It may not be made of yellow brick and I may not be going to Oz, but I’m hitting the road. I’ll be on it the next couple of weeks. I’m going to be frolicking and visiting and doing a little bit of writing research, just to balance the frolicking and visiting. Don’t want to get carried away.
Posting might get sketchy. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s already been a bit sketchy. You’re right. I know it. But you see, there were these lists and loose ends and the kidlet graduating, which called for pomp and circumstance. Did you know that until you are declared a graduate that you are merely a graduand? I did not know this, but I’m going to be pondering it for some time to come.
Then, Ribfest came to town. This was the second annual. I wrote about the first annual in Leading the glam life… Last year, it was 86 Faren. This year, it was 70. Big diff. Let me tell you. I stood in line with my rib-loving neighbors. I did not let the temperature deter me from having the whole experience. Translation: I ate the whole experience. I ate the ribs, but not the whole rack — see how my virtue shines? I ate the coleslaw. The beans. I drank the lemonade — not the same as drinking the Kool-Aid. I misplaced the beer tent, which was why I ended up drinking the lemonade. I was on a high-fat roll. You know what that means. Yep. I had to go trolling for dessert.
Mr. G, honey thought he might take a stroll down Funnel Cake Lane, but somehow ended up at the ice cream vendor. I sniffed the wind, like the dessert hound I am, and my nose settled on Tiny Tom’s. Oh, my. I followed my nose to the window and told the vendor I was probably going to hell for my sin, but I had to try this thing called a Tiny Tom or my ribfest experience would not be complete. Tiny Tom is a donut. A tiny donut about the size of a quarter. They put a dozen fresh, hot donuts in a bag and throw in apple cinnamon sugar, or confectioner’s sugar or a sugar of your choice, close the bag and give it a little shake. The vendor told me they have been doing this for 50 years; that they were better than Tim’s, aka Timmie’s, aka Tim Horton’s. The man didn’t lie. I should have run all the way home behind the car. Yes, I should have. Thank God the ribfest only comes to town once a year.
Gracie Golden Pup had her pampering super tidy, and she shines and smells good! Her hair is short, short, short, but she smells gooood! I had a little pre-trip pampering myself and don’t mind saying that I smell pretty good, too. Girlie fine. The Golden Pup is not hitting the road. She is staying at home with the rest of the tribe. She knows this to the depth of her soul. I know this, because she is in a state of glum.
There are suitcases all over my office. Empty suitcases. I haven’t packed yet, but I have a few hours before road time. I did clean the inside of the car within an inch of its life — with a Q-tip. Many Q-tips. My lovely Royal Flush Blush manicure is now the little manicure that was. I do not care. I’m wearing my rose-colored glasses. I’m hitting the road.
Here comes Monday.