How Does It Feel?

Other than a slight Northeast slant, and a few temporary nights of sleep on the floor? It feels pretty good. Things learned while packing? Start earlier and pack it yourself. This way when you forget to pack an integral part of your bed set up then you only have yourself to blame. When your mom forgets to pack it you become equally as frustrated, but you can't take it out on her because she was actually helping you...and it's your mom after all. Travel tips picked up while driving into the city? The Holland Tunnel does not allow trucks of any size to travel through to Manhattan. Take the Lincoln Tunnel, but don't expect the security personnel at the Holland tunnel to be accurate or at all helpful in their redirecting you to the Lincoln Tunnel. Also, you may or may not wind up at Giants Stadium. Lesson learned while unloading? Don't attach yourself to simple material things such as your brand new couch that you we're planning on using as your main, read only, source of lounging. Be prepared to sacrifice it to the streets. People in New York will pick up anything. Also, don't underestimate the strength of your 5'2" mover who weighs in at 110 lbs.

I'm only one weekend in, and I feel that I certainly have a ways to go before the city accepts me as a resident. I already have blisters on my feet from all of the walking. Those will hopefully disappear soon and be replaced by killer legs and glutes.

Movin' On Up?

"New York I love you, but you're freaking me out." - LCD Soundsystem

It's official. I put in notice at work, condo goes on the market Monday, and I have posted all worldly possessions including my car on Craigslist. For what? 450 LESS square feet, 2 times more in rent, no job prospects, and money down on some summer classes in the Financial hub of the world during an economic crisis.

Count down to move date: 5 weeks
Level of preparedness (1 to 10 scale, 1 being least prepared): 2

Can you call it a quarter-life crisis when you're nearing 30?

Talladega Knights

Sunday afternoon, driving back from an estrogen-filled weekened celebrating the last days of singledom for a friend, I was feeling the need for a reprieve and a little bit of male companionship. Given my recent winning streak in Atlanta, it should come as no surprise that the newest fly to swarm over my trap also happens to reside in the home of the Braves. After a week of some hard-core texting and emailing, it was time to come face-to-face, so we spontaneously'ish decided to meet in the middle for an all-out, redneck afternoon excursion. I had never been to the Talladega Superspeedway so this seemed like the obvious destination...and honestly we weren't given much choice given the dearth of attractions between Birmingham and Altanta. But I'm not complain', just sayin'.

Start your engines and meet at Exit 168 in T minus 1 hour. Please note, if you have to wait on your date, no gas station on Exit 168 has an ICEE machine, but the Shell Station's Race City has just about every memento related to NASCAR imagineable. We'll call my date Bobby because that seems to be the most fitting name for the setting. Bobby pulled up, I hopped in his ride and we made our way to the tracks. Just as excitement had peaked we pulled up only to find out that the last tour ended at 4:00pm. By our watches it was 4:45, and well by Bobby's it was 5:45 given that he was on Eastern time and all. Just before we resorted to pounding the steering wheel in anger a white pick-up truck appeared beside us (read Knight on a White Horse)...Dega Security. Bobby explains our devotion as fans and our devastation, so Ed (security) first confirms that we have our camera ready, and second commands, "follow me." Doors were opening. We made our way around the chain-linked fence, past the security gates, down through the tunnel and up to the most glorious vision that is...the Talladega Superspeedway. We drove past the garages, down the track and toward's the victory stage. Ed asked if we wanted our picture taken - duh - but mentioned that we couldn't reproduce any images. Then I asked him about reproducing in general... In an effort to honor his wishes, no pictures will be posted. Okay, maybe just this one:











Ed then asked if we wanted to go to the Finish Line...uh yeah. Pictures were taken at the finish line and as Ed put it, "Talladega looks perfect in the background." We thanked him profusely for his generosity and good deed, and in closing he said "Hey. I understand." I have to admit, I didn't understand at first, but now I totally get it. Ed loves his job. Ed loves that other people envy his job. Ed is, as Bobby likes to say, pretty awesome. We got back in the car and took our vicotry lap - said our own good byes to Ed and to the track, and made our way into town (downtown Dega, that is). Destination? Davey Allison Memorial Park.


Davey Allison Memorial Park is a beautiful patch of grass and trees with a circular walk of bronze reliefs of all of the major NASCAR players, and a brick path in the middle which contains bricks purchased by die-hard fans, chiseled with warm messages to their eternal heroes. A few favorites include:

While at the park we met the local lawnmower repairman who guided us to the best place to get a cold one. He recommended two Mexican restaurants: "Maragaritas is the cleanest. And there's one on the square, but I can't pronounce the name." We went to the one with the hard-to-pronounce name on the square. Please note, when making a small-town excursion on a Sunday, pack a cooler. No alcohol is served on Sundays. Since we didn't really want Mexican without a margarita we opted to end this red-neck rendezvous in style with fine dining at the Cracker Barrel, after browsing through the Country Store first...obvi. An order of chicken and dumplings, and one meatloaf dinner later, we rocked out in the famous CB rockers discussing our favorite part of the day. Bobby and I both agreed that if it weren't for Ed, none of this would have happened. We eventually parted ways, but not before we did some neckin' with my other Talladega Knight in the parking lot...Is there any other way to end it?

Stang Operation

I recently rented a car to drive from Nashville to Birmingham. Little did I know that when selecting a “Midsize” vehicle (read: cheaper) on my reservation form, that I would actually be stepping into the biggest ride of my life. The perfect early-fall weather had arrived which already made me excited for the road trip, but when the Hertz Representative asked “will a Mustang be alright,” I grinned from ear to ear and told her that I wouldn’t accept any less. And then when she told me it only had 54 miles on it, I suddenly had a flashback to Ferris Bueller - “You guys got nothing to worry about, I’m a professional.”

Once our transaction was complete she pointed me in the direction of Parking Space No. 12. Behold, the bright cherry red brilliance, and its seamless tan cloth interior that cleverly and continuously reads “Mustang” on each seat - just invisible enough so that one might think it a design, but in a way that only a true believer could see the scripture. This car needed no introduction, but just in case you’ve been couped up in a mini van your whole life, the geniuses at Ford had “Mustang” lettered on each side of the exterior. Coincidence that the words Respect and Mustang have the same number of letters? You do the math.

Once I got on the highway I had an out-of-body experience, the ‘Stang was in control. For the first few minutes leaving Nashville, the Mustang had to listen to the rest of the Colts v. Titans game. As you can imagine, the Mustang celebrated the Colts’ victory, kicked the speed up about 10 mph, and turned its radio dial to any station playing Lynard Skynard, Aerosmith or hard-core country. And soon my 3 hour trip, was taking much longer than expected. Who knew the ‘Stang would have so many important stops to make:

Everyone eating the Mustang’s dust.

Will you ‘mare’y me?

An empty bottle of dark liquor on the floorboard is a staple accessory in any Mustang. But Mustang’s don’t drink and drive – alone.

A Mustang in its natural habitat. Can you really take a man out of the Mustang?

The Mustang always pays homage to man-made marvels, fabricated out of steel, built to overcompensate shortcomings, and equipped with inter-galactic horsepower.

The Mustang breaks for DQ dip cones and an Alabama Terd Bird at Stuckey’s…obviously.

The Mustang only stops to refuel because the oil industry forces it to. But then again, this is America. Coincidence that the words America and Mustang have the same number of letters? You do the math.

Cruel Joke

Picture this: Three girls stuck in Labor Day traffic traveling from The Gulf back to Birmingham. Car moving at an average of 30 mile per hour in a 70 mile per hour speed limit. The inevitable happens - - all three of us made of the mistake of renting one too many diet cokes and now had to turn them in. We finally arrive to Greenville where every filling station was equally as packed as the Interstate. We find ourselves about 10 ladies deep in the bathroom line (of course, that's 10 persons more than the men's line). We're standing there, and all you can hear is a steady stream. It sounded like the world's longest urination...and it only made me have to go to the bathroom worse. And as it kept going, I kept thinking how unusual until I saw that some Jack-Ass had decided to spruce up the bathroom line by placing a FOUNTAIN in the hall by the restrooms. Are you joking? Either the manager of the Shell in Greenville is either incredibly clever, or devastatingly dumb.