Fabulous Food and Even Better Friends

How To Dine Like A Local Chicago - April 2009


Whenever I go to Chicago to visit one of the only people on this planet who "gets" me (thanks, Jen!), there's only one thing on our brains besides shopping - FOOD! Good food. Real food. I'm talkin' family-business, started-it-in-our-kitchen-in-the-'hood food. After too many bad meals at REALLY expensive restaurants, it's time to get back to the roots, the simplistic yet oh so fulfilling. You know what I mean. As Melissa put it, "It was as if abuelita was hugging you while you ate." Ah, NOW you know what I mean - made with love.

The above description applies to 3 family eateries we visited in a 24-hour period. Our first venture was 90 Miles Cuban Cafe, www.90milescubancafe.com, literally around the corner from Jen's place. What once stood as a greasy hot dog stand has morphed into a 500 square foot box filled with hungry patrons willing to stand shoulder to shoulder at the chance to savor the flavors of Cuba. Chef-owners Alberto and Christina Gonzalez have created not just another restaurant but an experience. The exterior boasts hand-painted murals of Cuban life while the inside walls are covered in pre-Castro newspaper articles. There are only about 12 seats in the whole joint, so you better grab your stool and spot at the counter before the next famished customer arrives. You're immediately greeted by Alberto and Christina, welcoming you to their cafe with warm smiles and a feeling of being home. Ask Alberto what you should order and he'll tell you, "One of everything." He will offer up samples of the dirty rice and maybe a maduro (fried sweet plantain) if you smile back and don’t act like an ass. Jen dined on the ropa vieja (shredded beef) while I took Alberto's suggestion and had the bistec (steak). Was it good? Wow. Wow! The flavors, the ingredients, though very simple, were properly blended and rich with Cuban authenticity. Oh! And don't forget the empanadas! I recommend the beef. 90 Miles is a BYOB establishment, so don't forget your bottle of wine or a couple of beers. I still don't understand the BYOB restaurant thing, but who am I to question the idea of bringing your own liquor? Silly me. So go to 90 Miles Café and go often. Tell them Sandy from California, the Adventure Trio writer, sent you their way.

Our next sensory adventure was during our trip down Pilsen 18, a section of Chicago that boasts the largest Mexican neighborhood in the Midwest. And they're not lying (whoever "they" are). When the taxi dropped Jen, Melissa and I off in front of the carnitas stand, I found myself in Mexico. My first hint? The calls from the Mexican males as they drove by. The second? The smell of homemade tortillas wafting through the air. Time to follow our noses. But wait! There are places to stop along the way! Another BYOB calls for a trip to the liquor store for some beer. Hey! There's a great store on our right, too. Oh, the local market. Gotta stop in there to check for those Nestle chocolate balls with the toys inside. They don't sell them in the states, but you gotta try. No chocolate balls (snicker), but I did score Jack a large pack of individually wrapped packs of gum, i.e. the gum all the little kids try to sell you when you visit Mexico. Ohhhh, that gum? Yes. Jen and Melissa each bought a package of freshly made tortillas. They were still warm…and they only cost 30 cents. Don’t EVEN get me started about the Mexican bakery…I gained 3 pounds just walking in the door.

Okay, kids, we've GOT to get to the restaurant, as Mama Bear is about to lose it. To Nuevo Leon we go. While we waited to be seated, I wondered how long we'd have to stand and be teased by the smells from the kitchen as we patiently waited our turn. YES! A party is leaving! And YES! We don’t mind be seated as their clearing the table. Immediately after we removed our jackets, scarves, gloves, etc.,(it was cold!), we were each presented with a small plate of beans covered with a warm, fresh tortilla. Why, thank you! Following this was a basket of hot, crunchy chips, 2 fresh salsas and a cup of hot carrot slices and whole jalapenos. Nice. None of us were shy about digging in – every woman for herself, dammit. I had my mind (stomach) set on carne asada till Melissa said she was ordering the tamales. Tamales. Fresh, hand-rolled, abuelita tamales. My stomach changed its mind immediately. Up to the table strode Juan. So cute! He spoke Spanish to Jen and Melissa while I did the stupid nod-and-smile thing that all us gringos do when we want to pretend we understand what is being said. Nice one, white chick! He gladly opened our beers and brought us slices of lime. LOVE Juan! Within about 5 minutes our food arrived, carried by a woman who was as tall standing up as I was sitting down. Awesome. The conversation hit a lull as we savored the love that was put into each tamale and taco. As I said, like abuelita was giving you a great, big hug.

Bellies full, we weeble-wobbled over to the National Museum of Mexican Art, nationalmuseumofmexicanart.org. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, I highly recommend this stop on the tour. And after all we ate at lunch, who would’ve thought we were up for one more culinary experience…

Our third foodie experience was in the Greek Town section of Chicago. We were picked up by Jen’s dad, Don, and her brother, Mike, also Melissa’s husband, outside of Melissa’s building. They were on their way to eat following the Bulls game. Would we like to invite ourselves to join them for a lovely Greek meal? Of course! I had to see Greek Town before I left Chicago. And boy, did I…

Remember “My Big, Fat Greek Wedding”? Yes you do! The buildings ARE painted in white and blue, the colors of the Greek flag. And yes, there are pillars and statues everywhere. Even the Walgreens sign was in Greek and English. Into The Parthenon we went, one of THEE Greek restaurants in the neighborhood. Dude, seriously, there was a whole lamb turning on a spit in the window! "You don't eat meat?!? That's okay, I'll make lamb." We were fortunate to get a table before the mad Greek rush happened. Fortunately, Mike and Melissa frequent this place, so Mike knew immediately what to order once we sat. First on our list, a flaming cheese called saganaki. Not joking. It’s lightly breaded and pan fried; then our waiter pours brandy over the top, lights the plate on fire and yells, “Opa!” Again, priceless. Another authentic culinary experience. Plates kept coming, wine kept pouring, and the conversation, as always, never lulled. Okay, it lulled once, but Mike was on it to start a new topic. How much do I LOVE getting together with this family? Once you’re “in”, you are part of the family…and it’s a wonderful feeling. More food, something pronounced “moosaka” ("moose ca-ca" in the movie) and another table of satisfied customers. And Don, thanks for picking up the tab.

I hated having to leave Don, Mike and Melissa, but our day was coming to an end and Jen and I were done. We had Mexican pastries to eat and vodka to drink. There were websites to be browsed and conversations to be continued. Speaking of continued, I’m going to have to continue my Chicago marathon-weekend tomorrow. I want to spend time as I can with my friend before I have to leave. She’s one of the only people in my life who lifts me up and makes me feel good about myself. And doesn’t that suck that for all of us, that there are maybe only 2-3 people you can count on to be there and REAL for you? Can we try and change that? Can we? Yes. But first, I figure to figure out why this fucking post isn't uploading...sorry, Don...

On the Plane (Literally!) to Chicago!
April 2, 2009

Yes, another adventure awaits at least one of the Adventure Trio. Okay, the other 2 will have their’s this weekend minus Mama Bear.

I am literally about 20,000 up as I write this. It’s a full, FULL flight (not next to the, “May I pull up the divider between us because I’m too fat to fit in one seat” person), but many 98.6’s none the less. Seeing how long the boarding line was, I knew enough to head to the bar, order a double shot of Jaeger and head back to A10 to wait my turn. Ahhhhh, much better. And can you believe this?!? There were WHITE PEOPLE heading the counters at every turn!!! I know, I KNOW! I haven’t seen a tighty whitey employed at ANY airport in years! What gives? I mean, I even had one of the employees at the security line GIVE ME A SMILE! Wow. Blown away. Time for another shot…later…

As I waited in the newly devised Southwest “hurry up and wait” line, I scanned the audience for bombers, babies and bad-breakups. Oh, laugh if you will, but if you’ve ever been on a plane with any of those 3 it could be a looooooonnnng 4 hours (or a very short one with the bomber). I spotted at least 4 babies and one breakup-bawler. Gotta keep those in my peripheral. After that shot, I gladly stood in line behind the Wisconsinites returning home from their San Francisco tour, dontcha know.

After stepping on the plane and making the turn down I aisle, I scanned (x-rayed) the aisles for the babies and the bawler (no bomber, unless I’m sorely mistaken and I’ll see you all in hell). Spotted them all then went down my mental checklist – obese people, icky men, people who are sneezing and gabbers. Check, check and ooh! A window seat! Fortunately, I believe myself to be surrounded (or next to) two men who don’t fit any of the above criteria. Whew. As the middle dude was moving around getting situated in his 2-foot wide box, I proudly said aloud, “Hey, any closer and you’re going to have to by me dinner.” I think I made him nervous as he couldn’t stop jiggling his leg after. Not to worry, though, he’s asleep now. Yea me. Boo, turbulence. Thank god for Dramamine. Not that I get air sick, I just don’t want to find out. And all the flight attendants are gay men (insert Lance here). It’s a happy day for a couple o’ lucky fellows on this flight.

So, keep your fingers crossed that I have a safe flight, you get a chance to actually read this and Jen remembers (or even wants to) pick me up. Cheers to all and happy travels! Damn, I already have to pee…

You Can Go "Home"...
...if only for a few hours.
March 12, 2009

Hola and welcome adventure fans to another exciting excerpt of "When Life Interferes With Living". I'm your host, Bitchy McBitchy, here trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to ever find those FUCKING emails I lost in my attempt to convert my life from PC to Mac. Why, why, WHY do I accept these challenges? Because I have a husband that can save my ass whilst I prepare us for our next great adventure challenge. Thank god our talents are the opposite side of the brain from one another.

I keep trying to get myself to import photos from the end of 2008, but so much LIFE keeps interfering that my time in front of old files is limited these days. So instead of trekking upon old ground, let's dive right in to the first beautiful ride of the spring training season, shall we?

On a gorgeous Northern California Saturday (last weekend) we headed to Doran Beach in Bodega Bay. Terry rode out on his 1150 GS Adventure - a grand 2 1/2 hour ride from home through sweeping redwood tree-lined turns and lush green hillsides. I took the marital high road and insisted that he ride and I follow in the Yukon with Jack and all our gear. Aren't I a fabulous spouse? No, just one who knows when her husband needs some alone time without the bother of phone or noise.

We stayed the weekend at Fernando's Bed and Breakfast. Haven't been there before? Just know that you have to go. Don't like B&B's? Us either! But this is an anti-B&B. Fernando, his wife, Marivone and daughter, Sammy, make you a part of their family. Every morning you are welcomed with a latte, an omelet made with eggs from his hens, maybe even some french toast. Don't want to go into town for a crappy, expensive meal? He'll make one for you, costing only a mere fraction of the touristy restaurants. The wine flows freely, the conversation is never forced and the amenities supersede your expectations. Check them out, www.fernandosbedandbreakfast.com. Tell them the adventure motorcycle family sent ya...just don't take my room! Anywho, where was I...oh ya...

So, all work and no play makes Jane a very dull girl. Jane gotta get out da hood and NOW! Suburbia's makin' her crazy! So yesterday, off I went for a 220 mile getaway. West. I wanted the valleys, the mustard fields, 15 mile/hour turns. And so I rode with my camera and burning determination. I was going to ride "home". I wanted to see and smell all that I have missed while living in this flat, mountainless plain. First to Pope Valley, via Terry's recommendation from his ride a week earlier. It was stunning, but I craved more. A quick stop in Calistoga at Buster's BBQ for some grub and I was rejuvinated. Haven't been to Buster's? What?!? And you call yourself a local...

Pope Valley

I wanted to check out Knight's Valley as I'd taken some awesome shots there in the fall. Could I be as lucky in the spring? Nope. I must press on. On to Alexander Valley, home to my father's childhood. Home to my desire to fill the need in my soul to reconnect with all that was familiar in my childhood. And I wasn't disappointed. In fact, it brought me to tears. No, I'm not joking. I really can be a sap.

Alexander Valley - Looking to the east

Just up the road from my dad's childhood home

Now, be honest, aren't you a little teary eyed? Yup, I thought so. I couldn't get enough of it. I could've laid in the field and made a mustard angel it was that spectacular. I never appreciated the natural beauty of this area until I moved away. Funny how that happens, isn't it? Seems to happen to most of us when we leave our comfort zone in search of a new home. No matter what, your roots begin to call you back, if only just for a few hours. I can't help but well up as I type this.

Eventually, though, we must all fly the nest yet again and return to our new home. But no one said I had to take the easy way back. Along Silverado Trail I meandered, not once getting stuck behind a tourist or wine snob. Up and over Deer Park, swaying from side to side as the road carved it's way through the mountain range. Had to stop in Angwin for a fuel, but not to worry. It wasn't a Sunday so the gas station was open for business. (Seriously, have you ever rolled through Angwin on a Sunday? It's a latter day saints town. I bet you any amount of money that on a Sunday you won't find an open store or a live person ANYWHERE on the streets. They're all in church for their weekly brain freeze.) Down Howell Mountain Road, through the back side of Pope Valley, to the northern part of Lake Berryessa and on to home.

And just how perfect of a ride was it? I got to be in my head for over 5 hours; every car pulled over to let me by; and the CHP near Berryessa didn't even pull me over for speeding. He just waved at me to slow down for which I did, giving him a 'thank you' wave for being, well, human. Maybe he knows what it's like to have to flee the usual and check out for a few hours.

Away I will go again very soon. And I promise to take you with me...

Back in the Saddle again...

February 26, 2009

Life... and how it interferes with living.

So I sit in my shithouse of an office, listening to my newly hired housecleaners (a.k.a. angels in sweats) and wonder how I got to this point. How did I let the rest of 2008 just go unnoticed? How could I possibly allow myself to let the ENTIRE last 6 1/2 months of the year just blow away like a fart in a whirlwind, going unwritten, not even a "Hey! We're still here but ya, gotta jet..."? How?

Life. The mass amounts of shit that consume our everyday existence. The inability to give in, let go....and I tain't gonna say "let God" for all you thumpers in the room. Wait, let me roll back a few frames. For those who don't know me personally, I am a Type A personality. I must do things my way, all the way, any day. I never give up. I never ask for help. I never admit defeat. Hell, I can't even admit the stomach flu! But something happened during those first couple of days of 2009. I realized something, an epiphany of sorts if you will. First, 2008 was a very odd, odd year. I allowed myself to be swayed by people who seemed genuinely interested in my abilities, yet mistook my kindness for weakness. And I almost got taken. But I didn't. That's the key. Second, I put many others before myself, making sure all were taken care of, fed, had enough for themselves and their families. While my family ALWAYS, ALWAYS is my #1 priority, I never made myself #2. Hell, I don't even think I made the Top 20. Third, there was a car accident, injuries, illnesses...a full vat of personal wretchedness. Fourth, I just can't give up control. I hold the reins tightly. My hands will bleed before I admit defeat. Well, guess what. I've been taken from the dark side and not willingly. During my months long "intervention", I was told by those who love me that I need to give up the juice and allow others to help me. What was the drug for which I had to give up? Yes, I finally had to admit that I'm a control, "I can do everything and STILL write" out and out freak. I had to hire a housecleaner. But I can do everything, right? I CAN clean the house, run the dog, train for races, work in Jack's class, do the laundry, make home-cooked meals, shop for the household, coach little league, host parties and pack for a 3-day motorcycle adventure. I CAN! I CAN! I CAN! No, Sandy, you can't. Those who are of the same alphabetical ilk know how hard it is to wave the white flag. I have failed. My family? Nah. They were the majors cheerleaders in this "give something up, dammit" rally. Terry reads the blog over and over, pressuring me daily to just start writing again! I guess I have failed the image I've had of myself for, well, my entire existence. Never admit defeat. But asking for help is NOT admitting defeat. In fact, not asking for help is inserting defeat in another part of your life. Not being able to do what I love injects negativity into my family. Always playing catch-up means never moving forward. I don't want a dark cloud hovering as part of my ensemble. I know gray is in, but...

And I must move forward. We all must move forward. Existing is not an option. Admitting I can do it ALL is existing. There is no room for improvement, only a set-up for failure. Failure may not happen today or next week, but it will happen. And maybe then it will be too late. One should never live according to what may never happen. So I had to choose to change and now. I don't want another low year. More peaks than valleys, right?

So here we all are, once again. How ARE you doing? How have you been? What's new? I can tell you what's old. The next several entries will recap some of the highlights from the last 6 1/2 months of 2008. They are news worthy and they need to be written. Some of the verbal details may be lost, but I promise you a full return of the Adventure Trio. It needs to be written. It needs to be shared. And I need to enjoy giving up at least one of my chores...but I refuse to hire and gardener.

Road Trippin' 2008
Our 200 Mile Motorcycle Venture
Destination: Colorado City, Arizona

WARNING: If any reader is easily offended or nauseated by religion and/or my views regarding freakish hyper-religious sects, please stop reading and I'll see you back at the next post. If you're curious, go right ahead. You have been warned and, therefore, it's your own fault. I'm not responsible for your reaction, only mine.


Even before we turned the key on the Yukon to begin our two week journey, I knew of one place I just HAD to visit - Colorado City. Like a bad car accident, I had to slow down and look. If you've been watching the news these past couple of years or been in a bookstore as of late, the polygamist society has been at the forefront of discussion in every facet of the media. I alone have been extremely fascinated with the why's, what's and practices of this icky, bizarre religion for many, many years. Hey, for some it's the Amish; for me it's the polygamists. And many of my friends have the same strange fascination (yes, Ixchelle, I mean you). Having educated Terry on the history of the FLDS, he, too, was more than willing to take the journey into the unknown. But first, we had some very cool country to ride through to get there...and a 6 year old who would rather have been in the hotel pool all day. Sorry, Jack, but we feel we must expose you to strange America. And no, you can't bring a couple o' bitches back to the room with you in the name of religion. Leave that up to the creepy white dudes for which you are not one of.

And now, on with the show...

One of two tunnels we drove through. The first tunnel was over a mile of blackout darkness complete with a nip in the air. This one was much shorter but begged for a pic. There was a trail on either side of the tunnel leading into the vast unknown. I kept those in mind for a later date. Always more fun to hike with the animals instead of the tourists. Always.

After riding through Zion, we happened upon a buffalo ranch. Thousands of acres provided these free range buffalos the ability to roam. In the background, you can see cabins that are for rent, some for sale.

The "Don't be an Idiot" sign for those Americans who think who are stupid enough to scale the fence. How sad is it that as adults, some of us still have to be reminded not to prove Darwin right? Go ahead, climb. Be an idiot. More room for the rest of us.

No, I didn't scale the fence for this pic! I'll leave that up the beer swillers from Arkansas. This one just happened to be this close at the moment.

Zion is barely visible in the background. Not a bad view for a herd of buffalo.

We met a couple from Germany who had been on the road for over a year. The shipped their motorhome to the U.S. and had just returned from a couple month road trip in Mexico. They had nothing but wonderful things to say about their Mexican trip. Good to hear.

Let me introduce you to Cornelius. He is originally from Holland and was riding his way up to Salt Lake City from Phoenix to visit a friend. He is a veteran long-range cyclist who has manuevered many continents on two wheels. He was very friendly and intelligent yet somewhat reserved when it came to talking about himself. His ride was piece-mealed together as was his gear. In our travels, we saw many cyclists pedaling for the long haul. We'd honk and they'd smile and wave. Let's just say that a long-range cycling trip has found its way onto our to-do list...sounds like a fun challenge. Why not?

And while at the buffalo range, we grubbed at the local restaurant...and ordered a buffalo burger...while gazing out AT the buffalo. Is something a bit amiss about this?!?

We couldn't continue the motorcycle ride until Jack got in some ropin' time. Why not pick up a new skill while on the road? You never know, he may need to catch dinner if we break down!

Welcome to Freedonia, Arizona, gateway to polygamy country.

You could imagine how we looked riding around Colorado City in brightly colored motorcycle gear with, God forbid, only one child strapped on the back! Having read several books relating to the FLDS, I knew the area was teeming with wrong-doing's and a general sense of ickiness, like a cold shiver that runs down your back. As we rode in, I spotted various compounds of mobile home communities against the hillside. We turned left into a neighborhood of sprawling mansions. Yes, MANSIONS! There were wings built for the growing number of wives and children. Dozens of childrens' bicycles littered the yards and various wives were outside watering or tending to the garden. I'm sure the husbands were out conquering the world. Yet oddly enough, all these mansions looked unfinished and still under construction. More on that later, I promise. I swear, when I spotted the first wife, I couldn't help but scream, "Oh my fucking god! Oh my fucking god!" inside my helmet. It's kind of like seeing a platypus for the first time. You know it exists. You know that they're out there, but you never really believe in its existence till you see it for the first time. Ya, kinda like that. I craved more.

We turned left back onto the highway and headed into the main area of town. We found the Mercantile in the center of town. Yes, the Mercantile. We parked the bikes in a slot and kind of sat back and watched. Vans and beat-up cars dotted the lot with a rare new car pulling in every so often. I assumed that the head wife was allowed the new ride. The women stared at us, half in fear, half with a desire for us to leave them alone. They wore the full dress, obviously hand-made, and were covered in long sleeves and jeans or pants under their dresses to cover their religious undies. Like "special underwear" are going to keep you from sinning and having sex! The hair was done in full frontal feather with a long braid trailing down the back. The shoes were large and quite clunky. The mother's cuddled their young offspring while the older children were back at the compound tending to the other kids. One of the funniest fucking things I saw was a female midget polyg woman. (I already know I'm goin' to hell, so I'm going to say what I want.) I swear, her braid was almost as long as she! One of the saddest, most vile things we saw was a pregnant teenage girl. Terry thought she was around 19 or 20. She was more like 15 or 16. And this probably wasn't her first child. Terry was shocked. I was completely speechless. We were outsiders in their bizarre world. We pretended to be there for a break in the ride, but they knew as well as we did that we were there to stare. We sure as hell didn't blend in! I did my best to capture a few digital memories without being noticed, but that was impossible. And we were noticed. And we were approached by one of the males.

While taking our helmets off for a breather (and a good stare), Terry found himself in the presence of one of the husbands who began commenting on our gear. He dared not speack to the woman in the group. He was more than friendly (and supremely odd) and asked where we were off to. Doing our best to be friendly and unassuming, we chatted with the suspicious male. We told him we were doing a loop around the area and were staying at Zion. He said that he, too, rode motorcycles (uh huh) and wore a bright jacket to be seen. It was a short and very unnerving "interview". After a couple of minutes and some water, we geared back up and boarded our bikes for another tour around the hood. We passed yards filled with children, at least 14. The boys wore their long sleeved, button-up shirts and the girls the traditional dresses and braids. Even the young sprouts wore the get-up. Some children are allowed to go to school, others are not. It depends on who is leading that particular sect at the time. After Warren Jeffs was named the new son of the prophet, he stopped the flow of any outside influences including TV, newpapers, toys and books. Anything that went against their teachings was banned. Hey, you can't lose any of the flock if they don't know how good it is outside the religious walls, right? Many of the young teenage boys were forced to leave the city as they were seen as a threat to the higher powers. Why should these 14 year old girls be forced to marry someone their own age when there's a perfectly good 80 year old man in the wings? Sick. Disgusting.

As we passed more houses and more families hanging around, I couldn't help but think about all the brainwashing that is done in the name of religion. The women and children (and the weaker males) are told they are the chosen one's and will be the only one's to go to heaven, as long they obey and stay sweet. Like the Mormon religion, they are to have at least 6 months of rations at the ready for when the world as we know it ends (maybe be only a couple of months for the Mormon's). This I have a very hard time believing. (Like I said in the beginning, turn your head if you don't want to read what I have to say.) Like Scientology, the Mormon religion is one of the newest religions to be recognized. Why is one able to do some creative writing, make up some loony proclamations and ideas, and call it a religion? Are there really that many people in search of a direction who are willing to believe almost anything? How about going out and searching for answers yourself instead of being told what you should believe? I'm not a fan of any organized religion. Can you tell? Any sect who asks you to give, give, GIVE while sitting in a magnificently expensive house of worship listening to a Cadillac-driving preacher tell them how they should live so they can get into heaven ahead of the rest of us is complete bullshit. I've had friends who were barely able to put food on the table and instead of the church saying, "Hey, we understand your predicament and will gladly help you get back on your feet as you've been giving to us for years." they were told, "You just need to learn how to budget better so you can still pay your tithing." What the FUCK is THAT about? You can't eat yet you're STILL expected to make the preacher's car payment?!? Call me a bitch. Call me a heartless asshole. But, I have a very hard time believing in any religion that still expects me to give till it hurts. And the idea of having food and water at the ready for when apocolypse happens is ludicrous. I don't have time to prepare for the end of civilization. There are too many cool things I have yet to do. And if I'm wrong, you don't have to share your rations with me.

So how do these people get their money? Well, Terry got the low-down from the locals in Springdale. First, their marriages aren't "real". The families get Medicare, food stamps and welfare from the state for each child. The wives are seen as single mothers. Second, many of the men own businesses that contract with the state. There are several polyg's in the state government that see to it the polyg companies get the contracts. Third, in the state of Arizona, as long as your house is still under contruction, you don't have to pay property taxes. Fourth, they are master grant writers. So, when the city needed new medical equipment, they studied the loopholes and began writing. They have the most state-of-the-art ambulance and medical services in the nation. Most contruction in the state of Utah is polyg labor. They can pretty much underbid any other company. These people are not stupid. They are conniving and defrauding the government. The men are raping young girls in the name of "religion" and the "prophet". They are being forced into a lifestyle they do not want all because they are told some pasty, skinny, foul white guy had a "vision" from the prophet. It's all bad. It's all vile. When you see it for yourself, you want to scream and grab every last child to try and save them from their future. But it's not a future. It's a sentence, one they did not choose. Some are fortunate enough to escape their sentence, others are too scared of the unknown. Remember, they are taught that the outside world is bad and they are the only good one's on earth. Hard to fathom, isn't it?

After many hours on the road, Jack was more than happy to hit the pool. Not a bad view from the sidelines, eh?

An exhausted Terry can still look good for a picture.

At the end of a long day, you can sleep in just about any position. Good night, sweet prince...

Road Trippin' 2008

Welcome to Zion National Park
aka Our New Favorite Place

Flora and Friends, Critters and Camp

This is going to be one of the few times that I will be a girl of a few words. I know, I KNOW, I tend to be a bit wordy (just a tad), but it's the only way I can convey/describe/spew forth what's rolling around in my brain. Those of you who know me well know this to be true...and then some... Having said (typed?) that, I'd really like to show you a shitload of pictures with some descriptions on the side. Though I do have one neat-o story about our first day in Zion.

So we really wanted to camp rightoff, but the weather was not cooperating (see previous post), we decided to spend a few days at the Best Western Inn in Springdale, approx. 1 1/2 miles from the park entrance. It was a great hotel complete with pool, hot tub and lots of climbers and foreigners making for vivid conversation. And because I/we were so, oh so exhausted from the first couple of days, my heart decided to go into A-Fib, aka Atrial Fibrillation. Nice. What does that mean exactly? Well, I'm tired, my heart feels a little thumpy, I drink something cold and BOOM!, my heart goes out of rhythm. And what do we do now, you may ask? Terry called the on-call doc (of course it happened on a Sunday and of course half of Utah is closed on Sunday), the on-call doc called a prescription into the big-ass WalMart in the town of Hurricane, about 40 minutes away...and they were going to close in about and hour. Fine. Okay, Jack outta the pool. Mama's needs her pills! So we loaded up into the Yukon and sped our way to Hurricane. And how fast were we going? Well, fast enough to get pulled over 5 minutes away from our destination. Yes, boys and girls, we were able to talk our way out of a ticket. When we explained our situation to the officer, he just shook his head and said, "Man, I HATE medical emergencies." Thanks again for letting us go. We got to the big-ass WalMart just in time. I got my meds and my heart got back in rhythm by the next morning. Moral of the story: Sleep is good.

So, onto the slide show...

We must always attempt and self-portrait. This one was the best of 3...imagine what the others looked like...

My kitchen for the next several days...notice the lack of shower facilities?

Our view from our shanty. Honestly, could you ask for a better view?

The shanty at night, complete with cooking fire.

The wildlife tended to be a bit grumpy in the morning, even though it got 11 hours sleep...

Okay, one more pic of our morning/evening view.

A late morning bike ride that turned into an early afternoon flat tire...and we had already used our spare tube. No worries, though, the scenery made for a nice walk back to camp.

The local extreme Utah Mormon or FDLS camp in the park. How many tents can you count?!? And I couldnt' fit the whole scene in one frame.

Jack made friends with 2 of the girls from the "extreme" camp. They were very, very cute with huge personalities. Every morning they appeared properly dressed, hair done in pigtails, bows and hairspray and non-camping clothes. They preferred to be called Steph and Stephanie as they had friend (or maybe she was a cousin, they confessed) who had that name. They dug so they used it. They honestly had no idea how many cousins they had or if they even were cousins. Ewwwww, so weird and icky... Their parents' made no attempt to say "Hey" or even introduce themselves. The "mom's" wore their hair up with curly tendrils and matching outfits. Ewwwww, again... When I camp, I ALWAYS wear curlers to bed :-)

Be aware that when buying alcohol in Utah, they lock it up on Sunday's...pleasant. You cannot make liquor that is over 5% alcohol in the state of Utah and all alcohol sold that is over 5% must bear a sticker like the one above. And you cannot remove it. Like HELL I can't! Don't force me to rip off my pillow tag, dammit!!! Goin' ta hell, straight ta hell!!!

Our friendly camp gopher who insisted on dragging every piece of weed into his nest. Had we been out in the wild, he woulda been dinner. I LOVE Survivorman!

One of many species of beetle we encountered in our camp site. It was beautifully colored in blues and black and quite large.

"And one day, I'll be a beautiful butterfly."

"Daddy, I want a squirrel. Not just any squirrel one of those squirrel's." Thanks, Veruca. (If you haven't seen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, this joke is lost on you.)

Can you spot the 2 frogs? It was amazing to see such full bodies of water in these remote areas.

Can anyone please tell me WHAT the hell is this thing? It was quite prehistoric looking and very creepy. Anyone? Bueller?







Lizards were everywhere and probably considered the state bird. They were not scared of humans...and could have made for a great skewered dinner...

The local flora was abundant as we were fortunate enough to visit in the spring. It smelled of a spring garden wherever you roamed.


And you must meet Madelyn. She pierced her ears at 65 and decided to get a tattoo at 70. She and her husband were quite a hoot on the bus ride into the park. The tattoo looked so fresh I just had to ask about it (shocked, aren't you?). Loved chatting with her. Suggested maybe skydiving at 75. Any other ideas?