Beachin'

I fled the area this past weekend to visit an old friend and her young husband (HA! I kid because I love! Please invite me back!) who live in SOUTH Georgia near the Florida coast. They're also just a few miles from some beautiful beaches.

So away I flew on Friday, happily leaving another soul-killing meeting in my wake, driving down the same roads I used to take between my boyfriend's place and my dad's house after I graduated from high school. Even stranger, I found some old tapes from college, so I was having a very intense Remembrance of Things Past moment behind the wheel. All that was missing was the car--I used to drive my mom's car after she died: a GINORMOUS Caprice Classic. Powder Blue. Gorgeous American car. Beautiful engine. Luxurious but ginormous. It was the Blue Bomber. But, my beloved Camry was a fine substitute.

Ned's Atomic Dustbin, some old Ani DiFranco, some Vigilantes of Love, some Shawn Colvin, some Bobby Brown? (I had sneakily put "My Prerogative" on a mix tape I entitled, The Soundtrack of My Life. There was car dancing when I discovered this. Britney really lost the essence of this song when she made it . . . skanky.) The tapes got me to the highway, and then I had to switch to "today" music with the MegPod and hurtle down 75 South and then the south Georgia highways that are 4 lanes because they need to be for hurricane evacuation. You can drive obscenely fast on these roads. I recommend this.

Once I arrived, I was greeted with daiquiris and a lovely room to call my own. After sleeping 12 hours, I convinced S. to go to the beach with me. Beach we did. Lovely day--sunny, hot, with kites on the beach and insane waves in the ocean. Waves over my head. WAY over my head. I was knocked off my feet in a way that hadn't happened since I was 10. In other words, cool at first, then more like battery.

Saturday night we went to a Dave and Busters (a first for me) because three of the four of us had Libra birthdays and so we shot things. A lot of things. I still stink at SkeeBall, but we still found ourselves returning to this quieter, simpler game after shooting up the place. I am an excellent sniper, as it turns out, but S. is one hell of a boxer. A crowd gathered, let's just say that.

Day two at the beach was a bit more violent. We dragged S.'s hubby along this time, who basically works in the ocean, so it was nice of him to come to work on his one day off. We went back into the water thinking, "hey! the waves are much better! We can bodysurf now!"

Oh lord, no.

After a few dozen failed attempts that left us only 10 feet from where we started, a terrifying set of waves started bearing down upon us. We all started paddling frantically, and then it hit us. S's hubby sailed by like some sort of dolphin spawn, damn his eyes, while S. and I went down hard. S. just went under and apparently did a few dozen somersaults. I got caught in the wave when another one snuck up behind me and blew over me, taking my top with it. I've never been undressed by nature before, and I have to say she's efficient. Some reptile part of my brain made my hand grab the top before it blew over my arms (which were still kind of in "crawl" formation). After I emerged, I had to lay low like some sort of albino hippo, just my eyes and ears above water, and get back into my suit. The surfers next to us clapped.

Still no sign of S. She finally re-emerged basically on shore, covered in sand, rather scraped up, and dripping seawater from every part of her face. She was snorting salt hours after this adventure. Needless to say, it was awesome. We staggered back to our towels and conked out while Beach Husband found me shark's teeth. (My favorite is from what may be a snaggletooth shark, a poor creature who appears to be extinct. Oops.)

Beautiful cooking out commenced once our ears were dry and we washed the ocean from our hair. Steaks, baked taters, and BIRTHDAY CAKE. Fabulous.

I drove home the next day, but this drive was different, primarily because it was mating season or something for a bug the locals call "the love bug." And I don't mean Herbie. These are soft, feathery, black flying creatures who do nothing but have sex. It was a fly orgy driving home, and half the state's population died on my windshield and my grill. Two of them got into the car with me and started happily fornicating the back seat. I wished them well, since I certainly hadn't been back there in a while. Then they came up front and starting doing it from the ceiling over my head, which I found distracting, so I killed them. NO one has sex over my head! NO ONE!

Great weekend, weird tan lines, extensive workout. All thanks to the fabulous friends who still like me enough to set me up with a man 8 years my junior. :) (I kid because I love! Call me?)