Life's A Beach

I'm having one of those days where I just want to be really whiny, and stomp off from meetings saying I don't want to be here wah wah wah. I knew it was going to be a bad day when I went to fill my coffee cup and there was no coffee in the pot! CURSES! It's because the break room's coffee pot is incredibly dirty, and the gauge that tells you when you're running low on coffee is stained the color of coffee which it makes it impossible to know when you're about to short change the person behind you. Unfortunately, this morning I was the one who got short changed. And double unfortunately, our sweet, dear receptionist walked into the break room right about the time my rage was boiling over because oh my GOD I would have to wait an additional three minutes to get my coffee. I turned to her and barked ISN'T THERE ANY WAY WE CAN CLEAN THIS POT, SO IDIOTS WILL NOW WHEN THEY TAKE ALL THE DAMN COFFEE. My teeth were gnashed and my eye, it was a twitching. She mumbled something with head down and quickly scurried out of the room.

Eventually I got the coffee. And it was burnt. Wah wah wah.

You could say I need a vacation. The thing is? I just got back from one.

Perhaps that's why everything is so annoying right now. Everything. It's because I know there's a beach with white sand and dolphins frolicking off shore just waiting for me. A place with warm sun, good food, cool salty breezes, Charlie!, impossibly cute beach communities – I have seen the GLORY of the coming of the LAWD, and I want to march right back there.

Two weekends ago, I spent two whole days in the fun and sun of Destin, FL. And y'all, the Gulf Coast is absolutely GORG. EOUS. It was one of those vacations where you scream WEEEEEE all the way through it because there's no time to slow down because you have only TWO! DAYS!, and why are you SLEEPING? There's no time to sleep! It was also the kind of vacation that leaves you a tad more exhausted than when you left.

I would like to give a big shout out to the Erdmann family for inviting me along, and since they were also there to attend the Lee's Famous Recipe Convention a big thanks for giving me the chance to learn more about fried chicken than I ever thought I could learn.

Some highlights:

1. The beach. Beee-yoot-tiful. The last time I was at the ocean I was in San Francisco – and it was cold and rainy and being very San Francisco-ish – so it good to get back to a "real" beach.

2. FRISBEE®! I think I am half hippie because y'all? I was damn good at Frisbee.

3. Walking around the creepiest place on earth, Seaside, FL. I tend to be very uncomfortable around things that are perfect. (That's why I can't talk to gorgeous men, or spend too long in the sculpture gardens of most museums.) And Seaside was perfect in every way – quaint little shops, perfect houses, perfect manicured lawns on manicured streets belonging to the perfect Stepford Wives strolling around in Range Rovers. I kept getting the feeling I was on a movie set, any minute the director would need to call cut because I was in the frame picking my nose. Charlie's sister, Michelle, kindly informed me that Seaside was where The Truman Show was shot. And I was all like, oooooooh yeah. I can't tell how creepy it is to be somewhere you recognize, but that you know you've never been before.

Another thing that was annoying about Seaside is that it proudly boasts that it was established in 1981. I am older than this town.

4. The Erdmanns cannot for the life of them settle on a place to eat. We spent two hours searching for a place to grab a quick bite to eat. We went to every restaurant in a twenty mile radius, only to end up eating back at the hotel. This is so foreign to me because in my family when Mom is hungry the vacation is put on hold until we find somewhere to gorge ourselves. There are no qualifying factors for vegetarian menus or soup quality, my family is like do y'all make stuff in a kitchen? Is it warm? Good, let's eat.

5. Deep sea fishing. I know NOTHING about fishing, but this was by far the coolest experience of the trip. We went out 28 miles into the Gulf, and then proceeded to fish and fish some more. Our fishing consisted of letting a six pound sinker um, sink to the bottom of the ocean. The "mates" explained that after your sinker sunk to the bottom that you could give your line a couple tugs and most likely catch your fish right then. "Most likely" never happened for me. My entire haul was only two fish. I only got to keep one. Something called a mingo. (when I googled it I found out it also goes by the name bastard snapper which rocks so hard) I must have looked like I really knew what I was doing because the guys on the ship would come by and be like, you got something, and then after reeling in over 150 feet of fishing line there would be nada. After about five times they stopped coming around to me.

When I first heard we were going out on the ocean (gulf, whatever) I was a little worried about getting seasick. Although I never get motion sickness, I remember my brother talking about everyone being affected by the proverbially motion in the ocean when he was on the military's big boats. And let me tell you, being out on the waves is like being on a roller coaster ride that never ends. I never got sick, but that's not to say my stomach's contents didn't try to lead several escape attempts throughout the day. Charlie battled the nausea all day. Charlie's dad did get sick, like three times. (Charlie even took a picture of his like seconds after he got sick, which I thought was a little mean. But then again I just told the internet.) Next time, I will pack the Dramamine.

6. While we were fishing Charlie kept telling me how proud he was of me because I went fishing and I was such a tough chick. (Even though I made him bait my hook every time because touching squid? Ew.) When we got back to shore I totally princess-ed out on him. I was like I'm cold and hungry, you're going to get me a big hamburger when we get back to the hotel all while I sleep a glorious little nap wah wah wah. It's a wonder he puts up with me.


The lowlight:

Getting stranded in Houston overnight because I missed my connecting flight to Dallas. I won't go into much detail because there's already enough profanity on the internet. However, I will say that if I ever meet the woman who was at the Continental Airlines counter in the Ft. Walton Beach airport again, I will swiftly kick her in the shins. I told this woman no less than eleventy hundred times that if I was going to miss my connecting flight in Houston (because my first flight was already delayed) I would rather reschedule the flight for in the morning. She looked at me like I was certifiably nutty, of COURSE you'll make your flight, don't be silly. Big surprise, I missed the flight. And frankly after 55 dollars spent on an itchy 4 hours of sleep at the shadiest hotel ever, plus an hour and half waiting on their shuttle, then spending 2.75 on a plastic toothbrush and half a tube of toothpaste because the airline held my luggage hostage, and a 40 dollar cab ride back to the airport because the hotel's shuttle didn't leave before 8 a.m. she's lucky I'm only kicking her in the shins.

Wow. I didn't mean to write a book. But if you're with me this far you get a prize: Boring vacation pictures!

Luck of the Irish be with ye

I want his gold too.

Cause We Can't Be Sad ALL the Time

Folks, I give you what might be my finest achievement in Photoshop to date:




















I like to thank RoboFavo, Nancy Rice and Google Image Search.

And I think I have found my calling - you think hotjobs.com has any positions where the only required skill involves slapping your friends' heads on random pictures for an outrageous salary in Milan, TN?

My Pock

(First, I want to thank everyone for their sympathies about losing my family pet, Ricki. I can't tell you how much it helped.)

Now, on to The Weird:

For those of who remember the birds and are keeping count with me - the count is up to eight (minus the original 17)

The latest dead one was at the front door of my office building. Which means they are indeed following me.

At this rate, there will be one at my desk by the end of the month.

At first, I was like, oh this will make a funny blog. But now it's giving me a serious case of The Icks.

No one likes to have dead birds follow them, especially when you're named after a bird.

Miss Ricki

My parents wrote me this weekend to tell me that they were going to have to put our family dog, Ricki, down. I knew it would be coming soon, - when I saw her at Christmas time she could barely walk and was having seizures pretty frequently – but still when I heard I couldn’t help but stop and cry. Like a little baby. My only regret is that I didn’t get to say goodbye when I saw her last. So I’m choosing to do it now.



Goodbye, sweet girl.

Ricki was our first family dog. In the spring of 1989, we loaded up the family and went to check out some free-to-a-good-home puppies. We brought her home where she met her adoptive parents, Ozzie and Harriet. (I guess my mom had a thing for the Nelsons) We named her Ricki (notice the “i” please don’t call her a BOY!) and fell in love with her immediately. I was 9 years old.



Ricki was so very smart. Her face would light up when we would ask her if she wanted to go on a walk. In fact, it got to the point if we even said, “walk” in passing conversation she would go sit at her leash. Eventually we had to start spelling the word, and still she caught on to that.





We taught her how to catch Frisbees. In 1993, she was named State Frisbee Champion. Her trophy hung in our living room for many years after that. She so loved to catch Frisbees that even when arthritis limited her ability to get around she still wanted to go out and show off her skills. We ended up having to hide all her Frisbees because if she found one she wouldn’t let us rest until we went outside tossed a few around. She would go for hours until her poor little body would give out.



We used to call her “Monkey Dog” because her nervous/excited chattering sounded exactly like the monkeys at the zoo. When one of us would come home after a long day, Ricki would be there oooh-aaah-aah-ooh-ing her entire day’s activities. She couldn’t wait to tell us about how the UPS man had come to visit, or how the crazy lady across the street had let her cat wander into our yard.




Ricki had a nose for water, be it lake, creek, or even large puddle. And when she found it she would bolt towards the water’s edge, and doggie canon ball right in. She would emerge with the biggest grin on her face.



Ricki was the most loyal and eager to please dog I have ever known. And in the end, I’m positive it’s what kept her hanging on as long as she did – she did not want to let us down.

When we lost Ozzie, my mom brought home a new little puppy, P.B. – who quickly became Mr. #1. Yet Ricki was content to play second fiddle. (And secretly Ricki, you were always my favorite. Sure P.B. might have been cute, but he couldn’t hold a candle to how sweet you were.) My mom tells me that P.B. has been walking around the house searching for Ricki, reminding me that we weren’t the only who lost their best bud.



I can’t imagine how hard it was for my mom and Marvin because underneath all the gray whiskers and ailments were the eyes of a puppy. You would almost forget just how old she was. To look into those eyes and have to say goodbye must have been absolutely soul crushing.

I can't understand people who tell me that they're not "pet people." The love of a pet is far-reaching and unconditional. It’s the kind of love that can know when it’s time to go - the tumors and seizures were just too much for you. It’s that kind of love that can give you your last kisses, and whisper that it’s okay, you can let go now.

I know Ricki is in a better place. It’s full of unlimited Frisbees to catch, toys to chew and leaves to bark at in the front yard. I know she is no longer is carrying the weight of a body that can’t keep up with her spirit.

We love you, Ricki.

We will miss you more than you will ever know.



Goodbye, sweet girl.