So it's tourist season again. The good news is that we can now catch 5 full-grown ones each this year!

For those of you lucky bastards who are stuck somewhere freezing cold and miserable, this is probably not something that you're going to have to worry about for a good four months. Or if you live in Ohio, never. But for us Floridians, it's that time of year again. We're in season. Tourist season. 

Where is my orange t-back bikini again?

Sure, it's the down side of living in a vacation destination. And yes, for the last six months it has been like living in paradise. But that doesn't mean I want to share! It's not my fault you chose to live in New Jersey and now you need to escape your pathetic reality TV show life. You know what I heard is nice? Alabama. They've got......um....stuff. And part of it even touches Florida so it has to be good! Go see for yourself!

Ooh, it's waterfront too!

I have NEVAH seem my hair this frizzy, oh my gawd!

I actually like the ones from Canada. They are so nice, eh? And old people? Don't get me started. I love those old motherf'rs. The ones that really bug me are the ones from states with annoying accents and really bad taste in clothes. I don't think velvet jumpsuits are really supposed to have that much diamante. Oh, and in case you're wondering, lovely tourist, we DON'T actually enjoy listening to your conversation that you're having on your cell in line at Publix. We seriously don't care how 'wicked humid' you think it is. That is not an excuse for that hair anyway. Seriously, it's wicked awful.


One of my favorite pastimes during tourist season was what I liked to call 'dream killing'. It went kinda like this: 


I was living in Key Largo and taking one of my leisurely strolls around the neighborhood with my always well-behaved dogs when I would sense a car slowing down behind me. I'd try to look straight ahead and sometimes, in desperation, pretend that I took up jogging and break out into what appeared to be a drunken stumble. I was only pretending to jog, not be drunk. That part was a given. But alas, the car would speed up to catch up to me, a full ten feet ahead by now, and I'd hear the electric whir of a window rolling down.


"Excuse me, hi! Excuse me!" I'd turn to find a youngish couple full of excitement beaming at me. I'd soon squash that. "Can you tell me where the closest beach is?"


Heh heh heh. Then I'd deliver my favorite line. "Beach? Oh, we don't have any beaches!" I'd try to mirror their enthusiasm because it'd confuse them. And it was fun. They'd look back at me, quizzically, thinking that I'm joking around. I wasn't.


"What? What are you talking about? There is water everywhere! How can there be no beaches?" The disappointment is starting to set in at this point but they're still holding out hope. Then I cheerily tell them that because of the reef, we have no sandy beaches and the best they can hope for are a few of the man-made beaches behind some of the bars or they can enjoy the fifty feet of fun at Founder's Park in Islamorada, a short 25 miles south. 

Hey look, there's an empty spot over......oh, wait, never mind. Try back tomorrow?

The great part about any of these beaches is that you can wade out for a hundred yards (but wear your tennis shoes, there are sharp rocks) and you'll still only be up to your shins in lukewarm water that is the opposite of refreshing since it is actually HOTTER than the air. But hey, have fun! Good luck you guys! Then I'd walk away with a new jaunt in my step, that was not alcohol related (for now). 


I'd see the poor saps driving up and down the streets a few more times, clearly in denial, before eventually returning to Overseas Highway to go and do what the rest of us do to get through the days. Get drunk and stay that way. But that's pretty much my only good memory of tourists. The rest of the time they are just a pain in our collective ass, taking up the good parking spots and blinding us with their tacky gold watches glinting in the sunlight. 

What, you like my watch? My brother sells them out of his trunk. I'll get you a good deal.

At least do us a favor, oh Jersey Shore cast-offs: buy a bathing suit that fits this year! And by fits, I mean covers more than 3% of your brink-of-obesity day glo pale body. While it is sexy in some places, mainly WhoAreYouKiddingville, it's really taking away from our favorite beach pastime 'Fat or Pregnant?' since the answer is, inevitably, just fat. Leave something to the imagination this season! Make us really work for it!

I'm pretty sure pregnancy doesn't give you a saggy bikini muffin top

But, if for some reason you really must insist on visiting Florida this year, make sure you make it down to Keys. My friend Kathleen said her pool is supposed to only fit 12 but she's sure she can squeeze in an extra fifty or so! Just give me a buzz and I'll text you her address. 

I know it looks crowded, but she can always squeeze in one more! Just FYI, do not accidentally swallow the water. You will die or choke on a band-aid.

Well see, I was waxing the floor in the nude...

Or you can just visit the health department and stock up on the antibiotics to treat the gonorrhea that you caught from 'the toilet seat' last week. I heard it's nice, like the Appalachian Emergency Room! But I don't want to get you too excited- you're just gonna have to go check it out for yourself. Happy birthday Kathleen- Love ya woman! Here's to 50 more!

Looks like you've got 50 years to perfect lighting your cigarette from a candle- get crackin'!

Life is beautiful.

All day I've been stumped over what I was going to write about in this week's blog. I even solicited topics from a friend, who just pointed out that the reason I can't think of anything to write or anything funny to say probably has some correlation to the fact that I'm currently not drinking. Talk about stating the obvious. Okay, it was a revelation for me, but still. Oh, and by the way Shannon, I'm on my second bowl of mashed potatoes for the day. Hey, next time come up with an idea and I'll keep the spud news to myself until your diet phase passes.

What's that, mashed potatoes? You think I should go for bowl number three? Well, you know what's best...

But then something wonderful happened. I had such a fantastic experience- one of those things that you wish happened every day- that I couldn't resist writing about it. It went something like this.......


I had decided this morning that I would do something unexpectedly nice for Bobby (see, I do have a nice bone in my body). But Bobby's earned it, if just for the sheer effort of being married to me and having to put up with comments like, "Can you run ten feet behind me because I can't stand the sound of your flat feet" or, in the case where he runs ahead of me and then runs backward making a funny expression, "I'm going to punch you in the face." And then there's everyday stuff, but you see what I mean. He was due for something nice.

Seriously, what's so hard to understand about ten feet? Not nine, not eleven, ten, dammit!

So what makes Bobby happy? Cleaning. More specifically, me cleaning. So I decided that for Bobby's surprise, I would clean the spare bedroom where he has his desk and, on allergy nights, sleeps also. So all day long, when I had a few spare minutes, I'd change sheets, put books back on the bookshelf,  dust,  and, um... okay, that was it. So it wasn't exactly a hard task, but it's the thought that counts.

Ah, I love getting high from combining Windex and Orange Glo!

Well, right before he got home, I decided to give it one more glance. As I was standing in the hallway, his room to the right and the play room to the left, I thought to myself, "What is that delightful smell?"

Is that hibiscus with an undertone of urine that I'm smelling?

I followed my nose into the playroom, and after rolling the crib away from the wall, I found the source of this olfactory treat. I exclaimed, like anyone would who perhaps won the lottery or had some other super awesome thing happen to them, "Woohoo, it's CAT PEE!" Yeahhhh baby! You know, I thought my day was going good before, but this was a whole new level of fantastic.

I got out the much used can of carpet cleaner and began what I like to think of as a cat-provided Easter egg hunt. Except instead of plastic eggs filled with candy, I get to find small spots of ammonia laden cat urine! Don't worry, if you are ever in the neighborhood, stop on by and give this a go. It is as fun as it sounds and the cats will always, if the trend continues, provide more delight for everyone.

Thank you Ginger & Skipper for providing hours of fun for all!

I was especially satisfied that the cat (cats? who knew? maybe they're both in on the fun!) decided to focus mainly- but not only- on the playroom. Because with us hoping to adopt, nothing is more impressive than opening up the door to the soon to be nursery during the home inspection and having the fragrant musk of cat pee waft up to your nostrils. It just screams out to the case worker, "I am sanitary and could take care of a baby! Give me one now please!" Who could resist us after that? I bet we get one double fast. Thank the lord for elderly, apparently incontinent, cats.

You know what another word for having two old cats is? Jackpot.

I must have been a Princess in my last life.

The fun didn't stop there- yay! For some reason, they (the unknown cat) like to pee along the baseboards BUT, and here's the kicker, you can barely see the small light yellow spot on the what-used-to-be-tan carpets, so when I think I found a spot, I get to get down real low and smell it just to be sure. I know what you're saying right now. "How did Anna get so lucky in life?". Well, my friends, I must have done something right in a past life, that's what I'm thinking.


So when Bobby got home, he got not one, but two treats today. The first being me, looking fine with my hair in two Princess Leia buns, workout shorts and shirt (and not the good looking ones), and my red knit knee high boot slippers with the pom poms, scrubbing away at the carpet and sweating like a Polish factory worker. I read in Women's Health the other day that men are actually turned on by the scent of a woman's sweat, so Bobby, I apologize. You must walk around with a huge boner 24/7. I have to remember to get you more Astroglide to help with all of your animal urges I must be stirring up.

Who does this look NOT look good on? Nobody. Exactly.

Oh, and he liked the room. His exact quote was, "Holy Shit!" at a decibel our neighbors were sure to enjoy also, so I think that part at least was a good surprise. The best surprise is going to be his face when he gets the estimate of what it's going to cost us to rip up all the carpet in the house, which is everywhere except the kitchen, and replace it with tile. Good times are a comin', my friends. Good times are a comin'.

You ain't seen nothin yet, JJ.

Tattoo Removal sessions 2 & 3. Explicit language used in this post. And we liked it.

Tattoo removal sessions 2 & 3. They fucking hurt like a bitch. The end.

Okay, I'll try to flesh that out a little more but that's the gist of it. For about thirty seconds once a month, it feels like someone is carving their initials in my back with a very sharp and pointy knife. 

I've gotta admit, this would've looked better than the spider.

Session #2 ended up taking place the day before we left to run the Disney half-marathon so that was an awkward predicament. You're not supposed to get the tattoo wet for 48 hours, meaning no sweating and if necessary, only quick showering. So here I was, about to sweat into an open wound for three plus hours, and the best part was that I couldn't get the band-aid to stay stuck so I ended up smearing it with antibiotic cream and a layer of sunscreen and hoping for the best. Don't worry, it was fine. Maybe just a teeny bit gross for everyone running behind me, but hey, not my problem!

No, that is not a piece of raw meat strapped to my back. That is the result of my splendid life choice when I was 18. And people wonder why we can't buy alcohol until we're 21?

Here are comparison pictures of what my tattoo originally looked like compared to after two sessions of laser removal:

Pre-laser. Luckily I was wearing my half-shirt that day.

After 2 sessions- web is almost completely gone and the spider has some skin starting to show through.

I am in a cool mountain stream.....

Tonight was session #3 and it made session #2 feel like a massage with a happy ending. It hurt so much that for the first time possibly ever, I actually used a piece of advice I learned in yoga outside of yoga: focus on your breath. It was the only way I kept myself from screaming 'break!!!!' every other second to stop the laser.

Come on, come on, get out of here.... no? Fine. Whatevs.

I tried to force myself to have an out-of-body experience but when that didn't work, I just focused on my breath, not on the excruciating pain taking place around back. I imagine this is why they make women giving birth focus on their breathing, but I'm pretty sure this hurt way worse than labor.

Here's a picture taken about 4 hours after session #3:

It's funny to me that the spider part doesn't look all bloody and gross considering that's the part that hurt like a motherfucker. Hey, I warned you about the language!

So why keep going back for the S&M torture? Easy. The results. After only 2 sessions, my tattoo looked so much better; you could hardly even see the web at all. We're pretty sure that tonight's session will be the last for the web and it'll be completely gone. It does make me wonder what people think my remaining spider is supposed to be. And as bad as it was, I am so excited to see what this thing will look (or not look) like after the six sessions are up. So the verdict so far: totally worth it. But learn some of those breathing technique things before you go in if you know what's good for you.



I am at the top of a mountain.... silenty cursing that flower anklet that now looks like a handcuff....