One Way or Another

I just returned from visiting my brother in Florida. I was the only young mom on the beach not sporting a Hawaiian Tropics tan accented by metallic bikini, tramp-stamp tat and belly-button bling. My veal pale, L.L. Bean-clad Northeastern self certainly stood out amongst the St. Pete natives.

My parents also tagged along; actually they booked the flight and made the travel arrangements and I decided to hop in at the last minute. My family has an interesting dynamic; by interesting, I mean "certifiable." I asked my husband to join us on the trip. In response, he simply raised one eyebrow and said knowingly, "You go. Have fun." Smart man.

Day 1 was lovely.

Day 2 was tolerable, but grating.

Day 3 resulted in a hideous argument involving raw grouper filets and a plunger. I wish I could elaborate, but then I would have to kill you.

At the end of Day 3, I decided to book my own hotel room and hide from my family at the spa. I returned from my "vacation" in need of a STAT appointment with my therapist, but buffed, exfoliated and pedicured. Amongst the crazy, I managed to squeeze in a little shopping and picked up exceptional souvenirs for Ethan. His favorite, by far, is the musical plush shark, which I now know was an ill-advised purchase. The shark sings Blondie's "One Way or Another ... I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha" in its shark voice while wagging its shark tail and fins in time with the beat. The first hundred times it was cute, but that was a week ago. Does anyone out there have the P.O. Box for Guantanamo Bay? I think "Sharky" could be successfully employed as an intense interrogation tactic for reticent prisoners and my donation would score me a last minute tax deduction. Everyone wins!