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My Insiders All Access Pass got cancelled last night.

It was Ladie’s Night and it was Miss Carol’s turn to host(ess?) which meant I was supposed to take my nasty male bits and disappear.

And I tried.

Fleeing the estrogen cloud I went upstairs with a book, some beers, and a really cool feel for an evening spent drinking and reading quietly and alone.

And I tried.

But then Miss Carol started bringing tour groups up to see our upstairs, women who had somehow missed seeing our, um, bedroom? And me? Sitting there reading and drinking and maybe looking forlorn and lonely all by myself?

It was a little bit like being in a petting zoo.

So I smiled and hugged and laughed and talked and wondered if there would be some kinda reciprocity and I could get some of their food.

But there wasn’t and I didn’t.

Damn.

Yesterday started out lookin’ like it was gonna be epic and maybe life changing. Miss Carol was gonna work on her cure for cancer and I’d decided that World Peace was at the top of my list of must do’s.

But then this happened.

Which meant this.

And lots and lots of this.

Which, you know, led to this.

Which meant life was good, just not overly productive.

I promise this is it. This is all of it.

I know how all y’all just LOVE the truck storyline. Honestly-I can tell from the blog stats.

But I gotta do this, OK?

When last we left my miserable truck story I had, for some reason, treated Miss Carol and me to a new truck, something I’ve not had for twenty-one years (I started driving Big Black when I was 4). Apprehension was my constant kissing cousin keeping me up at night and tugging at me all day long.

Change can be tough and I wasn’t totally sure I’d done the right thing kicking Big Black to the curb and taking up totally heterosexual relations with MR.GREEN.

To make matters worse I almost immediately sold Big Black to a kinda douchey guy but backed out at the last minute. I just couldn’t do it. I just wasn’t ready. The separation anxiety was killin’ me.

So the douchey guy bought Mighty Whitey instead. (I wasn’t NEARLY as attached to the Suburban as I was to my Big Black)

Did I just share that?

Anyway.

Mighty Whitey’s gone and soon so will be Big Black. An old friend of mine’s gonna buy him, put bench seats in the bed of the truck, hang an awning from the ladder rack and park him over on the beach in Carova.

Yup. Big Black’s gonna end his days transporting people back and forth to the beach, being a party barge and resting during the winters and staring at the ocean.

I can handle that, I think.

so.

it’s goodbye, my old friend.

Holy crap.

Spring struck like a thunderclap this year. Seems like it went from 45 degrees and cloudy and windy to 90 and balmy in the space of day or two.

And with the warmer temps the tourons came streaming in, an endless line of sillily packed cars packed chock-a-block full of spring breakiness. Used to be, touron season was the 100 days war between Memorial Day and Labor Day when they’d all finally leave.

Not no more.

Thanks to the City’s ever vigilant efforts the tourons flock back as soon as it’s warm enough to squeeze sun-challenged pudginess into shorts and bathing suits. And black socks. And bad hawaiian shirts. And neon everything, from t-shirts to sunglasses.

And while I yearn for the warmer weather and summertime I also gird myself, facing it with not a little dread. Gone is the relative solitude of winter. Gone are the empty beaches and keening wind. Another touron season is bearing down on us. Another year of noisy new neighbors every weekend reminding you that THEY’RE ON VACATION.

Woohoo.

Which can be cool, sorta.

‘Cept it gets old after a couple a weeks and at times you find yourself longing for October.

So we grins and we bears it, right?

Knowing shit could be worse, right?

um, right?

Easter.

Embracing our self-indulgent lifestyle Miss Carol and me decided long ago not to have any kids of our own. Miss Carol is one of twelve and I have a brother and two sisters. We have countless nephews and nieces. Well maybe not countless, but lots and lots and we always have a crowd on weekends and holidays and this weekend was no exception. Miss Carol’s mom and dad and one of her brothers and his wife and five kids and two other couples, friends of ours that had been planning on spending Easter separately and alone, joined us on Sunday.

I was surprised how much I enjoyed it.

There was a time, not too long ago, when a bunch of people in our house was kinda irritating. I know it sounds terrible but I treasured my private space and lonely rituals and protected it and them bitterly and jealously. After the initial glow of seeing friends and family I’d fairly quickly retreat into the dark little piece of crap I was rapidly becoming, waiting impatiently for them to leave.

Fortunately for me Miss Carol cared very little for my sensitivities and fragile male ego and just kept on planning large family and friend gatherings, forcing me to be a part and not become THAT man. You know, THAT man, the one wandering aimlessly in the grease stained trench coat, dumpster diving in ratty tennis shoes, and mumbling to himself and the hubcap he clutches to his chest like a life ring.

THAT man.

Because of Miss Carol’s relentless socialness I’ve gradually somehow, some kinda way gotten way better. And now I truly enjoy the crowded truckload of kids, mess, noise, laughter and fun that backs up beeping to our house on weekends and holidays.

It’s nice.

Real nice.

Ya know how sometimes you just sit, your mouth dry wondering where the next word’ll come from, the next phrase, the next whatever.

And ya sit, blowing spit bubbles while your mind races not connecting, gears stripped and smoking.

And you think.

Why?

Why do I put myself through this? For what?

Why bother?

Why not ease off the clutch and let it go. it ain’t goin’ anywhere anyway.

But you persist, like herpes.

‘Cause it’s in you like somethin’ that’ll never get out and you’re stuck.

Writin’s harder than I ever thought. I envisioned a cool existence sitting tap-tapping away in air conditioned comfort, far from the travails and hardship of construction.

Instead it’s different but just as tough, in a different way. And it saps you, which is a huge surprise.

Who knew?

I’m a turd.

Not only is it tax time, when every government- local, state, and federal want to take everything left after you’ve paid local, state, and federal taxes, but Miss Carol’s pissed at me too.

When we have dinner late I generally do the dishes and the only thing I want is to have music blaring.

Makes it like a party, ya know?

But. Tonight was f**cking American mother f**cking Idol f**cking night.

Something I hate and something Miss Carol somehow some kinda way has to absorb.

So I cranked up some music and Miss Carol cranked up f**cking Idol, so to teach her a lesson I turned my music OFF.

And then she decided to teach me a lesson and turned Idol OFF.

And then she stomped off to the bedroom to watch it up there.

So I decided to teach her a super-duper lesson by washing the dishes in silence.

That’ll show her.

I hate it when Miss Carol’s mad at me.

I had to do some weird stuff on Sunday.

I had to write a resume.

I know there’s probably a bunch of folks that read this drivel that have their resume constantly updated and locked and loaded for their next employment opportunity. And those folks are probably pretty smart.

But I’m not. And I haven’t had to submit a resume in, like, forever?

Through a strange confluence of events and lifestyle I’ve been fortunate enough to swing from job to job over the years without having to endure the dreaded paperwork and interviews.

This week, however, after a two-year non-compete which just ended, I’m hoping my company will be able to sub-contract for a firm here at the Beach. And the first thing they asked for was my resume.

Like I had it somewhere nurturing in a corner under warm lights.

Panicky, I asked Miss Carol to bring home some of the resumes she’s received recently so that I could, you know, um, like, copy the format?

Seeing as how it was a forgotten skill and all.

So she did and I did and after a couple of hours and a few beers I’d squeezed out something eerily similar to a REAL resume.

How weird is that?

Somewhere, at some point, I’d read that fanaticism of any kind is a bad thing. I hadn’t really given it much thought until last weekend. Now I’m thinkin’ that maybe extremism of any kind is probably a bad thing too.

Case in point- Felix Baumgartner is planning on being the first person ever to sky-dive from inner space (23 miles up) and go supersonic for 10 seconds or more. No one knows what supersonic speed will do to the human body. There appears to be some concern that parts of his body will go supersonic and other parts won’t.

Call me silly, but that can’t be a good thing.

Then, there’s this- last weekend a local guy Matt Shepherd and two of his kayaking buddies chartered a Hatteras 50 sportfisher to run them out of Teach’s Lair to the Gulf Stream so that they could fish for bluefin tuna in their kayaks.

Let me write that again.

Fishin’ for bluefin tuna in KAYAKS.

And Matt hooked up with a 166 pound tuna that dragged him for 90 minutes and several miles before he was able to get it to the surface and gaff it.

I’ve caught tuna. In the big boat. Normally what you’re catchin’ are 30 pound footballs of pure muscle that’ll fight you every inch. A 166 pounder is like hauling up a school bus. I can’t even imagine trying to catch one in a kayak.

Nor can I imagine sky-diving from inner space.

But then again my idea of really letting it all hang is eating TWO of Miss Carol’s hot ass fish tacos.

What’s the matter with these guys?

Can’t they just test themselves like I do with a really spicy dinner and call it a day?

I mean, really?

I don’t think I’m askin’ too much.

I’ve written about this before.

All I want is for Cutter and Tug to come when they’re called. Hang out, run the beach, check out all the newbie smells, poop and pee EVERYWHERE, but just come when they’re called.

(Actually more than that. When we call ’em I want them to freeze, see their ears perk up and watch, arms crossed, contentedly, admiringly, as they haul ass back to us slavishly yearning to please.)

But they don’t.

And they didn’t again this weekend. While we walking the beach, Tug went loping away and Cutter ambled after him pretty innocently enough heading for Florida and totally ignoring my plaintive calls and whistles and promises of biscuits.

Fuckers.

It makes me nuts. I gnash my teeth and howl and scream for Cutter and Tug to be the kinda dogs’ll hang out on the beach and walk with us smiling and swimming and doing cool dog things and make us look like cool dog owner people.

But they won’t.

Losers.