Midwest Diners

I've just returned from dinner at a chain restaurant. I swore that I was not going to eat at any chains while I was in Savannah. There are too many local restaurants to choose from. But, then a thunderstorm rolled in at 5PM and continued. I've eaten out on my own for 3 nights and I just didn't have the stamina to seek out a local place in the rain, so I went to a chain within two blocks of my hotel. I passed the chain that's also in my hometown, so at least I ate somewhere that I couldn't eat at when I'm home.

I had settled into a quiet corner of the place when a group of 8 obvious tourists took up two tables next to me. Judging by their nasal twangs, I can only guess that they're from the nation's heartland. Good, wholesome folks, fine upstanding citizens of Peoria or the like. Somewhere where talking through your nose is the norm.

I tried to ignore them. I really did. I read my book. I looked out the window. I finally just gave up. Seems they came to Savannah to drink. One of them unfurled a map of all of the city's bars and issued a challenge to the woman across the table: "I bet you can't go to all of these places." She made some comment about "24 shots" and drank more of her Miller Lite. Another quipped, "When in Savannah..." I cringed for them. They came all this way to drink Miller Lites in a chain restaurant. Oy.

I gathered that they were UPS drivers. One talked about delivering a package to Neil Armstrong. She said that she kept looking "for the guy on the bike." Another delivered a package to Peter Frampton, but didn't know who he was "because he doesn't have long hair any more." Double oy.

Then, the singing started. No, it wasn't karaoke night. They sang along with the background music. You know, the music that you're supposed to ignore. OK, I've been known to sing along with background music, but only after I've had a couple of drinks. Who knows, maybe they'd already started their tour of the city's bars - at least the ones that serve really watery beer.

This restaurant seemed to revel in playing the worst music ever recorded. Have any idea how hard it is to ignore Faith Hill's "The Way You Love Me" when Ms. Nasal Midwest is singing in your ear? No one, I repeat, no one should ever sing, "If I could grant you one wish, I'd wish you could see the way you kiss." Seriously? She has one wish and she wants him to see how he kisses? Just give him a mirror and wish for a yacht. Yeesh.

Thankfully, Singing Girl didn't know the words to any songs recorded before 1990. Unfortunately, her slightly older dinner companions felt the need to show how "hip" they were by singing all the songs she didn't know. After Faith Hill, I was serenaded with "Your Love is Lifting Me Higher" and "Saturday in the park, I think it was the 4th of July." I changed the lyrics to "Wednesday night in Savannah, I wish that you would crawl off and die."

Not surprisingly, the younger Singing Girl wasn't impressed with the "old folks" singing, so the fellow launched into the history of Chicago. Not the city, the band. Did you know that Peter "Horsefaced" Cetera didn't sing "Saturday in the Park"? Neither did I. Do you care? Neither do I.

Next up on the hit parade: "Say You, Say Me" by Lionel Richie. Neither of the singers belted out this tune, thus proving that it is the worst song in the history of bad music. Even nasally bland midwesterners won't sing it. As I waited for them to start singing, I realized in horror that I was humming along. "Say you, say me, say it together...that's the way it should be. Say you, say me, say it for always, naturally" I then decided that Lionel Richie might possibly be Satan.

I quickly finished my bland, overcooked steak and dry baked potato and beat a hasty retreat. As I left, one of them requested a bottle of water because her tap water "tasted funny." I almost turned around to say, "Look, you can sing really bad songs. You can travel for miles to eat at chain restaurants. But don't you dare diss southern water, you nasal talker!"

Savannah

I'm spending this week in Savannah, completing my last consulting project. I agreed to do the project, in part, because I love Savannah. I also love paying my rent, which is the other reason why I said yes.


I particularly love Savannah in October - May. Late July tests my love for this place. It's hot. And it's humid. It's the kind of weather where you break a sweat walking half a block. My hair has been doing strange and wonderous things since I stepped out of my car. Thank God for rubber bands.


Even in the oppressive heat and humidity that could melt rocks, I still find charm in this great southern city. My hotel is in the heart of the historic district and I'm enjoying brief bursts of walking to restaurants for dinner. For my money, Savannah is one of the most scenic cities in the United States.


From the city's squares where oak trees draped with Spanish moss shield visitors from the oppressive sun...





To the city's museums...
And churches...






Not to mention, the Mother Ship of the Paula Deen Empire...this place has it all.

I was looking forward to my week of interviews, knowing that I'd get to spend my time in a charming room overlooking something worth seeing. It was Savannah, after all. It's not Cleveland. (My apologies to anyone who has a special fondness for Cleveland.) Imagine my dismay when I walked into this...

That's right, it's the dismalest room in all of Dismaldom. It's a vacuous meeting room in the city's Civic Center, arguably the ugliest building in town. This picture barely does justice to the room, since it doesn't capture the below freezing temperatures due to an overly enthusiastic air conditioner.


Yesterday morning, I opened the drapes, thinking that I'd at least get to look at something scenic outside. Here's what I saw:

It's the parking lot for the Sheriff's Department. At least there are palm trees.

Tomorrow afternoon, I break free from my prison as I meet with folks in their natural habitats. In the meantime, I'm enjoying my view of Bay Street from my hotel window.

Technology Update

I'm not one to run out and buy the newest, fanciest, best new whatever. I'm one to keep what I have until it absolutely won't work any more - because it has fallen apart or technology has moved forward and my gadget can no longer keep up. I figure that as long as I never know how great a new thing is, I'll be happy with the old one.

This philosophy has me driving a 9 year old car, recording oral history interviews on cassette tapes (yes, they STILL make cassette tapes), and writing my appointments in pencil in a spiral-bound datebook. Until recently, I watched a 15 year old, 17-inch TV. I have a 2 year old iPod that I'm sure is 2-3 generations behind the new ones in the stores. I only recently learned how to use my digital camera. Did you know that they make 4G jump drives now?

This week, I came to terms with my cell phone's demise. It was a great little phone. Very unassuming - no camera, no calendar, no fancy ringtones, just something to make and receive calls. The little phone still worked, but it was starting to show its age. Cracks appeared in the cover and rubber pieces stated to come loose. I decided to replace it before it snapped in half and I lost all my stored phone numbers.

My intention was to get the simplest phone I could find, preferably one that was free. I walked into the cell phone store and was immediately overwhelmed. Too many people, too much noise, too many choices, too many features written in language that I didn't understand. I waited my turn and tried to breathe.

Right before the salesman called my name, a fellow walked in and annouced that he wanted to treat 5 members of his family to the new iPhone. That's right - 5 members of his family, new iPhone. You can imagine how excited the salesman was to wait on me, especially when I showed him my 4 year old phone and said, "I want a basic phone. No camera, no extra features, just a phone. I was particularly interested in this one over here that says, 'Free.'"

He sighed audibly and explained that they just don't make phones without cameras any more. He showed me a couple of phones and again lost patience when I said, "But I don't want text messaging." He seemed completely befuddled. I didn't appear to be mentally handicapped or elderly, so why wouldn't I want every single thing that I could get? He was particularly annoyed when I pointed out that that the "free" phone wasn't "free" if I'd have to sign a 2-year contract with an additional $10/month for texting. That's $240. His response: "Umm..." as he looked wistfully toward Mr. iPhone.

In the end, I caved. Everyone else had a camera and texting, so why didn't I? I got a shiny red phone with a camera. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if all my friends jumped off a bridge, I would not follow them.


I also convinced myself that I got texting not because the salesman talked me into it, but because my same-age friends were talking about how useful it is. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Now that I have it, I plan to max out on my texting every month, just because I can.

So, with a burst of speed, I think I've finally left the 1990s behind - well, not until I get rid of the cassette recorder.

Corporate Responsibility

Yesterday, I'd resigned myself to just accept whatever the airline dished out on Tuesday. I didn't have the energy to navigate through an automated phone system so that I could talk to someone who might not understand English. Instead, I took a 3-hour nap.

Today, after a good night's sleep, I decided to raise some dust. I called the 1-800 number. To my surprise, the fellow on the other end understood what I was saying. As I expected, he handed me the party line, "Ma'am, because the problem was weather related, Delta is not responsible..." I cut him off before he could go any further.

I explained that I understand that Delta cannot control the weather. However, Delta did control the decisions that led to us sitting on the ground for 4 hours with limited food and beverages. It was because of Delta's policies that we were not allowed into the terminal, and it was because of Delta that more sufficient food was not delivered to the plane when it became obvious that we'd be there a while. I finished with, "I want compensation for my discomfort and inconvenience."

He informed me that he could not give me any compensation. Honestly, I didn't expect him to reach into his wallet and send me money. He then said that there wasn't "anyone where he was" who could give me compensation. I said, "You're kidding me. No one?" He said, "Not that I know of." I'd had it. I asked, "Do you have a supervisor?"

I was then transfered to Cincinnati. I went through my story again, got the "weather related, not responsible" line of bullshit again, explained that Delta is responsible for keeping people on the plane again, and was directed to the website to lodge a formal complaint. I explained that I felt like I'd be emailing into a black hole. He assured me that I'd get a response within a week - and I might receive some compensation if others on the flight had also lodged complaints.

So, if I'm the only one who decided to take even more time out of my day to type up an email, Delta will file my complaint where the sun doesn't shine, content in their "weather related, not responsible" rationalization. I really don't expect to get anything - but extra frequent flyer miles would be a nice gesture. I hope that everyone who is responsible for Delta's "weather related" policies and procedures ends up on a plane that's diverted and forced to sit dead still, eating crackers for hours on end.

Now, I'm going to get on with my life. I'll remind myself that I've flown six times this year and all the other flights were fine. And, I don't have any flights in the near future.

2:54AM

This weekend, I joined my college friends for our biennial reunion. Twelve of us decided to reconnect 10 years ago to celebrate our 30th birthdays. Since that first reunion on Kiawah Island, SC, we've gotten together every other summer, with each member taking a turn finding a location and organizing the event. This time, we went to a cabin outside of Minneapolis and had a fine time.

We had a great time catching up, and as often happens, as we prepared to leave, we found ourselves sharing stories of past travel nightmares. I've had relatively smooth flights since the beginning of this year and had a sneaking suspicion that I was tempting fate by reliving past problems. Still, I shared my 24-hour trip from Little Rock to Syracuse story. "It will be fine," I told myself.

I was further reassured when my flight left Minneapolis about 5 minutes late (3:50 central time), on track for a 7:35 arrival in Atlanta. About an hour into the flight, the pilot comes on and to say that we're taking an alternate route to Atlanta because there's a storm system over Tennessee. Even though this route would add 20 minutes to the flight, he assured us that we'd still be on time. We were puzzled, but looked forward to our trip through a gaping hole in the time-space continuum.

About 20 minutes later, the pilot was back. Never a good sign when you hear from the pilot multiple times during a flight. He told us that we were in a holding pattern because the thunderstorms had moved into Atlanta. The hole in the space-time continuum would not be able to solve this problem, so we'd be delayed getting to Atlanta. Bad news for those catching connecting flights, but Atlanta was still our destination.

The hammer fell at about 7PM. Atlanta told our pilot to circle for another hour, he told them we didn't have enough fuel, and they said, "Get thee to Charlotte, NC." True to his word, the pilot delivered us on time ... in Charlotte - where we couldn't get off the plane because Delta's 2 gates were already occupied.

Charlotte, NC - a 3-hour car trip to my house. It was still daylight out. "I could drive, if they'd just let me off the damn plane," I thought in frustration. My frustration was nothing compared to the folks who were headed to Atlanta to catch connections to places within 2 hours of Charlotte. I would have been homocidal had I been traveling from Minneapolis to Atlanta, to connect on to Charlotte.

One hour slowly became two hours. Delta's only fuel truck was finally headed our way (after filling up all the gate-hogs) when, you guessed it, the thunderstorms rolled into Charlotte. In the pilot's words, "You can imagine that we can't refuel in a thunderstorm." I'm sure more than one of us thought, "Put the fueler in rubber boots and get him out here!" The fuel truck returned to the terminal. We sat. We took turns standing in the aisle to stretch our legs. The flight attendants offered cookies, peanuts, and cheese crackers. They offered beverages. We limited our fluids, knowing that the bathroom situation could quickly turn ugly.

Two hours became three hours. The pilot assured us that they "had been in touch with Delta and they are aware of our situation." Well, that was good news. Someone somewhere knew that there was a plane full of people just sitting on the tarmack at the Charlotte Airport. They knew, but they didn't care enough to send food or find a way for us to get into the terminal. This shameful inhumane course of action renewed my belief that corporations are the source of all evil, right behind beans and peppers. The fact that everyone maintained their composure and forgave the remarkably short bursts of disgruntlement from the few small children on the plane renewed my faith in humanity. I passed the time with my new best friends, a polite male college student and a young mother who just wanted to get home to her baby.

The lightening finally moved on and the fuel truck returned to finish its work at 10:30PM. The pilot informed us that we were all set to take off for Atlanta by 11PM, should be in Atlanta by midnight. That was before we taxied out and took our place in line -14th in line for take off. Our projected arrival time quickly became our projected departure time.

At 11:50PM, we were in the air. Everyone was too exhausted to cheer. We touched down in Atlanta at 12:25AM, taxied in, and sat in full view of 4 empty gates for 30 minutes while we waited for one magic gate to open up. That was when the mood on the plane finally turned.

When I deplaned at 1AM, 8 hours after boarding, I praised the God of Direct Flights - because the Atlanta airport was full of really, really, really miserable people. I got to my car at 1:20, and walked through my door at 2:54AM. If they'd allowed me off the plane when we landed in Charlotte, I would have been home by 10:30PM.

I still haven't worked up the energy to see if I can get any compensation from Delta. I'm sure they won't offer any since this was all "weather related." Yes, there was bad weather and no, I don't want to be in a plane while lightening flashes all around. But no, forcing us to sit on a plane for 5 hours without a decent supply of food, water, and bathroom facilities was not weather related. Not allowing us in the terminal was not weather related. That's just mean.

Chicken Exchange

There's a story in today's paper about a couple of folks who rented a house in a nearby town. Apparently, although their landlord rented out the house, he maintained a chicken coop in the backyard, complete with $500 rooster. That house must have smelled great and those renters must have wanted to snap that rooster's neck every morning.

Lately, the landlord noticed that some of his chicken flock were missing, most notably the $500 rooster. I think most of us would assume that, in these troubled economic times, the renters were making chicken soup, chicken pot pie, fried chicken, and chicken salad. All of this would make sense - except for the missing $500 rooster. Rooster pot pie? Yuck.

After some investigation, the landlord learned that his renters have harkened back to an earlier age and revived the practice of bartering. Somehow, they convinced a local meth dealer to exchange drugs for chickens. Now, I can understand the renters' logic, figuring a chicken in the coop is worth at least a few grams. What I can't understand is why a meth dealer would accept live chickens. Even if you're high on meth, you'd certainly recognize the difference between a live chicken and cash. Cash doesn't crap in your car. You can't exchange a live chicken for more supplies to make meth - or at least I don't think you can. Of course, I didn't think you could exchange chickens for meth, so clearly I'm totally out of the loop.

I wonder what the going exchange rate is in this chickens-for-meth market. I'm also guessing that the $500 rooster is headlining at some local cockfight.

The Cost of Getting Old(er)

As I approach a landmark birthday (the one that rhymes with "Lordy, Lordy"), I am trying to convince myself that this milestone won't make any difference. I'll be just as young at heart the day before my birthday as the day after. I'll still be able to bend farther than most of the young'uns in my yoga class, and I'll still have more brown hair than gray. Forty is the new twenty, I tell myself.

The calming effect of this soothing mantra was shattered today. I received a notice from my health insurance company, telling me that they were raising my rates. Why? Well, in their words, "You have recently had or are about to have a birthday that puts you in a new age range category." Effective October 1, they'll charge $25 more each month for exactly the same services.

No happy birthday wishes. No recognition that I exercise more now than I did when I was twenty. No recognition that I'm a more careful driver, that I no longer spend Saturday nights in loud smoky bars, and that I only read in well-lit rooms. Nope. Just - "You're old, now pay up!"

I really don't understand this. It seems completely arbitrary. Do doctors charge more to test and cure people who are 40 or older? Will pharmacists say, "If you were still 39, we'd charge you $10 for this medication. Since you're over 40, it's now $45"? Should I expect my health to start deteriorating immediately after I blow out the candles? Maybe I shouldn't blow at all, for fear that I'll pass out and require both stitches and treatment for second degree burns. That's sure to run up my health care costs.

The thoughtful health insurance company does offer one solution. I can opt for a plan with a higher deductible. I'd still pay an extra $15/month, and I'd have to pay more out-of-pocket before the health insurance kicks in. Somehow, this doesn't seem helpful, especially since I'll be infirmed anyday now.

Here's the good news in all of this. When I start my full-time job next month, I can drop my self-paid health insurance like the age-ist hot potato that it is. So there. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Summer Vacation, Part Deux

Sometimes, I wonder why I decided to overhaul my professional life and become a college professor. Then, I remember the main reason: I love summer vacation. OK, it doesn't have to be summer necessarily. I just love having 2.5 months of unscheduled time.

This summer, I'm catching up on reading and conceptualizing a new approach to the US History survey course. I've also presented at a national conference, prepared a proposal for another conference, and completed a consulting project. I say this to remind myself that I have done some work since classes ended in early May.

But - the truth is, I've been goofing off. I've never made such efficient progress through my Netflix queue. I've read a couple of novels - not for book club, not considering for a class, just for fun. I've discovered Anthony Bourdain's show on the Travel Channel. I've returned to my yoga/walking work-outs at the gym. I'm blogging more consistently. I've tried several new recipes, and as many of you know, I photographed squash.

The other evening, as I transitioned from my day uniform of sweats into my night uniform of pajamas, I noticed something. I've decided that it is the perfect metaphor for my summer.

That's right - I've worn a hole in the seat of my sweatpants. Pretty much says it all. In all honesty, these sweatpants are about 10 years old, but still. I have to say that I'm very proud of myself.

News to Whom?

This evening, I watched the NBC Nightly News, just to make sure that I hadn't missed anything important. I won't make that mistake again. Lester Holt reported on "campaign surrogates," the hangers-on in McCain and Obama's official entourages. The jist of the report was that sometimes, these "spokespeople" say things that run counter to, or are just plain embarrassing for, the official candidate. Then, as the reporters swarm over the fresh meat of fabricated scandal, the candidate has to dance around behind a hastily constructed podium and deny the surrogate's statement while trying not to say, "What does any of this bullshit have to do with my plans for the economy?"

At the end of the report, Holt asked the obligatory news reporter about the significance of this week's gaffes. Standing in the rain in Washington DC, the reporter said something to the effect of, "Well, Lester, there's good news and bad news for the candidates. The good news is that American voters aren't listening to, and don't really care about what these surrogates say. The bad news is that their statements can stay in the news cycle for weeks."

Huh? Apparently, I've completely misunderstood the purpose of the news. I thought reporters were supposed to tell me about the issues that I care about, the issues that help me to be an informed citizen, the issues that matter to me when I make decisions in the voting booth. Seems I was totally wrong.

Because I watch the news, I know that reporters/pundits/the anointed jackasses du jour spend quite a bit of time talking about things I don't care about (what Jessie Jackson thinks of Barack Obama, for example). This whole time, I thought that the news reporters spent so much time on these stories because they mistakenly thought that I did care. I thought that they believed that they were acting in my best interest. I didn't realize that they KNOW that I don't care about these things, and still insist on blabbering on and on and on about them.

I feel so misled. I also feel certain that the NBC reporter is getting a stern talking to because he let the big cat out of the bag. Basically, he completely negated the need for news networks.

Squash, Part Deux

Things have been pretty slow this week. I've worked on my class syllabus, trying to figure out how to teach all of US History in one semester. It's not easy, but I think I've finally got a handle on it.

This evening, I decided to take a break and write another blog entry. I thought I'd give an update on the squash count. Hey, I said that it's been a slow week. It all started innocently enough. I'd simply give a count: this many yellow, this many zucchini.

Then, I remembered that I have a digital camera. I could take pictures of the squash. Yes! What a great way to practice with my camera - and a great way for a single gal to spend a Friday evening.

Like I said, it started innocently enough.

Just a simple picture of all of the remaining squash, neatly arranged by size and color.

Bolstered by my success, I decided to get fancy.

Squash Still Life. Van Gogh, eat your heart out, or eat your other ear off.

And . . . Still Life - Yellow.

Then, well, things got a little weird.

And...

I call this one, "Peace Offering."

And, finally . . .

Juggling.

Now, before you say anything, let me just answer the question in your head: One glass of red wine with dinner.

Next weekend, I'm getting together with my college friends. It really doesn't matter what we do. It has to be more exciting than photographing squash.

Squash

Two weekends ago, my family converged on north Georgia for my cousin's wedding. I drove over from my home while the rest of my immediate family drove south from the Volunteer State. When we gathered at the hotel, my father had a surprise for me - squash, and lots of it!

A little background: My father lives by the motto, "If you can't blow it out of proportion, it's not worth doing." True to form, he plants a good-sized garden every summer. Our family eats out of the garden, as does most of the surrounding community. For a long time, my dad didn't plant squash because no one in the family ate it and everyone in the community already had a supplier. A couple of years ago, I decided that I liked squash, so Dad started planting yellow squash and zucchini just for me.

Squash plants are very productive little plants, especially if you're the only one trying to keep up with the supply. I don't get home as often as I should, so my dad (my squash pusher) brings a fresh supply whenever our paths cross. Ergo - the great squash hand-off after the wedding.

I'm not sure how many squash were in the bag. Let's just say that there were many of both varieties. So far, I've had chopped yellow squash and zucchini in a tossed salad, baked and frozen 3 loaves of zucchini bread, made a squash casserole, and sauteed squash and onions. I'm squashed.

I took a squash break tonight and made lasagna. As I dug into what is arguably my favorite meal, I missed something - some flavor that had become so familiar to me. So, I had a piece of zucchini bread and felt much better.

Current squash count: 3 yellow squash, 3 zucchini. I'm going to separate them in the refridgerator because I'm convinced that they are muliplying at night.

Reconfiguring & Rearranging

Last week, I made several changes around the apartment, which then necessitated even more changes. It all started when my primo bundled package with Charter expired. After several unproductive & frustrating calls, I opted to drop Charter as my internet and phone provider. Instead, I chose to bundle my cell phone, home phone, and internet together with a different company.

It took about a week for the phone guy to switch my service and for the new modem to arrive. In the interim, my much beloved and much beleagured television finally gave in to the static. It's been a slow and sometimes painful death march, but finally, the picture went all fuzzy and never cleared up. Sadly, I pulled the plug on the old boy. A friend helped me move him to his new resting place...

...and bring home the replacement

It's a fancy, schmancy 32 inch flat screen beauty. Best of all, the picture is clear all the time. No more fuzzy picture for up to 30 minutes. No more headaches while trying to watch Top Chef through a haze. I'd forgotten that TV could be like this - which helps to explain why I watched TV all day yesterday. Not kidding - all day long.

I've managed to get the cable to work but the TV and DVD player are still working out a mutually agreeable relationship. Apparently, my DVD player has some commitment issues because it likes to establish a new connection every time I watch a DVD. I'm guessing this is some lingering loyalty to the old TV. They did have a special bond. Even when the old TV went all fuzzy, it would still show perfectly clear DVDs. It would be a great love story, except that I want to watch clear TV and clear DVDs all the time.

There are some other quirks as well. For example, when I finally get the new TV and DVD player to play nice, the DVD player switches to "fast forward" when I try to adjust the volume. Really annoying. The instruction book for the TV is no help. Basically, it says, "Hook up your DVD player to the back of your TV" - then shows a set of colored outlets that don't match the colors on my DVD plugs. My plugs match a different set of outlets - the ones that don't work consistently. Like I said, we're still working out the kinks.

The rearranging and reconfiguring fun didn't stop in the living room. When the new modem arrived, I discovered that the cable jack is on one side of my home office, and the phone jack is on the opposite wall. After some furniture shoving, my office is a mirror image of its former self.

The desk is where the couch used to be:

And the couch is where the desk used to be:

Before you ask, or jump to any conclusions, let me assure you that I had nothing to do with the upholstery on the couch. It's a family heirloom. My great aunt bought for my great-grandparents when she earned her first paycheck from teaching. At the time, it was covered in a nice, calming cream-colored upholstery.

When my aunt and uncle inherited the couch in the 1980s, they decided to dress it in the world's ugliest clothes. They've since passed the couch on to me - I think because it was making too much noise in their house. I have it on good authority that I can recover the couch, and I will do so just as soon as I buy a house and make some money. In the meantime, it hides in shame in my office. It did make a nice bed for one of my nieces during their visit, so it's not all bad.

I think I'm done rearranging for a while - until I buy another new home electronic device or rebundle services.

Wimbledon

I got up this morning and decided to enjoy Breakfast at Wimbledon. My plan was to spend the morning in front of my new TV, watching the men's finals. I watched the last part of last year's match and was disappointed when the underdog, Rafael Nadal, fell short. I decided to watch this year's rematch to see if he could finally beat the tennis machine that is Roger Federer.

I sat down at 9:30AM. The two competitors had just started their warm-ups and I settled in. As Nadal broke Federer's serve in the first 2 sets, I read through the Sunday paper and completed the crossword. I thought, "This match should be over by noon, and I can get on with my day." Then, Federer came back. I decided to make a marinade for my chicken that I'd planned for dinner.

Then, the rain fell in London. I decided to take a shower. An hour later, at around 12:30 my time, they resumed play. I started a load of laundry. A friend called and asked what I was doing. I said I was watching the Wimbledon finals. She laughed and said that she hadn't watched the finals for several years because the last time she watched, the match took all day. I laughed and said that Rafael Nadal was doing well and the match should be finished long before "all day."

As if he heard me, Nadal stopped breaking Federer's serve. They went into a tiebreaker. Federer won. I decided to make zucchini bread. While it baked for an hour, they played to another tiebreaker in the 4th set. Nadal lost again. There would be a fifth set. I groaned. It was now around 2:30 my time - 5 hours after my initial commitment.

The announcers in London noted that the skies were clouding up again as I enjoyed a warm slice of zucchini bread. I said, "It's clouding up because Roger Federer is evil!" It's not that I have anything against Federer - it's just that Nadal hadn't won at Wimbledon and Federer already has 5 gold cups at his house. Time to give someone else a turn. As Georgia imitated England, thunder rumbled and the rain fell outside my apartment. And, there was a second rain delay at the All England Club. I decided to make up a squash casserole for dinner.

Finally, at around 3:30 (8:30 London time), they resumed play. I folded my 3 loads of laundry and put clean sheets on my bed. I called my friend back and said that I was STILL watching tennis. It was tied 7-7 in the 5th set. Yes, 7 hours after I first sat down, I was still watching the same tennis match - and it still wasn't over. She did not stop herself from saying, "I told you so."

But, finally, as night started to fall in London and the clouds parted in Georgia, Rafael Nadal won. My 8 hour marathon ended - and not in disappointment. I did feel bad for Federer. He played hard throughout the 4 hour 48 minute match. But, in the true spirit of little kid's soccer, he got a trophy just like Nadal. This time, Nadal got the big cup while Federer got the platter. And I enjoyed marinated chicken, squash casserole, and zucchini bread for dinner - not on a fancy silver platter. And I'll sleep on clean sheets and have clean clothes tomorrow.

I did not make it to yoga today. I'll go tomorrow, since there won't be any tennis on TV and I've finished all of my household chores for the week.

Intervention by 5 year olds

This week, my five year old nieces came to visit, which explains the lapse in blog entries. They are twins and are easily the best children in the whole world. They play well together, travel well, and listen and follow directions. They're easy-going and up for any adventure. What more could an aunt ask for?

The visit began with a family gathering for my cousin's wedding. As a single woman who can see my 30s in the rearview mirror, I've been to my share of weddings by myself and they don't get easier. I always dread the inevitable question: "So, when are you going to get married?" I didn't expect the question to come from my 5 year old nieces.

As we relaxed in my hotel room before the ceremony, one niece remarked that I only had one bed in my room. I said, "Well, I'm only one person, so I only need one bed." The other responded, "But when you get married, there will be two people in the room." I said, "You know, I might not ever get married." Both looked completely befuddled, like I had just told them that Spongebob is actually not square. After years of Disney princesses who always get their princes, you could almost hear, "Does not compute, does not compute" as they tried to make sense of my response. Weakly, they said, "But everyone gets married."

I thought that would be the end of it. Nope. The next evening, my nieces staged an intervention over hot dogs, potato chips, and fruit - one of the few meals that meets with both of their approval. One niece informed me that I was "just a big kid," and asked, "Are you sure you're old enough to get married?" I replied, "Yes, I'm sure. In fact, I think I might be too old to get married."

The other said that I was just being silly, and both demanded to know why I'm not married. Ah, a question for the ages. I was forced to explain that people get married when they find the exact right person, and I hadn't found the exact right person yet. One niece advised, "Well...maybe if you put on a dress, then someone will think you are cute and will ask you to marry him. If he's not the right person, you can just say, 'no, thank you.'" I said that I would take her advice under consideration.

But they still weren't done. Over dinner last night, they made one last ditch effort to convince me to get married, and quickly became concerned about where this man would sleep. One niece pointed to my office where they'd been sleeping and said, "Well, that's our room, so I guess he'd have to sleep with you." I said that I didn't want to share my bed and she responded, "Well, we have bunk beds so we can sleep in the same room." The other niece chimed in, "Yeah, and sometimes, when I get scared, I sleep in her bunk." So, it's settled - if I ever get married, I'm getting bunk beds and the man can sleep in my bunk only when he gets scared.

I blame my cousin's wedding and Disney for all of this. Meanwhile, as I type this out, my downstairs neighbors are playing with fireworks in the parking lot. I'm hoping that they don't burn the building down or blow up my car. Hopefully, they won't set the sidewalk on fire - a story for another time.