I haven't had much to say lately. The blog had become too much about the shop, and not about why I started blogging in the first place, which was to have a place to put all the strange, weird, and wonderful crap that was accumulating. I was house-bound with five children, Clementine's was just an idea, and typing seemed more fun than muttering to myself.
Fast forward to the middle of May, 2009...
I've devoted the past three weeks to building my tolerance for whiskey. Wild Turkey and Jameson's Irish are my favs. This doesn't seem useful to the casual observer, but next summer's pub crawl across Ireland will go much smoother if I can drink and stay dressed. Not sure what the public intoxication laws are like there, so it's really best not to tempt fate. The last thing I need is to wind up in a dirty Irish jail because I got drunk and showed someone my tattoos.
Today was the onset of another town fish-fry, but buffered somewhat by the addition of the Strawberry Festival. Seriously. The whole town was staggering drunk by 7:40 this evening. As a thoughtful shop-keep, I had laid in an extra supply of toilet tissue and paper towels. Tomorrow will be more of the same smelly fish stink, coupled with the air-conditioning repairman's efforts to make things cold. I was such a sweaty mess by the time I got out of the store today I nearly decided to peel my legs out of my jeans and drive home butt-ass nekked. I didn't, but I reserve the right to do so tomorrow. I might even wear full-seat panties so I don't have to rip myself off the leather, fruit roll-up style, once I arrive home. Ouch.
Nine days until we (the Melly, the Mandi, the No-Amy, and me) leave for Seattle and parts northwest. Planes, trains, and automobiles... and a big boat, will all be employed to move and entertain us. I have put my foot down about the three hours of dinner theater with the dancing midgets. Sure, it's only $104.oo for the meal, but that doesn't include drinks. How much alcohol it would take for me to sit calmly whilst sword-swallowers and bearded ladies cavort with midgets... at the tables... is kind of an unknown factor, but I'm pretty sure I'd be paying handsomely for the THREE HOURS of torture. At least two hundred bucks. No, we're knocking over a liquor store and hauling our drinkies poolside. Melly's grilling us a red onion pizza. Maybe she'll sing for us while she's at it.