more photographic dispatches from last month's trip

Ricky didn't know that drinking with a straw made him look gay.
I chose to not point it out.
Which didn't really matter because he insisted on wearing
the scarf he bought at H&M.
In the junior department.
Also, the "doesn't my butt look sweet in these jeans?" question
was getting really annoying after the fifth time. So there's that.

Two thumbs up: The Cowgirl Hall of Fame.
Best damn strawberry margaritas in New York.
And Patsy Cline portraits in the john.

When people leave their mattresses out on the sidewalk
in the middle of the Village is there anything to do other than
jumping up and down on them?

Scariest. Damn. Bingo game hostess on the planet. Ever.
I knew I was in trouble when she asked me how long I claim to have been
a woman. Oh, and she called my friends Kathy and Lisa "Cagney and Lacy"
or "Streetwalker Barbie and Midge" all night which I sort of preferred
and continue to address them as such.
It couldn't have been all that bad.
We got there at 10 p.m.-ish and starting lurching toward the door at 3 a.m.-ish.
I think. No. Yeah. Um. Yeah.

Best damn cupcakes on the planet.
Especially the red velvet.
Even though I saw them twice.
Once in the bakery and again splattered near my feet
when Ricky leaned over and said "Oy. Yeah, I'm gonna puke,"
as I hailed a cab. Good times.

the annual tourist rant

the weather may be sucking ass where you are, but down here in the sweet southern sunbelt, the Blue Jays are hollerin' and the azaleas are in full bloom. Suck on that. The only truly sucky thing about winter and spring in Inferno (Florida) is that we are invaded by gorging locusts--Canadians and Michiganders and dolts from Ohio and Pennsylvania who apparently cannot figure out how to dress themselves or accelerate beyond 25 MPH in the fast lane. They are cheap and tip for shit and are rude to service staff. They clog the restaurants, malls and golf courses and the beaches are awash in white-bellied old farts. God, I wish they would go home. Now.

retirees

retirees should be required to have locks on the outside of their dwellings that prevent them from leaving their homes (except in the event of fire, of course) during rush hour. Once the clock hits 9:00 a.m., their condos would spring open just like at the penitentiary. But they must go back inside between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00 p.m. Bingo and water aerobics should only begin after 9:00 a.m. and early bird specials should start at 6:00 p.m., the main culprit in the end-of-the-workday traffic jams, I am certain of it. Gotta get the two-for-one brisket before 4:30 p.m.

Here is my idea: when you retire, you should sign a paper that legally binds you to stay off major roadways during the height of rush hour. Oh, and out of the grocery stores too. But that is another rant. In return, you get your Social Security check and Medicare. Not before. I mean, what is the deal? If I were retired, or, rather, when I retire, you will NOT find my happy ass on the busiest throughway at the height of rush hour. Going 25 mph in the fast lane. Oblivious.

And don't get me started on the tourists. One of my neighbors recently erected a sign in his yard that reads: "Welcome to the beach. Now go home." A bit harsh, yes, but I do not get why folks think nothing of using our driveways or blocking access to our homes or peeing in our yards so that they can go to the beach. When they are old tourists, it's worse. The farther north the license plate, the worse the driving skills, I am sorry to say, and yes that means the Canadians.

But anyway, old people, please, I am begging you. Do you really need to be on the interstate at 7:45 a.m.? Make your tee-time after 9:00. Could you? Please? Yes, Papaw, you too.

sand

I live near the beach so I have the obligatory bowls of seashells all over my house. And sand. I have sand in my house, in my car, in the corners of the bathtubs, in the bottom of the washing machine, under the couch cushions and in my bed.

I hear seagulls all day and the occasional deep echoing sound of freighter horns way out in the gulf of mexico and the dinging bell of the causeway drawbridge that warns it is opening or closing.

My favorite time to go to the beach is at sunset, preferably during the week--fewer people. In the summertime when I arrive to witness sunset, most of the fat tourists have dragged their little fat sunburned children and neon rafts and inner tubes off to be stuffed into rental cars and driven back to the Holiday Inn where they will shower and dress in tacky tropical wear they fancy makes them look Island-like. And they will then go stuff their faces at the Outback.

I have the beach mostly to myself at twilight, the gloaming, my favorite time of day when everything vibrates and glows and it's quiet but for the mesmerizing sound of the waves and the shrill squeaking of the seabirds. I wiggle my butt into the sand and make myself a bucket seat and scrunch my toes deep into the sand, past the light, white dry powder down into the dark, cold, wetness beneath. I watch the sun melt into the water and rhythmically sift with my toes. Usually I hum. Then I go home and fold laundry.