David Gray, Brought to You by the Letter "D"

After the joy of seeing David Gray not once but twice last year, I thought for sure that it would be a few years before I was able to see him again.  But through serendipitous good fortune, I scored tickets to see him this June - as in two months from right now.  In Row D of The Fox Theater.  The video below was taken from Row D of the Atlanta Civic Center when I saw him last April.  I guess D is my lucky row.  I can hardly wait to be this close to my favorite, favorite, favorite musician once more.

Smashville

Early on in life, it was clear that I would not be known for grace.  By age 11, my sister nicknamed me "Smash" for the collection of bumps, bruises and scrapes that constantly marred my arms, shins and knees.  These injuries were of the sort one expects from a growing adolescent.  Problem is, I never outgrew them.

Something about traveling seems to inspire my gracelessness, and my latest business trip was no exception.  You may recall my 14-hour cross-country adventure or the time Captain Fail Pants went to Washington.  I kept the klutz alive with my recent jaunt to Nashville.

• The reserved rental car, advertised as a Chevy Impala, was a minivan, resulting in a confusing conversation about getting a car from another rental place in town and a cross-town drive to pick up said car.  So much for leaving on time.
• At 3:45, I tweeted, "Nashville-bound and stuck in maaajor traffic accident on 285 listening to Wheatus 'Teenage Dirtbag' and wishing I'd stopped for Combos."
• At 4:30: "Officially lost an hour on 285 and #sittingstill #swearingtomyself
• And at 5:15, when the standstill from the overturned tractor trailer blocking four lanes of traffic had stolen an hour and a half of my life: "This is the part where I start to lose it completely. Almost 2 hours lost. #iwillnotcry"
• I didn't cry.  I did eat two McDonald's cheeseburgers and an order of large fries, which fortified me until I arrived in Nashville, seven hours after departing from home.  
• The next morning, I discovered instead of shampoo, I had two shower gels, and so, I washed my hair with shower gel.
• The first pair of pantyhose I put on ran from top to toe.  But my awesome mother advised me to pack a second pair, just in case.  Mother knows best.  And knows that her daughter is a complete disaster most of the time.
• At the tradeshow set up, the literature stand was broken and the tradeshow floor was sweltering and I tried unsuccessfully for 10 minutes to get the TV working only to realize it wasn't plugged in.
• I finished the setup, stood back to admire my handiwork, sweating, and realized…that the materials that were urgently FedExed to my hotel so that I would have them for the tradeshow were, in fact, still at the hotel.
• At this point, a complete, swirling monsoon descended on Nashville.
• I forged across the street to the parking deck, holding my umbrella like a battle shield against the wind.
• In my hurry to get out of the rain, I tripped on the lip of the sidewalk and fell crushing my umbrella.  Literally broke it.  Bent the handle into a frown - which technically could've been a smile if turned the other way, but let's face it: that was a frown.
• Dude standing there says, "Are you okay?" and in total embarassment I popped to my feet and assured him I was fine.  Then I limped away, toting the ruined umbrella and cursing.
• Second pair of pantyhose? #totalled
• Both knees #totalled
• I pulled out of the parking space and came down the ramp...which was blocked by a paving machine.  I waited impatiently until one of the workers directed me around the mammoth piece of equipment.
• Turned the wrong way out of the parking deck and had to circle the block on one-way streets.
•  Drove back to my hotel, pulled into the turnabout, waved away the over-eager valet and ran inside, red-faced and sweating and asked for the package.  They asked for ID. I showed them my tradeshow badge like it was press credentials.
•  Back at the parking deck, I left the crumpled umbrella in the passenger seat and focused on getting across the street in one piece.
•  Inside, I stopped in the ladies' room, ditched my busted up hosiery, wiped the blood from my knees and took stock of my reflection - I looked like Gilda Radner working the Weekend Update desk.
•  Later that night, I tried to escape my luck with a nice dinner with my clients.  Instead, I got confused coming back from the restroom, and they caught me talking to myself - announcing that I'd taken a wrong turn - right beside our table.
•  And though the second morning went smoothly, by the end of the day, my high-heeled shoes had nearly crippled me.  Though I had planned to go back to the convention center to change clothes for the drive home, I couldn't bear the thought of another step.  Which is how I learned that desperation is changing clothes in a rental car on the fifth floor of the parking deck.
• Only later, closing in on midnight, exhausted from head to toe and fighting to stay awake, did I realize that desperation is really being willing to listen to "Candyshop" by 50 Cent on high volume.

And so, I arrived home, once again riddled with bruises and scrapes, with a dilapidated umbrella in the front seat and a new appreciation for gangsta rap.  And a host of reminders that Smash lives.

Hanging Up & Flipping Off

Behold! The craptuclar phone!

Technology has never been a bandwagon I jumped on - maybe because I'm wearing heels that make running and jumping a bit difficult.  Whatever the case, I'm walking around with a Nokia flip phone that I got free with a two-year contract back in 2007.  It's been mocked by a waitress - not to mention my tech-savvy coworkers, a friend who told me that he'd seen homeless people in Washington D.C. with nicer phones and most recently, even Mom conceded that my phone is a piece of garbage.  When Erica Martinez was in from our Dallas office a couple of weeks ago, she responded to the sight of my phone with, "Hello, 1991." It's true - I've been calling the 90s with my Zack Morris phone, but it's time to hang it up.

This phone is the Murdoc of mobile technology.  It's been dropped too many times to count.  Gotten wet.  Pieces of the plastic have broken off around the plug hole for the charger, which means that doesn't stay in very well.  And then there's the front piece that came off completely.  The sticky strip intended to keep it on is now covered with a piece of Scotch tape so that it won't stick to everything I own.  Can you say classy?

The camera is ridiculously bad.  The SIM card is constantly getting full from text messages.  And forget it if someone sends me a photo from an iPhone - it's like total system shutdown.  The volume button is stuck on ten.  For a brief time, the hinge was stuck in the open position, requiring a rubber band to hold it closed.  But then I dropped it again, and that seemed to fix it.

Periodically, it experiences some sort of electrical hiccup and the screen freezes up and then shows horizontal lines that make the think Max Headroom is about to make an appearance.  Alas, it's just another dropped call and a three-minute reboot process.

Goodbye, 90s phone!

I shall miss its monophonic ring tones.  Its tweety bird text notification.  Its Wayne's World dream sequence sound cue alarm clock.  The callous on the inside of my right thumb from texting alpha-numerically.

But it's time to drop it like a call between cell towers.  It's time to get more bars in more places, ditch the rollover minutes and get smart.  Tomorrow I'm going to AT&T for an upgrade.  I'll also be purchasing a 15-year-old to teach me how to use my new phone.  Or maybe there's an app for that.

Let There Be Light...and Make it Purdy

My den has no overhead lighting...which I don't mind so much, as I much prefer natural light or ambient lighting.  But have you folks checked the prices on lamps lately?  They's expensive!  New lamps for the den could easily run me $100 or more. 

So I went bargain hunting...in my sister's attic.  She donated several brass lamps to my cause.  But they weren't exactly jiving with the decor in my little ranchero.  And while lamps are expensive, spraypaint is not.  I turned those brass badboys into some citrus delight in just a few hours.

A few tips:

• Use painter's tape to cover the electrical parts
• Paint in a well-ventilated area
• Apply a coat of primer to cover any rust spots and give yourself a nice even coat of paint
• Buy a plastic spray gun topper for your paint can - you'll save your index finger, keep from getting messy and be able to spray in steady strokes.
• Put the lamp in an oversized cardboard box to catch the overspray (thanks, Dad!)

Brass monkey...a less than funky monkey.

Primed and ready for a citrus overcoat.

Freshly squeezed orange paint

Orange you just loving this?

Clap on!

Godspeed, Lone Ranger

He wandered into our garage more than a decade ago and took up residence in the seat of my grandfather's old Cub Cadet riding lawn mower.  At first, we weren't going to encourage him.  But then Mom couldn't stand to see him go hungry, so she set out bowls of food in the garage.  When it got cold, a folded towel in the seat gave him somewhere to snuggle.  And soon, there was a cat bed for him to weather the weather.  Before many months passed, he breached the threshold between indoors and out because it was just too cold to leave him outside anymore.  And so he became officially ours.

My brother dubbed him Lone Ranger because of the dark fur that circled his clear (though slightly crossed) blue eyes.  He was put together by a committee that couldn't agree using parts that were rejected from everyone else - a too-skinny tail, short bandy legs, and a purr that had a hitch in the giddy-up.  He wore the same expression every moment of every day, forever and ever amen.  And his unerring ability to live by a schedule, his particularity about his place in the world, and his lifelong belief that by taking his picture, I would steal his soul, earned him the descriptor of "special kitty."  Ranger, it seemed, needed to be handled with care and came with his own special instructions.

Ranger was a poor fighter, missing a bite of skin out of one ear and a toe off one foot, making his nickname "Ranger Danger" all the more ironic.  His compromised immune system was constantly challenged by bites and scratches until Mama saw fit to just keep him inside all the time.  We battled through countless oral infections and finally pulled almost all his teeth, but he still insisted on eating his morning treats.  I guess he gummed them to death.

Today, we lost our battle with the final infection.  It was time.  Time to let Lone Ranger ride off into the sunset.  I will miss his yowling meow at the door demanding to be let out.  I will miss his swaying gait across the kitchen that made it so easy to imagine he was saying, "dumpity-dump-dee-dum-dum" as he went.  I will miss his soft snores from the chair or the back of the couch.  I will miss the intensity with which he used the cardboard scratcher.  I will miss his straight-legged resistance when picked up and his complete indignation when kissed.

I will miss our sweet Ranger Cat.

She's So Unusual

Last weekend, I went to Taste of Athens with plans to fill my belly with lots of good eats for a good cause.  And I did.  The Pink Champagne Cake Bites at Silver Lining Cupcake Co. were beautifully delicious and the mint gimlet at Hotel Indigo's table was the most refreshing libation I've had lately.

And when I found my way to the silent auction, I found something else delectable I had to have.  I have never bid in an auction before, but when I saw this wire sculptured bust from Aurum Studios, I had to have it.  I ended up staked out beside it at as the auction closed with a wily gleam in my eye daring someone to outbid me.  I must have looked scary enough, because "Miranda" went home with me.  Although, my friend Nikki and I felt like her messy updo and dangling earring made her a ringer for Cyndi Lauper.

Stiletto Surrogate

My twitter friend, Lauren, better known as @cubanalaf, recently fell and broke her leg.  Painful?  Yes.  An annoyance?  To be sure.  But for a fellow shoe-lover, there is a special poignancy in Lauren's confinement to...gasp...comfortable shoes.  So, LAF, this is for you.

Photo courtesy of Ivy Le