I blame my lack of writing with enough regularity and compelling content to keep you invested; but in larger part I also blame who gives a crap?!

Either way, here I am. Amelia Island, take 4. I’m at my keyboard in the hotel room at a quarter of two on a Monday afternoon with the beach glaring in with an evil, sun drenched eye and cursing at me via waves that seep in from the other side of the sheer curtains in the room that overlooks the dunes. They’re wondering why I’m not out there, why I’m not further aggravating my already red, blistered skin. I’m flipping them both a mental finger. The Mc is off golfing, and I’ve had my fill of being tucked under an umbrella while I alternate jotting thoughts on my yellow tablet, reading a book I wish I was enjoying more than I am, and being pelted with sand during the occasional gust.

I’d rather be writing.

We decided we’d return to Amelia Island for a number of reasons, not the least of which was a call from my doctor asking me to come back for more tests and with it, a particular date/time frame to land said visit smack in the middle of our vacation week.

No matter! I’m determined to make it an adventure in a totally different way. The extended weekend of reckless abandon, of trying out fashion bits I’d never do if I ran the risk of being seen by anyone I know, of listening to new podcasts and singing our way through the drive along with singles from Glee. Don’t judge. Hater.

So, sure, I bought a few pretty dresses that make me feel like a fraud, complete with wedge sandals and some different – for me – accessories. I had my nails painted in a color several friends will be proud of (I’ve already emailed them pictures), but that also are outside my comfort zone. Why not go all the way and don a scarlet letter? Meh. We have delightful intentions that involve dancing, staying up late enough for a whimsical moonlit walk on the beach, and enduring a few ridiculously decadent meals my colon and muffin top will no doubt retaliate for.

Oh, and I’m writing. See also: reckless abandon.

Tis the season for “screw it” and for sharing the love.

First, pour yourself a drink. Red wine will do, my recent preference is a Bogle Cab. Next, turn on some holiday music to get you in the spirit, light some candles and do what I didn’t do – move the bar stools away from your prep area to ward off curious kitties.

Collect ingredients:
1 cup Half & Half
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 tablespoon chocolate syrup
3 eggs (or substitute with Egg Beaters)
1 can Eagle Condensed Milk
8-10 oz Jameson’s Whiskey

Throw them all in a bowl and blend together until foamy – then sample. Add more booze to taste. Note: make sure it’s a bowl you can easily pour out of without a mess. I have (when making only one batch) used the blender, but prefer to use a mixer.

When it’s all happy and foamy, serve yourself a glass on the rocks and commence on-line holiday shopping. Later, serve to your guests the same way, or chilled from the freezer.

If you need the step by step, I photographed the process. I know, it’s complicated!

Some recipes I’ve seen call for instant coffee for that extra punch, I don’t use it. Some call for almond extract or the like for a little something different, I don’t do that either. I make it the way it says to above, and have been known to load it into decorative recycled bottles from Pier 1, throw an ornament around the neck of the bottle and deliver.

HT to my friend Tami, who unwittingly inspired this post (among other things).

Happy Holidays!

But you didn’t, and I didn’t expect it, which makes it all that much more delightful.

I can’t being to explain why I went for it after my girls already had – especially when they described what would happen. By no means am I a prude (exhibit a: skinny dipping with some of my other girls at The Hostel in the Forest), I do have some body issues and don’t typically prance around in a swimsuit let alone nude in front of perfect strangers.

But there I was. As the day I was born – plus or minus my extra bits – in the middle of the whirlpool/steam area, trying to catch the eye of one of the older women working the scrub tables before I completely chickened out. “Maybe it’s a sign. I shouldn’t do it. You can’t walk out now, you’re already here. C’mon, pull it together.” That inner monologue is bossy and sassy!

Two Russian women beat me to the punch, and I clutched the hand towel that was theoretically supposed to cover my nether bits a little tighter. I eked out my request and was ushered with a nod into the steam room for “two minute” by a woman in a black bra and granny panties: my scrubber.

Okay.

If she’s okay, I’m okay.

I’m OKAY.

I did my time in the blazing hot steam and was collected by my scrubber, quickly ushered via hand gestures to a half-walled off area with eight identical tables and told to lay down. “Face down?” I ask, she nods and slaps the table.

Oh, God. Don’t hurt me. (Someday, after lots of therapy, I’ll write about the most abrupt, jerky, slappy, pokey massage I’ve ever had a half an hour before.)

I’m doused with a bucket of warm water, then another. I’m reminded of jumping off a cliff in Jamaica and being told to keep my legs tightly together. Too late.

For the next thirty minutes she scrubs me with mitts and soap, nudging me to turn onto my side, lifting my arms over my head, nudging me when I needed to turn again. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.

At some point after rolling onto my back I realize: I haven’t been cared for like this – physically – since I was a child. I haven’t had someone carefully cleansing me, washing me and renewing me. It occurs to me this would have been a perfect compliment to what Malinda did for me over the course of 5+ years, with once a week visits to her office. Boxes and boxes of Kleenex, and hugs, and painful recollections and purging.

This wasn’t some shi-shi spa salt scrub bullshit, this was the real deal. This was rough without being brutal, it allowed me to be vulnerable without being ashamed, and it allowed me to rejoice in someone else taking care of me in ways I (clearly) couldn’t take care of myself.

The charcoal sauna may have ridded my body of toxins and the massage may have loosened more up (note to self: drink a GALLON of water tonight with all that red wine) but the body scrub? Ridded me of so much more, for which I have no words.

We lolled about after waking lateish and shuffled off for breakfast at a truck stop complete with Princess Phones (which, btw, was something I’ve always wanted to do) and plenty of coffee. Back to the hostel under threats of another MN hissy fit, we read and played mancala and cards until I think G & K’s heads were going to explode.

They went foraging for lunch while I poured a drink, opened the screen door to welcome the rain and launched bloom on my iPhone (which you should totally download RIGHT NOW. I’ll wait.)

It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in ages.

The sky booming and shaking, the splatter of the drops on the canopy of green, the quieting of the little buzzards trying to ruin my life, the air cooling and thrusting itself into my lungs, the green becoming so amplified it was electric…

I wanted to soak it all up and in and roll around in it so the stink on my skin would never leave and I’d have something more to remember it by.

I wanted to share it with you, but it slipped through my heart and evaporated. I don’t suppose it was meant to be shared, it was what the postcards are about…”wish you were here…” because my words and imagery will never do it justice.

The girls came back and fed me, and we resumed our reading/gabbing/joking.

Eventually, the dinner bell rang (what we can only assume was an hour before dinner) and we scurried down to the netted mess hall to play friendly with the other guests and the staff.

While our meal and the company were both delicious and delightful, it’s what came next that makes my heart melt. The sun fell, dusk settled, and the temperatures started to cool. It was our final night, and I wasn’t going to leave without swimming in the lake, and out to the hammock in the floating dock and floating at least a few minutes away under the stars…so I did.

There was a mist on the water from the temperature change that made it haunted and mystic and surreal. I wished for my camera and closed my eyes on the image. It’s still there, with the reeds around the banks of the lake and the bench swing where my clothes hung disappearing and reappearing in the light the nearly full moon provided.

Between the chatting and admiring the night there were long pauses of silence, where I could close my eyes and devour the stillness. I did it until I was full and as my weight shifted the cold air would hit my wet skin. It was time to crawl through the water back to the shoreline and tuck in, marking the last night and the end of another magical memorable trip to the treehouses at our hostel in the forest.

As my eyes finally closed an hour or more later, I promised myself again to come back. Maybe alone and definitely when it’s raining.

The following morning we found the weather was uncooperative at best, and after trucking it over to Jekyll Island for what we hoped to be a day with our books and our toes in the sand, but were foiled by big ugly red blotches on the radar that were circling us like The Jets. Or The Sharks. Whichever ones were the complete bungholes.

The lack of sunshine lead us to a dockside bar just outside the Jekyll Island Club, becuase really: cocktails make everything better on a girlie vacation. Something else that make everything better? Snapping shots, which my lovlies were patient enough to tolerate.

I can’t say enough about traveling with people who have a similar mindset about what a vacation is. There was no pressure to stay at our table and sip my naughty frothy adult beverage when I wanted to be down the dock shooting the end of a frayed rope. I sipped, I talked, I wandered, I shot, I sipped more, and then My Aunt arrived. That bitch.

Eventually we decided we weren’t going to let Mother Nature and her menopausal episodes (this reference is actually about the weather, I’m not always talking about my uterus) foil our plans. We got back in the Griswold family truckster and headed for St. Simons, we found a tide that dampened our towels and our bottoms but not our spirits. Gwen broke out the limes, Kel broke out the beer, I broke out my leatherman and we made our own perfection.

When the water finally crept up on our toes and chased us away, we traveled back to Jekyll and a place I’d been with The Mc. Correction: a place we’d gone, then left, because the hostess seated a table of children next to us while their parents sat further away and I had a melt down. We never did eat there, but I remembered it so there we were…at Sea Jay’s.

There we were, on the porch, looking out over the water and the slips with boats tied up and the underbelly of the bridge. There we were, sipping our drinks and contemplating our meals when a raccoon walked across the lawn. I’m not sure if all raccoons walk like this guy, but he moved a little like Forest Gump when he had the leg braces on. Didn’t stop the little fella from climbing up the tree closest to the diners and giving us all a sweet faced silent plea for scraps, though.

Dinner was devoured and it was on to the one and only appointment we had during our vacay: a turtle walk. After those crushing blows were delivered last month and my attempts to swim with turtles were thwarted by the H1N1, Gwen quietly slipped into uber considerate friend mode and made arrangements for us – and for me – to have a possible turtle sighting.

While our walk was not fruitful, we had an hour long stroll on the shoreline under the stars (I’d nearly forgotten what they looked like) and a moon that lit up the night so well there wasn’t a need for any man-made interference. The cooling sand, the salty air, the friends nearby but doing their own thing, and that moon and those stars…it was like a big sloppy kiss from the heavens.

If there’s anything that fresh air does, it’s wear you out. We drove back to the hostel mostly in silence, grabbed everything we’d need that night and scurried to our treehouse, hoping we’d outrun the skeeters.

We didn’t.