I've moved! Visit me at Miss Trashahassee.
You can also visit me at Tallahassee.com. You'll have to register to leave comments there, however. But once you register, you can write your own blog there to be read by thousands ... cool! It's no longer limited to just us trashy folk!
BFF,
Miss T
In my last post, I asked the two or three people who visit this blog to give their opinion of what message this photograph conveys about the possible outcome of Super Tuesday.
Well, dad-burn it if 13 separate folks went and made things rough on me by posting 13 thoughtful remarks. A decision was needed, and I had to pick somebody's comment.
It is easier to pick your nose than to pick one comment out of 13 good ones. Pick'n'chews is easy. Pick and choose ain't.
So I just. . .
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February 5 is Super Tuesday this year.
What message does this photograph convey about the possible outcome?
Best answer gets printed in the grassy area of the photo and featured in a later blog post.
Keep it clean.
Go.
Click here to post your comment at Tallahassee.com
Several weeks ago I visited the Web site of the National Do Not Call Registry and registered our phone number.
What seemed like an endless stream of calls from telemarketers stopped. It was magic.
Well, magic until last week, when Ron Paul got ahold of our phone number and his people left a message on our answering machine. And then on Wednesday we heard from a friend of John McCain. Yesterday Rudy Giuliani's camp called. Today it was some lady for Gov. Mike Huckabee.
Every single one of 'em was trying to sell themselves to the household's two registered voters before the Florida Presidential Preference Primary on Jan. 29.
Their calls are too late for the Ol' Man since he has taken advantage of early voting. But I haven't, and now I'm thinking I may vote on the constitutional amendment only and skip the presidential race, as long as I don't get a call from anybody about the amendment.
After introducing Gov. Huckabee's friend to Mrs. Click today, I hit the laptop and did a little checking to find out why -- our number is on the Do Not Call Registry, for Heaven's sake -- we're getting these irritating calls.
Well, I'm here to tell you. The cleverly written Federal Telemarketing Sales Rule 'splains everything: Political organizations aren't required to follow the rule because they don't fall under the jurisdiction of the Federal Trade Commission.
How convenient is that?
Just about everyone who has lived in the Big Bend area for any length of time knows that Wakulla Springs is a natural paradise. I won't describe it any further here; just click the link and see for yourself.
The 1976 photograph above shows me and my little brother at the edge of the swimming area, where we spent many a day in the icy spring water most summers during my childhood.
Bliss.
Fast forward to this century. The 2002 photograph below shows that my own kids and nieces and nephews have enjoyed Wakulla Springs themselves. But their kids might not get that privilege. And why?
Rhymes with bliss.
The latest update in the Democrat about the fate of the springs is that a developer still wants to build 700 homes nearby on a portion of 700 acres. That means there's gonna be a gallon or zillion of pee-pee water for treatment.
.
And that's a ton more treated yuck to ...
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One thing I've found fascinating about the Internet is the free access to photographic archives.
Some of the photos posted on this blog have come from the Florida Memory Project, a Web site administered by the Florida Department of State, where I could spend mega hours just browsing the thousands of pictures and other items available.
The Florida Department of State must have known that some people can't be satisfied with just one site to feed an archive addiction like mine, so they planned accordingly with the Florida Electronic Library, a portal through which anyone can get tons of electronic information from a zillion different sources. If you have a ...
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Quick! Who's the governor of Alabama?
If you don't know the answer, don't worry. Travel to the Cotton State on a highway and you'll learn who sits on the commander-in-chief's throne just before you cross the state line: the governor's name is posted right under the state's on the same sign post at the border.
Now, there's plenty of roads going into Alabama from other states. I ain't an expert on signs, but I imagine that by the time you figure the materials and labor costs to make and then erect the signs for most of the major roads -- and then take them down again when the governor leaves office -- well, that's probably a huge, needless expense that the taxpayers of Alabama ought not have to pay.
The people of Alabama elected their governor, so most of them probably think he's a pretty neat guy and they also know his name. They don't need a sign to tell them who he is.
And why the heck would a non-resident need to know the name of a state's governor when they're on the road, anyhow?
I've never driven into any other state and immediately needed to know the name of the governor. Never even thought about it, really. But if I ever do need to know, I can get that information anytime I want through several different methods. A highway marker with just a name ain't one of them.
What those Alabama sign people oughta do is put up some information that people can really use, like maybe the governor's name and his personal home and cell phone numbers so that all of the folks who see it can call him to tell him they just crossed the 'Bama line or to ask where to buy the cheapest and loudest fireworks. Or maybe just to say, "Oh, Bobby ...
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When the Ol’ Man and I visit St. Augustine, we try to be aware of the local rules, even the ones that seem to have been written when the rule-makers were sipping a little too much somethin-somethin’ from the legendary Fountain of Youth.
Not everybody is as attentive as we are, I reckon. We watched countless doodleheads walk by the sign in this photograph, and not one of them stopped to buss anybody. That's surprising for such a popular honeymoon destination.
Maybe the sign confuses people, which is understandable. The top section grants permission for some healthy, non-idle, public lip-lock. But the bottom part isn't as open-minded as the upper, advising bussers of a 10-minute time limit and, even more puzzling, a stern warning of “no parking.”
My sisters used to tell me that parking and bussing often naturally occur at the same time, in the same spot. So the restrictions on these complementary activities do seem a bit baffling, don’t you think?
Oh well. Me and the Ol’ Man weren’t confused. We stopped for ...
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Today I attended the Veterans Day observance in our nation's oldest city, St. Augustine.
The ceremony was held on the grounds of the fortress Castillo de San Marcos, an awe-inspiring backdrop for the 25 color guards from veterans organizations and service clubs, the St. Johns County Sheriff's Office, the St. Augustine Police Department, and the Florida National Guard.
I left my handkerchief at the hotel, and almost right away I wished I'd remembered to bring it with me. I needed it.
Quite a few townsfolk and tourists passed by the patriotic activities on San Marco Avenue -- in their vehicles, on bicycles, on scooters, on foot -- as if it were just another day, just another attraction.
It was abundantly clear that something special was happening. This is evident in the photographs.
I told myself that the people who didn't stop walking and riding their bicycles/vehicles during the Pledge of Allegiance, the national anthem and "Taps" were foreigners who didn't know better so that I wouldn't cry myself into a migraine.
During one of the speeches, an idiot in a pickup was stopped at the red light at the crosswalk on San Marco Avenue, which is in the area where the podium and speakers were set up. Mr. Dookie for Brains was playing Conway Twitty's "Don't Call Him a Cowboy (Until You've Seen Him Ride)" so loud that no one could ...
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I got a good chuckle out of Stacey Getz's recent blog post in which she expresses her disbelief at some of the clothing local high school kids are allowed to wear on campus.
Stacey's post -- titled "You're wearing that?!" -- got me to thinking about my own high school days and the dress code, or lack thereof, back then.
This photograph of my sister and me was taken in 1979 at a Tallahassee high school. Neither one of us got sent home ...
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Country singer John Anderson, in town this weekend to perform at the Downtown Getdown, is an example of pure American talent at its finest. His unique voice sets him apart from other musicians, and when you hear Anderson on the radio, you know it's him.
Nobody else sounds like the singer of "Seminole Wind" and "Straight Tequila Night."
But Anderson's appearance, now, that's a whole 'nother story. He's everyman. Ol' John can blend into a crowd and make himself look just like the rest of us Highway 20 folk.
Anderson's got an award or two under that black lid he wears most of the time. In addition to scores of music industry nominations and honors, in 1985 the Florida Legislature recognized the artist for one of his major hits: "(When You Get on the Whiskey) Let Somebody Else Drive." The title pretty much sums it up: Don't drink and drive. I say that deserves mega attention.
That year I worked in the Capitol. At lunch one day during the legislative session, as a friend and I were enjoying some of the entertainment put on by some schoolchildren on the Plaza Level, the friend pulled my arm and diverted my attention to three people standing near the elevators.
"That's ... that's ... you know who that is, don't you?" my friend asked, since he knew I listened to country music and just might know.
I checked out the trio. The shortish dude with the longish hair and cowboy hat looked terribly familiar, like this guy I went to high school with who drove a great big ol' four-wheel-drive truck with a gun rack in the window (legal back in those days). That's who I thought it was. Nobody else came to mind right that second.
My friend was disappointed. "You sure you don't know who that is?" he pleaded. He knew it was somebody, but he couldn't figure it out.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and then it hit me.
"That's John Anderson!" I screamed, loud enough for everybody to turn around to see who was a-hootin' and hollerin'.
My friend put his hands over his face.
John Anderson and company boarded the elevator. I wasn't about to let that opportunity to actually meet the singer of "Swingin'" go up the elevator shaft. So I clippity-clopped over to the elevator as fast as my white pumps would allow and ...
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Last week I did something stupid.
I tried to jog and blog. On a treadmill. Simultaneously.
Didn't work.
Yep, I busted it.
And now I've got a broken shoulder and tons of pain.
The accident was not my fault. I swear it wasn't.
Naturally, I want to sue somebody for my pain and suffering, which is immense. But I haven't been able to determine who I wanted to file my suit against until today.
I'm thinking that I'll file suit against the Casselberry, Fla., Police Department. My complaint is that after reading the story about the police officer who slipped in a puddle of water after responding to a rescue call and is now suing the grandparents of the now-disabled child who was the victim in that whole scenario, I got real thirsty.
And I need me a beer.
But I don't want to use my own money to pay for one.
I've got rights, too, dang it.
And my complaint is certainly not nearly as ridiculous as that ...
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My Conair hair dryer has a big warning label attached to the cord. The warning, printed in big red letters, says, among other things, the following:
TO REDUCE RISK OF DEATH BY ELECTRIC SHOCK, DO NOT USE WHILE BATHING
That particular warning has been the topic of many conversations and jokes, since apparently somebody, somewhere, did exactly that. And some personal-care-appliance company paid out some big bucks because it didn't properly warn consumers of the consequences of the improper use of the product.
So now we have warning labels for everything, including these gems:
Never use a lit match or open flame to check the fuel levels on personal watercraft
Do not use [a phone directory] when operating a moving vehicle.
Do not drive with [sunshield that covers the windshield of car] in place.
I used to think that warning labels were, pretty much, for flippin' idiots. Really, who in his/her right mind would use a blow dryer in the shower?
But now I'm sure that I could've benefited from an "idiot warning label" on my treadmill ...
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If you didn't believe all that stuff about Elvis' mug showing up on a Moonpie and the Virgin Mary's image on a toasted-cheese sandwich, you will now.
What appears to be the image of a human infant can be seen in this photograph of the smoke that blanketed Tallahassee this past Thursday.
Yep, it's a miracle.
But even more wondrous is ...
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Today's big news story is the release of a recently recorded video from Al Qaeda leader Osama Bin Laden.
Bin Laden wants us all to become Muslims.
Should we?
Well, this is America. Anyone may convert to Islam if he or she wants to do so.
Miss Trashahassee isn't converting. I'm a Christian and plan to remain one, threat or no threat.
So, will anyone convert to Islam?
Sure. In America, the people have freedom ...
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Click here to go directly to singer/songwriter Mark McGuinn's 911 tribute: "More Beautiful Today"
My heart goes out to the family of Jonathan Foy, the convenience-store clerk who was murdered in cold blood by an armed robber this past Sunday at a Tallahassee BP/Island Food Store.
To try to comprehend how a fellow human being can choose to terminate the life of another -- his brother, in our Creator's eyes -- is simply beyond me. I just don't understand it. Don't want to.
What I do know, though, is the unbearable grief that comes from losing a family member at the hands of a criminal.
As a young child I watched my parents and grandparents mourn the tragic loss of my great-uncle John Vincent McCartney. Don't want to understand that, either. But it happened.
"Uncle Jack" owned and operated the M&M Grocery on 4th Avenue in Tallahassee's Frenchtown community with his wife, Aunt Mary, until January 1971, when he was gunned down by a couple of thugs who wanted something for nothing. The creeps would have killed Aunt Mary, too, but fortunately the gun misfired.
Jonathan Foy and Uncle Jack -- and countless others everywhere in similar situations -- didn't have to die. Their assailants could have just taken the money and ran. Wasn't that all they really wanted, anyway? What premium did they gain from adding murder to the crime?
Maybe it's not for us to understand why or how a criminal can live with himself (or herself) after commiting such a heinous act. For most of us, our minds don't work that way.
But it is our responsibility to ensure that people who intentionally kill others are prosecuted and punished to the fullest extent allowed by law.
That's the least we can do for Jonathan Foy and Uncle Jack.
Click here to post a comment at Tallahassee.com
Yep. Tallahassee has a "Husband of the Week."
What? Y'all didn't know that? Well, I reckon y'all wouldn't. It's a new thing -- just started today.
My Ol' Man is Tallahassee's very first "Husband of the Week."
Now, before all you wives out yonder get to hollering nepotism, or whatever, because I chose my own husband and didn't advertise that I was having a contest so other gals could enter their mens, let's look at the facts here: The Ol' Man ain't getting this award just because he's married to the sole judge, Mrs. Trashahassee.
Oh, no, not at all. The Ol' Man gets this award because he deserves it. And here is the indisputable proof: 
He's cute, even when his face is dirty.
Somehow ... he makes these knee-high Scout socks look good.
He keeps his look fresh by changing his hairdo often.
OK, dang it. I lied. I cheated and rigged the contest.
The Ol' Man won because he's been married to me for over 20 years, and that in itself qualifies him to take first place in "Husband of the Century," over which I also preside as the sole judge.
So don't even bother to nominate your hubbies, girlfriends. Ain't no other fellas nowheres, nohows stands a chance against my Ol' Man.
Now that's the truth!
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Tallahassee doesn't have a "Doorman of the Week."
But if it did, this week it would be Cory of Julie's Place on North Monroe Street.
Cory sees all kinds of nutty people as he tends to his duties at the entrance of Julie's Place. He makes sure they're old enough to enter. And when they are plenty aged enough to pass through the doors where karaoke is sung and intoxicating beverages flow, he doesn't make a big deal of it. He still wants to see that ID.
Go see Cory at Julie's Place. Tell him Miss Trashahassee sent you.
But don't forget your ID.
Tallahassee doesn't have a "Waitress of the Week."
But if it did, this week it would be Amanda of Logan's Roadhouse on Apalachee Parkway.
Amanda knows how to provide good service to crazy people. She does it with a huge smile and good conversation. And patience.
Amanda is Tallahassee's Waitress of the Week.
Go see her at Logan's for the best service in town. And tell her Miss Trashahassee sent you.
By now y'all've heard about the sheriff's deputy who was treated to an exhibit -- but not of the museum variety -- by a Hollywood woman on the steps of the Old Capitol early this morning. If you don't know about it, click here.
Now let's get something straight right here from the start: No matter what you may have heard to the contrary, it wasn't me. I ain't from Hollywood, and I dare anybody to ever accuse me of being from Broward County. That's a good way to make me really flippin' mad, that's for sure.
You know, Tallahassee is not known for adult entertainment, thank goodness. That type of thing just doesn't have much of a market around these parts. We don't want it here. Still, though, folks who've lived here for a long time ain't likely to get all worked up about some gal from the southern end of the state shakin' her groove thang in public.
That's probably because ...
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Fellow Tallahassee blogger "Nibor" knew that the Bibb Graves Memorial Bridge is located in Wetumpka, Ala., which is a quiet little town just north of Montgomery.
We've got our own Wetumpka just a short drive away, on the Gadsden County side of Lake Talquin. I'm not sure what's there, other than a volunteer fire department.
The Ol' Man and one of our young'uns wanted to do some whitewater kayaking on the Coosa River in the Wetumpka, Ala., area last weekend, so we loaded up the gear and headed toward the birthplace of the civil rights movement and Hank Sr.
Let me tell you, kayaking ain't for me. I don't do whitewater anymore, not since ...
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Ol Man and young'un in kayaks on the Coosa River at the base of the Jordan Dam in Wetumpka, Ala.
Dang, y'all sure had some cute guesses about the location of this bridge. Incorrect, but still cute.
It's not the bridge over the River Kwai. Troubled waters don't run beneath it. Sam Shade is confused, period; but we still like him. And Charlie the Unicorn didn't cross it with his pals on the way to Candy Mountain.
Sheila at Alabama Kitchen Sink -- "Springfield Sheila" in the haiku on the previous post -- says to give y'all this hint: "Big Fish."
Now go fishin'.
Post your guess, or comment, at Tallahassee.com.
My three men drink milk by the gallon, and so milk is something that always goes into our grocery cart.
I pretty much despise milk myself -- don't care for it much at all. And I ain't never paid much attention to dairy prices.
Yep. I'm a milk hater. I don't tolerate lactose, unless it's in ice cream. Or cheese.
Editor Bob Gabordi's blog post last week about the "sticker shock" he experienced after buying a gallon of milk got me to pondering this stuff we call milk and all its white, milky, glorious nastiness.
Jokes aside for just one bitsy second, I considered that there is much cause for concern with the rapidly rising prices for this simple food that provides necessary nutrients for so many people.
Then I remembered that the taste of plain milk is enough to make a dog puke cinnamon rolls.
Like milk or despise it, though, everybody has memories that involve this stuff.
Back in the 1960s Tallahassee had a special place ...
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Gawf is big ‘round here.Monday's post on Doug Blackburn's "Got Beer?" blog sent me back to the Seventies, a time when Miss Trashahassee had not a care in the world.
In the beginning of that decade, before the Bee Gees recorded their first disco hit, I was often a shoeless little gal, running around the trailer park with my siblings, cousins and friends -- all barefoot, too -- doing what young'uns did before video games, organized sports or studying for the FCAT became the center of every Florida child's universe.
Oh man, we loved swinging on the tire swing that Dad hung from a branch in the big oak tree, screaming our version of Mouth and MacNeal's "How Do You Do" until each kid's turn was over. We rode our bikes until the tires were flat. Monkeys couldn't climb trees better.
Nobody could call us wimps, either. Summertime rain rarely kept us inside unless it was a thunderstorm, and then it was Momma or Dad who made us stay indoors.
The games couldn't be beat: Freeze Tag, Swinging Statues, Red Light/Green Light, Hide and Seek. We played them all. Regularly. For hours.
By now, Momma's probably looking at all this with a good mind to whip my heinie because she believes I'm fixing to confess that I ... Click here to read more at Tallahassee.com
The Ol' Man, a young'un and I visited the National World War II Monument in Washington, D.C., earlier this year.
I've done some studying on service flags, better known as "Blue Star Banners," and so the monument's Freedom Wall and its field of gold stars was particularly interesting to me.
For those who aren't familiar with Blue Star Banners, here's a little background info:
Blue Star Banners were created during World War I but weren't widely displayed until World War II. Military families display them as symbols of family hope, pride and support for their service members. Each blue star on a banner represents one service member. If a service member dies while serving, a gold star replaces the blue star, as shown on the banner in the lower left corner of the photograph, above.
As I snapped this photograph of the Freedom Wall, which contains 4,000 gold stars to honor the over 400,000 Americans who died during World War II, I briefly thought of those who also sacrified their lives in every other war and conflict our nation has endured.
Then we moved on to the next monument to take more photographs. With so many tourists taking pictures everywhere, just being in D.C. sort of felt like Disney World, without Mickey and Donald.
Two months later I attended the funeral of a West Florida soldier killed in action in Afghanistan.
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