In Flight

See other wildlife photos at Photo Friday.

Beach Chronicles 5

We woke up this morning to the sound of a little boy's heartbroken sobs. Apparently, the hermit crab which we, against our better judgment, allowed Michael to bring home, had gone to hermit crab heaven. I say "apparently" because he hadn't really. He just wasn't active, and Michael assumed he was dead.

Still, in my research, I heard many say that it is difficult to keep a saltwater hermit crab alive in captivity, so I encouraged our little boy to return "Hermit" to the ocean. We made a big to-do about Hermit's return , and there was much fanfare as the waves swept him out to the deeps beyond. Although I didn't tell my little boy, my research also revealed that even saltwater crabs need some freshwater, so I'm not sure what Hermit's fate will be, but at least his graveyard will be "home" to him.

After our big production, and against our better judgment, we headed down the beach to a tourist trap store that advertised hermit crabs. And we bought two. Because my research shows that hermit crabs are social animals.

It's not like this is our only pet here on the ocean. We also have about 50 tadpoles who made the journey through Podunk County, Georgia, and Middle-of-Nowhere, Alabama, with us. Because I am fascinated by them and didn't want to miss out on their growth and development didn't want the children to miss out on their growth and development in our absence.

So it'll be a full car when we head home on Friday. Until then, we have lots of critters to observe, including the fever (go ahead--look it up) of stingrays that swim along the beach in front of our condo every evening.

Beach Chronicles 4

My husband made reservations yesterday for a "Dolphin Tour" today. And I complained bitterly because

a) I didn't want to disappoint the kids. They call it a "dolphin tour" like you're guaranteed to see dolphins and like you'll be taken on an actual tour when in actuality there's no dolphin guarantee, and you take the pontoon boat out yourself (which, I have to admit, I prefer over having to play nice with a guide). I have done the jet ski dolphin tour before, and we saw dolphins, but we had a guide who seemed to know where to find them.

b) I've been very cold down here, and the thought of being out on the open sea with the chilly air rattling my body gave me goose bumps.

c) He scheduled our "tour" for 9am. (See letter b.)

Well, as usual for once, I have to say my husband used good judgment. It turned out to be a lovely day and was warming up nicely--even at 9am. And the kids had a great time on our boat, which we took to Shell Island. Turns out on the way to Shell Island we actually did run (almost literally) into a lone dolphin. He was a little shy, though, and didn't even stick around long enough for us to photograph him; however, he did provide for us bragging rights just because he briefly popped up to greet us.

When we got t0 Shell Island, we had all 7 miles of the island to ourselves for about a half hour before one other boat showed up. And it wasn't until we were leaving that another boat beached itself. The kids had some great science lessons while on the island, most of which centered around hermit crabs as they were plentiful. Against our better judgment, we even let Michael take one of the hermit crabs home.

After an hour or so on our private island, we headed home and then enjoyed lunch at Treasure Ship.

Beach Chronicles 3

Another overcast, cool day, so we headed to the charming outdoor mall nearby. The kids were spoiled rotten.

But then again, I was spoiled too: I cashed in on an early Mother's Day present and went for a massage.

Beach Chronicles 2

Well, I came to Florida thinking I would bask in the warm sun. There was some sun today but not much warmth. However, a visit from friends of ours made up for the lack of beachy weather.

Julie is a former classmate of Mark's and an old roommate of mine from MK boarding school (old as in a long time ago, not old as in age; oh, who am I kidding--it was a loooong time ago, so that makes us all old). When her family of six and our family of six ventured on to the beach, we did get a few stares, and being the perceptive person I am, I was able to read other guests' minds: Are all those kids theirs?

Despite the cool breezes, we had fun playing on the beach and in the heated pool. And we were, of course, quite a crowd in our condo where we enjoyed a taco dinner. And tried to quiet them all down. And tried to make sure no one fell over the 22nd floor railing.

Beach Chronicles 1

Not much to report from a 5 or 6 hour drive through Podunk County, Georgia, and Middle-of-Nowhere, Alabama, to Panhandle, Florida, except the usual:

"I need to go potty."

"How many more hours 'til we get there?"

"I really need to go potty!"

"Now how many hours 'til we get there?"

"Are we almost there?"

As much as I myself would like to scream out, "Are we there yet?" on any given road trip, there is one thing I always look forward to on this drive. There is a small town smack in the middle of Middle-of-Nowhere, Alabama, called Eufaula. Really it looks like any small town in the middle of Middle-of-Nowhere, Alabama, except for a 1/2-mile stretch of the main road. This 4-lane stretch is lined by beautiful, mature hardwoods, which shade charming plantation-style homes. It is a lane straight from the movies, and when we make our way down this lane, I can't help but say a few hundred times, "I really want to live here" knowing full well that I would go absolutely insane if I planted roots in Middle-of-Nowhere, Alabama.

I think I may have scared Alex a little today when I threatened to pack the U-Haul and head to Eufaula because she stated emphatically that she did not want to move to Eufaula because, "this place is in the middle of nowhere!" (I think she must have consulted the map.) Strange thing about her--she shares my desire to live in a place where things are moving and shaking; however, she did not inherit my wandering gene. She would be content to live in the same town in Suburbia, Atlanta, for the rest of her life and thinks we're crazy for putting the house on the market.

That said, I think her tongue was in her cheek when, upon arriving in Panama City Beach, she asked, "So, Mom, do you want to live here?" Well, I can honestly say that I do not, nor have I ever had any desire whatsoever to live in Panama City. I enjoy vacationing here, but I've seen Spring Break here and am currently enduring the last day of "Thunder Beach", so I can assure you I will pass.

We were warned about Thunder Beach this time. One past year we ended up sharing our entire vacation with a hundred thousand dudes and dudettes on loud motorcyles quite by accident. Due to Hurricane Ivan, we were forced to reschedule our vacation by a week, a week that just happened to be Thunder Beach Week. This time we decided to go ahead and show up for the last day of the roaring festivities so we can get a good start on our vacation when they all clear out. Even on the 22nd floor, these motorcycles are incredibly, thunderously, and obnoxiously loud. Tomorrow, hopefully all we'll hear is the crashing of the waves below.

Hot Wax, Anyone?

I'm not proud. At least not too proud to admit that I regularly get my face waxed. And unlike most normal women who like to shop, giggle, and visit the salon, I can think of 327 things I'd rather do than step foot in a salon. However, if I did not, I would not only be sporting a unibrow that encroaches on my eyelids, but also a moustache that would give Friedrich Nietzche (go ahead, google him or google "famous moustaches") a run for the money.

What's funny is that when you explain to the receptionist at the salon which services you would like to shell out the big money for, you must request a "lip" wax. I know we as a society are trying to make women feel better about themselves and all, but PC people, I'm not getting my lip waxed; that would hurt as much as a bikini wax. I'm getting my moustache waxed.

Another thing, PC people, there really are women out there with full-fledged moustaches. I was picking up pizza at Little Caesars the other night, and this cute young girl checked me out. I know she was cute because I had to make a very conscious effort to look at her face without being obviously distracted by her moustache. Does she not notice it?

Anyway, I am always careful to make my waxing visit to the salon before I go on vacation, and since we're heading to the beach tomorrow, it's especially important because the bright sun highlights one's moustache if it is not properly dealt with. Now I am an "I need my personal space" person, so I'm always bothered by how close the "waxing technician" gets to you when she is yanking all of your hair out by the root. I was especially conscious of it today what with the pig flu going around. I was tempted to ask her about her recent traveling history, but knowing how many hours these people put in to their salons, I'm sure she hasn't had time for a romantic getaway to Cozumel.

The woman who did my waxing today had also just finished giving pedicures to two burly guys named Bubba 1 and Bubba 2. As they were walking out and I realized she would likely be the one to call me to the back, I could only pray, "Please let her wash her hands. Please let her wash her hands." I think she did. At least she was at the sink for some time. Of course, she could have just been handwashing all of the tools she used on the big guys. We'll see if I get the creepin' crud on my eyebrows or "lips."