The 'chick was feeling adventurous and they decided to stay.

Halfway through the chips and salsa, the band appeared in the bar area. They made their way slowly from table to table, taking requests and playing songs. The 'chick informed Redneck that she really, really wanted a pair of black mariachi pants with silver chains. By now, Redneck knows to just nod and smile and eventually the 'chick will forget all about it.

Until that very moment, it had never occurred to the 'chick that mariachi bands played anything other than typical, mariachi-type music. She was wrong. This mariachi band was much more accomplished than that.

In addition to playing the old standards like La Bamba, Tequila, and O Ye Como Va, this mariachi band also blazed through the fight song of the University of Tennessee (Rocky Top) and that old wedding favorite, the Chicken Dance. (Pollo dance?)

The evening came to an abrupt end though, because when the mariachis approached Redneck and Roadchick and asked if they had any requests, the 'chick blurted out: Yo quiero los pantalones!

There was dead silence for a moment, until the head mariachi, taking the safest way out, calmly informed the 'chick that they didn't know the music to that song. They quickly moved on to another table, away from the 'chick's apparently clothes-snatching ways.

They were just lucky that Redneck doesn't speak Spanish, because he was going to ask for their wallets.

Sold!

Over the past few weekends, Roadchick and Redneck have been attending auctions. Now, lest you think that these were high-falutin' affairs, let the 'chick assure you that they most certainly were not, unless Sotheby's or Christie's has started serving nachos and cheese sticks at their sales.

There is a place in Nashville that holds an auction every Saturday night. They have all sorts of things up for bid, from packages of socks (hopefully new) to home appliances and electronics to furniture. What they have changes every week, so you never know what you might find.

This auction house also buys the contents of storage units whose owners have fallen behind on their rent. All sorts of things come out of those - the items mentioned above as well as mysterious boxes of various items that the renter saw fit to pack up and put in storage.

The mystery boxes are sold complete, contents undisclosed. You never know what's inside until it's handed over to the highest bidder.

Normally, the 'chick is restrained at these affairs, always worried that a misplaced twitch or scratch would find her the high bidder on a 1972 Ford Pinto or a lovely clock embellished with ceramic unicorns.

Two weekends ago, the 'chick caught auction fever. Going home with heartburn from auction cheese sticks was no longer satisfying. She longed to take something home with her that would last. That she could point to on a shelf, to prove that she is a shrewd bidder.

The last mystery box of the evening was being held aloft. The 'chick caught her breath, bidding number clutched tightly. She was ready.

The bidding opened at $2 and rose steadily to $9. Going once, going twice. . . SOLD!

The man brought the box to the 'chick and she savored the moment. What would be inside? A crystal decanter and wine glasses? Silverware? Some rare books, first editions, autographed by the author?

Slowly, the 'chick removed the tape holding the box shut and folded back the top.

Inside?

Inside were two 4-packs of off-brand toilet paper, a bottle of dish detergent, and a (heavy) box of lawn & leaf bags.

Unfortunately, there are no do-overs at the auction.

Your Opinion Counts

Somewhat, anyway.

The BlogLaughs review of the Roadtrip is up.

A few lovers, a few haters, but it's all good.

However, it's been brought to the 'chick's attention that some people might find her habit of writing in third-person somewhat . . . offensive or distracting.

Never let it be said that it's not all about y'all. Here's your chance to cast a vote to determine the future of the Roadtrip.








You'll have to hit "refresh" to see your answers added in if you choose to play along.

Your answers will be taken into consideration, but it's entirely possible that since it's the 'chick's blog, she'll do whatever the hell she wants to anyway.

Ghost in the Machine

Writing about Sylvia Browne the other day made the 'chick think about her own real-life encounters with spirits. A few years ago, Roadchick and Rockboy were moving out of the house that they'd lived in for about five years. The amount of packing to be done was insane and seemed like it would never end.

During that time, odd things began happening around the house. The TV would suddenly change channels but no one was touching the remote. Or else it would come on unexpectedly when no one was in the room. Lights turned themselves on and off.

It was a little disturbing at first, but after a couple of days, Rockboy and the 'chick decided that there was a ghost in the house. It didn't seem to be doing any harm, so they went about their business and the ghost went about its business.

Then the Outlaws came to visit. (Side note: It's never a good time to come visit when people are packing up to move.) Luckily the Outlaws are good sports and without having to be asked twice, climbed into the attic to get everything out of there that Roadchick would've just left behind for the new owners. Especially since most of it belonged to the Now-Former-Mr.-Roadchick. They learned to not be alarmed when the TV or lights started acting up.

One evening, while everyone was in other parts of the house, the dishwasher turned on. Without human assistance. Considering that it took an instruction manual and an engineering degree to get the dishwasher to work, it was not an accident. It was also not loaded with dirty dishes which proved that the ghost was not female.

The 'chick had had enough. She finally had to have a talk with the ghost.

"Roadchick and Rockboy are moving. If you want to do something useful, pack a box. If you want to be entertaining, find a way for the 'chick to get E! Network on cable."

The male ghost was never heard from again.

Channeling the Colonel

There are not many days that the 'chick gets to indulge in daytime TV. Her bosses do not understand that it is vital to be able to keep up with what is happening on "Montel" and "Ellen" and "Oprah". It's more special when you're on a first-name basis.

Wednesday morning was different.

Roadchick got a call from the office manager on Tuesday night. She said the building would be closed for at least part of the day on Wednesday because a pipe broke and there was no water.

Wednesdays are always a good day to be home because Sylvia Browne is on the Montel show, doing her psychic thing. She knows who the murderer is in an unsolved case. She knows that a man in the audience has a piece of metal in his pocket and it changed his life. One man in the audience has already had 42 lives. The 'chick doesn't want 42 lives, unless she gets richer in each one.

Sylvia never gives out winning lottery numbers or tells people which horse to bet on in the third race.

The 'chick wants to go on Montel and talk to Sylvia Browne. She spends time wondering what she would ask if she had the chance. Would she ask which departed relative was thinking of her? Would she ask where her missing earrings are? Would she ask which career best suited her?

The sad reality is that if the 'chick had the chance to talk to Sylvia Browne, she would most likely disgrace herself and ask something completely stupid.

"What are the 11 herbs and spices in the secret recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken?"

Sylvia Browne is the Google of the spirit world.