Driving Reigns

On the road again. Just can't wait to get on the road again.

Yes, your favorite red-headed stranger is wandering yet again. I'm on my way to Connecticut to visit my lovely Adelka Ann and Justino this weekend, kids. I have some major ants in my pants these days, which is far, far better than crabs, let me tell you.

I just feel so alive when I'm traveling, and while I enjoy any form of movement—planes and trains are just dandy—I prefer automobiles. I write my best songs when I'm on the open road and, at the risk of repeating myself, I lurve me some Corn Nuts, which I can only find at select truck stops in the Northeast part of the country.

So, that is where I will be but you, my lovelies, will be in my heart, as always. Or in my pants keeping the ants company—your choice.

In the Comments section, tell what's in your pants these days.

All the Sweetest Winds, They Blow Across the South

I love me some North Carolina. It's the perfect mix of empathetic, concerned folks who are crazy--very much like your 123V, here.

Spending time there always makes me re-prioritize the important things in my life, which usually end up being: tanning, frozen yogurt and videos, because that's all the side stores in NC offer.

I could bore you with tales of my darling nephews and their antics on bumper cars, or my sweet niece who eats broccoli like it's going out of style, but I won't because they're all going to take over the world one day, and you'll get to know them through their Nobel prize acceptance speeches.

But, let's see, what's the haps, otherwise?

No meetings with the crazy ex-girlfriend; exactly one PG-rated meeting with the high school ex-boyfriend that left me wanting to slow dance to some Cyndi Lauper; and, dude, one awesome meeting with J from Drunk on the Porch.

There was good ink (high-five, J), great conversation and beer. Oh, and there was phenomenal pizza. I'm already looking ahead to the next meet-up where J and I can compare more small-town nuttiness.

Until then, I'm only left regretting the poor Catawba County Shriners. Oh, the Shriners--they had them a tough year.

My folks and I went to the town's "holiday parade" this weekend. Beyond the Shriners, it was pretty much just the town's police and fire squad, so we prayed to Heyzus that no one had an emergency while the cops were throwing out some Brach's hard candies to the kidders.

While my folks and I had a great time, the Shriners were having a rough go. The Go-Kart AAA had to come out several times to help the guys driving little cars, as chains were a-breaking and tires were a-blowing and little Go-Karts were a-stalling all over God's concrete.

Whoops!


Yep, just a good, ole time in Carolina, complete with big men driving tiny semi-trucks.



Even the dawgs was excited, bless they hearts.

Millie is our little "root beer barrel." She's always been kind of crotchety and mean, but those ears and stubby legs save us from getting upset with her every time.



Sadie Byrd: She has a tiny head and a tiny, tiny brain.


Yes, Mills, it IS time for goodnight. (She did this herself, I swear to Pete. She's not a terribly sociable soul.)

In the Comments section, tell me why you love your family and/or your home town.

Jive, Turkies

Nothing cures you of a confused heart over an ex-girlfriend like plans to meet up with an ex-boyfriend. I don't need to meet any new people; I'm just going to keep recycling old loves.

Actually, it'll be just a friendly meeting. At least I'm pretty sure. We'll see. I don't know.

(FYI, CamiKaos, I'm meeting with the boy who inspired my song Blue Boy. Thankfully, it's not the one who inspired Blue Balls.)

Also, I have another MIRL up ahead on Monday with none other than Country Roads, so woop woop! I'll be swinging by his stomping grounds on my way home from Carolina, and I hope we can meet at a truck stop for some chicken fried steak. Stay tuned for all of the hi-jinks.

Also, if this is Saturday and you're reading, I'm sitting on the 'Stache.

Peace and turkey grease, my pretties.

In the Comments section, tell me which blogger(s) you want to meet up with.

The Fever Has Broken

Okay, gang. I feel much better after reading your thoughts and enjoying some cheese and crackers and some nuts. I'm going to leave the girl who's crackers and nuts well-enough alone.

You're right. You're right. You're right.

You're right. I know.

But this sure would have been a far more interesting blog if ya'll had said I should hunt her down. Just sayin'. We're talking chicks making out on Web-cams more interesting.

So don't get mad at me if you're unhappy with future posts about origami crafts and my best gravy recipe ever--it's your own dern fault for trying to keep me safe and sane.

In the Comments section, tell me: Are you a gravy person? No judgment or wrong answers. Just curious.

A Preemptive Apology to Anyone Who Ever Dates Me

I think they fired my favorite adolescent receptionist at the gym because I haven't seen her in a week. This makes me sad; she's a darling, little blonde thing that reminds me of another darling, little blonde thing I loved some years ago.

I don't know this receptionist's name, so I can't even inquire about her, but I miss our routine. She'd giggle when I came in, ask how I was, giggle again and say, "You sound like you're from England." Every time.

I get that a lot, though, actually—that whole "You don't sound like you're from here" thing.

I can tell you, kids, I'm from a suburb of Cleveland that is known for a very New Jersey-esque accent. And then, of course, when my family moved to Carolina when I was 14, I easily slipped into the sweet, Southern drawl, ya'll.

I guess the North and South in me repel in accordance with some remnant of historical conflict and what comes out of my mouth is akin to a British nanny, as a nod to the mother country where it all began. Pip pip!

This is all running through my head because I found pages from an old journal I thought was long gone, lost in one of my many, many, many moves. But they reappeared, exactly when I needed them to. They were actually from the time when I loved that darling, little blonde thing some years ago. Interestingly, she is back in some capacity, though at a very safe distance.

For now, anyway.

We were, are and forever will be, complicated. She's also got a lovely girl now, and I'm mourning my young receptionist and A.J. and not in any place for a real commitment of any kind, so it could get messy if I even let myself think about pursuing it.

(For the record, I wrote that post about her when I was smack dab in the middle of grief therapy for my Mom, and we were exploring my anger feelings at that time. You won't believe how angry I was that Frito-Lay changing its packaging--I had to delete that post. Now, I'm not condoning or excusing her actions, but it's amazing how different things look and feel just a short year later. So, here--this grain of salt is for you to take if you went back and read it.)

But I realized recently that if no one else were around to chastise or question me, I would go running right back into her arms this instant. But as it stands, she did a whole mess of damage to a lot of people whom I love, and it's not that simple. It never is, is it?

Still it's been kind of nice to revisit some of those memories, and re-reading my thoughts of everything filled in some missing pieces.

It's helped alleviate a lot of my anger that stemmed from our relationship and brought in some clarity and understanding of how she found herself on the Crazy Train and wasn't able to hop off, just speeding faster and faster and faster toward one of those tunnels the dern coyote painted on the side of a mountain and not knowing what else to do but stay on.

Weird, though, because we'll both be back in our small Carolina town for the holiday. My entire being is torn between going into full-on stalker mode to "make" a meeting happen or just letting sleeping dogs lie on a nice, comfy carpet of distance and time, safe but suffocated by my yearning heart. Seriously, my pretties, I am yearning here.

Truly, it's probably going to depend on how hot, as in attractive, I'm feeling. We girls are so weird—yes, I'm going to base a life decision on how my hair and ass look. Deal with it.

I just don't know, my pretties. Do some people come back because we're not done with them or do they re-emerge to serve as emotional watermarks and reminders so that we don't make the same mistakes again?

I sincerely feel like if I could just get once more kiss, I could walk away.

Would it be sooooo wrong if I just cornered her in the Food Lion and we made out for 10 minutes and then she went back to her girlfriend, and I went back to my family, and nobody was the wiser?

Don't answer that.

See, I know the answer. I KNOW no good can come of it. I KNOW what my course SHOULD be, which is to run away from her, but she is the first and only person who has ever made me come unhinged in my 27 years, which explains why I just can't let that ever happen with another person again. She made such a mess of things, and I let her because I loved her. I still do, truth be told. That's how it goes.

So, listen, my pretties, those of you who know me in real life and think I'm too quick to walk away from relationships, let me tell you—I understand why some of those women on Maury don't care that their Dude is the father of their sister's AND their Mom's babies and they keep screaming, "But I love him. I looooooooooove him!!!!" Oh, buddy, do I get it. Love is not rational.

But that's why I only let myself entertain the idea of doing it with her (heh). One crazy heart per life time. I can't handle any more. I don't want any more.

I made a vow that any loves after her would be as calm and gentle as a summer breeze because that episode done brought enough drama for my mama, my step-mama, my grandmama and my llama.

Yet, if it was so bad, why am I here gnashing my teeth remembering her beautiful hips that made me dizzy? And her hands, oh, those hands. And that spot near her collar bone. I really loved that spot.

Oy vey. What's the British word for "hopeless"?

In the Comments section, tell me about that person for you. Oh, and feel free to heap on the advice, here. I'm flailing.

Not Vegas, Baby

Just because you add "vegas" to the end of your city's name does not make it cool. Now, Flat Coke and Flies opened my eyes to the whole "Nashvegas" designation, and I'm on board with that.

But, seriously, despite two different peoples' best attempts, "Charvegas" does not make Charlotte sound super cool, nor does "Philavegas" work for Philly.

It just doesn't jive, kids.

In other news, I'm getting a jump on my New Year's resolutions and top of the list is: Wear more side ponytails.

I wish I was making that up, but they suit my profile and the fact that the back of my head is as flat as a plate. Swear to Pete.

Also on the list: Meet more bloggers. Thanks to Hilary the Guy, Miss Laaw-yuhr and Chris, who sarcastically likes things about the universe, for braving potential awkwardness and knife fights (seriously) to meet 123V and Lorelai.

To answer your questions, yes we all got drunk and made out, then we got tattoos together. Okay, that's not true. Well, the drunk part is. But, sad to say, there was no making out, despite my best showing in my "Boob Dress." (The black one with the pink polka dots, Schmegs.)

The important part to note is that these cats are cool, and it should serve as a wonderful reminder that bloggy friendships can lead to real, live friendships, my pretties. 'Member that.

Okay, gotta jet. I'm sure there's some crappy reality show that I'm missing right now.

In the Comments section, tell me if you got to make out with anyone or show your boobs this weekend.

In the Pink

Or reason #645 why I shouldn't be allowed out in public without adult supervision and a leash.

My homegirl Kate from Hey Pretty had a birthday last weekend, and we all gathered at her abode to celebrate the Scorpio lass with foods and drinks and one very fuzzy pink coat.

Teh Fuzzee Pink Cote: Ur doin it wrong

As much as I'd like to explain that I only have this coat because my mother bequeathed it to me, I ultimately made the decision to wear it out. The pink fuzzy apple doesn't fall far from the crazy tree, I guess.

To be frank, my entire day leading up to the party was full of miscalculations and questionable decisions. I think the trouble started when I decided to forego the logical decision to bring beer or wine to the party and opted instead for Jell-O shots. I mean, I did a nice key lime pie recipe, using Limey Jell-O and cream soda instead of water. Oh, and vodka. A lot of that. A lot.

Then, I zipped over to Lorelai's house so we could Metro down together. And when I got there, maybe I stepped over the tipsy line with a couple of glasses of wine and maybe I didn't. But maybe I did.

Lorelai and I were the first ones to arrive, which is always fine with me because then I can scope out the best vantage point and figure out which seat makes my boobs look the best. Strategy, people, strategy.

A gaggle of Miss Kate's friends arrived after us and the wine flowed and the conversation sparked and there was even jazz music, like real adults listen to. Nice.

And then at some point, after we'd all shared our favorite Kate memories it all went horribly, horribly wrong, as I forced the neon green Jell-O shots on poor, innocent partygoers and I made everyone (EVERYONE) try on the pink coat.

Straight Pimpin', lady!

Yes! Rock on wit your badself!


Fierce, EJ. Fierce!

That is a very secure man right there.

Now that is gorgeous! Rock it, girlfriend!

Sassy and sophisticated.

I lurve dis pink coat.

And then maybe I fell into the laps of a very nice married couple and probably stayed there for a minute or two longer than was necessary.

A rare photo of me upright that evening.

Well, now that it's Friday, I could atone for all of my social sins and fashion crimes of last weekend, but something tells me that when Lorelai and I meet up with Hilary the Guy from Pistols at Dawn and a few of his friends tonight for a bloggy smooshup, I'll probably be wearing the fuzzy pink coat yet again whilst falling into one or more laps.

Because nothing says "grown up" like pink fur and stumbling.

Yes, things are looking up. Including me.

In the Comments section, tell me about your favorite fashion statement. Or about a time when you fell into someone's lap.

Due To the Photographic Nature of This Web Site, Viewer Discretion Is Advised

My deepest apologies to any of yins who stopped over and saw a giant picture of 123Valerie covered in blazing locks staring you down, all menacing like.

As some of you noted, I did finally update my profile picture, but as many of you know, to do so Blogger requires a super-complicated process where you have to post the profile picture somewheres, then hunt down a wart hog as a sacrifice to the photo gods, say a native Mandarin prayer and present your case for changing your picture before a coven of Wiccan elders who each are missing their pinky, standing on one foot.

And then you have to do that thing where you whistle with two fingers in your mouth. That's what tripped me up.

I did not mean to leave a big, scary photo of myself up. In fact, I have many, many nice photos of myself and others in a fuzzy pink coat that I had hoped to post, but I've had enough Blogger picture fun to last me until at least Friday morning.

It's all good in the hood here, busy and what-not but, seriously, where in the hoo-diddly have some of ya'll been, my pretties? I've got to clear away the cobwebs when I log on your sites. You know who you are. You better post sumpin' soon, is all I'm sayin. My brain cell isn't going to entertain itself.

In the Comments section, tell me what your latest post is about. Thanks!

Save the Date

In between bubble baths, trips to the gym and a viewing of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, I found myself with a schwee bit of time for a blind date.

Let me get this out front early: He was nice and it was fine, but it was the romantic equivalent of oatmeal. Still, way better than the blind date where the guy brought his mom. No way in hell to save that date.

The fact that the newest lurve encounter didn't end in bliss is okay though, kids, because I don't really think I'm ready to be dating just yet. I have a tendency to try and rush through everything, including broken hearts.

But, as my lovely homegal, Lorelai, said to me, I made myself pretty dern vulnerable in the last go 'round with love. So, I'm feeling very protective of my heart these days. Ya'll go on and Chicken Dance and Hokey Pokey without me; I'm gonna sit this one out.

That said, I have been introduced to a valuable asset for single women: Don't Date Him, Girl. Dirty Dawgs, be forewarned: If you've done somebody wrong, she's going to tell all of her friends, and then she's going to tell the Intertubes. And people will comment about it. Oh, will they comment!

I was very glad to find a sea of strangers on Don't Date Him, Girl (Phew) because both my intuition and my co-pay for the health clinic are quite high. Actually, my worst fear would be seeing my Dad on the message boards. I mean, he's a great guy—he'd never actually be on there, but this is the kind of stuff that runs through my head when I am worrying. So.

Man, I wish I had a super bad blind date story for you, my pretties, but truth is, I have a really good track record—even the guy who brought his Mom made sure she was pretty cool. She totally kicked my ass at Golden Tee and we split some jalapeno poppers.

Ultimately, when it comes to blind dates, even if it's not love at first sight, I've always enjoyed the cocktails and going home with the waitress.

In fact, I'd like to get paid to be a professional blind dater, but I believe they call that being a "call girl." Whatevs.

Just tells me the world isn't ready for the 123V brand of lovin' just yet, and it validates my delicious hermity-ness these days.

In the Comments section tell me your best cure for getting over the broken heart hump—so to speak, of course.

Rag-tagged and Bobtail

I generally don't like rules, unless they specify that I get to talk about myself.

Since I've done been tagged (way better than tea bagged) by the infamous J. from Drunk on the Porch, I'd best get to it.

We gon do it. Do it. Do it, do it, do it.

A). Link to the person that who (Oh, God. I'm sorry. I just couldn't let this go into the blogosphere grammatically incorrect) tagged you and post the rules on your blog...
B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...
C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...
D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog


1. I know what a caper really is.

2. Sloth is my favorite Goonie. With that one blinky eyeball? C'mon!

3. I am closer to 30 than I am to 20, but during every bubble bath, I do this, even the ones I take at your house:


I'm practicing my "stern Kenny Rogers" right here. I SAID you gotta know when to hold 'em!.

4. I love Cleveland, Ohio, ... Ya heard me right.

5. Never the ketchup with the french fries. Never! What is wrong with you people? Why are you so afraid of mustard?

6. I talk to dead people all of the time.

7. As an intelligent, capable female with independence for days, I really wouldn't mind being a 'kept' woman.

I mean, I'd cook and volunteer a lot, of course.

In the Comments section, tell me what you'd do if you were a kept (wo)man.

Oh, and tag, babycakeses, 'cause you're all sorts of it !: Cami-to-the-Kaos, Constant Winter, Dusty Old Dust, Effortlessly Average, Flat Coke and Flies, Hey Pretty and the lovely My Reflecting Pool.