The Joys of Visual Spatial Living

I’ve assembled some pictures of our girls, Nastia and Maria and some of both of them together. We are moving into high gear on getting the paper work going. The first step is collecting the documents we need and getting a Social Worker to do an official Home Study.I did some looking around on the Internet the other day for some ideas that might help me learn the addiction stuff I am studying. It was a long time ago when I was in college and medical school mastering large amounts of material. I wondered if there where new tricks or tools that would give me insight into a better way of approaching my task.I wasn’t disappointed; I found a lot of useful stuff. One discovery I made was the concept of visual/spatial learning styles and how they differ from the more sequential/verbal learning styles. There is a world of difference. The drawing I’ve selected here illustrates one facet of my experience with this concept. A picture is worth a thousand words, to my way of thinking, very visual/spatial.

A practical consequence of this insight is that I am experimenting with keeping notes in a visual way rather than in a sequential verbal way. I intuitively sense that this fits me better and works more effectively. It is more fun too, likely because it seems more natural to my innate inclination. Sort of like handedness, using your dominant hand to eat and write is eminently more comfortable, efficient and productive than using your non-dominant hand.

So, what do visual notes look like? The technique is known as “mind mapping.” I’ve included a mind map here as an example. Take a look at it; this is how my brain actually works. The particular mind map I have posted is the one I made that outlines the process we need to take in order to adopt our girls from Ukraine. It’s complex and involved and will take several months to accomplish. It has taken several weeks and a lot of processing of diverse information to finally boil everything down into this final organized form.

We've been working long hours on this. We'll keep you posted

No Really, We're Not Kidding

Today is my birthday. I have two friends my own age, they both have had seven or more kids, I’ve had two. I have two other friends, older than I am they’ve started families; they’ve had babies. I was thirty-five years old when Nastia was born, Kristin was ten then, Mathew was eight.

Cindie and I went out to dinner with another couple tonight, to celebrate my birthday. They asked us why we wanted to adopt two children. I think we will be asked that a lot in the coming years.

I’m fifty-one years old today. Nastia and Maria are fifteen years old.

Why adopt? I’m thinking, why not?

You see, some might think that with our kids grown and gone, you know, empty nest and all, that we are done with the parent thing. Now we move on to the next stage of life. Now we are more mature, older, maybe too old, maybe too mature.

Whatever. But I don’t think so.

What if we hadn’t finished having kids after having just two? Yeah, what if we had kept on and had a couple of more? What then? Well, we would have a couple of teenagers still hanging around today wouldn’t we? And nobody would think anything about that, would they?

So that is what this is about, we’re thinking that we’re just not finished being parents yet. We think about it as if we have a couple of teenagers still hanging around.

And, God is giving us a wonderful chance to help some kids that just wouldn’t be given a fair chance otherwise.

So I don’t think it’s a stretch. It seems natural. In fact, you could ask us why it took us so long to get around to it.

Nah, the timing is just right. It always is.

Like we’re part of some great big plan…

Hmmm.

Expecting

From Wikipedia, about the symbolism of storks:

In Western culture the White Stork is a symbol of childbirth. In Victorian times the details of human reproduction were difficult to approach, especially in reply to a child's query of "Where did I come from?"; "The stork brought you to us" was the tactic used to avoid discussion of sex. This habit was derived from the once popular superstition that storks were the harbingers of happiness and prosperity, and possibly from the habit of some storks of nesting atop chimneys, down which the new baby could be brought into the house.

The observant no doubt have noticed the clip art of a stork in my heading. Why is it there you may ask. You may ask. We are expecting. Yes, the obvious. Isn’t it exciting?

Now the mystery must be settled. Who what when where why and how. The first shocker is that we are not expecting our first grandchild. No, that bit of joyful news still awaits us for some possible future date.

No, the real shock is that Cindie and I are expecting a child of our own. And not just one, we are expecting two. “How can this be,” as someone tactlessly asked us, “haven’t you been fixed?” The answer is “Yes, I most certainly have been fixed. We are adopting.”

Cindie and I are adopting two teenage girls from the Ukraine. The process will take from six to nine months, maybe up to a year. The girls are living in an orphanage now, known as orphanage number four and their future prospects, unless they are adopted, are bleak.

The idea of adopting has always been something Cindie and I have considered. A young woman came to our church from the Ukraine and gave a brief presentation on the plight of the children she works with in the orphanage. Our church has a connection to the Ukraine through a sister church there.

Cindie and I were both convinced in our hearts while listening to that presentation that this was the right time and place to take action. It wasn’t until later, when I told Cindie of my feelings, that we discovered we reacted independently with equally strong conviction. It was a confirmation to us that we were on the right path.

We now consider ourselves expecting. There are many uncertainties, lots of obstacles and a fair amount of work to do, but one thing we have always known, parenting isn’t for the fainthearted. We are more than ready for the task. We're not finished being parents. We consider it the most important job in the world.

There is a lot more to say, we’ll keep you posted.

A Deadly Addiction

I’m studying today, so time for factoids.

In America 490,000 people die from nicotine addiction every year.

Nicotine kills more Americans every year than AIDS, alcohol, cocaine, heroin, homicides, suicides, car accidents and fires combined.

Almost half of America’s 44 million adult smokers will die prematurely of tobacco-related illness if they don’t stop.

I’ve already pointed out that among addictive substances, nicotine is the most addictive.

Good news! There is an exciting new treatment to help people addicted to deadly nicotine. It’s known as Chantix. It’s a molecule designed to fit the same receptor in the brain that nicotine fits. By partially stimulating the nicotine receptor, Chantix seems to prevent craving for nicotine and the weight gain often seen after quitting tobacco. These problems frequently thwart smokers attempting to quit. Quitting success with Chantix is reported to be around 70%, unheard of with any other treatments. My experience with my own patients so far has been even better than 70%. This is very good news.

Addictions are about brain chemistry. Looking at what happens in the brain will lead to discoveries that will give us better treatments for the whole spectrum of addictive disorders.

Nicotine, it’s dangerous, deadly and highly addictive, yet it’s readily available in any grocery store. I think there are too many people dying, something should change. I think nicotine should be as hard to get as cocaine and heroin are, it's just as dangerous.

Just something for our old thinkers to munch on. Ta ta.

Sunday, July One

Here’s a potpourri of visual images, a phantasmagoria on a tiny scale.

Is she outgrowing her spot? Or does she fit just right?

She’s still our resident "Wild Woman.” She wants to get a chicken really bad. She can't wait until we turn our back and take our eyes off of them. Like she thinks we won't notice that one of them is missing, or that feathers are hanging out of her mouth. See previous post regarding my thoughts on stupidity and animals.

My other “Wild Woman.” Watch out, boy, ‘cause, here she comes.

Here I am with my son and his new wife. The kids recently embarked on a new life in Los Angeles, law school and film school.

It’s us, still crazy, after all these years. Wouldn't have it any other way. Hey babe, you’re still the one, oh yeah.

Happy July.

Interfering With Natural Selection

We live on a small acreage called, with pregnant meaning, “Green Acres.” We named it after the classic television sitcom of the same name that stared Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor. That 1965 show featured two well-heeled city-folk that were perpetually getting tangled up in rocky and frequently hilarious predicaments arising from their move into a country life existence from fancy penthouse living.

It was like life imitating art for us, since we made the conversion from growing up in urban Los Angeles California to living on a farm in rural Iowa. The transition has been interesting and challenging, but always laced with humor. It has been our animals; our endlessly entertaining domesticated creatures that have been the source of some of our funniest moments and best experiences.

If it had been left up to Cindie and me, we most likely would have had just a few chickens, some farm cats, maybe a dog, because we’re really just plant-garden type of people. We plant trees, berries, flowers, vegetables, do landscaping and all that kind of stuff. It was while growing up that my daughter, albeit with some encouragement from my wife, and despite some discouragement from me, immersed us all into the animal thing, big time. We accumulated a curiously diverse and eclectic menagerie of critters. My daughter graduates from vet school next year, it all led to something.

There is never a dull moment at Green Acres. The animals are mostly responsible for that, what would we do without them? They have taught me many things. For example, a common characteristic of domesticated animals is stupidity. And not just ordinary stupidity either, but profound stupidity. I have witnessed our animals get into some absolutely incomparable dilemmas as the result of this singularly abundant stupidity, their survival completely dependant on us devising timely and often ingenious methods of rescue. Truly, without their human owners, domestic animals would soon cease to exist. Survival of the fittest? How about death to the dumbest?

I have this ongoing contest running in my mind as to which of our hapless creatures is the most stupid. I think of it as the “Dumber than a Doorknob” prize. Each time I think that I have found the ultimate of the most stupid of the stupid creatures, another animal does something that impresses me with how awesomely dumb they are. So the award has ended up being kind of a traveling award, moving around from animal to animal, resting at the moment with the current Grand Champion of Stupidity, waiting for any challengers to wrest it away if they are up to it.

My current favorite is the goat that we had grazing in our two-acre pasture. It was a pasture full of tall green fresh succulent grass. The goat spent an entire day once with her head stuck in the fence after she pushed her it through a twisted convoluted tiny opening in order to reach a tiny little weed patch on the other side. Only she couldn’t pull her head back through the convoluted opening, so she stood there all day long, bleating away helplessly, I assume hoping someone would come along and get her out, as opposed to a wolf coming along and eating her.

When I came home from work, there she was, head stuck through fence, bleating away. It was kind of pathetic.

“Blah! Blah! Blah! I’m stuck! Help me! I’ve been standing here all day! Blah! Blah! I’m so helpless! Blah! Blah!”

It was getting dark and I had to get the electric grinder out to cut a hole in the fence to finally get her loose, she was really stuck.

That wasn’t the worst of it. The next day I came home from work and you guessed it, the same goat was stuck in the fence again. That must be one stupid goat or some great tasting weed. I had to totally redo the fence. I had to stupid-proof it. I have learned that much of what farmers do with their animals is stupid-proofing.

My current favorite challenger has to be the young male peacock. He hasn’t grown his tail feathers yet but that hasn’t stopped him from trying to fan his little stump of a tail as if he did have an impressive array of brilliant peacock plumes. He stamps around doing the mating moves, but without the proper equipment, he isn’t capturing the eye of any of the local female peahens. Unfortunately, the guy must be raging with hormones because he seems desperate. He is going around the yard doing his featherless stumpy-tail peacock mating-ritual display for just about every bird around except for an actual peahen. He’s going after the chickens, they are not impressed, and the Guineas, they ignore him. I’ll have to watch out for the ducks.

However, the newest prizewinner is Mrs. Goose, seen stuck at the bottom of the burn pit in the photo above. I was out with the dogs the other evening when Penny kept hanging out around the burn hole. I went over to investigate and found our goose, standing alone at the bottom of the hole, stately, calm, indignant even, stuck. The pit is ten feet deep with sheer sides and our domestic geese cannot fly. This goose was stuck. I had no idea how she fell in or how long she had been down there, but judging by her condition, I don’t think it was for very long. She probably fell in that very same day.

She needed a rescue. It was a common scenario. There is an ironic thing about this. These unfortunate animals need to be saved. I am their savior, their rescuer. They are too stupid to know that, so when I come to save them, they are afraid of me and try to fight against me, sometimes hurting themselves in the process. That has always been a lesson to me. I am not always able to judge what things in my life are the things that are truly the best for me. I look back on my life and see that the most beneficial things, the times I learned the most, the times that I grew the most, the most meaningful things in life, often at the time seemed painful and harsh and I would have avoided them if I could have. Like these animals, they fight against and fear the very thing that they need for their salvation. I am like that too.

I put the dogs away, get a ladder and let it down into the hole. I ease my weight onto the ladder and feel it sink into the soft mud at the bottom. It is an unsettling feeling. I test the security of the ladder to make sure it isn’t going to tip over. Satisfied, I climb the rest of the way down to the floor of the pit.

There we are, face-to-face, the goose and me, eying each other. She makes clucking sounds. Are they sounds of fear? Are they threats? “I’m here to help you,” I say. Yea right, falling on deaf ears.

“You’re here to eat me, do you think I’m stupid! Honk! Honk!”

I lunge, she scrambles, feathers fly, I miss.

She laughs, “Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Honk! Honk! Honk!”

I regroup, lunge again, now I have a surprisingly scrawny neck in my grip, I scoop her up. There is no more laughing. I fold up her flapping wings and hold her in both of my hands. She is terrified, I am triumphant, I have rescued her!

She is too heavy for me to carry up the ladder. I have to hold her with both hands and the ladder is too unsteady in the soft mud to not use at least one hand to hold onto the ladder. So I think I shall toss her out of the hole. A good plan I think, since she is a bird. I’m just not considering the full extent of her stupidity.

I toss her out of the hole. It is a very good toss. She sails out over the side and disappears out of sight, finally reunited with her buddies, or so I think.

I turn to make my exit up the ladder when I hear a squawk and look up just in time to see Mrs. Stupid Goose run full speed right over the edge of the pit, spreading her wings to half soar, half tumble, plummeting back down into the pit, crashing right on top of me. I slowly turn, now on my hands and knees, to regard this fine specimen of dumb bird, who stares back at me from the other side of the pit.

There we are, again, face-to-face, the goose and me, eying each other. She makes clucking sounds.

I can’t stand it, I start busting up, it’s just too much, “You stupid Goose! You stupid, stupid Goose!” We go through our catch the goose dance again, and then I do my toss the goose out of the hole thing again. I prepare myself for the goose to crash onto my head, but instead, I hear frantic goose squawking fading off into the distance, as she has apparently chosen to ramble off into a different direction this time after the tossing part.

Like I said, there’s never a dull moment at Green Acres. Today I am putting a fence up around the burn hole, stupid-proofing it. Our animals depend on us to survive. We depend on them for laughs. They never disappoint.

Tommy’s Heavenly Burgers

I am seriously taken in by what I think is the best burger ever created, the Original Tommy’s World Famous Hamburger. It is a gastronomic assault of the utmost magnitude, pilled thick with melted cheese, grilled meat patties and oozing sticky gut-wrenching mouth-watering messy drippy chili sauce which is the secret ingredient of this perfect concoction of hedonistic hamburger craving enchantment. Unfortunately, this savory delectable can only be purchased in Los Angeles California and I live in Iowa. I crave Tommy Burgers and I can’t have them, sob.

Consequently, every time I travel to Los Angeles, whatever the reason, however long or short the visit, my taste buds and my stomach drag me invariably, involuntarily, hypnotically even, to that magic place on the corner of Rampart and Beverly in the heart of Los Angeles, where I can again experience that blissful intoxicating epicurean pleasure. Usually I stuff myself as fast as I can with two of the biggest burgers they make, double chili cheeseburgers, being overpowered by the heady aroma and the long period of forced abstinence. I can hardly move afterwards from stomach bloat and fear that I will get instant heartburn followed by a perforated ulcer. But I comfort myself that I will die utterly and completely satisfied, sated, full and happy; I’ve finally had my Tommy Burger.

My trip to Los Angeles last week was no exception. In fact, I ate Tommy’s no less than four times! Yeah! The first was when I first arrived. We pulled our U-Haul up to my sister-in-laws place where my son has been staying. He was waiting for us to get there. Guess what? He has a father’s day surprise for me in the refrigerator, hah! A Tommy’s Burger! What a son. He knows. I taught him well. He lives in LA now, he can have a Tommy Burger any time he wants one, lucky bastard.

Then, when I get to Tommy’s to finally inhale, gulp, chow down a fresh one, the real deal, what I have been waiting for, something has changed. They have something different. They have a triple-decker chili cheeseburger. And they have a special deal with chili cheese fries and a big 20 oz pop. Man, I had the whole deal. And I had it again later too. Progress is wonderful sometimes.

Now I’m back home and things are back to normal. Life without Tommy Burgers. Life that is black and white rather than in color. But at least I know that somewhere out there, there is a place that makes a hamburger that quite literally is a piece of heaven on earth. I’m entirely sure that when God gets a chance he sneaks down and grabs a Tommy Burger when he can. So, as the Terminator is known to have said, I too say, “I’ll be back.” Every chance I get.

Kansas Turnpike Flat

There was a sound like a “clunk.” It seemed to come from beneath the truck. It was hardly noticeable and seemed innocuous, I might have just overlooked it, but Alexa, my travel companion, spoke up, “What was that?” I turned my attention toward the side mirrors. The sound was consistent with the possibility that we might have run over something on the road, but I saw no errant objects skittering away from beneath the tires. I paused, though, waiting, no other funny “clunking” occurred. It seemed to be an isolated event. “I don’t know what it was,” I said, “It was like we ran over something on the road, but I didn’t see anything.” I keep looking in the mirrors, but still nothing seems amiss.

Looking in the mirrors, I can clearly see the fenders of the trailer we are towing. Alexa’s Pontiac Grand Am is lashed to the trailer and we are towing it from the back of a ten foot U-Haul truck packed with all of her worldly possessions. Clearly visible, in reverse letters, to make sure I can read them in my mirror, is a sign on the trailer’s fender saying “Speed Limit 45 MPH.” I think to myself, “That’s a laugh. Over two thousand miles at 45 MPH, we would be ready for the loony bin. There is no way. I’ll keep it down to 75 MPH, maybe.” Nevertheless, I had to stare at that 45 MPH sign looking back at me for the entire trip, mocking me.

I start to feel a shaking sensation, ever so subtle. “I think it’s shaking.” Alexa says, “I don’t feel anything.” She may be right; we have already traveled on some mighty bumpy roads. The shaking I’m noticing, if indeed it isn’t just my imagination, is likely just the crappy road, but I think it gets worse. “No, it’s really shaking. Look out the window, can you see anything?” Alexa tries to look at the tires on her side. “They look alright. It’s hard to tell though, they’re spinning around so fast.”

Maybe it is a rough road after all, but I’m thinking it might be a good idea to find a place, pull off, inspect everything and have a good look around. A person can’t be too careful. I’m hunting for what might be available. Currently we are traveling on the Kansas Turnpike. On our trip from Iowa to California, this is the only stretch of Interstate that is a Toll Road. As a Toll Road, it has limited access. Really limited access. Like long, long stretches with no ons or offs. There is nothing anywhere coming up where we can safely pull off, just a narrow strip of shoulder, for miles and miles.

I try to decide what to do when the subtle shaking turns into downright violent jerking. I say, “OK, now something is definitely wrong.” Alexa, peering intently out of the right-side window, says, “The back tire is definitely flat.” “Alright,” I say, “We’re pulling off.” I pull over onto the shoulder, just inches out of reach of high-speed vehicles hurtling their massive bulks of steel past us down the Kansas Turnpike. We get out to survey the damage. Sure enough, the back right tire is, without question, flat as a pancake. Bummer.

We call the 1-800 number that the U-Haul people give you to call for roadside assistance, the number that you keep with you but that you hope that you never have to use. I’m listening to a one-sided conversation as Alexa is talking to someone whose map on the computer is not working very well and who apparently can’t figure out were Kansas is, or where the Kansas Turnpike is, or were the town that we just passed through is, or where anything else of relevant value is. Finally, they get things worked out, thanks in no small part to Alexa’s seemingly limitless supply of patience and they arrange to have a guy come out to fix the offensive tire in 45 minutes. All we have to do is sit tight. Hey now, OK.

We cross to the other side of the ditch to a fence bordering the adjacent wheat field, a prudent safe distance away from the dangerous traffic, and wait for the tire repair guy to show up. I’m figuring 45 minutes most likely translates in the real world to three hours, if we’re lucky.

How appropriate for Kansas, to be stuck next to a wheat field. I suppose if we had been stuck in Nebraska or Iowa we would be waiting next to a cornfield. We didn’t know it at the time, but Alexa and I were standing in grass infested with chiggers, those nasty microscopic bugs that bite you and leave itchy little red bumps all over. We were scratching and itching at chigger bites for more than a week afterwards.

While we are waiting, we notice that Alexa’s car on the back of the trailer is filled up with boxes. There are signs posted on the trailer that clearly state that cars transported on the rented trailers are not to be used to pack items for transport. We wonder, since a guy from U-Haul is coming to fix the tire, will we get in trouble if he catches us moving the car with stuff packed inside. So we think, maybe we should unpack the boxes out of the car before he gets here.

We might have too, if there was anywhere that we could have put them. But there simply wasn’t, except to just stack them on the side of the road, and that might have been hard to explain. So we decide to just take our lumps, come what may. I figured, come on, everyone packs stuff in their vehicles when they transport them on trailers, just like everybody travels faster than 45 MPH with the stupid trailer when they drive on the highway. I briefly wonder if maybe I got the flat tire because I broke the rules. Then I think, naaah, that’s ridiculous.

The guy gets there exactly when they said he would, in forty-five minutes, he puts a new tire on the truck and we are as good as new. He hardly says two words to us the whole time he’s there. I guess tire-changing guys don’t really need to be people persons. We certainly didn’t need to worry about having the boxes packed in the car; the guy could care less. We’re fixed up and back on the road in a snap, from the time of the “clunk” to back on the road, ninety minutes total, not bad I’m thinking. We miss our stop for lunch in Wichita, oh well, and get a bad case of the chiggers for our trouble, scratch, scratch, phooey.

I drop off the truck in Los Angeles and the guy at the U-Haul place asks if I had any problems with the truck. I started to say no when I remembered the flat tire. “We had a flat tire on the Kansas Turnpike, but we called the 1-800 number and they had a guy come out and he fixed it.” He says, “OK, anything else?” I say no, he signs my slip and that was that.

Monday Monday, So Good to Me

Going into the office after being gone for one week is usually hectic and busy. My “in” box is pilled high with the things that had to wait until I got back. The things that no one else knew how to handle or that no one else wanted to handle.

The schedule is packed with the regular full Monday routine, then overstuffed with the things from last week that no one else knew how to handle or wanted to handle. The nurses will have saved questions, phone calls, refills and messages, all in addition to the regular busy Monday.

To top it off, I found out my partner has an OB patient going into labor and there is a very good chance that she will leave the office and rush off to the hospital to do a delivery. That would leave me to pick up the slack with the patients she leaves behind. The makings of a long day.

Tonight is part two of a Star Trek episode I watched last Monday. TiVo will record it and I look forward to relaxing at the end of the day and seeing the conclusion. Mindless escapism Sci-Fi works for me. I sleep like a baby.

Time for an addiction factoid. Out of all the drugs people become addicted to, legal and illegal, what is the most addictive drug? Based on the highest percentage of users that end up meeting the diagnostic criteria for dependence, the most addictive drug is nicotine. Ironically, the most highly addictive drug is widely available and legal to purchase. The consequences of long-term use include many chronic debilitating illnesses and death. And to my mind, the most horrible fact of all, nearly all people addicted to it began using it when they are children.

I think we should think about making such a highly addictive and dangerous substance less available to our vulnerable children. Raising taxes on tobacco is a move in the right direction. Understanding the risks involved is important too.

The picture today has nothing whatsoever to do with my post. Sometimes my pictures don’t. I pick one out usually anyway. I like pictures and I really can’t just put up a text only post, much too boring. This is a picture of my darling and beautiful five-year old niece Ashlee. She lives in Colorado and this picture was taken at my son’s wedding this past December.

Southern Charm, Beverage Style

With a melodic drawn-out southern drawl, the decidedly polite café waitress inquired as to what my choice of beverage might be. Well, she didn’t say it that way. She asked me what I wanted to drink.

My daughter-in-law and I were driving from Iowa to California with all of her worldly possessions loaded in a U-Haul truck, her red Trans-Am in tow behind on a trailer. We were trading off driving duties on the way to racking-up over 2,000 miles of westward migration. She starts law school next week in Los Angeles. It was in Oklahoma when we stopped for dinner that I received the twangy-accented beverage question.

As usual, I asked for a Coke. As usual, I expected to get either a Coke, or a “we have Pepsi, would a Pepsi be alright?” to which, as usual I would reply, “Yes, a Pepsi would be fine.” I could have asked for a Pepsi. Then typically I would either get a Pepsi, or a “we have Coke, would a Coke be alright?” to which, typically I would reply, “Yes, a Coke would be fine.” I have been known to ask for “a cola-flavored beverage” but usually that just confuses people, so I don’t bother.

But that evening I asked the waitress for a Coke. And in her polite, drawly, twangy voice, she says, “I’m sorry, we just have RC.” And she says it, you know, southern-like. Which means - long - like, “aaaa-RRRR-rrrr -- CCCC-eeee.” I’m thinking “RC !!!” I break out into a wide grin and tell her, “I’ll definitely have an RC.” I tell Alexa, "I haven’t had an RC Cola since I was a little kid! I love RC!" Royal Crown Cola, I didn’t even know that they made it anymore, let alone that they served it anywhere on fountain tap.

Then Alexa had a negotiation with the polite southern waitress and ends up ordering a Dr. Pepper. Dr. Pepper! It turns out Dr. P is big in the south. We have an RC Cola and a Dr. Pepper. You have to imagine rolling these things off the tongue with a slow musical southern drawly accent. Priceless. What fun. I always love traveling in the south.

I wonder how far I have to travel before I find another place where I can get an RC. My quest begins. I think from now on when I order a pop I’m going to ask for an RC, then settle for a Coke or a Pepsi if that is all they have. Yea, that’s what I’m going to do. Cool.