Gators, Crabs, Jellyfish, Sore butts and Claustrophobia. The hazards of summer.

Sometimes when you try to synopsize a period of time, it comes out in spurts and globs-- like a stubborn jello shooter in a too deep plastic cup. Usually I am given the liberty of compiling my thoughts, and then downloading them at my leisure, so the glops can at least cling together -- congealing into a storyline that contains a beginning, middle and end-- but sometimes, I just prematurely ejaculate the memory... and you end up with something like this.


I so wish I had bought this bra. I can already see next halloween.


I caught crabs on vacation.

It was dark and I should have known better. At first, there was a lot of shouting and chasing and running and some cursing, with nothing but a blue pail and a tiny sand shovel.


We always brought home one extra one for the dog to chase. We only lost one under the stove... the same stove that claimed the gecko we caught another night.We bought a five dollar net and the crabs got bigger. Just as much cursing and whooping.


With in days, my son was a pro, graduating to a long handled net and a very bright lantern.

This is the biggest blue crab my son pulled out of the surf. He ate it.

There's only so much you can say about shellfish, except. Yes, I was right about the females and the egg-filled asses.
We rented a boat one day in Panama City Beach. We followed a map to a shoreline supposedly full of shells. Nope. But there were a shitload of purple and clear and pinkish jellyfish. They didn't sting too bad.

Another day, after I was treated to a claustrophobic moment when forced through a black tunnel on an inflatable tube, feeling like a pretty little turd riding a tampon through the sewer( ie: spent the morning riding water slides, and floating down over chlorinated faux rivers).. we ate bar food, drank very strong drinks with silly names, drew on the walls then fed some alligators.


This one finally woke up, slithered into the water and chowed down on the treats dangling from our gator friendly fishing pole, much to the delight of every boy in the world- and a few drunk womens too. ayuh.
AS for the sore butts portion of the summer hazards, that would have to do with the inability to rent scooters in our local area. AGe, insurance, cost and availability all a factor. Here comes the tricky part. Renting bicycles and getting a decidedly anti- cardio Father and a decidely slowpoke daughter to keep the pace with the highly competitive boy turned out to be only fun for two of us. 12 miles in the heat felt like 30... I am no Lance.

Only in a restroom in Cusseta, Alabama.

Writers see the world... differently.
It looks kind of like this:
EVERYTHING IS, HAS, WAS, WILL OR CAN BE A STORY.

Just as everyone you meet is a potential character and every conversation you hear may be stored away for later use. Having a writer as a friend can be dangerous, partying with fellow writers fills my well. (Hello Southampton friends!)
It is so nice when people "get you," when explanations are unnecessary and when you can experience truly witty parlay.

So, it will come as no surprise to my writing friends that I found a story in a restroom in Cusseta, Alabama last week.

Stopping for gas and potty break with 2 gal pals, I waited in the dimly lit white washed pine sol scented back hall for my friend to finish up in the "one seater." It seemed like an ordinary gas station/convenience mart, gas pumps, checkout counter in the round, coffee, energy drinks and steamed franks for the road.

And trust me there was nothing special about the ladies restroom. Single unlidded toilet, one sink, electric hand dryer mounted to wall, small waste basket...
All details I took in mid squat, until my eye was drawn to the small yellow bag littering the floor. First thought? Why didn't my friend who was just in here pick this up?
Then I noticed the receipt under my foot.
I finished my business then picked up both. The bag was from Dollar General. The receipt went with the bag.
First thought. Some lady was in a hurry for feminine hygiene products.
But no.

Receipt was for the Dollar General on Hwy 29. Store #10320.
Purchase: one Early Pregnancy Test Kit
cost:
$1.00
tax .07
paid in cash

The plot thickens.

I'm seeing in my mind's eye the harried girl who ran in here, the first stop before she had to go home, before she had to return to school. The worried woman who filled up her car, then made her way to the restroom before she had to go home to the husband she's cheating on? The hopeful and excited single woman who hopes a one dollar test is just as good as the real thing because this might be the answer, this might change everything...

and then, you KNOW what I want to do.

I washed my hands, took my time with the dryer positioned over the full waste basket, watched as it blew the loose paper towels, saw it uncover the purple and white box, and something else beneath... and then I thought about what I would say to my friends- and I hesitated. I thought about what people would think about me if I ...
and I left.

Because as much as I wanted to reach in that trash can and find out if the pee stick said yes or no... I would rather never know, because now I'm able to write two different endings for two different women, a multitude of stories. (and seeing as I have this horrible problem with manipulating truths- I don't do it well- I don't have that ultimate statement standing in my way.)

Odder still, was that the 3rd girl in our group who was waiting in the hall for her turn in the ladies room was regaled by a story of confusion, sadness,and despair told by a woman who'd found this gas station by mistake. She'd left a divorce counseling session and was crying so much and was so upset that she had been driving in the wrong direction for miles.
It was a good thing she needed gas and a bathroom, she said, or she might have ended up in Florida.

Lordy. I love Alabama.

It's pretty, isn't it?
A place I grow more fond of every time I visit, even if it is off the beaten path- at least the best parts of it are. It's the Florida Panhandle on the Gulf of Mexico, with quartz beaches and sand that doesn't stick.
If you drive the length of it, you will be treated to a cultural encapsulation of the USA- from small town hicks of Alabama to the uppity Beverly Hills-ish faux folks to the old blue hair NY Jews to the the Ivy League Spring Breaker Party crowd to the Ex- Hippie Lets camp on the beach and let the dogs shit everywhere while we eat oysters sort of family folks.
Undeniably, the place has its charm, one being its location in retrospect to large commercial cities, the new airport on the way and the undeniably sweet income tax structure.

I can almost forget the traffic jams and construction delays always encountered getting down there and how I almost died and got divorced on a shitty 3 hour walk once. Because each time I try a new area, I learn something else. Like, cheap rentals are cheap for a reason. There isn't always a grocery store around the corner. You don't want to stay where people shop. It's best to be on the south side of the highway. Oysters can go bad fast. Crabbing isn't as easy as they say. And when away from the shore's breeze, summer may be way too hot and buggy to be enjoyable.

I have always been drawn to the ocean. Our family vacations were spent at The Jersey Shore or in Cape Cod, and once The Virgin Islands, which I thought was a funny name for a sexy place.
When I was old enough to strike out on my own I finagled a deal with a small company, convinced them to send me to the West Coast to open new locations and settled my little ass in San Diego. I went to the beach almost every day. Gave directions that started with, head toward the water... Later, after I left that job, I took sideline jobs that were on or on the way to the beach. I dated boys that lived in small apartments on the beach, married a man who grew up on a California beach and still pretty much plan all my family trips around beach time.

During the recent visit with the psychic-- who so far has been RIGHT ON THE MONEY-- he told me I was fueled by the beach, that being near the ocean was good for me creatively. It is a happy spot for me. I cannot agree more.

For the past four years, I've been shopping beach property. First with the idea of rental income, a family getaway spot, then with the intention of having my writer's escape pad. I went to South Carolina, North Carolina, Georgia and three different areas of Florida searching for a place that felt right, a place I could convince myself was "it."
I still get emails from realtors every week, and I troll Trulia and Realtor.com like a crack whore, looking for my fix.

Sometimes in life, you find yourself waiting for that "aha" moment, and when it doesn't come, you think ok... not here. Time to move on. But I have found, with both my writing muse and my inner navigator that sometimes the moment is hiding just around the bend, sometimes it won't look perfect, it won't be without a challenge or a few road blocks, and if you blink you might miss it. You have to believe it's there, be open-minded about what it looks like and you might have to pull on some gloves and dig.

In comparing the perfect, bug free weather of laid back but costly ( earthquaking) California to the culturally rich ( hurricane-y) communities of North Carolina, the golf and tennis folks of South Carolina, the partiers and history buffs of Georgia and the buggy, muggy and sometimes snooty, yet tax-free and very tan Floridian beaches, I'm thinking I may need a few pairs of gloves. I'm thinking not just one place will do.
Especially when I remember the gorgeous possibilities of the Greek Islands.

Thanks to VRBO, I can continue to try out new beaches, continue to fuel my love affair with ocean views, maybe even finding a little place with a sunny window where a writing desk needs a home.

By tomorrow night, I will have survived yet another road trip to a sandy location. This time no whining kids or dogs that need to pee, just a few good friends with a common purpose: warm sunshine, cold beer and great conversation.

When you say it like a good ole' country boy, it's MUCH funnier

Actually, everything in the South can sound much more funny to a born and bred Yankee. It's almost like a suave Frenchman telling me to take out the garbage. I swoon.

Sure, sometimes, Southern accents sound choppy and angry, even less than smart... but sometimes they are so charming and sweet, your pants practically fall right off.

What I like the best are the common working man accents. Nothing pretentious there.
Take the other day, when Mr. Bugman came to spray for ants.

I explain the problem we're having with a few pesky critters in one corner of the kitchen, and oddly enough in the bedroom above- where P tends to leave plates of orange slices out overnight.

He looks around then calls me over to see.
"Yes, Ma'am. I see the problem. C'mon down here and take a look. Now that-" (he points to a tiny spider) " - is a telltale sign you got yerself an ant problem." ( and here I thought the ant trail across the counter and down to the floor was the tell tale sign)
Bugman says, "You see? He was probably keeping the population down for you." ( and how many ants can a two ant-sized spider eat, Mr Bugman?)
"Don't worry," he says. "I'll take care of him for you." He leans in and with a thick index finger, squashes the little spider with a tiny pop- then wipes his finger on his Dickies and smiles at me.
oh yes.
He says, "And now I'm gonna take care of those ants."
Sensing a ripe opportunity for illuminating conversation, I say, "Your brochure says there are many species of ants that may require different treatments, is that right?"
"Yes Ma'am.We have 14 varieties right here in this area." He squats to spray something lethal from his backpack of death. "But the Argentinians? They're the troublemakers."
He wanders off to another room. I notice he has slipped some sort of paper covering over his shoes, and I wonder if a medical procedure is imminent.
"Is that right?" I say, following him. "Oh, those Argentinians..."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And so, how will you treat for them versus other ants?"
"Well, we try to provide a smorgasbord ( yes- he said that) of food for them."
"Uh-huh."
"See, they forage for different things during the day. Carbohydrates, proteins, sweets... so we want to attract them with our bait-"
"I see. (thinking maybe I am part Argentinian Ant) And then?"
"Then we draw them outside." He smiles. "And kill them."
"Oh."
"Yes, Ma'am."

Later he wants me to come outside where he has sprinkled something sure to make neighboring cats sick, and show me the trail from the mulch to the siding, where he has been watching worker ants leave my house to take his poisonous bait back to the colony. He assures me it is all very interesting, something I should squat right down there under the Gardenia bushes beside him and watch. And I do, for a little while, trying hard not to think of the movie ANTZ and those big bug eyes.