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I’m feelin’ testy.

Tired and pissy.

Maybe it’s been the heat and humidity and work wearin’ me down, maybe it’s been Miss Carol and me bickerin’ over the little shit that marriage always seems to dredge up and serve you at dinner time whether you want it or not like your mom’s spaghetti that she keeps serving you over and over again even though you’ve told her you hate it and she just laughs thinkin’ your kiddin’ but you’re not but you eat it ’cause that’s life and that’s what keeps the ball rollin’ and everybody happy and on an even keel and honestly isn’t that what it’s all about?

And I know I’ll get over it and through it, that life will once again be rainbows and unicorns instead of toads and turds.

‘Cause really? I don’t have too much to bitch about and maybe that’s why I get shitty sometimes.

Maybe I forget I’m too lucky.

It’s been amazing, the amount of rain we’ve had this week. Biblical, End of the World kinda storms that were just blurrily relentless and left Cutter and Tug skittishly wondering WTF?

But the sadly weird thing about storms down here is that they tend to trigger some enzyme in the tourons that says-

Must. Go. Drive.

or maybe it’s something like-

Must. Buy. More. Stupid. T-shirts.

Whatever it is, it causes all of ’em to pack into their cars and cram the roads JUST AS SOON as the rain stops.

Which means that I found myself walking the dogs yesterday, slogging through road lakes and trying to dodge the wakes from the touron SUV’s as they plowed through the flooding looking for whatever it is tourons seek and staring at me with their faces pressed to the glass pointing like they’d never seen dogs.

Makes me worry about humanity.

Hooboy. Here we go again. More piss poor food photography.

Stick with me.  I’m fairly sure it’ll get better.

Anyway. I feel sorry for everybody else in the  country that can’t have Chesapeake Bay blue crab. From what I understand they’re indigenous to us which means ya’ll don’t get any. And honestly, in an age of refrigeration and airplanes I  don’t know why that is, but so sorry.

Sucks to be you.

A typical feast is a big bag of jimmies (male crabs), a bowl of melted butter (HI mr. heart attack), and a bowl of spicy vinegary sauce (HOWDY  mr. stroke) for dipping.

And, of course, lots of cold, cold, ooh baby, cold beer.

Eating blue crab is amazingly athletic, full of tearing crusty bodies apart, ripping out internals, and yanking off legs and claws and beatin’ em with mallets. But the meat of the matter, the stuff you finally get to with bloody fingers, is what dreams and adolescent pregnancies are made of. Especially the back fin.

Honest. It’s that good. And that worth it.

When you steer a big fat back fin lollipop dripping with hot melted butter towards your gaping maw you can just feel the benign goodness that is the whole world smiling on you and wanting you to be happy forever.

Really.

This is the coolest show ever in the history of television on the planet. I believe it started as a single show documentary on the Discovery Channel about the most dangerous job in the US, if not the world. Every year boats capsize in storms and men die fishing the Bering Sea.

After that very first Deadliest Catch I was hooked. (see what I did there?)

The first show(s) videography was gritty and focused primarily on the dangers commercial crabbers face. The relentlessly freakishly huge storms and seas, the mind numbing cold, and the endless hours pulling and setting crab pots. The show was raw.

Nowadays, because of it’s popularity, the show appears to have a much bigger budget and the production has become much slicker  and the focus has narrowed to four or five boats and the lives of their crews and captains whom all have their own websites selling t-shirts and hats and stuff but it’s still waaaay cool.

I make Miss Carol watch it every week.

Earlier this year the father of a friend of ours rescued/adopted an all black Lab mix that he named Chelsea. Nobody knew her history or how she had ended up abandoned at the SPCA with the clock ticking.

Anyway, he brought her home and she was the happiest dog ever and then a short time later he died suddenly.

Chelsea was left alone again facing a return to the cage at the SPCA.

Then, some other friends of ours and also a mutual friend of the woman whose father had died decided that they would “adopt” Chelsea. They had been talking about getting a dog and Chelsea needed a home and they fit together perfectly.

Once again Chelsea had found a home and happiness with owners she loved.

Chelsea’s owners were supposed to drop her off with us this weekend while they attended a family reunion but we got a call Thursday morning saying that Chelsea was at the vet. Her stomach had turned and they were going to have to operate. We told them to give their vet our cell numbers and we would pick up Chelsea when she was ready to come home.

Miss Carol just received a text message informing us that Chelsea passed away early this morning.

Ya know.

I’m glad that the final few months of Chelsea’s short life were happy and I wish it could have been longer for both hers’ and our friends’ sakes.

But what really bothers me most is the thought that, what if she woke up after her surgery, in a cage again, with no one there again, and just gave up.

I hope she knew how much she was loved.

We’ll miss you Chelsea.

This weekend, on Sunday, we drove down to the Outer Banks to visit some of Miss Carol’s family who were vacationing there. It’s always great seeing family and catching up with everybody and blah, blah, blablabladeblah ’cause family stuff is family stuff and really, honestly, who else cares?

The thing that always chafes me, though, the sand in my ointment, the burr in my saddle, is that for twenty four hours I become a touron. I morph twice each year, once when we visit Miss Carol’s vacationing family and once when we visit mine.

Each time as I drive the hour and half from our beach to their beach, I can feel my Mr. Coolness Beach Dude oozing out of me and the touroness creeping in.

By the time we hit the NC border I’m wanting to buy anything and everything stamped with OBX. Especially if it’s fluorescent. Oh yeah.

I’m wanting to drink beer while I drive and fling the empties out the window. WTF, mutha’s, I’m on vacation and I’m firin’ on all eight cylinders so ya just better watch out.

But what I don’t see are the locals workin’ at the Brew Thru when we stop for beer and ice and what I fail to feel is the vibe that screams Dude. You’re. Just. Another. Touron. when we gas up at the Wee Winks.

Because I’ve become one of THEM.

And I worry sometimes that maybe I won’t re-emerge, that maybe the touroness will stick to me like a fart in an elevator.

Maybe I shouldn’t never leave home.

Finally.

After days of planning and seed selection.

After weeks of germination.

After building a raised bed RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BACKYARD and filling it with bad dirt.

After planting energetic little sprouting plants and watching them shrivel.

After some equally energetic fertilizing and watering.

After realizing that our disheveled little garden was a salad bar for Bambi and the bunnies.

After building prison walls to keep Bambi and the bunnies out and supports for non-existent tired little chewed on plants.

After some MORE energetic fertilizing and watering.

After weeks of watching and weeding and wondering.

Finally.

The fruit of our labor.

I smell dinner.

I worked in a new customers house today replacing an exterior door that had been kicked in when they were robbed two days ago.

Don’t get me started on mothereffers that rob people in their homes. Actually, do get me started. I think they should all have their hands cut off, then their penises, then maybe their arms and legs, and then maybe put ’em on a little cart and push ’em into traffic. But that’s just me.

Anyway. So I’m working on this house, listening to the middle-age homeowners tell me what they’re going through and it’s sad and I feel bad for them but they’re nice people and we chit-chat about life and stuff. And the whole time I’m feeling vaguely weird.

At first I’m thinkin’ that even though they’re nice people I hope their bad mojo doesn’t follow me home. But that’s not it.

Somethin’ just wasn’t right.

So I kept workin’ away and finally I finished up and they paid me and I went home and checked e-mails and walked the dogs and it hit me.

I was walking, listening to the endless and endlessly irritating music loop of an ice cream truck on the prowl (honestly, how do those people listen to that  all day every day and not go batshit crazy?) when I realized what it was that had been eaten’ at me all day about their house.

There were no pictures or paintings or artwork on the walls. Nada.

There were no pictures of kids and grandkids frolicking. Zip.

There were no nick-nacks cluttering up coffee and end tables. Zero.

There weren’t even any plants. WTF?

There was none of it. They had lived there for 8 years, had grown children and grandchillen and the place looked like they had moved in yesterday and could move out tomorrow.

I don’t get it and it made me sad.

I loves me some flip flops.

I wear them all the time, every day, all day, until it’s winter and too cold outside and my toes turn blue.

Then I wear boots, but thats a whole nother story (as if my footwear is a story, for gods sake).

The only problem with flip flops, besides the beating my toes take working in them, is the foot fart.

No lie. Just recently I was talking to a touron at the market one morning while I was getting my coffee. It was the normal, passing the day kinda conversation that goes on all season. Feigning interest I asked where she was from, and while she paused, probably wondering if I was trying to pick her up and ax murder her, I reached for the cream and,

Qwweeeff.

My flip flop gave me a foot fart. I don’t know if it’s how worn out your flip flops are, or what they’re made of, or foot sweat or what, but it happens. Really.

She stared at me and I said oops foot fart. I don’t think she believed me but, anyways, we continued with the business of making our coffees and stupid conversation. I shifted to pour decaf into my cup and,

Qwweeeff.

She stopped mid-sentence, telling me about her home in Ohio, and how she loved the beach, and missed her cat, and blah, blah, blahdy blah, and glared at me. Oops, foot fart, I said.

She grabbed her coffee and bolted. I said have a nice day but she didn’t look back.

Is it just me? or does this happen to other people?

I seem harsh at times.

Let me try and explain what it’s like to live in a vacation wonderland. At first glance, living at the beach is a dream, unless you like mountains and snow and stuff, and then maybe not so much.

And it is a dream. But at times, it’s a weird dream.

During the off season we are a fairly small, fairly tight knit community. We party together, we go to one another’s homes for dinners, we go to the same bars. We’re a small town, just like small towns everywhere.

And we love it.

Then the season comes ’round and things change dramatically. Imagine your community suddenly overrun with strangers. Lots and lots of people hangin’ out, drinkin’ and doin’ their thing. Kinda like a huge concert ‘cept they don’t go home. They stay and, welded to their idea of vacation fun, do pretty much what they want. It is, after all, vacation.

And we love that part too. But.

You become invisible. From time to time you see other locals and you flash a smile, a sign saying it’s cool, it’ll end and we’ll get together. You endure even as the endless pool parties grind on and on with kids and adults squealing and boom boxes blaring keeping you awake.

You want to kill ’em all. But then you get up and walk the beach.

And it’s cool again.