S&M (aka Sundry & Miscellany. Gotcha!)

Folks, I'll have you know that I reserved my seat for the Walnut Grove pageant back in January. I did this for several reasons, mainly because my eyesight is terrible. And I'm very short. I got it into my head that I'd get shuttled to the back of the audience and Carmen Miranda, with signature headdress, would be seated directly in front of me. More reasonably, I figured it might behoove me to get even some little expenses out of the way beforehand. I have, in my possession, one reserved ticket. Seat #5, in fact. In the red section. It may be my one shining moment of VIP-ness.

I was checking out the Walnut Grove pageant page, and I discovered that there are Pageant Suppers. Of course, I imagined a heartwarming scene of friendly folks sitting down to break bread together - something akin to the New England Suppers mentioned in the Little House books. I suppose, though, that it's highly likely that the supper will be more like the High School spaghetti dinner fund raisers that occur around here every spring. You know the drill: echoey cafeteria, decent food, a constant stream of diners. I guess, though, that I won't know until I get there. Either way, I think it's a great idea.

I'll be attending the Pageant Supper scheduled for Friday. I even checked out the menu. Hot beef? Hot turkey? Decisions, decisions. At the moment, I'm leaning toward beef, but it's a wild card.

The whole phenomenon put a rather interesting notion into my head. I know that there's a Little League/Boy Scout/church fundraiser nearly every weekend in the small town where I grew up, not to mention several events during the week. I began to wonder if the same wasn't true in these little towns, especially during the height of the Little House tourism season. I mean, if I were a church group in need of funds, I'd try to strike while the iron is hot.

I foraged around the internet, hoping to find information in local newspapers, but no dice. I think I'll still take a gander once I'm there. I like the idea of an inexpensive dinner that supports local organizations. Believe me, I spent years shilling cookies, and I hated every minute of it. If I can spare the members of a Girl Scout troop the same horrific fate? I'm all over that.

I had an odd dream last night. I dreamt that my trip was really part of a modern-day Homestead Act. However, instead of claiming vast acreage for farming, prospective homesteaders had to live in those little sample rooms at Ikea for a set amount of time in order to own one (we discussed Ikea/small living on one of my messageboards, so I guess that prompted this particular notion). Anyway, I was camped out in a room that seemed to have a secret space attached to the back of it, so I was excited that I'd claimed a particularly choice spot. I was a little concerned about the open plan of Ikea and the lack of privacy that my place afforded. My Mom then showed up with a plaid shower curtain and Harley, my cat. She helped me hang the curtain over the "open" wall, and laughingly told me that Harley really wasn't dead, he just wanted to live at Ikea.

So do we all, Harley, so do we all. It's my idea of Heaven, too, buddy.

I've been staging a few un-dress rehearsals lately. And, no, it's not as exciting as it sounds. Perhaps I'd be more in line to call it drying trial runs, but that's simply too much of a tongue twister. To my delight, I've found that most of my favorite clothing air dries overnight, if not within hours. It's appearing more and more possible that I could travel with nothing but one carry-on bag. In light of the recent instances of terrorism in Great Britain, I wouldn't be surprised if there are some pretty strict guidelines implemented for U.S. air travel. It would behoove me, I think, to have very little with me.

Oh, did I mention that I hate to fly? I do. I really, really do. Somehow, the fact that I'll have to actually board some (likely small) aircraft was something I've been busy not thinking about. I haven't been airborne since a trip to Florida five years ago. I remember thinking it was odd that US Airways would list the type of plane for the second leg of my trip (Pittsburgh to Tampa) but not the first (Scranton to Pittsburgh). Stranger still, we got to the airport, checked our bags, got through security ... and noticed that there was no plane in sight by the gate. I looked out of the plate glass windows, scanning the tarmac, but no plane. A little bit later, we were directed to step out of the building, go around a corner, and there it was: the smallest, shakiest-looking propeller plane that I'd ever seen. I'm convinced that they hid it around the corner so that people like me wouldn't see it and panic.

So take heed, Avoca International (hee!) Airport ... I'm on to your little tricks. I'm wise to the old hide-the-plane maneuver.

-----------------------------
Days until trip: 8
Money saved: $435.00

Cookie? Monsters!

I promised myself that I'd document the last month before my trip daily. I thought I'd write about my questions, my keen observations, my profound discoveries. But you know what? Everything I'd write just kept reminding me of that fortune cookie game. You know, the one where you add "in your pants" to the cookie's prediction:

You can be full of surprises ... in your pants.
Silence is golden .. in your pants.

Granted, these truths are self-evident, but I digress ...

*ahem*

Anyway, everything I'd write had the same kind of ring to it:

I ponder the weather ... on the prairie.
I can't wait to make my journey ... on the prairie.

Yuck. Dull. I didn't dare subject my four faithful readers to such crappy prose! Worse yet, it was tiresome to even type. I bored myself. Certainly, I am excited about my trip. I'm nervous, I'm curious. Am I counting the days? You bet.

But the whole thing did make me think about fortune cookies.

I went through a bit of a crisis a few years ago when I kept getting blank slips of paper in fortune cookies. My dining companions would get delightful quips, tidbits of advice, or lucky numbers. Me? Nothing but a little white wisp of paper, completely blank. This happened more than a few times. Now, I'd wager that some people might assume this was a good thing; perhaps the cookie Powers That Be felt I was on the right track and that I needed no shreds of wisdom. However, being the pessimist that I am, I was certain that it was a portent of doom, misery, and plagues by the score.

I tried to rationalize the whole thing. I reminded myself that in all the times I'd gotten a prediction, I had never gotten any kind of concrete, useful advice. My cookies never clued me in to the fact that I was dangerously close to bouncing a check. Hell, they never even had the courtesy to impart such wisdom as "Your fly is unzipped". Frankly, I'd always been the lonely loser of the fortune cookie circuit.

But, indeed, it got worse. One ominous day, I got a fortune cookie with nothing in it. Forget the blank paper angst ... this cookie had no paper at all! Nothing. It was simply a hollow confection. I'd like to say that this was a turning point in my life; that this was the moment I seized the reins of my adulthood. That I achieved full self-actualization. That the scales fell from my eyes and I became a woman of courage and integrity. If I said these things, however, I'd be lying. But I did the next best thing: I avoided fortune cookies for years.

Recently, I returned to the choppy seas of cookie prognostication. I'm glad that I did, because the fortune I got was kind of cool:

Replace your scars with stars.

... on the prairie?
... in your pants?

I'm not sure. But I love the mystery and intrigue. And the challenge!

---------------
Days until trip: 29
Money saved: $215. (Thanks, car! Did those fortune cookies give a heads-up? Nope. Damn cookies.)

We've Got The Punc(tuation), Gotta Have That Punc(tuation). Yeah.

I don't speak any Spanish, whatsoever. Okay ... I lie. I know a few random words from childhood viewings of Sesame Street. If I find myself in Spain and in dire need of an apple, I'm set. If I feel the need to alert someone in Mexico that a door is open, I'm golden. Other than that? Nada.

The thing I really like about Spanish is the punctuation. ¿The punctuation? Yep, that's right - the punctuation. If a statement starts with a question mark or exclamation point, there can be no doubt as to where the sentence is heading. Since I don't like surprises, this appeals to me. ¡Fantastic!

(Yes, I did look up instructions on how to make these punctuation marks. Better yet, I made a little cheat sheet. Because I am just that cool.)

The best one of all is the exclamation point. In addition to indicating what's to follow, it seems to amplify the statement, somehow. Next to "¡dynamite!", a plain old "dynamite!" just looks like a cherry bomb. Why, oh why, don't we use this method in English? ¿Why? I mean, we're unafraid to incorporate a random "pronto" or "sayonara" into our dialogue, so what's wrong with a little rearranged exclamation point? ¡Seriously!

------------------------------------
Days until trip: 70
Money Saved: $440.00

Stop! Grammartime.

Ever heard of Glamour Bombing? I hadn't either until recently. From what I understand, it's a sort of guerrilla performance art. A sneak attack of cute, if you will. While I can appreciate the sentiment behind it (God knows I dig the absurd), I think there's a far greater need for something else:

Grammar Bombing.

I've been anticipating this movement for years. When I find glaring errors in the local newspaper, I've been known to red-pencil them and mail the page back to said paper anonymously. If the mistakes are particularly bad, or if I'm in a foul mood, I'll add a "shame on you" to the top of my missive for good measure. The most heinous instance was the repeated use of the word "trusties" in the place of "trustees". In a headline. On the front page. I had no choice but to Grammar Bomb.

The most common instances of language abuse seem to involve misplaced apostrophes and quote marks. Daily special's. "Fresh" flowers. I know I've waxed poetic about this before, but, dammit, it's just getting worse. Occasionally, I'll run into a sign or a menu with striking errors, and I sometimes try to point them out, often using humor. I ran into a whiteboard martini menu last week that read, simply: Martini's. Martini's what? Martini's socks? Martini's philosophy? Martini's shattered dreams? The suspense nearly killed me. If there had been an available whiteboard marker I might have posted these musings. I might have had to Grammar Bomb.

Does this mean I'm nuts? Probably. Do I care? Not a whit. When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one gal to dissolve the steadfast hold of the misused apostrophe ... well, she has to go for it. She's got a moral imperative to Grammar Bomb. Right? Right.

I suppose that I'm most bothered by the fact that many of these newspaper articles and signs must pass through the hands of several people during production. Here's an example: the sign on a local hair salon reads "Cuts For Men and Boy's". Now, somebody had to figure out the wording on that sign. Perhaps they sketched out the basics. Then they approached a business to manufacture the sign. I'd imagine that the design and layout were approved by the original author. Then the sign had to be made. It had to be installed. And nobody, nobody, noticed the bad punctuation? Nobody even tried to tactfully suggest, even from an aesthetic perspective, that the apostrophe might not be a good move (never mind the random capitals)? That's what astounds me.

I won't even go into the wholesale slaughter of there/their/they're.

Now, I'm not a hypocrite. Well, okay, maybe a little bit. I know there are likely countless errors on this very blog. This entry alone probably contains fifteen grammatical missteps. However, I'm not a writer. I'm not an editor. It's not my job to produce perfect prose. I do my best, but - hey - I know my limitations, and I welcome correction. Besides, I suspect my readership probably lingers in the lofty single digits, so at the very least my carnage is contained. But a newspaper? Don't they hire people to edit and fact-check? Wouldn't a signmaker double-check these things?

I may be guilty of all sorts of moral shortcomings. Thankfully, misplaced possessives don't generally appear on that roster.

So their. How about them apple's?

Arboring Resentment

For some reason, I was thinking about Arbor Day today. I looked at a calendar to see when, exactly, Arbor Day would happen, and - Lo! - it seems to be a thing of the past. We do Earth Day these days, apparently. Either that, or I've got a shitty, tree-hating calendar. Or both.

We used to get small pine trees in school on Arbor Day. They were little seedlings with their roots and some dirt carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. Here in Scrantonland, each tree had a little tag attached to it that told us it was a gift from the Globe Store. (Now, before you think that we were especially environmentally aware in these parts ... well, no. The Globe Store simply happened to be the name of the local Wanamaker department store, nothing more.)

Those tags were touching little epistles, especially designed to tug at the heartstrings of sappy kids like me. I can't remember exactly what they said but it was something like this:

"I am your Arbor Day tree, a gift from The Globe Store. Please take care of me and plant me in a sunny place. If you remember to give me plenty of water so I can grow, I'll put carbon dioxide into the air and give you shade on a sunny day."

The helplessness touched me deeply . These poor little wisps of trees were depending on us! Looking to be nurtured and loved! Just asking for a sunny spot and some water! I'd read my tree's tag on the bus ride home, and my mind would hear it in a childlike voice - a voice, in fact, that sounded an awful lot like Rudolph from those Rankin-Bass Christmas specials. I'd know in my fifth-grade heart that my tree was lucky to have found me. Carefully shielding it from the jostling middle school crowds, I'd cradle it in the palms of my hands. I may even have talked to it. At any rate, I took my tree obligation seriously. My tree needed me and, dammit, I wasn't about to disappoint.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the other kids on the bus. Especially the boys. They'd grab the sprig of tree and swat at each other with the Baggie-encased root ball. Several especially unfortunate trees sailed out of the windows of the moving bus. I was mortified, and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. Those poor trees! They never had a chance!

Every year I'd plant my tree in the back yard. And every year my father, Philistine that he was, mowed it down as he cut the grass. He didn't mean to wantonly pillage the environment, he simply didn't see the small stick with its four pine needles sticking out of the ground. He apologized each time, but it was no use. None of my trees ever survived.

I've never forgotten the trees that became whips, or the ones that were flung out the window. But it occurred to me now (just today, in fact) that the tossed trees, the ones I felt so sad about, probably live to this day, happily populating the rural area into which they were tossed. Mine just mulched the backyard. Oh well.

Need Help? Me? Nah - Just Browsing

I stopped at the grocery store last night to pick up plastic gloves, bleach and razor blades (more about that in another post), and the girl at the register had no eyebrows. I mean, she had eyebrows, but they were carefully drawn-on shapes that, indeed, were not quite in the spot where eyebrows should be. Nor were they the shape that eyebrows tend to take. To be honest, they reminded me of tadpoles (or, more insidiously, sperm). Although she was friendly, speedy, and seemed very competent, it was all I could do to not stare. Rude, I know. I don't think her ersatz brows were because of the effects of chemotherapy or such, since she had a full head of hair, but who knows?

She wasn't the first penciled-in Picasso that I've run across, either - just the most recent. Such an odd phenomenon. I mean, I could understand the brow-pencil action if the wearer, indeed, had no brows for whatever reason. But to voluntarily remove them and reposition them? That .. I just don't get. Then again, I probably shouldn't talk. If all the tweezers of the world went on strike tomorrow, I'd be mistaken for Ernie's Bert with alarming frequency. But I tame. I do my best not to eliminate.

Anyway, it made me remember the Itty Bitty Baby incident.

My mom, before she passed away, became a collector of the American Girls series of dolls. Since she'd order things from time to time, the company sent an ever-expanding parade of catalogs. As the series grew in national popularity, they'd add to the collection of dolls. So far, so good. However, they went too far when they added the collection of infant dolls called Itty Bitty Baby dolls.

Aside from the cloying, vomitrocious name, these dolls, to me, were disconcerting. They creeped me out. Big time. With each successive catalog, I'd examine the dolls and say to myself, "What is it? What is it about these plastic newborns that makes them look like pod people?" It took months, but I finally realized the problem: they had no eyebrows. None. Not even a hint of a brow on the realistically-crafted ridge of bone where a brow should be. This resulted in a strikingly dead-eyed look; a jarring lack of expression.

Fool that I was, I shared my apprehension with my mom. Thus began an avalanche of torn-out catalogue pages with be-browed Itty Bitty Babies. There were angry Itty Bitty Babies. Worried Itty Bitty Babies. Surprised Itty Bitty Babies. One memorable Itty Bitty Baby had a jauntily cocked left brow, another had angular brows to rival Sesame Street's Count.

When I shared this experience some time ago with a friend, she wasn't the least bit dismayed. She'd had a similar notion, thinking it would be great if she shaved off her eyebrows, then drew on expressions appropriate to the occasion. "Just think!" she said, "If I have to go out and kick ass for some reason, I'd paint on angry brows. If I have to go to a funeral, I'd do sad ones. It'd be fabulous! I'd never have to move my face at all!" I briefly considered the fact that this would, likely, stave off the appearance of wrinkles well into our dotage. It even appealed to my inherent laziness! Then I nixed the idea. I was afraid of becoming an Itty Bitty Baby.

It's strange how one checkout girl at the supermarket can bring on this existential brow crisis. But there you have it. Speaking of, it's high time I de-Berted.

Days until trip: 154
Money saved: $350.00 (Still. I suck.)

Getting My Phil

Ah. Groundhog Day. One of my favorite holidays, second only to Arbor Day.

I don't have to buy gifts. I don't have to decorate.The best part of all? No forced cheeriness. I can be as surly as I like, since that sort of behavior is par for the course in the dead of winter. What a wonderful, relaxing, comfortable holiday it is, indeed.

I especially like the fact that the date is 2/2. I have a peculiar fondness for prime numbers, and 2 is the only prime that is also an even number. Even numbers generally annoy me, but for this reason alone, 2 gets a pass (even though it could be argued that 2 is the ultimate even number).

So it's a good day all around.

This year, Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow, thus predicting that spring is just around the corner. This "see his shadow" thing has confused me since I was a child. When I was small, I thought it meant that if Phil emerged from his hole facing the wrong direction and his shadow was behind him, it was the harbinger of early spring, since he wouldn't actually "see" it. What if Phil didn't open his eyes? Or went blind? What if he was distracted by something else and didn't look at the ground? Could he just pretend not to see it (sort of like my habit of pretending not to see piles of laundry) and force the hand of the seasons?

This confusion could have been averted if we'd replaced "sees his shadow" with "has a shadow", of course. It's interesting that we give Phil all the power here. Then again, if it were just "has a shadow" any marker would suffice. We might have "Stick Day", and that would never do. So this whole process requires a sentient being, I guess. Ah well. With great power comes great responsibility.

Days until trip: 159
Money saved: $350.00

Hey! Get a room, already. Sheesh.

Hotel room in Walnut Grove vicinity? Booked
Hotel for two nights in DeSmet? Booked
Reservation to camp in a "Covered Wagon" on the Ingalls Homestead? Pending.
A cheesy mix of Prairie and Queen? Priceless.

(Bohemian Rhapsody)

Is this the real life?
Is it just fantasy?
Full steam ahead
For my trip out to the prairie
Traveling west
Doing my best to see -
I'm just a spinster
A spinster who's read the books:
Little House, Little Town
(Got the whole series down)
Now I want to see it,
Now it's time for a look-see
Prairie!

First off, I tried DeSmet
What an easy-peasy day -
Lots of places I could stay
But trouble came with Walnut Grove
Any hotels were a little drive away
Tracy (oooooh - Tracy, Minnesota)
Seven miles to the west
It seemed to be the best that I could do
So I called, and I booked
For Tracy, Minnesota

My last move?
The Homestead spot
I've called there several times, but the phone just rings a lot
Dammit! I'm kind of getting scared
That they might have filled their July 13th slot
Homestead? (oooooh - please answer the phone, guys)
A "covered wagon" stay
Might be the most important part of all ....

(guitar solo)

I booked a little internet hotel room
In DeSmet! In DeSmet!
On the South Dakota prairie
Booked it quick as lightning,
The way I got my flight - online!

Minnesota, Minnesota,
Minnesota, Minnesota,
Minnesota ...Walnut Gro-oh-oh-ove
It's just a small town, tiny, I assume -
It's just a small town, without a hotel room!
Got out a map, then I Googled, and - boom!

Found a place to rest my head, now for the Homestead -
It just rings - No! They won't answer the phone! (Get the phone!)
Goddammit, No! They won't answer the phone! (Get the phone!)
Goddammit, No! They won't answer the phone! (Get the phone!)
No, no, no, no, no, no, no -
They won't answer, they won't answer, they won't answer the damn phone
It's evident there's no Little Answering Machine!
On the!
Prairie!

So you think you can be a "covered wagon" tease?
So you think you can answer the phone as you please?
Oh, Homestead - can't do this to me, Homestead
Just gotta' reserve, I just wanna' reserve that camp site

My plans are almost wrapped up -
Anyone can see ....
Despite this blog commotion
The wheels are all in motion -
Whoo-eee!
Counting down the days, now ......

Days until trip: 163
Money saved: $350.00

Ho, ho! The Misanthrope ....

.... search no more, I'm she
Some folks like Christmastime,
None of those folks are me ...


Well, hell. I've been lost in a fog of newly-minted singlehood, plummeting temperatures and dreadful Christmas music. It's been tough, but I've managed to persevere. You may ask yourself, "How? How can this woman present such a brave face to a cold and unfeeling world?"

Well, kids, I live in Scranton.

Did you ever see those satellite pictures of the United States where you can see all the lights? Those nighttime shots that show the light pollution patterns of North America? If you were to see one that was taken in the month of December, you'd see a tacky, flashing red blob over the northeastern region of Pennsylvania. Said blob would be composed of large "snowglobes" that imprison Winnie the Pooh, flashing reindeer who are poised to spring from rooftops, and countless Marys(Maries?)-in-bathtubs who are bathed in the seductive glare of sixty-four red floodlights each. If you were to listen closely - even from space - you'd likely hear the tinny blare of Christmas songs issuing forth from nine hundred and thirty-six outdoor sound systems designed to enhance the more thorough of the holiday yardscapes.

You may think I exaggerate. Indeed, I do not.

It's always struck me as amusing that so many holiday films make much of "that house" ... the one that's completely festooned in holiday crappery. If you're from Scranton, the gag is completely lost on you. Rather, you'll look at the countless strings of lights and the six-foot-tall illuminated, spinning candy canes and think, "What a piker! Hell, that place over on Moosic Street had more going on by the first week of October!" Sad, really. In our local efforts to remind neighbors that the holidays are, indeed, upon us, we've managed to blunt our humor. And our collective sense of restraint, apparently.

Sheesh - I really do sound like a snob. And I'm not. Granted, I'm more of a fan of a simple Moravian Star porch light or carefully-placed strings of monochromatic bulbs, but I do appreciate the work that goes into these houses. I can't imagine being so full of holiday joy that I'm motivated to erect small Christmas vignettes with moveable mannequins. Still, though, I get a kick out of driving around the city, gaping at the well-lit homes. Imagine the effort! The sheer number of extension cords required! The electric bills!

It's really something. I may have to collect photographic evidence.

That said, I really don't like Christmas all that much. Perhaps that makes me a rotten person, but it's the truth. The only parts of the whole shebang that I like are the repeated onslaughts of calorie-rich food and the decoration of my Christmas tree. I often consider the fact that these are activities that I could do at any time during the year. I mean, I could haul a spruce tree indoors and decorate it to celebrate Labor Day or the Academy Awards. Others might think it a sign of mental illness, but, indeed, it could be done. In addition, I'm living proof that fattening foods can be cherished throughout the year. So the two most appealing parts of the holiday, for me, are things that I could do at any time. This realization sort of shoots down the whole "most wonderful time of the year" theory. For me at least.

Chicken. Underpants. Grammar. What's not to like?

Grrr. Bleh. Duh. Ick.
*ahem*

Of course, the best thing for a broken heart is saturated fat. And sodium. Excessive sodium. With this in mind, I hied myself down to the nearest Burger King for lunch today. Hell, I'm now a true spinster even by the strictest letter of the law, so a bikini-worthy body is no longer a priority. Besides, it's November, so I can afford to be cavalier. I ordered a processed-chicken-product sandwich, then returned to home base and shared it with my cats, as any spinster worth her salt would do. I probably should have put on my sunbonnet for this activity, but the beloved bonnet is lost somewhere in that metric assload of moving boxes.

Poor sunbonnet. I think I might hear the faint wail of my neglected savings account, too. I seem to be all about neglect of things prairie lately.

In a misguided attempt to achieve a zen-like state, I fear I'll have to bust out my mad haiku skillz:

Since there's no cheesecake,
And no Haagen-Dazs around
Crap chicken it is!

Oval-shaped, enhanced
With fatty bits resembling
Pencil erasers.

How do they do it?
How do they hide the gristle
Right in the center?

Tucked in carefully,
I think I am safe. Alas!
Four bites in, I'm screwed.
----

When did I gather
This number of underpants?
How did this happen?

Lazy on laundry,
I've gone so far as to wear
Bikini bottoms

I didn't need to,
Since I obviously own
Fifteen thousand pairs.

Were they all hiding?
Challenging me? Appearing
Only when I move?
----

Know what drives me nuts?
Misused apostrophe marks.
They're not for plurals.

More horrifying?
Quotation marks that are used
To show emphasis.

If I see a sign
Saying "fresh" fish, I think it's
Anything but. Yuck.

Philaphobia

I have a phobia.

Now, I know that we all have our fears. Heights. The dark. Spiders. Some folks are terrified to cross bridges, and others can be thrown into panic at the very notion of a snake. I'm freaked out by some very normal things, too, such as lightning, large bugs, commitment and brown socks. My crazy, irrational fear, however, is this: I'm terrified of Philadelphia. Specifically, I live in fear of having to drive through it.

Sure, the city of brotherly love never did anything to me. After all, I've only really visited there twice, despite its proximity to where I live. However, I've traveled through it countless times, because it stands between my place of residence and the Jersey Shore. What this means is that I need to drive through it whenever heading to my beloved Cape May or other shore points. Well, I suppose I could circumvent it if I really tried, but I'd be adding hours to the already tiresome trip. So ... Philadelphia it is.

I'd forgotten the panic that the drive inspires until I traveled to Avalon, NJ last week for a long-overdue vacation. Hoping to avoid the hordes and masses, I departed from Scranton at 3:30 am. At first, the drive was pleasant - I had the Turnpike to myself as I listened to long-forgotten tunes on the middle-of-the-night radio broadcasts (do they ever play "Timothy" any time other than at 4:15 am?) and smoked too many cigarettes. Sure, it was a little foggy, but the ride wasn't bad. I relished the space-age feeling of shooting through the Lehigh Tunnel before dawn. I liked sensing the flattening of the mountains as I headed southward, and having to yawn frequently to pop my ears. However, once I began to see indicators that Philly was creeping up ahead, my bowels began to tighten.

That, in a nutshell, is what that city does to me: it causes intestinal distress (as my mother would delicately put it). I actually had an, er .. attack once while traveling on the Schuylkill Expressway, necessitating a harried pullover and a search for any open McDonald with an functioning restroom. Okay, that's probably faaar too much information, but you get the picture. My innards roll like the mighty Mississip. At best, I get through that city as quickly as I can, white-knuckling the steering wheel and muttering shitdamnshitdamnshitdamn through clenched teeth.

Why this terror? I really don't know. I've driven through New York City, Boston and other major cities with nary a twitch. In fact, I tend to find the quickened pace and the challenge exhilarating. I've never even come close to a car accident in any Philadelphia treks, so that's not the source of panic. The most awful part is that it never gets any easier or less frightening for me, no matter how many times I do it. I sometimes think I might die there on Route 76 as a victim of a fright-induced heart attack or stroke, the worst part being that I'll most likely soil myself in the process.

Thank God the word "phobia" starts with a "ph" or I'd be forced to get all cutesy about my ... phear.

Interestingly, I turned to my old friend Roget while writing this because, well ... there are only so many readily-available words with which to express true horror. On of the given synonyms for fear is "unholy dread", which, I think, sums up the sensation quite nicely. Unholy dread, indeed.

At any rate, I had a wonderful time on my vacation. I spent plenty of time in Cape May, natch. I visited Cold Spring and saw a Revolutionary War encampment complete with the firing of cannons. I rented a bike and explored Avalon and Stone Harbor. I shopped too much and ate far too much fried food and saltwater taffy. Best of all, I spent a week with my best friend and her family, all of whom I love dearly. It was a wonderful week.

The trip back? Hordes and masses in spades. Bleh. Yuck. Cringe. Shudder. At least I was able to somewhat keep my wits about me. Or my shits, as the case may be.

Days until trip: 299
Money saved: $220.00

A Simple Twist of ... Plates? Or: Our Heroine Soothes Her Impatience With Dinnerware

I'll huff, and I'll puff, and ..... dammitI'moutof patiencewhere'smygoddamsunbonnet?! Grrr.

*ahem*

As you can probably guess, I've not yet received my bonnet. The slow trickle of travel brochures also seems to have ground to a halt. I got information from the Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Society (yay!) and from the South Dakota Department of Tourism (many thanks!). That's all. What I want to know is this: who the hell does Minnesota think it is? Denying me. Playing hard to get. Pulling some sort of mystery act. Sheesh.

I was so disappointed and heartbroken that I built myself a sod house in my backyard and subsisted entirely on radishes and my own bitter tears. Nah - I lie. In all honesty, my computer decided to act up, and I've had no internet access for nearly a week. I suppose the timing wasn't too bad, as I've really not had much to report. Besides, I used the down time to indulge my passion for Fiestaware and visited the nearest outlet ... not once, but twice! Ole! Heh.

Days until trip: 314
Money saved: $240.00