* Roommates of pals who don’t even know you feel sorry for your pitifullness and invite you for a long weekend in another state.

* Your parental unit who likes to keep you all to herself is telling you to get out and meet people.

* Nine or ten hours at the job site seem like a refuge.

* Leaving to bust your balls setting up a new store is like an oasis in the desert.

* You can’t see the forest because you just don’t give a shit about the trees.

* You start believing that the ass-shaped dent in your sofa is uber-chic.

* Your fingernails are the only real nutrition you’ve had in days.

* You depress the Hell outta folks with your woe is me blog entries.

You gotta get up. You gotta. Ok. But only ‘cuz I hafta go to the bathroom. Even dents need time to breathe.

 So yeah. I’m goin’ again. Like me and my sis down the slide at our pool in Hawaii. Or the mummy ride at Universal. Gotta keep going…it’s exhilerating! Even when our bikini tops fly off. Can’t get enough of that.

 Expensive? Hmmm…let’s examine this. Our American economy sucks royal Canuckian ass. Canadian dollar is worth more than ours. Raise=stunk. Bonus=double stunk. Savings=…Savings…Um…Savings? Yeah, uh. Nada. Care factor with regard to these responsible financial decisions?= Zero. (I throw pennies on the ground, too. Oh my!)

 Get it? Got it? Goody. Because it ain’t about the moolah. It ain’t about the dough. It ain’t about the fact that I hadta to sink so low. I had to actually “request” the time off from…yeah. You know who. The woman who shant be named. But that my dears, is par for corporate American rule.

 Too bad. I’m outta here. Nuttin’ gonna stop me. I’m goin’. I’m clopping, I’m cooking, I’m relaxing and forgetting. I’m not gonna hear or see or smell or taste or feel my means of gettin’ there, for two whole weeks. I’m gonna indulge in the silence and be away from the violence, for two whole weeks. I’m gonna play soccer and chef and cool and fool and Saint Aphrodite and Dee almighty, for two whole weeks. Two whole, organic-grass- fed-composting-granola-sniffing-firewood-lifting weeks, kids!

 And when I return, I’ll be refreshed and rejuvenated and returned to my self. I’ll be all that because I was all there. She knows. She knows me. We know we. Really.

 I got me some Karma Yoga-coins, y’all. And I’m spendin’ them with her, not at the mall. I’ll leave that for those who care ’bout those things. It just isn’t me-it just isn’t Dee. I go in through the back and exit the same, it’s been the same route for this 15 year game.

 I’m goin’ back to Utopia, ticket in hand. My heart is my vessel, I’ll leave it unmanned.

 If I’da only had that when I was younger.

 So I went for my first eye exam today. I was definitely apprehensive and tried to conjour up a decent excuse with which to cancel. Like I did the last time. But no, off I went, dilation inevitable, carrying the encouragement of those close to me on my back. (Lu, Yadge and Dork-o, thanks)

 Geez, you’d think I was undergoing some major surgery, eh? I’m a wuss. Simply put. Especially when it comes to my eyes.

 The Doctor QT asks me a series of questions. Some, I thought, rather irrelevant. “I see here that you’re…uh…adopted. That’s ok, no problem.” I think he was more uncomfortable with saying it like that than I have EVER been for being it, despite the fact that having NO family history truly does complicate things like this at times… …Are brown eyes dominant? Or blue eyes? What color does my mother have, I wonder…”Wake up, Theresa! Do you have any hobbies?” Um…sure. You want me to name ’em? “Do you participate in any outdoor activities?” “Does walkin’ up the block to the market for smokes count?” Eliciting a laugh was worth the 10 dollar co-pay.

 When it came time for Dr. QT to put the drops in? Comical. Legs ready to bolt, arms up in defensive mode. I HATE that shit. My dentist, (a funny guy in his own right-Dr. Beaver, no joke) and this guy can surely chuckle together over a glass of chardonnay about the 41 year old dumb ass woman who acts like a child when it comes time to, “lean back and relax.” These guys definitely earn their pay. I don’t do well in offensive postures. Perhaps I have been enslaved and apprehended and subdued through force in numerous lifetimes? Perhaps.

 Anyway, it was like an eyeball obstacle course. Sit in the Darth Vader chair, get drops. Chin in-forehead against. Lights, cameras, action. Move on to round two. More drops. Dilation. Get put in a room for ten minutes for the drops to take affect. I’m thinking this ain’t so bad until I hafta walk to room three. I can’t even read the signs on the wall! Chin on-forehead again. Measuring my eyeballs. I tell her that I’m pretty sure they’re round. “Not necessarily,” says she…

 Then on to the refractor? machine. Look at the pretty balloon in the middle. Then some freakish red carnival-esque spiral lights. Girl- Doc says I’m a trooper. I bow my chest out a bit. Just a bit. Don’t wanna seem too proud, I hardly KNOW these people.

 Back to room one to Dr. QT. Blue light, bright light. Damn, the light sucks. Read this line. Well…e f r s g? no, maybe o.

  I ask him my numbers first off. He laughs. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “Your vision is 20/25” (Crap! I knew I shoulda studied harder!). “We’re not going to fix what isn’t broken. But next year you might find that a prescription will assist with reading the fine print.”

 But, Doc! Aren’t I doing pretty good for a 41 year old? He says, “You’re about where we’d expect you to be.” AVERAGE? WTF? I loathe that word or implication.

 I ask about my floatie things. He says they’re normal. My eyes are great. Blood vessels are perfect, size and shape good. He asks if I ever have dry eyes. I laugh. I say, “Doc, when that happens, I simply watch a Publix commercial.” Big pause. Excruciating silence. Then he gets it. “Yeah, I like the Valentine one with the little boy,” he tells me. “I don’t see any dry areas or redness in your eyes, keep up with the Publix commercials.” If he only knew that soooo many things keep my eyes lubricated these days…

  I ask about one of the issues…my light sensitivity.  Shouldn’t I be LESS sensitive to light since I have brown eyes?

 “Yes, you are. But only in the front of your eyes. The pigmentation in the back of your eyes is less.” “You can see that?”, I ask. He says, “Yup.” He says to think of it as being “blonde” in the back and “brunette” in the front. I smile. Right on, dude. Love me some blondes, yo. {Big sly grin}

  I get these cool Darth Vader glasses to-go and I’m on my way. ” See y’all in a year, ” I say. ” Bye Theresa, ” they say. God, I gotta fix that whole name thing…

 I can’t see shit, my eyes look like those you’d see on an episode of COPS.

  Lu says, ” Just stay in your apartment, Deedle.” I say…you don’t ever need to give me THAT 20/25 advice twice!

 Peace out, y’all. SEE you later.

…So there was no final table. Paula was pissed. Angry that the Viking mixer signed by all the Food Network folks auctioned off for less than 3 grand. Bummer, girl. My sister salted away our chips with the determination of a lion to get to that “final table.” Uh-oh. No final table was to be had. Paula, Deer, was pissy. So she opted for the fine print on our tickets that read, “Talent subject to change without fucking notice, bitches!” CRAP! I just fuckin’ sat thru four g-damned hours of poker and shitty food for this?
Screw Paula. AND her whitening strips. At least her husband shook my hand and recognized our joined boredom.

Fast forward to the brunch honoring Jamie Oliver. It was happening at the Loew’s Hotel. I ran into Emeril. No really. I RAN into Emeril. I was out for a smoke when Ffej texted me that the show was starting. I dashed for the escalator when I smacked into a hefty dude. We simultaneously apologized. I never recognize folks on tv without their chef coats…bam THAT.
We had a blast, me and Ffej. Blast in the moments between here and there. We rode busses and drove my car and sped along the ocean blue, walked and stalked and mocked the natives. We tanned and swam and dreamed of netherlands. We read and ate and laid about. I like food. I like attending the the Wine and Food Fest. I missed Alton though. I loved my sister. I drank her up-all her glory. That’s what Miami Beach is for, right? Honoring the glorious? I love that Ffej had a reprieve. It makes 80 degree winters so hard to leave. Thanks for coming, sis. I love you the most.

I was gonna let Paula off the hook. Was. Not any more. It went down like this…

…Me and Ffej arrived early to the Paris Theater. We took the transit near our hotel. We smelled good. We showered and put on our clean and shiny duds. Hopped off the bus with 1.5 hours to spare. Strolling past the Paris I noticed two women-one smoking a smoke. I commented quietly to Ffej: “I can’t believe that woman is copying Paula Deen. I mean geez! Look at her hair!” Ffej looks. The Paula emulater smiles at her. Crap. I’m an idiot. It is Paula Deen. Smokin’. We are number two in line behind radical Deen fans. They’re frustrated because they feel another is about to budge in line. The gal with the walker begins to take the other to task. “You didn’t wait in line, miss! We’re not gonna allow you to butt in.”

Geez. People get fucked in the head when it comes to pseudo-celebs, eh?

Nevertheless, me and Ffej are second.

Let me explain two pertinent factoids.

1) I didn’t drink the happy juice, just here for the food.

2) I loathe and despise cards, poker, slots, gambling in general.

The jist of the evening is to acquire a seat at the “final table” with Ms. Deen on stage.

I am uncomfortable in crowds unless it involves dancing or jello wrestling-neither of which were on the night’s menu. But Ffej is a shark when it comes to card games.

So she commenced to park herself at one of two poker tables. She was kicking ass and taking chips. I was the food/drink getter for the night. Oh and crowd avoider, too.

I parked my rather large posterior on the stage. Nice. Quiet. Away. Nobody near me. Until…

The food network shmoozers arrive. I can see Ffej in front of me taking the smarty-ass boys to task. Then here comes Paula. She tells a dirty joke but flubs the ending. No one is really interested. Enter an older gent with a British accent near to where I’m parked. He whoops it up. He says; “Hey Paula!” She looks over and introduces Gordon Elliot as her savior. At this point people have taken notice. They bum-rush the stage. I’m frantically waving at Ffej to whip out her camera. She is oblivious to me and the goings-on above her head.

I see Paula and her “handler.” I see Bobby, Guy, Giada and Todd, Cat Cora and Katie Joel. They’re kissing each other’s cheeks and acting as though there’s no one else in the room.

My legs are dangling from the stage and I feel a man between them. I have no idea who it is until I hear Bobby Deen ask where Gina is. The man between my legs is Pat Neely and it’s making me uncomfortable. He returns the question by asking where Jamie is. By this point Bobby is crouched by my shoulder and is fully engaged in a conversation with the latest addition the Food Network family. I’m appalled, yet feel strangely lucky. I mean, there are all these women around vying for the right position to snap a photo. Asking me this question about who was that and who that was and so on. I revelled a bit in the moment. Until…

Mr. Neely goes off on his tear telling Bobby Deen how he told the head of Food network that he, “already had a fuckin’ Lexus and already had sent his fuckin’ daughter to college…” I was mesmerized. Only because I find it rude when total strangers think it’s ok to swear like that. I mean, I wouldn’t swear in front of total strangers, I wouldn’t dream of it. Get to know you though, and look out!

So there I am, sitting on the stage hearing a weird conversation between Pat Neely and Bobby Deen. I notice four things just then. 1) Bobby smells yummy. Whatever cologne he has on is working. 2) He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. 3) He does not use even one curse word. 4) He knocked me over accidentally at one point but instantly apologized by placing his hand on my shoulder and acting as though I was his sister.

I was impressed by him. Even though he’s a boy and I’m generally anti-boy.

But his Mum? Here’s where the wheel began to take leave of the cart…