Just The Two of Us

It May Be A Hair Big

When Sista and I were on our little Kansas City excursion, we noticed something that we hadn't really seen before.  Perhaps this is because I'm not from around those parts, but really, I thought it was a little... uh.. over the top.

Now, I will try to describe this to you, and I'll start with a picture that I took. Unfortunately you can't really see what I was trying to capture, but gotta tell ya, it was a little awkward taking a picture of a lady's hairstyle while pretending I was taking a picture of something else.  In fact, I tried very hard to get Sista to walk over and do it for me, but really, she didn't go for it. Not so much.

It's The Hair.  Do you see The Hair?  I know - it's hard to miss. Unfortunately I couldn't get a shot from the front, but if you think taking it from the back was awkward, think about how it would have looked should I have stepped in front of this nice (I'm sure) lady eating her breakfast and pointed my camera in her face.  Well that and I probably would have fallen over the edge and plummented into the lobby area, in which case I couldn't have ever told you about The Hair.

In case you are having difficulty deciphering what you are seeing, let me try to fill in some of the blanks.  This nice (I'm sure) lady had her blond trelleses pulled back into a pony-tail.  So far, so good.  It was the front of The Hair that was.. disconcerting.  It was all curled, teased and.. extended a good 8 or 9 inches from her scalp.  I mean, wow!  No really, WOW!  That Hair has some serious attitude.  I mean, altitude.  Whatever.  It's big. This brings the 80's to a whole new dimension.  Except we're now in the new millenium.  Actually, we have been for 11 years now.  I don't think this nice (I'm sure) lady got the y2k memo.

I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt.  I bet that her husband just looooves her Hair in that particular style, and she's so in love with her sweet (barbershop chorus-singing) husband that she will do anything for him, including taking a curling iron and comb to those "bangs" every morning, just to please him. That's my story.  I think I'll stick to it.  Oh, and I think it's probably a very good thing that this nice (I'm sure) lady doesn't read this blog.  Just saying.

Vacation Certainties

Perhaps you've heard the saying that the only things certain in life are taxes and death.  I'd like to add one more to the list, at least for our household... vacation vehicle repairs.  RW and I are coming to accept this as a way of life for us. 

The first year we went to the Black Hills for our camping adventure, we had to sink $1,500 into my car.. the one that just recently here chugged up past 210,000 miles.  I can't even remember what went wrong that year, forcing such unreasonable (in my book) expenditures.  The second year it was the same car, another $1,500.  That had something to do with a something something something in the engine and tires.  How's that for specific?  Oh, and that year's car repair had an additional $14,000 unexpected expense... the dealership was directly across the street from another dealership, one that sold motorcycles.  Ok, I can't really blame that on my car, but still.  If it weren't for that, we wouldn't have this (this being the Goldwing, in case you were wondering).

The 3rd year, tired of spending all that money on my old and decrepit car, we had the brilliant thought to take the truck instead.  The one manufactured in 1991.  That one.  What. were. we. thinking?  Because before we even started out, we had to fix the air-conditioning.  Well we didn't exactly have to, but RW probably decided that he'd rather spend $600 than listen to me complain about sweat.  I don't know that for a fact, but it just may be a truth.  Not long after arriving in the Black Hills, it was discovered that Mr. 1991 Truck needed a new fuel pump along with a few other things.  We rapidly familiarized ourselves with the local diesel shop, and loved them so much that we transferred close to $1,800 into their very capable and greasy hands.

Then came this year.  Surely, we thought, we have now repaired all "the big ones" in our vehicles.  We felt good about risking it and taking the truck.  I mean, really.. what are the odds of another big repair bill?  So we gamely piled everything into Mr. 1991 Truck and oh - fixed the air-conditioning again prior to leaving.  Even I, the most sweat-adverse person I know, wondered if that was really necessary.  Did we really need to spend $300 on a truck worth $900?  Perhaps I rather, gulp, sweat.

We got there just fine and in one piece, if not slightly rattled.  Literally rattled.  Mr. 1991 Truck at times feels as if it's about to come apart at the seams.  We cozied up in a hotel that night, and in the morning started making our way to The Campsite of All Campsites at Custer State Park.  We stopped at the store to pick up some last minute groceries, and as we were piling back into Mr. 1991 Truck, RW bent down to look at something under the truck.  Never a good sign.

My fears were confirmed when he whipped open his door and popped the hood.  Really?  His head disappeared for a few minutes before slamming the hood back down and climbing into the truck.  "...pretty sure we need a new water pump."

I stared at him and then replied, "No. No we don't."  I refused to believe that once again our vacation was to be railroaded by a stupid vehicle.

Ignoring my denial, he went on to say that he sure hoped we could make it to The Campsite of All Campsites on a bad water pump.

Thankfully, we did make it.  However, the bad water pump turned into both a new water pump and a new radiator, an extra special bonus.  Not going to lie, I got a little grumpy at the situation.  Ok, a lot grumpy.  I was focused on the $1,800 we were spending on a truck worth $900, while RW took the other end of the argument.... the dreaded replacement cost.  So in RW's mind, spending $1,800 to fix the truck worth $900 is much, much cheaper than replacing said truck.

While we may not agree on vehicle worth vs replacement cost, there is one thing that we both readily agreed upon - a common ground, so to speak.  We solidly vowed that we would be taking neither my current car nor Mr. 1991 Truck on 2012's Camping Adventure.  We will be traversing in our (read: my) new vehicle.  Literally, Traversing. We hope that's a certainty.  

Mabel's Misdirection

Like many here in the US, I have come to rely heavily upon our trusted GPS.  We call him Ian.  Ian is simply a fabulous direction-giver.  We used to have a direction-giver that I'll call... uh.. TomTom, but he stunk.  Actually I didn't have a lot of issues with TomTom, but he and RW were not on speaking terms at the end.  Eventually, TomTom got so disgusted with RDub's yelling at him, that he finally just went on strike.  Permanently.  Personally I think that was indicative of TomTom's character.

My sista (yes, yes I know.  It's really sister.  Please don't email me to tell me so.  It's my blog, and I choose sista. So there.) has Mabel, an ever-constant travel companion.  Mabel accompanied her on our recent sista weekend to Kansas City.  In fact, when Sista arrived at the hotel, I asked her what brand Mabel is:

"Uh... uh.... I think it's maybe Gemini?"

I stared at her.  "Garmin, perhaps?"

"Oh!  Yeah!  GARMIN!"

We laughed.  It's what sista's do.

A couple of days into our trip, we decided that we needed to find an actual mall.  You may remember that we spent 2 days shopping at the best place e.v.e.r., the Country Club Plaza.  However, after slaughtering my budget in any one of a number of store dressing rooms, Sista decided that I needed boots to go with a particular outfit, and in order to have more options of aforementioned boots, we needed an actual mall, one with department stores.

Enter Mabel. I punched in a name of a department store, and saw several different department stores, all 4.3 miles away from our current location.  To me, that indicated a mall.  Sweet.  We started on our way.  I think that Mabel was somewhat upset that we were leaving our current shopping nirvana for a place clearly substandard compared to the Country Club Plaza, and right off she started attempting a coup.  "Turn right.  Turn right."  So we turned right.  The next words out of her little speaker were... "Recalculating. Recalculating."  

It didn't take long until we had a few choice words for Mabel.  She, at one point, took us in one big circle, although we weren't too upset about that one, because we got a little tour of what just may be the swankiest neighborhood west of the Mississippi.  I know... in Kansas.  Who knew?  At least I think we were in Kansas at that point.  It's hard to keep track.  Our hotel was in Missouri.  Those are the kind of questions we need Mabel for, but she was obviously preoccupied, attempting to keep us from the mall.

We eventually made our way onto the interstate.  As the navigator (I was trying to supervise Mabel, at least), I informed Sista that we were .6 miles away from the destination.  We both looked around, staring at one side of the interstate and then the other, thinking that those giant fields don't really look like mall territory, but we soldiered on, following Mabel like the obedient gals we are.

.6 miles later, Mabel informed us that we "had reached our destination."

Really?  I turned to Sista.  "Do YOU see a mall?  Because I don't see a mall.  I see a field."

Thankfully (as it confirmed my sanity), Sista didn't see a mall either.  We got off on the next exit to regroup.  And by regroup, I mean search once again for the mall via Mabel.  I gave Mabel all the information that she claims she needs, and we set off once again.

Have you ever heard that saying... "The definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over again, expecting different results"?  We (and I'm not saying I'm proud of this...) personified that saying during the next 10 minutes or so.  As if Mabel would somehow come to her mechanical senses and suddenly admit her mistake and gently guide us to the correct place.

Right.

Undeterred by Mabel, we eventually embarked on our own.  We got a few miles down the interstate, and I picked up Mabel and tried again, this time for a different store.  Once again, Mabel attempted to give us directions, and once again she steered us wrong. Instead of landing at Macy's as intended, we sat staring at a payday loan place and a Domino's Pizza, in a very questionable neighborhood.  At this point, Sista was informing me that I would be the one to have to leave the locked security of the car, and actually enter that Domino's to get directions.  That's what sista's are for, right?

Not.

Fortunately, right about the time that she was insisting that I needed to step out into the questionable and dangerous world for directions, we both saw the light in the distance.  The light that looked like it could actually be a mall, and we headed that direction.

As sista luck would have it, the road to the mall was closed for road construction.  After all that, we were detoured.  But at least this time we had the actual highway detour signs to go by, so we didn't have to depend on Mabel.

We reached the mall, we shopped for boots, we bought boots.  And by "we", I mean me.  I bought boots.  We hurried back to the car, ready for comfy pj's and the luxury of our hotel.  We turned on Mabel, and apparently, during the time-out we gave her while we were in the mall, she had made a decision to lose the attitude and behave.  12 miles and 15 minutes later, we were back at the hotel, dropping onto our beds in exhaustion.  One would think we spent the whole day running a marathon or something equally as distasteful.

So for all you out there who also have GPS's, let this serve as a warning to you.  They aren't always right.  They may think they're right, they may be very confident in their opinions, but despite what they think, they can be wrong.  And to my sista... you may want to update your GPS.  Just a thought.

Shopping for a Song?

Last weekend my sista Betsy and I met for a crazy, last-minute (mostly), darn spontaneous (for us) weekend in Kansas City.  I know what you're thinking.. Kansas City?  Really? Yup, in case you didn't know, KC is a happenin' place.  There is life in Kansas City.  Except there was no life at all for RW's and my budget... that budget got positively slaughtered this weekend. Murdered, actually.  Left dead to rot in the dressing rooms of beautiful stores.  And at the Brighton store.. there too.  See, there was this place called The Country Club Plaza.  We came, we saw, and oh yes, we conquered. Oh well.  My closet thanks me, and that's all that matters.  Or that's what I'm telling myself anyway.

As soon as we made the plan, we both knew where we must stay.  We had to stay here - we've stayed there before and nowhere else would do.  Plus, our room was on the 35th floor and had a view like this:

Next time we feel good about moving locations, we executed a fairly complete scouting report during our weekend, and have even the more perfect place in mind, if that's even possible.  Somewhere right in the middle of that little Country Club Plaza I was telling you about.

Anyway... we knew there must be something big happening at the Hyatt, because it took us several days to be able to get a reservation for all three nights as they were booked solid. Our first clue came when we were walking into the parking ramp elevator.  We heard singing.  We heard harmony.  We saw 4 men in tuxes, vocalizing away right there next to the elevator.  Hmmm.  We thought it more than a little odd.

But entering the hotel, we started seeing quite a few tuxes and suspenders.  We were sensing a theme.

 We let our curiosity get the best of us and eagerly and nosily politely inquired of the gentleman in the elevator with us, also in a tux.  This is what we discovered:

It was a 5-state barbershop chorus competition.  Who knew?  I mean really, who knew such a thing existed?

Betsy and I decided that at some point we should wander over to the rooms in which this competition was being held, and watch a few.. acts?  Would they be called acts?  I'm thinking not.  Watch a few.. songs, I guess.

We caught another gentleman as he was walking to his room, and asked where one might go to see these... songs.

"People watch the competition, right?"  I was talking to a complete stranger who must have thought I was the strange one, for sure.

He looked at me like I was nuts. "Yes - it is quite crowded." (like, duh, lady?)

"So in what rooms are the competitions held?" I persisted...

He paused.  He hesitated some more.  Betsy and I stared at him, polite and eager smiles plastered on our faces. "Well..." he started, "I'm not sure if there are any tickets left."

Tickets?  Really? To a barbershop chorus competition?  Well, then. We obviously hadn't considered that possibility.

He went on his way, and we continued on ours, crossing off the Barbershop Chorus Competition from our lists of "things we must do while in KC".  Singing was out, shopping was in.  We were good with that.  But now that I think about it, surely the ticket to the competition would have been much, much less money than the shopping.  But as it turns out, the shopping was oh-so-much fun.. really, it was no competition.

An Odd Assortment of Neighbors

Camping is a semi-social event.  By that I mean, you are pretty much outside with many other people.  Kind of hard to be completely anti-social when someone is sitting 25 feet away from you at their fire ring.

As we were at the same place for 2 weeks, quite a few "neighbors" came and went:

Some fun (ok, I'm cheating.  This is my brother, sister-in-law and their cute daughter Emily's blue tent behind ours):

 
And to tell on my brother a bit, he brought his tent, but the poles for a different tent.  Niiiice!  Good thing his always-prepared brother-in-law, RDub, travelled with 2 tents.

Some neighbors are.. too short for their tent:

Need a closer look at that?

Other neighbors are visually challenged, and choose this view in their camping chairs:

...when a shift of 90 degrees would give them this view:

Some of our neighbors came from Australia:

Recognize that blue tent again?  Ok, we actually know him.  His name is John, and he and RW go way back.

Some neighbors should work on losing a bit of weight:

....while others are just plain skittish:

As I said, we had quite a few warm-blooded creatures roam through our neck of the valley during those 2 weeks, some with 4 legs and some with 2.  However, the best kind are the ones that we know and show up to camp with us.  Those neighbors we'll gladly take any time, missing tent poles and all!

Morning Wake-Me-Up

One morning on our 2011 Grand Camping Adventure, RW left early, for some reason or another.  Actually, I know precisely what that reason was, but I'll spare you that today and leave for a future post.  Anyway...

ZeketheFreakRatTerrier and I were on our own.  I slept in.  I laid in bed and read a book.  I was.. lazy.  But, there came a time when my innards were screaming for breakfast, and I know better than to ignore those innards.  Oh.. now that I think about it, it may behoove me to ignore them more often.  Like, waaaaay more often.  Just saying.  Waiting as long as I had, I was r.e.a.d.y. for breakfast.  ZeketheFreakRatTerrier and I made ourselves camping-presentable (which is a far, far cry from "normal-presentable") and stepped outside the tent, salivating at the thought of breakfast.

As I started walking towards the corner of the tent, my hopes of a quick breakfast were smashed into little tiny pieces.  We had a visitor.  A large visitor:

That big, fat BuffBuff (that's what I call them. Don't ask.) was hanging out in our campsite.  Right behind his.. uh butt... is our picnic table.  The one with all the food on it.  BuffBuff was in.no.hurry. to leave our site, the site WE paid for.  Sniff.

ZeketheFreakRatTerrier and I were forced to play hide-and-seek with BuffBuff for about 45 minutes, circling the tent in whatever direction he was moving,  until he finally clomped off, far enough away for me to get to the food without putting  myself and the dog in danger of a lone BuffBuff stampede.

I admit, there are days in which I miss my morning caffeine (neither RW nor I drink caffeine anymore).  But seriously, who needs coffee when you wake up to this?

Who's On First?

RW and I are currently stuck in our 12x12 tent huddled in front of the tent heater and discussing our options for the next couple of days, while the rain drips drips drips on our tent, sounding like little pellets, aiming for anything dry that we own. Thankfully we have outsmarted those pellets by owning a very good (read dry) tent. Ha!!

Seeing as it is supposed to be raining again on Saturday, the day we have to pack up and leave, we decided that we would break camp tomorrow while it is dry, and move to a camping cabin for our final night.

This necessitated a phone call to the South Dakota State Park reservations center. I handed RW the phone and read off the 800 number, all the while hoping that my cell phone battery would last the entire call.

After waiting on hold, listening to bad music for a few minutes, RDub was connected to the worlds worst customer service employee.

RW: "Hello, we are currently staying at the Blue Bell Campground, and need to upgrade to a cabin tomorrow night."

Anal-Retentive Lady: "Who are you?"

RW gave her the specifics.

Anal- Retentive Lady: "Who is staying at Blue Bell?"

RW again explained that he and his wife were at Blue Bell.

Anal-Retentive Lady: "Ok Sir, can you confirm your identity for me?"

Huh? He just did. Three times.

Anal Retentive Lady then struggled to find our current reservation. Meanwhile, in an effort to save time and our cell phone battery, I quickly went on-line to the very same reservation system that Anal-Retentive Lady had access to and located our reservation number.

Anal-Retentive Lady: "I need to know the date you would like the cabin"

RW: "Tomorrow night."

Anal-Retentive Lady: "Sir, I need to know the date."

RW: "I'm not sure what the date is, but it's tomorrow."

Anal-Retentive Lady: "I need to know the date, Sir."

RW: (clearly, CLEARLY exasperated): "Lady, what is today's date?"

Anal-Retentive Lady: "September 15th."

RW: "Then I need it for tomorrow, the 16th."

This apparently satisfied her, and she moved along to the next thing at a turtles pace.

Anal-Retentive Lady: "Can you please give me your address?"

RW asked her if she doesn't already have all of that information.

Anal-Retentive Lady: "Can you please give me your address."

RW is getting quite irritated by this time, as someone was trying to call us and the phone was giving it's "low battery" warnings. However, he complied with the address thing, only to have Anal-Retentive Lady say:

"Are you sure your zip isn't xx379"?

She then asked again if RW could confirm his identity, at which point I wanted to interject to tell her that if someone has stolen our identity, it would be highly doubtful that they were using it to obtain camping privileges at the very same campground we were at already. I refrained.

Meanwhile she had moved along to the specific cabin we wished to have.

RW: "it doesn't matter, just sign us up for one." (cell phone battery warning...)

Anal-Retentive Lady: "Sir, you need to tell me which one."

This necessitated yet another jump on-line to locate a campground map and specify the exact cabin we wished to have, for the 12 hours we would be using it. (cell phone battery warning...)

She then proceeds to read off everything she is supposed to read us about the Blue Bell campground. I thought RW was going to come somewhat unglued, as he interrupted her to remind her that we are actually already there, and have been for the past 2 weeks.

By the time she got to the credit card information, RW couldn't bear speaking with her anymore and thrust the phone in my direction. The phone that was getting increasingly insistent on it's low battery life warnings.

It took a good 5 minutes to confirm that the credit card was in my name, presumably the very same one they already had on record.

Anal-Retentive Lady was finally able to spit out the reservation number, just as the phone gasped it's last breath and died.

The reservation is made, the cabin is just down the road from where we are. I guess it remains to be seen if all the reservation details are in order. So who's on first? Clearly not that lady.

"Steaking" Out One's Position

RW and I were sitting here, trying to decide what to have for dinner, as campsite cooking was feeling slightly repetitive. In addition,  we were feeling a bit lazy.  As we were looking at the menu, RW announced that he was hungry for some good chicken.

ME: "What are you going to get?  The chicken platter?  A chicken sandwich?"

RW: "No, I'm getting the Chicken Fried Steak."

ME: "Ummm, that's not chicken."

RW: [giving me the 'you don't know what you're talking about look'] "Yes it is."

ME: [giving HIM the 'I so know waaaay more what I'm talking about than you do' look] "No, it's not.  It's just what it says it is... Chicken Fried Steak.  Steak that's breaded and fried like chicken."

RW: "Oh you are just so completely wrong about this.  It's CHICKEN." [I have to hand it to RW, he was very confident in his position]

At this point the couple sitting in the booth behind us started giggling a bit, and glancing furtively over to the people who cannot agree on what Chicken Fried Steak is.  The guy finally leaned back over the booth and said to RW:

RANDOM GUY: "She's right - it's steak."

RW was not to be deterred from his position.  He was convinced that I had no idea what I was talking about, and neither did the couple in the booth behind us.  I attempted a different angle:

ME: "Seriously - I can promise you it's STEAK.  'Chicken Fried' is an adjective describing the noun  'steak'.  They even served it to us at Lost Valley Ranch! It looked exactly like fried chicken breast - but it was steak."

RW: "Honey - you are so wrong about this.  We'll ask the waitress."

Now usually asking the waiter/waitress would be a grand idea, however, this particular waitress was a summer worker from a different country.  A country far, far away, and clearly unacquainted with both the English language and the nuances of our regional diets.

RW: "Excuse me.  Can you tell me if Chicken Fried Steak is chicken or steak?" [at this point the couple sitting in the booth behind us was fully invested in this conversation, being as convinced as I was that he was wrong]

WAITRESS FROM A DIFFERENT COUNTRY: "Uhhh, ummmm.. Chicken Fried Steak?  Ummm, [clearly making up her mind], that's ... CHICKEN."

RW: [to me] "SEE?  I told you so."

ME: [to WAITRESS FROM A DIFFERENT COUNTRY] "Would you mind checking with the cook and getting back to us?"

Several minutes later the WAITRESS FROM A DIFFERENT COUNTRY approached our booth and informed us that it was [drum roll please] actually STEAK.

RW, possibly trying to save some face, and perhaps still mightily convinced of his position, ended the conversation with this:

RW: "Well,  That's very weird.  In California, Chicken Fried Steak is actually chicken."

He went with the chicken platter.

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Driving through Wisconsin on Friday, we came across this:

 
Not terribly unusual.  However, it was the sign on the side of the building that gave me pause:

 
Is that really a good combination?

Doo-Dad's and Dickey Bub's

RW and I just got back from a 7-day family reunion.  RDub wondered if 7 days was just a bit agressive as far as family reunions go, but with a family of 86 people, it would be just slightly difficult to spend quality time with each of them over 1 or 2 days.  So 7 days, it is.  Seeing as only 78 of us showed up, a week was perfect. 

Leaving Trout Lake Lodge yesterday morning, we made our way through the nearby town of Potosi, MO, with our gorgeous (and very funny!) niece, Heidi.  Can I just mention, I love to drive through towns I'm not familiar with, because there's always that chance that I'll find a cute little (or big - even better!) shop with fun doo-dads that I just must have. 

In case you are wondering, a doo-dad is very loosely defined.  It could be a Brighton purse (oh how I love, love LOVE Zinnias in Scotts Valley), jewelry that just must drape off my wrist (Tiffany's, anyone?) or lovely serving platters that I convince myself will make me ultra hospitable, if only I were serving my pork roast on THAT platter.  In fact, that platter will turn me into Martha Stewart herself.  Except I'd still rather look like me.

So, I was certainly on the look-out, driving through Potosi, for such shops.  Not that I was really expecting much.  The town didn't really give me that "good shopping vibe".  It did certainly have a unique  shopping vibe, but perhaps you can decide for yourself if it was a good one:

Here's one little town market.  They say they sell pizza & fresh meat, but do you think they may sell a little something else, too? Are they trying to be covert? Do they think we don't know?

 

Then further down the road, just past Jimbo's, was this gem of a shopping experience:

 

Really. I have always, and I mean always wanted to be able to tell someone that I had to run on down to Dickey Bub's to umm... get that doo-dad I've wanted for just forever.  Or not.  Do you think locals refer to it as Dickey Bub's?  Or perhaps they shorten it to Dickey's?  Or "Bub's"?  Oh - maybe it's "D-Bub's".

And further down the road we noticed that the town offered yet another service to it's residents.  Anyone upside down on their mortgages or auto loans?  We found just the place for you:

 

Next time you get the urge to do some doo-dad shopping, don't forget Potosi, MO.  You are guaranteed that .....unique experience you've always wanted.