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What they teach you in Housekeeping School: Task #2455T4

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 02:30:29 PST

Artisanal pillow-denting

Valentine's Day in the SkyLodge

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 09:19:26 PST

So I bought my wife a pair of earrings for the day of love ... and she gave me this:

That's a 6,387-carat chocolate diamond, made by Drea Joubert, a woman she works with.

And don't it look nice on my furry, big hand?

Goodbye, city life!

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 14:04:05 PST

When my wife first got transferred to Nashville we knew she'd be spending most of the time in Tennessee by herself while I commuted from southwest Florida. We found a swell high-rise condo on the 29th floor of a building called The Viridian, and, because of the heavenly views, we named our place the SkyLodge. This worked nicely for awhile....until we sold our home in Florida.

Suddenly, 1,000 square feet had to hold not only Carol but me, full-time, and our two cats, who proceeded to take over the condo as if it were their own kitty condo. There are two couches. Each cat claimed one, which means we find ourselves shooshing and angering felines every time we want to sit down. There is a cat box in one bathroom, a cat box in the bathtub of the other. Every time we open the refrigerator door they come meowing and begging. They have basically ruined high-rise living for us. I joked with our friend, who is the condo association president:

"I know it's a $500 fine to throw a cigarette butt off my balcony, but is it still only $500 for something significantly larger? ... Or does the size of the fine increase with the size of the object?"

"Like what?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know ... like a ... like a cat, maybe?"

"Same fine," he said. "Cats and ciggies will cost the same."

Instead, we bought a house. It's a swell place in the Green Hills neighborhood, with a huge screened-in porch that overlooks a ravine of trees that are atwitter with birds. Though I certainly won't miss the aggressive homeless folk, I'm reluctant to leave downtown. We're surrounded by countless interesting people with jobs that take them all over the world. Lyricists for some of the biggest names in music, for example, live here. Last week the head singer of Lady Antebellum was eating meatloaf with friends on my floor. I also believe that our building, though I can't prove it, also is the center of Nashville's gay mafia, which means the Christmas decorations are faaaaaabulous and we know everything cool within 20 square miles. I have worn a pink cowboy hat while drinking Cosmos and joined friends shouting out at the TV as we watch Glee.

I'm afraid we're going to be bored with the folk in our new leafy neighborhood. Imagine this scenario:

"Oh, it's really nice to meet you," I'll say to Bill Blah. "What do you do?"

"I'm a stock analyst," he'll say.

"And ...?" I'll ask. "Is that all? Anything else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you write music for anyone famous?" I'll ask. "Do you run an entertainment company of some kind?"

"Uhhh ... well ...."

"Do you perform as a drag queen somewhere on the weekends? That would be cool."

"Uhm ... no ... but I do collect stamps."

Just kidding. I'm sure I'm gonna love the folks on Wentworth Avenue. Each time we've driven down the new street someone has waved at us from a driveway. I'm sure that Green Hills, like downtown, is filled with interesting people -- because this is Nashville, one of America's top-ten-favorite cities in just about every travel magazine.

A promise to my new neighbors: If I venture out in my underwear to get the mail, I'll promise to run so as to minimize disgust.

From the photo grab-bag ...

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 08:09:02 PST

Title: Mufasa on Pride Rock

Mixed media: Human, trees, rock and sky.

My Nomination for Creepiest Piece of Art Found on the Internet in 2011

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 04:25:10 PST

All I could think was: What would Stephen King do with this?

NOW do you believe me?

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 10:19:58 PST

I don't know about y'all, but I've pretty much given up on restaurant Chinese food. Stopped eating it for the most part. That's partially because there are so many other options these days -- Thai and Vietnamese, mainly. But I also avoid Chinese food because I'm invariably disappointed in it. Unless I'm in a big city like New York or San Francisco or Washington D.C. ... if I ask for spicy I get something that's about as daring as the gravy in an old-folks' home.

A friend who's married to a Chinese woman explained it to me one time: "You're what they call lo fan," he said. "It means white rice. Look at you; you look like a redneck. Rednecks don't like authentic, spicy foods. They're dumbing it down for you."

Today, very hungry, I stopped into a Chinese restaurant to order some Szechwan tofu with vegetables. It looked fresh and delicious but, once again, it was so benign that I would have fed it to a baby. I wondered: What can I do to convince these Chinese cooks that I like SPICY?

And then I had an idea: I'd just been grocery shopping, so I went out to the truck and pulled out a fresh serrano chili and took it inside and asked to speak to the cook. With him watching, I bit off the chili all the way to the stem, chewed it slowly and swallowed without flinching. His eyes widened.

"See?" I said. "I'm not lo fan. I want it hot. Please. I grew up with Mexicans -- I'm used to it."

He took my entree back to the kitchen and whipped me up another. When he set it down in front of me I could smell that he'd added fresh ginger and I could see red pepper flakes coating the shiny vegetables like confetti.

As I ate my wonderfully spicy food I could feel the cook and his cashier-wife watching me over my shoulder, as if I was some exotic animal that had wandered into their restaurant.

"You want something to drink?" she asked.

"No, thank you." I replied. "This is perfect."

Mr. Hudler, we regret to inform you that your Man Card has been revoked.

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 10:34:11 PST

This is what you're reduced to when you go out partying with someone named "Big George."

The Moving Diaries: Post #8443E5

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 10:32:21 PST

Though the movers don't come to Coconut Drive until the first week of January, I'm getting ready for them. I'm all by myself, and it's easy getting weepy as I sort through a quarter-century's worth of belongings.

Today I cleaned out and repaired my daughter's dollhouse, which had been all but abandoned beneath the stairs for the past decade. It's a little girl's dream dollhouse, made for Haley's fourth birthday by her Grandma Wanda. Wooden floors, real cedar shingles, three stories high.

I took all the contents outside, to the patio, with a pan of Mr. Clean-and-water and one of those spray cans of compressed air. I cleaned it all, then sorted everything by room into Ziploc bags. Also fixed and glued lots of things that had broken over the years.

I figured I needed to get this done. The movers will build a crate from wood, then seal it shut, and I'm guessing it will sit in the attic of our new home in Nashville for years to come ... probably until Haley has a family of her own. And on her daughter's fourth birthday, Carol and I will load it up into my truck and drive to wherever the hell she's living ... and we'll open it ... and Wanda's gift will be enjoyed for another generation.

Oh ... wait ... What if she has boys and no little girl? I suppose the house could be used as a barracks for little plastic army men. But which soldier would have to sleep in the pink canopy bed?

Party Planning Hint #82294R3

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 06:13:15 PST

What to do when you're transporting three dozen cupcakes with no one to hold them.

Something we need: Refrigerator Alert System

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 06:28:06 PST

And this is how it works: Every day, early in the morning, an electronic brain in the refrigerator takes stock of things inside that haven't been touched for at least a week. And then it transmits a message to a marquee on the front of the refrigerator door, blinking in red letters as you walk past: "Cottage Cheese! Remember you have cottage cheese in here. Mmmmmm. How about some cottage cheese with sliced peaches? Doesn't that sound good?"

And you think, "Hey! I'd forgotten all about that cottage cheese." Because how many times do we buy something and forget that we've bought it, and it lingers there in some dark corner, behind the pickles and olives and cabbage?

A Sneak Peek at My Western Roots

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 07:04:45 PST

Every year for Thanksgiving all Hudlers converge in Burlington, Colorado, at my folks' house. We're a small clan. While my family does most things very, very well ... breeding isn't one of them.

Mom just emailed me the photos from this year's get-together.

I want to introduce you to my wonderful mom and dad:. Meet Joy and Rol.

The names are interesting: Dad's full name is John Rollin Hudler II. And Mom's is Muriel Joy Hudler. She goes by Joy. Her sisters -- and I kid you not -- are named Happy and Lucky. (Aunt Lucky and her daughter Debbie also join us for Thanksgiving. On some years, Debbie performs her Elvis impersonation concert)

An eccentric family? You bet. A few examples of my mom's whimsical decorating are most telling:

The little snake hides in a plant in the bathroom. Women tend to miss him because they're sitting, but men are greeted, eye-to-eye with the little guy as they do their business.

My mom's spirit and personality have wound their way into at least two of my novels: Linc's runaway mom in Househusband and the character Geena in All This Belongs to Me. So far, dad has escaped my author's eye in crafting characters, but, nonetheless, he is there with me every day as I write: My dad taught me how to work, to get things done. I don't think I would have finished even one novel without his influence on my work habits.

Love y'all.

Reporter at Large: Central Ohio

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 08:12:09 PST

Wanted to share a few oddities I encountered while watching daughter Haley compete in Moot Court regionals in Ohio.

First, this shot from the small town of Wooster:

Black squirrels! All over the place! I had no idea such a thing existed.

And then, in a suburban Columbus Hilton, this interesting choice of a sculpture just inside the main door:

Not sure what to think of it. This bronze, contortionist human appears to be ... umm ... pleasuring him/herself while trying to fly?

This Christmas ... for the man in your house who has everything ...

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 07:53:23 PST

Was Christmas shopping with my wife in suburban Columbus, Ohio and I found this really nifty coffee cup.

This is for you, Pee-Wee.

Tattletale at 36,000 feet

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 06:42:54 PST

Sat by a commuting flight attendant yesterday ... a lead flight attendant, I might add. And take a look at this mess she left in her front-seat pocket. Half a candy bar, some paper trash and a half-filled glass of water. She also slept with her ipod on even after passengers had been told to power down all such devices.

Note to Barb (I read her name on her pin of wings):

Dear Barb: Please try to set a better example for the passengers.

Sincerely,

Mr. Fussy

Bean Enchiladas and Pina Coladas: Why I like country music

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 09:10:19 PST

I grew up in the middle of nowhere -- East Jesus, we called it -- a town on the High Plains of eastern Colorado, 170 miles from the nearest airport or McDonalds, though there is a McDonalds there now. This meant we only had one radio station to listen to ... and that was KNAB, 1140 on the AM dial. And since my town was in the middle of ranch and farmland, KNAB's format was ... you guessed it: Country.

As a result, I grew up not liking country music because it was my only option, so, obviously, I rebelled against it.

But, having lived most of my adult life on the East Coast, I have since re-visited country music and have come to love it, especially classic country ... not that new crap that can't make up its mind whether it's rock or country.

I think the other reason I like country music is because I can understand the lyrics. I've always thought I had this genetic flaw that didn't allow me to understand song lyrics. (Remember the Pina Colada song from the '70s? I thought they were singing "I like Bean Enchiladas," not "I like Pina Coladas.")

Years later I realized that it wasn't my ears that were the problem -- it was the singers' inability to articulate. But those country singers ... their diction is awesome. And here is a great song by Deana Carter called DID I SHAVE MY LEGS FOR THIS?

"Flowers and wine is what I thought I would find
When I came home from working tonight
Well now here I stand, over this frying pan
And you want a cold one again

I bought these new heels, did my nails
Had my hair done just right
I thought this new dress was a sure bet
For romance tonight

Well it's perfectly clear,
between the TV and beer
I won't get so much as a kiss

As I head for the door
I turn around to be sure
Did I shave my legs for this?

Now when we first met
you promised you'd get
A house on a hill with a pool

Well this trailer stays wet
and were swimmin' in debt
And you want me to go back to school

I bought these new heels,
did my nails
Had my hair done just right
I thought this new dress was a sure bet
For romance tonight

Well it's perfectly clear, between the TV and beer
I won't get so much as a kiss
As I head for the door
I turn around to be sure
Did I shave my legs for this?
Darlin', did I shave my legs for this?

Signs of Intelligent Life #28834W2

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 10:28:32 PST

Found this clever pothole cover in east Tennessee. The grate had sunk into the asphalt.
I sure hope they decorate it for Christmas. Maybe a Santa hat on top of the cone?

Mysteries of the Universe: #8444RB5

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 23:34:32 PST

Why is it that so many people order ginger ale on airplanes? (You never hear them ordering it in restaurants or bars.) Is it a comfort drink that we remember momma serving us when we were sick as kids? Are we seeking something that makes us feel safe ... because we're up there in the air, vulnerable from defying countless laws of physics?

It's not easy being green

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 04:28:49 PST

I do whatever I can to help ease the strain on the resources of our planet. I've replaced my superior, incandescent light bulbs with those pitiful, anemic compact fluorescents. I've reduced the number of times I flush the toilet during the day: "If it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down."

I also buy eco-friendly cleaning products when I can -- but I won't be keeping this last one I bought:

Yep, instead of my usual green dish-washing scratchies I bought this one made of .... well, I'm not sure what it's made of. I think it's recycled plastic bottles and, best as I can tell, yak hair ... which sheds as you're doing the dishes.

(yuck)

Those frozen french fries? They're right beside the blue jeans.

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 08:35:18 PDT

I just read in today's New York Times that the Levi Strauss company is trying to lessen their environmental imprint -- and they want the buyers of their jeans to do the same thing.

They ask us -- and I'm not kidding about this -- not to wash our jeans more than we need to.

I'm already there. Honestly, I wear a pair of jeans for up to 10 days sometimes without a wash. Denim is amazing; it seems to shed odors overnight ... even smoke from a bar.

The most fun fact from the article was this handy household hint on how to keep your jeans odor-free for longer: Put them in the freezer overnight.

Evidently, the cold temperature kills the germs that cause odors ... although, the article warns us, this is more successful if the person has faithfully been wearing underwear beneath his jeans.

I'm gonna try this one, folks.

Those secrets under the kitchen sink ...

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 07:12:30 PDT

I recently had to get new home insurance, and when the inspector from the insurance company came to look at the house (this is at our Florida home) he scrutinized the obvious things: age and strength of the windows and doors; age of the water heaters and air conditioners; slope of the roof.

I thought he'd finished, but then he came into the living room, where I was working, and said this: "One more thing. I need to see under the kitchen sink."

Why would my home-insurance provider need to look under my sink?
I asked him. He evaded the question. "It's just something we look at," he said.

And then I got to thinking. Maybe that space under our sink tells insurers a lot about us. Maybe they use it as a litmus test of some sort. Perhaps that spot under the sink provides a psychological profile of some sort.

Is it dirty and cluttered, like mine? And, if so, does that mean the homeowner doesn't pay attention to details? Does it mean he wouldn't fix things when broken and therefore make the house more susceptible to damage?

I don't keep my trashcan under the sink, as many people do. Would that be a black mark against me?

Was he looking for rat or mice droppings?

Would I be judged for keeping our dead cat's ashes in a box under the sink? (Because that's where they are; I just can't seem to part with dear old Sophie.)

What's under your sink? And what does it say about you?

How to Spot a Good Thai Restaurant

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 05:26:37 PDT

Anyone who's read my books knows I like to eat. Cooking and good food are a big part of my novels Househusband and Southern Living.

My wife and were driving through middle Tennessee this past weekend and decided that Thai food sounded good for lunch. I pulled out my phone and searched Yelp for Thai restaurants near our location on the freeway, and we were soon led to a shack-like restaurant in the shadow of a grain elevator in Lebanon, TN.

I know what you're thinking: Oh, Ad ... that's pretty risky ... Asian food in Andy Griffith Land ...

But we knew immediately that we'd found something special -- and here' s why:

Lining the outside wall of the store were pots of lemongrass, Thai basil and Thai chilis. Obviously, someone inside used fresh, authentic ingredients.

We were quickly proven right: Take a look at this:

Green curry and a plate of whole crawfish sauteed in basil and garlic. Ain't it pretty?

So keep an eye out for those pots, people!

Alien spotting #5334R2 (at the mall)

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:30:18 PDT

And look at these scary feet. They look like cloven hooves, don't they?
Could it be ... Satan?

Cat = Teenager

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 07:46:05 PDT

In moving two cats from a tropical yard to a 29th-floor Nashville condo, I was worried about keeping them amused. I'd bought this swell, very-tall kitty condo that I hoped the younger cat would take to. But alas ...

Mitchell prefers the sunny spot on the bed, of course, while the ignored kitty condo unsuccessfully tries to pose as art object in the corner.

But not all is lost:

I'm calling it my "butler."

For the man who has everything...

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 14:36:33 PDT

My only question is this: why?

There once were two tuxedo cats, and two men ...

huxterbad@aol.com (Ad Hudler) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 11:45:22 PDT

I'd been paying a petsitter, off and on, for nearly a year ... trying to avoid what I envisioned to be hell on earth: transporting two cats, via minivan, to our condo in Nashville, a 14-hour trip from Fort Myers, Florida.

Finally, I mustered up the courage, largely because my best friend agreed to take the trip with me. I set up a catbox and catfood, even made them a playhouse from a big cardboard box. We would stop every hundred miles or so and let them out and let them play and eat and then put them back in their crates ...

That's not what happened. For more than 150 miles, Mitchell, the younger of the two, scream-meowed in that Oh-Lord-Help-Me-I'm-Headed-Toward-The-Veterinarian's-Office manner ...

We let him out. And, to be fair, we released Thomas as well.

While Thomas, The Elder, responsibly hunkered down, beneath my seat, Mitchell decided he wanted the highest view in the van. And, because he finally shut up after finding this perch, we left him there, like the weak, indulgent parents I've judged so many times before. And this was fine ... until, while driving at 79 MPH, we came upon an 18-wheeler STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSTATE.

Gravity happened. Catbox catapulted against the back seat. Mitchell became airborne.

Yes, those marks on the dashboard are from Mitchell's claws. His rear claws. We know this because he doesn't have front claws.

We were rattled but safe. I shouldn't have let them out, I know. But, hey ... we transport our children in school buses without seatbelts -- don't we?