Myrtle Beach...

The birthday celebration in Myrtle Beach was good. We consumed quite a lot of alcohol, but all of it in the safety of our room/balcony or on hotel grounds. H. was a wee bit past her limit Saturday night and wasn't feeling her best Sunday morning. That being said, she was a trooper and consented to have IHOP for breakfast. I have to go there again this weekend... they have these new lemon pancakes with berry compote that look amazing. How often does that happen? Advertisement food never looks like food. There's this one billboard for the humongous-est hamburger chain where the three pieces of bun, two patties of glistening meat and fixin's have what I imagine is the opposite effect on my desire to choose fast food. Not even the meat eater in the car thought it looked like food. Blech. Glistening is not a good food adjective.

I took three pictures. Here's one taken at 8:30 in the morning from our balcony...





























Here's another taken after lunch at the NASCAR Cafe. You read that correctly, the NASCAR Cafe. The onion rings were good... After lunch we headed back towards the beach. H. collects shot glasses and where better place is there to get a cheap shotglass of a souvenir than at a Wings? (Or an Eagles, but we stopped at Wings because it was on the right side of the street and why turn left across three lanes of MB weekend traffic when you can turn right? Silly.)

















This past Wednesday evening we all gathered for H.'s birthday celebration at the Westside Six Feet Under. I was impressed. With the food and the wait staff. The seating on their deck leaves something to be desired for those of us with legs that do not go on forever. The fried green tomatoes appetizer was lovely. I had the blackened shrimp tacos and they were perfect. The textures, the flavors, the slightly crispy edges of the soft taco tortillas were all perfect. The only dish at our table of 10 that didn't thrill was the chicken fingers and those because the coating, a seafood style cornmeal batter, fell off in great chunks. Naked chicken finger is unattractive in its beige and glistening fleshiness.

Wednesday morning I went to the optomotrist for a check up and to get contacts. I've worn glasses for 21 years and cannot explain why the contacts are now appealing. It's certainly not a sport reason, though there is a sport to keeping a toddler from snatching the glasses off your face. It may be a vanity thing, but I honestly think my face looks better with glasses - cuts up the moonish expanse of cheek. We'll see. I was only able to wear them 3 hours Wednesday before the eyeballs started to strain. I don't relish the idea of taking them out in the bathroom at work, so I've not worn them since Wednesday afternoon. I'll wear them again this afternoon.

Wednesday afternoon was spent with J. and my ever lovlier niece. It is amazing how charming and infinitely entertaining I find this child. Even when she goes on a crying jag (likely because it so rarely happens - at least in my presence, I'm certain my sister and the binlaw have lost their taste for the screaming).

This weekend should be quiet. I will be going to see Billy Currington this evening. I am very much looking forward to the concert as I love his voice. Love it. Sometimes I imagine his core audience is middle-aged women in unfortunately sexless marriages; if you don't count his sad songs, he's a bit like country music's version of the romance novel.

Sunday morning I'll be watching the European Grand Prix. The race should be pretty frickin' fun to watch as it's on a new street course in Valencia, Spain (also home to the America's Cup) with 25 turns (most tracks have 15-17 and are dedicated). As I read up on the various journalist's blogs I enjoy, I again marvel at the great interest I take in their subject. It is easy to forget that there are those (even myself five years ago) who would find these blogs beyond boring. In a similar vein, as I was reading F1Racing (a monthly magazine I love), I realized that I find every article worth reading. It's a sickness, truly. Who knew the subject/hobby I would become enthralled with is also the one in which no one else in my world is remotely interested.