Just a Memory

Today, it was back to work.

Quiet Before the Storm

Georgia got home yesterday! So Mamoo and Granny came over for dinner tonight--and Blaise. Mamoo brought Fay back also, for a homecoming of epic proportions. Before the chaos ensued, though, I spent some sweet quality one-on-one with my beautiful Stella.

Now That We're Home

Conversation in the driveway:

TR: Mamoo and Granny are coming over for dinner. I'm going to fix bar-b-q.

Biggy: What time? I've got to ride my bike sometime today. (Pinches waist) I weighed 189.6 this morning, and I should have weighed 187.

TR: You think those scales are off? 'Cause I can't figure out how I GAINED weight this week. I didn't eat that much, except for when we went to the Shrimp Shack--and the last night, when I had seconds on biscuits and the stuffed tomato things...

Biggy: Tania, you eat a LOT. Every time we go out, all those fries...

TR: THAT'S ONCE A WEEK! The rest of the time, I eat about 1500 calories a day, and I exercise.

Biggy: Walking three miles isn't really exercise.

TR: FIRST of all, I jog most of it. And at the beach, I jogged AND rode my bike.

Biggy: So what are you thinking--(mockingly) a thyroid problem?

TR: No, a tumor. My mom had one when she was my age. The size of a grapefruit.

Biggy: (His expression reflects he's just thought of something clever.) ...uh. Never mind.

TR: WHAT? What were you going to say?

Biggy: Nothing.

TR: TELL ME.

Biggy: You could lose two pounds today if you cut your hair.

TR: ...

Biggy: You know that was funny.

TR: ...

Biggy: Where are you going?

TR: To pack.

Boxing

Wish You Were Here

LolaLola@Bubba's Surf Shop

Catch of the Day

The Boys of Summer

Biggy annihilates a ten-year-old.

Just a Post to Say I Can't Post

Because I've been trying to load up one minute of video for the past hour, and blogger won't let me. I'll try again in the morning.

Goobers Gone Fishin'

It took them two hours to get ready. I expect them back in about thirty minutes.

Today On the Beach

Jack, flying a kite; Biggy, out in the kayak; Lola, catching crabs; and I, walking around with my Flip camera.

Heading to Fripp

We had a fascinating conversation as soon as we hit the road. It started with Biggy correcting me about my earlier post:

Biggy: It's golf CART, by the way--not golf CAR.

TR: You're wrong. Everyone always says golf cart, but it's actually golf car.

Biggy: What even makes you think that?

TR: Someone corrected me once, so I looked it up.

Jack: Someone CORRECTED you for THAT? That's like getting on to someone for saying PIN instead of PEN [emphasis on short e].

TR: True.

Jack: I got in an argument with this kid at school because he heard me say Billy Joel, and he corrected me. He said, "It's Joll." And I said, Jo-w'l.

Biggy: Billy Joll.

Jack: Jo-w'l. Two syllables, but kinda slurred together.

TR: Right. Billy Jo-w'l.

Biggy: Whatever.

Jack: That's my point.

VayCay

Again this year, we're fortunate to be hitting the beach at Fripp, courtesy of Portfolio Center, for the annual PC retreat. A full week of sunning, jogging, and biking for me, and watching others crabbing, fishing, and swimming (Remember, I only pretend I might actually get in the water). Neither of my big girls are coming, which means I'll be without my usual allies and exercise partner.

We leave in the morning, at 10, according to Biggy's always-rigid vacation departure schedule. He acts as though a time-sensitive million dollar prize or a drop-deadline awaits us at the other end of the drive. Whereas I like to sleep in, drink some coffee, coo at the dogs I won't see for a week, pack, read my email, pack some more, then get on the road, my husband likes to start crackin his whip the night before: "You need to pack your suitcase so I can start loading the car..." He thinks we should sleep fully clothed, wake up at his pre-determined time, and sprint to the car.

Anyway, I've gotten off track. So Biggy and I are upstairs, discussing how we need to get to the island in plenty of time to pick up the golf car he's reserved when Jack walks in and sees Biggy's new Adidas sitting on the bed.

JackMan: Whose shoes?

Biggy: Mine. I got them so I can jog at the beach. Since there's not really any place to ride my bike.

TR: It's fun to ride around on the island.

Biggy: I know, but it's not really exercise.

TR: Whatever. I'm just glad you're going to jog with me. You are bringing your bike, though, right?

Biggy: I plan to bring three--your monkey bike, Lo's BMX, and mine--for me and Jack to share.

Jack: Yeah, I won't be riding.

TR: Oh, you are going to ride with me! Georgia won't be here, so you guys are going to have to take turns filling in for her.

Biggy: OK, Jack. I'll complain on Monday and Wednesday, and you can do Tuesday and Thursday.

Jack: Sounds fair.

The Morning After

I thought I'd go in, they'd do what they had to do, and I'd be good as new today...

Friday Nostalgia

I watched this rerun yesterday with my one eye.
Seinfeld, 1992, The Contest. One of the funniest scenes on TV. Ever.

Nightmare

I dreamed I went into a small office where a woman who looked like Doris Day wearing white Naturalizers sat me in a reclining chair and swabbed my face with alcohol. Then a tall man who looked like Humphrey Bogart in Sansabelt slacks stuck a needle in my eye and sliced my stye with a scalpel. Next, both the man and the woman took turns digging at the wound with Q-tips the size of broccoli. Finally, the man cauterized the area with something that looked like one of those tools used to burn names into the wooden plaques they sell in Gatlinburg. It smelled like when we used to put our Barbies' heads in the charcoal grill.

But I wasn't asleep.

I couldn't even close my eyes.

More on the Subject

In response to Biggy's brag about how it took him ten minutes and ten dollars to purchase his new trunks at T.J Maxx, I thought I'd elaborate on the swimsuit shopping experience for middle-aged women.

According to a recent poll of women I know, once you're out of water wings and no longer choosing between the Barney bikini and the Mickey maillot, swimsuit shopping ceases to be pleasant. Beyond the futile exercise of finding the perfect balance between what you want to hide and what you want to show off, fluorescent lighting is unkind to everyone, even high school cheerleaders and college volleyball players.

Around 40, though, when "what you want to show off" is sadly taken off the table, mere unpleasantness morphs into torture. Not only does the whole ordeal require more time and money, but it inevitably leaves you broken and demoralized.

There's so much to consider: quality, fit, exposure, likelihood of slippage or spillage... Because no matter how much you work out or how slim you are, the world--with it's gravity and sunlight, is at war with your skin, battering it like a meat mallet, stretching and thinning it, transforming it into the bag that will hold your 90-year-old bones.

So the fabric has to be of good quality. You can no more wear a Target tankini than you can wear a tube dress from Charlotte Russe. Cheap, lightweight fabrics get caught in bumps and crevices; they show the outline of your post-pregnancy navel. Wearing discount swimsuits is like putting coffee in a Dixie cup, when what you need is a sturdy travel mug.

But quality is only the beginning. Last night I tried on a beautiful, simple Ralph Lauren one-piece, crafted from a nice thick shimmery lycra spandex. It was an elegant navy blue number, cut higher on the legs and in a low V down the front, with a little silver RL clasp between the breasts. It was lovely, really. Until I turned and saw the decolletage from the side. What would have been an intriguing glimpse of flesh on a younger gal was, on me, reason for the cabana boy to to gouge out his own eyeballs.

Hence, that area of my body was officially added to the ever-growing list called Things That Must Be Covered or Disguised, a list that includes belly, bellybutton outline, upper thighs, evidence of nipples, stretch marks, ass divots, love handles, bra fat, back fat, and broken capillaries. Everything else must be held in place, contained, and rendered immobile for walking the twelve steps to the tiki bar (well, not me but my friends).

Does anyone know of the perfect suit?

Today I Went Shopping for Swimsuits

I had my heart set on this one, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

Because Sometimes More is More.

A tour of Mamoo's little garden.

Georgia Tree

I added ice cream spoons and sticky lizards (in honor of the reptiles that get in her dresser drawers in Costa Rica). Oh--and cookie cutters that came free with Splenda.