EC and Diva are monitoring the NYSE via some stock market guru on Twitter. They want to incorporate, and form an LLC called "Escargot.com." Did I mention that both children are still in grammar school? They are "feeling out" the market in order to formulate their IPO (initial public offering).
I'm all, Huh?
Even though we have a combined net worth of 0, the hub understands the lingo and suspects they are "day trading" from our home office, while I'm downstairs drinking my first cup of coffee.
He could be right. As I'm drifting downstairs about 6 a.m., the two velociraptors are in the computer room--each on her own laptop--Googling exchange rates, and saying things like,
"The Euro is still an unstable currency."
"Also, avoid the Yen."
"Shut up, I know."
"Jussayin. Pound Sterling, way to go."
"Agreed."
It's kinda scary. I asked Diva (third grade) last week how much she had saved up in her piggy bank, and she deadpanned, "I'm diversified."
I periodically remind them that I am more valuable to them alive, and active in the workforce. Otherwise, they'd have to liquidate their assets and purchase a mahoghany casket, funeral flowers, and nice shady plot.
L'il Viv says the topic has already come up, and the two devil children have researched on the net, and connected--via Facebook--with a discount crematorium in Texas.
I said, "Are you serious?"
She nodded. "They Yahoo-mapped it. Shortest route. No left turns to save on fuel costs. Those little vermin are smart."
Wish me luck.
Showing posts with label You're Killing Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label You're Killing Me. Show all posts
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My Days are Numbered
Thank you to Li'l Viv for taking over the blogging so I could go do grown-up, responsible stuff, like scrounge up a paycheck. Entrepreneurship forces a person to
educate herself on subjects such as "market inefficiences" and "weasel clauses."
Fortunately, we have mentors for that.
My children, in fact, have inherited he who must be obeyed's work ethic and logistical genius. Said children are, in fact, "in negotiations" to develop the natural area behind our home into an additional single-family housing development.
They recently brought me their surveyor's map and blueprints. Each building lot had been plotted, assessed, and categorized according to "land will or will not perk."
I warily browsed through the map and blueprints, trying to decide if I should encourage their aspirations, or let them know that particular acreage is designated as a natural gas pipeline easement. In the end he who said, "Don't crush a child's dreams. Let them carry on."
The children removed map and schematics from my hands, however, when I admitted ignorance over the whole "land perking" thing. They sighed and took the paperwork into their father's study for review and further strategizing.
This morning, on my way downstairs for coffee, I heard the two velociraptors conspiring in the bonus room. This snippet of their conversation was overheard:
"Mom doesn't understand septic vs city water."
"I know, but don't harsh on Mom. The land that doesn't perk, we can sell to her."
"I guess, but we'll still get stuck with it when she kicks."
"Only if she is predeceased by dad."
Have I mentioned that both children are under the age of 13? Moreover, I have no Balenciagas, no cable tv, and no plasma flatscreen, because I pay through the nose to give these kids a Paideia education at a devoutly Christian school. (Yes, some jokes write themselves.)
It's time for another cup of coffee. Anybody out there volunteer to taste it first?
educate herself on subjects such as "market inefficiences" and "weasel clauses."
Fortunately, we have mentors for that.
My children, in fact, have inherited he who must be obeyed's work ethic and logistical genius. Said children are, in fact, "in negotiations" to develop the natural area behind our home into an additional single-family housing development.
They recently brought me their surveyor's map and blueprints. Each building lot had been plotted, assessed, and categorized according to "land will or will not perk."
I warily browsed through the map and blueprints, trying to decide if I should encourage their aspirations, or let them know that particular acreage is designated as a natural gas pipeline easement. In the end he who said, "Don't crush a child's dreams. Let them carry on."
The children removed map and schematics from my hands, however, when I admitted ignorance over the whole "land perking" thing. They sighed and took the paperwork into their father's study for review and further strategizing.
This morning, on my way downstairs for coffee, I heard the two velociraptors conspiring in the bonus room. This snippet of their conversation was overheard:
"Mom doesn't understand septic vs city water."
"I know, but don't harsh on Mom. The land that doesn't perk, we can sell to her."
"I guess, but we'll still get stuck with it when she kicks."
"Only if she is predeceased by dad."
Have I mentioned that both children are under the age of 13? Moreover, I have no Balenciagas, no cable tv, and no plasma flatscreen, because I pay through the nose to give these kids a Paideia education at a devoutly Christian school. (Yes, some jokes write themselves.)
It's time for another cup of coffee. Anybody out there volunteer to taste it first?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Crying on Cue
Are any of you readers aspiring performance artists? I have news you can use.
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
My fingers hurt.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
Our Creative Director keeps blasting emails about our needing to post anecdotes that encourage Christian women. I dunno. We may need to switch genres to "things that frighten Christian women." That's more of our niche.
Many disturbing things happened today. It's a lot to process. Ponder this:
1. Early this morning Big Viv and I embarked upon a fitness regime with our new personal trainer, Aaron Who Does Not Smile. I can no longer navigate stairs, and will have to sleep on the downstairs sofa. During this odd little number called "the pec fly" we discovered that Aaron--while he does not smile much--is nonetheless capable of barking out a laugh.
2. At lunch, well-deserved after this morning's trauma, Viv's cousin David announced that he is planning a video blog, which he will film while sitting on the toilet. The camera will face David, straight on, as he sits and ponders life aloud.
Can you even believe it? (Not a Christian project BTW.)
3. Vivian's husband, driving his work van, happened to see us in my Honda on Clement and chased us down the street honking his horn and waving a fistful of cash. Evidently it was pay day. Although Big Viv yowled about needing the money for her hair appointment, I was not about to pull over for any man waving a fistful of greenbacks while honking the horn at us. (We dusted him. BV not currently speaking to me, since her roots are still showing.)
So as far as posting something spiritual, I don't know? "Hangeth thou in there" works well for me.
Many disturbing things happened today. It's a lot to process. Ponder this:
1. Early this morning Big Viv and I embarked upon a fitness regime with our new personal trainer, Aaron Who Does Not Smile. I can no longer navigate stairs, and will have to sleep on the downstairs sofa. During this odd little number called "the pec fly" we discovered that Aaron--while he does not smile much--is nonetheless capable of barking out a laugh.
2. At lunch, well-deserved after this morning's trauma, Viv's cousin David announced that he is planning a video blog, which he will film while sitting on the toilet. The camera will face David, straight on, as he sits and ponders life aloud.
Can you even believe it? (Not a Christian project BTW.)
3. Vivian's husband, driving his work van, happened to see us in my Honda on Clement and chased us down the street honking his horn and waving a fistful of cash. Evidently it was pay day. Although Big Viv yowled about needing the money for her hair appointment, I was not about to pull over for any man waving a fistful of greenbacks while honking the horn at us. (We dusted him. BV not currently speaking to me, since her roots are still showing.)
So as far as posting something spiritual, I don't know? "Hangeth thou in there" works well for me.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
Shortly before being sent away for my “vacation,” I met with Greg the Graphics Man (and his wife Sue, a stenographer) to discuss branding my assorted entrepreneurial ventures.
On this particular day my focus was creating a Christian woman’s encouragement blog. I say this so you will know that I mean well. Sometimes, however, meaning well simply does not cut it. Example: the latest confab with Graphics Greg.
Graphics Greg has a brilliant mind, an efficient wife, and he navigates social media the way a teen navigates texting. I, on the other hand, tend to bumble. As I did this particular day, in a free Wifi coffee house near Greg’s home.
After reviewing my brand’s focus group results, Greg says to me (in an urgent tone), “To get where you want to go in media, you must immediately jump on top of bing, blip, and jason. Do you Digg?”
Sue took notes in her steno pad. I watched her write, “Have Viv do bing, blip, and jason.”
I go, “Yeah, Greg, I dig, but um, I don’t play that anymore.”
Greg gave palms up and a frowny face. His brain moves quickly, and he likes to make progress.
A quick glance around the coffee house revealed no eavesdroppers, so I leaned forward (which made Sue retract, interestingly).
I said, “Greg, something happened recently and I became this thing called an Evangelical. I don’t actually do people anymore. Let alone jump on top of them. God is not really down with that.”
Silence from the Graphics People.
Knowing I had done it again, but unsure of how, I stammered on. “Plus, Greg, I don’t actually know Bing, Blip, or Jason, and "Blip" sounds like he could potentially be a midget, and there’s an issue there.” I paused, then said, “For later.”
Greg’s face took on what can only be described as a hostile tone. No words, just a very severe look in his eyes and a flat-lined, mashed together mouth. You know the vibe.
He and Sue exchanged looks. She shrugged. Greg bowed his head and prayed.
The prayer went something like this: “Lord Jesus, I know you brought Vivian into our lives to shepherd as she finds her way, but today is particularly difficult for me. God help me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My eyes welled with tears. Sue began to pack up their laptop, matrices, and steno pad. Greg removed a 3 x 5 lined index card from his shirt pocket and wrote firmly upon it in black Sharpie.
He left the index card on the table, and commanded, “After your vacation, call me.”
Through a fine haze of tears I read the index card. It said simply:
Jason.tv
On this particular day my focus was creating a Christian woman’s encouragement blog. I say this so you will know that I mean well. Sometimes, however, meaning well simply does not cut it. Example: the latest confab with Graphics Greg.
Graphics Greg has a brilliant mind, an efficient wife, and he navigates social media the way a teen navigates texting. I, on the other hand, tend to bumble. As I did this particular day, in a free Wifi coffee house near Greg’s home.
After reviewing my brand’s focus group results, Greg says to me (in an urgent tone), “To get where you want to go in media, you must immediately jump on top of bing, blip, and jason. Do you Digg?”
Sue took notes in her steno pad. I watched her write, “Have Viv do bing, blip, and jason.”
I go, “Yeah, Greg, I dig, but um, I don’t play that anymore.”
Greg gave palms up and a frowny face. His brain moves quickly, and he likes to make progress.
A quick glance around the coffee house revealed no eavesdroppers, so I leaned forward (which made Sue retract, interestingly).
I said, “Greg, something happened recently and I became this thing called an Evangelical. I don’t actually do people anymore. Let alone jump on top of them. God is not really down with that.”
Silence from the Graphics People.
Knowing I had done it again, but unsure of how, I stammered on. “Plus, Greg, I don’t actually know Bing, Blip, or Jason, and "Blip" sounds like he could potentially be a midget, and there’s an issue there.” I paused, then said, “For later.”
Greg’s face took on what can only be described as a hostile tone. No words, just a very severe look in his eyes and a flat-lined, mashed together mouth. You know the vibe.
He and Sue exchanged looks. She shrugged. Greg bowed his head and prayed.
The prayer went something like this: “Lord Jesus, I know you brought Vivian into our lives to shepherd as she finds her way, but today is particularly difficult for me. God help me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My eyes welled with tears. Sue began to pack up their laptop, matrices, and steno pad. Greg removed a 3 x 5 lined index card from his shirt pocket and wrote firmly upon it in black Sharpie.
He left the index card on the table, and commanded, “After your vacation, call me.”
Through a fine haze of tears I read the index card. It said simply:
Jason.tv
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Word from the Incredulous
Dear Cafe Clientele,
He who must be obeyed will not be home for dinner, as he has arranged with his mischief buddy (not my brother, this time), to take an extended tour of the local wildlife preserve's hiking trails--on a Segway!
On a Segway, people. Have you seen the movie "Mall Cop"? I'm saying.
He who must be obeyed has committed this crime against sanity before, with me in tow. Explaining that he had come up with a great Love Dare date, he surprised me with a hiking trail Segway tour, which lasted four and one half hours, and which resulted in my turning prematurely gray.
Nonetheless, I stayed upright and intact the whole tour, much to the chagrin of our park ranger guide. The park ranger, whose name rhymes with Kevin, took pictures of me clutching the handle bar white-faced, and who admitted, after the tour was concluded, that he and his fellows at the ranger station had bet money I would bust it on "Middle-Aged Housewife Pass"--which is their nickname for a curved, steep, rocky gully through which one is forced to maneuver at full throttle.
That said, he who is toting his equally logic challenged buddy out to the nature preserve for a second attempt at self-mutilation and gross facial disfigurement.
I'll keep you posted.
Have a fun, safe day wherever you are, and on the off chance you are on the same tour with he who, tell Kevin to send me some pictures.
Much love,
Vivian Beauchamp
He who must be obeyed will not be home for dinner, as he has arranged with his mischief buddy (not my brother, this time), to take an extended tour of the local wildlife preserve's hiking trails--on a Segway!
On a Segway, people. Have you seen the movie "Mall Cop"? I'm saying.
He who must be obeyed has committed this crime against sanity before, with me in tow. Explaining that he had come up with a great Love Dare date, he surprised me with a hiking trail Segway tour, which lasted four and one half hours, and which resulted in my turning prematurely gray.
Nonetheless, I stayed upright and intact the whole tour, much to the chagrin of our park ranger guide. The park ranger, whose name rhymes with Kevin, took pictures of me clutching the handle bar white-faced, and who admitted, after the tour was concluded, that he and his fellows at the ranger station had bet money I would bust it on "Middle-Aged Housewife Pass"--which is their nickname for a curved, steep, rocky gully through which one is forced to maneuver at full throttle.
That said, he who is toting his equally logic challenged buddy out to the nature preserve for a second attempt at self-mutilation and gross facial disfigurement.
I'll keep you posted.
Have a fun, safe day wherever you are, and on the off chance you are on the same tour with he who, tell Kevin to send me some pictures.
Much love,
Vivian Beauchamp
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Vacation: Survivor Edition
In hopes of supporting Vivian Carter's new sober lifestyle, we invited her along on our family's spring break trip to Mammoth Cave National Park near Bowling Green, Kentucky. Although L'il Viv prefers to experience nature through her car's windshield and laptop screensavers, she gamely agreed to accompany us to this dry county for a week's worth of exercise and fresh air.
Shout Out to the National Park Service: Mammoth Cave National Park includes nearly 58,000 acres of wilderness and hiking trails. The property's lodge includes a restaurant and cafe, and seems to be very green and eco-friendly. Very affordable also, since it's underwritten by tax dollars. This park is a testament to tax money well spent. If we voters could specify where our tax dollars go I would support the National Park Service.
And now back to relishing the misery of close friends.
We five bold souls took lovely cave tours, including the four and one half hour Grand Avenue Tour, which had us all hiking four miles, hundreds of feet underground. (That's a postive thing.)
The real karma-buster was our family's reaction to poor L'il Viv losing her hiking mojo after two hours, subsequently tottering and sputtering like a short-circuited Roomba throughout the last part of the tour. If the ranger guides had offered to bear her out on a stretcher, she would have sold her Beanie Baby collection to fund their tip.
In addition to being very steep and slippery with dripping water, some of the cave passages were extremely narrow. Warnings were given to the morbidly obese and chronically infirm to avoid this particular expedition.
That said, picture a weary and struggling (non-obese) Viv tripping backwards into a pair of nine-year-old twins and collapsing the back of our tour line like a strand of dominoes. I am hooting like a hyena remembering. This makes me a bad person, and I deserve to live the rest of my natural life without Velveeta cheese grits.
Not only did we hike underground, we also explored many miles of outdoor trails. Sadly the birdsong was drowned out by L'il Viv's huffing and puffing that the fresh air and brisk hikes were killing her.
Vivian Carter twittered that she is still searching online for a commemorative t-shirt that reads: I went to Kentucky and all I got was this lousy body bag.
Well, I'm off to jog around the neighborhood. Some of us want to maintain the good health habits we enjoyed on our vacation.
Have a great day!
Big Vivi
Shout Out to the National Park Service: Mammoth Cave National Park includes nearly 58,000 acres of wilderness and hiking trails. The property's lodge includes a restaurant and cafe, and seems to be very green and eco-friendly. Very affordable also, since it's underwritten by tax dollars. This park is a testament to tax money well spent. If we voters could specify where our tax dollars go I would support the National Park Service.
And now back to relishing the misery of close friends.
We five bold souls took lovely cave tours, including the four and one half hour Grand Avenue Tour, which had us all hiking four miles, hundreds of feet underground. (That's a postive thing.)
The real karma-buster was our family's reaction to poor L'il Viv losing her hiking mojo after two hours, subsequently tottering and sputtering like a short-circuited Roomba throughout the last part of the tour. If the ranger guides had offered to bear her out on a stretcher, she would have sold her Beanie Baby collection to fund their tip.
In addition to being very steep and slippery with dripping water, some of the cave passages were extremely narrow. Warnings were given to the morbidly obese and chronically infirm to avoid this particular expedition.
That said, picture a weary and struggling (non-obese) Viv tripping backwards into a pair of nine-year-old twins and collapsing the back of our tour line like a strand of dominoes. I am hooting like a hyena remembering. This makes me a bad person, and I deserve to live the rest of my natural life without Velveeta cheese grits.
Not only did we hike underground, we also explored many miles of outdoor trails. Sadly the birdsong was drowned out by L'il Viv's huffing and puffing that the fresh air and brisk hikes were killing her.
Vivian Carter twittered that she is still searching online for a commemorative t-shirt that reads: I went to Kentucky and all I got was this lousy body bag.
Well, I'm off to jog around the neighborhood. Some of us want to maintain the good health habits we enjoyed on our vacation.
Have a great day!
Big Vivi
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