8:47 PM |
While I was driving, I had a lot of time to think about things. Not necessarily the world's great issues or my inner psyche, but just whatever came to me. When I came home and filled my brain space with whatever had become habit, like TV and catalog reading. I fill an entire recycling bin with catalogs every week, and only half of that is newspapers since I get The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal on my iPad. I have to go to the dump from time to time with an truck bed full of paper crap because they have entire dumpster-sized recycling bins for me to fill. When are these guys going to figure out I am never going to buy veterinary supplies or genuine chunks of the Berlin Wall? And at Christmas, well, I think that if I bagged those bad boys, I could construct some mighty nice auxiliary levees and prevent national disaster. It's my own form of Doctors Without Borders. I would call it Catalogs Without Buyers or Operation Catalog.
As for TV, I would be just fine if I watched only what is on my DVR and not whatever random shit is on when I need something to do. By the way, I really miss my Tivo. I don't know if it's changed, but when I had it you could only record one thing at once. The television gods schedule all the shows you want to watch at once. I need to watch one and record the other, or better yet, watch a previously recorded show and record (I wanted to say taped, shows my age, ahem) two more. Verizon lets me do that. But Verizon doesn't say when the episode was first aired. That may seem like a little thing, but when you pick "new episodes" (no repeats), it records all the episodes that are new to it and you don't have any idea if you are watching that second episode before you were surfing and found the show, or if it one you forgot about (remember my age), or if it is really new. The other thing Tivo does that I miss is know what you like and tape other things for you. Sometimes it is really funny, like if you watch QVC you get The Real Housewives of New Jersey, or Myth Busters and get the news.Anyhow, it is now gardening season. As I pull weeds and shovel manure, I again have a quiet brain with which to contemplate. It is a lot easier thinking when driving than thinking with dirt down your bra. It is almost St. Patrick's Day which is the ideal day to plant peas. They also say that if you can sit on the soil with your bare butt for 2 minutes the soil is ready. I have a little extra time this year as I forgot to order my seeds until last night and they don't offer express shipping on seeds. I don't see why not. There must be other procrastinators like myself out there. Maybe somebody had a car accident and couldn't order or their kid had extra detention and their mind just wasn't on it. Maybe someone was on a road trip. Like me. Anyhow, the peas and the spinach go in now. Now. My garden will be cursed if I don't put that butt on the soil on March 17 and decide I absolutely, positively must plant that day. I have done it in the rain. I have done it in the snow. Call me superstitious, but I swear it works. I grow sweet peas, as in the kind that smell good, not the kind you eat, although I grow those too. I am the only one within 100 miles that can grow sweet peas outside a greenhouse. It is my special gift. But I will die, absolutely die, if I don't get those bad boys in the ground this week. I am putting my fingers in my ears and pretending I have another week.
I may have mentioned that if I didn't have Oscar next door driving that little green garden truck along the fence, I would garden in the altogether. I love soil. I garden barefoot and if I don't see any poison ivy, I garden without gloves too. I'm not sure if I am extracted from one of those scary trees in The Wizard of Oz or if it is just my immigrant potato farming stock. After awhile, I get what I call permadirtShoulda kept it to myself. Anyhow, they already know my address and have practically memorized my Amex number as I buy a huge amount of mulch, top soil and compost. He asked if I wanted it in the bottom driveway or the top driveway. The appropriate answer is the bottom one because it is out of view of everything and I can leave huge piles of stuff forever if I forget about it. I told him the top one and I had him dump the entire truckload on one side of my driveway. It is a pain in the ass to get out of my driveway with all that compost there so I
hope this will provide motivation to finish. I hope the snowplow guy isn't moving it next January. The pea beds (duh) have to be done right away. Since the soil in my area sucks, I have wooden box things filled with soil to grow stuff in. They are called raised beds. Plants eat stuff, so you have to put more soil in them from time to time. My beds are about six inches short which is a lot. So I set out to move about 5 tons (my honest guess) of compost among 12 beds and whatever is left I'll put where the pumpkins grow (probably 12 inches short, pumpkins eat a lot). The asparagus beds have to be filled right away too because they'll be sprouting soon and I don't want to drown them later. Well, you have to pull the weeds out first so that you won't be providing a buffet for the chickweed and dandelions and purslane. And Canadian thistles. These thistles are the bane of my life. They are my Caddy Shack gophers. And this year they are mine. I bought a huge jug of RoundUp EX in the blue container which is supposed to be illegal if you don't have a special chemical handling license. And I bought a backpack sprayer. I will spray those suckers every single day until they go crying back to their mothers. But first I am digging. And digging. And digging. Thistles have these really long, really brittle white roots that run about 18 inches under the soil horizontally. The plants go up vertically from there. You pull out the plant and about 9 inches of root, but the other 9 inches is still attached to the mother ship. Man oh man. Pulled weeds for a few hours. Filled beds with compost for another few. This is a short day for me, but the beginning of the season and I'm not quite in gardening shape. Note to self: prophylactic Advil is a good thing.
Needing an excuse to get out of the garden, I decided to get those old Cochranville Garage signs I saw at Shenk's barn last year (and probably the year before). Shenk's is an amazing place. They have old door knobs. Old faucets. Old tools. Old hooks. Old doors. Milkboxes. Windows. Porch posts. Outhouses. Iron things I have no idea what you do with. It's unbelievable. Shenk's is only open from Wednesday through Saturday but I forgot so I called the guy from the driveway. He was okay with it because I am a regular. I knew exactly where those signs were and calculated the tax and wrote a check. To show you what kind of town I live in, last year he miscalculated the tax by three bucks and change and called me to refund it. Going back another day when whole place is open. Will take pix. Gave one side of sign to friend/restorer and kept the other. Had ice cream and watched TV with my imaginary daughter, Lila Rae. Considered sending blog address to almost-real imaginary boyfriend. Note to self: get a life.
If you have a father over sixty or so, you will have a regular meal schedule. At each meal, he will need to know where and when the next meal is. This is hell. I have to eat so much I can’t move. Skipped breakfast as father had not arrived yet. Had teeny tiny salad for lunch (and I am not a salad person) and teeny tiny dessert in a shot glass. Four o’clock went for surreptitious chocolate cake run with son. There is a crunch chocolate cake at The Plantation that will almost make me forgive them for being a shitty hotel. They serve it at all over the resort but the ersatz general store place has them in the deli case. We have been known to take it to go at all hours. I insisted that we sit to eat it this time. This cake is basically a mousse encased in a really great stiff smooth chocolate icing with a hazelnut meringue underneath. It is heaven. You must come to Amelia Island just for the crunch chocolate cake alone.
Prepared for dinner at restaurant called Salt. Put on stretchy black cocktail dress to accommodate meal. What is it with salt? For a number of years now, there has been an obsession with salt from Hawaii, salt from the Dead Sea, sea salt (not the same thing), flavored salt, pink salt, grey salt. There is even a book about the history of salt. Isn’t it enough that we have something with which to preserve our cod? Our doctors tell us to avoid salt. Now there are salt ashtrays, salt lamps, salt bowls and salt votive holders. And salted caramels. Now that I get. A salted caramel is like having your grandmother’s cookies at the beach. A salted caramel is like a good margarita (which you should never drink without salt or frozen). A salted caramel is the one you get from your little boy’s pocket. At the Salt restaurant in the Ritz, they give all the ladies a little plexiglass box of salt to take home. I still have mine from last year. Note to self: put pink salt on microwaved green beans.
Today was preview day at Gooding’s, the automobile auction house. I talked them into giving me four passes to the auction as well as neon green armbands for the cocktail parties. And the $100 catalog for free. The assortment of cars, however, is a bit disappointing. I checked out the 3-litre Bentley I was interested in, but is has a loooooong chassis, and is not a speedster. And the body maker is Gurney Nutting. I prefer Vanden Plas. Swoopier. Decided to buy one we already knew about. Sold two weeks ago. Nuts. Maybe a sign that I should by the Ghost instead.
I really want to tour again. I just like Woody. There is a woody convertible here that is pretty sexy. Checked similar one on eBay. $80,000 difference. What am I missing? I am missing that I already have Woody, and I love him very much. I’m not the cheatin’ kind. 
There is also a VW bus, although it’s not a bus. It is a dual cab pickup. Cool. 
Texted almost-real imaginary boyfriend asking if he was here. Where? Amelia. Was there yesterday dropping off my car. What car are you selling? Yellow Corvette. It’s perfect. Just looked at it ten minutes ago. Are you coming this weekend? Don’t know. Will find out tomorrow. Well, that whole exchange made me feel like the most desired woman in the world. Here I am 3 ½ hours away and he doesn’t know if he’s coming. Note to self: stop buying expensive lingerie.
Speaking of lingerie, I just read a series of articles in New York magazine about porn. It turns out that there is a big niche in older woman MILF (mothers I’d like to fuck) stuff. Aha! That’s the deal with my man-child. There is a niche in, well, me! Note to self: keep expensive lingerie.
I have been traveling on about $165 a day for 33 days. Today I am staying in a hotel for $440 before taxes and anything else they can tack on. My room has no wireless. I can, however, connect via Ethernet using a thoughtfully provided retractable cable. I didn't know laptops still have Ethernet ports. Mine certainly doesn't. The front desk said that the management is working on this and that I can sit in one of the many comfortable lounge chairs in the lobby and even order a drink "to make you comfortable." I don't know about you, but drinking and blogging, or more dangerously drinking and texting, do not a good mix make. So here I am, in a comfy leather chair listening to live elevator music and about 50 people eating dinner and getting trashed.Why would I be staying in a $440 room? Because this weekend is the Amelia Island Concours d'Elegance. It is held at the Ritz Carleton but as in many events there are more entrants than there are rooms. Forget about getting one if you are not showing. Strictly one per car, if you're lucky. The overflow dribbles all over the island. Last year I rented a condo with two bedrooms so that my son and I didn't have to bunk together. Well, share a bathroom. Two beds we can deal with. One bath, a bit of a problem. Have you ever had to share a bath with a teenager? Then you know what I'm talking about. I have to get up two hours in advance to spend my half hour in and out and then my kid can take his hour and a half. I sincerely believe that the key to a great marriage is his and hers bathrooms. This year, I decided to take a hotel room in the same place, The Plantation. It is a disaster. All the rooms are reached from the outside, making life in the rain a bit of an issue especially in heels (which every woman in Florida wears). Our room had a lovely view of the beach and was really pleasant with the balcony door open. One problem: There is a mechanical scaffold going up and down outside our room. It was quite a surprise when, sitting in my panties and not much else (perhaps some jewelry), I see three construction workers standing dead at eye level with me. When they were going above or below me, the noise was obscene. I called downstairs. Please hold. Let me see. Please hold. Please hold. Well, the best we can do is to move you to another room. What did they think I wanted, to halt construction completely? I like to get my room organized when I first check in. That includes hanging my clothes in the closet and staging my toothbrush and other invaluable products in the bathroom. I had to repack. The hell if I was going to go to the trouble of putting all my hanging clothes back in my suitcase. I grabbed the garments, fancy wooden hanger and all, and dragged them into the hall, er, stairwell. The promised bellman with new keys was nowhere to be found. I dropped it all on the floor and called back down and asked just tell me which fucking room I am going to. 301. 301 is on the opposite side of the hotel from 431, our previous room. That would be okay, except you have to thread your way through the lounge in order to get there. Clothing and cursing are flying. Made it in and unpacked again. Immediately fell into stupor. Knock on the door. Two bottles of water and a handwritten note from The Management to thank me for being a frequent stayer. I'm sleeping. Leave me the fuck alone if you're not bringing something good.
Concours d'Elegance are a bit of an odd bird. The Pebble Beach Concours was started by some lady who was bored and had her friends bring their cars over for everyone's delight. I think they raised some money for charity too. While Villa D'Este and Pebble Beach have the undisputed highest level of vintage car shows, the Amelia Island Concours is still one of the elite ones. A concours is rather like a beauty pageant. Many owners never drive their vehicles. They are referred to as trailer cars. The only hitch is that you have to be able to start the car when it is being judged. When you prepare a vehicle for show, the smallest details are taken into account. I have seen uniformed teams take the grass out of the tires with tweezers (true). When there is a row of screws, each head is positioned with the slot in the same direction. Many cars have been restored to the tune of several million dollars. This is after the cost of the car itself. You have to be invited to get your car shown. Some people take this very seriously, breaking down in tears when they are accepted. There are classes, like European Post-war Open (as in convertible), European Post-war Closed (as in hard top), Ferrari, Horseless Carriage and so on. There are also featured marques each year. This year, Amelia is featuring Allard and Kurtis. Also anything having to do with Bobby Rahal. Each class has a third, second and best of class award. Then there are the big awards like Best of Show and some other stuff like Most Photogenic, etc. It is just like Toddlers & Tiaras if you ask me.
If you actually drive your car, you can participate in the Tour D'Elegance. This is so that the owners can park their cars in some attractive town and let the locals admire their vehicles. Just like a cruise. Driving in the tour is a bit like playing roulette as if you get a piece of gravel to your body you can forget about getting a Big Prize at the show. In order to make driving a little more palatable, you get an extra ribbon on your car in case there is a tie at the show. The guy with the ribbon wins. Because judging is done halfway through the show, the ribbon makes visitors think your car has already won something. The oohing and aahing is good for your ego. There was a Concours in Maryland where one of the stops was at a remarkable historic private home. You reach it via a mile long gravel driveway. Uh, huh. A million dollar mile for the poor guy who catches a stray rock.
Now, Woody is not a concours car. Never will be. I drive Woody. This is very unfortunate as I am identifiable. The game is parking at the Ritz. You can't do it. No way, no how. Each room gets one tag and I can't get in for meals or to pick up my 90 year-old father. So I get very good at gaming the system. Not with Woody, though, because I can't pretend I already had my tag and lost it or something. So I now have a black Impala rental car. Last year I dealt with one of those Swiss border patrol guys who couldn't figure out how I kept on doing it. He was not very happy.
I did see some interesting things between the airport and here though. Citrus World has Wind Chimes and Attractive Shell Crafts. Bob's Barricades puts up white diamond shaped signs with their name on them on the road even when there are no barricades. The Sheriff's office is a series of mobile homes. The Tax Collector's is a gorgeous huge new building. There are port-a-potties next to a for sale sign. House or port-a-potty? In this economy, particularly in Florida, the port-a-potty is probably worth more. There are so many great little restaurants and tourist information centers that I am dying to stop. But I am now on a schedule. It sucks.
So, tomorrow the hoopla starts. Let the parking games begin! Game on Mr. Van Damme.
Found:
- The second set of duplicate keys for Woody in washing machine
- Original set of keys for Woody in suitcase (I wouldn't have made the great key hunt in New Orleans without them, though)
Meanwhile, our darling Snooki is gracing the cover of Rolling Stone straddling a rocket. Also eating a pickle (not at the same time, but that might be sort of interesting). No subtlety there, but I guess Rolling Stone will be making a lot of samoleons on this one. Snooki is writing a romance novel called A Shore Thing. Snooki a writer? An oxymoron definitely. And I'm not convinced there's any romance on "The Jersey Shore". Swapping bruises and venereal diseases, sure. But romance? I'm going to lead a protest to keep Fabio off that cover. We all know that it has come to this in the perverse breeding of our reality stars.But what about the Bible? My ex-mother-in-law, rest her soul, was fond of the devotionals that gave a bit of scripture with a bit of Chicken Soup For The Soul. Perhaps The Situation is going to give us something like this:
Wine is a mocker, strong drink a brawler, and whoever is led astray by it is not wise.
-- Proverbs 20:1
Drink beer and you will be set right, and wisely led astray.
-- The Situation
Or how about this for a post-revelry affirmation:
...But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ.
--Ephesians 2:4-5
It's all good.
--The Situation
I needed to get a bit more clarity on the subject, so I googled. Oh, shit. The Situation Bible is a sort of lifestyle bible like The Preppy Handbook. Speaking of which, did you know you can get beaucoup bucks for the original 1980s version? I think mine fell in the trunk with my mother's good sweaters that she wore on her honeymoon in Bermuda which we then had to throw out when the sump pump didn't pump our basement. Anyhow, The Examiner clarifies it all. Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino describes the book as "The Bible for Situation Nation." Its real name is Here's the Situation: A Guide to Creeping on Chicks, Avoiding Grenades, and Getting in Your GTL on the Jersey Shore. And get this is. It is already ranked number 5 on the list of Amazon's top Self-Help and Psychology books. I looked it up. The book is $8.15, down from cover price of $15. You can buy two! The customer reviews alone are worth checking it out on Amazon. "Finally, something worse than cancer," "I'm a 14 year old in the 8th grade and I love it," "I had run out of toilet paper and noticed that someone and left a copy of this wonderful book on the floor."
But wait. According to the Examiner, The Situation reveals his struggles from losing his job to losing his girl. "I rose above a number of issues in my life. I come from a bad situation and instead of sulking, I rose above the problems and made a bad situation an unbelievable fairytale." Hmmm.. sound like someone we know from Bethlehem? Maybe The Situation Bible is not so far fetched after all.
Remember that old Simon and Garfunkle song? I'm sure there were lots of term papers written about the zen meaning of the whole thing and it is rather depressing with that hello darkness my old friend stuff. I however, like to choose just the lyrics I like and forget all the rest. I like the people hearing without listening part. I hear without listening. But I didn't on the road. I want to count up the number of people I actually listened to on my trip. I'm guessing it is about 200. In a month. I don't think I've listened to 200 people my whole life. I mean really listened.Driving around in my very ordinary pickup doing my very ordinary errands, I have been driven mad by the noise. I put on my favorite Motown and had to hold my hands over my ears. Tried NPR. Tried BEN-FM playing whatever they feel like. Can't compete with the thoughts in my head. This is a habit I picked up while driving Woody. Woody has AM. I think it works because I can hear static, but there are no AM stations to pick up anymore. I thought I would listen to portable XM. Didn't work. On one or two occasions resorted to iPad, once with one earbud in. Couldn't figure out how to do that shuffle thing so I ended up listening to Shania Twain sing that song about girls going out and letting their hair down and having lots of fun over and over and over. Took me two days to get it out of my head again. I also didn't answer my phone for a month except for family drama and listening to my ex-husband give the weather report (although most of that was by text). I have driven in silence. No one can believe it. I can't believe it. But it is amazing what you think about when you're not thinking about your grocery list, what time the dry cleaner closes, if you should go to the gym this morning or this afternoon (knowing that if you decide this afternoon it means you won't go at all). As amazing as it was, I can't remember what I thought about. I just did. I hardly talked at all. And I can't now. And I have no one to listen to.
This reentry thing is really strange. I am really confused. Resorted to favorite stress-busting activity. Purchased shoes. Very expensive shoes. Lots of them. And more very expensive lingerie. Hope springs eternal. I miss my almost-real imaginary boyfriend and there is a possibility we will be meeting again this week. Or his very attractive and recently-divorced dad? That's twisted. They get the Manolo heels. My real life gets the needlepointed flat ones, although I almost always buy those on eBay. The real shoe store promotion ended today so I had to quick get all the ones I want. Note that I need none whatsoever. I had a special shoe closet built (modest by The Real Housewives of Orange County standards) to hold all my Stubbs flats. The shelves are now piled two high. I bought five new pairs today, using the codeword SPRING for 30% off. You can't change your mind because they only give you store credit. Have you heard that since your mother bought your training bra from Martins? I should have called the plumber on the frozen pipe to my guest powder room but no-oo. Had to shop. Probably won't have any guests for awhile anyhow.
This is Michael. Isn't he a doll? Michael sells very expensive shoes at Neiman Marcus. Obviously, that is where we met. We talked for a lot longer than it takes to try on and buy expensive shoes. Michael thinks that Manolo Blahnik is a shoemaker first and a designer second. Christain Louboutin is a designer first and shoemaker second. I think people wear the Louboutins because of the red soles (they advertise the price more or less, like Jimmy Choo-choos). Oprah wears them. Michael says she only puts them on after she is seated. I believe it. Michael is from the Midwest. He suggests traveling there. I believe him. Michael is not the kind of guy who would send you to uninteresting places. His partner (husband? not sure if they tied the knot) is Asian and so will not travel in the south. I'm not sure I get it. I'll have to ask Michael to tell me more. This is very interesting. I will speak to very, very few people I met on the road ever again. I will make a concerted effort to do that here. This is the next thing for me I think.I picked up the watch I left for a battery in the beginning of January. The diminutive Asian lady there wore one white cotton glove with which to pick up the gleaming timepieces from their cases. Before I left on my road trip, I purged my wallet of all that crap that you carry around and hardly ever use. You know, the grocery store bonus card, the ice cream card that they stamp every time you buy one and you get a free one after 10, the expired museum membership card, the old dry cleaning slips, the book of stamps that had stuck to the inside of your wallet and you can't use anyway, credit card receipts and your Costco card (although that's a pretty useful one).With my stripped-down wallet, I had no claim check for the watch. She brought it out and asked if it was the one. I think she should have asked me what it was and then brought it out. There is a guy in there in a white jacket, like a doctor's. I think he's the watch putter-togetherer. I had to fill out a long affidavit certifying that I am who I am. And also that I will not sue them if the watch doesn't work anymore. It was $37.10. I paid cash. This caused a huge confusion because I don't think they have any cash there. My money went to the back room and I waited maybe ten minutes which is a long time. I spoke to the tall black man there while I was waiting. He wants to go on a road trip too. Oh, and I asked the lady about the Unclaimed Baggage watch. She said it is definitely worth much more than $20,000. Note to self: really try to find the $7,700 (they dropped the price by $200 today).
I also needed to get extra yarn for a project I've been working on for months. It is for my wicked step-mother and it has a picture of her plane on it. She just got a new one. I can't sew fast enough. Anyhow, I talked to the yarn store lady. Both of her children are at Hobart, not below the Mason Dixon (as I required for my son). One of them is happy go lucky like me. He has ADD which I think almost every boy has, give them recess already. Some kids at my kid's school got expelled for selling ADD drugs which are really amphetimines. They do this because school is such a bitch these days they have to stay up all night studying. It's a good thing my kid isn't much of a student. Anyhow, her son went with a friend to a ski house they have and got lost. He just went someplace else. My kinda guy.
My used to be best friend is moving to Wilmington NC. I think. I'm not certain because she's not my best friend anymore and I heard this from my current best friend. She (the mover) has the most incredible place here and a steady boyfriend. He is going to go too I think, but he does a lot of business up here and also has a house in Cape May and a loft in Manhattan. Why on earth is she moving there? Maybe no one listens to her.
Unloaded huge amount of crap from Woody. Need to sort through it. Found a whole lot of sticky Tootsie Pop sticks and some great art. I think I can live without Woody, but I don't think I can live without talking to people any more. Note to self: Read cover story in New York magazine about how we can't think because of all the stuff we take in. Also note to self: talk to enough people that I don't have to write this serious stuff much. Hurts my ears.
My last night on the road, I think. I'm 20 minutes north of the North Carolina border and I've slept about three minutes all night. But not for the obvious reason. There was noise all night. I take sleeping pills and it just didn't help. Turns out it wasn't the elevator or even the ice machine next door. It was the dozens of not so tiny feet running up and down the hall until at least 2:40 a.m. when I turned the clock face down. There is a basketball tournament this weekend, and this Holiday Inn Express is housing the players. Without adult supervision. In order to accommodate all the teams (I have no idea how many), they have assigned the kids rooms in all five of the hotels on this exit. The coaches and chaperones are equally randomly scattered. I wondered why I was able to get a room. I needed only one bed. They put four to a room. Thought I could make up the sleep by staying in bed until checkout time. The feet kept on going. Went down for Smart Coffee and told the girls in the elevator that they should be ashamed of themselves. Poured juice and noticed Saturday morning cartoons instead of CNN or the Weather Channel. Went to communal printer with intent of pulling a piece of paper to write complaint on. Top page:
This is Don. He is the one who guided me to Blue Mountain Coffee. I asked him if could buy him a cup. He was going to have a cup or a nap. He took the coffee. Regular coffee coffee. Don is from here, well not here but in this county. He was in the Army for two years and did hard stuff before becoming a signal man. He got out two months before the Iraq war started and was in Korea when 9/11 happened. Jobs are okay here, but mostly in restaurants. One of his roommates has a job at the restaurant that has no turnover. It is a really good job. Everybody wants it. Don works for an auto parts company named Fisher with a yellow and orange logo that he's sure I see everywhere. They have four big warehouses that deliver to 12 other warehouses. What makes Fisher best is all the small trucks. They deliver to garages all over the place. Little ones. He has errands to do.
Julie loves [insert pictures of flowers and stars here]
Scream!
[insert scribbles here]
Grabbed next piece of paper. Dear Coach, etc. etc. etc. sportsmanship etc. etc. etc. athletic performance etc. etc. etc. apology required. At that point I had not heard that there is no coach. There are no adults. There are only girls, girls, girls in various states of undress. Grab duffel bag and run.
As usual, Woody has not had his coffee and takes some time waking up. Two women appear rummaging though back minivan/suv/crossover/whatever decorated by the girls for "spirit" (in the rain, I might add) and decide that I need a jump. No ladies I do not need a jump. See if your lights go on. See, you need a jump. Wait, her lights are on. No shit Sherlock. Look, if you want to hook your 12-volt battery to my 6-volt one and spend the rest of the day pulling Woody to Pennsylvania, be my guest. Woody starts. I want to stick my tongue out.
As I mentioned, it is raining. I am not exactly sure where I am, but I have an idea of where I'm going. Home. I think, I think it is about 8 hours away. But who knows. I have come to expect the unexpected. Could end up at Farmer John's Chicken Farm. Drive. Drive. Drive. Get gas. Drive, Drive, Drive. See lots of signs for caverns: Luray, Mystery, "Mother Nature's Interior Decorator."Drive, Drive, Drive. See Smiley's BBQ. Ok, I'll give one more road BBQ a try. Smiley's is a very small truck stop with very large pumps. You can have Texas (tomato-based) or Carolina (vinegar-based) pulled pork sandwiches. I had Texas. It was ok. Threw out half. Exit was supposed to have a real coffee place. Did not. Drove, drove, drove. Saw sign for Purgatory Emporium on blue Attractions sign. Want to go, but on a mission to get home. Oh, two days ago I saw a bunch of exit signs to Bat Cave. Needed that at the time. Drove, drove, drove. See Starbucks logo on blue Food At Next Exit sign. Got off. Can't find Starbucks. Ask guy in next car at traffic light for directions. He said there are a bunch in town. Follow him. I do. Really cute town. I wish I knew what town that was. Gigantic watering can sculpture. I garden, a lot, so this was cool to me. On way out saw matching flower pot. Get to Blue Mountain Coffee. The coffee was good but the place a bit plain/empty.
This is Don. He is the one who guided me to Blue Mountain Coffee. I asked him if could buy him a cup. He was going to have a cup or a nap. He took the coffee. Regular coffee coffee. Don is from here, well not here but in this county. He was in the Army for two years and did hard stuff before becoming a signal man. He got out two months before the Iraq war started and was in Korea when 9/11 happened. Jobs are okay here, but mostly in restaurants. One of his roommates has a job at the restaurant that has no turnover. It is a really good job. Everybody wants it. Don works for an auto parts company named Fisher with a yellow and orange logo that he's sure I see everywhere. They have four big warehouses that deliver to 12 other warehouses. What makes Fisher best is all the small trucks. They deliver to garages all over the place. Little ones. He has errands to do.Drive, drive, drive. Stop for gas. Drive, drive, drive. Get Dunkin Munchkins. Drive, drive, well you get the idea. Drove a lot. Woody getting hot. This is the first time Woody has been hot. Stop at rest stop, open hood and let cool. Take go cup to bathroom to rinse. Been so long it's chunky. Look for paper towel to dry basin. Paperless. Scoop up crap in hand and shake it off into trash can. I don't know why people won't touch crap leftover in kitchen sink. You put it in your mouth so why wouldn't you pick it up? Woody is cool. I will not have overheating problems again. Driving on schedule to make it home by 7:30 (!!!). This trip has been almost perfect. Until the last 30 miles. I have driven this road about a billion times. I get lost. This is very difficult because it is absolutely straight for 40 miles. Somehow I got on the business route and couldn't get back on the regular one. Resorted to GPS, but only for awhile. Wants to take me home some screwy way. I have a difficult time with driving at night if there are opposing headlights too close or brights on or brights on from behind. I cannot begin to tell you how stressful this is for me. I am hoping, praying that these last couple of miles will be okay, that Woody won't do something wacky. Getting within range of ex-husband rescue. All ok. All ok. Across the road from my house. All okay!
I walked in, checked the mail and put Toddlers & Tiaras on. Picked up my needlepoint. Had five stinkbugs land in hair. Pick them out with toilet paper and flush. Watched America's Next Top Model (sort of because I sew so I can't see it anyhow). Ate Girl Scout cookies. In short, did everything I always do. I have gone 3200 miles, met hundreds of people, seen places I'd never even knew existed and absolutely nothing has changed. It is a time warp. I am very confused. And sad. Sorta. Put Lila Rae to bed.
Woody pissy again and took his time to start. Decide not to go to ATM because bank is uphill. Head to Asheville where I can look at Biltmore, huge house of robber baron Vanderbilts. Surprised by really nice drive through mountains. Forget that nice drive through mountains means no gas stops. Pray that there will be spot flat enough for someone to put a gas station. See turn off for Pigeon Forge which is where Dollywood is. Dollywood is up on my list with Graceland. It is Dolly Parton to Graceland's Elvis. Can't remember if it is open in March. Definitely not January or February, but March? Besides, I have a reservation at Inn at Biltmore and it will be very nice. I am looking forward to having lunch in the library. Wear khaki pants and cashmere sweater instead of jeans and t-shirt. Drawing the line at makeup. Those khaki pants, by the way, are the low cut kind that keep you from looking like a mom. You have to wear special brazilian lace underpants with them so that your thong doesn't show. Not that I have worn a thong since my mid-life crisis thing with underage private jet pilot. Anyhow, said panties hurt like hell, I don't care what you say about getting used to it. This is the sacrifice I must make for staying at a real Inn instead of the Holiday Inn Express.
Stop for gas before absolutely empty. Meet cool bikers. This is Bill and Phil. They have been riding since they were sixteen and are wearing rain gear for the rain. Uh oh. I didn't count on rain. This is Don Ryan. Hi Don. Bill and Phil say no, Don Ryan. That's to keep from confusing him with Don Jr. Why can't they just name him something sensible like rich people do, say Trey or Biff or Buck. Don Ryan is smoking where I just spilled gas all over the pavement. He wants to see the engine. Cool. Bill and Phil and Don Ryan are going to Bike Week in Florida. They came from Lexington. Hit road in hopefully not too rainy weather. Got to Biltmore.
Once again, we address the issue of valet parking Woody. I am going to an Inn which we all know is code for expensive. When you go to the Biltmore main gate, you have to give your reservation number, the secret password, your shoe size and alma mater to get in to the Inn. If you don't have your reservation number Right Away, you hold up every single car going not only to the Inn, but into the Biltmore for any reason which is basically the only reason you go to Biltmore, to see Biltmore. I do not have my reservation number. They email it to you. They are supposed to have my name on a little sheet as I am an inferior guest as I booked today. Otherwise is it in the nice alphabetized card file. Now, I have taken the extra expensive package as it is the weekend and what the heck, it's one of my last nights on the road. I expect some extra expensive service. I told the flustered gate guy that I can get the reservation number on my iPad but I will need to download 1758 messages (true) to do so. He told me to do that. There is a line of cars all the way out to the road behind me. This is a problem as it is 2.4 miles to the road. AT&T being what it is, this took quite a long time. Five minutes maybe. Five minutes may not seem like much but there are a lot of pissed off people behind the stupid lady in the old car. Finally get the number at the same time the other gate guy comes out and finds my name on the special list. Go to Inn, another 2.6 miles.
Pull up to Inn. Very rich looking guy in black Mercedes behind me is crazy nuts about Woody. That is the nicest car I have ever seen. Gets his baggage out for bell guy. That is the nicest car I have ever seen. Turns to go into Inn. Looks over shoulder as he hurries because his wife is very impatient and is pushing him in. Valet with name consisting totally of consonants says I can't park under the canopy to check in. Guy in black Mercedes could pull under canopy to check in. Okay, where can I park to check in? Around the other side of the oval. Park on other side of oval. They want my keys. Here we go. I will not give you my keys. It is our policy. I will not let you drive Woody (besides, you have no idea where the starter is, can't drive three on the tree, and don't realize you can't stop because there are no power brakes not to mention no power steering and 2 tons of steel). I will need your keys. Where is the parking lot? Down there. I park. Now what the fuck do I do with my luggage as we are a quarter of a mile away. Go back to valet. Hand him keys. Tell him to go get it. Which key is it? You figure it out (there is only one key on it). I guess this guy is one of those Swiss guys the hotel chain sends over to learn to manage before they go back to Europe to wait on actual civilized guests. The name throws me, though. Ask to see manager in private. Go to manager's office which is a cubicle with pictures of his friends tacked to the walls and papers all over the place in no apparent order. I want my manager with the black suit and lots of gold braid to have a proper office, with a walnut desk, oriental carpet and fresh flowers. I have uncovered the man behind the curtain and this guy isn't even the Wizard of Oz. Explained that I will not be checking in as the service is unacceptable, especially because I purchased the extra expensive package (includes the $125 breakfast and $18 tickets for both today and tomorrow except check in is at 4 o'clock and the Biltmore doors close at 3:30). The manager belligerently explains that this is policy, like having a protocol for 70 year old cars really exists. He cannot get my car back from the parking lot because his valet did not park it there. Can he make arrangements for me at a nearby accommodations? Are you fucking kidding me? Maybe I wasn't wearing enough jewerly. Note to self: when checking in to inns, wear not only the diamond bracelet and Cartier watch but also south sea pearls and huge diamond earrings that I have in my purse. And maybe a few more expensive bracelets. Oh, and drive a black Mercedes that you can get at any Mercedes dealer for, say, $75,000. No more good cars for you.
Go to Bistro at vineyard. Have you noticed that there is a vineyard on every square block of the entire country? Where do the grapes come from? Certainly not there. In my neighborhood two doctors decided to play vineyard and produce Red Truck and White Barn. They come in gallon paint cans. Really. That's why I live in the country. Anyhow, had steak and an expensive glass of Biltmore cab. I prefer Pinot but some nice waiter at the semi-fancy (Hermes scarf with your jeans) restaurant in my part of the world to me that I would be sorry if I drank the Pinot with my flat iron. Waiter looks like Herman Munster but short. Has that flat head and sunken eyes. Herman pours olive oil on my dish and then pours vinegar in with it. Hello. Hasn't anybody told the Bistro that they are part of a vineyard and vinegar is not exactly a good complement for wine? Guess not. Steak good. Spinach so salty it is inedible. I like spinach so this is a disappointment. I was waiting for waiter to ask how my lunch was. Never did. I hate this kind of french fry, you know the huge ones with no crispy. My son says they are like someone already chewed them and then they refried 'em. Asked if they have anything extra-caffeinated. I don't want to have another night on the road like yesterday's. I was hoping for some espresso, perhaps a double shot. They have coffee. Okay. Have coffee and forgettable cranberry tart. At least they have gelato that is not the same flavor as they put on the tart (see ThirtyA on 30A).
Felt better after wine. Think of pouring bottle into Woody's tank. Heck, with 10% ethanol in the gas anyhow, he might as well enjoy it. Decide to go to the house. Big sign in parking lot "Must Have Tickets To Enter House." I don't have tickets because I went to the Inn from the gate that sells tickets in the belief that I will get my tickets for today and tomorrow at Inn. Needed to find out if I need to go the 5 miles back to gate and piss off another 50 cars to buy ticket. Decided to drive to the house and find out. So I drove to the house. I mean really to the house. As in up the driveway to the front door of this 2.4 million square foot house (true). No one told me I couldn't park there, and I bet there is a major policy for this. Bought a ticket and nicely parked in appropriate parking lot.
You can take an audio tour at Biltmore. I hate audio tours. Opt for numbered brochure. This place is very very big. They have been renovating since 1970. They have finished three bedrooms. This is a family business. The Vanderbilts still own the thing. They never go there, well almost never, and observe the no food or drink rules like everyone else. The DuPonts in my neighborhood have a huge to-do each year for the approximately 2,750 blood relatives to E.I. duPont. Why don't the Vanderbilts do that? After all, it is 2.4 million square feet and I'm sure there is room for everyone. Well, they did that once for the 100th anniversary of the house and when one Vanderbilt retired and another one took over. They had dancing for 100 in the Tapestry Hall. Oh. Here's the deal. Since the 1930's, the Vanderbilts could not afford the house. They opened the doors to paying customers in 1930. Why didn't they just send enough money off-shore to run the place like any reasonable hedge fund manager would? Just think of the tax savings. They were the robber barons after all. There is even a very pretty book describing the "unique business model" of Biltmore. Anyhow, I know they are hiding something because they had a big place in New York with their V's and acorn insignia all over it so that people would know it was theirs. The Vanderbilts are in the Blue Book. They are part of Society. Hello. The Vanderbilts can't afford their own house. Tres tacky. And definitely the reason Amtrak sucks.
Most of Biltmore is exactly like you expect it to be. Dinner for 45. Big man cave with billiards, bowling and gym. Also special smoking rooms (hmmm...) and gun selection room for guests. Big pool. There are dressing rooms for the ladies and buzzers for food or someone to help you dress. They say there are dressing rooms for the men, but as in the Racquet Club and other gentleman's hideouts from wives, I think the men swam nekkid. There are two showers right in the middle of the gym. Just metal supports and skimpy curtains. Hmmm..... There are a lot of hmmm's at Biltmore. Mr. Vanderbilt was a very snappy dresser.
In the Tapestry Hall they have one with the famous triangle of Venus, Vulcan and Mars. Sounds like me, my imaginary boyfriend and my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. Covered Lila Rae's eyes. Also Domine amidst other things in frieze. Uh huh. We know you have a home equity loan.
As always, I like the downstairs better than the upstairs. I surreptitiously listened to the guy giving the "Butler's Tour" for which you pay extra. His uncle Floyd used to work there. There are two potting rooms with plastic watering cans and wheelie trash cans. They should just shut the door on those. In the rotisserie kitchen, they have a plastic turkey with a cleaver on the butcher block. It is one helluva cleaver, shaped a bit like an axe head. After scissors and farm machinery, I like cleavers. Conspicuous lack of gift shops. Business Model a bit off there. You could probably renovate another 3 rooms in a speedy 10 years if you sold gifts. Should've gone to Dollywood.
Have to drive 10 miles to get out of Biltmore. Realize it is really very beautiful. Wait a minute. It looks just like my neighborhood but we don't put out signs that say Horse Crossing. Duh. Also, we do not have zillions of tourists visiting. Note to self: there is no place like home.
Feeling very jaunty after my Cab and coffee, I hit the road. Except I couldn't find the highway. Asheville has one of those screwy ring roads but instead of naming it something useful like 295 or 295 or 495, it is called a different thing at each quadrant. Even my emergency GPS got lost. Pulled into a Country Day School (we have one too, it is where you put your rich kids when they are used to getting whatever they want and can't deal with the restrictions of, you know, ordinary schools). Checked map. Decide to take whichever highway I can find. They all eventually reach Pennsylvania, a couple of thousand miles or so, give or take. Can't get out of Country Day School. Driveway straight up at light. Finally waved off soccer dads and took flying start diagonally from parking lot. Think about taking Blue Ridge Parkway. Getting dark. Ridge not a good thing. Get on I-whatever and drive until I can find somewhere I can locate on map. Got into the groove. It is a really good day when I can find a vehicle that drives like I do, the same speed in the same kind of conditions. Got really lucky behind and orange Sneider truck. Enjoying the signs.
Also Accident Investigation Patrol Area. Why dont' they just bust drug cartels or fry that serial rapist instead of investigating accidents? Yellow sign with that tippy truck thing on it. Pay attention to curves. Certified Entrepreneurial Community (no community to be found for miles). Yellow sign with two trucks falling off curve upside down. Really pay attention to curves. Arrow on exit to Bryson. Water tank above it Welcome to Shelbyville. French Broad. Okay, this must go with Fancy Gap. Earlier in the day, Forbidden Caverns. You do the math. Shortly after, exit to absolutely nothing but Day's Inn. I think I know where the French broads with the fancy gaps go. Rhodhiss. I know this is not funny to you, but after 34 days on the road it is to me. Yesterday saw Cherokee Pharmacy with Jittery Joe's with a cup of hurtling coffee.
Have to get gas. Lose spot after orange Sneider truck. Bummer. This is Jeff and Jimmy. They have just gotten back from fishing. They catch crappies. Jeff used to work for Dana and sometimes had to go to Pennsylvania. He always brought his rods. They catch crahppies up there. Jim has a 1937 Lincoln. He has been looking for that one for 28 years. He used to do all the service on a 1937 Lincoln when he was a boy. He knew everything about it, inside and out, especially since he started working on it when it was brand new. He waited for the owner to eventually sell it. He loved that car. His friend bought it, he said, misting up. He is the third owner of his matching Lincoln, technically because one of the guys didn't title the car. Jeff and Jimmy asked me which way I am going. I have no idea. Go on 77. You can go 40 East too. Jimmy says I will go straight into the ocean if I go all the way on 40. Needed to change out of nice khakis because I am beginning to freeze. I have figured out the heater, though, so I can freeze or scald my right ankle. Changed in gas station bathroom which was remarkably clean. Passed Krispy Kreme case. I don't even have enough money for a Krispy Kreme. Remembered I stopped here to use ATM as advertised in red lights on the front. ATM broken. No donut.
Yawned once. Having learned lesson, look for very next Holiday Inn Express. It is at Independence, next to Galax. Doubly good because galax leaves are very helpful in flower arranging. This Holiday Inn Express has a 2009 Quality Excellence Award from Intercontinental which is even better than the ones that just come from Holiday Inn corporate. Because I am a Preferred Member, I got a bottle of water and a bag of Chex Mix. Good thing as I have no money for dinner. Must go to ATM tomorrow morning. Update: found $2 in other purse. Krispy Kreme in morning!
Stop for gas before absolutely empty. Meet cool bikers. This is Bill and Phil. They have been riding since they were sixteen and are wearing rain gear for the rain. Uh oh. I didn't count on rain. This is Don Ryan. Hi Don. Bill and Phil say no, Don Ryan. That's to keep from confusing him with Don Jr. Why can't they just name him something sensible like rich people do, say Trey or Biff or Buck. Don Ryan is smoking where I just spilled gas all over the pavement. He wants to see the engine. Cool. Bill and Phil and Don Ryan are going to Bike Week in Florida. They came from Lexington. Hit road in hopefully not too rainy weather. Got to Biltmore.Once again, we address the issue of valet parking Woody. I am going to an Inn which we all know is code for expensive. When you go to the Biltmore main gate, you have to give your reservation number, the secret password, your shoe size and alma mater to get in to the Inn. If you don't have your reservation number Right Away, you hold up every single car going not only to the Inn, but into the Biltmore for any reason which is basically the only reason you go to Biltmore, to see Biltmore. I do not have my reservation number. They email it to you. They are supposed to have my name on a little sheet as I am an inferior guest as I booked today. Otherwise is it in the nice alphabetized card file. Now, I have taken the extra expensive package as it is the weekend and what the heck, it's one of my last nights on the road. I expect some extra expensive service. I told the flustered gate guy that I can get the reservation number on my iPad but I will need to download 1758 messages (true) to do so. He told me to do that. There is a line of cars all the way out to the road behind me. This is a problem as it is 2.4 miles to the road. AT&T being what it is, this took quite a long time. Five minutes maybe. Five minutes may not seem like much but there are a lot of pissed off people behind the stupid lady in the old car. Finally get the number at the same time the other gate guy comes out and finds my name on the special list. Go to Inn, another 2.6 miles.
Pull up to Inn. Very rich looking guy in black Mercedes behind me is crazy nuts about Woody. That is the nicest car I have ever seen. Gets his baggage out for bell guy. That is the nicest car I have ever seen. Turns to go into Inn. Looks over shoulder as he hurries because his wife is very impatient and is pushing him in. Valet with name consisting totally of consonants says I can't park under the canopy to check in. Guy in black Mercedes could pull under canopy to check in. Okay, where can I park to check in? Around the other side of the oval. Park on other side of oval. They want my keys. Here we go. I will not give you my keys. It is our policy. I will not let you drive Woody (besides, you have no idea where the starter is, can't drive three on the tree, and don't realize you can't stop because there are no power brakes not to mention no power steering and 2 tons of steel). I will need your keys. Where is the parking lot? Down there. I park. Now what the fuck do I do with my luggage as we are a quarter of a mile away. Go back to valet. Hand him keys. Tell him to go get it. Which key is it? You figure it out (there is only one key on it). I guess this guy is one of those Swiss guys the hotel chain sends over to learn to manage before they go back to Europe to wait on actual civilized guests. The name throws me, though. Ask to see manager in private. Go to manager's office which is a cubicle with pictures of his friends tacked to the walls and papers all over the place in no apparent order. I want my manager with the black suit and lots of gold braid to have a proper office, with a walnut desk, oriental carpet and fresh flowers. I have uncovered the man behind the curtain and this guy isn't even the Wizard of Oz. Explained that I will not be checking in as the service is unacceptable, especially because I purchased the extra expensive package (includes the $125 breakfast and $18 tickets for both today and tomorrow except check in is at 4 o'clock and the Biltmore doors close at 3:30). The manager belligerently explains that this is policy, like having a protocol for 70 year old cars really exists. He cannot get my car back from the parking lot because his valet did not park it there. Can he make arrangements for me at a nearby accommodations? Are you fucking kidding me? Maybe I wasn't wearing enough jewerly. Note to self: when checking in to inns, wear not only the diamond bracelet and Cartier watch but also south sea pearls and huge diamond earrings that I have in my purse. And maybe a few more expensive bracelets. Oh, and drive a black Mercedes that you can get at any Mercedes dealer for, say, $75,000. No more good cars for you.
Go to Bistro at vineyard. Have you noticed that there is a vineyard on every square block of the entire country? Where do the grapes come from? Certainly not there. In my neighborhood two doctors decided to play vineyard and produce Red Truck and White Barn. They come in gallon paint cans. Really. That's why I live in the country. Anyhow, had steak and an expensive glass of Biltmore cab. I prefer Pinot but some nice waiter at the semi-fancy (Hermes scarf with your jeans) restaurant in my part of the world to me that I would be sorry if I drank the Pinot with my flat iron. Waiter looks like Herman Munster but short. Has that flat head and sunken eyes. Herman pours olive oil on my dish and then pours vinegar in with it. Hello. Hasn't anybody told the Bistro that they are part of a vineyard and vinegar is not exactly a good complement for wine? Guess not. Steak good. Spinach so salty it is inedible. I like spinach so this is a disappointment. I was waiting for waiter to ask how my lunch was. Never did. I hate this kind of french fry, you know the huge ones with no crispy. My son says they are like someone already chewed them and then they refried 'em. Asked if they have anything extra-caffeinated. I don't want to have another night on the road like yesterday's. I was hoping for some espresso, perhaps a double shot. They have coffee. Okay. Have coffee and forgettable cranberry tart. At least they have gelato that is not the same flavor as they put on the tart (see ThirtyA on 30A).
Felt better after wine. Think of pouring bottle into Woody's tank. Heck, with 10% ethanol in the gas anyhow, he might as well enjoy it. Decide to go to the house. Big sign in parking lot "Must Have Tickets To Enter House." I don't have tickets because I went to the Inn from the gate that sells tickets in the belief that I will get my tickets for today and tomorrow at Inn. Needed to find out if I need to go the 5 miles back to gate and piss off another 50 cars to buy ticket. Decided to drive to the house and find out. So I drove to the house. I mean really to the house. As in up the driveway to the front door of this 2.4 million square foot house (true). No one told me I couldn't park there, and I bet there is a major policy for this. Bought a ticket and nicely parked in appropriate parking lot.You can take an audio tour at Biltmore. I hate audio tours. Opt for numbered brochure. This place is very very big. They have been renovating since 1970. They have finished three bedrooms. This is a family business. The Vanderbilts still own the thing. They never go there, well almost never, and observe the no food or drink rules like everyone else. The DuPonts in my neighborhood have a huge to-do each year for the approximately 2,750 blood relatives to E.I. duPont. Why don't the Vanderbilts do that? After all, it is 2.4 million square feet and I'm sure there is room for everyone. Well, they did that once for the 100th anniversary of the house and when one Vanderbilt retired and another one took over. They had dancing for 100 in the Tapestry Hall. Oh. Here's the deal. Since the 1930's, the Vanderbilts could not afford the house. They opened the doors to paying customers in 1930. Why didn't they just send enough money off-shore to run the place like any reasonable hedge fund manager would? Just think of the tax savings. They were the robber barons after all. There is even a very pretty book describing the "unique business model" of Biltmore. Anyhow, I know they are hiding something because they had a big place in New York with their V's and acorn insignia all over it so that people would know it was theirs. The Vanderbilts are in the Blue Book. They are part of Society. Hello. The Vanderbilts can't afford their own house. Tres tacky. And definitely the reason Amtrak sucks.
Most of Biltmore is exactly like you expect it to be. Dinner for 45. Big man cave with billiards, bowling and gym. Also special smoking rooms (hmmm...) and gun selection room for guests. Big pool. There are dressing rooms for the ladies and buzzers for food or someone to help you dress. They say there are dressing rooms for the men, but as in the Racquet Club and other gentleman's hideouts from wives, I think the men swam nekkid. There are two showers right in the middle of the gym. Just metal supports and skimpy curtains. Hmmm..... There are a lot of hmmm's at Biltmore. Mr. Vanderbilt was a very snappy dresser.
In the Tapestry Hall they have one with the famous triangle of Venus, Vulcan and Mars. Sounds like me, my imaginary boyfriend and my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. Covered Lila Rae's eyes. Also Domine amidst other things in frieze. Uh huh. We know you have a home equity loan.
As always, I like the downstairs better than the upstairs. I surreptitiously listened to the guy giving the "Butler's Tour" for which you pay extra. His uncle Floyd used to work there. There are two potting rooms with plastic watering cans and wheelie trash cans. They should just shut the door on those. In the rotisserie kitchen, they have a plastic turkey with a cleaver on the butcher block. It is one helluva cleaver, shaped a bit like an axe head. After scissors and farm machinery, I like cleavers. Conspicuous lack of gift shops. Business Model a bit off there. You could probably renovate another 3 rooms in a speedy 10 years if you sold gifts. Should've gone to Dollywood.
Have to drive 10 miles to get out of Biltmore. Realize it is really very beautiful. Wait a minute. It looks just like my neighborhood but we don't put out signs that say Horse Crossing. Duh. Also, we do not have zillions of tourists visiting. Note to self: there is no place like home.
Feeling very jaunty after my Cab and coffee, I hit the road. Except I couldn't find the highway. Asheville has one of those screwy ring roads but instead of naming it something useful like 295 or 295 or 495, it is called a different thing at each quadrant. Even my emergency GPS got lost. Pulled into a Country Day School (we have one too, it is where you put your rich kids when they are used to getting whatever they want and can't deal with the restrictions of, you know, ordinary schools). Checked map. Decide to take whichever highway I can find. They all eventually reach Pennsylvania, a couple of thousand miles or so, give or take. Can't get out of Country Day School. Driveway straight up at light. Finally waved off soccer dads and took flying start diagonally from parking lot. Think about taking Blue Ridge Parkway. Getting dark. Ridge not a good thing. Get on I-whatever and drive until I can find somewhere I can locate on map. Got into the groove. It is a really good day when I can find a vehicle that drives like I do, the same speed in the same kind of conditions. Got really lucky behind and orange Sneider truck. Enjoying the signs.
School for The Deaf
Div. of Prisons
Have to get gas. Lose spot after orange Sneider truck. Bummer. This is Jeff and Jimmy. They have just gotten back from fishing. They catch crappies. Jeff used to work for Dana and sometimes had to go to Pennsylvania. He always brought his rods. They catch crahppies up there. Jim has a 1937 Lincoln. He has been looking for that one for 28 years. He used to do all the service on a 1937 Lincoln when he was a boy. He knew everything about it, inside and out, especially since he started working on it when it was brand new. He waited for the owner to eventually sell it. He loved that car. His friend bought it, he said, misting up. He is the third owner of his matching Lincoln, technically because one of the guys didn't title the car. Jeff and Jimmy asked me which way I am going. I have no idea. Go on 77. You can go 40 East too. Jimmy says I will go straight into the ocean if I go all the way on 40. Needed to change out of nice khakis because I am beginning to freeze. I have figured out the heater, though, so I can freeze or scald my right ankle. Changed in gas station bathroom which was remarkably clean. Passed Krispy Kreme case. I don't even have enough money for a Krispy Kreme. Remembered I stopped here to use ATM as advertised in red lights on the front. ATM broken. No donut.Yawned once. Having learned lesson, look for very next Holiday Inn Express. It is at Independence, next to Galax. Doubly good because galax leaves are very helpful in flower arranging. This Holiday Inn Express has a 2009 Quality Excellence Award from Intercontinental which is even better than the ones that just come from Holiday Inn corporate. Because I am a Preferred Member, I got a bottle of water and a bag of Chex Mix. Good thing as I have no money for dinner. Must go to ATM tomorrow morning. Update: found $2 in other purse. Krispy Kreme in morning!
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