I admit it. I sometimes carry the definition of travel to extremes. Hole In The Donut’s theme is “the inner and outer journey.” The outer journey – basically everything that has to do with travel – is broad enough to allow me to write about destinations, attractions, events, accommodations, and travel industry news.

The inner journey is where I deviate from the traditional view of travel. We all have different stories, but our common denominator is that we are all trying to find a way to be happy. So – and I know this is a stretch – I ask that you travel back in time with me to the early days of television. These two YouTube clips from The Art Linkletter Show and The Carol Burnett Show will make you roar with laughter. After all, any excuse to laugh is a good one. Enjoy.

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Last month, as I drove back home to Florida from my annual holiday trip to Illinois, I stayed a few days with my dear friends, Tom and Patti. They live in Atlanta and it is a great midway stopping point. Their house always feels like home to me and frankly, I hate to leave. Heck, their cat, who doesn’t like anyone, sleeps between my legs!

When I told my Dad I would be staying in Atlanta for a few days, he was quick to remind me of Benjamin Franklin’s famous saying: “Fish and visitors smell in three days.” (I’m not sure, but that may have been a hint, since I’d been at Dad’s house for more than three weeks by that time). I love visiting friends but always worry about overstaying my welcome. I’d been in Atlanta for two or three days when I broached the subject with Tom.

“You have to promise to tell me if my being here is ever too much,” I said as we were about to sit down to dinner.

“You’ll know it’s time to go if we ever serve you cold lamb,” he grinned.

Tom went on to explain that in olden days, the lord of the castle would order his servants to serve cold lamb for dinner when visitors had overstayed their welcome. It was their sign to pack up and leave.

“That’s where the phrase ‘getting the cold shoulder‘ comes from,” he explained.

I must admit that I awaited the evening meal with some trepidation and was relieved when it was Finnan Haddie, a delicious dried smoked & salted Haddock in cream sauce. Not only had I not yet overstayed my welcome, this was definitely one fish that did not stink!

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My friend, Mary Jo, sent me this video. How absolutely delightful! I bet you can’t watch it without giggling:

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If only I could be more like this dog, I’d be a lot happier during my annual Christmas trip home to Illinois.

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Snow on the Outer Banks of North Carolina? Not a regular occurrence, but it’s been known to happen.

Three inches of snow in one day in Las Vegas, where they normally don’t get more than a half inch during an entire winter? Now that’s a bit strange.

But when I heard it snowed in Malibu yesterday – well, that’s just downright weird.

Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s the worst of it. This morning, my father poked his head into the living room to give me a heads up. “Don’t worry if you hear some noise. I’m just testing the generator.”

“Yeah, OK,” I replied distractedly. I was busy writing a travel article that was overdue and didn’t really pay too much attention. Even hearing the generator roar to life didn’t make much of an impression.

Several hours later I noticed a strong chemical odor in the house that reminded me of cleaning solvent or paint thinner. When the fumes had permeated the living room I went in search of the source and found my father in the utility room, bent over a large cylindrical piece of metal equipment.

“What’s that thing?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Well it’s not nothing. What is it?”

‘If you must know, it’s a Roto-Rooter that belongs to your brother-in-law. It stopped working so I’m taking it apart and cleaning it. It was full of old crap and it just seized up.” It took me a second to realize he meant ‘crap’ in the literal sense. It was then I noticed that his coveralls were covered with brown and black gunk. No, no, no, not going there. I don’t want to know. I returned to my writing and again dismissed the whole issue.

I didn’t put it all together until late afternoon, when Dad turned on the TV to check the weather.

“Looks like it’s gonna get bad,” he said.  Something finally switched on in my brain. I tuned into the TV. The Weather Channel was calling for freezing rain and possible power outages tonight. ‘Crap,” I thought (not in the literal sense). Generator for the potential power outage – check. Roto-Rooter for potential frozen septic lines – double check. Crap, crap ca-rap!

Is it possible that the rest of the country is just reacting in sympathy to my plight? Maybe the weather gods are just trying to make me feel better about being in Illinois in the middle of the winter.

I’m going to bed now, but not before I climb into three layers of clothes and add another blanket to the bed – just in case. If you never hear from me again, you’ll know I froze to death in the middle of the night.

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I groggily emerged from my Dad’s guest bedroom around 8:15 this morning, after having slept less than four hours.

“If  you want to go grocery shopping today, you have to be ready by nine o’clock because there’s a snowstorm on the way,” Dad announced.

For the past week I have been driving through horrid weather, dealing with marginal hotels, struggling with a nasty sinus infection, and sitting in meetings. All I wanted to do was chill for a little while and write. “I’m not going anywhere at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Well, suit yourself, but there’s nothing in the house for you to eat.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to starve,” I insisted, as I plunked my rear end down in the recliner and opened my laptop.

For about three hours, coffee did the trick, but as noon approached I began to get hungry. I wandered into the kitchen and stood in front of the open refrigerator door, perusing my choices. Butter. White bread. One bowl that contained half a dried up  tomato and a hunk of deer sausage. And a stack of individually wrapped slices of cheese food. The freezer offered chicken breasts and TV dinners. The cabinets held a box of whole grain cereal that listed sugar and high fructose corn syrup as two of its major ingredients, canned tomato soup, and Sloppy Joe mix. Long sigh.

I must digress at this point and explain my reticence over grocery shopping in Illinois. For as long as I can remember, it has been nearly impossible to find healthy food in the Midwest. Ironically, in the breadbasket of the country, the only lettuce available was nutritionless Iceberg, the only fruits oranges and apples, and the only bread on the shelves was made from bleached white flour. Over the past few years, things have improved somewhat, but stores that stock the items I need are still few and far between.

We drove to the Jewel Food Store, about 20 minutes away in Channahon. As we rolled the cart up and down the aisles in search of delicacies like greek olives, feta cheese, sun dried tomatoes and marinara sauce, Dad conducted his normal monologue about my eating habits.

“What’s that?” he asked when I picked up a box of falafel.

“Ground up Chickpeas.”

“Yucchhh. How can you eat that stuff? That’s disgusting.”

Noting my silence, he persisted. “Don’t try to get me to eat any of that stuff. It tastes terrible.”

“You don’t have to eat it.”

“Good. I like my TV dinners just fine.”

Another silence ensued until I tossed a jar of roasted sweet red peppers into the cart.

“What are those for?”

“I’m going to make a Greek pasta salad. I figured you could add some deer sausage to it and it would taste pretty good to you.”

“No, no, no, don’t make anything for me. In fact, don’t be making anything for Christmas dinner this year. Nobody likes what you make and then it sits there and goes to waste.”

Just as I was about to say something I would regret, I looked out the front windows of the store and was shocked to see that heavy snow was  falling. Already the cars were coated and the white stuff was beginning to stick on the road.

“Gosh Dad, look at the snow. We’d better get going.” It’s been 25 years since I have driven in snow. I have absolutely no feel for the road: I cannot tell if it is slick, nor do I know how to brake safely in these conditions. In addition, I have never been able to figure out how to use the defroster in my Toyota. Although the car is fantastic, the manual is poorly written and has limited instructions about the climate control system. The dials have only pictures on them, and every time I have tried to use what I think is the defroster, the windows just fog up so badly I cannot see outside. I started up the car and reached into the glove box for the manual.

“What are you doing?” Dad asked. I explained the problem.

“While you’re reading the manual, the snow’s piling up.” He was right.

“Let’s just go. You’ll figure out the defroster on the way.” I turned the wipers on low and cranked up the heat, backed out of my parking space and slipped toward the exit. At the first red light I gently pumped the brakes, testing the roadway.

“What are you doing? Don’t pump the brakes. You’ve got an anti-lock braking system in this car. Just stomp on the brakes and let the car brake for you.”

“Forget that. I’m pumping the brakes.”

“OK, now turn left at this next light. I want to see where my bank moved, They sent me a letter and said they moved to a new building.” We proceeded down a slick side street but the new bank was nowhere to be found, so I retraced my route back to the main road and stopped for another red light.

“Go!” Dad insisted.

“I’ve got a red light.”

“You can turn right on red.”

“Not when traffic is coming.”

“Relax. It’s not that bad out. You’re fine. Just relax.” The light turned green and I slowly slid around the corner onto the main street, which, thankfully had been salted.

Out of the side of my eye, I saw Dad checking out my hands on the steering wheel, planted in the ten and two position. “Let go of the wheel with one hand; don’t be so uptight. Do you want me to drive?”

“No, I don’t want you to drive,” I answered through clenched teeth.

“What’s with your wipers. They’re not clearing the ice from the windshield. Put them on full speed instead of intermittent.” I complied, but within minutes the rubber blades were scraping across a perfectly dry windshield, making an obnoxious noise with each pass.

“The wind is blowing the snow and it’s not sticking to the glass – you better turn the wipers down.” Dad fiddled with the dials and figured out how to get the defrosters to work, but not before the temperature rose to 83 inside the car.

“You could go a little faster. It’s not that slippery.” My head began to pound. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

I shifted around in my seat and moved my hands to the top and bottom of the steering wheel.

“Do you always drive like that? You should have your hands in the ten and two position.” Please, God, just let me die. By this time we were on the Interstate, crawling along at 40 miles per hour in the middle of a line of tractor trailers. Finally, we reached our exit. We followed the frontage road to County Line Road, which is all but ignored because the two Counties that it separates can never agree whose responsibility it is to maintain the road. Although slick, there is rarely traffic on it, and the shoulders are broad strips of grass.

“Now give it a little gas. You need to feel what it’s like when the car starts to slide out from underneath of you. If you had that experience you wouldn’t be so nervous.”

“I am NOT going to purposely make the car fishtail.”

“Why not?” Even if you go off the road here you can just drive back on. Give it a little gas.” Suffice it to say that I did not comply. I had to deal with more important things than learning how to control my car in an icy skid. In my rear view mirror I counted five cars. With my naturally white hair and Florida license plates, I imagined that the people behind me were grousing about the old broad from Florida who shouldn’t be allowed to drive. However, to my delight, they were all falling back; they were actually going slower than me. I felt vindicated! I wasn’t doing so bad afer all. Unless…..well, unless they were backing off because they thought I was a danger. Another heavy sigh. Starvation would have been a better option.

I am back home now, recovering, and I am not leaving this house again until the weather clears. If I’d just gotten my butt in gear at 9 a.m. like my father told me to, none of this would have happened. It serves me right.

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Brrrrrr. I repeat. Brrrrrrrrrrrrr. I’m at my Dad’s house, freezing my butt off. Overnight it dropped to 9 degrees. The cold temperatures, coupled with a stiff wind off the river, made it difficult to keep the house heated to much more than 70 degrees last night. I slept under a mountain of blankets. The high today is expected to be 21 and the low 19, but at least the wind has died down, so it’s warmer inside the house today.

Since I’m a vegetarian and Dad’s a carnivore, the only thing in his refrigerator I can eat is processed cheese food slices and white bread, thus we’re leaving momentarily to do some grocery shopping. I am less than delighted to be going out in this weather, what with my persistent sinus infection and stuffed up head, but to make it even worse snow is on the way, with an accumulation of up to three inches expected. Several days ago I drove through a snowstorm in the mountains of Kentucky and yesterday I had to deal with freezing rain during the drive between Cincinnati and Illinois. I think driving through three inches of snow would probably be pressing my luck. We have to get to the grocery store and back before the white stuff starts to stick on the road.

On the positive side, the hotel in Clearwater Beach found my camera battery and charger and is mailing it to me. Yes, I left it plugged into the wall, which also means I deviated from my normal procedure of alternating batteries (read about my conundrum in this previous post). I’m going to assume that means I’m just stressed out and not paying attention, rather than the possibility that I’m getting senile.

Well, I guess I can’t put it off any longer. This is me, bundling up in three layers of coats, headed out to the grocery store to buy window putty (my father’s name for Tofu).

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So, I’m on the road again. Headed north. Which is crazy, because I hate the cold weather. But my entire family lives in Illinois and I travel back home for Christmas each year, so it is what it is. This trip, however, has presented a few challenges.

Things started to go wrong while I was still in the Tampa Bay, Florida area. On day three the temperature plummeted to 57 and the wind kicked up. The next morning I awoke with my annual sinus infection – a behind the nose raw kind of hurt that made it difficult to swallow. Usually, standing under a hot shower helps a lot, but this was the morning that I had no water in that lovely hotel in Clearwater Beach. I needed new sinuses and a shower that worked.

By the following day I had reached the home of friends in the Atlanta area, who always let me stay with them when I am traveling to Chicago because it is a very convenient midway point. Atlanta’s cold, gray weather ruled out any extended outdoor activity, however I had to wash my car, since it was covered with salt spray from the beach. Within an hour of putting the finishing touches on my now sparkling car, it began to pour rain and it didn’t stop for two days. Spending an hour at the car wash in the cold weather made my sinus infection worse and my eyes, ears, and nose began to torment me with a deep down itch. Here I was, the woman who won’t even take an aspirin, living on Benadryl. I needed a new head. I needed new sinuses. I needed to go for a walk. At least I got to take a nice long, hot shower. I must remember to be grateful.

On the second day of Atlanta’s rain I went to the car to retrieve something and discovered I hadn’t entirely closed the driver’s side car window, thus my entire front seat and floorboard were soaking wet. By now I had a low-grade fever. I needed a new head, I needed new sinuses. I needed a new car front seat. I needed warmer temperatures. But still, I’d had a hot shower and the company of good friends.

Since the waether was too miserable to actually visit any of the greater Atlanta’s attractions, I decided to put the spare time to work on the web site I was designing for my friends. For two days I worked diligently in Dreamweaver to put the finishing touches on their site. By the time it was done, I had been reading tiny type on a small monitor screen for so long that my eyesight was blurred when I looked up into the distance and my wrist hurt overuse of the laptop touchpad. I needed a new head. I needed new sinuses. I needed new eyes and a new wrist. I needed aspirin for my fever. I’d been sitting for two days straight and eating nothing but simple carbs and had probably gained five pounds. I needed to exercise but didn’t feel like it.

I left Atlanta yesterday afternoon, bound for Cincinnati, where I will be attending another writer’s conference. The car seat was still wet, but I spread a towel over it and hoped the heat from my butt would dry it out. I drove for eight hours, encountering two major traffic backups on the Interstate due to accidents and construction, as well as hitting a snowstorm in the mountains of Kentucky. It has been perhaps thirty years since I have driven in snow. I don’t think I have ever driven in a snowstorm in the mountains. And this was a snowstorm in the mountains after dark. I needed a new head. I needed new sinuses. I needed a new front car seat. I needed my one last nerve back. The outside temperature had dropped to 28. Have I mentioned that I HATE cold weather?

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I had lunch the other day with a friend of mine here in Sarasota who is a real estate agent. I’ll call her Suzie (for reasons that will become obvious, I’ve changed her name). Midway through lunch she began to tell me the story of a situation that occurred with a new client last week. The previous Wednesday she’d contracted a bad case of the stomach flu that put her down for three days. On Friday morning, still flat on her back in her sickbed, she received a phone call from her friend, Clarice. The conversation went something like this:

“Hey, Suzie. I’ve got a new client for you. He wants to write an offer on a million dollar house.”
“Hi Clarice. Can we do it tomorrow? I’m sick in bed with the flu.”
“Nope. He insists it’s gotta be done today.”
“Well, can we at least do it late this afternoon? Maybe about 4 p.m.?
“Sure, I’ll set it up.”

Later that afternoon, Suzie dutifully dragged herself from her sickbed, gathered the necessary paperwork, and drove to the client’s house. They spent a couple of hours preparing a low-ball offer of $850,000, and then it was time for the client to sign the papers so my friend could present the offer.

“OK, now I just need you to sign in these three places,” Suzie said, pointing to the signature lines.
“Oh, no. I don’t like to rush these things. I’ll just keep these papers over the weekend and look them over.” So much for being in a rush.

Of course, when the offer was finally presented it was rejected because the offering amount was so low. Such is the life of a real estate agent. Although there are some really nice buyers out there, real estate clients in general have absolutely no consideration for their agents. They want what they want, when they want it, and if the agent doesn’t react quickly enough to their demands they don’t hesitate to move on to the next agent.

And this, my friends, is why I am no longer in real estate. I grew tired of arrogant, demanding clients who had no regard for me as a person, despite the fact that they knew I was a devoted agent who would attend to every detail of a closing; knew that I would move heaven and earth for them. Being a real estate agent is a thankless job that requires putting in long hours with no assurance of income. These days, I don’t earn a lot of money. I’m not getting rich as a travel writer. But I love getting up every day and I adore what I do. I am happier than I have ever been because I am being true to myself.

I might add that Suzie also loves what she does, and thank God for that. I just hope she gave the guy a good case of the flu. It would serve him right.

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I have long said that our values are out of whack in this country, that we covet material things to an unhealthy degree and spend needlessly in a futile attempt to feel better about ourselves. It seems I am not alone in this belief. Reverend Billy, along with his mock-religious Stop Shopping Gospel Choir, has made it his mission in life to spread the message of evil consumerism, proclaiming that “our current financial crisis is nothing short of a shopocalypse.”

Last year the good Reverend released “What Would Jesus Buy,” a documentary film that attacked our consumer culture, in which his antics get him escorted out of the Mall of America and arrested … at Disneyland. Variety Magazine called the documentary “seriously hilarious” and the Austin Chronicle said it was “as entertaining as it is jaw-dropping.” Check out the trailer for the video below:

The Reverend isn’t a real minister. He is Bill Talen, an actor and performance artist whose shows are part political activism, part street theater. His act began in 1996 as a one-man performance on the sidewalks of Times Square, where he preached against consumerism. His Church of Stop Shopping project, which now includes a 35-person choir and 7-person band, has released dozens of original songs, a critically acclaimed stage show, a major motion picture and multiple media platforms. The street is his stage, the choir is all volunteer, and his wife, Savitra, is the producer. Donations and grants pay for the rest.

It’s all done up with more than a modicum of tongue-in-cheek. Reverend Billy irreverently proselytizes, “We walk in the valley of the shadow of debt,” and has declared the day after Thanksgiving to be “Buy Nothing Day 2008.” And the Reverend is about to take things to the next level. Tomorrow at 1 p.m. EST, Billy will air his first live videocast, The Stop Shopping Hour Of Power, where viewers can be exorcised by “confessing their sins to Church leaders, sharing stories of retail intervention, and backing away from the product!”

Of course, Billy also hopes you stop by his website to purchase one or more of his songs, posters, flyers, videos, documentaries, or books, so that you, too, can help spread the message of evil consumerism.

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Everyone has heard about the diner who claimed to find a fly in his food in order to get a free meal. Until now I believed that restaurateurs suffer more than most when it comes to customer complaints. Today, however, I read that travel specialists around the world have compiled a list of the most bizarre travel complaints ever received. The list, which was released by the ANI news service, featured the following examples:

One travel agent received a complaint from a tourist at a top African game lodge overlooking a waterhole, who spotted a visibly aroused elephant and complained that the sight of this rampant beast ruined his honeymoon by making him feel “inadequate.”

Another wacky complaint had a group of UFO-believers, who were holding a conference at a Novotel hotel, express their fears of being infiltrated by aliens because the locks on the meeting room doors had not been changed.

There was also a complaint filed by a guest at a Novotel in Australia who complained his soup was too thick and strong. He was inadvertently slurping the gravy at the time.

Another Aussie hotel was told by a football star that his hotel room overlooking Sydney’s Manly beach was unsuitable because the sound of the sea kept him awake.

A panic-stricken woman called reception and angrily protested that she was locked in her room. Staff later discovered that the woman, who had never stayed in a hotel before, assumed that the “do not disturb” sign on the inside doorknob meant she should not open it.

According to one British travel company’s survey, some travelers complained of not enjoying going away on holiday because foreigners “didn’t want to speak English.”

Frankly, restaurateurs have it easy.

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So.

I feel vindicated.

I thought it was me.

Or – perish the thought – my age.

It is true that I find it virtually impossible to open a child-proof cap these days. Fortunately, I take no medicines. As for the aspirin bottle, which I must access once in a blue moon, well I cheat; I leave the lid ajar.

But when it comes to opening those onerous, razor-edged, hard plastic packages that enclose most electronic equipment these days…..let’s just say it is an exercise in futility. I always have to resort to the scissors and even then I end up with sliced fingers. I am absolutely convinced that the packaging is designed this way so that you cannot return the item, since there is no way to open it without destroying the package.

But I digress. Back to the point of being vindicated. I am not clumsy, inept, or downright stupid. It is not my age. I have not experienced a loss of manual dexterity. I am just normal…..take a gander at this hysterical video of a YOUNG MAN trying to open his new MacBook remote:

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My printer is an Epson CX5000 and I want to make it clear, right here and now, that it is absolutely the WORST printer I have ever owned. In order to get it to print a color photo without gaps in the color or white stripes across the photo, I have to use custom settings and uncheck the “fast” setting. For the past few weeks, every time I turn the printer on, it tells me that one or more ink cartridges are empty. It doesn’t mater whether I have printed one page or one hundred pages since last using it, it is always out of ink. I think the best solution would be to throw it forcefully against a wall and smash it to smithereens. The only reason I haven’t is that I have a drawer full of expensive refill ink cartridges that would undoubtedly be useless in a new printer.

Until today my only consolation was that my printer is so often out of ink that it won’t be long before I use up my refills; I may yet get the pleasure of throwing it against a wall. But today I have another idea. I just need to get a cat. A feisty, ferocious, feline to protect me from the abuses of printerland. Don’t get my drift? Just watch the following video and you’ll see what I mean:

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The last time I checked, getting a driver’s license still required passing an eye exam. But if my experience driving back from Key West the other night is any indication, the bulk of drivers traveling Florida highways are either driving without licenses or they paid off the examiners.

At the end of the 100-mile long Alligator Alley that carried me across the state, Interstate 75 turned to the north. Almost immediately signs appeared, informing drivers of construction for the next 31 miles. Orange and white striped ‘trash cans’ lined the shoulders on both sides of the two-lane highway. The 70 MPH speed limit was reduced to 60 MPH and more signs appeared, stating that speeding fines are doubled when workers are present. At this point workers appeared in the median, complete with high intensity overhead spotlights, road graders, and paving equipment.

Not long afterward I saw the first lane closure sign: “Left Lane Closed One Mile Ahead.” It was one of those portable, digital signs with large yellow illuminated letters; the message was impossible to miss. At least I thought it was impossible to miss. I moved into the right lane immediately. Everyone else in the left lane stayed right where they were. A bit further along, another digital display – this one flashing. Again, no one else moved over. Several more signs that broadcast: “Left lane ends, merge right” made no apparent impression. As I neared the one mile mark, I could see more flashing lights; one last digital sign displayed a giant yellow arrow pointing to the right. It blinked off and on, off an on, an unmistakable message to drivers to merge to the right. Just beyond the flashing arrow sat a squad car with its visibar flashing red and blue – yet another warning that the lane was about to end. STILL no one moved over.

On the roadway’s surface, reflective white arrows pointed to the right as the lane began to narrow. Finally, with the roadway disappearing before their very eyes, each of the drivers in the left lane desperately attempted to merge right at the last dying moment. The single lane lasted for only about a mile before the highway again widened to two lanes, but almost immediately a sign said, “Right Lane Closed, One Mile Ahead.” I dutifully moved into the left lane, and the entire process repeated itself. This happened at least four times in the 31 mile stretch of construction.

Frankly, I was astonished. I could perhaps understand how someone could miss a sign or two, but, come on folks – bright yellow digital signs, giant blinking arrows, and police cars with their lights flashing – how on earth do you NOT SEE THESE? Are people really that unconscious when they drive? Maybe I could even accept that they were totally unconscious once….but FOUR TIMES?

What possible explanation could there be? Hmmm, maybe the occupants were deep in conversation and missed the first couple of warnings. I can hear it now:

“Hey Martha, look at that big yellow arrow. There must be some special attraction at the next exit.”

“Yeah, how about that? Look Bob, there’s even a cop car with his lights flashing – must be a pretty big shindig for all that effort.”

“Maybe we should get off up ahead and check it out.”

“OK by me….uh, Bob, I think you might need to get over here….”

“Yeah, well, I’ll have to get in the right lane if we’re gonna exit.”

“Uh, no. I mean, look, there’s big white arrows on the pavement pointing to the right.”

“Man, they really went to some trouble to get people to check out this fair, or whatever it is.”

“No really Bob, I think this lane is…..”

“Good God Martha, what happened to the road? Gotta get over. Do I have room to merge? Just gotta chance it…running out of road…” Screech.

“Wow! That was a close one. Now keep an eye out for the exit; I want to see what this big event is all about.”

God help us all.

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The other day a friend commented about my bright blue eyes. I’ve never thought of my eyes as being particularly blue. When I was younger they were more green than blue, and people sometimes referred to my eyes as being hazel. (Don’t ask me what color hazel is because I have absolutely no idea, but apparently it is the color my eyes used to be). Then, as I got older, my eye color began to change. One of my eyes turned blue and the other became green-blue. Some days, they both look blue; other days they both seem green. Some days they look just plain dull.

Especially on days when my eye color ventures toward the brownish realm, I wonder why they change so. Is it the clothes I wear? Is it what I eat? Bingo! That must be it – too much coffee. I’m sure there are other explanations. Some would probably say that I am just too full of….well, never mind.

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