Just Beachy...

Reptilius Wrinkilum, characterized by and resembling
shed snake skin, is an affliction shared by those
humans who don't look like pancake batter.

Add a little unwanted 'real estate' and behold--it's
a sight: Rippled layers of varnished, lizard-like skin
that appears to have been squashed by a Goodyear tire,
then stretched past the known capacity of nylon and spandex.
In other words, miles of beach-tanned, bikini-ed and
Speedo-ed torsos, frolicking back and forth under the
tropical Florida sun.

The men are a 'whisper' away from centerfold exposure.
The ladies prance along with dimpled, 'thonged' behinds--
looks like a Silly Putty convention...

I wore a swimsuit once, more of a flotation device--that,
when I began swimming, would billow out--much like
the inner tube I used to float on as a kid--drifting between
the pilings of the Santa Monica Pier...

Rising from the bathtub-warm waters of the Gulf, I
looked like a beached whale. Suddenly all the water
dumped out from my swimsuit--along with a slithery
Ramora I called Ramon--since it had clung to my ribcage
the entire time.

So now, bikini clad, I notice that I'm not far from being
in the select classification of Reptilius Wrinkilum--as I
enjoy the tropical outdoors. I'm also noticing that I need
to work out a little harder, too.
Gosh, that almond cookie was sooo good...
Sonia, I slipped...

A Lobster By Any Other Name...

Lobsters.
Mm mm...butter-dipped, succulent warm meat.
When we first moved here to Naples in 2002,
Jen wanted to celebrate our first night by taking
the four of us to a restaurant, which I won't name.

The advertised special was a 1# lobster for 16.00.
We ordered 4. When the plates arrived, we each
looked at the anorexic lobsters sitting on our
huge white plates--kind of like an island with
only one palm tree...
I was thinking, where is it?

I'd never seen a smaller tail in all of my lobster days--
which amounts to three over my lifetime.
I'd seen bigger tails on shrimp.

I wasn't sure how to attack it.
I wasn't even sure if it wasn't just a faux lobster--
one in disguise, or only the skeleton of one-- minus the meat.

We were all so hungry, so I prodded and picked,
and saw some disgusting green and gray muck that
looked like it came from a space creature's guts.
How would I know that...?

We all managed to get no more than a 1/4
cup's worth. Jen was disappointed, but her
intentions were sweet.
I haven't had a lobster since.

Jen's been in town, from Key West.
She and Paul went fishing for a few days in Stuart.
Her fella, Vince, has a bucket of lobsters from lobstering
in the Keys.
The lobsters are calling, so Jen's heading back
to K W this afternoon.

I'm suddenly having visions of warm, sweet,
butter-dripping meat...

Encore

The beach is tranquil.
The gentle lapping of the waves curling up along the
shoreline, the sea birds chasing the shiny minnows,
elevates me to a calm place in my thoughts.

The soft breezes float salty sea air while I walk
on the damp sand. Shells tumble and swirl onto the shore,
gathering up into mounds, waiting for seeking fingers.
Criss-crossed footprints run along the path I'm taking.
Some are large, others are tiny.
How many of those are first time visitors to this beach...
how many will be coming back?
I don't see some of the older regulars any more...

The sea is ever changing as the day lengthens
into early evening.
The glistening blue water of the Gulf deepens
with fringes of violet and gold, reflecting
the setting sun, today's finale.
As I leave the beach I know new treasures
await tomorrow's encore.

Just Give Me Chocolates...

Some people are moving targets.
I'm like a walking magnet.
It's like some heat-seeking device is
homing in on me.

Odd events seem to materialize before my eyes.

I ordered a coffee and muffin in a "B" bookstore cafe.
Taking the first bite, I found I'd bitten down
on fingernail clippings.
Ugh...

I parked the Camry in a Walmart parking lot
which is only a few blocks from the beach.
When I got back to the car, it looked like a squadron
of B-52's had released bomb loads of pelican poop.

The shiny Lexus and Mercedes parked
alongside my car were unscathed, of course...

I found metal shavings buried in a can of tuna once,
and a small chunk of glass in a can of fruit.

Whether it's the luck of the draw, the luck of

the Irish--whatever it is--

I'm It.

Seek and you shall find...Me.

Mosquitoes are everywhere:
buzzing around our yard and garage.
Telling my neighbor how bad the mosquitoes are now,
she replied,"What mosquitoes?"
I'm moving two houses away...

Recently, while waiting in line at a department store,
the cashier took the person behind me.

I always had a feeling I was invisible...

Boo!

A few years ago, Jen borrowed my new digital
point and shoot camera to use at the beach.
Just as she was walking along the shoreline,

a rogue wave engulfed her, dousing my Canon.

Digitize that!

Such is life.

Just once, I'd love it if a vat of warm, dripping chocolate

smothered me...

Long Ago...Seems Like Yesterday

I was pretty uncoordinated as a kid.
I’d stumble over a gnat if it was in front of me.
At St. Monica’s Girl’s High School, I played
basketball for P.E.
I was pretty good, except I kept popping the
ball into the wrong hoop.
The teacher pulled me off the court and put me
in the gym basement, along with my friend, Theresa, and gave us ping-pong paddles.

We stunk at ping-pong.
Everything but the table was a target.
The ball was flying off the ceiling, the windows.
You name it.
We made so much of a ruckus, the teacher, a
dyed-in-the-wool mean-as-a-drill instructor
woman [with little emphasis on the woman part]
came bursting into the room…
I think we cracked a half dozen ping-pong balls.
She ranted and roared for a few minutes, saying
she’d never known such two inept girls in all of her life.
If anything, Theresa and I were enthusiastic.

We both flunked first aid.
I could never figure that one out.
What’s so hard about putting on a bandage?
Oh, you’re supposed to clean the wound first..?
But there isn’t a real wound…

I went two years at St. Mo’s before transferring
to a closer school.
I wonder if Sister Ignatius ever found the bunnies
that were bunny-napped from the bio lab…?

Boiling Points...

It’s been extremely hot and humid lately.

We’re in Stuart, Florida for Sunday-Monday.

It feels like we’ve been transported to Hell,

it’s so uncomfortable.

I wish I could shed my skin.

Paul ‘s fly fishing this Monday morning, at Bathtub Beach

on Hutchinson Island.

It’s 9a.m. and the temp is already 87 degrees.

Tom and I are watching the manatees swim by, while Paul’s

hooking up on snook and tarpon.

The bath house is under renovation, otherwise we’d be swimming.

After an hour or so of being deep-fried, we leave Paul

and we head to the historic downtown waterfront area

on the St. Lucie River.

Jen had told me about the cute shops and galleries.

The breeze is blowing, cooling our damp skin.

Tom is an outdoor, no shop kind of guy.

He wants to be in the High Sierras, smelling clean and cool

mountain air and swimming in June Lake.

Tom has Nordic-Germanic blood.

He would’ve been a great Mountain Man, like Jedediah Smith.

Tom and his dad used to swim in the cold, San Francisco Bay.

Florida is the polar opposite.

Water temps hover at 90+degrees in the summer.

By noon, the air temp has reached 95.

The heat index is 102.

We look like we’ve just come out of the drink, our clothes

are hanging in damp folds.

We dart in and out of the frigid stores.

Ahhhh…

The people in Stuart are sweet as punch and I sure

could use a rum punch or mojito about now, but alcohol

makes me feel warmer.

After another hour of hot-footing the town and eating lunch,

we’ve plunked ourselves in an air-conditioned library.

Tom reads Barron’s and I catch up on Dave Barry books.

We finally pick up a very hot and tired Paul, and begin
heading home.
We’re trying to find a gas station with cheap gas.
Sometimes I feel like we’re the Griswold’s on vacation.

We blunder into the first station, promising 4 cents

back with cash.

Ha-- only if you pay at the pump, which Tom doesn’t.

Just a block away we see gas 8 cents cheaper.
That makes Tom even hotter under the collar.

We’ve made headway onto the 95, until…

a multiple car pileup has stopped us.
Of course, the two left lanes of traffic are merging over

to our lane. We’re not going anywhere.

We’re traveling at worm speed…

After 20 minutes and several demolished cars
and suv's later, we’re driving non-stop.

Finally, we’re on Alligator Alley.

Naples is a good hour and forty minutes away.

Meanwhile I’m watching cruising alligators in the canals.
I've counted 12 already.

There’s something comforting when you finally make it home…

the driveway never looked so good.　 　

It's a Tropical Heatwave...

Floridians, myself included, are spoiled.
When the temperatures dip below 75, hoards of people
run to the stores to buy jackets and sweat shirts and sweat pants.
You would think a blizzard was coming!

For a few days last winter, it was downright chilly--in the low 50's and 60's.
My teeth were chattering while visitors from up north
and the midwest wore walking shorts, tank tops and sandals.
It was a heatwave to them!

Before moving to Florida, we sold many of our cold weather clothes
on Ebay and in garage sales.
No one needs a jacket in Florida--right?
Ha...

One Leg Or Two?

Florida is a great place to live.
Some people may , and do, disagree.
We don't have seasons to speak of.
It's shorts and sandals weather most days of the year.

One thing for certain is once you visit or move to Florida,
the bugs will find you--the welcome mat being exposed arms and legs.
It doesn't matter if you're a tourist.
Suddenly, new blood is discovered.
Mmmm...good.

When we first moved to Southwest Florida, I'd feel the after-bite--
an intense itching.
I discovered that I couldn't even see WHAT was biting me!
Like the Far Side cartoons, you'd need an electron microscope to see the sand-sized critters nibbling your ankle .

Floridians call these pepper-colored specks No-See-Umms.
Once bitten, your itch-reflex kicks into hyper-speed.
Whatever the critter left behind, be certain of this: you'll be feeling it for months to come.

Mosquitoes, on the other hand, are dreaded, too.
Their numbers are squelched during the summer when
mosquito abatement takes place.
Planes fly over the preserves spraying for the intolerable insects.
I can deal with the skeeters.
Which is worse, of the two?
Almost head-to-head, No-See-Umms are the clear winners.


I think I've passed the time period of being an inviting newbie to the bugs.
There are tourists arriving here everyday..
nice and yummy, too...

Busting Out...

When I was 13, my family moved from Santa Monica
to a new home in the San Fernando Valley.
I still wanted to attend Saint Monica's High School with my friends.
Every morning I commuted with my dad to Santa Monica.
Dad dropped me off at Gran's at 6:00 a.m., where I caught a bus for school.
Gran would be up, waiting for me.
Occasionally, she bestowed little 'pearls' of advice to me:
“Nancy, don't ever dress like a tramp...”

Me?
Dress like a tramp?
How could I?
Roll up my green plaid uniform skirt until my knees were showing?
Every morning we were made to kneel before school began—to make sure our skirts were touching the floor.
Wear makeup?
The nuns made sure all of the girls looked like wallpaper paste.
Makeup was forbidden, though I knew some girls cleverly disguised the fact.

After 2 years, I transferred to a public school in the Valley
for my junior and senior years.
I'd had enough of 5:30 risings.
Gran was really worried then.
I'm sure she thought I was going to hell in a hand basket...

I cut up my uniform with intense joy!
The baggy, white gym shorts were shredded.
Mom bought me a few dresses, blouses and skirts.
I replaced my suede buck shoes with pumps.
I lingered in the cosmetics department of our
drugstore, buying my first tube of lipstick, mascara,
and blush.
I felt emancipated.
I'd peeled back the veneer of years of stringent policies,
revealing my authentic self.

My personality bloomed, all in a good way.
It felt great.

Grandma worried over nothing.
Just look at me now...

Small Gifts...

I love the beach as a place to walk, swim, read, and scavenge for shells.
After a storm, there are numerous tidal pools, each filled with mounds of shells.
Each shell is as distinctively different in shape and size.

Coquina shells have open, small butterfly-wing shapes, in purple, rose and golden hues.
Olives are beautifully designed, smooth as silk.
'Paul Newman's Eyes', what we call the small, round,
eye-shaped orb with a bluish spot in the center.
Spider conchs have flared, spider-leg extensions along the shell's length.

The first summer of living in Naples, my daughter and I had 'sheller's' back, the term used to describe all the hunched-over shell collectors.
Between us, we may have collected 500 shells, many of them now assorted and containerized.
I like using them as models for watercolor painting.

I never tire of the beach: watching the gentle waves tumble new shells along the water's edge, or catching an evening sunset with billowing clouds.
The deep footprints left from people strolling the beach are soon washed away by lapping waves.
Another day will come and a new day of discovery awaits.

Why I Love Florida...

*Wearing shorts and sandals most of the year
*When you retire, you're already here!
*Afraid of heights? Only real elevations are the high-rises along the beaches
*Swaying palm trees
*Shells
*Sanibel Island-Captiva
*O-D on Key Lime Pie
*Geckos
*Alligators
*Manatees
*Dolphins
*Iguanas
*Perfect umbrella drinks
*Florida Keys
*Jimmy Buffett
*Margaritaville
*Celebrity-watching
*Hurricane watching
*Fishing
*White sandy beaches
*Shorebirds
*Sparkling blue waters
*International cuisine
*Big Cypress National Preserve/The Everglades
*Swamp Buggy Races
*Mullet Festivals
*Pirate-themed festivals
*Art festivals
*Bo Sox spring training site-Ft. Myers
*Florida authors,Dave Barry, Tim Dorsey, Carl Hiassen, Randy Wayne White
*Haunted Places: Tampa Theater and Don CeSar Hotel

Spring Cleaning?

It's that time of year when most people look around the house, or apartment, and decide how much of the clutter stuck in closet corners--or even under the bed-- is worthy of tossing into the trash.

I'm a collector. I love books: books on photography[12], writing technique[46], cooking[I lost count!], mysteries[36].
These are all books that are part of my comfort zone.
My husband is always suggesting that I go through my stuff and throw it out or give it to a thrift center.
Husbands like doing that, don't they?

My art supplies are stowed in the walk-in closet, very neatly--not bothering anyone.
My easel stands in the corner next to our bed.
It's been suggested that if something isn't used more than a handful of times, it's time to get rid of it.
My artistic expression comes and goes like the tide..
I have two paintings that are in temporary limbo at the moment.

My photographic equipment is often in the Florida room[family room], ready to head out for a photo junket.
I'm a very creative and cerebral gal. These possessions are part of what I am, what I love to do.

Spring cleaning in Florida—where the seasons don't seem to change?
Nah..