I’m on the way to Atlanta with the family. The purpose of the trip is four-fold:

1. To take 17 year old to visit Emory University

2. To go see Muse in concert on Saturday.

3. To meet the mother of our next labradoodle. (please don’t tell Lily the labradoodle. I want to tell her myself when the moment is right)

4. To test out blogging with my thumbs from my BlackBerry while riding directly into the sun on one of the most heaven forsaken stretches of interstate highway in the nation, I-20 between Florence and Columbia, SC.

On Friday I have a post up at (Travel Writers Exchange) http://www.travel-writers-exchange.com/ (sorry I can’t make the link all pretty. I’m wondering if there’s any chance it will fix itself). It’s a great site for travel writers and bloggers, but a lot of the content is relevant for writers and bloggers in general.

With a little luck a couple of photos may show up here too. I’ll probably get online tonight and be horrified by the sheer wonkiness of it all in regards to this post. I’m really hoping the photos show up because don’t two mediocre elements make one okay blog?

Don’t answer that.

Sparkle's first snowball fight ever happened within 10 minutes of the first flake. Check out that folow through.

Did you you hear that this past Friday, 49 states had snow? According to the Associated Press at dawn on February 13, more than two thirds of  the United States’ land mass had experienced a least a dusting of snow. The lone holdout was Hawaii. Surprisingly that state’s Mauna Kea volcano, at 13,800 feet, usually sees a fair amount of snow throughout the year; it just happens that on this past Friday and Sunday there wasn’t any.

According to the article, Patrick Marsh a Phd candidate in meteorology at the University of Oklahoma, put out a call that he was collecting photos of snow on the ground in all 49 states. He was immediately inundated. If I’d known about it, I would have sent him several of the 500 I took from South Carolina.

“It just shows that deep down inside, all of us is a weather weenie, a weather fanatic,” Marsh said. “This is just an awesome weather event.”

I come from a long line of “weather weenies.” Using our nation’s newfangled weather speak, my mother has been known to call me across the span of several states to warn me of approaching “cells.”  I try to play it cool, that I am some kind of exception to cultural influence and genetics, but truth be told I often  take it upon myself to wise-up friends and loved ones with similar notifications of encroaching dire weather weather phenomenon like  “radiation fog,” “correlated shears,”  and rapidly  approaching “supercells.”

Dave, Sparkle and I were in Charleston this weekend to experience the rare coastal South Carolina snowstorm. My not-so-inner weather weenie got unusually excited when I saw an even more rare weather happening called “blue lightening,” followed by the sound of what I think were electrical transformers popping. We didn’t lose power, but did lose cable in the middle of the Olympic’s opening ceremony. It  may have been a blessing in disguise of sorts, because it occurred in the middle of the second hour of dancing Indians, but we got over it and went to bed.

Snow didn't stick around long on Charleston's East Battery

Tiny mystery snowmen appeared on top of cars throughout the city overnight.

... and on park benches. It was like playing, "Where's Waldo?"

Snow on flower boxes and palm fronds looked a little strange...

... but kind of dreamy on the camellias which bloom this time every year

But my favorite thing about our weather weenie weekend was  definitely this:

Whenever possible Sparkle continued to break into snowball fights for the next 20 hours

I know most of you non-weather weenies, or at least those of you who have had so much snow this winter that you’re ready to melt Frosty with a blowtorch, will forgive me for this gratuitous and enthusiastic snow post. The guests at our bed and breakfast from the Washington, DC area seized the opportunity to enthusiastically tell us we were nuts. They tried to pretend as if they weren’t weather weenies at all anymore. Frankly I didn’t buy  it.  They couldn’t help but reveal their inner weather weenies by repeatedly saying things like, “you better get some dry gloves on that kid, QUICK,” as if her fingers were about to crack off right there on the oriental rug. Or my favorite, “This is nothing! You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen 36 inches in your driveway.”

I’m sure they were simply angry that they came all the way to South Carolina just to see more snow. But Lord knows that weather weenies we all are, we would have still probably talked about the weather. We just wouldn’t remember it.

]]> http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/02/unexpected-weather-for-your-average-family-of-weather-weenies/feed/ 16 http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/02/leave-the-luggage-to-us-would-have-been-a-good-idea/ http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/02/leave-the-luggage-to-us-would-have-been-a-good-idea/#comments Wed, 10 Feb 2010 22:41:12 +0000 Margo http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/?p=2524

Who knew there was a collection of Elvis wines?

There really aren’t that many people whom I would stand in line to have my picture taken with.  Elvis would be one of them. I know Elvis hasn’t been with us here on earth for a while, but his memory lingers on, right smack in the middle of Cecilia’s and my first stop on the way to the Gaylord Opryland last week.

If you’re looking for Harry Connick, Jr. photos from the Blissdom conference, you’ve come to the wrong place. Don’t get me wrong, I would love to have had my picture taken with Harry. How cool is it that Harry Connick, Jr., makes an appearrance at your conference? I just detest the idea of standing in a long line to end up with a picture of myself with tall dishy Harry, and be faced with the fact that I didn’t look nearly as cute as I thought I did. I treasure my delusions. And I don’t want to think what this means for the vlogging ambitions that I walked away from the conference with.

Hope Ceclilia Doesn't Sue Me, but this Was our First Stop in Nashville

Does this zippy little Volvo look like an economy car to you? The nice man at the Alamo desk asked me if I wanted an upgrade for only $38 dollars. Even the way he said it, I could tell he didn’t think $38 was nothing. I politely declined. Alamo gave me this stylin’ ride anyway. It sure beats my ancient minivan as a mom getaway car.

I liked my wheels so much I came close to not turning it back in on Sunday – at least in my mind. I considering driving, instead of flying back to Myrtle Beach, stopping by Asheville on the way with Cecilia.  Turns out I’m not that much of an Ann Tyler novel cliche yet.  Have any of you read any of her novels? In at least two of them the main character, a straight-laced but somewhat loopy mother of teenagers, hops in the car and leaves. I imagine this woman would drink lots of Elvis wine.

Tea Party Hardy!

You may have heard that the National Tea Party Convention was in Nashville at the same time and place as Blissdom.  I fully expected to run smack into Sarah Palin or at least Sean Hannity, if only for storytelling value. I didn’t see any famous tea partyers unless the couple pictured above is renowned in tea party circles. I did meet some attendees on the elevator. They were very friendly and I thought pretty easy to differentiate from the Blissdom attendees, but they kept asking if we were here for the Tea Party.

I got a few, “So what exactly is a blog, anyway?”

“Ask Sarah and Todd Palin,” did NOT fly out of my mouth.

We did notice lots of security “detail” (isn’t that what they say?),  but I don’t think the tea partyers had anything to worry about. Anyone looking to make trouble for them would have to successfully navigate The Gaylord Opryland jungle/rainforest. In case you haven’t heard, this is no small feat (see map to the left of the above couple).  Not only is the Gaylord Opryland huge, nothing is situated at right angles. The entire complex is under-roof so there isn’t any hope of triangulating oneself by the sun. To top it off seemingly haphazard escalators and stairways present themselves just as you sense yourself coming into range of your room while lugging a 100 pound suitcase.

My suggestion to the Opryland would be to think about providing overconfident visitors like me and Cecilia, a special Garmin-type nav system made especially for the Gaylord Bio-dome. It could even speak to you in the voice of George Jones, Vince Gill or Kellie Pickler. I’m fairly certain we’re not the first two customers to get  in over our heads finding our room. At one point I wanted to jump in the “river” and hold my suitcase over my head, as a soldier would  hold a rifle while wading through the jungles of Vietnam.

In the meantime when Opryland front desk personnel observe two women carrying full bottles of vodka and wine in flimsy plastic bags that aren’t long for this world, headed off brazenly to their room: Stop them and insist that they should probably USE A BELLMAN.

Get a Free Suitcase with any $250 purchase!

Remember how obscenely proud of myself I was when I packed everything in one suitcase? It didn’t take me long to remember what it was that I was forgetting in my post: A fold-flat tote bag for anything I might accumulate during the trip.

On our last night, as I set out on my search of  such a tote bag at one of the Gaylord Opryland’s many shops, I saw the above sign. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I found it promising for my prospects.

Oh how wrong one can be! And I had been so optimistic in finding the right thing to pack my water bottle, two travel mugs and Hershey’s chocolate Bliss. I found a $79 Oprah’s Favorite gym bag, which definitely wasn’t what I was looking for, or even cute. In typical form, it took me 20 minutes of staring at it to realize this.  Yes, I ended up at the local Target on my way to the airport the next day.

(I know this isn’t your average conference round-up piece. But then again maybe it is. Like I say, I treasure my delusions. Seriously – I met so many wonderful women bloggers this weekend – and I can’t believe how much I learned in such a short period of time. I look forward to keeping in touch!)

This vast cavern provides an unexpected rush of optimism.

Until today I was not an efficient packer. When it comes to air travel, I’ve always been a two bag, over the weight limit kind of gal. Blame it on the fact that since the birth of my first child – 17 years ago - I don’t get out enough. So when I do, I go a little nuts.

In honor of the fact that I am starting a travel website and I am going to the Blissdom conference tomorrow in Nashville, I’ve challenged myself to pack in one little bitty old suitcase. This piece of luggage, my more intrepid husband’s 22″ Travelpro, theoretically could even be carried on the plane. I tell you right now, that isn’t going to happen. (I thought it might for around 5 seconds, but when I mentioned it to Dave this morning he seriously spewed his coffee.)

All women know the TSA regulations for carry-on bags are meant for annoying people: females who are size quadruple zero and don’t wear make-up and men who don’t ever change their clothes. Since I plan to change my clothes like Oprah on crack, the idea of carrying on my one and only suitcase will just have to remain conceptual. I’m more than a little willing to pay up.

But beware: I plan on testing the Travelpro 5’s expansion technology to the point of near rupture. Is that the entire contents of my flying closet sprinkled on the tarmac?  Not to worry – the xanax is in my purse.

As I begin, I can’t help but notice that this suitcase looks like it can really hold a lot. Then I remember these:

Premptive Strike: Yes, I've pulled the pair I'm wearing on the plane already. And yes, that's two pair of boots.

When packing,  it is better use of space to roll, instead of fold clothes.

Rolled clothes for 4 days sans shoes and underpinnings

Underpinnings? I’m not even sure what that word means. It sounds so architectural. Well, if it doesn’t mean “everything that goes underneath” – it should, so I’m leaving it.

There are several zippered sections for things that go underneath and things that don’t leave the room (like pajamas, work-out clothes – yeah, right - and toiletries)

Ready to follow my bliss

I am going to wear the black boots to fly, but other than that, it all fits nicely with a little room to spare. Any ideas on what I might be forgetting?

My friend, Mayor of Sass from Sasstown is going to be at Blissdom. I can’t way to meet her! Anyone else going? I’m looking forward to meeting you!

Lily the Labradoodle

Here’s love disguised as a mop! -  Peter Gray

(because I find myself wordless a day late)

]]> http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/01/love-disguised-as-a-mop/feed/ 11 http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/01/id-rather-rotate-crops-than-book-purge/ http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/01/id-rather-rotate-crops-than-book-purge/#comments Tue, 26 Jan 2010 16:27:28 +0000 Margo http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/?p=2442

Dave in this kind way of his that defies reason, except insofar as it kind of explains how he manages to  love me, mentioned a few weeks ago that perhaps I could go through some of my books.

“Just give some away,” he said, as if that were the easiest thing to do on earth.

He doesn’t know that I know he is farming me, I think as he walks away without making eye contact. The guy was planting a seed. I am the dense soil; he is the farmer. Action wasn’t expected. As all good farmers do, he sent up a prayer and moved on.

Imagine shelves lined with books neatly arranged according to genre and author. Now picture the exact opposite.

I could get a clear shot of this one because it is still pulled out from the wall from when the cable guy was here two weeks ago.

I’m trusting you with this image to not think less of me. Sharing’s not easy.

In my defense, my family isn’t great at respecting the boundaries of each other’s cornfields. Under the cover of darkness they have willfully turned my “office” into a memorabilia and mystery laundry purgatory.  Sure the farmer and the chillin’ give lip service to the contrary, but in truth my “office”  is a rather cushy storage area  for everyone in the family’s crap. Instead of an office, or even a  junk drawer, what we’ve got here is  junk room. In the clan’s defense, I’m certain that someday in the future everything in my “office” will be critical for our continued existence.

But when Farmer Dave throws his empty suitcase in here with the intent of  someday returning it to its appropriate closet – or should I say stall -   I know the end – the one where my office is nothing more than a glorified silo  – has arrived.

This morning I was in the middle of searching for a book in my glorified silo,  the title and subject of which now elude me, when I switched gears, probably because of that pesky little seed Farmer Dave planted in my not-so-fertile mind. For around five minutes I gave this massive book depository of mine, located in an untended field of sawgrass rug, my full attention.  Since I am now writing this, it’s pretty obvious that this attention didn’t last.

A year or so ago I decided to divest  myself of some of my library through Book Mooch. The initiative resulted in a full day spent on this exchange website listing books, followed by another full day at the office store where I stood confounded in an aisle considering envelopes. Bubble lined, or not? Perhaps color coded? Why are these pretty colored ones less expensive? Is something the matter with them? What size address labels? Oh, what about return address labels? Should I buy a postal scale? Isn’t this getting ridiculous?

When a fellow Book Moocher – one who quickly snagged my copies of both The Memory Keeper’s Daughter and Water for Elephants – noted my enthusiastic start, she gave me some advice. She suggested that I only list ten or so books and only ones I knew were in high demand. That way I’d enter ten books, they’d be gone by the end of the day, and I could mail them all at once. I could then sit back and “mooch” some books back for myself. Not exactly zero population growth for the shelves, but it was a well-intended start. Let’s call it “rotating crops.”

Even though he’s damned nice, the farmer doesn’t understand the degree to which considerations such as Book Mooch, used bookstores or Amazon – heaven forbid, don’t get me started on the perils of Amazon – can keep me stuck until next Tuesday. Looking up several hours later I would find myself surrounded by Eiger-esque piles of books, in the middle of this possession purgatory. Should I write about it or make a lame attempt to purge? Either way, resistant soil’s going to do what it’s going to do.

I could start this post for Unknown Mami’s Sundays in My City by saying that what I’m about to share is neither “mine” nor a “city.” But that would be too easy, and wouldn’t explain things very well.

Once or twice I may have mentioned that Myrtle Beach is a different kind of place to live. The general area, defined by the Atlantic to the east, and the Intracoastal Waterway to the west, is shaped like a long thin rectangle. Many know this geographic rectangle, which starts to the north with Little River and runs 60 miles south to Pawleys Island by the name, “The Grand Strand.”

For the first few years we lived on The Grand Strand, with the exception of Dave’s work, our lives stopped at the Waterway. Rarely did we venture across. Access has improved significantly in recent years with several new major roads making all of Horry County more accessible. (When I first saw the name, “Horry,” I couldn’t believe it either. You’ll be glad to know that it’s pronounced, “Ore-EE.”)

The county seat of Horry, the charming town of Conway, is located only 15 miles inland. The town is easier to reach than most of the Grand Strand’s beach communities. We often find ourselves there for the cute shops, great restaurants and most recently,  the large library. I love it because its details are so different than what I’m surrounded by everyday.

Boxes  of postcards littered the vendor’s table. I could see Dave in my peripheral vision scratching his head. No doubt he was wondering if I was going to blow the next two or three hours sifting through them, each postcard like a little mystery, while the charms of Provence went on charming without us.

So as polite as the vendor was, it was clear as he started packing away his postcards, I had a time frame. Here at home the only way I keep myself from becoming too absorbed in any one thing is by using a kitchen timer. When I leave it upstairs and I am down, I often get lost spending the whole day doing one thing, something earth shattering like programming the DVR for the next six months, or wish list building on Amazon. Well intended to-do list go undone.

So among the 10 or so postcards I chose  is the one pictured above. When we got home I pulled my little collection out of their special postcard bag, which was almost beautiful as the postcards. I studied each one to see exactly what I had purchased. I had no memory of several of them. I studied this particular card, puzzled as to why I would have chosen it. Then I remembered that at the last second the vendor said that since I was purchasing four of one kind, I could choose another for free, which frankly made me feel panicky; but I made my choice as quickly and as confidently as possible, selecting one as if from a deck of magician’s cards.

As it turns out of all the cards I bought that day, this one is the biggest mystery. The text under the woman’s picture says, “Coiffure et Costume de la Provence,” which means “hairstyle and dress of Provence.” Other than that, this card has left me with many questions that hopefully some of you experts out there will be able to shed some light on. Or maybe this woman is someone’s long lost Aunt Eunice?
Those of you who don’t want to see any deeper into the workings of my mind may skip the next paragraph. The following questions will make it clear why my husband was justifiably concerned at the thought of me at a postcard vendor:

There are no clues on the card as to what era this woman represents, and if this card shows a style from the era’s past, or was representative of the time. And who is this woman? Did people have their own postcards made? Perhaps is that her own handwriting?  What does the handwriting say? Why was the address splayed across both the writing and address section? Why is  “Carte Postale” crossed out, and what is the word written above as if to replace it? Why are there postmarks on the front and back? Why did they put stamps on the picture side? What are the two ribbon things that crookedly hang from the V in her neckline? WHO ARE YOU HOMELY PROVENCAL WOMAN? TALK TO ME!

For more postcard fun, be sure to visit Marie, the French Factrice!

I have not fallen off the face of the earth. I am not in the middle of a crisis. That is unless you too consider a bowl full of oranges a problem.

My husband received these edible rays of sunshine from a Chinese client. In certain areas of China (don’t ask me where – it’s a big country) it’s a custom to give oranges as a way to express good wishes for the coming year. The word “orange” in Chinese is “Ji,” which also happens to mean “good luck.”

He brought them home on Friday, and looked right at me and asked, “What shall we do with them?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling ridiculous because  a flutter of panic twisted in my gut, or maybe it was just in my head. Why am I like that?

Now he is on his way to Japan for a meeting. Yes, one meeting. That means he will get home late Thursday night which will be followed by four more days of re-adjustment.

In the meantime I am left with deciding what to do with the oranges.

They look very pretty in the bowl, but from experience I know that even in the dry and cold weather they will quickly become green and dusty on their undersides. That would seem such a waste. Yes, that’s probably what will happen.

I have a juicer, but no citrus attachment because it broke a few years ago. Besides even in a parallel life on a perkier woman’s cul-de-sac, I wouldn’t even think of pulling that behemoth piece of equipment out. To those of you who believe infomercials and don’t understand juicers, I will explain:

Juicing and cleaning up its aftermath isn’t easy.

Besides, my husband is on his way to Japan. I don’t embrace the new year’s attitude that  “juicing is healthy and a ridiculous amount of work” lifestyle when he is away. Not even necessarily when he is home.

I embrace a special food pyramid during these times:

Sugar, butter, and breakfast foods are the foundations.

Maybe I’ll add a few oranges.

So any ideas of what to do with the oranges that don’t involve heavy machinery? A recipe for chicken a l’orange? Something “Chineesy?”

I have also been a little busy and obsessed with my new project. Since I’m the one who brought it up, I will tell you about it:

The Travel Belles

That’s all for now.  I’ll share more soon.  xoxoxo