Smashmob

As I asserted on Twitter last Tuesday, I think most of society's problems can be solved with a well-executed flash mob.

This proves that theory. This Smash Mob was one of the coolest things I've ever been a part of in my many years on this planet.

Fall what?

We just returned from Fall Break, which is Nashville's way of saying, "By the first week of October, we realize what a colossally bad idea it is to send the kids back to school closer to the Fourth of July than Labor Day, so here's the week that you could have had in August with the rest of the country so you can completely destroy all semblance of a routine you finally had going. Oh, and we're still going ahead with your child's sports schedule because we also realize the rest of the world continues as planned so good luck planning a trip or anything that doesn't revolve around an out-of-town game."

So we went to Louisville for a hockey tournament.

I'm not complaining--I don't hate Fall Break until this Monday after when we all have to go back after 10 days of sleeping at odd times and alternating meals between pizza and lukewarm powdered eggs out of chafing dishes at the Homewood Suites. I feel like I've woken up hungover from a night of huffing airplane glue from an EPA case study on how not to ventilate an ice arena.

Oh wait, we did.

But we made fun anyway. When we weren't hallucinating or vomiting from the lingering Zamboni fumes, we managed to take in a movie, do some shopping and even go to the Louisville Slugger museum and factory which I highly recommend if you're ever out that way. Before we left, the kids had a couple of sleepovers and homemade baked goods were consumed, so it was a fine week no matter how you slice it.

Even if it's a big ole slice of warm pumpkin pie instead of a refreshing Key Lime.

Trash-ville

I’d like to offer a new regular feature here on this blog entitled, “Shit I have to get used to now that I live in Nashville.”

Let me preface this by saying how much I love it here, but every new place has its quirks, and Nashville seems to have quite a few. So to my new friends: no offense, but y’all do things a tad differently around these parts. Old friends: You guys are not going to believe this.

One of the biggest domestic obstacles I’ve faced here is trash pickup service. In every other state we’ve lived in, waste services were through the city-- you put out your cans twice a week along with curbside recycling and the trash would be picked up without incident. Life was good and clean.

Here, they run things differently. 

There is no city pickup, so everything is run privately. Our neighborhood probably has 15 different companies that pick up trash, but no one seems to want to coordinate one main vendor because--and you’ll hear this phrase a lot-- “That’s not how we do things in the South.”

When I called the number that our realtor left to arrange for service, it rang to a cell phone somewhere with background noises that suggested either illegal cockfighting or filming of a new TLC reality series.

“Do I need any special size can or place it somewhere specific on the curb?”

“Just leave any can you want outside or in your garage with the back door unlocked, we’ll get it. We don’t have a whole lot of rules.”

“Ok, what about recycling?”

“Yeah, we don’t really get into that.”

A week later, this shows up in the driveway; a 1983 Ford F-150 retro-fitted with a dumpster. Nothing that isn’t double-bagged or bigger than a Dixie cup gets picked up and we haul the recycling up to the drop-off center every weekend.

For months I try in vain to find a new company. Over half of the numbers in the Yellow Pages (Yes, that archaic scroll) are disconnected, and the other half don’t service our area. I drive around the neighborhood following real garbage trucks and frantically writing down numbers from my neighbors trash cans--all with the same result. 

In the mean time, the original company reduces pickup days from two to one without lowering the bill and only communicates through passive-aggressive notes taped on the can.

Finally, at long last I get a hold of a company that will not only pick up ALL of the trash with a real trash truck, but also collects recycling! 

I eagerly await the first week and they empty the trash can they provided, but not the loose trash at the bottom of the other can that the first company has refused. Fine, I have lived in the South long enough to realize how this is supposed to go.

The next week, I leave my own very nice note and a small cash incentive asking if new trash company will please just empty the other can this once of the loose items so we can start fresh and move on. I check outside all morning to see if in fact the trash has been taken. 

What was taken was the 20 bucks before the trash guys ever got there.

And the recycling? Well, we’re still taking that up to the center every weekend, facing the scowls of the employees who must secretly hate the planet or something because they give you such a hard time at every drop-off since no retailer in Middle Tennessee sells the special blue recycling bags the Company B will pick up. And now that we have our cans at the end of the driveway on pickup days, the entire county throws their loose trash in our cans creating an even bigger mess than before that Company A or B and our car now looks like the above picture after months of hauling trash in it.

If I’ve said one untruth, please, native Nashvillians, correct me publicly.

But that fact is that not only can’t I make this shit up, I can’t get my shit hauled away.

Photo credit: Me. Because Google didn't even believe me that there was such a thing.

20th Anniversary Dinner (and breakfast)

Last week we celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. And what better way to do so than at a restaurant it takes 20 years to get a reservation? (Or close to it.)

By sheer luck (or default) we did manage to secure a spot at Nashville’s newest culinary hotbed--The Catbird Seat Restaurant. It features no menu, but an offering of 7-12 courses of whatever the chefs feel like making and/or what’s in season. As a foodie and lover of all things new in the dining experience, they had me at “porcini Oreo.”

Unfortunately, the only reservation available in this decade was on a Thursday night at 9:30 p.m. We didn’t get seated until after 10, which is usually the witching hour for people with jobs and kids, so I preface the entire experience with that caveat. Once we were seated, we were immediately plied with several of the most delicious courses paired with interesting libations that I would never have been able to remember later save the graph/flow chart that they give you on the way out.



Among the offerings I can remember was an oyster in cucumber water that tasted like the sea, a cow liver braised in an onion cream sauce that tasted like the earth, and a dessert of, “Wood grain sponge cake, maple jam, Birch cream, and pine snow” that I swear was a spoonful of the forest. It may have been one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten, and certainly the closest you could ever come to opening your mouth outside and taking in a big, luscious bite of Mother Nature’s pantry.

There were a couple of things that may have been better left outside to the elements (the beef cheek was a miss along with some mead that tasted like Beowulf brewed it) and that may or may not have contributed to my nausea that lasted the weekend. But so much was so right with the experience (and it was more than a meal, it was a journey) that I will assert that the 27 saltine crackers I ate over the next two days were worth that one small plate of aerated foie gras with Meyer lemon mostarda, St. Germain pudding and pumpernickel.

Just maybe not at midnight.

Just another week in Music City

Some of these summer days have been spent kicking it with the country stars in my never-ending quest to hob-knob with Nashville's famous and replace the top search of my blog with something other than Kenny Chesney's headwear or lack thereof. Here are just a few recent photos from the CMT awards and from the Grand Ole Opry.



Carrie Underwood belting it out on the Opry stage.



Darius Rucker, or Hootie if you're old school.



This is how close we were to Nicole and Keith on the Red Carpet at the CMT's.



But here are the real stars...

Suburban Diva's Top 5 Country Stars Based Nothing on Music But Only My Warped Sense of Priorities:

5. Barbara Mandrell. I met her and she made a very witty joke while she was drinking something with a lime in it. We could totally hang.

4. Kenny Chesney because he brings me hundreds of hits on my blog everyday.

3. Alan Jackson. He's my neighbor and it's always 5 o'clock on our street.

2. Carrie Underwood. Her husband Mike Fisher is an awesome hockey player who is going to help bring the Cup to Nashville.

And my new number one favorite?



Kix Brooks. Country music legend, Preds fan, and gentleman. AND HE OWNS HIS OWN WINERY.

(Note to Garth Brooks or Brad Paisley: You could totally take over the number one position with a cupcake stand and decent Margarita mix.)

Suburban Diva goes country

"Are you ever going to update your blog?"

I get that a lot.

The answer is, I guess.

I've been writing this blog since 2004 when no one even knew what a blog was, including me. It sort of started as a way to journal motherhood, life--in a publicly-censored sort of way. Then it became a bulletin board to family and friends who knew me and wanted updates into what was going on. I even started to get sponsors who weren't paying me for posts, but who invested some cash and prizes for my readers.

Lately, though, it doesn't do much except attract visitors who want to know what Kenny Chesney looks like without a hat. (That's one of my top Google searches.)



You're welcome.

I'm lucky that I get to journal motherhood over on Whoa Momma a few times a week. I get to talk about my love of books in the World Of Westchase. I get to post my column there and still on my own site which I love. I keep up with people I know on Facebook and email. That leaves this blog as a very lonely bandwidth collector of late.

As blogging has evolved, so has my family. It's not always easy to write of the latest happenings in a public forum without potentially embarrassing or disclosing something that has no business being out there. I leave out 98% of real life things (shocking that I do have a filter) because that's just how it needs to be. And that's okay.

So I started really thinking of what the next step is in this blog, and I realized that the one topic I don't really have an outlet for at the moment is this move--this town--and life as a suburban mouse who goes to the country.

Which is not to make fun of Nashvillians or Tennesseans at all. That would somehow elevate Florida to a position of normalcy which is absolutely the biggest lie ever, because Florida is the capital of Crazy, USA. No, in fact, everywhere I've ever lived or visited has its own unique form of crazy and part of the challengefun is navigating through native crazy with foreign straight jackets. So I think I'll focus on this place for a while.

I think all I've really talked about our new home is the weather, which is technically crazy, but redundant after a while. (Florida, you win on that score.) And since the weather is breaking a little (still was 44 yesterday which felt like -28 when you're ready to see tulips) there is a lot more to talk about.

Like driving 10 miles to find a gas station. Or our never-ending quest to find the best BBQ. (Coincidentally also in a gas station.) Or road-kill. (On the way to the gas station.)

And even stalking country music stars.

Hat or no hat.

So meet me in Nashville for the next few weeks. I'd love to show you around.

Snow Days

We had our first of many last week. On Monday, we got hit with about 4 inches legit of snow. My kids immediately went sledding despite having not much snow, not much hill and not much sled. It was fun nonetheless.

We played in it, and then came inside to hot cocoa and cookie baking. It was really beautiful, cozy and very Norman Rockwell-esque.

Until you had to drive in it.

Now I am a salt-seasoned driver. I learned to drive on the potholed roads of lower Michigan--a slippery, slushy, snowy mess nine months out of the year. You can't get your driver's license there without knowing how to successfully navigate icy roads and scrape your windshield with a cassette cover.

I had this.

Until I realized that the state of Tennessee doesn't own snow plows. Or salt trucks. No, the only tool they have in their snow-removal arsenal is the sun, with the hope it melts the white stuff on the ground by rush hour.

It doesn't.

Tennesseans are quick to tell you that this is out-of-the ordinary weather for them--that it almost NEVER snows here at all, and if it does, it certainly never sticks.

Tennesseans are liars. Because although they are really wimpy about the snow, they were not surprised by it. And the hardware store on the corner sold snow shovels.

I rest my case.