opry observations

Observations from an evening backstage at the Opry:

*Keith Urban is a petite man.

*"Petite" doesn't even begin to describe Little Jimmy Dickens, who might just be two feet tall. He could stand on his own shoulders, and I think I would still be taller than he is.

*If I had worn rhinestones, I would have fit in much better. Sparkle was definitely the uniform for the evening.

*I don't think fans realize how crazy they look. There was a girl in the third row, holding up a big poster of Keith Urban towards the stage, and singing along very passionately to every song he performed. I don't quite understand the point of showing someone a poster of himself. I could understand if she was holding up a sign that said "I love you Keith!", but what kind of message was she trying to send by holding up the poster? "Hey, look Keith, I just bought some of your swag!" or "I pulled this off my ceiling and brought it with me tonight just to show you what a big fan I am!" or maybe "I'm totally going to stalk you after the concert to get you to sign this thing for me!" If I had been Keith, I definitely would have pointed her out to my bodyguards and said, "Ummm, keep an eye on that one for me, will ya?"

*I don't do the celebrity ga-ga thing very well. I met Marty Stuart, and I was standing less than 2 feet from Keith Urban and Dierks Bentley, and I met a lot of the other Opry legends. I had my camera in my purse the whole time, and how many pictures did I get? Zero. I feel like the biggest cheeseball in the entire world asking someone like that for his/her picture. Honestly, I'd rather just ask the girl in the third row if I could photograph her poster...

why i love working in a school

Because kids are very entertaining, particularly when they don't even mean to be.

Now that my office is at the high school, I miss out on a lot of the adorable, funny antics of the little ones, but fortunately I have co-workers that are willing to share some of the gems.

For example, a second grade class was asked to write thank you letters to a couple of musicians that had performed a concert for them. They took great care to decorate their construction paper cards, and one little boy decided to draw a guitar on the front of his card.

To see his drawing of the guitar, click here.

I think it's a perfectly lovely picture of a, ummm...guitar, don't you?

gas-x

Aaaarrrrrggh.

I realize that I am a little late for Talk Like a Pirate Day, but aaarrrgh. I'm frustrated.

Why? Because I am tired of talking about gas, thinking about gas, hearing about gas, watching stories about gas on tv, driving by insane lines at the gas station and watching people freak out over gas, and worrying about how much gas I have left in the car, because once it's gone, I have to join those insane lines of gas-crazy people.

It. is. ridiculous.

People, chill. Stop acting crazy and hoarding gas like there's no tomorrow. If you have a half tank of gas or more, you should not be sitting in those lines. If you are taking time to fill up multiple gas cans at the pump, I hope that you intend to go out and help stranded motorists with your stockpile and that you aren't just hoarding it for the gas apocalypse that you seem to think is happening.

If you're so worried, stop contributing to the problem and think about ways not to use gas. Ride your bike. Take a bus (yes, I realize that public transit in Nashville is terribly sub-par, but it's there). Carpool. Eliminate unnecessary trips. Walk.

Just don't go idling your half-full SUV in the middle of Harding Pike because you're waiting in line to get into the gas station a mile down the street, so you can fill up your car and three extra gas cans "just in case". Because if that's you, you're an idiot, and you totally deserve to have the gas pump run dry while the guy in front of you is using it.

Please.

not unfounded

Not long ago, I blogged about some habits I have that could be filed under the heading of "Signs that Tiffany is a Slightly Neurotic Scaredy-Cat".

My fears are not totally unfounded, though. Today, I went to the restroom, and hanging out by the wall, not even 12 inches from the toilet, was a very alive, very scary-looking brown recluse spider. I kid you not. And he looked hungry for flesh. Not that I could blame him, because it was about three in the afternoon, and I always feel the need to snack around that time, too. But still. That's waaaay too close to comfort for me.

So yes, I will continue to check under the toilet seat every time I use the restroom at work. And I won't feel the slightest bit silly for doing it.

a matter of tayst

What I should have said to the snobbish waiter at tayst the other night:"Just so you know, your simultaneously patronizing and dismissive attitude has sufficiently tainted my experience to the point that I will likely--almost certainly--not be returning. I would think that during a time like Restaurant Week, you would attempt to put your best foot forward, as you are wooing many new customers in the hopes that they will become repeat customers, but you have instead accomplished quite the opposite. Our group of friends would normally tip in the 25%+ range for good service, but we are struggling even to justify 15%. So here's your tip--how about you do yourself, the restaurant, and future diners a favor and find a job that doesn't require you to engage in customer service."

What I actually said to the snobbish waiter at tayst:
"Thank you."

Sigh. I'm a wuss.

I would write about our entire experience at tayst, but one of my friends has already penned a much better review than I could even hope to write, so I will defer to her.

The verdict, I believe, for most of our group: tayst left a slightly bitter taste in our mouths.

balance

Things that make me smile on a Friday morning: Watching two old bearded guys roll by in a convertible Chrysler...with a pink license tag on the front that says "NANA".

Things that make me not smile on a Friday morning: Watching the weather forecast and seeing rain predicted for Monday, meaning that this could be the third year in a row that our golf tournament gets rained out. Sigh.

too many, too soon

Death has been far too familiar around these parts.

First, my uncle George died unexpectedly of a heart attack. Then, Grandmother Bratton succumbed to old age. Not long after, it was Clifford. And then Uncle Don passed on. And today, I received word that cancer took Uncle Gene. They had given him a year to live, but just one month later, he is gone.

It's too much. And even for those that were expected, it's still too soon.

So, Death...how 'bout you just hang up your hoodie and scythe, and take the rest of the year off, mkay?

You've reaped enough this year.

the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad puppy owners

I like to be nice. I do.

And I try not to say hateful things about others, or call other people out publicly on my blog, because that's just not my style.

But I'm angry.

I have lived in my home for just over three years, and in that time, I have watched three puppies die under the care (or carelessness) of my neighbors. Three lovely little dogs who never had a chance, because they were adopted by people who think it is perfectly acceptable to leave a dog chained in the yard all day, regardless of the weather, with little or no access to water or shade.

One of their puppies--a sweet, pure-bred yellow labrador--died of Parvo within just a few months of moving into their home. The other two dogs died of mysterious "poisonings". The only dog that has managed to live longer than a couple of years there spends most of his time trying to escape their backyard, where he is a penned up prisoner.

I was hoping, praying even, that after the death of the aptly named Underdog, they might realize that they weren't cut out to be dog owners--that maybe they just needed to focus on keeping their four little children alive. But then, a couple of months ago, they adopted another puppy, Buster. My heart sank when I saw him, because I knew that giving a dog to the Tanners was as good as issuing a death sentence to the dog.

But for Buster's sake, I hoped for the best. And when they asked us to watch Buster over the recent holiday weekend, we agreed--only after Todd confirmed with them that Buster was current on his vaccinations. They said yes. I'm afraid they lied.

Because this morning, we get news from our neighbors that Buster is sick. He is lethargic, he is losing weight quickly--both potential signs of Parvo. A highly contagious, deadly disease. And even though I know that Levi is current on his vaccinations, I worry, because he is still a puppy, and for some reason, black and tan breeds are more susceptible to the virus.

So help me God, if anything happens to Levi because of our idiotic, negligent dog owners next door, I will be beyond livid. I honestly don't know what I will do, but I can promise it won't be pretty.

Some people should not be allowed to own dogs. Period.

These people should be required to walk around with warning labels on their heads.

Danger: Puppy Killers.

toss. turn. repeat.

Welcome to day 3 of insomnia. I just wrote that sentence, and then stared at the computer screen for about 10 minutes before continuing, because I couldn't think of what to write next--that's how well my mind is working at this point. I have reverted to operating off of artificial energy, in the form of quadruple lattes (and the fact that a quadruple latte is actually listed on the regular menu at Portland Brew makes me think that I'm not the only one with a problem). I'm pretty sure that I could be mistaken as one of the extras in Shaun of the Dead. I'm just proud that I managed to pull together an outfit that matched this morning.