Skip the City Sex...Give me those Hats!

I, like virtually every other female on the planet, saw the movie "Sex in the City" this weekend. If you enjoyed the TV show, the movie was a much-needed fix, a rollicking raucous time. As a woman who will never, by any stretch of the imagination, be labeled as "fashion conscious," at least I can live vicariously through the trendy do's and don'ts sported by Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte.

"Sex" is about putting yourself out there...in wild style most people would could never afford or be caught dead wearing in public, and in relationships, good or bad. The fashion parade in this movie was, for me, like a hidden treat in the popcorn box. It was almost a distraction, trying to follow the dialogue, as I took in high style at every turn: the Manolo Blahniks, the Dior...everything glowed like a candle at Christmas, no doubt thanks to the super cinematographer and thousands of key grips with keylights.

Don't get me wrong, I do love a good six-pack of abs on a man, and there are some hunky specimens in this flick. I like Chris Noth, but at one point, I swear it looked like he'd been made up for a funeral! And there were glimpses of body parts that I wasn't really prepared for, since "Sex" was a TV thing, and there are TV things, and movie things...shower scene...you get the idea.

No, what really sent me over the enjoyment edge was the array of hats displayed by these gals, particularly Samantha. Hat wearing, for women, is passe these days for the most part, unless you live in Paris or belong to a Red Hat club, and so simply to see them onscreen was big fun.

My favorite was Samantha's outrageous straw hat that could have sheltered a third-world country under its wings. And though at first I laughed out loud to find her face under all that shady straw, Kim Cattrall carried it off perfectly...she knew it was ridiculous, but there's a price to be paid for haute couture, and she pays it with interest.

I don't have the self-confidence to wear that 50-gallon straw concoction without injuring myself or bystanders, and there's no way on earth you could ever persuade me that a turquoise bird headdress is an acceptable bridal accessory. But hey, that's why we go to the movies! "Sex in the City" is the wannabe movie for Everywoman. We may never have the good fortune to live in a chic walk-up in Manhattan, or jet to the Coast to meet our svelte 20-something lover, but a girl can dream, and the dream should include outrageous hats.

I always say, "if you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly." Or a turquoise bird!

Tourism, Arizona-Style!

I recently returned from Spring Break in Arizona, which is the most beautiful state in the union, and I can say that without hesitation, since I'm an Arizona native. My family and I wore it out: trekked, photographed, souvenired, and experienced everything Northern Arizona had to offer. We tried to do our part to boost late-night eating opportunities in Sedona and the Grand Canyon, but let's review, in that part of the world, they roll up the sidewalks at 8pm. Nothing's open, they can't even turn on the street lights because there aren't any.

I understand they want to preserve the beauty of nature and all that, but when you're the last living souls departing the Grand Canyon shuttle bus after sunset, and you have to use your son's camera flash in order to find your parked car, well, that might be a little off-putting, don't you think? Must be the Park Service's idea of a little joke...which probably accounts for all the people who fall over the edge of the Canyon every year, looking for their car without benefit of a lighting plan.

We're accustomed to visiting the Smokies, where you can't go 5 feet without a fudge shoppe, a boiled peanut stand, or an all-night diner, all bathed in tacky halogen floodlights. You can thus understand our frustration when, after having tromped around the Grand Canyon for 18 hours, not only could we not find our car, but as we exited the Park, we then learned that the 3 restaurants outside park boundaries were closed. While we sat at a Wendy's drive-thru, waiting for the guy to take our order over the speaker, instead he turned off the power to said speaker, and waved us farewell. Nothing open for the next 100 miles.

My husband, who is the ultimate Nice Guy, said, "I guess they want everybody to get a good night's sleep." My son and I would have preferred to buy a cheeseburger, but we made do with peanut butter crackers on the uneventful car trip back to base camp. Thankfully the huge number of stars glistening in the sky fed my soul, if not my tummy.

Arizona's not as heavily populated as Tennessee, a fact my son pointed out numerous times as we criss-crossed I-17 to various landmarks and national parks. In fact, IMHO, I think there are only about a thousand people in the entire Northern Arizona region, and they just sort of take turns moving around on different days, to tease you and make you believe that there's the possibility of finding food or fuel on the next corner. We did Stand on the Corner in Winslow, Arizona, by the way. Pretty silly, but a requisite activity for Baby Boomers who deny their age.

We definitely achieved a heightened awareness of recycling and the environment on this trip: every time I tried to throw away trash, I had to sort it into the correct bin, or smash my own aluminum can, even on the hiking trails. I'm not complaining, but it took some getting used to. We were also mindful of the severe drought in that part of the West, which my son tried unsuccessfully to use to his advantage in an attempt to avoid brushing his teeth.

I'm proud to be an American, and I think our National Parks system is fantastic. Overall, they do a great and thankless job, spending my tax dollars to subsequently make me walk around in the dark near a 10,000 foot drop. But they might need to update some of their info, or look to their more commercial tourist neighbors, for example: on the way to the Petrified Forest, we saw a sign that said "SLOW DOWN! METEOR CRATER ON RIGHT!" approximately every 300 yards. By the time we were within spitting distance of that crater, we knew it was there. In fact, we were so hoodwinked by all the signs imploring us to stop, we did so. I mean, really, how many times can you say you've experienced altitude sickness by the side of a meteor crater? I did, but that's another story for another time.

So, flush from our meteor crater experience, we headed over to the Petrified Forest, and I'd heard someone say that the Painted Desert was nearby, as well. Now I'm no virgin traveler, so I'm looking for signs that would suggest "Petrified Forest & Painted Desert," but the signs only display the words "Painted Desert" with an arrow. Which we followed, naturally.

Well, I haven't traveled all the way from Tennessee only to miss the Painted Desert, so I politely asked the park ranger at the entrance gate, "Um, excuse me, how do you get to the Painted Desert?"

She didn't even blink, but pointed over her shoulder. "It's over there. You're in it. That'll be $10, please."

"Oh, I thought we were at the Petrified Forest."

"You are. Painted Desert's over there."

My husband looked at me. "Wow, wasn't that nice of them to move everything so close together!" Always the diplomat, good grief.

We rated the Petrified Forest a 10 on the Fun Meter, because we had a great time climbing on the logs and walking the trail, and spending a ton of cash in the gift shop. But opinions were split on the Painted Desert: the Adult Rating was an 8, the 10-Year Old Boy in the Backseat's Rating was a 4. "What's the big deal?" he asked, on the fourth or fifth time I stopped to take photos.

"The big deal's that it looks like somebody painted these mountains!" I said.

"OK, I get it. But for 28 miles? Can we please find a Wendy's before they close?"


Note to National Parks Service: it's human nature to rate food over scenery. Food = Survival. Tourists gotta eat. Can you work on this, please?