I Didn't Write This...

... but I could have.
(From PostSecret.com)




Me in my light blue cotton dress with the spaghetti straps and ribbon belt. You in your powder blue tuxedo with the ruffled shirt. It was the early 80s, after all. We were a dashing couple, drinking hooch (You: beer. Me: lambrusco.) out of the back of your Toyota Tercell in between songs.

I had a feeling you were gay. But you never said a word and I never thought of asking. It was what it was.

We were such great pals, each having the other one's back. You dried my tears when I didn't get the part I wanted in the school musical, sending me flowers on opening night with a card saying "For when the applause comes." I still have that, tucked away somewhere in a box with my other treasures. And I stood beside you when you dropped the transmission out of whats-her-face's Firebird right there in the school parking lot. Although, honestly, honey, that was a really stupid move. I can say that now, 25 years later.

Even after we went off to college, you were there with me. I loved calling in when you were working the late night shift at the radio station and hearing all 15 of my requested songs in a row. And you took me to that sorority party so I wouldn't have to face my former love and his girlfriend alone, holding my hand tightly, making me feel secure.

We have lost touch, as happens with so many people who pass through our lives. But when I saw this postcard on PostSecret just now, I smiled both inside and out as I thought of you.

Here's to you, my old friend.

From the beginning you've been
Always there my old friend.
True until the end of time.
~ Al Jarreau

Shell Game

We went to the beach Saturday night to catch the sunset. And to do a little playing when things weren't so damn hot.

It was a lovely evening. Families, couples, friends. All out enjoying the gift Mother Nature gave to our little corner of the world.

Spectacular sunset. See...


There were the obligatory tourists feeding the seagulls. Who swarmed around like the moochers they are.

Will had a grand time. He really likes the beach -- when I put on his sandals, he does a little happy dance, as he knows where we're headed. We crashed into waves and sat on the water's edge and walked. And walked. And then walked some more.

I also did a bit of shelling -- found the usual suspects -- white half shells. Pretty. But ubiquitous.

But then I came across a beautiful horn-shaped whole shell. Shades of grey and beige. Stunning. It was pretty far up on the beach, so I shook it a bit and took it down to the water to make sure that it wasn't a "live" one. Nothing. Into the shell bag it went.

Yesterday, as I was admiring my treasures gathered the night before, I was looking at my piece d' resistance. All at once, I see a little thing poke up out of the hole in the top. Mr. Creature was indeed at home. And probably not happy. I squeeled. Partly from surprise and partly from the realization that I'd altered the balance of nature and disrupted this guy's happy home.

I took the shell outside, hoping that Mr. Creature would feel comfortable coming on out. But he didn't. And today, the shell is still and silent. I feel awful. So much so that when the mister volunteered to send the black snake that lives up under our house to meet his maker, I told him not to. For me, who hates snakes with a passion usually reserved for criminals and rival sports teams, this was a biggie. I just figured I needed to at least make an effort to right the framework of the universe that I'd disrupted with my shell acquisition.

And life. Goes on.

Look Out World... Here I Come!

You are now free to travel about the Planet Earth...

I’ve applied for, and received, rather expensively, that document necessary to leave these United States. The passport. The little indicator that's the hot commodity for vacationers this summer. Gotta have it. Hard to get it.

What a process. Now that it’s a government requirement to have a passport whenever you cross the US border, I figured it was time to go ahead and get one. My international travel has been really limited until now -- a couple of trips to Vancouver and BC; a jaunt to Cancun and a holiday years ago to the Caymans. No big whoop. And my little birth certificate and photo ID was sufficient to get me through customs without the blink of an eye. Although the big cooler of meat my travel companion and I brought into the Caymans did cause a stir. But that’s another story for another time.

However, my lackadaisical attitude of “I’ll get around to getting this sometime” got a big kick in the ass when I all of a sudden planned a trip to Toronto in late July. To see friends. And to go to see The Police in concert there.

While I love my friends, the prospect of seeing MY BAND play live for the first time in 25 years was enough to ignite that motivation to play along with the bureaucracy and get the damn document.

After a long, ridiculous journey to try and figure out where, when and how to actually apply for the thing, I found myself in the lobby of a post office tucked into an industrial park, armed with my birth certificate, paperwork, a blood sample, checks, credit cards and two witnesses, including my Girl Scout Leader and my pastor.

OK. I’m just kidding about the blood sample and witnesses. But not by much.

I even made sure that I didn’t look like death warmed over for my passport photo. Lipstick and blush. It’s not a glamour shot, but I didn’t want to appear too ghastly. Although my roots could have done with a touch up. But beggars and hair slaves can’t be choosers and too vain when time is of the essence.

When I applied, it was still a mandate to have the passport in order to cross any border. And the very helpful postal worker told me that because of this, it could take as long as five months to receive the passport under standard processing, and at least four weeks with expedited service. There was no way I was going to let the bureaucratic time line keep me from being able to get to that concert. So I paid. Dearly. For expedited service. Checks to the post office and US State Department. Got all my bases covered. Whew.

And it was worth it. As my passport to adventure arrived today. Within the quoted time frame. Color me pleasantly surprised.

I’m ready now. To flash my US citizen credentials to anyone who asks to see them. Even have a cute little passport holder. That basic blue is so boring.

Now if only deciding what to wear to the concert was this simple...

'Dis, 'Dat and De Udder, Part 27

I just met my new neighborhood UPS guy, Bob. Nowhere near as hot as my previous UPS guy -- that dude was smokin' with amazing legs. Bob seems nice enough, but it's just not the same.

It's shit like this which get Unfulfilled Slightly Bored Housewives such as myself through the day with some semblance of sanity.

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New favorite commercial venture: The drive-thru liquor store.

There's one near the children's hospital where Will goes for his out-patient therapy. I took a swing through there yesterday after we finished up with his work-out. It's a beautiful thing. Drive into this little hut, which has cases of every domestic beer you can imagine -- many available in those big old quart bottles. Dude asks me what I want -- I, natch, ask for the Exotic Berry wine coolers. My favorite cheap-o weeknight libation. It's like kool-ade with a kick.

Give him a five-spot. He hands back my change with my four-pack. And we are on our way. There are lots of interesting things to be had at this establishment, including pickled eggs and a wide variety of plain, solid color t-shirts.

Love. It.

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Have recently discovered that our home phone number is just one digit off from that of a local social service agency. Lots of calls asking if I can help pay the light bill. I'm not sure why people get mad when I tell them they've dialed the wrong number. It's not like I called them erroniously. When I was a kid, our phone number at home was one digit off that of a McDonalds. And someone named Gwen, who worked the late shift, sure got a lot of calls at 2:00 in the morning. Phones are funny things. Faceless communication which can be both good and bad. At least it's usually interesting.

Why I Should Be Mother of the Year: Example A

File this under I'm Not Qualified to Mother Today:

Alarm went off at 7 am (after an initial ringing at 4 am when the mister got up to get ready for his 6:30 am flight.) Get dressed, get Will his breakfast. Pack his backpack. Go off to try and find the school campus where he'll be attending summer school this year. Drive to said school, which is almost clear across town, with the little orange "Bitch, you're almost out of gas" light on. Hope we're not too late.

See busses. Great. Park in front of school. Suspiciously quiet. Go to front office. See my neighbor. Say hi. Smile. Discover that summer school doesn't start until tomorrow. Turn three shades of red. Smile wanly. Joke that I'm not going to mention our names so they won't know who the dork-o mother is who couldn't remember the summer school start date. Glad that my other friend who works in this school office isn't around at the moment. Try to get out of there with some semblance of a dignified air about me.

On ride home, "Don't You Want Me, Baby?" comes on the radio. Will sings along with every word, especially loudly on the "I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar" part. (He also has re-written the lyrics to "The Lion Sleeps Tonight"... in his version, it takes place in "the mommy jungle" instead of "the mighty jungle.")

It's on days like these that I'm glad we're not required to have licenses to parent.

Because mine would surely be revoked.

I Burn for You

First sunburn of the season. Already achieved.

Ouch.

Dammit.

Took Will, my two nieces and my mother to the beach the other day. The girls are in town for their annual "week with Nana and Poobie." (Poobie is what the grandkids call my dad. Back in the day, the Flintstones was my brother's favorite tv show. You may recall that Fred and Barney belonged to the Loyal Order of Water Buffalo; the fearless leader of that auspicious group was called the Grand Imperial Poobah. So we started calling my dad Poobah. Over time, that got shortened to Poobie. And there you have it.)

It was a great beach day -- nice breeze, clear skies, not too crowded. Surf was a little choppy, so we didn't venture too far out. Will was very content to sit at the edge of the water and let the waves "cwash" into him. He got the giggles and every time one would approach, he'd just howl with laughter. Delightful. I sat with him, since he's a bit tentative and not totally steady on his feet all the time. And wouldn't you know it -- my back was to Mr. Sun and absorbed up all his lovely rays. Since in my quest to make sure Will was covered from head to toe and every place in between with sunscreen, I neglected to really cover my back.

Ouch.

Wearing a bra is a bit painful -- figures that my bathing suit straps don't match the location of my bra straps. You'd think I'd know better, being a Florida native and all and a huge nag to other people about using sunscreen. But no. I obviously don't. So I'm slathering on the aloe and cocoa butter lotion and whatever else I can get my hands on.

I just don't want to peel. At least not this early in the season.

Ouch.

Storm Front

Happy first day of hurricane season, ya'll.

We're celebrating here on the west coast of Florida with Tropical Storm Barry! Whee!

It's been raining all day -- which is great, because we sure as hell need it -- and I just happened to check the radar online to see what the cloud situation was. Imagine my surprise to see that we're under a tropical storm warning. Dark green all along the gulf coast.

What a lovely way to kick off hurricane season 2007.

Looks like it's gonna be a busy one.