Snuggie™ Sand Sculpting and Some Florida Facts

As you know from my last post, the Tumbleweeds were in Florida recently.  

My Wyoming friends roll their eyes when I tell them how hot it is in Florida and I can't blame them, really. It has been know to snow in June in Wyoming, but I just can't abide the heat. And the humidity is so thick and heavy, it's like wearing a hot wet Snuggie™ around your head. And arms because Snuggies™ have sleeves.

It wasn't as hot as it could have been and we did get to have our own bathroom.  For several days. *squeal*

Sarasota is on the west coast of Florida, south of Tampa and is home to the Ringling Bros. Circus, tons of old people and Siesta Key, a barrier island known for its powdery white sand.

We were there during the World Championship Sand Sculpting Event but only saw them from a distance, outside of the the roped off area because; A: we ran out of gas in the parking lot while waiting in line to find a spot among the 13.7 million other people waiting to find a spot, B: we got sidetracked with a couple who had a Boxer almost as cute as Jas, and 3: we didn't pay the $5 to get in closer because there was only 15 minutes left before they shut it down.

And Jeopardy was coming on soon. Shut up, we don't get to watch tv that often.

If you want to see them go here. The sand is so fine it feels like powdered sugar and they really did some cool things with it.

This is not a sand sculpture. Unless by
sand sculpture you mean sand that
has been walked on by a bunch
of people who should not
wear bikinis.

I joke about there being a lot of old people in Florida because it's one of those stereotypes that are true, but it's true only for the lower half of Florida.

Northern Florida has winter, working people, and southern accents. There are beaches and the summer and spring are hot, but it's not the Florida that you're most likely to see on tv or in movies.

Orlando, in the middle of the state, is the armpit dividing point. Anywhere south of there is more made-for-tv Florida: retirees, bright colors, banana trees, and Yankee accents. 

If I weren't such a pansy about the heat, I would extol the virtues of all the different kinds of Florida there are.  It would be an awesome state if not for that water-boarding Snuggie™ of heat oppression.

I don't want to end on a negative so I leave you with the following pictures guaranteed to make you happy, especially if you like sharks or hot dogs. And really, who doesn't?

Just a little Florida landscaping
in the neighborhood.
Jaws cruising along crushed
glass and seashells.

Deep fried hot dog at The Old Salty Dog.
A dog friendly place on Siesta Key.
Well, not friendly to hot dogs, obviously.

Don't say you've never wished this would
happen to that RV in front of you
on the highway.

Dr. Jasmine and Mrs. Hyde

Our Boxer, Jasmine, is just a wee bit on the crazy side.  She has two distinct personalities: inside dog and outside dog.

When Jasmine is inside the truck or house, she is the picture of sweetness.  She looks at me with love, waiting for the merest suggestion of command to do my bidding.  Words that come to mind are: calm, attentive, obedient, and good-natured.

Inside dog: "May I help you?"

When she is outside, Jasmine is the picture of demented craziness.  She pulls at the leash as if my very presence is toxic and also goes deaf the minute the door is opened.  Every sound, shadow, and smell is of the utmost importance to her and requires her immediate attention.  Words that come to mind are: spastic, psychotic, possessed, and attention deficit order.

Outside dog: "Chase all the things!!"

Jasmine will chase anything, including birds that are flying, the shadow of herself on the ground, and tree stumps that look threatening. In South Florida recently, she discovered lizards. They were everywhere; in fact, Florida may have almost as many lizards as old people. Walking down the sidewalks in Sarasota, she was more spastic than usual as lizards scurried about in front of her.  I'm surprised her little brain didn't explode with all the things that needed chasing.

She may not remember sit, stay or who I am while we're walking, but she knows where the lizards live and this bush will never be the same:

She attacked that bush every time she got near it after seeing lizards run into it once.  Twenty years from now, that bush will be gone and in its place will be a condominium for old people (Florida's largest commodity besides lizards) and Jasmine would still stare intently at that very spot where there was once a lizard. 

Hopefully the old people won't mind being stared at by a crazy Boxer.

If only Jasmine could use her laser-like focus for something other than chasing lizards, she could probably do great things, like fix the economy or make me a sandwich.

No matter what she does though,
that face is hard to resist.

But I *would* like a sandwich.

Douglas on the Road: The Thing Edition

Check out my latest Douglas on the Road column in the best small town newspaper in the free world, The Douglas Budget.  (It's better than the ones in the pay-per-view world too. Probably. I've never been there.)

Find out the secret of The Thing in Dragoon, Arizona and how a grasshopper almost murdered me.

Also, there are spiders.

A Tumbleweed Halloween Tale

The Tumbleweeds will not be home for Halloween this year.

(If you are a burglar reading this then you should be aware that I don’t always tell the truth and maybe we will be home.  With weapons and booby-traps.  Happy Halloween.)

We will miss all the little creatures knocking on the door and begging for candy, trying to guess what some of them are.  

“Oh, what a cute little hooker you are.”

“I’m a Princess!”


***

The year I got a King Kong Halloween costume, was my favorite Halloween.  I must have been 9 or 10, a few years after the 1976 remake of the movie King Kong.  The costume came from K-Mart, our go to store for everything, clothes included (nerd alert), and fit my Halloween Costume criteria: it had to be scary and it could not be girly.

Thanks to Cool and Collected for the
picture of the coolest costume
EVER.

It was one of those cheap-o costumes; hard plastic mask that fit over your head with a string that always popped off after 10 minutes.  A thin, rubbery shirt with King Kong painted on, grabbing planes out of the air amidst lots of flames.  I was gonna scare the bejesus out of those sissy ballerinas and ghosts!  The whole neighborhood would be talking about me for weeks!

I was a hard headed child determined to do things my way, overly macho for a girl, and vehemently against looking weak.  So when my mom suggested I carry a Barbie doll, so it would like King Kong's girlfriend, I rolled my eyes and scoffed at the mere suggestion.  

Mom: But it’s a great idea.  You would look just like King Kong in the movie. Remember when he held Jessica Lange in the palm of his hand and blew her hair dry with his breath?

Me: What if people think I play with Barbies?! 

Mom: You do.

Me:  Well I don’t want anyone to know that! 

Mom: But it would really be cute.  That costume doesn’t even look like King Kong, people might think you’re just a gorilla.

Me:  I don’t want to be cute or blow dry anyone's hair!  No one is ever going to be scared of me if I’m walking around with a Barbie doll, sheesh.  You don’t know anything! 

In my stubborn little heart I knew she was right, it would look cool (not cute!) and if I did have to defend myself from any taunts that I played with a Barbie, I could just beat them up.  A win-win in the scary department.  

In the end though, I just couldn’t do it.  I had declared war against my mother and I wouldn’t back down.  

The mask broke after two houses and I had to hold it up to my face, the rubber shirt was hot and you couldn’t see the graphics in the dark, and more than one person had to ask what I was.  But in my mind I was the airplane destroying monster that everyone feared.  

Here's to Halloween and the delusions of childhood.

A Tumbleweed Jack-O-lantern
made out of some kind of berry
found in Texes and a perfect fit for the truck.

Titillating Tumbleweed Tastes

While shopping for groceries at a Walmart in Hattiesburg, Mississppi I saw this in the snack aisle:

The ingredients list liquid hot sauce.
Doesn't sauce imply it's a liquid?

Yes, a big ol' jar of lips, with the hair still on them.  They were in the snack aisle right next to 743 linear feet of various potato chip choices.

I'm not adverse to trying weird foods, even ones with moustaches, but I was unwilling to buy a whole jar of lips when I think one would do the trick, so I don't know what these taste like.  Also, I'm cheap.

One of the fun things about trucking is the ability to try lots of diverse foods.  Last week in Glenwood Springs Colorado, in a dumpy little Mexican grocery/butcher/gas station, I had really good tacos.  

It was one of those places that we wouldn't go to on purpose; we were in a black hole of eateries and in a time/space/trucking continuum that dictates that the only available food at the moment and space we had is either sandwiches or gas station food.

*Aside.  Sandwiches for dinner make me mad.

So I wasn't really looking forward to dinner at La Glorieta, the little diner attached to the gas station.  I wasn't expecting much from the place so I figured I'd try something different and ordered tacos de lengua.  Yep, beef tongue tacos.  

What a surprise they were!  Nothing like I had imagined, the meat was juicy, tender, flavorful, and it looked like roast beef.  In fact, it looked and tasted so different than what I expected, I thought they were just messing with me, giving the gringo boring old roast beef and calling it tongue, laughing at me behind my back.  (I'm not paranoid.  Why do you ask?  Do you know something I don't??)

I was so paranoid intrigued, I looked up tacos de lengua online and found lots of pictures and recipes that described what I had been served.  But remember; just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.  

I didn't have my camera so I stole
this from Gourmet Magazine, where
you can also find a recipe. You know, for the next
time you have a 3lb beef tongue on hand.

Other foods, in the non-face category, I have tried during our trucking adventures are:

Liver pudding, which I wrote about here.

Snapping turtle, another roast-beefy looking thing but not so tasty, which I wrote about here.

A whole fried quail.  What was weird about this was that it was the whole bird, all bird looking and stuff, but without the bones.  It was in Louisiana. I'm assuming voodoo was involved.

Pickled quail eggs. They were so tiny, like Smurf eggs only not blue. Because Smurfs are mammals, obviously.

Kentucky cornbread, which is not corn bread but a flat corn pancake. They should stick to bourbon.

Velveeta sushi, but not on purpose, which I wrote about here.

Once, in a truck stop in Texas I ordered beef tips over noodles and got what looked like a peice of pterodactyl spinal cord in the sauce.

To really illustrate my adventuresome appetite and show you that I will eat (almost) anything, anywhere, I give you this:

And

Surprisingly, these murals on the side of a truck stop in New Mexico didn't spoil my appetite.  I ate here despite the "art", titillating though it may be.

  

Tumbleweed in the Tabloids

Douglas, WY
Even the dinosaurs are cowboys.

The cat is out of the bag.  The jig is up.  The chicken has flown the coop. The pearl is in the river.

The secret is out; your humble Tumbleweed has hit the big time✴.

✴ Well, not really big time.  I didn't win the Nobel Peace Prize for Blogging and I haven't written the Great American Novel.  Angelina Jolie is not starring in the movie of my life nor is there a made-for-tv-movie about me in a scandalous affair with Festus, in the works.

Great, now I am depressed.

Anyway.

I am writing a humor column for my local newspaper, The Douglas Budget.  It's a weekly in my hometown of Douglas, Wyoming (population 5,300) and they run my columns about twice a month.  The first one ran at the end of August, but somehow it didn't make it to the online version and I didn't want to say anything here until I could link it, like a *professional* and now it's fixed and did I tell you I was excited???  I am.

See?

The process to get published was long and arduous.  Kind of like Homer's Odyssey but without the cyclops.  *Unfortunately*

About a year ago, I balled up my courage and approached the newspaper to see if they would be interested in me writing a humor column for them.  I won't bore you with the details of how difficult it was for me to build up my nerve to do this; but imagine walking into the grocery store naked and asking the bag-boy to judge your thighs. It felt like that, only scarier.

I went in and asked for the editor, showed him some samples from this blog and a column I had written specifically for the newspaper (never before seen!) and he seemed interested, said he'd look it over, let me know.  Visions of fame and fortune swam before my eyes as I pictured my name in print.  I felt just like Mary Tyler Moore when she flings her hat up in the air.

A few weeks went by and I hadn't heard anything from him.  Nothing happens fast in Wyoming, so I waited.  After a month I sent him an email asking if he was still interested.  He said he was, things were just really busy.  More weeks go by, more follow up from me, etc, etc.  

Finally, I called.

Me: "Look, if you aren't interested or if you think my writing sucks donkey balls, tell me and I'll get off your back, I can handle it. Otherwise, I will just nag you every week with phone calls, emails, and possibly build a shed in your backyard and live in it until you print my columns."

Him: "I'll get to it, I promise.  I'm just busy."

*cricket

Well dear Readers, months went by like this and nothing happened.  I picked up my Mary Tyler Moore hat and gave up.  Who was I kidding? I knew nothing about building sheds.

Fast forward to July.  My nemesis moved out of state and a new editor came to town.  I picked up my Mary Tyler Moore hat and tried again. Surprisingly, instead of a restraining order, I got an offer and now have an occasional column.  

So far, they have printed 3 (three!).  If you can't tell, I'm pretty effing stoked.  And I'm really glad I don't have to build a shed in anyone's backyard; Wyoming is cold in the winter.

Check out the Douglas on the Road tab at the top of the blog to find the link to the columns.  Or click here.  I'm easy.

Pining for a Private Privy

Since we began trucking, do you know what my idea of absolute luxury is?

My own bathroom.  All to myself.  Alone.  By myself.

My bathroom at home is the ultimate.  I can walk from the bedroom to the bathroom without getting dressed, combing my hair, or talking to anyone. If there are any cooties in there, they belong to me or Himself and therefore are adorable and harmless.  I don't have to hold it for so long that I qualify for the Guinness Book of World Records for bladder and/or colon control. 


Did I mention I like to be by myself in there?

The next best thing is when we're in a truck stop or rest area where there are more stalls than people and the bathroom is the size of a football field. Although more times than not, even when I pick a stall all the way at the back, in a completely empty room and there are 373 empty stalls to choose from, some sweaty, unwashed woman will pick the stall next to mine and start talking or making heaving lifting noises.

The kind of bathroom that sounds good in theory but sucks in reality is the one-holer.  You know, the kind where you lock the door to the room and get it all to yourself?  This kind of bathroom is usually in the busiest of places, with lines of people waiting for you to finish and knocking on the door every few seconds causing your bowels to turn to concrete and leaving you unable to perform.


You know what is really fun though?  Here's what happened last week.


We are driving in the middle of nowhere in Nebraska and it hits; I gotta go.  Big time.  The next truck stop is 10 miles away, I do the kind of breathing they teach pregnant women.  Panting, the urgency subsides and I think I can make it.  


We pull into the truck stop and I see, right there by the front doors my nemesis: a porta-potty.  I think I’d rather poop out on the open prairie than go inside a cramped, stinky cootie infested porta-potty.  Plus?  It's right next to the front door so that the entire WORLD would walk by as I’m in there taking care of business.  I don't think so.

We get back in the truck and drive to the next truck stop about a mile away.  Himself drops me off in the parking lot and I run inside, bowels cramping and twisting, only to find that the ONE bathroom in the store has a handwritten sign one it that says "Knock first, the door doesn’t lock!!"  The door.  Does.  Not.  Lock.  


What fresh hell is this?

I run out of the store and back to the truck, just as Himself is backing in to park. I look up into his eyes and whimper, the door doesn’t lock.

Himself cannot be rattled.  Calmly, he tells me to get in, he’ll drive me in front a McDonald’s that we passed earlier and drop me off while he circles the block.  I concentrate every bit of willpower I can muster and direct it to my insides, praying that I can make it.  I run like Forrest Gump into the McDonald’s, my eyes focus like laser beams to the rear of the store and lock onto the target and I make it just in time.  


That’s all I have to say about that.

      *******

My intestines are twisting up, just writing about it and while I’m sure it’s not healthy to hold it for so long, I have to say my colon is pretty awesome. 

Batman kind of awesome.