Only the best for me and mine

I found that I always choose the red "bacon"-flavored treats first from the Milk Bone Flavor Snacks I give Lucy, much in the same way I always go first for the "Special Dark" candy bars in the Hershey's Fun Size mix.
I happen to prefer dark chocolate, but I'll bet all colors of Milk Bones probably taste the same.
Poor dogs don't know any better. Or maybe they're just lucky they don't have too many choices.

I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch. ~Gilda Radner

I waited until almost the very last minute to see the Golden Age of Couture exhibit at the Frist Center, which is Nashville's art museum.
It was on loan from the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.
The first thing I thought of as I began to tour the exhibit (besides "Why is it so damn dark in here?!") was my Aunt Suzanne and her original Barbie dolls.
When I was little and we visited my granddaddy in Coldwater, Mississippi, I always ended up in Suzanne's room at the back of the house because that's where she kept her old Barbies. She didn't get them all out every time we came, but when she did, I was so happy.
Her Barbie dolls were much better dressed than mine. Even though I loved all 17 of mine, they came with these garish disco clothes.
Suzanne's Barbies had much classier wardrobes of silky evening gowns with demure rosebuds at the hip and stoles made of "real" fur.
Some had interchangeable wigs that came off like hats. Even Midge came with elbow-length gloves and perfect little molded evening shoes.
So as I moved through the Frist exhibit and began to take in the craftsmanship of the clothing, I suddenly felt like Cinderella after the clock struck 12.
I had gone to a bit of effort before leaving the house, dressing in a "housewife goes to town" outfit of nicer Capri pants, sandals and "cute" top.
I learned a lot at the show, such as how Dior's "New Look" designs, shaped to emphasize a woman's shoulders and hips, were considered scandalous in Britain because the clothing required so much fabric. Given that the country had endured nearly a decade of rationing during World War II, the British critics didn't immediately fall for the French designs.
As I pored over the Balenciaga suits and Dior dresses, I began to feel every loose thread on my Target pants and scuff on my discount shoes.
I stood a little straighter as I moved through the gallery, but still felt frumpy. At one time I had cared about fashion. Over time, though, with a family to care for, I placed less emphasis on the art of my clothes. My priorities were comfort, affordability, and appropriateness.
Even so, I came to the red Jean Desses gown and found myself standing before it like it was a painting, examining the gathers and draping.
Then a funny thing happened.
The gowns were all showcased on life-size, headless mannequins inside glass cases. The lighting in the gallery was such that, if I stood just right, I could see myself reflected in the glass, and it looked like I was wearing the gown.
I was "wearing" a couture gown! I walked from case to case "trying on" all my favorite dresses. I felt like a life-size Barbie.
Then I had to get back in the box.
But it was fun to play for a while.

Some dark glasses, por favor

On Sunday, my family of five did what we usually do on Sundays after church: We went out to lunch at Mazatlan Mexican restaurant.
It’s fast, it’s inexpensive, the food is pretty good and we feel like regulars there. It’s usually the only meal we all eat out together, and we rarely stray from the plan.
Once in a blue moon we might get chicken from Church’s, but Mazatlan is our go-to place on Sundays.
Except for last Sunday.
On last Sunday, I decided we should try a new place, the Cinco de Mayo place in Merchant’s Walk, located in what once housed Pargo’s restaurant, for you long-timers.
As usual, it took some convincing.
“But we like Mazatlan,” my 6-year-old protested.
Then the twin eighth-graders joined the protests.
“Yeah, we like it. We know the place. They know us. We even know what number to order without looking at the menu,” they added.
Then I found myself having one of those conversations in which I’m saying the most ridiculous things just to get my kids to see how narrow-minded they’re being.
“But what if we go to Cinco de Mayo and it’s the best Mexican food you’ve ever had?” I asked.
Of course, one twin is an expert in logic.
“What if we go and it’s the worst Mexican food we ever had?” he asked.
“But what if it’s not?” I retorted, like the mature person that I am. “You won’t know unless you try it. And if it is, we won’t ever go back.”
So we went. As we compared and contrasted the salsa and the atmosphere, Henry said, “I feel like we’re cheating on Mazatlan.” I rushed to our defense.
“We’re allowed to try new places,” I said. “It’s the American way.”
“Yeah, freedom of choice,” Owen said.
The result was a split decision: One son and I liked the new place a lot, especially the gravy they serve on their enchiladas instead of rojo sauce. My husband, of course, liked both. The other two sons still liked Mazatlan.
The truth is that Mazatlan had become “our place.”
So this past week, we headed back there for our Sunday meal. But we all slinked in.
When the host seated us in one of the round corner booths, we all looked at each other and giggled.
“Why do I feel guilty?” my husband asked. “It’s like they know we cheated and went somewhere else last week.”
“I know,” I said, diving into the chips and salsa. “Just act normal.”
So the waiter came out, we ordered a No. 2, a No. 12, beef fajitas, a tostaguac and a kids’ beef burrito with queso, as usual.
The guy we call Cowboy, who always wears a flat-top haircut and plaid shirt, brought out four platters on one arm, as usual.
We ate and talked and laughed and looked each other in the face, catching up on each others’ lives, as usual.
Then we piled back into the truck to head for home. The boys, who were on a post-lunch high, bickered until I had to yell at them to calm down, as usual.
It’s not brunch at Tavern on the Green, but straying helped my family realize that we kind of prefer “the usual.”

Shake and bake

I just got home from a trip to what surely must be the capital of American manliness - the night race at Bristol Motor Speedway.
That’s right, I went to Bristol, baby! And I was INTO it!
My husband and I are not diehard NASCAR fans, but we both wanted to go to Bristol once just to experience it.
The bad news for him is that I may want to go back.
I’ll admit it, y’all …I had fun from beginning until … well, until Kyle Busch won and we had to walk back to our truck in the dark with 150,000 drunk people.
Other than that, what’s not to love?
We parked about two miles from the track and rode a shuttle while admiring the view of the beautiful hillsides of Sullivan County and the acres of race-fan RVs populating the nearby campgrounds.
The shuttle dropped us off next to the fan midway in the rear parking lot, where we were free to peruse booths and trailers offering the manliest swag I’ve ever seen.
It was like a testosterone convention. The Jack Daniel’s tent had barrel tables and a live band. Toyota displayed every version of its Tundra pickup imaginable. Ford showed off an F-350 pickup specially painted with Navy SEALS landing on a beach and Desert Storm soldiers in full battle gear.
On one side of the midway, the Coors Light girls looked like they had entered an unofficial tank top battle with the ladies representing Red Bull.
The U.S. Marines booth had an actual pull-up contest. For those less physically inclined, Aaron’s Furniture offered a tent full of recliners.
About the only manly pursuit not represented was some kind of creative facial hair contest.
And the giveaways! We loaded my see-through backpack (bought specially to avoid a longer security line) with free Goody’s powders, Tums and even free full-size bottles of Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce.
That right there is a good day. I don’t care who you are.
In fact, later when we shared a picnic table outside the fried Oreo booth with race fans from Pennsylvania, one lady told us she was going back to the Sweet Baby Ray’s tent because she’s gotten three bottles the night before and hoped to get at least two more.
Inside the track, the pre-race show was both manly and patriotic, with the drivers’ kids singing the national anthem and the winner of the Irwin Tools Ultimate Tradesman Challenge saying, “Drivers, start your engines.”
Guys flew parachutes into the stadium to the strains of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” (goose bumps!), and a military jet flew over twice.
Why? Because it’s always awesome. And because they can.
I’d always heard about how loud the cars are at Bristol, and several folks warned us to rent headsets beforehand so we could protect our ears and talk to each other.
Still, I had no clue that it would be louder than any concert I’d ever seen. The roar and rattle from the cars below us was seriously louder than the time I sat in the seventh row at Aerosmith.
Unlike most Titans games, I watched every second of the action on the track in front of me. Bad blood from a race the night before set up a classic villain in the #18 driver, Kyle Bush, and when #12 Brad Keselowski called him out during the intros, I, along with the entire crowd whooped and hooted in a kind of redneck, “Oh no he di’int.”
Luckily my husband sprang for the good seats, since it was an anniversary gift (Oh yes he did!). We sat among some serious race fans instead of the drunk, cussin’ deadbeats who rode the shuttle bus with us.
Another lucky thing for me: I wasn’t trying to be anybody’s mom. I was thankful we didn’t bring the kids because we did pass quite a few shirtless guys whose eyeballs were practically swimming in beer and because the hill we had to climb on our way out through the All-American Campground nearly killed me.
As they say, it ain’t for everybody. But this first time, Bristol was for me.

What, you thought I'd start with something important?

I was sitting there listening to the blues, to Pinetop Perkins specifically, when I wondered what my blues name would be.
Henry and I were talking on Monday about some of the rappers who have cool, organic nicknames that really fit, like Eminem for Marshall Mathers or Ludacris for Chris Bridges. I thought it was hilarious how Chad Ochocinco calls his football friend Bernard Berrian "B-Twice."
Then I thought it would be cool if there was a blues name generator so I Googled it and, of course, there is.
The site I tried had a formula where you name a physical infirmity, a fruit and the last name of a former president to get your blues name. The first name it supplied me randomly after I clicked the button (which probably bought me some spy ware) was Lame Melon Fillmore.
I don't think so.
Click again.
Sleepy Raisin Cleveland. Really? Really?!
Try again.
Crazy Raisin Johnson.

!!!!!! WTF????!!!!!

I don't even like raisins! Seriously, this is starting to not be fun. The next one is it.
CLICK

Cryin' Tater Lincoln.

I'm keeping it, even though a tater isn't a fruit.

A hiatus

I'll be taking a break from this blog for a bit.

If you just can't get enough of our shenanigans, check here every Monday.

I'll be back in a little while.

To serve and protect

Tonight I finally had my ride-along with a Brentwood Police officer. It's late now, so I'll just say that these two photos perfectly illustrate the range of stuff I saw during an 8-hour shift this evening.