Will Wonders Never Cease

About two weeks ago, my state agency received an email through our website inquiring when the best time to see Texas wildflowers is.

Emails from the public are a mixed bag, of course. Human nature being what it is, people don't usually write to a faceless bureaucratic entity unless they're het up about something. A not-insignificant portion of my job involves answering hate mail.

I love it. Not the hate mail itself, but the whole process of coming to understand the other person's point of view; of moving through commingled frustration, annoyance, and compassion; of trying to figure out what can be done either to help the person, or at least to help him or her understand. Forging connections is amazing. The best thing in the world is when you write back to someone who's very angry - with or without good cause - and feel that you've made sense, that you've cleared things up, that the person received at least some sort of satisfaction from your answer. You've made a change in the world, and in someone else, and in yourself - just the littlest tiniest bit, but it's such a good thing.

Usually that's the end of it, but every so often someone writes back to me. Often they thank me. Many times they're surprised to have received a thoughtful response from a faceless, monolithic government entity at which they were, after all, only venting a little spleen. Sometimes they want to continue the discussion further. Obviously I can't answer everything - I mean, I personally sure as heck don't agree 100% with everything my employer does - but on balance, I love the process, and the contact and the interaction with these strangers seeking any acknowledgement whatsoever of their point of view, and get it. It's tremendously rewarding, really.

But this wildflower question just made me completely happy. Of course the inquirer wasn't upset; she wanted to know when the peak of wildflower season is, and where the best part of the state to visit is, and whether we're going to have a good wildflower season this year.

Well, on the last one, who knows. It's looking a heck of a lot better than last year. We had some good rain in the fall, and only one hard freeze so far this winter (till tomorrow and Saturday night, anyway), and it looks like we'll get some nice fields of bluebonnets, come late March to mid-April. Somewhere. You can generally count on east Texas, anyway.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I wrote back to this nice British nature photographer and said that, while it's too early to determine how colorful the show of wildflowers will be this year, there is a fair prospect of a good season; I sent a few links, and had a shipment of Texas travel literature sent off to her, along with last year's wildflower driving tour issue of the travel magazine, whose editor is a friend of mine. She wrote back and thanked me right away.

And today she wrote the friendliest note to say that she'd received all the literature in the mail, thanked me again for being helpful, and promised to send me photographs after her trip.

Do you remember before there was an internet? Can you imagine life without it? I do, and I can't. At this point I'm kind of wishing she'd look me up when she's in town. People are quite lovely, you know. Aren't I lucky to have a job where I get to be friends with so many of them?

So Many Pictures, No Camera Cord

Under most circumstances, getting escorted out of town by the cops is not the best way to start a day.

In my job, it's awesome!

Today is day 3 of our north Texas tour, and I'm taking advantage of a rare break to type up a quick post from my hotel room in Wichita Falls, where I have not yet, I'm pleased to announce, quite worn out my welcome. But then, we only got in an hour ago.

Any self-respecting hotel ought to be prepared to issue each guest a cat upon check-in. Who knows - this might not be too far off. Only ten years ago, even high-end hotels routinely furnished their rooms with mattresses made of repurposed drywall. The idea of putting comfortable beds in rooms intended for sleeping is rather a recent one.

Even moderate-class hotels now have plush mattresses, soft, plentiful pillows, attractive furnishings and drapes, and luxurious bathroom fittings. The little things really do add up. Wireless internet is fairly standard too, which means that, in my case anyway, the flat-panel TV never gets turned on. You get shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion. Maybe even mouthwash. Shoe polish, you get. Such extravagance!

So cats, that's where they really need to go next. And actual cream for your coffee. I still can't comprehend how that weird powdery stuff might be considered an adequate substitute.

I'm going to make myself Google-able here, I know it, but have to say that the highlight so far - for me - has been Chandor Gardens in Weatherford. With an intelligent, funny, offbeat horticulturist acting as guide, the setting was beyond beautiful, and the weather's been perfect. Our guide pointed out the bride's cottage located on the grounds. "There are a couple of advantages to this," he remarked. "One is that some guest who hasn't seen the bride since they were in sixth grade is going to want to catch up on everything that's happened over all those years - an hour before the wedding. So the guest will be looking all over the house for her, while she's holed up in the cottage drinking champagne."

He paused, then added, "Plus it's right next to the parking lot, so if she comes to her senses she can make a quick getaway."

Then again, getting a police escort out of Granbury might have been the highlight. That's hard to beat. Or getting to drink actual honest-to-goodness Crazy Water.

The whole trip so far has been wonderful, maybe not quite so much if you don't care for live music revue performed by slightly overenthusiastic Christians, which is not my thing, but everybody else loved it. And I've been happy as a good-sized pile of clams over everything else. I love my job, so much so in fact that I might almost go on Oprah and jump up and down on the couch about it, except that Oprah ranks slightly lower on the Things That Beth Likes scale than even the perkiest Christian musical revue, so forget I mentioned it.

It would be pretty cool if we got to attend a theatrical performance put on by a group of Flying Spaghetti Monster devotees for noble pastafarian causes. Have you been touched by His Noodly Appendage?

I have so many pictures, but I left my camera cord at home - you always have to forget something. Leave it to me to forget one of very few items your modern hotel won't provide.

Maybe tomorrow morning I'll get run out of town on a rail!

The Center of the Universe

"Look, look!" enthused an adorable little boy in swim trunks - I'd guess he was about two and a half - to Robbie and me, sitting on top of the hill overlooking the Long Center, Auditorium Shores, and the hike-and-bike trail. The man-made hill is crowned by a ring of stone benches surrounding a handsome limestone-and-granite map of Texas. Austin is picked out with a star on the map; several other, less relevant Texas cities are indicated by a dot, and under each dot the distance in miles from this, the sunniest, happiest, most beautiful city on Earth, is given. "Look!" said the little boy, zigzagging excitedly back and forth across the map. "It's the whole world!"

Who could disagree?

The little cutie was drawn to us by Bella, Robbie's miniature dachshund, who responded to his attentions by curling her tail tightly underneath her body and trying to hide under the bench. Robbie coaxed her out and held her in his arms so the little boy could pet her. The child caught sight of Robbie's watch. "Hey, what time is it?" he demanded urgently.

"It's almost four," Robbie told him.

"What's that mean??"

We weren't able to give a satisfactory answer, though, so the little fellow orbited the world a few more times before dashing down the hill to join his mother, grandfather, and brother, who were ambling along the spiral path that climbs the hill. The mother approached us after a few minutes and asked us, smiling, "How old is your son?"

"Wait - he isn't yours?!"

So I stood up and gazed down the hill towards the splashing water fountains until I spied a woman looking around, cupping her hands to her mouth and shouting. I waved to her. "Is that your mom in the red shirt?" I asked my little companion, "I think she's trying to find you." He dashed down the hill to a happy reunion. Awwwww... I guess it's just as well. Robbie's got Bella, and I already have a kitten.

I sat atop that same hill yesterday evening, too, with a new friend, who took me to see a new symphony by Dan Welcher, the Bruch Violin Concerto #1 with the amazing, energetic, and very snappily dressed Sarah Chang, and the Tchaikovsky Capriccio Italien.

The natives were restless - children waiting to splash in the water fountain plaza, which runs through cycles and pauses every several minutes to allow parents to drag away their exhausted offspring; but there were none of those last night. The tense, rhythmic chant of "Wa-ter! Wa-ter! Wa-ter!" was clearly audible from the top of the hill.

My friend has season tickets to the Austin Symphony Orchestra. In most cities, this would entail a good mix of classics and new pieces - and there's really no getting away from the pops concerts (nor from people who whisper to one another loudly during the performance, kick the back of your seat, and shout "Bravo!" at female soloists), but the one thing that kind of annoyed my friend was that a Charlie Daniels Band concert was included in his season subscription. "When I buy season tickets to the symphony," he remarked, quite reasonably I thought, "I am specifically paying NOT to see the Charlie Daniels Band."

I guess that's Austin for ya.

Hey Shorty! It's Your Birthday!

It's good to be back home.

One of the best things about Eeyore's Birthday Party is that everyone is so nice... it's a very happy festival, full of charity and goodwill, not to mention dogs, at least one shoulder-borne cat, a goat, a pig, probably some other wildlife I didn't see, people dressed as Twinkies and bananas, the guy on the two-story bike, drums, smoke (both kinds - the dangerous one and the illegal one), and beautiful girls and boys of all ages and shapes and sizes in various stages of dress, undress, feathers, foliage, and paint. Also, there's beer.

Last time I volunteered at Eeyore's, year before last, I painted faces. The pressure was just too much, though - even though most of my paintings came out extremely well, I was horribly anxious about all of them, and the one silent, solemn little girl whose liquid eyes welled up and spilled over when I gave her the mirror was enough to convince me that this was not a job I was ever willing to take on again, even if nobody asked me to decorate their naughty bits. So this time I sold beer tickets. This is a doable job: insanely busy and fast-paced, and you have to be able to do simple arithmetic in your head reasonably quickly - a weak point of mine actually - but everybody's happy, everybody's nice, and because you're roped off behind a three-foot-tall fence of orange webbing, nobody cops a feel. The organizers give you a special marker that turns yellow on real bills so you can check 100's (and you'd be surprised how many people pay with those). You run out of tickets and ones a lot. It was the fastest two hours I've ever spent - I'm definitely up for doing this again next year!

After our shift, Robbie and I wandered around a bit, visited the drum circle, checked out the egg toss, and then found our lovely friend Diane, in honor of whose 50th birthday the whole festival was actually being held even if many of the partygoers were unaware of that fact. What better way to celebrate?


Happy Birthday, Diane and Eeyore - and many more!

Day Three: You Learn Something Every Day

Day Three was yesterday, I'm late, sorry. Been kinda busy.

Okay, so yesterday we started off with a motivational speaker/trainer. I liked her better than last year's, and I definitely liked her WAY better than Mr. Wave My Hand in Front of Your Face Oh Look You're Inexplicably Weakened Now I Can Push Your Arm Down for No Readily Apparent Purpose (who, based on a couple of quick interactions with him on the phone when he called for my boss and he assumed I was "just" the secretary, is also a prick) but let's face it, a motivational speaker is a motivational speaker.

There are four types of people in the world, and if you're one of these, you may have learned to ACT like another one some of the time, but you are by nature and in your comfort zone one of these only:

A Director: Speaks in nouns and action verbs. Makes decisions and gets things done. Focused on the ends.

A Socializer: All about the good times, a dreamer, dynamic, vain, self-centered, fun, talkative.

A Relater: Cares about peace and harmony above all else, will do whatever it takes to negotiate a happy balance among others.

A Thinker: Analytical and detail-oriented, goes nuts if things are out of place or don't go according to plan.

Naturally, the problem with putting people in boxes (even if you do remember to poke plenty of air holes) is that they don't necessarily fit into just one - though, when questioned on it, the speaker insisted everyone does. There are four of us here in my group, as it happens, and a couple of the others eagerly seized on the notion that, hey, we've got one of each! A Director (my overall boss, whom I'd classify as a Socializer, if I had to pick), a Thinker (my immediate boss - good enough, but she's nowhere near as inflexible or as uncomfortable with shifting situations as the speaker was saying), a Socializer (me) and a Relater (our section admin). I tried explaining that I'm actually very shy, but nobody would believe me.

Ah well, it'll all blow over.

After that we were back on the bus for tours, as well as our group photo. Have you ever organized a group photo of 90 people? I bet you think it can't be done within 20 minutes. Well, I did it. (I guess maybe the photographer helped.) I was down there with the group screaming at everyone to divide up by height and maneuver everyone into position (the PA system on my bus doesn't work, so I've done a lot of screaming the last few days) and damned if we didn't get that shot done and everyone on their way back to the buses in 10 minutes flat.

I rock.

We also have to do a big cheer for our bus (the green bus again!) and last night, after all the touring was done, I actually had everybody up to my room to practice. This didn't look suspicious at all. First I had to run down to the hospitality suite, where one of our sponsors poured me a glass of wine. "Here," he told me, "this is a really nice red, give this a try.

"Oh thank you," I said as my glass was filled, "I have to go take care of something. Excuse me." On my way out I caught Kevin, the photographer, who's on my bus but was taking care of other duties during our tours this afternoon, so he didn't know about our rehearsal plans. "Hey, could you come with me for a bit? I need help with something," I told him, and led him off to my room.

Hotel rooms are not all that big, it turns out, when you get twenty excited, giggling people into them. We practiced our cheer several times, occasionally shushing each other lest someone from one of the other, lesser buses might be next door. They must not hear it yet. They must not know how badly their little blue and yellow butts are going to get kicked later today.

And then my phone rang. General panic ensued, but everyone shushed down into subsided giggling and I answered it calmly. "Hello?"

"Oh, hi, Elizabeth," said an unfamiliar man's voice, "Is Kevin in your room by any chance?"

Uh-oh. "Um," I said. "I don't, um. Who's calling, please?"

It was someone I don't know, an industry person in town for the conference. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and gazed frantically at Kevin. "It's [so-and-so]," I whispered, "what do I do?"

"I know him, I know what he needs," said Kevin, "I'll talk to him." So I handed over the phone.

That's my old reputation over and done with, and a whole new one just starting out. Hopefully I can 'splain everything tomorrow after our big debut.

Although when you get down to it, why should I care? I'm a Socializer!

Day One: Cautionary

Okay, so I have just literally fled, I do mean literally, the hospitality suite at the hotel where many of my coworkers and industry contacts are boozing it up. I'm one of the planners, a representative of "authority" - it's my job to order everyone to show up for mandatory breakfast at 7:00 a.m. - and I want to party it up just as bad as anybody else... I think the worst part is that everyone can clearly tell that I was made for partying, not for ordering perfectly innocent coworkers out of their beds at an ungodly hour!

And yet - and this is where, I'm not trying to be too immodest, but this is where my actual superpower comes in - I genuinely understand why we have all the fugly stickly regulations, and am prepared to defend them, sympathetically, until everyone else understands them just as well and follows them voluntarily, no matter how much rum they had tonight.

But first I have to perform a James-Bond-esque escape from the hospitality room, trying desperately not to spill my Sprite, zig-zagging down the corridor, reaching the elevator scarcely ahead of my laughing pursuers, and punching the button for my floor repeatedly until the doors close, I heave a sigh of relief, and find my way back safely to my room. Don't answer the phone!!!

Highlight of the day, earlier: dinner at a lake house and boating on the lake, courtesy of the host CVB, went to hell when the boat ran out of gas in the middle of the lake, stranding a dozen of our attendees. I feel bad for the CVB, who did indeed double-and-triple-check with the boat rental company that they had a full tank. Certainly not the CVB's fault. Nothing trumps rampant incompetence. Nothing. Do you hear me? Write it down! You really might need to remember it later.

Tomorrow I have an exceptionally early morning, and no business being awake this late. So good night, sweet, reader(s) - and tomorrow is another day! I brought running shoes for the hospitality room.

Shake It All About

Boy, does this bring back memories.

Katie and I headed up to Playland Skate Center today. It's been 22 years (I counted) since the last time I roller-skated; but once we got going, it came back pretty quickly. I think I might like to try it on a Friday or Saturday night, when there aren't quite so many small children peppered about the rink: weaving erratically, suddenly zooming across your path to the exit, skating in the wrong direction, or just flinging themselves prone directly in front of you, in the most annoying and inconsiderate fashion. Do you mind?! I'm trying to remain upright, here!

Sitting down for a breather, Katie and I marveled at one of the older skaters - probably not all that much older than me, actually; except that while I eventually abandoned the roller rink to go to school and start a career and raise a family, he seems to have stayed there. He was an amazing skater, flying, dancing and spinning, bounding through the air. "Oh my God," said Katie, her eyes following him as he zoomed past, "that is so cool. In kind of a sad way."

But why, really? I've been thinking of all the things I loved to do as a kid that grown-ups don't do; yet those things aren't really any less fun. When's the last time you climbed around one of those big elaborate wooden playscapes at the park? Or swung on the swings, or jumped on a trampoline? And I haven't played putt-putt since I was like 12. But it's fun!!! Why do we hardly ever do this stuff?

The roller rink, meanwhile, has clearly seen better days; the cement floor is chipped and rough in spots, and has at least four different shades of ice-white paint in different areas. The carpeting is ancient and grimy, some of the letters are falling off the outdoor sign, and there's a Ms. Pac-Man machine in the corner. And don't even get me started on the music: they didn't play "Bette Davis Eyes" even once. (I counted.)

Still, we had fun; my shins hurt from using unaccustomed muscles, but I think we'll be back, and hopefully bring reinforcements. I really need somebody to sweep the little kids out of my way before somebody gets hurt, because that somebody will probably be me.

Small World

No one who has to be up as early as I have to be up in the morning has any business blogging at this hour.

And yet I must.

So tonight it ensued - over a drink or two, naturally - that one of the industry contacts on this trip is familiar with the old nightmare marketing company I worked for in Corpus. He was in fact flabbergasted that I used to work for that awful place, but very interested to hear the inside perspective I was able to provide.

But then I had to go and tell the story about Ursula, its CEO, whom he's met, and now he's going to have nightmares. Nice going, Beth.

I've told the story here before. But this computer is too slow for me to go and look it up, or at least I'm too lazy. Suffice it to say it's a story I tried explaining to my companions I absolutely could not tell, which resulted in them buying me more wine and being quite insistent, so I did. Delicately. I tried not to be too graphic. It concerned the CEO of my old company, her husband, the patio of their island home, and a complaint from the neighbors...

"Oh my God!" shouted one of my coworkers, when I'd skirted the horrible truth as well as I could, "you're talking about public muff-diving!"

So much for subtlety.

Well, tomorrow's another day. I hope my coworkers will still respect me in the morning.

Intermission

Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca! It turns out Maxim never really loved her at all. Of course, he did kind of shoot her dead and then sink the boat containing her body in the bay, which should give his second wife at least a little something to think about. Sure, things are good now...

People in love don't think critically.

Thursday was not nearly as jam-packed as Wednesday, though we got a lot of driving in. We wanted to visit a monastery and hummingbird sanctuary in Christoval (that's pronounced Crissed Oval), a ranch in Eldorado (Elder Aydo), the Sonora (pronounced correctly) Caverns, Fort McKavett, Menard, Eden, Paint Rock, and Ballinger, before driving back to town. It's about a 230-mile loop.

We didn't make it quite as far as Menard.

Hummer House, at the Brown Ranch, was the highlight of the day, and would have been so no matter how many things we might have been able to visit. The proprietor has been feeding gallons of sugar water to the little birds for 48 years now. The environment is perfect for them, and they have no predators. So, when you visit, the air is thick with them.

Volunteers at the ranch trap and band, then release them; and a lucky visitor can hold one right in her hand. The heartrate is so swift it feels like a tiny piece of rapidly vibrating machinery; and the little bird, not realizing immediately that it's been released, sits quietly in your cupped palm for five or six seconds before flashing off into the forest.

I also got to hold a gorgeous red tanager, who gave me quite a piece of his mind (at a rough guess, probably about 278%) and pecked ineffectually at my finger before I took him outside the tent and let him fly away.

The hummingbirds lay two eggs at a time, about the size and shape of Tic-Tacs; and their cotton-lined nests are just big enough to cradle a quarter. One of the birds we saw being banded was only a month old, little more than an infant. He cried and cried until he was let go, his long beak wide open. Poor little baby!

Since our road trip was cut short, my boss and I, heading home, passed through Eden and pulled off the main highway to explore a little bit. This is my job, you guys! I get paid to do this!!

Eden is small - well, miniscule, not to put too fine a point on it - but it's cute. Of course, I have a profound affection for tiny roadside towns. After Eden, we headed south a little ways to Menard, where Presidio San Saba/Presidio San Luis de los Amarillos (Fort Saint Louis of the Yellows?!) is located. Menard has a Ditchwalk. They don't have a river. What are you gonna do?

And actually the ditch is an irrigation ditch dating back a couple of hundred years, so it's pretty cool. They seem to take a pretty tongue-in-cheek approach to having a scenic trail that wends along a historic ditch.

On the way home, my boss talked a little bit about my predecessor. She did a good job; she was competent and thorough, and she was generally liked. But I found out yesterday for the first time that she and our section admin did not get along. In fact, the reason my cubicle is at the end of our row is because my predecessor wanted to be as far as possible from the other woman's desk.

I was a little floored, because I think our section admin is a wonderful person, just about as funny and sweet and nice as a human being can possibly be. "Wow," I said. "I guess I'm extra glad we get along, then!"

"Oh, she just loves you to death," said my boss. "I think we have a really great group now."

Today we all went out for lunch; Monday, my boss and I are off for - I can't tell you where; but we won't be back until Friday night. I can't wait!

Party on Wheels

Katie will be sixteen years old on October 10, and for months now, she's been full of plans for the occasion. She wants to rent out the roller rink and have them play her iPod loaded with Seventies music over the sound system. Everyone is to dress in Seventies best: Magnums for the boys and Daisy Dukes, lip gloss, and glittery eye shadow for the girls; and plenty of feathered hair, terrycloth headbands and wristbands, tight T-shirts, and tall striped socks for everyone.

I wish I had been that cool when I was sixteen.

She was planning it for Sunday, October 12, but my cousin is getting married that day and I hope to be in Maryland for the occasion. I hate to miss Katie's party. I may never have been the stylish creature she is - especially during the Seventies - but I wasn't a bad skater.

"We'll have it the weekend before, then!" says Katie easily. Yay! I'm popular!

Flashback to my sixteenth birthday: it was not all that dissimilar to Molly Ringwald's in Sixteen Candles, with three notable exceptions: (1) nobody in my family was getting married, (2) I didn't have lovelorn geeks dropping at my feet, and (3) I didn't end up with a hunk at the end of the movie. However, I did wear a hat to school that day.

MTV used to play music videos. They didn't have My Super Sweet Sixteen back then.

I'm excited about it, though. She's making all the plans and arrangements, and (assuming she manages to get a job she doesn't get fired from after the first shift) paying for everything herself. And I have to say it's a tremendously cool and fun idea. If I'd had her sense of retro coolness at her age, my super sweet sixteen party would have been a sock hop at the VFW hall; and none of my friends would have come anyway because they were all much too busy playing Dungeons & Dragons.

I wonder if my roller skates are still in storage at my dad's house?

The Amazing Alphabetical Adventures of Robbie and Elizabeth

Bright and early this morning, Robbie picked Elizabeth up for a day of adventures. "But they have to be in ABC order," he told her. "And we have to go through the entire alphabet today."

A: Apportioning the first part of the morning to Dominican Joe, the pair absorbed coffee and asked the amiable barista - who welcomed them avidly after their long absence - what to see in Fredericksburg on the way to Enchanted Rock. She turned out to be full of answers. Also, apropos of nothing in particular, here's another piece of advice: always wear a bandana tied around your neck, because you never know when you'll want to hold up a bank. Or perhaps an armored truck.

B: Broke into Elizabeth's office - okay, badged in - to pick up a map, a notepad and pen, and most importantly the Buddha.


C: Car maintenance. In preparation for the trip, Robbie filled up the gas tank (at, it goes without saying, catastrophic cost) and topped off the windshield washer fluid, because when you're on a road trip, you hit a lot of bugs. Butterflies mostly, but let's just say they're crickets.

D: Drove! And while driving through Dripping Springs (Gateway to the Hill Country, don'cha know), Robbie and Elizabeth dished some dirt about former coworkers who think they're too good for Dominican Joe now. Just because they felt dissed. Also discussed was how doves always bring another former coworker to mind. Meanwhile, David Bowie played on the car stereo.

E: Elizabeth enjoyed the exemplary cleanliness of the restroom at the Stonewall Diner, as Robbie stood watch outside, lest she be abducted by Canadian Mormons, which don't even have an E at all; what were you thinking, Robbie?

F: Frittered away an hour or so in Fredericksburg.


G: German food is gastro-rrific! Or so the two found at Altdorf's, which is right next door to St. Mary's Cathedral, as a consequence of which they

H: Heard church bells ringing several times, apparently at random, for no particular reason, so they decided that every time the church bells ring, somewhere, an angel must be getting some. Meanwhile, thanks to the filling German food, they found they were no longer hungry.

I: Inappropriate remarks were made: if the church bell idea is correct, angels are apparently insatiable. Onward, then, to Enchanted Rock, where Robbie and Elizabeth found themselves exclaiming, "It's so BIG!"

The parking lot was full, but a car with Indiana plates and an Indianapolis Colts sticker pulled out just as the intrepid pair arrived, giving them a space only a short walk from the trailhead. And a good thing, too. Heaven forbid you have a long walk to the trailhead. It's very hot, and

J: there may have been a lapse in judgment involved in timing this excursion so that they were climbing Enchanted Rock during the hottest part of the day. "It's just a big rock," said Robbie.

K: Karma - "Good Karma," in fact, is what Buddha replied when, 1/4 of the way up the rock, Robbie and Elizabeth sat down, kaput, and asked him whether they were going to make it.

L: Lichens; there are some very cool lichens on the granite, which make fascinating patterns against the rock if you look closely. Robbie and Elizabeth were likin' the lichens.


M: Martinis! Halfway up, the pair stopped to rest on a comfortable rock. It was so comfortable, they stayed there for quite a long time, long enough that the friendly people who had begun climbing at the same time they did, and whom they therefore naturally regarded as arch-nemeses, actually made it to the top first. Robbie and Elizabeth christened the rock the Three Martini Break Rock.

N: Neato, nifty, nice view from the top! Enchanted rock is one of a pair of domes which curve down to a canyon between. This made Robbie think of NICE TITS!

O: "Oh what fun it is to ride with a condom and Buddha!" said Robbie. Elizabeth objected that this was a stupid entry for the letter O, but she was overruled.

At the windy top of Enchanted Rock, airborne soil and seeds have created several small grassy oases in the rock.


P: "Politely, we refrained from peeing off the rock onto the land below," pointed out Elizabeth. It was Robbie's turn to protest; but Elizabeth pressed on, as indeed anyone who is prepared enough to bring a vanilla-flavored condom to the top of Enchanted Rock has every right to do.

Q: "Cheryl's Bitch is SUCH a queen!!!!" quoth Robbie on the way down from the summit, for no readily apparent reason.

R: "Right About Now - The Funk Soul Brother" is a song on Elizabeth's iPod, playing through the stereo in Robbie's car on the way to LLano, but Robbie really likes it, I mean really. Frankly, it's kind of embaRRassing. Rrrrrrrrr!

S: Sweating profusely is what you will do if you climb Enchanted Rock on a hot day, incidentally. You'll also get sticky, and you might even smell.

T: Took the time to indulge in tasty ice cream treats, then traipse around historic Llano, where the llocals, engaging in an Old West reenactment, were so traditional in their dress that Elizabeth felt a bit like a tramp for wearing trousers.

U: Updating the decorations on the historic square is something Llano might want to take under consideration.


V: Vultures have hopefully eaten Robbie and Elizabeth's vanquished arch-nemeses by now.

W: Wildflowers are everywhere! Why did they take down the wildflower hotline at work? Elizabeth was wonderful at waxing rhapsodic about wildflowers. The hotline was taken down because the wildflowers had supposedly all wilted. Wrong!

X: Robbie and Elizabeth had a little trouble with this one for a few minutes, wondering, what on earth are we going to find on a road trip that starts with X? Then they drove past a noisome, bloated specimen of roadkill on the shoulder. "Look!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "it's an X-raccoon!"

Fine, you come up with something better.

Y: Yelled at a passing yokel (that's not what Robbie called him, but the word he used started with C) who failed to wave after Robbie pulled onto the shoulder to let him go by. SO rude. Probably from Califo - I mean, the Yukon.

Z: Back in Austin at last, Robbie and Elizabeth decided to stop for a drink before heading homewards. Z Tejas would certainly have been the logical choice, but they like El Arroyo better: it's a favorite place to sit and relax and enjoy margaritas and chips and salsa.

And then finally back home, after a fun and exhausting day: time to catch some Z's!

See all the pictures!

Saying Goodbye

How could you leave and not take me?

At least I have the weekend to build myself up to what will be a bit of a rough Monday. We had a fun happy hour - or two, or three, or four, or five or six - last night - what I remember of it, anyway. When I woke up in the morning I had a few questions, such as: who was that guy? What are these odd marks on my neck? Where did I get this bracelet? Why doesn't everyone always eat leftover manicotti for breakfast? And where the hell is my car?

No, just kidding: my car was parked on Nueces next to Little Woodrow's, where I put it before the drinking commenced, because Tony was kind enough to take me home. And I got to visit with my fun friend Kevin, whom I haven't gotten to see since Eeyore's! And spending time with Robbie is always a blast. And I would have had an even better time if it weren't for the fact that I am (apparently) not as young as I think I am, so drinking too much just makes me want to go home and get some sleep; not, as Robbie had planned, go to that new dance club that has an aquarium dance floor with sharks in it, so just to be on the safe side I didn't wear stiletto heels. Well, maybe next weekend. Edwin will be in town, so we're all going to see 30 Days of Night, as it's set in our hometown of Barrow, and we're pretty sure Nyuk-Nyuk has a minor role.

But who was that guy?

That's the least of my worries. According to today's mail, it looks like Chadwick's is calling it quits on my sorry ass:

Elizabeth,

Is this really goodbye?
...you were once ranked among our best customers but, unfortunately, we'll have to say goodbye if you don't order from us soon.

Oh no, not The Talk.

We've done all we can to bring you the best offers, continuously updating our classics for a more modern appeal while keeping the price right for you. But I still have not heard from you and I'm afraid THIS COULD BE YOUR VERY LAST CATALOG.

Oh God. It's true. How could I have been such a selfish pig? They've done everything for me, everything, and what have I ever given them in return?

In fact, have I ever placed an order with them?? I don't think I have. I'm such an ungrateful bitch.

Let's start over!
To encourage you to give us another try, we've made an exclusive final offer just for you.

It's more than I deserve, I know.

Remember, this may be your LAST CATALOG if I do not hear from you.
...
(P.S.: We don't want to bother you with unwanted catalogs... by ordering today and taking advantage of this great 40% off coupon, we'll know you want to keep receiving our mailings.)

They know me so well. Here they've been providing me with months upon years of window-shopping enjoyment, sending me catalogs full of pictures of clothes I am occasionally mildly interested in the possibility of purchasing, and what have I ever done for them? Nothing! Oh, Chadwick's. How could I treat you like this?

Wait just a minute. What the hell kind of way is this for them to talk to a valued customer? Threats and guilt trips and self-righteous ultimatums? I'm special, goddammit. I'm smart and funny, pretty and loving and sweet. They should be begging to keep me. They should be on their knees. Why do I have to put up with this shit?

Ah, who am I kidding? I'll probably be on the phone Monday, placing an order. Robbie won't be there to talk me out of it.

Cap'n's Log Arrr-dditional

Black Robbie’s creditors complete our fears;
They've seized him bodily to pay arrears.
“Pirates’ worth,” snarled they, “be down!
Ye’ll fetch more booty in Georgetown.”
Now Bess sails lonely on this sea o’ tears, arrr!

I guess that means I'm the captain, then. But dammit! When I said I'd be interested in going down, I didn't mean with the ship!

Rats.

So, speaking of things that desert sinking ships, Robbie gave notice today; his last day is the 19th, and everyone is invited to the happy hour. I don’t know where it will be yet. Either I’ll notify everyone of the location, or you can just drive around to different bars and listen for double entendres, shouts of "Arrrrrr," and the occasional cry of, “Urban planning! Woohoo!!!”

I'll be the one in the corner, crying into my grog.

Best Weekend Ever

Isn't there a song about how, if you're going to Corpus Christi, be sure to have flowers on your car?

I'll write one, perhaps. We're also going to write a musical about the big creepy Jesus of the Sea. Justin, I mean Edwin, has the title song mostly done.

Downtown Corpus, you know, is largely derelict, though there are some efforts under way to revitalize it. There's this incredibly cool old building right across from our hotel. Aside from a lone dive bar on the ground floor, it's been empty for I-don't-know-how-long. Now they're gutting it and turning it into lofts; and I bet they won't go for as much as the downtown lofts in Austin do... Anyway, the doors are all locked and all that's left of the bar is its sign on the side of the building. But many of the windows are open. And there's a fire escape. Wouldn't it be so cool, Edwin and Dumas and I kept saying to one another all weekend, if we could somehow get into that building and explore?

Last night we went out with my old war buddies Omar and Spam Master G, who's still at the hell place (and says it's almost sane now that Tiffany is gone - I cannot tell you how flabbergasted I still am by that - my head is reeling!). And as we walked back through the deserted downtown streets at 2am (almost no bars are open on Sunday night, Memorial Day weekend be damned), we passed our building. It's so cool, isn't it? Wouldn't it be awesome if there were a way in?

You can jump and reach the fire escape, but it's chained in the up position. But Omar gave G a boost (in a fashion that, if they still worked together, would have them both working from home for at least six months) and G went through a window, came down the stairs, and opened the bar door for us. It wasn't really even locked - it opens inward, and was secured by a length of 2x4 propped under the door handle.

There's electricity, but above the fifth floor no lights were on. The inside is completely gutted. Most of the windows were open, so with no interior walls (but many, many concrete columns) it wasn't impenetrably dark. It smelled old. It was deliciously spooky. I half expected Richard Dean Anderson to leap out of the wall at me naked.

Of course we disturbed nothing - there was nothing to disturb, and after a while we made our way back down to street level and outside. It was incredibly cool. I'd like to say it's the crowning moment of the trip, but it's got some pretty stiff competition: the beach at midnight, silent except for the waves and dark except for the stars and a half moon; getting ready in the bathroom for an evening our partying and coming out to find Dumas filling the room with pink balloons and paper streamers and a birthday card and candles for me (he wanted to have a cake too, but since we took my car and nobody else is able to drive it, there wasn't really a way to do that); trying to reassure a very drunk guy on the street corner that we weren't breaking into my car, as it's actually my car; discovering that Captain Albatross looked just like our dad; getting caught staring out our hotel window at all the human drama taking place by the pool; finding out that Robin quit her job at the old hell place by screaming "FAT BITCH!" at Tiffany and slamming the door in her face; breakfast at City Diner with Omar and Robert; talking up Alaska and how much we miss our butler (or maid) Nyuk-Nyuk over lunch in Nixon; listening to cool tunes on Edwin's iPod; having the most complicated, difficult, and lengthy hotel check-in process I have ever experienced; gathering flowers and vegetation at every place we stopped and tucking it under my rear window wiper, so by this point it looks like I drove down a ravine and into the sea ass-backwards; pink yogurty yummy strawberry martinis; taking a driving tour of the ghetto; getting rained on; getting sunned on; laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing so much I'm totally hoarse.

Of course, our Dad's ashes are still going round and round on the conveyor belt at the Seattle airport. We thought about asking Nyuk-Nyuk if she (or he) would FedEx them to us, but figured we'd be back home in Barrow by the time they arrived.

So we'll go back again one day. And there will be flowers on my car.

Friends, Texans, Coworkers...

I sent this to 3-martini-break alumnus Justin and he promptly posted it on his blog, so I guess I might as well too, especially if it's just going to be sharing cyberspace with neck testicles anyway.

These are my peeps, as conceived by ClipArtist Extraordinaire Robbie (next to the Indy car). See how lucky I am to have such fun friends? They're actually a lot better-looking in real life, but you know, clip art.