Vacation Update: With Hellion

Flight was perfect, slightly cramped--just further proof I need to lay off the freaking Doritos, but too late for the moment. I sauntered to the luggage claim, and upon whom do my twinkling eyes do see? Tiff & Terri, who if they had been any closer, they would have met me at the doorway of the plane. Hugs & giggling were exchanged, then we found my suitcase that weighs roughly the amount of a dead steer.

Wednesday night, we spent the better of the evening trying to get food. Terri tried to accommodate my "need" for batter-fried fish, but strangely a city located a stone's throw from the ocean doesn't serve mundane stuff like "fish & chips", so I went back to the house with a steak, because I really can't get a good steak where I live in Missouri. In cattle country.

The steak was delicious.

Then the boys came. With liquor, which honestly is how all men should show up--with gifts. (Only kidding. Partially.) So after about three shots of rum, I spent an inordinate amount of the evening showing my talent for balancing my ass on the tip end of a chair and sprawling with my feet above my head (not quite what you're probably thinking, but close) and draping off the other end of the chair, hanging on to either the table, the person next to me, my beer...whatever.

I didn't have a hangover. I don't know why either...I totally deserved one.

Thursday came...early. I didn't have curtains in my room, so the bright sun at 9:30 am tends to be distracting. We got up and ate (I had more steak; it was huge); then we ventured off to a bar. I don't remember because Tiff kept liquoring me up with beer. That's a friend. We arrived at the deadest bar ever, but yes, the boys noticed Tiff. (Let's be real.)

Summary: Drunk as a skunk. Predictable men. Pour ourselves in the car and drive to the nearest IHOP to sober up. Slept in till 11 am Friday.

Skip to today because that's my favorite: we were in Colonial Williamsburg. We're in Raleigh's Tavern, and I saw this man with the skinniest calves ever. I wanted a picture with him just to show everyone: Hey, there's this guy with incredibly skinny calves, but the guy goes, "So-and-so will take care of you" (as I'm going down the stairs)--and I say, "Who?"--and a new voice says, "Hello."

And I look down the stairs, and I kid you not: a cross between Will Turner and Jack Sparrow was standing at the bottom of the stairs, tall, handsome, and with a roguish, devilish grin. In my sedate feminine nature, I galloped down the stairs, "Oh! Yes, I must go!" and was at his side in a half-second.

His name was Jack. I got a couple pictures of him. If I could have brought him home as a souvenier, he'd be in my pocket for the rest of this trip.

We're going out now. More to report later. Meanwhile, I'm going to have some very delicious thoughts about "Jack" because he's going to make an excellent hero in one of my books. Oh, who am I kidding? All of my books.

Signing out.

Hellion