Laura is the face in the misty light. Footsteps that you hear down the hall.

I just read Simon's latest post, which is a listing of definitions of his name from Urban Dictionary.

Since Maurita hasn't been defined yet, I'll share some definitions of my real name.

1. Laura
-Sex on legs
-Tiger in the bedroom
-Waiscoast is TEH SEX
-Adorable
-Possibly the rudest person you will EVER meet
-Cute. END OF.

Michelle: "Did you meet up with Laura last night?"
Hannah: "Yeh, she was a tiger in the bedroom!"
(Laura walks past...)
Michelle: "Aye up, sex on legs.."

2. Laura
meaning 'from the laurel flower'
a beautiful name, in fact one of the best names ever.

hey laura, you're soo fly

3. Laura
a young woman, typically associated with romantic themes. Though the name originally came from the Roman tradition of placing a wreath of laurels on victors' heads, it has developed more emotional ties in recent years.

The most famous Laura is from Dr. Zhivago in which she is a star-crossed lover who leaves her true love to marry another man.

4. Laura
A really really cool person;
guys want her and girls want to be her.
Has many friends.
Everyone likes her,
they dont only pretend to like her.

Guy 1: Why can we never get a Laura?
Guy 2: They all already have great boyfriends.

Girl 1: Lauras so cool, I want to be her.
Girl 2: Your just lucky your her friend.

5. Laura
The person with this name is the most amazing person you will ever meet. After you say hi to her, magic fairy dust will sprinkle on your head and then you'll be able to FLY! OMG! Who WOULDN'T want to fly?

That girl is so cool. Her name must be Laura! *begins to fly*

6. Laura
a laura is a being, typically female, with an overall good personality
-lauras generally listen to good music and lack their own form of transportation
-one major flaw some lauras possess is their failure to watch donnie darko as often as they should
-although lauras have some faults, they are typically above average intelligence and liked by most

"dude, did you just see that laura over there?"

"i so did man, i so didddddddd"

7. laura
A really great girl either in the bed or on the floor. Also one of the kindest most beautiful chicks you'll ever meet. The kind you never let go of.

Man, I met a laura last night. I'm not gonna let this one get away!

8. Laura
A girl who is awesome in every way, can be shy at times and crazy (especially when she is sugar high) the next, but is always a fun person to be around. She likes to make lists and keep everything in order. She loves to be creative with her stories she writes, and takes too many photos on her camera. She loves to hang out with a group of friends at all times. Reading is her favorite pastime, and she barely ever misses a tv show. You will never regret ever meeting a Laura. She likes to keep everything in order, and makes sure everythings in its place, except not really :). She loves to make up one syllable words and languages out of these words. Her favorite number is 4 and she is really good at remembering numbers. Best Traits: can keep secrets when she wants to, can always cheer people and friends up, knows the right moment when a friends in need.

You cant live life without a Laura there to cheer you up.

9. Laura
-sex on a stick
-at times quiet
-doesn't talk to people she thinks aren't worth her time
-loves photography
-one of the most BEAUTIFUL girls you will ever meet!
-friendly
-classy
-gentle
-elegant
-the most intelligent person ever!
-artistic
-great taste in music
-f*&%ing great! the end.

"dude, do you see that laura over there?"

"totally dude, she is one suga' I'd open my bakery to"

10. laura
A beautiful sexy woman that should be treated like a princess at all times.

Dammmnn what a laura, I'd do anything for her

Human guinea pig is unwell and slightly paranoid.

Since first developing allergies at the age of 12, and because of my inherited hypochondriac tendencies, I've always thought of myself as a human guinea pig. I prefer this term over "laboratory rat."

Let me see if I can lay this out for you without sounding totally crazy.

Here is a list of chemicals/food ingredients I've learned that my body can't handle:

1. Food dye Red No. 40 - turns me (and my oldest son) into the Incredible Hulk.

2. Monosodium glutamate - gives me (and my 1st and 3rd sons) migraine headaches. These are true migraines which include visual disturbances, headache, vomiting, sensitivity to light, and damage to brain cells (a scientific fact).

3. Aspartame, Splenda, sucralose, and any other artificial sweetener - make the skin on my face go numb. When I've had enough of one of these sugar substitutes, I can run a sharp fingernail down my cheek and not feel it.

4. High Fructose Corn Syrup - extended use or overingestion makes my heart feel like it's going to explode out of my chest. (Coincidentally, a study among actual laboratory rats resulted in female rats having their hearts enlarge until they exploded, and male rats not developing testicles.) So, yeah...you could also say it makes me feel like I have no balls. Just kidding!! And I notice a feeling of numbness around the joints in my fingers, wrists and knees.

5. Sulfites - found in every bottle of wine sold in America (unless someone can tell me otherwise). Again with the heart pounding and elevated blood pressure.

6. Common table salt and pure cane sugar - not sure about these, but I seem to be finding out that when I have too much of either, my blood pressure numbers skyrocket. It's well known that sodium levels affect blood pressure, but I wasn't sure about the effect of high blood sugar levels on blood pressure. Last night I found some info on the internet (yay) which may support that. And while I really don't eat a lot of sweets, I do occasionally have a lemonade, or make my own barbecue sauce out of catsup and brown sugar, or any number of other things that allow sugar to sneak its way into my body...

including chewing gum. And guess what ALL chewing gums on the market contain now, including Wrigley's? Aspartame. Which has probably been unleashing all kinds of weird chemical reactions in my body every time I pop a piece of gum in my mouth, all day long at work. Which may be why I can't get my blood pressure under control, despite my doctor having doubled the strength of my prescription. (In case you're wondering, two nights this week, the numbers were 140/100.)

So now I won't even chew gum. I hope someone steals all of it out of my desk this weekend.

And white bread? Pfft. Fuggeddaboutit. Not after what I read last night. In fact, I may just stop eating altogether. Because guess what? After not eating at all, my blood pressure is perfectly normal.

Songs That Make Me Uncomfortable

It first happened when I was a teenager. I was on a road trip with my dad and my sister, presumably to take her back to college in Iowa, when we walked into a truck stop to eat. The song that was playing rather loudly when we entered the restaurant was Bad Company's Feel Like Making Love. It might not have been so bad if my dad wasn't there. I might not have been uncomfortable at all if it didn't feel like I was a place for 50,000 truckers to park their eyes.

The same thing has happened a few times over the years, usually when I'm eating alone in a restaurant, or when I'm the only woman in a gas station, etc.

I also have a slight phobia of police officers. It might have something to do with them always being assholes when I'm speeding, which of course I have never done. What I mean is they were assholes in the past when I was allegedly speeding and they erroneously gave me tickets.

So imagine my discomfort today when I was peacefully sitting at Long John Silver's, eating some possibly fake grilled tilapia, when Donna Summer's Love to Love You Baby started moaning and writhing out of the speakers like a cat in heat, and one of the two police officers sharing the restaurant was getting catsup about 2 feet away from me, whistling the love to love you baby part. Officer, please don't love to love me. Don't even love me. Don't even think about loving to love me. And then some other guy (perhaps a construction worker) came over to refill his drink, and kept positioning his body sideways so he could stare at me. I would have bent over a little to allow my hair to fall in my face, but I was afraid that might give the guy an unimpeded view down my top. Instead, I just kept shoveling food in my face. I ate my breadstick so that it would in no way resemble a sex act of any kind, hoping that I could either finish eating before Donna Summer ran out of breathlessness, or that the song would end along with the crawly feeling moving up and down my back.

As it turns out, Donna finished before I did, but my relief was short-lived. Because whoever created this 70's strip club playlist moved right into I Was Made for Loving You by KISS.

The Temperature of Hell

This was forwarded to me by a co-worker:

HELL EXPLAINED BY CHEMISTRY STUDENT

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry mid term. The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well.

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed)or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls
are added.

This gives two possibilities:

1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.

The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct......leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'

THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+.

Quotes by Maurita

Quotes I would like to have attributed to me:

"Arguing with a New Yorker is like spitting into a hurricane."

"I've never been surprised by the similarity between the words marital and martial."

"Old people don't think stuff's funny."

Slips of the tongue that can fade away into oblivion:

Thirty minutes after telling a guy that I would like to kick his ass, I said, "You're just standing around waiting for an ass kissing, aren't you?"

Upon losing it when my kids refused to take no for an answer:
"From now on, when I say No, I MEAN YES!"

I'm sure there are more, because I'm quite brilliant, you know.

*eye roll*

Back to the Dark Ages!

Astounding, is what it is. Perhaps embarrassing. Certainly a health hazard. But the sight of one little sign this morning caused me to cackle.

Due to the current company trend of cost cutting, my employer is no longer buying bottled water for its employees. Instead, they've installed a few reverse osmosis water dispensers throughout the hangar. And this morning, on my walk to the office, I did a double-take when I saw these words (printed on paper) on the side of one of them:

Please wash hands
before using and do not
tongue ladle!

And a white plastic ladle was lying there in the trough that catches water. It's true. We've gone back in time 200 years.

And I really want to know who's been tonguing the ladle.

T-Mobile Subway Event

No doubt my (three?) British readers have already been inundated with this video, but it's possible the rest of you haven't.

What follows is a commercial shot for T-Mobile, in Liverpool Street Station on January 15, 2009. I'm not sure anyone who was there could've had a bad day after seeing this.

quivering with each moment like a drop of mercury

On days like this, when the sun taunts us with a warm but faraway smile, I like to dust off my garden books and look at the pictures.

These (rephotographed and cropped) photos are by Richard W. Brown, from the book Tasha Tudor's Garden:


I love the striped, red parrot tulips.


Peach ruffles.


I'm wishing I'd planted tulips in the Fall!


I've always thought peonies were underrated. Fortunately, there's a cemetery full of them just down the road from me.


Ahhh, peaches. But I won't wish the summer away by looking at them too long, or too longingly.

Outside In

Outside my window

including screen

Inside my window

a little bird - a gift to me from my niece.

Rick Santelli - Revolutionary?

I love this guy! Make sure you pay attention to the comment about the '54 Chevy.

The Extent of My Practicality

Because of the current economy, I've been told precisely fifteen times in the last month to "buy only what is necessary." This would be pretty straightforward for most people, but I have something wrong with my brain. I may even have a mental illness.

Case in point: the first full year I had a job. I was only 19, single, and still living with my parents. But that doesn't excuse how I spent my $1000 Christmas bonus. Actually, I can't tell you how I spent all of it. But I remember buying my brother a Jackalope. I bought my oldest brother something equally useless and expensive, and snowshoes for my dad. (The snowshoes are mine now, just to stir up some jealousy among those in my family who read me.)

Not practical. At all.

On my lunch hour, I went to Dollar General to buy laundry soap. While there, I was forced to decide whether some disposable window cleaners were "necessary" or not. I really need to clean the inside of the windshield in the truck, so, practical = check. Having paper towels and Windex at home already = not necessary. So I didn't buy this $2 freaking item. I was kind of proud of myself. Then I went to McDonald's, which I hate, and spent only $3 for lunch. Very conflicting, since I know how unhealthy that kind of food makes me. But spending only $3 meant I could drive over to the bookstore and browse -- and maybe even buy a book since I saved so much money on lunch and not buying window cleaner.

You may be wondering, Dear Reader, if I was able to escape the clutches of Barnes and Noble unscathed. Of course not. As soon as I hit the entryway, a book caught my eye. The Knitting Directory. Have I ever mentioned that I don't know how to knit? That's why I needed the book. Have I mentioned that I don't have knitting needles? Have I mentioned that I don't have yarn? These are minor hurdles along my path to learning how to knit. I prefer to think of these stumbling blocks as opportunities - because now that I have a book about how to knit, it becomes necessary for me to have knitting needles and yarn.

Do you see how it works?

And how could I pass up a piece of literature like the one titled When the Duke Returns? Of course I want the Duke to return. Maybe he's coming back from Waterloo, having single-handedly defeated Napoleon. Maybe he went to America to escape a huge gambling debt, leaving a younger brother to clean up the mess he made of his entire Estate. It was simply necessary for me to know why the Duke is returning, and what will happen to him when he gets here. There.

But I promise I won't spend any more money. Today.

Farm Wife Blues

When I was a 7-year-old horse crazy girl, the quickest way to get me in the car when my parents were going to visit another set of boring old friends was to tell me that they had horses. Invariably, the boring old friends would have sold their horses five or ten years before that, which rendered them extra boring.

But my dad knew a couple of people with real farms - his cousin Mary in Missouri, and a church member who had moved out of the city to settle on a place he called Storybook Farm, where the wide variety of animals were named after characters from books. We visited the Missouri place only once while it was still a working farm with a milk cow, two mules, chickens, and probably cats and a dog, though I can't remember for sure. I was more impressed by the mules and cow, and that trip was the first and last time I milked a cow. I loved that place, and I still have dreams about (of all things) the house's attic.

It's probably no surprise, then, that I grew up dreaming that I would have a farm of my own someday. And the only way my feeble mind could imagine accomplishing this was to marry a farmer. If I married a farmer, I could have ALL the animals I wanted!

Wrong.

I think my husband hates animals. It's possible he does, since he's made it pretty clear that any animals I've had since we've been married were/are incredible, expensive nuisances. He may have privately rejoiced when two of my horses died in December. Just last night I finally figured out that he has been secretly live-trapping my cats, as part of a kitty relocation program.

My dream of having all the animals I ever wanted is now dead. Rest in Peace, dream.

Could it be Karma that the last thing caught in the live trap was a skunk?

What Strikes My Fancy Today

Staying indoors

Am I the only one who can hear this cat making a raspberry sound?

A bearskin rug

Destructive to the environment, good for the soul.

A fireplace

Get one now, before your infrastructure fails.

A russian hat and coat

I don't know why I don't have one of these hats. I've always loved them, and apparently you can buy them from Russia in fox, sable, rabbit, or possum for $100 or less.

Playing dress up

What can I say. I love feathers. I must have been a burlesque dancer in a former life.

Author Bio

Maurita Mason was born in 1962 in Indianapolis, the daughter of an Aquarian with a million hobbies and an accomplished artist. She is a graduate of the School of Hard Knocks, where she earned degrees in non-classical "literature," baby raising, and poultry. Maurita is the author of one-half a novel titled Untitled in which the reader is expected to finish the story and give the book a title. She is a complete and utter fake, as illustrated here by this poorly airbrushed photo. Blah blah blah, filler filler, blah blah blah, so I can get the text to wrap around the picture like it's supposed to.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

Today would have been my dad's 81st birthday. I thought about him all day, of course, and decided it would be a good day to go visit my mom, since I rarely take the time to do that.

My son and I also seized the opportunity to bring home my dad's '93 Chevy truck, which my mom graciously said CW could have, since he turned 16 last August and we aren't rich enough to buy him a vehicle of his own.

My mom handed over the title and a "bill of sale," and after starting the truck with jumper cables, cleaning it out, and removing the abandoned mouse nest from under the seat, we began the 30 mile trip back home, with me in the lead. I thought about how happy it would make my dad to know that one of his grandkids would enjoy his truck and take care of it.

And all the way home, I got little jolts of bittersweetness every time I looked in the rear view mirror, because it was almost like seeing my dad back there, following me home.

Thanks for everything, Dad, and Happy Birthday.

Bad Housekeeping

All working mothers know what it's like to be short on time and energy. Over the past two decades, I've discovered a few tricks to save on money, time and effort.

Are there any clean towels?

After a bath or shower, it's possible to towel off with only a small, dry wash cloth. This will eliminate larger loads of laundry, and perhaps save the environment!

Under the Rug

Buy only reversible throw rugs. Simply flip the rug over when one side gets dirty.

Write On!

Allowing dust to accumulate on furniture surfaces will provide a handy place to write notes to yourself or the family. Encourage everyone to have fun by playing hangman or tic-tac-toe!

This Really Sucks!

Do you own a Dyson or any other canister type vacuum? Letting dirt gather for up to 3 weeks in your carpets will make your sweeper seem even more powerful as you watch the canister fill up!

Go Green!

Leaving leftovers in the refrigerator for an extended period of time will speed up the decomposition process when moldy food items are added to compost. Also, isn't it possible your garden will be healthier if it has been on antibiotics?

The New Tie Dye

Boring white shirt? Leave it in the bottom of a damp clothes hamper for at least a week to give the shirt a permanent, speckled effect.

Community Sock Basket

Tired of matching socks? Just throw all the clean socks in one laundry basket, and let the family hunt for their own socks. Your children and possibly your husband will feel as if they are doing their share to help around the house.

I may add to this list over time. Feel free to share your own hints in the comment section!

Save Joaquin!! Or not...

Joaquin Phoenix appeared on David Letterman last night. Did you see it? Have you seen the clip? There are five possible explanations for this humorous/sad/painful interview:

a) Joaquin has gone completely batshit;
b) Joaquin is painfully shy and was forced to be on the show by his publicist;
c) Joaquin is on something bad;
d) Joaquin became possessed by the ghost of Johnny Cash during the filming of Walk the Line, thus opening a portal for other dead celebrities to enter his body, including Anna Nicole Smith and perhaps Kurt Cobain;
e) Joaquin is embracing his bad press and exploiting it.

I tend to believe the explanation is e, because the guy is just too brilliant for it to be anything else. What do you think?

Vacation Day!

Son #3 has a dental appointment shortly after noon, so I'm taking this opportunity to use one of my 13 vacation days left before June 1st. (I'm saving the rest for when my soldier is home on mid-tour leave in May.) It's windy out there, but warmer (about 53 degrees F, moving up to 64 in the afternoon), with a chance for thunderstorms and tornadoes tonight! In case I haven't mentioned it, I embrace bad weather, but only if it's warm.

I'm biorhythmically moving into one of my introspective periods, which means fewer posts and comments. At least I understand my own patterns and can predict them, even if I haven't yet managed to figure out prevention. I may be on to something, though: a co-worker invited me yesterday to walk the six flights of stairs that flank the interior of the hangar and lead to a catwalk at the ceiling. If I lead up to doing this every day, five days a week, I'll be well on my way to restructuring my bird legs, having thighs and calves, and maybe preventing a fluctuation in mood. And if I end up looking like the lower half of Beyonce, who am I to complain?

One of the things I've been thinking about lately is how painful self-restraint is for me. And not just self-restraint, but being forced by other people or by circumstances to refrain from doing something - especially spending money. It's bad enough that I live with a tightwad at home, but now I'm faced with a tightwad employer. Since I started my current job, I've been in charge of ordering office supplies for my department. Because of the current economy, the only thing I can order is paper, and even that has to go through the approval of four managers. This means no Post-It notes! No pens! No multi-colored miniature legal notepads! Do you know how much that hurts me? It's a good thing I have my purple, refillable Dr. Grip gel pen, with the dozen-or-so black ink refills I ordered a while back just in case. I may have stumbled upon an entrepeneurial opportunity, though. While I still have staples, I'm going to take discarded printer paper, cut it into quarters, and staple it (blank side up) into small note pads and sell them to my co-workers.
(Note: While I understand that if you "take care of the pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves," it seems a bit laughable when you consider that the top five executives of my company are pulling in a total of 44 million dollars. I say slice from the top of the cake first. I'll bet the top of the cake has Post-It notes!)

So that's it. I'm spoiled rotten, and never would have survived The Great Depression. Especially since Post-It Notes weren't invented yet.

Without a Trace

It really shouldn't come as a shock to me that I've lost nearly all of my Journalspace posts. Google got tired of holding them for me. The important ones, I mean. I also failed to download the zip file that was sent to me, before the new owners took over the Journalspace domain. (Stupid, stupid stupid!!)

I'm trying to remember one very short poem I placed there. It isn't even a good poem, but I liked it because it reminded me of my human frailty. It said very loudly that I'm not a saint, and that being married doesn't make me immune to the appeal of men.

It went something like this:

I know the way my eyes glide over you
like a pair of ice dancers.
If they linger in one spot too long
(your lower lip)
I'll burn.

these boots aren't made for walking

If I had known what a stir my new boots would cause, I would have photographed them before I left home this morning so I could show them to you. I guess it isn't saying much to write that the heads of a few aircraft mechanics were turned by one pair of off-white boots with jeans tucked into them, but allow me my illusions. Apparently they "look good all the way across the hangar." I could air traffic control with these boots, or I could perhaps cause a disaster the likes of which haven't been seen since the movie Airplane.

But seriously. These boots are so hot that I almost can't stand my own hotness. It's like when you were a kid, and somebody had a woodburning stove, and you couldn't stop yourself from touching it, so you licked your finger and touched the stove. And it really was hot and your finger made a sizzling sound. That kind of hot.

The downside is that the boots weren't made for snow. In snow, I take one step forward and three steps back. It's like I'm doing the moon walk, but in white boots, and in the snow. And without a glove, because I left mine in the truck.

So, anyway, please tell me how much you like my boots. Because all the cool people are doing it.


That fuzzy stuff along the bottom of the photo is smoke, of course.


Wow, more smoke!

Shut it off at the thingie/keep it somewhere warm.

I'm such a mom. Really. I always considered myself very hands-off where the lives of other people are concerned - especially when those other people are my children. But, apparently not.

My almost-21-year-old son moved out for the second time on Sunday, into an old house which is, presumably, in need of repair. The owner has agreed to trade work on the house for rent, and J-dub is naturally gung-ho about that. So just now he came home to check his Facebook and Myspace, and asked where I'd stored a gallon of wall primer he knew I had. I found the paint and handed it over, because God knows my lazy ass won't be using it any time in the near future, then I began asking him if he needed dishwasher soap, toilet paper, floor cleaner, carpet shampoo.

"No, Mom, we're going to the store to get all that, and a ceiling light, because the living room has no lights in it." He said something about an exhaust fan in the middle of the ceiling (???), and he was going to put a light there.

I said, "Do you know how to do wiring? Do you know you have to shut it off at the thingie?"

He laughed, of course. Silly me; he might still be a little bit blonde, but he'll never be as blonde as his mother.

After I filled his arms with a baggie full of dishwasher soap, a bottle of Dawn dish detergent, and assorted other necessities, I said, "Don't forget your paint can." As he leaned over to pick it up I added, "Keep it somewhere warm!"

The only reason I could see him smiling as he walked out the door was because he was shaking his head from side to side.

Beer for My Soldiers

I chatted on instant messenger with my son briefly today. He said that his entire base got beer for the Superbowl -- except for the infantry platoons, because they're required to drive. I call bullshit, and so did my son's buddies. They stole some and took it back their rooms. I'm pretty sure the stolen beer amounted to about one each, so there's no danger of camels being struck by Humvees or anything.

*edit - I just realized that allowing soldiers in a war zone to have only one or two beers is akin to taking Anna Kournikova to Iraq to entertain the troops, but dressing her in a burkah.

Ready, Set, Action

It seems to me that the more popular blogs on the internet are the ones that deal with doing. They are the action verbs of the blog world - more powerful, efficient, exciting. This blog, like its owner, is a passive verb. It doesn't accelerate, leap, flutter, grind, or even splash. It is told, not shown.

And here's why.

On the evening of my birthday, I grabbed my camera on the way out as we were leaving for dinner. I was going to blog about my birthday dinner.

It was a beautiful late January evening, about 6 p.m. Almost dusk, with snow flurries and a hushed blanket of snow over everything. We took the most scenic route to the restaurant - a winding, paved road through the woods, past hills and creeks and a river.

As I was admiring the black and white landscape, I suddenly exclaimed, "I should be taking pictures!"


This photo was taken from the moving vehicle, because my cry of "I should be taking pictures" didn't slow my husband down a bit. I love this little farmstead, that has probably been on this hillside for over a hundred years. I don't even know if anyone lives there anymore.


Hubby may have nearly stopped for this photo, but only because he had just rounded a 90-degree curve.


And here we are, flying over a bridge which crosses the White River. Definitely no stopping here, with traffic in front of and behind us. This is when hubby said, "It really makes me nervous when you do that," meaning, take a photo from a moving vehicle with the camera hanging precariously outside the window with just my two clumsy hands holding it.

After we arrived at the restaurant, and keeping in mind that I hadn't eaten for 24 hours because of my illness, I chose to drink a strawberry daquiri. It was a deliberate decision to have something with rum in it, because sailors drank rum, and it couldn't be too awful on an iffy stomach. I forgot to photograph the daquiri. And the next one.

But I remembered to shoot the first course of the meal: the restaurant's signature beef and onion soup, complete with a bit of french bread and some mozzarella cheese in the bottom.


Looks delicious, doesn't it? DOESN'T IT? Maybe it's just me, but it seems their bowls are getting smaller. Damn the American economy!

I only remembered to get a pic of my salad when I was halfway done. This just looks gross.


I swear the french dressing is amazing, though. But again with the smaller portions.

Then the main course - a 10 ounce New York Strip, grilled medium well, with a baked potato rubbed with butter and sea salt. Yes, it's out of focus. The rum made me not care.



Simple fare, to be sure, but the best, most flavorful steaks anywhere close to home.

And that, my darlings, is why I don't show you where I go and what I do.