I hate to call my girlfriends out like this, but I’ve noticed that most of the women I know all still use some kind of tampon with a plastic applicator. This is a pet peeve of mine. While I’m still not to the point where I want to use a cup instead of a ‘feminine cigar,’ I highly recommend that all women use an applicator-free tampon. I will forever maintain that you will get to know your own body better if you don’t use an applicator - srrrrsly . . . if you can’t touch yourself, who can?

I read an article in Mother Jones Magazine last fall about how the world’s oceans and beaches are getting inundated by plastic applicator trash. We as women are supposed to be closer to Mama Nature, but the tampon industry, in an effort to market ‘useful’ things, have forgotten to remind us that these applicators often end up spoiling our land.

There’s not much of anything more nasty than walking the beach after a heavy rain and seeing a used applicator poking out of the sand. Just sayin’.

To-go boxes just confuse me. Why do restaurants insist on packing our food in these things? Often I find that they are much bigger than needed and in the end, they get tossed. It’s a waste. Don’t let the recycling emblem on a food box trick you. It’s nearly impossible to recycle styrofoam (or any kind of packaging that has food bits, grease, etc stuck on it.)

Being on the road, I have the capacity to go through many of these boxes. I always ask for my leftovers to be wrapped in a piece of tin foil. Sometimes the server looks at me as though I’ve sprouted a third head from my armpit when I ask for a piece of tin foil as opposed to a box. Sometimes I have to take extra time to explain that I do not want a to-go box. But it’s worth it.

Obviously, some wet items like soup or chinese food necessitate more packaging, but for that extra half-sandwich, this is a small and very effective way to cut down on waste. Plus, an item wrapped in foil fits easier into your purse or back-pack. I’ve even carried leftover pancakes tucked flat and neat inside my journal with this method. It’s easier to trek when your hands are free and you’re not lugging around a burdensome bag with a to-go box inside.

Remember - it’s all about re-education. People don’t think of solutions as it’s often easier to accept what is presented - and restaurants usually only give the option of a to-go box. Help re-educate in restaurants. Ask for your leftovers to be wrapped in tin foil. Or if you want to get really hard-core eco-friendly, ask for a newspaper wrapper. For now, tin foil works for me.

Every single time I turn that bend on the 90/94 expressway and suddenly the brick buildings and the hulking steel structures appear in front of me . . . I feel a settled-ness, a calmness, a great big warm sigh of relief right in my belly and my head and my heart. And yesterday was no different. I love Chicago.

Yesterday, I had the entire afternoon all to myself in my Grandma’s apartment. I re-organized my suitcase. I’ve not had a moment to do this for several weeks. It’s difficult to get going in the morning when you can’t find your toothbrush. Then I laid down on her bed and took a few deep breaths and then thought, “OK . . . what next?”

Then it hit me . . . my Chicago friends were having an afternoon BBQ. There is just no way I can be in the state of Illinois and not go see all of them. And now, reflecting on it, I’m so glad I did. It was a magical convergence. It just so happened that there was a special training event going on in town and so several of my friends from Detroit, St. Louis and San Francisco also showed up. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming up either, so when I ran into the courtyard, everyone was really surprised. It was great. I mean, there’s nothing much that compares to ten of your favorite people all arguing over who gets to pick you up and bear hug you first.

I retold all my latest adventures and a few of these friends pointed out that for the four years they’ve known me, I have always been a gypsy. (I hadn’t realized that, not really.) I put some pieces of the puzzle of “what will Anna do next” together and ran into some folks who can help educate me about straw/cob housing - which is my latest interest. Everyone is trying to convince me to move there.

We ended my 24 hours in town with lunch at one my favorite restaurants - Lula- located in Logan Square. I highly recommend this cafe - the food is always local, fresh, unique and priced very reasonably, especially considering the eclectic mix of items that they serve. They serve brunch daily, not just on weekends and everyday the menu changes. I had the beet & arugula bruschetta - one of my favorites. Their bread is always grilled to perfection, never doing damage to the inside of your mouth the way alot of bruschettas have a tendency to.

Also the art there is always really great. I’ve been patronizing Lula for four years now. When I first lived in the neighborhood, they were never crowded during the weekdays, so now to arrive on a Monday afternoon and be put on a wait list was impressive for the tiny cafe that I’ve grown to love so much.

So I left late this afternoon, heading back down south, rambling ever closer to Nashville. I was going to drive all night, but an old friend in Champaign just called and so we’re going to catch up. Yup, the adventure always continues . . .

Someone asked me that question yesterday . . . where are all the accompanying pictures for these adventures?

Well . . . I must admit that I own more than several cameras, but for some reason the last few years I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from using most of them, even though I have a tendency to carry a camera with me just about everywhere I go. The only thing I can figure is that I have been so transfixed by all the moments unfolding in front of me that I have not had time nor inclination to use cameras to freeze those happenings.

I realized awhile ago that it’s difficult to be very good at several things simultaneously. The past few years as I’ve been gypsying around, I’ve been paying attention to the conversations and the things happening around me . . . and instead of capturing those moments on film or digitally, I’ve been writing about them . . . because more than anything, writing about those moments is my gift and truest calling. I do have a passion for photography, but have been more interested as of late to proceed fullest throttle forward with the one passion that trumps even my photo bug . . . and that is my writing.

Well, her nose finally stopped bleeding. Her main concern was that she’d be all bloody for her party and have to shove  wads of cotton up her nose. That and she was having trouble deciding between three different outfits to wear. In the end, she said that her 90th birthday party was even more exciting than her wedding day - she said it was the most exciting day of her life. I’m glad she was able to enjoy it and not worry about all the little stuff, although she was very concerned about one of the table cloths being excessively wrinkled. She forgot all about that when the people began to arrive.

My aunt and uncle and  I have been working on this, thinking about this shindig and planning the entire year. It was stressful. She’s worth it though. Now that it’s over I sort of feel like I can get on with my own business. I’ve been galavanting the United States most of the year with the intention of pointing myself in her general direction by July and honestly hadn’t had much time to think beyond last Saturday where I’d let the winds carry me next.

So, I’m figuring that out . . . oh, within the next few days.

Get used to it if you read this blog. I’ve been thinking about my usage of them quite alot lately.

It’s not going to change any time soon.

And on those aforementioned BAD days, sometimes some people forget to use their turn signal, K? Hang with me, I know this sounds ugly even though it’s posted in the ‘Dwell in Positivity’ category . . .

So, Mister Silver Beamer in the parking lot of Union Station in Champaign Illinois tonight who gave me MAJOR attitude for not using my blinker, I’ve had a bad fucking day. I woke up this morning on a couch in a nursing home, smelling cranky old ladies’ feet and worried sick about my granny who will be 90 tomorrow. I was awake all night long last night listening to her choke and cough and gag on the half-clotting blood from her endlessly bleeding nose.

The reason, Mr.-Heartland-Do-Right-Perfection-of-Driving-Beamer-Man, that I could not use my fucking turn signal is because I had clasped in a death-grip in my non-driving hand my Granny’s spare oxygen tank. I’d just dropped her off at the on ramp of the nursing home located across the street and had offered to carry her spare tank up to her room for her. In case you don’t know, apparently oxygen tanks cannot tip over, or something really bad happens, at least that’s what Granny’s lecture to me implied. (Or whether something bad truly happens or not, my granny seems to think it to be so and therefore completely freaks out about it, and that just makes me not want to know what happens, quite frankly.)

I turned the corner to go into the parking lot and this asshole who could not have turned anyway (because I was driving on the road perpendicular to him) totally gave me an incredulous WTF shrug instead of the less eloquent middle finger. And you know what? I probably would have responded better to an obscene hand gesture instead of a patronizing shrug and the wifey’s smug looks.

I kind of lost it. I stopped right then and there as I pulled up right next to his BMW and I took the time to hand crank the window of my rental car down . . . (yah, I didn’t spring for the luxury rental car with the power package) . . . and I lifted the oxygen tank up into the air. I think Mr. Aged Fuckwad and his family thought I was about to pull a gun or something.

“Hey,” he said as though he were lecturing a teenager, “All I ask is that you use a blinker and tell me what you’re doing.”

I shot fire from my eyes and said, “Look. I’ve had a bad day, OK? I hope,” I paused, “that you have a good night.” The wife made some kind of righteous comment that I did not hear, but her tone reeked of mockery.

And I rolled on. And I really meant it in that moment. And still do. I truly hope they have a better night than the day I had. And of course, this event was just the proverbial last straw . . . there was much more that contributed to a collectively difficult day.

(Deep Breath.) All I am attempting to illustrate is that sometimes you just never know what others have been dealing with during a typical day. Remember that the next time you feel the need to be a dick and I will try to do the same and maybe all of us on this rock can get along a little better. Compassion. Try it.

My friend Smack and I went to one my favorite Nashville used booksellers, The BookWoman, the other day while I was in town. We spent hours perusing the endless dark aisles of books while thunderstorms boomed outside in Hillsboro Village. My perfect definition of a way to spend an afternoon.

She pulled a book off the shelf. It was Siddhartha, a book that’s on my reading list.

“Banana,” Smack said, “have you read this yet?”

“Not yet.” I said.

“It’s only a dollar. You need this.”

She is correct. I do need it. It is, after all, on my list. When the BookWoman tallied up my spoils, the price seemed more than I’d calculated in my head. I asked her to go over the receipt with me. Turns out Siddhartha was $6.95.

“I thought this one was a dollar.” I said, pointing to the book in question.

The BookWoman took a deep breath and a long pause and peered at me over her the top of her bifocals. “Honey,” she said, “That one is never a dollar.”

Fair enough. I’ll be reading it this weekend. Obviously I agreed with her because I purchased the book. I’ll let ya know what I think.

Everybody knows everybody in small towns.

Yesterday, we went to grab some food at Green Acres diner - home of the monster burger - in Adairville, Kentucky. As we waited for our burgers, I perused the community bulletin board. On it, I found a business card for The Ghost Hunter.

As we entertained ourselves with speculation about The Ghost Hunter, I thought to myself, “Hmm . . I wonder if that person is sitting in here right now or if someone he knows is.” I felt as though the chances were slim since there were only four other patrons in the restaurant.

Our top questions for the Ghost Hunter are:

Does he investigate crop circles? What is his stance on aliens? How ’bout ghost-aliens? Ghost-robots? And where did he find the clip art for his card?

After we finished the last of our tater tots and onion rings, we got up to pay the bill just as the two now remaining customers were also getting up to check out. I thumb-tacked the Ghost Hunter’s card back up to the cork board. The man in line said, “You got a kick outta my card, huh?”

“Do you do aliens too?” I asked.

He just laughed and pointed to his wife. “Naw, that’s her territory.”

I left East Nashville on Monday and headed up to visit my friends Matt and Hardy at Hardy’s farm, which sits right on the Tennessee-Kentucky state line. I stayed only two delightful days, but packed alot of good times inside of 48 hours.

I had a bit of trouble finding the place and cell signals don’t work so well up there, so I stopped in for a respite at the Tenn-Tucky Tavern, located on the state line between Tennessee and Kentucky. I knew they’d wonder where I was and eventually find me, so I wasn’t too worried.

“Do ya’ll serve food here?” I asked the bartender, who just shook her head and laughed. “All right then, I guess I’ll just be having a PBR tallboy and a pack of smokes.” Turns out that bartender was one of my customers when I used to be a traveling sex toy saleslady in those parts. Such a small world.

After Matt and Hardy collected me from the Tavern, we went to the farm and visited two completely different ends of the culinary spectrum. First we cracked open a wheel of brie and a nice bottle of red wine and then followed that up with lots of PBR and some boy-scout style open pit cooking using nothing but hot coals and shovel.

We waited til dark, grabbed some tobacco sticks to use as hiking poles and then tromped through the woods, exploring a long abandoned one-room schoolhouse and a pre Civil War graveyard. We ran through fields of mist. We hung out for a bit on the state-line road. I stretched out with my head on the Tennessee pavement as my legs dangled into Kentucky’s border. Why that was so much fun is beyond me, but it was.

We stayed up all night long listening to music. I played some air banjo. We danced our asses off to old records - my favorite in particular was The Crazy Water Barn Dance. When the sun rose, casting a golden sheen on the cut wheat fields, I finally went to bed.

I love unemployment.