a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day four

People are funny without the daily
accoutrement of their lives.
We are on common ground here.
The beach is the great equalizer
and yet one place where
all of our differences are on display.
The sun doesn't know your title
0r the car you drive
or even if your heart is broken. And the water,
in all of its primeval wisdom, doesn't care...

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day three

I had every intention of chasing crocodiles yesterday. No, really, I did, but as is often the case while one is on vacation, I got sidetracked.

I walked the pier (not to be confused with walking the plank as I did in fact stop at the end of it) and met a motley crew of fishermen and fisherwomen who were more than happy to indulge my curiosity about why in the world people are so hooked on fishing. And fisherman and fisherwomen, by the way, have mouths like sailors.

Admittedly, I have never understood the draw of throwing a string into a body of water and waiting for a Spanish Mackerel to bite. I have never understood the pure, unadulterated joy reeling in a catch seems to bring these people. And, I have never understood why so many of my male friends have pictures of themselves knee high in rivers and lakes brandishing a mediumish fish above their heads while sporting grins usually reserved for those who have just completed the Boston Marathon.

Is there a legitimate sense of accomplishment in catching a fish? It's not as though it's really a fair fight. I mean, imagine if a more intelligent, superior being who was 100 times our size lowered some tempting morsel (a Kate Spade handbag, an Ipod, a box of Girl Scout Cookies) on the end of a rope just within our grasp. Who among us--I ask you--wouldn't take the bait?

Perhaps my tepidness towards fishing can be traced to a particularly vivid moment gleaming from the murky depths of my childhood memories: I stand beside my father as he helps me reel in a rainbow trout from a well-stocked pond. As a three year old, I'm feeling quite proud of myself for having caught this pretty fish. As it flips and flops around on the ground, I think to myself: this will be the best pet ever! I will call him Henry! Wait til mom sees!

And then in what must have surely been my full induction into the adult world of violence and death, the stocked-pond guy comes over, grabs the fish by what I considered to be his throat, and cuts off Henry's head! Oh my God--he cut off my pretty fish's head!

I cried all the way home that day knowing that my poor headless Henry was wrapped in butcher paper and stashed in a cooler in the trunk of our car.

Um, OK, enough of that--I'm thoroughly depressed now. I had no idea I had so much to say about fish. Off to Barefoot Beach today, where fishing is thankfully and utterly illegal as is stepping on the sea oats (no idea) and running over one of the thousands of turtles that supposedly reside there. As a very wise woman reminded me before I got on the plane: M, watch out for the turtles. If you hit one or drive over one in your car, someone is going to jail--and it's not the turtle. ;)

Tomorrow: Day Four

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day two

One would assume that a moneyed resort town made up of a patchwork of gated enclaves would be relatively safe. However, the evidence of late suggests otherwise.

Exhibit One
The Red Tide
As I type this, a nefarious algae bloom is slowly but decidedly floating itself inch by inch toward the shores of Lee and Collier Counties. Word on the street is that this particular algae bloom brings distinct and acute suffering to allergy sufferers ON LAND. Algae is one thing, but clever algae is another thing altogether.

Exhibit Two
"Flying Torpedoes"
Apparently, Collier County ice cream parlor owners have an issue with securely tying down the umbrellas to their outside tables. On the front page news yesterday, the lawyers of several unsuspecting patrons stated that their clients' sustained serious injuries (herniated disks etc.) from rogue umbrellas during a particularly gusty stretch of days last week. The reporter writes "Umbrellas, an invention that can be traced back about 4,000 years, originally were designed to protect people from the sun and, later, rain. However, a strong wind can tip an umbrella or turn it into a 'flying torpedo," causing serious injuries--or (gulp)* death." I consider myself warned.

Exhibit Three
"Residents Swap UFO Stories"
Oh, I kid you not. For those of you who know me, you know how very troubling I find this second page headline. To know me is to know that I fear aliens, serial killers, gorillas, raisins and cantaloupe (in that order). A few months ago I wrote about the alleged sightings in Northeastern Ohio. One Port Royal resident, Delicia Raft, 79, described the unidentified flying object as looking like the ball that drops in Times Square on New Year's Eve. While some may interpret this as proof that aliens like a good party, I interpret it as proof that aliens like a good countdown. Great.

So now that the streets, the water, and the sky are not safe, I've decided to spend my day doing the only logical thing a girl in my position can do--go crocodile sighting in the Everglades.

*writer's own embellishment

Photo courtesy of me. Look closely.

Tomorrow: Day Three (should the good Lord permit)

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day one

As it turns out, I'm interrupting the planned three post series "little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types" for something a little more apropos to my current experience: my maiden voyage to a land far, far away. I believe there is very little in this world to which sun, water, and prayer are not remedies. Keys to the car I wish I had owned in high school and long, lazy sunsets don't hurt either.

First things first...
I've located a nearby Starbucks and as I sip my grande bold at this very moment, I realize that the only difference between this Starbucks and mine in Cleveland is that it is actually not raining outside. I consider this a good sign.

First impressions...
Not everyone here is old. In fact, the 10 0'clock news reporters all appear to be about 15 years-old (perhaps it's past everyone else's bedtime?).

There is a plethora of dragonflies, water fountains, and freckles.

That older gentleman you see in all the Sunday paper ads modeling suits and watches for Dillards, Macys, and Saks lives down the street from where I'm staying. His name is Hal.

The photo is courtesy of me. And no, NO ONE looked at me strangely as I stood in the parking lot to take it.

Tomorrow: Day Two

little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types part I

It is common knowledge that men use cars, dogs, and cute children to pick up women. As someone who has lived, well, everywhere, I have found that the preferred tactic of entrapment depends less on a man's personality and more on his geographical location.

Now, a thorough treatment of my observations over the years is beyond the scope of this blog, so here is the abridged version. Print it out, fold it up, and keep it handy.

Sure, there are lots of men in Las Vegas. Most, however, can be ruled out as a potential threat since 9 out of 10 of them will stumble their way to a departing plane by late Sunday night. There is, though, one peculiar subset of men indigenous to Las Vegas to watch out for--the 25-year-old millionaire, also known as flexers.

What separates this man from the 25-year-old millionaire in New York is that his last name is not Waldorf, Carnegie, or Vanderbilt. And, what separates this man from the 25-year-old millionaire in Los Angeles is that he is not an actor --at least not in the strictest sense of the word. (The comparison to the 25-year-old millionaire in Cleveland remains N/A.)

Why is it that there is a disproportionate number of 25-year-old millionaires in Las Vegas? The answer is two-fold.

First, that glittering, self-transformative arch of the American Dream is alive and well in Las Vegas. With its vast amount of open space and unmarked territory, Sin City lends itself to the building of empires and hence produces unlikely emperors out of former valets and bag boys. Vegas is, arguably, the last great American frontier, and it is not nearly as tricky to maneuver your rags-to-riches dreams there as it is in older places where the glue has already dried and nepotism has long ago wrapped its stubborn tendrils around the corporate ladder.

Second, upward mobility in Vegas is mostly a matter of the intersecting vectors of space (as mentioned) and speed. Things move so quickly in Vegas that no one really notices that YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING until he or she already works for you. So, as can be imagined, this is a huge advantage for the coat boy* at The Spearmint Rhino who wants to start a GPS-activated umbrella company in the middle of the desert.

For all would be 25-year-old millionaires, there is the added incentive of the relentless sun, which provides the perfect opportunity for all their new bling and flash to shimmer and shine away.

So, what is the defining characteristic of the successful, young man in Vegas? It is the flagrant display of wealth and flex. Taste does not factor in, as there has been no time for refinement. The nouveau riche are de rigueur, and subtlety in Vegas gets you nowhere--not even past the doorman at Lavo.

Other tip offs include

1. The entourage, which consists of the Personal Assistant, the Personal Assistant's Assistant, the Housekeepers, the Club Host (a member of a peculiar subset himself), the Opportunistic Friend(s), the Girlfriend (a stripper, a former stripper, a Maxim cover girl, a former Maxim cover girl, or a personal trainer), the Personal Trainer (separate and distinct from the Girlfriend who is also a personal trainer), the Plastic Surgeon, the Dog Walker (regardless of the existence of a dog), the Contractor (House #1), the Contractor (House #2), the Stylist, the Personal Shopper at Versace, and the Annual Halloween Party Planner.

2. An inaccessible Facebook Wall due to discrepancy in your Wall's tax bracket compared to 25-year-old millionaire's Wall's tax bracket.

3. Strict adherence to daily horoscope advice and fervent interest in hair gel made out of rare jellyfish stingers and imported lotus leaves.

Coming soon: Given the geography of the streets in Manhattan, men face two challenges.

*let's stop and think about the absurdity of the very existence of a coat room inside a strip club located in the middle of the desert. See what I mean.