In less than 24 hours...

Mack and I are embarking on our third cross country trip. The first was a whirlwind, mainly because Venus was in a crate in the back of the pickup truck and Kitty was in the cab riding on the console while Betsy and Seth tried to keep comfy on the bench seat. The second was a haul, one packed with a loaded down Penske truck towing a VW Golf. Both of these treks were unkind and left no time or room for enjoying the process.

This time, we're taking a shiny red convertible.

Mack started doing that thing he does where he gets an idea and then he looks around Craigslist and then he talks himself in and out of it and then on a Thursday we end up in La Grange giving a lady with the limpest handshake I've ever felt two grand for a car that looks like it's been very badly sunburned.

This is AFTER the sunburn got treated with paint.

He immediately fell in love with this car, and has spent hours working on it. New paint was followed by new shocks, new belts, new spark plugs, new clutch, new insulation, new bolts, new stereo, new crank shaft, new key way, new valve cover gasket, new front mail seal, new brake master cylinder, new exhaust, new battery. Old wife would have been jealous if he wasn't fixing it up for a road trip vacation that I'd be going on.

Well, that road trip vacation starts tomorrow. Race Car will take an epic voyage across the United States. It has 199,563 miles on it, and it needs to go at least another 3,000 to get us to LA with stops in Yellowstone, Craters of the Moon, Yosemite, and Sequoia. It needs to make it through nine states, and right now, the garage looks like this. And that man, he's had strep throat all week.

It's gonna be an adventure.

It's been a freaking year.

... since I've posted anything. And since Kieron was born.

Working sure does get in the way of blogging. So does commuting, partying, visiting family and friends, going out to lunch, taking naps, buying convertibles, planning a cross country road trip, finding out one of your most awesome friends is having a baby, doing mud runs, and eating cookies, which is what else I've been doing.

Trust me, none of that is as cute as this baby's first birthday.

On the Move

Over burritos a couple of weeks ago, I asked Mack if we should give up our apartment and be basement dwellers at my mom and dad's for our last year in Kentucky. He's leaving in September to do away rotations, everyone I love is in Louisville, and January and February is no time for me to be all alone... there's one saga that involves a relationship with Redbox and I never want to go to that place again.

About 13 minutes later, a decision was made.

And about 20 hours after that, our end-of-apartment date was moved from Oct. 1 to July 15.

I'm excited that I'll be living in Louisville, and I can't describe how much I'm looking forward to being close to my nieces and nephews and being able to have my lovies in my daily life. But I'm also fuhreaking out a little bit about the "forfeit" of independence.

I like paying my own bills and taking care of my own house and putting up a giant fiberglass shark if it suits my fancy. And, if I'm being honest, when I have ice cream for dinner I like to do it in secret.

My parents are awesome and would never cramp my independent style, but the fact is it's their home, they are my parents, and I respect them. So as much as I might want to let my laundry rot in the washing machine, that's just not going to be possible if other people are watching.

I'm also really going to miss this apartment. After living in LA, this place was like mansion-sized. It has built-in bookcases and a fireplace and hardwood floors and is less than half what we were paying in Cali. I love being downtown and walking and riding my bike places. I like catching the trolley and watching skateboarders race down the road. I cherish not having to worry about parking for UK games or 4th of July parades. My parents' place is close to stuff but separated from it by 6 lanes of traffic and a 5-way intersection.

This apartment has been good to us. We've had some great parties here and made some fun memories. I'll never forget the day we pulled in after a delirious drive from California. It was pouring rain and thundering and lightning, and we couldn't get the car trailer up the driveway and some nice homeless guy walking down the road helped us muscle it into the yard. I'll never forget a few weeks ago when we laid on the porch and listened to music and watch the world go by. I'll never forget waking up to the fat neighbors upstairs having sex at 3am or listening to the new girl who took their place practicing viola like it was a concert all for me. I'll never forget the day our tree fell onto the power lines and downtown lost it's power. I'll never forget how great it was to come back to this sanctuary after calling a hut in Ghana home.

It's a little sad to be putting my life back in boxes, but the uncertainty of where we'll end up is exciting and the guarantee of spending these final months at most 10 minutes away from the people who mean everything to me is a gift. Luckily, a life in limbo is one full of possibilities, and if things go as planned, the next time I see these boxes will be in Hawaii. If that doesn't cure sadness, nothing will.

Griswoldishes

Earlier this month, Mack and I took a whoa-fast trip to Alabama and Florida to witness Bubba's helicopter graduation. I say witness because I don't know I would believe that, in almost two years to the day, Bubba has gone from new recruit to a full blown officer of rank if I didn't see it with my own eyes.

Bubba is hands down one of the funniest guys I know, which is probably a good thing since his name is Bubba. If being a brown with a redneck name doesn't give you a sense of humor about yourself, nothing will. He is razor sharp, quick as a whip, and perpetually wound up. Throughout this military process, he has driven everyone who loves knows him a little bananas with his blood pressure obsession, one that had him hooked up to a blood pressure cuff for an entire Christmas in 2010. But now that he's graduated, now that he's been abandoned in the woods and fended for himself and been tortured, now that he doesn't have to worry about his blood pressure, he's back to being himself. Only better.

I still hate the military, and I still wish it didn't have to exist, but was I ever proud of Bubba at graduation. Not because he learned how to fly a Black Hawk, but because a friend of his from Texas, a fellow he'd met when he was flying a private airplane, drove 14 hours to give Bubba a pair of wings. Ernest was also in the military, and he also flew things. Now he's got colon cancer, a bunch of daughters, and a connection with Bubba that speaks volumes about the type of men both of them are.

The entire Thomas clan came together for this event, so we got to reconnect during a full day of waiting around in a museum with all kinds of airplanes and helicopters. Then we got to go to a field in the Alabama sun and elbow our way into a Black Hawk while dodging fire ants. There were several 45-minute drives up and down one road that passed a hot pink strip club called Teasers. Bubba took us out for sushi and we met some of the people he'll be spending his time with for the next few months. And Laila, who is now as tall as I am, kept sniffing my arm.

Once the graduation was over, we hit the road to Panama City to spend a couple days at the beach. This is the first family vacation we've gone on since Jamaica, which was only 50% Thomas, and I've got to say, vacationing with 100% Thomases is hilarious.

In the Hensley family, we don't fight for control of directions or meals or an itinerary or anything. We just let my Dad be the decider when there are decisions to be made and we help him as needed. Other than that we lay around. The Thomases are a collection of bosses, two of whom won't make a move unless so ordered by a non-functioning GPS, one of whom thinks her parents don't even know how to work a hotel room key, and one of whom is just coming off the well-oiled machine that is the military. I grabbed a beer, sat back, and enjoyed the show... except for that time when we drove up and down Tank Hill Road six times and my iPhone had to come to the rescue.

We are basically the Griswolds, or as Shahin likes to call us, the Clampetts or the Oswalds (her accuracy is related to how much she's giggling when she says it).

Since I was driving, we made it to Florida in no time flat, not because I was speeding (much) but because I wasn't listening to some stupid GPS telling me what to do. Tom and Shahin listened to one and ended up taking 45 minutes longer than needed. Plus we passed this awesome "Bubba and Mak's Music" sign that I have convinced myself is a nod of GPS-ignoring-approval from the universe.

We couldn't check into our hotel until Tom & Shahin Moneybags got there, and I could barely contain my need for beach so we headed for the surf, fancy clothes and all.

(Look at those noodle-y long legs. Remember when they were this?)

Shahin hates the hot. In LA when we used to go to the beach, she'd bring her little parasol so she could have constant shade. Add to that the fact that she can't really swim, and it's not hard to see why a beach vacation isn't exactly her idea of heaven. But she made the most of it, ordering a daiquiri the size of three of her stomachs and laying under a cabana with Mack and Tom while Laila and I played in the sand.

Yes, that is a souvenir cup. Go Shahin!

Laila's shirt doubles as a parasol.

Note the boobs. "Mimis up to my throat" as Laila would say.

The first of our sand sculptures. Laila and I are getting pretty amazing at these.

Bubba met up with us that evening and after dinner he and Mack went out and did who knows what. I went home where we girls did one thing we all love -- pajama time!

For our last day in Florida, Bubba decided we should all go out on a pontoon boat. A couple of his pals from the Army joined us, and Bubba/Capt. Ron took us toward the Gulf of Mexico.

It was a little rocky at first. There was some screaming when water came on board and an encounter with sea grass and Shahin coped with her terror by channeling it into sandwich making and some threats to life were flung about, but after about 30 minutes, the Griswolds settled down, and it ended up being a blast.

Laila and I swam to shore and did more sand sculpture, we watched a couple of dolphins as they swam alongside our boat, we picnicked and drank beer, and Bubba got sunburned, which made him a brown with a red neck. Shahin even took the wheel and played captain for a while.

Once docked, we all headed home to rest for a few hours before going to dinner. By rest, I mean drink beer in the hot tub. I told Bubba I'd be responsible for four of the 16 beers left in the cooler because wasting beer is unAmerican. Well, six beers later, with prune-y fingers and toes and the realization that I'd been stewing in Bubba's pee for over an hour, I left the hot tub to get cleaned up for dinner. Bubba did shots, plates of fried things were put in front of us, and Shahin complimented me on my ability to hold my liquor. Success.

For the last hurrah, Bubba and his buddy Ryan decided to ride the Vomatron. Which, in case you didn't catch that, is the word Vomit and Tron mushed together. It looked so fun that Erica, Ryan's wife, and I decided to take a turn.

The Vomatron goes terrifyingly high, and then at the peak, you can see the entire stretch of beach in front of you. You barely process the thought, wow this is so beautiful, and then you are flying face first toward the earth. Luckily the loop is large enough that the experience was all tron and no vomit.

Our quest home started at 4 in the morning, and those 72 hours of Thomases just didn't seem like enough. We managed to cram in a lot of fun, but I wish I'd had one more day to soak in the Griswolds a little bit more. I was lucky enough to be born into one incredible family and I got to be a part of another one when I married Mack. I guess swimming in pee for a couple hours is a small price to pay.

My little weirdos.

Leiah babysat all four of the weirdos a few weeks ago, and she texted us some pics to include us on the crazy that happens when cousins get together. These little trashy front yard pool naked babies make summer all the better.

Trust Me. I'm a Nurse.

I bought a t-shirt during nursing school with that sentiment on it and I absolutely refused to put it on, even as a night shirt, until I passed my boards.

Well, on June 4th that happened. I'm a nurse.

However, I still don't recommend that you trust me. Unless you want me to plan your party. I am more than confident I can do that.

Here's the 5th birthday party I did for Renee, Princess of Quite-a-lot.

The mood board. We did all but the cupcakes. Someday I will do those damn cupcakes.

Lady Bebe wearing "A Maternity Bridesmaid Dress by Leiah"

Prince Kieron and Lord Dude complied with the attire request.

Queen MomGigi, who actually had this dress in her closet and it looked stunning on her, and Miss Lilly. Why do the babies have looks on their faces like we are certifiable?

Princess Renee, with her FIVE tiaras.

Lady Bebe, Princess Gloria, Duchess Amber, and Countess Leiah. There is definitely not beer in those tea cups. Trust me, I'm a nurse.

Dads Rule

Derby XI... Which is the number of mint juleps I consumed

As part of my birthday/graduation/end of the world plans, I wanted to go to Derby this year. I've lived in Kentucky the bulk of my life and I've never made it a priority to be a part of the most exciting two minutes in sports.

Which I now know comes at the end of the hottest 6 hours in a pool of drunk people who are dressed nicely if you're in the grandstand and ridiculously if you're in the infield.

My dad knows somebody who knows somebody, so he and my mom got me tickets that were entirely too good for me. Heather's step-mom gave her a bunch of custom made Derby hats last year and she gave me one to borrow for just such an occasion, so I also had a hat that was entirely too stylish for me. In the end, I went with my defacto strategy... fake it til you make it or get drunk trying.

Leigh's parents agreed to host us for Derby weekend. On normal visits to the Haus de Bodenheim I'm treated to all things delicious and exquisite, but when Derby rolls around, Big Daddy Fritz and Six-pack Suzanne put on a culinary convention. There's wine and appetizers and smoked salmon and wild boar and smoked gouda beer cheese and who needs to button their pants anyway?

We got dolled up like classy bitches and rode into Churchill Downs with some of the other Haus de Bodenheim guests. We started as Kentucky's finest. And it lasted until we saw this guy at the gate.

Getting into Churchill Downs was a madhouse. But it was nothing compared to getting out. That story is a little farther down...

After we hiked through a couple tunnels, complete with people chanting U!S!A! (what is that about?) and mud puddles, we resurfaced in what must be the hottest grandstand in the entire world. They still have ceiling fans from 1952. Big Ass Fans needs to get in there and chill that place out. People were camped out on benches fanning themselves, and the whole place smelled like a locker room. I had sweat dripping off of me, so our first stop was the bar with the ice and the napkins, which I shamelessly shoved in my cleavage for a few minutes. I think we cut a few people on accident because our brains were about to fry in our skulls.

Once we got our body temperature back into a normal range, we made our way to our box. It was just past the finish line, with an amazing view of the grandstand, and we were welcomed by some lady who said we were in the wrong place and a guy who greeted us from the next box over with, "Who the fuck are you?"

We got things sorted out with the lady, mainly by telling her she was wrong, and we got the man in his place, mainly by saying fuck back to him a lot until he bought us a mint julep. At $11 a pop, listening to a man drop f-bombs is a small price to pay for a day's supply of mint juleps.

Out in the open wasn't nearly as hot as the commute to our seat, so it actually ended up being a gorgeous day for Derby. We made friends with the obnoxious guy and his harem, we stayed hydrated with mint juleps, and just when things started to look dangerous, we got some cheese fries from the concession stand. Because nothing says classy Derby elegance like cheese fries.

I still don't know who I bet on, but I did win. I'm pretty sure I bet on 6 horses and tried some exacta boxes. I don't know how to bet sober, let alone with Early Times and liquid cheese coursing through my veins. Leigh bet on Bodemeister, I remember that, because we met one of his trainers as he walked past our box and Leigh snatched up his hat. He was very tolerant of our snatchies, as was this guy whose cigar we stole.

Look a horse!

Once it was all over, the euphoria quickly descended. Our obnoxious friend almost got in a fight with the lady's husband, and at first I thought he probably deserved it because he called her a bitch, but in my drunken state I videotaped it, and upon review of the film, I think the husband was the aggressor. I can't really describe how much gargbage there was. Trashcans overflowed like volcanoes, drunk people stumbled around like zombies, shattered glass littered the ground. It was, well, it was what 250,000 hot messes trying to get out looks like.

One of 250,000 hot messes.

We were way far from the gate we entered so it took us about an hour just to exit Churchill Downs. We didn't want to make the poor sober people wait on us, so we told them to go on ahead and we'd take a taxi. Take note: there is no such thing as an available taxi at Derby. See above re: 250,000 hot messes trying to get out. At one point, we were in the car with a guy from Chicago who was going to give us a ride, but then when we told him how far out the Haus de Bodenheim was he gave us the boot. Then I insisted we go into Kroger to get chips... two big bags of Santitas that I had no reason to buy. Then we started walking, there was a tantrum thrown and "bitch" was tossed around, and finally we found some nice Mexicans who were willing to give us a ride out to BFE for $47.

I know, getting a ride from nice Mexicans, or any nice strangers for that matter, on any other day is insane. But on Derby Day, you do what you've got to do, and you're extra grateful for all that Spanish you took in school. If I was sober, I would have said, oh let's call my parents, but I wasn't so I said, por favor, puedes conducir mi amiga y yo a nuestra casa cerca de Gene Snyder?

We made it home safely, sat down to an exquisite dinner, and climbed up to bed for some sleep that our fellow dinner guests probably wanted us to have as much as we wanted it. The next day I tallied up my losses... lost eyeglasses, lost credit card, broken iPhone, broken purse, slightly diminished dignity. Dammit, I really liked those glasses.

I'm glad I got "Go to Derby" off my bucket list, but I'll never go again... unless I can be helicoptered in and delivered to an air-conditioned box on Billionaires Row. I'm too spoiled by Keeneland... my expectations of a day at the races involve rolling hills and cross breezes and contained debauchery and the chance to actually look at horses up close. You know, classy... like me.