As usual, I am a little late to the party in discovering a new app or website or other digital medium that brings me to the next level of electronic literacy. I'm too busy/lazy to use the ones I have.
Ah, but I recently decided to venture out for a trial run of Spotify. It is a digital music streaming service based in Sweden that boasts an inventory which makes iTunes seem like an 8th grader's playlist. The difference, of course, is that you can actually purchase mp3s from iTunes, whereas Spotify is a monthly subscription service. After just a few hours, I signed up for the monthly service, and I have been smitten ever since.
You see, music is...well, how do I put this...it's the next best thing to breathing. It is therapy, it is anguish, it is happiness on steroids.
I have a 48-year-old tapestry of my life, woven by of hundreds (thousands?) of hours of soundtrack and comprised of the wildest and widest variety of compositions imaginable. Every single piece has a memory attached to it - maybe several memories - that are as clear as any photograph. Yet better than a photograph, a song evokes the feelings of the memory.
Tupelo Honey (Van Morrison) - sitting in the backseat of the family car and pulling onto A1A on the way to Daytona Beach; I am wedging myself up in the space between my parents with my elbows over the front seat, badgering "arewethereyet, arewethereyet, AREWETHEREYET??!" One of many incidents where the threat of "don't make me stop this car" nearly came to fruition.
House at Pooh Corner (original Loggins and Messina version only) - being a kid and looking for something cheerful and innocent while my family shredded itself.
Seasons of Wither - listening to early Aerosmith through headphones with the volume as high as I could stand it. I requested this song at one of our 8th grade dances and awkwardly asked a boy to dance with me; the beat doesn't lend itself to dancing and my ears still burn remembering how long that damn song is.
Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft (Klaatu) - before I discovered Genesis, Rush, Yes and Queen, Klaatu introduced me to the longplay fantasy, where you can get totally lost in a filigreed story told by strings and horns and something called a Moog. Another headphone memory laying on my back on the floor of my room.
September (Earth, Wind and Fire) - a more pleasant high school dance memory with a boy who really liked me but was too nice.
Hold the Line (Toto) and Crazy Love (Poco) - two entirely ironic songs that played on the radio the night I unsuccessfully tried to lose my virginity after sneaking out to meet a much older boy. Cried like a baby all the way home, with these songs on the radio and my paramour driving the car, completely disgusted that I wimped out at the last second.
Honestly, this is a little bit hard to write, so I'm taking a break. But I like the idea of blogging my music memories, so perhaps I'll pick up again next time. Can't wait to tell you about Pachelbel's Canon in D on April 18, 1998. My soundtrack really does have an overabundance of pure joy.
Anyway, go try Spotify.
28 May 2012
04 May 2012
Malibu Barbie and the Tube of Golden Tans
Last weekend I worked in our yard and garage for several hours and found myself sporting a mottled sunburn. Heaven knows I'm committed to being evenly colored; I was therefore intrigued when I found my business accommodations the following evening were situated next to a Sun Tan City.
I gave up tanning beds a while back on account of I am closing in on 50 and have just now developed a healthy fear of skin cancer. Better late than never, I suppose, although I may be closing the barn door after a long-departed horse.
Anyhoo, I decided to investigate the process by which one receives sunless, or "spray" tanning. What could be the harm? I thought. As luck would have it, they were having a City Special on sunless tanning...since I was a business traveler, far from home, I decided to take the leap and go for it.
I was a tad ill-informed on the front end, although in retrospect it all seems pretty obvious. After the bubbly teenager locked my money away in the register, THEN she proceeded to show me the tanning booth and give me instructions.
I'm not sure why it hadn't occurred to me that I would be buck naked inside this plastic tube, but when she told me I would need to take off my clothes and put on a hair net, I began to have misgivings. She then walked me through the various poses one must hold during their session in order to gain the most even tan possible and avoid unsightly, tell-tale paint lines.
Perhaps one day she will recover from the shock of me laughing loudly in her face that I was supposed to hold an Egyptian princess pose in my birthday suit. Worse, I had to do it twice - once facing left and then again facing right. When not walking like an Egyptian, I was to stand with my legs shoulder-width apart and palms facing down, as if to launch myself like a rocket towards the heavens.
I was literally wiping tears of laughter while she explained the application of barrier cream to all nooks and crannies that I didn't want to have tanned - palms, knuckles, soles of my feet, crevices between fingers and toes. Just the name "barrier cream" made me giggle.
Yet despite the hilarity of the whole thing, I was undaunted. I had paid my money and by golly, I was going to get me a tan!
She closed the door on her way out, and I dropped trou. Having slathered my hands and feet in barrier cream, I donned my head covering and stepped into the tanning cylinder. With great trepidation, I pressed the "start" button and prepared for...
OH MY GOOD LORD THAT'S COLD AND YOU JUST SPRAYED IT IN MY FACE!!! AAAAACK! THAT'S SO COLD!!! COLD!!! WET!!! COLD!!!
Then some hateful remote voice told me to turn and do the first pose. I felt like an idiot, but I followed instructions...all the while keeping an eye out for the hidden camera that HAS to be in there somewhere.
What felt like 30 minutes later (but was probably more like 3), I stepped out of the Tube of Tan and inspected the fruits of my efforts. Meh. Kind of slimy and smelly, but not particularly tan. Malibu Barbie had told me at the outset that my "color" wouldn't develop for a few hours, so I reserved judgment, donned my clothing and returned to the hotel.
Throughout the night, I was awakened on several occasions by an awful smell - only to realize that it was my own flesh.
The following morning, I approached the bathroom mirror with caution...but...TA-DA!!! I was TAN! And not in an awful way at all! I smelled like a chemical plant, but dang I looked GOOD. I showered and proceeded to get dressed for work, and then I noticed IT. Oh no. No, No, NO!
I had a horribly defined, perfectly straight line running from the outside of my wrist to the outside of my elbow. The only way it would've been more obvious was if I took a Sharpie and traced it. There was nothing defensible or potentially natural about it - I couldn't pass it off as just having been still in the sun too long - so I did what any sane woman would do.
I put on long sleeves.
It has taken a few days, but the line and my golden color have faded now and all I have left is a sense of utter humiliation and a really great story. Plus I smell a lot better.
I gave up tanning beds a while back on account of I am closing in on 50 and have just now developed a healthy fear of skin cancer. Better late than never, I suppose, although I may be closing the barn door after a long-departed horse.
Anyhoo, I decided to investigate the process by which one receives sunless, or "spray" tanning. What could be the harm? I thought. As luck would have it, they were having a City Special on sunless tanning...since I was a business traveler, far from home, I decided to take the leap and go for it.
I was a tad ill-informed on the front end, although in retrospect it all seems pretty obvious. After the bubbly teenager locked my money away in the register, THEN she proceeded to show me the tanning booth and give me instructions.
I'm not sure why it hadn't occurred to me that I would be buck naked inside this plastic tube, but when she told me I would need to take off my clothes and put on a hair net, I began to have misgivings. She then walked me through the various poses one must hold during their session in order to gain the most even tan possible and avoid unsightly, tell-tale paint lines.
Perhaps one day she will recover from the shock of me laughing loudly in her face that I was supposed to hold an Egyptian princess pose in my birthday suit. Worse, I had to do it twice - once facing left and then again facing right. When not walking like an Egyptian, I was to stand with my legs shoulder-width apart and palms facing down, as if to launch myself like a rocket towards the heavens.
I was literally wiping tears of laughter while she explained the application of barrier cream to all nooks and crannies that I didn't want to have tanned - palms, knuckles, soles of my feet, crevices between fingers and toes. Just the name "barrier cream" made me giggle.
Yet despite the hilarity of the whole thing, I was undaunted. I had paid my money and by golly, I was going to get me a tan!
She closed the door on her way out, and I dropped trou. Having slathered my hands and feet in barrier cream, I donned my head covering and stepped into the tanning cylinder. With great trepidation, I pressed the "start" button and prepared for...
OH MY GOOD LORD THAT'S COLD AND YOU JUST SPRAYED IT IN MY FACE!!! AAAAACK! THAT'S SO COLD!!! COLD!!! WET!!! COLD!!!
Then some hateful remote voice told me to turn and do the first pose. I felt like an idiot, but I followed instructions...all the while keeping an eye out for the hidden camera that HAS to be in there somewhere.
What felt like 30 minutes later (but was probably more like 3), I stepped out of the Tube of Tan and inspected the fruits of my efforts. Meh. Kind of slimy and smelly, but not particularly tan. Malibu Barbie had told me at the outset that my "color" wouldn't develop for a few hours, so I reserved judgment, donned my clothing and returned to the hotel.
Throughout the night, I was awakened on several occasions by an awful smell - only to realize that it was my own flesh.
The following morning, I approached the bathroom mirror with caution...but...TA-DA!!! I was TAN! And not in an awful way at all! I smelled like a chemical plant, but dang I looked GOOD. I showered and proceeded to get dressed for work, and then I noticed IT. Oh no. No, No, NO!
I had a horribly defined, perfectly straight line running from the outside of my wrist to the outside of my elbow. The only way it would've been more obvious was if I took a Sharpie and traced it. There was nothing defensible or potentially natural about it - I couldn't pass it off as just having been still in the sun too long - so I did what any sane woman would do.
I put on long sleeves.
It has taken a few days, but the line and my golden color have faded now and all I have left is a sense of utter humiliation and a really great story. Plus I smell a lot better.
27 April 2012
Professionalism
Wonder what the rules are when it comes to establishing the boundaries of "professionalism"? Who made them up? Are they one-size-fits-all? Or is it a subjective assessment based on the preferences of whoever's in charge?
I've been wondering about my own professionalism or the lack thereof. There are many questionable behaviors which comprise my demeanor, but for the most part, I'd characterize myself as professional.
Pros for Professionalism
Cons
Hmmm. Maybe not so professional. But definitely me.
I've been wondering about my own professionalism or the lack thereof. There are many questionable behaviors which comprise my demeanor, but for the most part, I'd characterize myself as professional.
Pros for Professionalism
- I do not fart in public.
- I do my best to call my superiors "sir" and "ma'am". Most of the time, anyway.
- I have acceptable hygiene practices.
- I listen respectfully to others' opinions in meetings and refrain from remarking on the dumb ones.
- My clothes are usually clean and pressed or at least haven't been wadded up lately.
- I accept and admit my mistakes and make sure to take responsibility for them.
- I don't take credit for other people's work.
Cons
- I would rather wear old garbage than pantyhose. Whoever thought those up is a cruel, cruel MAN.
- I call everybody honey or sweetie.
- I'm a serial hugger, and have been known to kiss people on the cheek.
- I can easily slip into redneck slang as it is my native tongue. Y'all can just get over it.
- I cry, in front of bosses, co-workers, my own team members. I hate it and do my best to not do it, but once my nose gets red and my chin starts wiggling, it's all downhill from there.
Hmmm. Maybe not so professional. But definitely me.
15 April 2012
Travelers Envy
I travel for work. A lot. Not as much as some people, though, and for that I'm grateful.
When I transitioned into the job I now occupy, I was intrigued and excited by the prospect of being an official business traveler. I would look smart and professional as I strode through the various concourses in my heels and suit, giving confident direction to my colleagues via BlackBerry and Bluetooth. I would breeze through security and into my first class seating without a thought or a care.
HA.
Most trips I am lucky to keep up with all of my personal belongings, much less look professional or even pause long enough to smell first class. Yes I travel a lot, but most trips are just a few hundred miles - too far to drive, but barely worth all the time and effort it takes to travel via Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson airport.
You see, it takes me an hour to get to the airport, plus getting there early enough to fool with security, plus the probable delay... which means that I could've driven to Lexington and had a sandwich before the doggone plane leaves the ground in ATL.
But I digress.
It's become a great source of interest to me to ascertain people's "frequent flyer" designation. I'm a personal fan of Delta (no, really!) and so I'm in their SkyMiles program. I thought I had hit the jackpot last fall when I was "awarded" SILVER MEDALLION status. I won Silver! Woo hoo! This must mean I'm an Official Business Traveler!
Again, expectations significantly outpaced reality, and it turns out that the Silver status basically means that I can check one "free" bag (which used to be free in the first place) and I might luck into a first class seat if everybody else in first class has a car wreck on the way to the airport. I love watching the "Upgrade List", just for fun...when I first check in, I'm like #2 out of 3 people vying for those 2 open spots left in the First Class cabin. Yet I mysteriously drop to #25 out of 30 in very short order.
Similarly, I thought I would get an automatic invitation for the pleasure of my company in the Delta Sky Club. I'm a Silver member after all -- don't these people know who I am? Again, it seems that Silver status basically means that you can buy a day pass for ten bucks cheaper than the average joe. Meh.
And what's the real benefit of the SkyClub anyway? Free booze just doesn't hold the same appeal for me that it once did, and I've got wi-fi pretty much anywhere. Ok, the chairs are more comfy and you might spot a minor celebrity that can't afford their own private jet (I saw The Captain and Tenille once in the Sky Club. When I was 20. On a trip with my family. I knew it was them because of her hair and his glasses. Yes, I got The Captain's autograph. No, I didn't ask them to sing Muskrat Love.)
The Sky Club is also somewhat appealing when you take into account the number of bums that occupy an airport toilet on any given day. Hygiene odds are better when the herd is thinner. Just saying.
For a while there, I thought it would really be cool if I can one day be a Platinum or Diamond member -forget this amateur Silver level. I'm going to run with the big dogs!
But today it occurred to me that people pay an awful lot for those cards. Not so much the price of air fare...which is ridiculous anyway..but instead the priceless commodity of TIME. Time with family, time with friends, time spent doing something other than waiting to go to the next somewhere.
So I'm OK with my Silver status, although it is about to turn Gold. Until today, I didn't consider the sad side of frequent flyer milestones.
But if I have to travel for work, which I do, I'm pretty happy about the Sky Club toilets.
When I transitioned into the job I now occupy, I was intrigued and excited by the prospect of being an official business traveler. I would look smart and professional as I strode through the various concourses in my heels and suit, giving confident direction to my colleagues via BlackBerry and Bluetooth. I would breeze through security and into my first class seating without a thought or a care.
HA.
Most trips I am lucky to keep up with all of my personal belongings, much less look professional or even pause long enough to smell first class. Yes I travel a lot, but most trips are just a few hundred miles - too far to drive, but barely worth all the time and effort it takes to travel via Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson airport.
You see, it takes me an hour to get to the airport, plus getting there early enough to fool with security, plus the probable delay... which means that I could've driven to Lexington and had a sandwich before the doggone plane leaves the ground in ATL.
But I digress.
It's become a great source of interest to me to ascertain people's "frequent flyer" designation. I'm a personal fan of Delta (no, really!) and so I'm in their SkyMiles program. I thought I had hit the jackpot last fall when I was "awarded" SILVER MEDALLION status. I won Silver! Woo hoo! This must mean I'm an Official Business Traveler!
Again, expectations significantly outpaced reality, and it turns out that the Silver status basically means that I can check one "free" bag (which used to be free in the first place) and I might luck into a first class seat if everybody else in first class has a car wreck on the way to the airport. I love watching the "Upgrade List", just for fun...when I first check in, I'm like #2 out of 3 people vying for those 2 open spots left in the First Class cabin. Yet I mysteriously drop to #25 out of 30 in very short order.
Similarly, I thought I would get an automatic invitation for the pleasure of my company in the Delta Sky Club. I'm a Silver member after all -- don't these people know who I am? Again, it seems that Silver status basically means that you can buy a day pass for ten bucks cheaper than the average joe. Meh.
And what's the real benefit of the SkyClub anyway? Free booze just doesn't hold the same appeal for me that it once did, and I've got wi-fi pretty much anywhere. Ok, the chairs are more comfy and you might spot a minor celebrity that can't afford their own private jet (I saw The Captain and Tenille once in the Sky Club. When I was 20. On a trip with my family. I knew it was them because of her hair and his glasses. Yes, I got The Captain's autograph. No, I didn't ask them to sing Muskrat Love.)
The Sky Club is also somewhat appealing when you take into account the number of bums that occupy an airport toilet on any given day. Hygiene odds are better when the herd is thinner. Just saying.
For a while there, I thought it would really be cool if I can one day be a Platinum or Diamond member -forget this amateur Silver level. I'm going to run with the big dogs!
But today it occurred to me that people pay an awful lot for those cards. Not so much the price of air fare...which is ridiculous anyway..but instead the priceless commodity of TIME. Time with family, time with friends, time spent doing something other than waiting to go to the next somewhere.
So I'm OK with my Silver status, although it is about to turn Gold. Until today, I didn't consider the sad side of frequent flyer milestones.
But if I have to travel for work, which I do, I'm pretty happy about the Sky Club toilets.
12 April 2012
A Woman of Few Words
Thats what I want to be when I grow up. A woman of few words. Those darn things can HURT people.
08 April 2012
Spring Break 2012 - Epilogue
It is Easter Sunday and I am relieved.
-- Relieved because our spring break trip is over. Maybe ours is the only one, but this family doesn't do well with that much togetherness. Don't get me wrong - we loved our trip and we love each other. Our vacation gave us a hundred new memories; a few yucky ones, but most are wonderful. See prior posts for details.
It's just that we are four very sensitive people (even though they think I'm the only one.) The nice thing about being sensitive is that you can easily enjoy all the bright beauty and joy and goodness around you; the bad thing is that your feelings get hurt even when others don't mean to hurt them. Anyway, you can't cram 4 sensitive people into a minivan and a series of hotel rooms and not expect there to be some drama.
-- Relieved because our friends that kept our dog are still speaking to us. Plus the dog lost some weight at their house.
-- Relieved to see my daddy in good health and good spirits yesterday.
-- Relieved that we came home from a vacation without going into the red.
-- Relieved that I can now log back into Facebook and drink a diet Coke.
But most importantly, and far outside my ability to describe it in words, is the relief I feel from believing in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. See, even though I've said I believed in him for more than 30 years, I thought it was up to me - to do good, to be good, to do more, to do better, to try harder, to...to... to make myself acceptable enough to earn peace and get forgiven for the mess I've made of my life.
I recently heard a teacher explaining the difference between calling myself a "Christian" versus calling myself a disciple and follower of Jesus Christ. Maybe it's semantics, but it really stuck with me. All kinds of nastiness throughout history has been perpetrated by people who called themselves Christians, and when I see the judgmental and critical nature of many churchgoers today, I don't particularly want to be associated with that either.
If I can be honest, there aren't a lot of "Christians" who have anything that I want. Looks like a lot of work and unhappiness to me.
But, oh the peace of being a follower of Jesus Christ. Just accepting him, without arguing or questioning or trying to be good enough. I don't need to know why he did what he did - I just know that he did, and scripture is explicitly clear that he did it for me and for you.
To fully believe and accept that he took all my black-hearted, selfish and nasty sin to the grave 2000 years ago, and then came back to life three days later without it...
Now that's what I call relief! Happy Easter!
-- Relieved because our spring break trip is over. Maybe ours is the only one, but this family doesn't do well with that much togetherness. Don't get me wrong - we loved our trip and we love each other. Our vacation gave us a hundred new memories; a few yucky ones, but most are wonderful. See prior posts for details.
It's just that we are four very sensitive people (even though they think I'm the only one.) The nice thing about being sensitive is that you can easily enjoy all the bright beauty and joy and goodness around you; the bad thing is that your feelings get hurt even when others don't mean to hurt them. Anyway, you can't cram 4 sensitive people into a minivan and a series of hotel rooms and not expect there to be some drama.
-- Relieved because our friends that kept our dog are still speaking to us. Plus the dog lost some weight at their house.
-- Relieved to see my daddy in good health and good spirits yesterday.
-- Relieved that we came home from a vacation without going into the red.
-- Relieved that I can now log back into Facebook and drink a diet Coke.
But most importantly, and far outside my ability to describe it in words, is the relief I feel from believing in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. See, even though I've said I believed in him for more than 30 years, I thought it was up to me - to do good, to be good, to do more, to do better, to try harder, to...to... to make myself acceptable enough to earn peace and get forgiven for the mess I've made of my life.
I recently heard a teacher explaining the difference between calling myself a "Christian" versus calling myself a disciple and follower of Jesus Christ. Maybe it's semantics, but it really stuck with me. All kinds of nastiness throughout history has been perpetrated by people who called themselves Christians, and when I see the judgmental and critical nature of many churchgoers today, I don't particularly want to be associated with that either.
If I can be honest, there aren't a lot of "Christians" who have anything that I want. Looks like a lot of work and unhappiness to me.
But, oh the peace of being a follower of Jesus Christ. Just accepting him, without arguing or questioning or trying to be good enough. I don't need to know why he did what he did - I just know that he did, and scripture is explicitly clear that he did it for me and for you.
To fully believe and accept that he took all my black-hearted, selfish and nasty sin to the grave 2000 years ago, and then came back to life three days later without it...
Now that's what I call relief! Happy Easter!
07 April 2012
HC Tour 2012 - Homeward Bound
Upon awakening yesterday morning in Williamsburg, we made the decision to blow off Gatlinburg altogether and just head home. I've been to Gatlinburg hundreds of times, and in retrospect, it seems kind of dumb that I would prolong a really long vacation just to stop there and spend the night, when I have a perfectly good place stay right down the road from there on the Tennessee River - my dad's house.
So I called ahead and booked a room at our favorite Knoxville destination, and down the road we went. I-64 on the west side of Richmond is breathtaking, as is I-81 down through the Shenandoah Valley. Perhaps if our timing had been better, we could've planned to stick around in the area for a few days - but we were more than ready to be home.
Although I go to Knoxville at least twice a year, I am always approaching from the south. Yesterday was the first time I've come in from Virginia since...well, it's been so long that I don't know how long it's been. Talk about gorgeous countryside; the mountains and hills of southwest Virginia and northeast Tennessee are pretty enough to make your heart hurt. I have little vignette memories associated with most of the exits up through there -
Bulls Gap - as the esteemed national committeewoman for the Tennessee Young Republicans, I was once invited to serve on the panel of judges for the annual Bulls Gap Christmas lighting competition. Clark Griswold has NOTHING on the good people of Bulls Gap, Tennessee.
Jonesborough - world's greatest destination for antiquing and junk-shopping. There are little stores lining the main drag in Jboro full of treasures like old Marlboro signs, random dishware and ancient stacks of vinyl record albums. And election buttons from campaigns long past. I love election paraphernalia.
Fall Branch - not particularly noteworthy except this is the home of the Tennessee Highway Patrol in that area and I always feel compelled to turn down the radio and carefully observe the speed limit. THP in Knoxville never made me particularly nervous, but them boys up the mountain ain't fooling around.
Morristown - in another opportunity to serve in a dignitary capacity, I was the lead judge for the chicken category in a barbecue fundraiser to save the old Princess Theatre in downtown Morristown.
Douglas Dam - did my open-water checkout dives in the murky waters around Douglas Dam. Some people earn their scuba certificate in the crystal waters of the Caribbean or in the Florida Keys -- I got mine diving around tires and a sunken car in a muddy Tennessee lake.
Sevierville/Gatlinburg - well, there's just too much associated with exit 407 to put in a paragraph, so this will have to be another post for another time. It does make me smile to see that this is now referred to as the "Dollywood" exit. God love her for pouring all that money back into these mountains.
We got to Dad's around suppertime last night and enjoyed a great visit with him; my sister came in later last night from Texas, and I got to spend some good time with her too. Breakfast with Dad and then back on the road this morning by 11; we stopped in Canton for a late lunch then pulled into our driveway around 3.
Not a moment too soon - we were extremely ready to be HOME.
So I called ahead and booked a room at our favorite Knoxville destination, and down the road we went. I-64 on the west side of Richmond is breathtaking, as is I-81 down through the Shenandoah Valley. Perhaps if our timing had been better, we could've planned to stick around in the area for a few days - but we were more than ready to be home.
Although I go to Knoxville at least twice a year, I am always approaching from the south. Yesterday was the first time I've come in from Virginia since...well, it's been so long that I don't know how long it's been. Talk about gorgeous countryside; the mountains and hills of southwest Virginia and northeast Tennessee are pretty enough to make your heart hurt. I have little vignette memories associated with most of the exits up through there -
Bulls Gap - as the esteemed national committeewoman for the Tennessee Young Republicans, I was once invited to serve on the panel of judges for the annual Bulls Gap Christmas lighting competition. Clark Griswold has NOTHING on the good people of Bulls Gap, Tennessee.
Jonesborough - world's greatest destination for antiquing and junk-shopping. There are little stores lining the main drag in Jboro full of treasures like old Marlboro signs, random dishware and ancient stacks of vinyl record albums. And election buttons from campaigns long past. I love election paraphernalia.
Fall Branch - not particularly noteworthy except this is the home of the Tennessee Highway Patrol in that area and I always feel compelled to turn down the radio and carefully observe the speed limit. THP in Knoxville never made me particularly nervous, but them boys up the mountain ain't fooling around.
Morristown - in another opportunity to serve in a dignitary capacity, I was the lead judge for the chicken category in a barbecue fundraiser to save the old Princess Theatre in downtown Morristown.
Douglas Dam - did my open-water checkout dives in the murky waters around Douglas Dam. Some people earn their scuba certificate in the crystal waters of the Caribbean or in the Florida Keys -- I got mine diving around tires and a sunken car in a muddy Tennessee lake.
Sevierville/Gatlinburg - well, there's just too much associated with exit 407 to put in a paragraph, so this will have to be another post for another time. It does make me smile to see that this is now referred to as the "Dollywood" exit. God love her for pouring all that money back into these mountains.
We got to Dad's around suppertime last night and enjoyed a great visit with him; my sister came in later last night from Texas, and I got to spend some good time with her too. Breakfast with Dad and then back on the road this morning by 11; we stopped in Canton for a late lunch then pulled into our driveway around 3.
Not a moment too soon - we were extremely ready to be HOME.
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