It seems we can't get away without a shopping trip, this time for snorkeling equipment and water shoes, both of which were located at the unbelievable (really astonishing) Bass Pro Shop. Damn, just walking in that place makes me want to chew and spit tobacco, load up and head for the woods. Mike and I now have matching water shoes for climbing the falls at Ocho Rios ~ so cute! ~ and for wandering the rocky beaches at Mazatlan in November and February.
I've been trying to find a lightweight, knee-length t-shirt kind of thing that isn't pink and doesn't have bunnies or kittens on it. I don't sleep in anything, but I'm not ready to lounge nude on the balcony of the hotel in the mornings. The only things available for women (not mail order, no time) are similar to what you would dress a toddler in. Not for me. But then there's the muumuu.
It occurs to me that the muumuu is a lifestyle: looking at the billowing flowered garment on the hanger, I suddenly felt a craving for a cigarette, some curlers for my hair, chippy chewing gum pink nail polish, a TV blaring soap operas and a trailer. I had an urge to drink coffee from a diner cup and saucer, yak on the phone to Dot and Jeannie and Rita, hit the VFW dance on Friday nights. So what's worse? That floral garment, which carries the great risk that I will succumb to the muumuu lifestyle:
or pink bunnies and kittens? Needless to say, there's a muumuu in my bag, God help me. So here we are at near midnight. The pet sitter has the puppies; the house sitter is ensconced in my featherbed with a cat wrapped around her head. I'm packed and ready to fly away.
I'm giving the back side of my flipper to the Bush crime family, and I'm not offering those thugs space in my head any more. Really. What will be will be and all of that. I'm going to reclaim my serenity on the beach. Y'all take care while I'm away and don't (**sniff**) forget me while I'm gone. Off to Jamaica.