In the Dime Zone with Elvis

If you ever find yourself in Elvis' hometown of Memphis, TN (as we did for a few hours on Saturday night—long story), you have to stay at the Holiday Inn Select near the airport.

For a mere $70 plus tax you can live like the king for the night. It’s perfect if you have to catch a flight out of there early in the morning as we did. However, they won’t let you pay by the hour. (“We’re not that kind of place.”) Oops.

Ask for room 450. It’s the party suite:


It’s got a big king bed…

A banquet table…

And a bar area.

Hello? Can you say dime zone? I thought at first it was the pretty girl discount but since we had been driving through a tornado for six-and-a-half hours and had gone without showers longer than I care to say, that couldn’t be it.

Too bad we were only there for about four hours and we didn’t have any booze. I did, however, tear into a pretty good packet of peanut butter crackers at the banquet table.

Maybe we were living like fat, Vegas Elvis.

Have you seen me?

Name: Big Blue Recycle Bin
Born: 12/16/06
Missing Since: 2/16/07
Height: 4 feet, 2 inches
Race: Blue
Weight: 100 pounds (full of recyclables) or 30 pounds (empty)
Last seen with: Recycle Pick-up Guy

If anybody has any information as to the whereabouts of our dear Big Blue Recycle bin, please contact me. I called 3-1-1 to report it missing but of course, they can’t do anything on a “holiday.” I did speak to someone and I indicated that I suspected it was bin-napped. “Isn’t there an Amber Alert for this sort of thing?” I asked. “No, but how can we be sure SOMEONE ELSE stole it, huh?” the sanitation dept. official said. “We will have to do a thorough investigation to rule out EVERYONE, including you.”

How dare she suggest that I had something to do with this! I am innocent! I had no reason to steal my own recycle bin. It’s probably some recycling pervert. He’s probably wanted in another state like Wyoming. If you’re reading this and you have our bin, just return it, unharmed. It’s just a baby! I need it back. And dammit, I’ve got a lot of cardboard piling up.

Pressing Pause

Frank once said to a girlfriend, “I think of our relationship like a VCR. I’m going to press pause.”

Now even though that was clearly a statement made in the 90’s and a DVD reference would be more applicable now, I’m going to use it.

My blog is like a VCR. I need to press pause.

I’ve had to re-prioritize and oddly enough, it turned out that the work that I get paid for had to come first.

You might say, “But writing a blog doesn’t take any time.” To that I say, “Well, it shouldn’t. But I’m a little slow.”

You might also say, “But writing the blog IS your job! It’s your livelihood!” To that I say, “If this was my livelihood I could never afford that fancy soy milk.”

You might ask, “Will you be gone forever?” To that I say, “Please refer to the VCR reference. I’m not pressing “power” or even “stop.” Just “pause.” I might check in once a week, maybe twice a week. Who knows? Maybe I’ll post on Saturday night. Hey, I said I’m busy with writing, not with a social life.”

You might want to know, “How long will you pause?” To that I say, “Well, you can only pause so long, especially if you have a Beta machine. Eventually the pause button unpauses and goes on with the movie.”

I’m not really sure how that relates to this but I’m guessing maybe a month or so. Again, I may still post, just not every day. And it’s possible you might have to adjust the tracking.

Let them eat cake! (Or at least let me!)

I’m so glad I temporarily forgot my doorbell rule yesterday (that nothing good comes from answering your door). Well, I actually did hide upstairs when I heard it ring but Frank answered and it was the only good reason to ever answer your door: Girl Scout Cookies!


I was relieved that we had only ordered three boxes. I know, that sounds pathetic (since I’m so crazy about them) but ever since the Granbury Girls cookie exchange in November, I’ve been going sweet silly. There was about two weeks of cookies after that, then Christmas with its Friendship cake from Grandma, eggnog, brownies, chocolate cookies…Then it was New Year’s in Durango with the Omaha Steaks cake (which I also had in December). Before I knew it we were in January with Thea’s birthday cake, my birthday cake from Cul de Sac Carrie, another birthday cookie cake from Frank and then of course, the PB Pie Extravaganza of 2007.


After the PBPE of ’07, I told myself I had to back off the sweets. I would just stick to Vitatops for my sugar highs. But then the GS cookies came. Now one of the boxes happened to be a new kind: sugar free brownies. We tried them last night. They’re all right—if you know they’re sugar free.

And now, look what’s coming up: Valentine’s Day. I know Frank will bring home a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates for me and I’ll have to try every one of them. Wait. I think those things are expensive. Scratch that.

But I am hosting a Granbury Girls post Valentine’s Day gathering at my house. It’s called “We HEART Granbury Drive.” Instructions are to wear red and pink, but not together. I wonder if I should instruct them not to bring any sweets. Nah, then they’d have to eat my sugar free Girl Scout brownies and that would just be cruel.

Oh, well. I’ll start my sweet stand-off after Valentine’s Day. I guess I could give them up for Lent. But that would mean no sweets for St. Patrick’s Day, Texas Independence Day and the Ides of March! I can’t do that. In fact, I’m going to have to pick up some more Girl Scout cookies just to get me through those sweet-filled holidays.

Mini Frankosophy

I don’t have time for a full blog today so I’ll just give you something funny Frank thought of last night:

Frank: “You know who’s really happy about Anna Nicole dying?”

Me: “Happy? That’s not very nice. That guy who claims he’s the father of her baby?”

Frank: “No, it has nothing to do with Anna Nicole but her dying makes it better for this person…”

Me: “OH!!! The Diaper-Wearing Astronaut!!”

Permanent Pimpin'

72 Days is…

a). The amount of time you can keep lunch meat in your fridge before it starts to taste like Lysol.

b). How long it takes for my brown roots to start peeping out.

c). The number of days I’ve had this pimple on my face


Answer: C (sorry I would have put it upside down and smaller but I don’t know how to do that.)

On the bright side: it’s not as big as when it first appeared in 2006.
On the dark side: it’s still here.

What is it doing here? What is its purpose? Does it have a message for me? Is it actually a spaceship and aliens are going to emerge from it?

I want to thank everyone for their pimple remedies. I’ve tried them all. And while I don’t doubt that your solutions are successful, I think they are merely what you say they are—pimple solutions.

This, my friends, is no pimple. It laughs at pimples. It bullies pimples. It squashes pimples. This is some other life form that can’t be controlled by Oxy, toothpaste or Visine. No amount of face-washing, cleansing and toning can defeat this beast. It’s too powerful.

So I have no choice but to grow to love it. I’ll have to think of it as my own version of Cameron Diaz’s crooked nose (wait, she fixed that) or Kelly Clarkson’s big bootie (darn, she got skinny) or Pink’s trademark hair color (didn't she go blonde?)

Yes, I’ll just be known as “The girl with the bite on her face.” People will say, “Which one is she?” And someone will say, “You know, that girl who has that huge bump on her face.” And the original person will go, “Oh, right! Now I know who you’re talking about. Why doesn’t she get that fixed?”

Because it’s a part of me. And like the 72-day-old lunch meat in my fridge, it’s here to stay.

Little Orphan Panties

The other day Cul de Sac Carrie and I were doing our power walk when she pointed to the ground and said, “Oh, look. You lost your panties.”

Yes, there was a pair of pink satin panties right there in the street. A thong I believe. And while I’m pretty sure they didn’t belong to me, this wasn’t my first encounter with abandoned panties.

In the sorority house it happened all the time—panties left on the community bathroom floor. Why was that my problem? Because I was the house manager and apparently unclaimed panties fell under my jurisdiction.

After several futile attempts to stop the careless panty behavior (suggesting, pleading, sometimes directly accusing: “I know those briefs with the snowmen on them are yours, Laura!”), I tried a new tactic. I made the panties do the talking. I left a note on the bathroom floor next to a pair of discarded panties:

“Hello. I am dirty, random panties. I was once somebody’s prize possession. Somebody spent a lot of money on me. But then they just left me here on the bathroom floor to collect dust. It’s humiliating. I don’t know why they won’t just come pick me up and put me in the washing machine. Then I’d be as good as new! Would somebody else please claim me? I’ll do your homework for you!"

Love, Random Panties

While my messages attracted attention (much like my popular “pottie ponders” in the stalls), they didn’t prove helpful in placing the panties with their rightful owner. Eventually, I would have to put on gloves and dispose of the panties myself.

I guess after awhile the person who had left her panties in there was just too embarrassed to claim them. I mean, what if she wore them again and we happened to catch her? But this was before the low-rise jeans craze so that couldn’t have been it.

Now if you’re the one who left your panties in the street, I don’t blame you for not picking them up. They’ve been run-over, ruined by dogs and are basically dundies. But what I’ll never understand is how you lost your panties in the first place.

Were you driving to the laundry mat with the top down on your car? Are they evidence in some sort of scandal so you were discarding them? Or did you walk to the Goodwill and buy panties and then drop them on the way home? Wait, they don’t sell panties at Goodwill, do they? Well if they do maybe I could donate all the orphaned panties that I've found. Then I'd get a tax write off and all those poor panties could go to good homes.

Playing Games

I don’t get Deal or No Deal. I mean, I’ve never watched it but I think that all you do is guess how much money is in a suitcase. Am I right? Frank says, “That’s like a show where you hold out your fists and say ‘which hand is it in?’”

Me, I like the more high-brow game shows like Wheel of Fortune. Now that takes brains, quickness and strategy. But those idiots are always buying vowels all over the place. I would never buy a vowel. Big waste of money. I went to a taping once and at the end they were going to draw numbers from the audience so we could actually be contestants. At first I was psyched. I totally rock that game at home. I make fun of people. I get those speedy puzzles before anyone else. But there, in front of Pat and Vanna, I panicked. I was so scared they were going to draw my number that I withdrew, saying that my boyfriend worked for American Airlines, one of the sponsors (which was true but probably not a rule they enforced).

But I’ll never forget this one contestant circa 1998. Here’s what she had to work with:

T_E CL_NT_NS L_VE AT 1600 PENNSYLV_N_ _ _VEN_E


The contestant said, “The Clintons Live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.” Can you believe that? What an idiot!

Oh, wait. This may not have come across clearly in blog-form:

She didn’t say that they “live” there as in they inhabit the house, she said “live” with a long "I" as in, “The Rolling Stones: Live and in concert!” So it came out as “The Clintons: Live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue!”

Poor Girl.

In general, though, game shows make me feel icky, much like soap operas. They remind me of lounging around and being generally unproductive, something I only allowed myself to do in college, when my parents were paying for it.

On Mondays when I’m leaving spin class they’re always playing The Price is Right in the “cardio theater.” I don’t know how anybody can work out and watch Bob Barker. To me, seeing him just makes me want to lay around in my pajamas in my dorm room, pondering if I should eat lunch or breakfast since it’s 10:30 and I just woke up (and missed class).

And hearing him say, “Get your pets spayed and neutered” just makes me want to go back to bed.

I’m feeling lazy just talking about it. I really should get into that “guess which hand it’s in” show instead. I would totally rock at that.

PB Pie High

It was a roller coaster of emotions as I devoured this “Peanut Butter Pie” which was similar to a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup but twenty times as big, a hundred times better and with lots of whip cream:

Surprise: Wow, it’s bigger than I thought it would be.
Amazement: Oh. My. Gosh. This tastes so good.
Competitive: Frank is eating too fast. Must speed up.
More surprise: Chocolate AND Peanut Butter? This is no pie. It’s heaven.
Frustration: Frank is totally hogging it. I want more whip cream.
Jubilation: This is absolutely the best dessert I’ve ever had in my life.
Regret: Why did I opt to share it with Frank? I should have gotten my own.
Optimistic: I’m so happy that there’s still half left.
Pessimistic: I’m so sad that there’s only half left.
Jealousy: I think Frank ate more than me.
Panic: I have to hurry and take more bites before Frank eats the whole thing!
Contentment: I think I might be getting pretty full. But it tastes so freakin’ good.
Confusion: Are my pants getting tight?
Panic again: Am I going to be able to get out of this booth?
Reasonable: I need to stop and take a break. Maybe we should save the rest for later.
Spontaneous: No, I have to live for the moment! I must finish this now! Carpe Peanut Butter!
Denial: Is it really gone? Did we finish the whole thing? Maybe there’s some that fell on the floor.
Anger: That Frank. He ate most of what was the best dessert I've ever had.
Regret: Why did I eat the whole thing? I think I ate more than Frank. I’ve never been so full in my life. This is worse than Thanksgiving 2002.


It’s 39 hours later and, as I write about it, I’m kinda wanting it again. Damn that delicious dessert! It's really got a hold on me. I wonder if there’s a program for PB pie addiction at the Wonderland treatment facility. Lindsay, need a roommate?

Soy Joy

I’ve never really been on the soy band wagon. I mean, I believe that it’s good for you but I’ve just never been willing to pay the price for it. The thing is, I love milk and for a sogger like myself to indulge in soy milk, well, it would get pretty expensive.

But then I got this coupon for 8th Continent Soy Milk. When I went to buy it the vanilla flavor caught my eye. When I was little my mom would sometimes put vanilla in our milk and it was pretty awesome.

So anyway I bought it and here are my conclusions:

Vanilla soy milk in my Kashi? A soggin’ good time.
Vanilla soy milk with a Vitatop? Vita-fabulous
Vanilla soy milk in my oatmeal? Oat-standing.
Vanilla soy milk on its own? A little off. I think it’s an acquired taste.

Now, just as with Chap Stick, my new space heater and that stupid MTV show Maui Fever, I’m addicted.

And you know how when you hear something once you hear it all the time? Like I just reviewed this workout video called “The Bollywood Dance Workout” and I was all, “What the heck is Bollywood?” I even wrote that in the article: “What the heck is Bollywood?” And now I hear Bollywood everywhere. Apparently everyone knows what Bollywood is except me. This also happened with that chick from Heroes, Hayden Patterininmini. I saw her once in the Neutrogena commercial and then I started watching the show and now she’s in my US Weekly (which I’ve changed from Jess Weekly to Justin Weekly) and Parade.

But anyway, back to the milk. Hungry Girl’s all into it and so is Bob Greene, Oprah’s Trainer. He tagged it with one of his “Best Life” stickers. If BG says it’s good, I’m all about it.

Frank is afraid of it because it’s sort of a weird off-white color. I think that’s just the vanilla flavor though. You should try it, even if you’re a cruncher. Here’s a coupon you can download.


Plus, it has SOY, people! I don’t know what that means exactly but it's gotta be as good for you as Bollywood.

I Can Hardly Retain Myself

For the last seven months I have had some sort of apparatus on my front lower teeth. First, there was the gum surgery. In its aftermath I was required to wear this “gum band-aid" for several weeks. And this had nothing to do with Hubba Bubba.

Then in September I dressed my teeth with the tiny rubber bands. I’m still finding those things everywhere—in the car, in my purse, at my neighbors’ houses.

Around November I got the retainer. My orthodontist said I had to wear it all the time until January 31st. Then he would decide if I could go to a night-only retainer regimen.
I called January 31st T-Day—Teeth Freedom Day. Okay, I just made that up now but I really was looking forward to it. I mean, this thing is really getting in the way of my grazing.

Well T-Day came with somber news: I have to continue wearing the retainer another THREE MONTHS! That’s until the end of April! I’m talking full-time retainer-wearing.

And to think this Saturday is the 13 year anniversary of the day I got my braces off. And I’m celebrating it as a 30-year-old with a retainer. Nice.

I guess I’ll just have to look forward to April 30th, my next T-Day. I’m gonna have a big party but nobody’s invited. I want all the grazing to myself.