I'm not in Kansas, anymore...

Yesterday was probably the scariest day of my life. Around 4:45, just as I was thinking about heading home from work, I heard a commotion out in the hallway. I had my door closed and I don't have windows in my office, so imagine my surprise when I poked my head out the door and saw the chaos outside. Looking through the window of one of the lawyer's offices, I saw that the light was dark olive green, so dark it was almost like dusk, and there was debris flying by the window at an alarming rate. I knew the weather forecast had called for some bad storms, so when someone said there was a tornado warning, I was incredulous. Regardless, the building alarm began to sound, so we all headed down to the lobby of our 26-story office building (our office is only on the 4th floor). I took an extra minute to turn off my computer and lights and pack up my bag, thinking I would just leave once the coast was clear. As soon as I got down to the lobby
I realized that, once again, I had left my cell phone in my desk drawer and would have to go back. For once in my life, my chronic forgetfulness served me well. It may even have saved my life.

In the lobby, people were milling everywhere, packed in like sardines, as the entire building tried to fit in the tiny lobby area between the banks of elevators, trying to stay away from the outside windows. We couldn't see much of the outside and there was little or no news about what was going on outside, except rumors and snippets of information texted to people's cell phones. We laughed and made jokes, thinking this was just a passing storm. I even made a less-than-tasteful joke about how tornadoes seem to target the poorest people in the towns they hit, especially trailer parks, so this twister would obviously hit the dirt parking lot down by the river where I and the two other AmeriCorps members park our cars for free. It was funny at the time and I thought, "Now that I've said it out loud, there's no possible way it could have happened." Much to my dismay, I was dead wrong.

We waited in the lobby for what felt like ages, waiting for the elevators to get back up and running. The doors to each floor in the stairwell lock from the inside, so we couldn't even take the stairs back up to the office. Finally, someone called the receptionist in our office, who happened to still be there, so we all tramped up the stairs and she let us in. I immediately grabbed my cell phone and left, thinking it had been a long day and I just wanted to go home.





When I stepped outside for the first time, I felt as though I had been punched in the gut. My blood ran cold as I stood in the middle of the one-way street behind the Sheraton, surveying the disaster scene that lay all around me. It was like a horror movie. Tree branches and whole trees lay on the ground everywhere, a piece of insulation from God-knows-where lay torn on the ground, sirens screamed all around me in every direction as emergency teams rushed to help the injured. As I stood there, stunned, my phone rang. It was my dad, all the way up in Lebanon, New Hampshire, calling to see if I was okay. I was amazed at how quickly he had gotten the news. I told him I was fine and described the scene around me. He asked about my car and I told him I was on my way to the parking lot to check on it and I would call him when I got there. The walk back to my car never felt so long. I had to dodge stop-and-go traffic on East Columbus Ave, as cops directed traffic through the dysfunctional street lights and drivers stared unblinkingly at the wreckage around them, paying very little attention to the traffic. One girl was so intent on taking pictures from the driver's seat with her cell phone, she almost hit me. I don't think she ever knew I was there.

Walking through the parking garage, I was shocked to see tree branches blown all the way inside and caught under people's cars. I thought, "If it's this bad inside the covered garage, I should be awfully nervous about my car. When I stepped around the ticket-booth arms at the entrance of the garage and out onto West Columbus Ave, I had to stop and catch my breath; all along the train tracks, where there had been a thick wall of trees and shrubs that morning, was now a clear view all the way across the river to the transfer station in West Springfield. To my left, huge trees lay across the roadway, blocking most of the traffic and I could see they had taken out some stoplight poles and power lines. To my right, I could see Memorial Bridge, where the tornado first touched down and knocked over a tractor-trailer. As I crossed the street, carefully dodging slow-moving cars, I saw there was a power line down across the entrance of the parking lot and the ticket-collector's booth was completely blown off its foundation.
I gingerly stepped across the power line and into the dirt lot. People were standing around everywhere with looks of shock and dismay on their faces. The closer I got to where I'd parked my car, the more nervous I got. All around me were cars covered in dirt and mud and tree branches, many with one or more of their windows blown out, the shattered glass covering the ruined interiors. When I finally came to my car, this is what I found:


I was utterly astounded to find my car completely intact. No broken windows, and only a few scratches, dents, and a broken antenna. I felt like the last woman standing in a game of Russian Roulette, with cars on either side of me completely destroyed. Even the sign for the parking lot missed my car when it ripped right out of the ground. I called my dad back and let him know the car was scratched but not badly damaged. As I was on the phone, my aunt called, too, but I let it go to voice mail, figuring I would call her back. My dad said the damage was probably worse than I could see through all the dirt, but I was so relieved and so thankful to be safe and unhurt that I didn't even care about the damage to my brand-new, 5-month old car, especially when I saw what was tangled in the branches of the tree limb that was stuck in my passenger-side front wheel-well. It was a cardboard sign, handwritten with black marker that read: "HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP. THANK-YOU." I immediately spun around and looked with horror at Memorial Bridge behind me. I know that there are often men with similar signs standing on the median strip at the end of the bridge; I pass by them every morning. I could only pray that this man made it to shelter in time.

As I cleaned the dirt and debris off my car and dragged the tree branches away, I saw one of my coworkers, Betsy, come into the parking lot. She had ridden to work that day with one of the other AmeriCorps members, Aleta, who rents part of her house. The poor girl's car was ruined, all three windows on the passenger side completely shattered. Betsy and I spent a lot of time taking pictures and just remarking on the incredible damage that surrounded us. I moved my car up next to hers and offered to give her a ride home.

As we waited for her to get in touch with Aleta, who was still at the office, I kept trying to call my aunt back, knowing she and much of my family were probably afraid for my safety. I couldn't get a call out to save my life; I just kept getting a busy signal and getting cut off, meaning the circuits were all overloaded with people trying to do the exact same thing. It was a miracle I had managed to get a hold of my dad. Even my text messages were bouncing back. I heard a voice call my name and I turned and saw Michael and Arlene from the Courthouse coming toward me. They had parked in the same lot that day by happenstance, even though they usually park downtown. Michael told me that windows had been blown out at the courthouses and people had run inside for shelter, bleeding and crying. The tornado had taken the whole top floor off a building on Main Street, about a block from my office building, and cars were flipped over on Bliss Street. Michael, who always tries to lighten a somber mood, wrote "WASH ME" on the side of my filthy car.

Suddenly, someone told us there might be another tornado coming, so I grabbed my keys and my purse and we ran back to the office building. The elevators were working again, so we went up to the fourth floor and watched from our office to see if anything else was going to happen. Thankfully, it didn't. Looking out of Marion's window, I saw camera equipment on the rooftop below and realized the CBS 3 news team on the floor below us must have dropped everything and run for cover. They had even left the microphone and a hairbrush lying on the ground.
I used my office phone to call a few friends and family members that I knew were worried about me and then, the danger having mostly passed, I took Betsy home. Aleta followed us in her car, which she insisted on bringing home to get out of the rain, even though she had to brush glass off the seat to get in. We passed through a thundercloud as black as night on our way through Springfield, but we all made it home to Chicopee safe and sound. The town was practically untouched by the storm and the skies were mostly clear by the time I finally pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building.

Later, I looked up news stories on the tornado and found out that four people were killed in the disaster, and countless more were injured. This video was taken from the weather station on top of my office building, this video was taken from a car on I-91, less than a mile from my building and looking right at it, and this one shows the roof being ripped of an historic building on Main Street, a couple of blocks away. Apologies for the profanity in the latter two videos. I probably would have sounded about the same if I were in their shoes.

I had friends and family calling me all night asking if I was okay. It was so nice to have people concerned about my safety, but after the fourth or fifth call, I just didn't want to tell the story any more. This is my full account, then, of the tornado that hit Springfield, MA on June 1, 2011, the official opening day of Atlantic Hurricane Season. I'm thanking God and all my lucky stars that the worst that happened to me was having to deal with my auto insurance company. It makes you thankful for everything you have, from your friends and family right down to the limbs precariously attached to your body. This was a day I will never forget.

Catcher in the Ryan

Last night, as I lay in the semi-dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep (it seems I still can't get used to the fact that it never really gets dark in the suburbs/city), I was wondering what kind of book my life would make. I mean, if my life were a novel, 1) Would anyone read it? and 2) Would it be a work of "literary merit," as my high school English teachers used to say? It's one thing to be a popular book, a "page-turner" if you will (or if you won't)--the kind of book that you buy in mass market paperback at the duty-free counter in the airport when you have a four hour layover in Milwaukee and "actually find quite interesting." It's another thing entirely to be a book that is critically acclaimed, a classic, or at the very least controversial.

Somehow I doubt my book would be challenging in any sort of profound way (maybe the bits about my mom would work out to be some sort of heart-warming "Secret Life of Bees" or "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" thing, but that's no "Jane Eyre" or "Great Gatsby"). I think the problem is that I'm just too sane. I'm a stable, well-adjusted young woman, and stable, well-adjusted people make for inconsequential, mediocre literature at best. I posed the thought to my ex-boyfriend tonight over zombie-slasher video games, saying,

"I feel like you have to be Holden Caulfield to be someone of literary merit. It's like you have to be seriously f***ed in the head to make good literature, right?" Tom looked pretty puzzled, wearing his trademark incredulous half-grin as he slashed a group of living dead through the head with a chainsaw and said,

"I think you have to be pretty f***ed in the head to have a thought like that."

It was a surprising response and I almost pissed myself laughing, but maybe he's right? Maybe my strange thoughts alone are "f***ed-up" enough to grant me passage into the realm of classic literature. Maybe it's not so much the less-than-controversial things I have done in my life that make me interesting, and more the ridiculous nonsense that goes on in my head that counts (very Holden Caulfield, actually, but far less masochistic and suicidal). Then again, maybe I'm just talking to myself again and I'm just another dime novel, after all.

Martha Beck's "20 Questions That Could Change Your Life"

(Oprah.com) -- If you're like most people, you became obsessed with questions around the age of two or three, and scientists now know that continuing to ask them can help keep your mind nimble however old you eventually become.

So when someone suggested I put together a list of the 20 most important questions we should all be asking ourselves, I was thrilled. Initially.

Then I became confused about which questions to ask, because of course, as I soon realized, context is everything. In terms of saving your life, the key question is, "Did I remember to fasten my seat belt?" In terms of saving money, "How much do I need to retire before I'm 90?" is a strong contender. If daily usefulness is the point, "What'll I wear?" and "What should I eat first?" might lead the list. And for the philosophically minded, "To be or not to be?" really is the question.

Because I'm far too psychologically fragile to make sense of this subjective morass, I made the bold decision to pass the buck. The 20 questions that follow are based on "crowdsourcing," meaning I asked a whole mess of actual, free-range women what they thought every woman should ask herself. Thanks to all of you who sent in entries via social media.

The questions included here are composites of those that were suggested most often, though I've mushed them together and rephrased some for brevity. Asking them today could redirect your life. Answering them every day will transform it.

1. What questions should I be asking myself?

At first I thought asking yourself what you should be asking yourself was redundant. It isn't. Without this question, you wouldn't ask any others, so it gets top billing. It creates an alert, thoughtful mind state, ideal for ferreting out the information you most need in every situation. Ask it frequently.

2. Is this what I want to be doing?

This very moment is, always, the only moment in which you can make changes. Knowing which changes are best for you comes, always, from assessing what you feel. Ask yourself many times every day if you like what you're doing. If the answer is no, start noticing what you'd prefer. Thus begins the revolution.

3. Why worry?

These two words, considered sincerely, can radically reconfigure the landscape of your mind. Worry rarely leads to positive action; it's just painful, useless fear about hypothetical events, which scuttles happiness rather than ensuring it. Some psychologists say that by focusing on gratitude, we can shut down the part of the brain that worries. It actually works!

4. Why do I like {cupcakes} more than I like {people}?

Feel free to switch out the words in brackets: You may like TV more than exercise, or bad boys more than nice guys, or burglary more than reading. Whatever the particulars, every woman has something she likes more than the somethings she's supposed to like. But forcing "virtues" -- trying to like people more than cupcakes -- drives us to vices that offer false freedom from oppression. Stop trying to like the things you don't like, and many vices will disappear on their own.

5. How do I want the world to be different because I lived in it?

Your existence is already a factor in world history -- now, what sort of factor do you want it to be? Maybe you know you're here to create worldwide prosperity, a beautiful family, or one really excellent bagel. If your impressions are more vague, keep asking this question. Eventually you'll glimpse clearer outlines of your destiny. Live by design, not by accident.

6. How do I want to be different because I lived in this world?

In small ways or large, your life will change the world -- and in small ways or large, the world will change you. What experiences do you want to have during your brief sojourn here? Make a list. Make a vision board. Make a promise. This won't control your future, but it will shape it.

7. Are {vegans} better people?

Again, it doesn't have to be vegans; the brackets are for you to fill in. Substitute the virtue squad that makes you feel worst about yourself, the one you'll never have the discipline to join, whether it's ultra-marathoners or mothers who never raise their voices. Whatever group you're asking about, the answer to this question is no.

8. What is my body telling me?

As I often say, my mind is a two-bit whore -- by which I mean that my self-justifying brain, like any self-justifying brain, will happily absorb beliefs based on biases, ego gratification, magical thinking, or just plain error. The body knows better. It's a wise, capable creature. It recoils from what's bad for us, and leans into what's good. Let it.

9. How much junk could a chic chick chuck if a chic chick could chuck junk?

I believe this question was originally posed by Lao Tzu, who also wrote, "To become learned, each day add something. To become enlightened, each day drop something." Face it: You'd be better off without some of your relationships, many of your possessions, and most of your thoughts. Chuck your chic-chick junk, chic chick. Enlightenment awaits.

10. What's so funny?

Adults tend to put this question to children in a homicidal-sounding snarl, which is probably why as you grew up, your laughter rate dropped from 400 times a day (for toddlers) to the grown-up daily average of 15. Regain your youth by laughing at every possible situation. Then, please, tell us what's funny -- about everyday life, about human nature, even about pain and fear. We'll pay you anything.

11. Where am I wrong?

This might well be the most powerful question on our list -- as Socrates believed, we gain our first measure of intelligence when we first admit our own ignorance. Your ego wants you to avoid noticing where you may have bad information or unworkable ideas. But you'll gain far more capability and respect by asking where you're wrong than by insisting you're right.

12. What potential memories am I bartering, and is the profit worth the price?

I once read a story about a world where people sold memories the way we can sell plasma. The protagonist was an addict who'd pawned many memories for drugs but had sworn never to sell his memory of falling in love. His addiction won. Afterward he was unaware of his loss, lacking the memory he'd sold. But for the reader, the trade-off was ghastly to contemplate. Every time you choose social acceptance over your heart's desires, or financial gain over ethics, or your comfort zone over the adventure you were born to experience, you're making a similar deal. Don't.

13. Am I the only one struggling not to {fart} during {yoga}?

I felt profoundly liberated when this issue was raised on Saturday Night Live's "Weekend Update." Not everyone does yoga, but SNL reminded me that everyone dreads committing some sort of gaffe. Substitute your greatest shame-fear: crying at work, belching in church, throwing up on the prime minister of Japan. Then know you aren't alone. Everyone worries about such faux pas, and many have committed them (well, maybe not the throwing up on PMs). Accepting this is a bold step toward mental health and a just society.

14. What do I love to practice?

Some psychologists believe that no one is born with any particular talent and that all skill is gained through practice. Studies have shown that masters are simply people who've practiced a skill intensely for 10,000 hours or more. That requires loving -- not liking, loving -- what you do. If you really want to excel, go where you're passionate enough to practice.

15. Where could I work less and achieve more?

To maximize time spent practicing your passions, minimize everything else. These days you can find machines or human helpers to assist with almost anything. Author Timothy Ferriss "batches" job tasks into his famous "four-hour workweek." My client Cindy has an e-mail ghostwriter. Another client, Angela, hired an assistant in the Philippines who flawlessly tracks her schedule and her investments. Get creative with available resources to find more time in your life and life in your time.

16. How can I keep myself absolutely safe?

Ask this question just to remind yourself of the answer: You can't. Life is inherently uncertain. The way to cope with that reality is not to control and avoid your way into a rigid little demi-life, but to develop courage. Doing what you long to do, despite fear, will accomplish this.

17. Where should I break the rules?

If everyone kept all the rules, we'd still be practicing cherished traditions like child marriage, slavery, and public hangings. The way humans become humane is by assessing from the heart, rather than the rule book, where the justice of a situation lies. Sometimes you have to break the rules around you to keep the rules within you.

18. So say I lived in that fabulous house in Tuscany, with untold wealth, a gorgeous, adoring mate, and a full staff of servants...then what?

We can get so obsessed with acquiring fabulous lives that we forget to live. When my clients ask themselves this question, they almost always discover that their "perfect life" pastimes are already available. Sharing joy with loved ones, spending time in nature, finding inner peace, writing your novel, plotting revenge -- you can do all these things right now. Begin!

19. Are my thoughts hurting or healing?

Your situation may endanger your life and limbs, but only your thoughts can endanger your happiness. Telling yourself a miserable mental story about your circumstances creates suffering. Telling yourself a more positive and grateful story, studies show, increases happiness. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, choose thoughts that knit your heart together, rather than tear it apart.

20. Really truly: Is this what I want to be doing?

It's been several seconds since you asked this. Ask it again. Not to make yourself petulant or frustrated -- just to see if it's possible to choose anything, and I mean any little thing, that would make your present experience more delightful. Thus continues the revolution.

Ramblin'...where to begin? I taste the summer on your peppery skin...

This has got to be the first real snow day I've had in years. In college, school still happens regardless of the weather. You may or may not have class, depending on whether or not your professor has a car with all-wheel drive, but you still have that 15-page paper to write, that group project meeting at the library at 9:00 and that take-home test from the maniacal calculus teacher who thinks spending four hours a week in class, three hours in tutoring and God-only knows how long per week on homework just isn't enough. This is the closest I've come to a grade-school snow since grade school. I helped a friend dig out her car and her driveway, which was sort of like building a fort (not really), and work was canceled, so now I'm all cozy in my little apartment watching the snow continue to fly by the window and accumulate in the bittersweet vines across the way.

I finally talked to my dad about "the future" and he was wonderful, of course. I don't know why I still dread talking to my father about difficult things, like he's going to blow up on me like he did when I was a kid and be angry and disappointed in me. He's not that person any more; we've both grown a lot since those dark days and we've also grown closer. I honestly tell people that my dad is my best friend, because it's true. I thank my lucky stars every day to have a dad like him. He's kind and patient (except when he or I get lost) and funny and a blast to hang out with. He always gives me the best advice and he's so damn smart I can hardly stand it sometimes. Just the wisdom that comes from living a long, hard life, I suppose.

Anyway, I told him how much I hated my job and don't think I can survive another year and a half, let alone the six months I have left in my current contract. The work is boring and not challenging at all, the other AmeriCorps members (except Tiff and Mike, who ROCK) are catty and take themselves so seriously it's almost ridiculous. The trainings are crushingly boring and such a huge waste of time for the most part. I wake up every day and need the Jaws of Life to pry myself out of my bed and go to work, and on my days off, I spend half my time dreading having to go back. It's embarassing, frankly, because it's should be a great job--I'm helping people, I'm in an office full of nice coworkers, I'm learning a lot, and I'm getting paid. I should be happier, but I'm just not. Even if I can't explain it, it's honestly the way I feel, and it's important to be honest with yourself and listen to what your body is telling you. I told my dad all of this and he said he knew exactly how I felt. He remembers jobs that he hated more than anything in the world, and he also remembers working for companies that were closing down and playing solitaire as he counted down the hours (sounds familiar).

I told him I was still unsure about what to do next. He said, "Well obviously you need to look for a new job. Start looking now, because it very well might take that long to find one." He also said I should try to figure out what I'm passionate about, what I'm good at, and what makes me happy and pursue that. I honestly laughed out loud and said, "Funny you should say that, because I've been dreading telling you this, but...I know what really makes me happy is cooking..." and then braced myself for the hurricane.

Instead, he said, "Great! You can make a lot of money and be really happy in a cooking career." I was half taken aback and half completely unsurprised. Half of me knows my father is going to be supportive of whatever I decide to do, but half of me still remembers the old scars. I told him how scared I am of making such a huge shift and such a huge commitment, and told me "Why not start out small? Dip your toes in the water before you jump in? Take a few cooking classes and see if you like it; get a part-time job at a restaurant and see if you think you can cut it. If you fall in love with it, you'll turn 25 in less than two years and finally get your trust fund from when we lost mom. If you want to cash in some stocks and go to culinary school, it's your money and your life. I say go for it!" Seriously, he's so damn smart sometimes.

I love my dad so much it hurts sometimes. He's the best man that I've ever known and I'm so proud to call him father. I usually don't have the courage to tell him so (without a little "liquid encouragement" anyway), but I really should say it more often. He's the best dad in the world. Frankly, I think it makes it hard for me to find a boyfriend that measures up because my standards are so high. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm looking for someone just like my dad. It's a good thing, in my case, assuming that such a man exists (sometimes I'm not so sure). I guess that's enough mushy stuff about my dad. I think I'll go enjoy this snow day a little more: read a book, watch a Disney movie, play my guitar...did I mention my New Year's Resolution? It's to rediscover my passion for playing guitar. On New Year's Day my dad totally called me out on not practicing and losing my passion and I finally admitted to myself that it's because I miss my girls so much--Nina, Medina, Carlo, and Katy especially. I miss sitting around the living room at Park Street, passing the guitar around and singing along to songs we all know by heart. I've felt lost without them and so I've barely touched my guitar since graduation. I'm going to get it back though--the passion, the talent, the calouses and everything. I'm starting by leaving my guitar out of the case all the time. It sits on my sofa mostly, and so far I've been picking it up a lot more now that it's not "out of sight, out of mind" under my bed. It feels great, and I can't wait to show off my new songs to my dad and all our friends at the Luau in April. I'll show 'em I've still got what it takes!!!

For the record, my heart is sore.

Such a long time it has been since I posted last. I think I failed to finish my stories from the Sturgis trip, but I'll come back to that eventually. I had to set that aside for a while because when I got back from South Dakota the defecation really hit the ventilation with my boyfriend and he asked me to move out, so I did, and shortly thereafter he broke up with me. I have since been relearning how to be alone and how to be single. Some days I love it; other days I cry for the loneliness in my heart. I found a studio apartment in Chicopee, just a few miles from my old Alma Mater, Mount Holyoke, and moved in on October 1, 2010, just a few weeks after beginning my new not-job (it's technically a "service position") as an AmeriCorps Legal Assistant at a Legal Services office in Springfield.

For the past five months I've been helping impoverished immigrants file pettions for legal status in the U.S. and most of my clients have been women who are victims of domestic violence. It's an incredibly difficult job, emotionally, but not especially challenging mentally, so I've slowly grown to dislike it. Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly grateful to have a job in this difficult economy and the people I work with are wonderful, but I've decided in my heart that I was not cut out to be a lawyer, as cool as it might be to put "Esquire" after my name.

I had a bit of an existential crisis this morning, as recent college graduates are wont to do. In my heart, I know I want to cook and to go to culinary school and learn to be a great chef, but I haven't yet accepted the drawbacks that come with that particular territory: low pay, grueling hours and no days off, no health insurance or benefits, very little room for career advancement especially in the current economy, etc. I know that becoming a lawyer or getting another desk job would have its own drawbacks, though: I wouldn't be as passionate about it, probably, it wouldn't be as much fun, I run the risk of becoming bitter and cynical in a job I might hate, and I'd be doing something for the money because I'm up to my eyeballs in student loan debt, not because I'm following my heart. Plus, sitting in a desk chair all day is wreaking havoc on my back.

I ended up having a decent day at work, which was encouraging, but I haven't made much progress on deciding what I want to do with my future. Do I apply for a second year with AmeriCorps because it's easy and safe and I can postpone/help pay off my student loans and put off making a real decision for another year? Or do I decide I can't take it any more and have to woman up and find a new job? Grad school is another option on the table, but I'm just not ready to go back to school yet, I don't think. Got a pep talk from my best friend from high school, Kyle, and feel a lot less panicked now, but eventually I have to decide, and eventually I have to tell my father about it. Horrors.

I had a dream a couple weeks ago that was a sequel to Mary Poppins all drawn in anime, including a flashback prequel to how she became a nanny and met Bert. I gotta lay off the sauce.

Ants in your pants? Nope, grasshoppers.

Okay, "grasshoppER" (singular, not plural). Still a funny story though. We set up our camp on Sunday, right next to the port-o-johns for easy access, parking our bikes and the truck/trailer between the tents and the "thunderboxes," as one of my professors once dubbed them. Also key to this story, if I forgot to mention it before, is that the campground is really just an old cow pasture, complete with dried meadow muffins and what probably amounts to millions of grasshoppers (which are, by the way, a turkey's favorite snack, so we got to see a few flocks in the mornings, munching away on the hillside behind us). Seriously, when you walked through the grass, they would leap out of your way in every direction, like walking through a kettle of popping corn.

So, on Monday morning, my dad and I were doing something with the bikes, and I was squatting next to mine to check something, and when I stood up, I felt something touching my inner thigh. When I reached down and felt the small lump inside my jeans, the little bastard bit me! For those of you who've ever been pinched by a crab, it felt exactly like that. So I start yelling and jumping around like I'm walking on hot coals, grabbing at my pants and trying to shake the little creep out, but he won't let go. So, in my panic, I unbuckle my belt and button-fly and yank my jeans down to my knees, taking just the back-end of my underwear in the process, and sustaining at least another bite. Still cursing my lungs out, I fish the grasshopper out of the folds of the jeans and flick him away into the grass where he could hop freely and go torment some other poor soul.

At this point, I recover enough of my awareness to realize that Meredith and my dad are standing there laughing their asses off and, if it weren't for the port-o-potties directly behind me, I'd be mooning the entire campground. As it was, only a few members of our group heard the commotion and managed to stick their heads out of the canopy/tent in time to see me bashfully trying to recover my pants and what was left of my dignity. Seriously, though, you should have seen the bite marks; they frickin' hurt!

Today was boring and not worth recounting. We're at an EconoLodge in Princeton, I'LL and plan to have "kickstands up" by 8:00 A.M. See you then!

"That's it, man. When I go home I'm gonna find me a new Black Guy."

So, all my dates are gonna be screwed up since I'm so far behind on my blogging, but the days have just been so packed I haven't had the time or energy. In fact, I've been going to sleep earlier and earlier every night except last night. Last night I got to stay up and do the laundry! This hotel had one washer and one dryer for what probably amounts to 300 guests, so it took a while to even get our turn.

We went out to dinner at this awesome restaurant called Carnaval. It's on it's way to being a pretty big national chain, I think, because the concept is so cool and so well-executed. It's basically a Brazillian steakhouse, but you can order seafood or pasta or other regular entrees. However, unless you're vegetarian, I recommend you don't bother with all that. Go for their "Gaucho-Style" dinner. For $25 you get unlimited trips to the hot and cold salad bars (the garlic mashed potatoes knocked my socks off--I had to go back twice for more), and a large, plastic coin that's green on one side, red on the other. Turn your coin over to green and prepare to be bombarded. Waiters with long skewers full of meat--top sirloin, pork chops, prime rib, Parmesan chicken, bacon-wrapped steak of some kind, all out of this world delicious--and warm, cinnamon-dusted pineapple circle the dining room, looking for green coins. If they spy yours, they plop their tray down next to you and proceed to shave off your choice of cut right off the skewer. Every guest gets a pair of tongs to help you take the cut to your plate as the waiter slices it. Plus, they'll bring you plates and plates of coconut-crusted fried bananas. Seriously, if you ever get the chance, you've got to try this place out. Oh, and the bathrooms were GORGEOUS. I felt bad about using them to their intended purpose. The faucets were made to look like old-fashioned water pumps! So cool.

Anyway, we're on the road home, now, and today's going to be an especially long day, so I have plenty of time to catch up on my blogging. We broke camp yesterday morning, partially in the rain, and said goodbye to Lenny and Benny, on their way back to Seattle with Lenny's wife, Lisa. Speaking of Lenny and Benny, I should probably explain the quote in the title of today's entry. Lenny and Benny are friends of Tony and Jap (For those of you who don't know, Jap is, in fact, Japanese, but his initials are actually J. A. P. so it's not a racial slur, I promise.) from Seattle. Lenny is a tall, thin, tow-headed white guy with a wry sense of humor and a really easy-going manner. Benny is shorter than Lenny, but he's a big, sassy black man with quick tongue and slow accent. They are the oddest pair I have ever seen and I love them dearly. One night at the campsite, they were bickering over the day's ride, since Barry had led the group that day, instead of Lenny, who was our fearless leader the first two or three days. Benny was giving Lenny shit about not "respecting his authoritaaay" as leader and Lenny finally just said, "You know what, man, that's it. When I go home I'm gonna find myself a new Black Guy." We all just about fell out of our chairs laughing.

I'm going to try to keep up appearances a little, here, and divide up the posts chronologically, even though the date stamps will be off. Wish me luck. And here's a picture for you: the closest we got to a buffalo all trip!