Back in the vacation backyard

It's true: We were on vacation. Thanks for not telling any burglars. (Although in the future, if you do, please also tell them that our really mean, bloodthirsty dogs are still at home, guarding the premesis. And that we've recently trained them to use shotguns. Well, not the puppy -- he can only handle a .38.)

BUT YES. We just returned from vacation. (Oh, sad vacation end times!) And most of the time, when we take a vacation, it's either a "stay-cation" (ugh -- hate that stupid "word") during which I try to convince T that weeding the flowerbeds is NOT relaxing, or we head to Florida. Specifically, Sarasota, land of white sandy beaches and my family's vacation house.

Growing up, my grandparents owned a house in Sarasota (along with approximately 1 bajillion* of our relatives) and lived here from right-after-Thanksgiving to right-after-Easter with a quick trip back to Ohio for Christmas. For us, this meant fall breaks on the beach, and hunting for melting Easter candy around the orange trees in the backyard. Back then, it was such a sleepy tourist town that my cousins and I were allowed to walk or bike the two miles to the beach by ourselves, which was SUPER cool.

The neighborhood today looks COMPLETELY different. The formerly two-lane roads are now six- to eight-lane monstrosities, and I'd no sooner allow a child to take off for the beach unattended than let them leap off the Empire State Building, but it's still a nice, slightly-less-sleepy little neighborhood. My grandparents still winter there, but since my parents now own the house, the rest of the family uses it for super-cheap, super-relaxing vacations.

Since we go there at least once, maybe twice, each year, there are certain highlights we like to hit. The beach, obviously. Walt's Fish Market, where you can get ridiculously amazing seafood on paper plates, surrounded by kitschy sea decor. Mote Aquarium. And Smuggler's Cove, where I kick T's butt at putt-putt on the regular, and you can feed meaty treats to the baby alligators chilling in their lagoon.

But one of our favorite things, maybe even more than the beach and the running around, is just chilling in the backyard. It's nothing special: Just a little patio, some grass that never really grows and a cracked shuffleboard court. But there's something so tranquil about it. It's surrounded by the fruit trees and tropical plants my grandparents so lovingly planted and cultivated over the last 25+ years.

And you know what? Shuffleboard is kind of awesome. Especially when you make up your own rules.

*Estimates may be grossly exaggerated

Here's where I admit that I really don't have a point to this post, and this very wordy diatribe was supposed to be a short, simple lead-in to a photo montage of our beloved Florida backyard. Since I've robbed myself of any logical and/or smooth transition, I'll now just say...here are the photos! Yay!

********

Tropical Plant of Some Unknown Variety
(Now may be a good time to tell you that, while I enjoy them,
I know absolutely nothing about plants.)

Cool-looking Palm Tree Offshoots
(The larger tree wasn't quite as cool-looking, so it didn't make the cut.)

Tiny Green Oranges!
(They're tiny! And green! I guess they're greens at this point, vs. oranges?
Whatever. They're adorable.)

Medium-sized Palm Tree
(Not as cute as the tiny offshoots above, not as impressive as the big mama palm tree below.
I call this one "Meh.")

Shuffleboard!
(The awesomeness cannot be denied.)

Mango Tree! With Mangos!
(It took us forever to figure out what kind of tree this was. Also, I hate mangos. Also, I think it may be spelled "mangoes," but that makes me think of "man toes," and therefore I don't spell it that way. Because, ew. And also I'm too lazy to look it up.)

Awesome Spiny Cactus
(It's ridiculous how much I love this cactus.)

Aloe Plant!
(So handy when you come home from the beach all sunburny! Except, as it turns out, raw aloe smells like B.O. Did everyone know this but me? It's seriously gross.)

And finally, Big Mama Palm Tree
(It pains me that I can't get a shot of her without the power lines. Stupid electricity.)

Hello there, sunshine.

I miss you already, vacation.

And now, a brief lament...

My vacation is drawing to a close. And I find myself actually grieving the loss of this time.

It has been so wonderful, so relaxing, so freeing to simply take each day as it comes without worrying about all the responsibility of work.

Hanging out with my girlfriends (the relaxing effect of hours of talking cannot be overstated).

Playing cards with our neighbors:

(Kim is hiding from our dogs' noxious farts; it's a constant problem in this house. But the girls MOPPED the FLOOR with the boys, which made all the stinkiness well worth it.)

But best of all, spending time with the boys (one of whom is behind the camera here):

I'm really going to miss this vacation come Monday morning, when I return to my cubicle and hear the loud talkers in the next aisle and jump on that first conference call and (ugh) wade through two weeks' worth of missed e-mail.

But the truth is...I need to work. Not just because we need money to live: I need to have that in my life, that connection to work I am passionate about -- outside my home.

I like my job. I like the people I work with. It's a wonderful, flexible, mostly-stimulating (and sometimes frustrating) job that, ultimately, I am extremely fortunate to have.

So although I am grieving the end of these LOVELY two weeks...I wouldn't make this a permanent vacation, even if I could.

Have a great weekend. I intend to make the most of what's left of my "freedom." :)

As Week One draws to a close...

...just thought I'd clue you in to what the majority of my activity this week, the first week of my vacation, has amounted to:

Mmmmm...recliner...

(And give it up for supporting breast cancer research, even while napping. Multi-tasking -- woot! Also: That shirt is more than 10 years old. I'm thrifty.)

Have a great weekend, y'all.

"Off"

Last night, before I went to bed, I did something amazing.

It's something I hardly ever do. It's usually reserved for special occasions, like the night before Christmas, or New Year's Eve. Or an unusally uneventful weekend.

I turned off my alarm clock.

Ordinarily this would be extremely ill-advised for a Sunday night.

But as it happens...

...I'M ON VACATION.

For the next 14 days, there will be no more alarm clocks.

No deadlines.

No commute.

No conference calls.

No to-do list.

No bedtime.

It's like summer vacation for old people.

Since we canceled our trip to the Gulf Coast to avoid leaving our ailing furry one, I find myself staring down the barrel of two weeks' worth of staycation-ery good times.

Sleeping in. Reading good books. Catching up on e-mail that has nothing to do with corporate interests. Watching the entire last season of The Office on Netflix instant streaming. Finishing everything on my DVR, even that one old movie I've been saving for three months until I had time to really sit down and enjoy it. Reading blogs and actually having three minutes to spare to comment on the author's inspiring (or just plain hilarious) reflections.

Sitting at my computer and realizing that whatever writing I do will be just for me.

A massage.

A trip to the zoo to see whatever animals are still braving the brisk Ohio weather.

A day or two with my best girlfriends.

A very special day tomorrow that I'll write about...tomorrow.

And, most importantly, days and days and days of uninterrupted hang time with my three favorite boys, two of whom are snoring on the couch next to me as I write this.

As you can see from this picture...

...we're all really excited about it.

Happily not a pro. Or an amateur. Or...whatever's even less skilled than an amateur.

It starts the day before, when I get this text from my neighbor: "Could we store 100 Jell-O shots in your fridge?"

After I hesitantly reply that, yes, I can probably make room, her return text offers even less comfort: "Oh, good. We have the other 200 over here, and we're out of space."

And thus, the dread begins. Why? Four words:

The 2010 Beer Olympics.

Full disclosure right up front: I'm not much of a drinker. Scratch that: I just don't drink. I don't have a problem with drinking or with being around people who do; I just...never do. It just isn't my thing. Water and Diet Coke taste better, alcohol makes me sleepy and gives me a headache -- the reasons are many and varied.

Plus, the rest of the attendees? Well, let's put it this way: They don't call these the Beer Olympics for nothing. These people have been in hardcore training since high school and are ready to compete on a moment's notice. To carry the analogy a little further, I'm the delegate from Luxembourg who was chosen by default because everyone else in my country was on vacation the week of the qualifiers, and I'm going up against China, the U.S. and Russia. I'm picturing a combination of a male rugby team, an MMA fighter and a frat party at OSU.

(Oh, and did I mention most of them will be in their 20s, making me the grandmother of the competition at 33? Am I too old for this stuff? OMG, I'm way too old for this stuff.)

Also: I don't drink beer, which seems like it could be an issue since, you know, it factors heavily in the title of the event.

But this hallowed event is hosted annually by our next-door neighbors (and good friends), and since we literally live within shouting distance, it seems poor form to pretend to be out of town. (Not least because our garage is a disaster, and hiding our cars would require a tarp-and-foliage feat of engineering that I just don't have time to construct.) It becomes clear that my only option is to suck it up and put on mah drankin' shoes.

On the day of the event, speaking of drinking duds, a surprising amount of thought goes into wardrobe. This year there are team colors, and therefore I need to find a shirt that's red and nice enough to wear in public but not so nice that I also don't mind potentially ruining it with copious amounts of spilled alcohol. Also, it's freezing outside, so my standard summer uniform of comfy shorts and sandals just isn't going to work.

At 2:00, it's time to stop dreading and just dive headlong into the wild. We fuel up first with a potluck-style lunch that, apparently, is governed by the rule of "Snoozers are Losers": We almost immediately run out of potatoes, baked beans, macaroni salad and nearly everything else except for meat, buns and Doritos. I'm also tricked into eating some kind of homemade chocolate bark that turns out to be chocolate, almonds and...BACON. (I'm distressed to report that it is both chewy and...kind of good.)

I'm not even done eating yet when the team "captains" start debating about how today's festivities are going to work. Apparently, we're eschewing the running of the torch and the opening ceremonies and getting right down to brass tacks. I immediately know I'm out of my league when I see one of the other teams doing calisthenics and creating a team handshake in a corner of the yard. Our team is warming up by...eating more Doritos.

This seems like the best time to level with my team captain: Anything that involves hand-eye coordination is NOT going to be my strong suit and oh, by the way, I'll be drinking my own girly drinks tonight instead of beer. He eyes me suspiciously, probably wondering both why I'm here and what he did to get stuck with me, but then shrugs and leads the way to our first effort: Flip Cup.

Some games are individual or two-person events, but since Flip Cup is a team effort, I have no choice but to participate. I put in an OK showing, although I instantly spill my drink all over my carefully-selected red shirt. And then I'm promptly eliminated. By my own teammates. Please keep in mind this is approximately five and a half minutes into the Olympics at large.

But, to my surprise, the rest of the afternoon is both fairly benign and kind of fun. I wisely steer clear of Beer Pong and Hillbilly (aka Ladder) Golf. I play a few games of cornhole and DU Ball (a game invented by the host that involves throwing a ping-pong ball at your opponent's can/bottle/glass, then chugging your own drink while he or she scrambles to grab the ball). There are more girls than anticipated, and everyone is nicer and more supportive toward this uncoordinated novice drinker than I expected. No one seems to care that A) I really, really suck at these games, and B) I'm not really drinking all that much. And/or at all.

(However, this lack of caring is partially due to the fact that most of the 12 or so couples who arrived together are now in different pockets of the yard in varying stages of fighting, and are therefore too distracted to care what anyone else is doing. At one point, we have yelling, crying, pointed-cold-shouldering and "I'm sorry" making-out-ing happening simultaneously. Entertainment, thy name is Other People Who Are Not Me Getting Into Stupid Fights.)

In the end, it's a pretty fun day, despite my total lack of skill and the fact that I choose to beg off at 11 p.m. rather than party 'til dawn with the rest of them. I have ZERO idea who "won" or how my team fared, and I'm choosing to think that's a good thing.

A few other highlights:

• While no one seemed to be taking things too seriously, one good-natured trash-talking episode somehow escalated into our host's brother jumping the host and hogtying him with duct tape. In his front yard. At 5:00 in the afternoon. Rather than help, we all stood around laughing and took pictures with our phones.* As you do.
• After a certain point, it got dark. Silly me, I thought this was my cue to go sit by the enormous (awesome) bonfire in the backyard and relax after a hard day of drinking and sport. Then they brought out the 5,000-watt utility light and parked it in the front yard so the festivities could continue unabated. I had a brief fantasy involving our other neighbors calling the police, thinking we were landing planes across the street. You know, if the earlier hogtying episode didn't have them worried enough.
• All night, we'd heard at least 15 of the 35 people boasting that they planned to pitch tents and sleep outside. The next morning, after a frosty night in the vicinity of 40 degrees, I got a text from my neighbor: "30 people sleeping in our house. Couldn't get to the bathroom even if I wanted to." I've never been so happy to live next door.
• Remember those 300 Jell-O shots? Gone. All of 'em. I had two. SO out of my league.
• If nothing else, I will take this away from the experience: Testosterone is predictable. Get a bunch of men out in a yard, give them alcohol, and eventually you WILL have wrestling. Conducted, monitored and refereed by other drunk men. Armed only with the vaguest understanding of MMA terminology, and a complete lack of reserve about throwing it around. Loudly.

But my favorite highlight of the night? My husband (who knew I was nervous about the whole thing) shouting, "That's my baby!" across the yard when I (finally) scored a point in cornhole. Embarrassing, yes, but also...kind of cute.

In the end? Yes, I'm too old for this. But I don't think I'll ever be too old to laugh at others doing this. :)

*Apologies for the lack of photographic evidence of...any of this stuff. None of my pictures turned out, and, after awhile, I just gave up trying to find anything usable. So you'll just have to take my word for it. :)

A few thoughts on friendship

As a "part 2" of my vacation recap, I promised you some deep thoughts. Turns out, that also equals many, long thoughts. So grab a snack and settle in. I hope you'll think it's worth it.

**********

When I was a little girl, having a "best friend" was everything.

It didn't matter if your best friend changed every year, or even every week; you just had to have one.

Someone who sat by you during lunch and made up silly games with you at recess, who invited you to her sleepovers, and got into giggle fits with you, and told you all her best secrets.

From ages 6-12, my best friend, P, and I were inseparable. Absolutely joined at the hip in every way. Other friends came and went; P and I were steadfast. We went to church and school together. Her older brothers teased us relentlessly; my little brother drove us nuts. Our parents patiently listened to giggling well past 3 a.m. nearly every weekend. People at church told us, "You know, when we think of the word 'friend,' we think of you two."

Peas in a tiny little, sheltered pod.

P knew every single one of my secrets. From the silly to the very, very serious. To this day, she is a guardian of one of my biggest secrets, and I'm not sure if she even remembers anymore.

When it came time for high school, our paths divided. And while we still called each other "best friend," and we still saw one another all the time...things changed. Other friends entered our circle. We spent weeks apart.

By the time college rolled around, I still loved her, but things had clearly changed for both of us. It happens. It's a part of life.

As one of my favorite bloggers says: Friendships have a lifespan. Very few are meant to actually go the distance. And that's OK. Life happens. It's OK to let go.

I met B when I was 18. Immediately, we had a lot of surface things in common: Both music majors, both singers, both freshmen at a new school. We discovered we both liked boys who didn't like us back, and we agonized over this mutual slight.

And as the year wore on and we spent more and more time together in dorm rooms, concert halls, dining halls, classrooms and tour buses, one thing became clear: B was really, really funny. And she made me funnier. And together, we could make each other laugh like no one had ever made us laugh before.

Me and B, 1996:

And when we started singing together, just us, in coffee shops and concerts and sometimes just in our rooms? It was like something finally clicked in me. Here was someone who could bond with me over the most fundamentally personal thing I had -- music -- and make me burst into uncontrollable laughter at the same time. For me, this was as close to magical as friendships got at that point.

There was something there, something we recognized in one another -- this kind of sameness.

We were as different as two people could possibly be in almost every way: Our backgrounds, family life, taste in almost everything; we're even polar opposites in hair color, height and body type. But when something made me laugh, it made her laugh, too. Even when no one else in the world got the joke, I knew B always did.

At a time when I was barely becoming an adult, and I had left P and my family behind, and I was secretly sure no one in the entire world would ever, ever really GET me?

She did.

B transferred to another school after our sophomore year. I was crushed, of course, but, in a selfishness only a 19-year-old can display, I had other things going on that seemed more important at the time. We were both dealing with a lot of issues, including "What Do I Want to Do With My Life?", and our paths just naturally divided. We still kept in touch and saw one another fairly often. But that feeling of sameness and safety waned.

Our friendship followed the ebb-and-flow pattern that I think a lot of adult friendships follow. Drift apart, drift back together. Drift apart, see one another again, have a great time, drift apart again. We both got married. We moved to different cities. We started new lives. Friendships have a lifespan. It's OK to move on.

And yet, we never quite did, not completely. We still called each other on our birthdays, and had the occasional dinner. B got divorced and moved back to my area. We saw each other a little more frequently.

It's amazing how conversations change as you get older: Suddenly we were talking about things like our careers and having babies and buying houses. We didn't burst into spontaneous songs at the drop of a hat. We didn't talk in weird voices, or make inappropriate jokes about the waiter, or laugh so hard we cried. It was nice. It was grown-up. Grown-up friendship. Not quite the same, but: Nice. It was lovely to have her as more of a regular part of my life.

When we decided to take a trip together, I'll admit (to her for the first time, too): I was a little nervous about it. Yes, we've been friends for 15 years; yes, I still consider her my "best friend," whatever that REALLY means when you're 32. And it's only four days. But...

But we haven't been together for more than a few hours at a time since we were 21. Will we have enough to talk about? Will it be awkward? Will we want to do the same things? Will we fight? Will we annoy each other? Will we spend all day on the beach in silence and then retreat to separate corners every night to talk to our respective boyfriend/husband and secretly sigh, thinking that we have four/three/two/one more day(s) of this?

My fears were assuaged almost instantly. The night before we left, we stayed up almost until we had to get up again, talking with my mom, reminiscing about all the silly things we did in college and giggling like idiots.

When the plane was readying for takeoff and B started looking nervous, I hesitated, then said, "Wanna hold my hand for takeoff?" When she didn't look alarmed or uncomfortable, I knew. It was going to be fine.

I wish I knew how to describe to you what that weekend meant and still means to me. It was a reaffirmation. Not just that I can still honestly call B my best friend. But that, even at 32, the idea of having a friend who is that in tune with you, who gets you, who loves you and listens? Really listens? And who can know all your best secrets and still not judge you, and will give you honest advice? Who can see a clown wig and automatically know what to do with it?

It's still possible.

It didn't feel like a "grown-up" friendship anymore, where we have a great time together, but it's all at arms' length, on the surface. There was true honesty there, and an ability to just be myself. Really ME. I can't think of anything more valuable, or more rare.

And while I'm lucky enough to be able to call B my "BFF" in the truest sense of the word, I'm also blessed beyond reason to have a whole group of 14 other amazing women (including our own Two Pretzels, Metacognitive Musings, Trophy Life, Chewlies, Aimless Oasis and Snappy Tulip) who have all those "true" friend qualities, too. They'll stop whatever they're doing to just be my friend when I need them, and they know I'd do the same for them.

Even as we grow older, and our lives change and move and grow, and we become more isolated as we have children and families and careers, and life gets in the way, it's still possible to have what we had as little girls. That feeling of sameness, of family, of understanding.

It's possible to be a wife and a star employee and a mother and all the millions of things you have to be each and every day, and still be selfless enough to listen, and laugh, and be someone's best friend.

And while I've really had that all along, it took this trip to really bring it into focus for me. And I'm so grateful for that. And I'm so grateful for B, and my amazing college friends, and all you fellow bloggers, and everyone reading this right now. So, thank you. :)

And thanks most of all for reading if you've gotten this far. I know it rambled a bit. I'd love to know your thoughts about this, too. Do you have a best friend? Tell me about it.

Me and B, 2010:

Vacation! Vacation! Vacation at the beach!

You know how you’ve got those things you really want to do, but you don’t REALLY think you’ll ever actually get to do? Like, dye your hair blue, or have a pet monkey, or go to space?

That's kind of how I've always felt about a real "girls-only" vacation.

Growing up, I never did Spring Break -- I was always on tour with one choir or another, or we did the dreaded family vacation (just kidding Mom and Dad! Kinda...). Now, I'm 32. I'm married. I have limited vacation time. I just didn't see it happening.

Lucky for me, I had an encouraging husband, a little extra money, a free place to stay and a willing partner in crime.

So, last weekend, my best friend B and I embarked on a journey…to Florida.

Even though we’ve been best friends for 15 years, it was our first time really traveling together. (Unless you count those times we drove all over Ohio and Pennsylvania to see the Indigo Girls back in the 90s; I don’t.) Now that we’re older and somewhat wiser, we can afford airfare without borrowing money from our parents and can both legally rent a car (woohoo!), and we needed a break from the real world. Girl time? Totally pumped!

This trip was made even more special by the fact that it was B’s first time EVER on a plane! Since I, as a young’un, flew at least once a year to visit my grandparents in San Diego, the allure of flying had long since worn off. I was really looking forward to seeing the experience through fresh eyes.

I’ve decided to break this up into two parts: A little recap of our vacation highlights with pictures (below), followed (tomorrow or the following day) by a few reflections. Deep Thoughts by Written Permission, if you will. But, for now, on to the recap!

The Canton/Akron airport started us out on a high note: When I asked if I needed to do anything special when taking my CPAP through security, the surly old man who gave us our boarding passes growled, “Yeah. They make you sing 'The Star Spangled Banner.'” Since he was apparently challenging not only my ability to sing but my willingness to humiliate myself in public, I offered to do a duet of "Islands in the Stream" with him right then and there and broke into a few bars in defiance of his gruffness. That finally got him to crack a smile.

B: “Of all songs in the universe, why 'Islands in the Stream?'”

“Uh, he looked like Kenny Rogers?”

And then, B’s first plane trip! She was so excited she took pictures of the inside of the plane. ? This was not a comforting sight for her upon sitting down:


She did hold my hand during the first takeoff (aw!), and she may have ordered a bottle of wine at 9 a.m. But it was all good.

(As I like to do on planes, I struck up a conversation with the person on the other side of me while B was listening to her iPod. The woman happened to work for Habitat for Humanity, so I eagerly started asking her questions. When she found out I was a writer/editor, she said, “Oh, cool! Can you edit this newsletter I’m working on?” and shoved a piece of paper into my hand. Uh, lady, I’m on vacation? But of course I at least looked at it. It was Habitat, after all. Service work portion of vacation: Complete!)

When we finally landed in Tampa, we got turned around trying to find our rental car. I spotted a traffic controller with a huge ponytail and decided to ask for directions: “Ma’am?” When “she” turned around to face me, “she” turned out to have a goatee and a very deep baritone voice to go along with that ponytail. I believe he actually said, “Uh, I’m a SIR.” Oopsie.

After driving to Sarasota, dumping our stuff at the house and grabbing a quick bite to eat, it was BEACH TIME. But first, sunblock for us white-and-pasties. During my search for sunblock, I discovered, nestled in the back of a hall closet…a clown wig. A big, rainbow-colored, curly clown wig. (This is probably where I should mention that this house belongs to my family, and my grandparents live there part of the year, and they keep games and other weird stuff there to amuse children. There was also a whoopee cushion in there.)

I immediately (as you would, of course) donned the clown wig and resumed talking normally to B. She, of course, erupted in laughter. Because we are who we are, the next logical thing to do was to spend nearly an hour taking random photos of each other wearing the clown wig in progressively more absurd situations. To wit:


Now, I have friends who would appreciate a clown wig for five minutes. I maybe have a few friends who would pose for a picture in a clown wig. But B instantly knew that would never be sufficient. She's the only other person I know besides myself who could take pictures in a clown wig for an hour and still find it funny.

This is how best friends identify one another. :)

*It probably seems as though I’m plodding along and recapping things in painstaking detail. In fact, at this moment you’re probably thinking, “Good heavens, woman – how long is this going to be?! What, 'And then we went to breakfast, and then we drove home, and then...' I have things to do!” Well, here’s where the painstaking detail ends. Because the rest of the vacation went pretty much like this:

• Wake up
• Talk and laugh uproariously
• Eat, talk and laugh uproariously
• Beach (while talking and laughing uproariously)
• Eat again (…you get the idea)
• Watch movies/goof around/snack/laugh uproariously even MORE until our stomachs hurt, and then laugh some more
• Sleep

It was pretty much my ideal vacation. (More on that in Part 2.)

So, in the interest of not boring you, dear reader, to tears, here are a few other (brief) highlights:

It had been a few years since I’d been to the (amazing, white-sand) beaches in Sarasota, so I’d somehow forgotten just how beautiful they were. Love, love, love the ocean! (Don’t love the sand in every possible place, ever.)


On a quest for a lox bagel (…drool), we detoured to Puppytown, a pet store with pens of puppies set up like a miniature town. As an ardent dog shelter supporter, I have major mixed feelings about these kinds of places, of course, but… The siren call of puppies proved to be too strong. I mean, puppies! In a tiny puppy town! Come on. Beth fell in love with a Sheltie, and I nearly dognapped this English Bulldog:


And the sign is kind of awesome:


Going on a brilliant recommendation from Trophy Life (who used to live that neck of the woods), we enjoyed some of the best sushi I’ve ever had. It was so pretty I nearly didn’t have the heart to eat it (except I totally did, who are we kidding):

At Panera one morning, taking advantage of a little free wi-fi, a group of 80-year-old Sarasotans took up residence next to us. There was some commotion, and we saw one of them chasing something with his cane. Turned out to be a GIANT ROACH, which he was trying to usher away from them…into B’s purse. He actually said, “If I can get it in this woman’s purse, maybe it’ll leave us alone.” Um, no? No thank you, old fella? Thankfully we thwarted that plan, and someone squished it before it could lay eggs in our belongings. Take that, Grandpa!

One of our favorite discoveries (besides, of course, the clown wig): A cache of old VHS movies. Score! Every evening we slogged through another classic: Annie, On Golden Pond and the original Odd Couple. After awhile, it definitely turned into a little bit of Mystery Science Theater 3000 (particularly during On Golden Pond: “The loons!”), and we got a little fidgety. At one point I looked up and B was doing this:

This was later identified as some sort of Windsor Pilates move. I took her word for it.

And, lastly, a few extra shots...

The backyard (Yes, that is a shuffleboard court. Yes, it is awesome):

Beach shot: What, is there hair in my face?

And, finally, B doing a Tawny Kitaen on the hood of our rented Versa (only $20 a day via Priceline -- woot!):

Stay tuned for Part 2: Deep thoughts on friendship…

It's coming...

My recap of our girls' weekend, that is. The thoughts and photos are still being organized, and it'll likely be a two-parter, so stay tuned.

In the meantime, here's a shot of our customary strip of beach (and my feet). Don't hate us. :)

In just a few hours...

These aren't my pictures.

But they could be after this weekend.

My best friend, B, and I are headed to Florida for a girls' weekend as you're reading this. It's B's first time on a plane, and our first time taking a girls' vacation, period.

White sandy beaches.

Sunscreen.

Mid-80s weather.

Four-day weekend.

Sleeping in.

Sushi.

Tons of girl talk.

Karaoke with complete strangers.

See y'all in a few days. :)