Click any letter for a look at my prize-winning essay from the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. You don't even have to buy a vowel.

Friday, August 30, 2013

Beware the TimeShare

Today's the day! The line in the sandbar. The last Strawberry Field Forever.

Have you ever had a thorn that didn't just stick in your side, it went all the way through like a gut feeling shish kebob? That guy that always takes your parking place, the troll that manages to take credit for your job well done, the fat chick who takes the last piece of chocolate cake on the buffet?  Okay, that chick is me, so we'll overlook that one. Forgiveness is good for the soul - and your waistline if not  mine. 

We're heading into a holiday weekend and it's no time to let bygones be bygones. Time to get the collective karma off our chests and into somebody else's lounge chair where it belongs.  This is my beach blanket full of broken dreams and bitterness.  Add your baggage to the bucket brigade and have a wonderful weekend. 

Carpe Diem Dadgummit!

Dear Self-Inflated Condo People,

Per your multi-color, glossy newsletter, I am aware that your location is the place where beautiful people go to glory in the kiss of the sun.  Specialty shops and elegant restaurants abound on your exclusive island resort getaway.
As far as I'm concerned, the sun can kiss my beach bag.

We’re not a match made in Hilton Head.  My idea of a fun beach trip is a plate piled with crab legs, a splash of drawn butter on my Jimmy Buffet T-Shirt, and a bag full of sand-encrusted sea shells to take home in the trunk of my beater.

I realize we began our relationship as kind of a vacation resort blind date.  You were a gift from a departing “friend,” and I was anxious to feel ocean wavelets smacking against my ankles and broken shells piercing my feet once again. You never forget the good times.

It had been a long time.  That thing about absence and the heart is true when it comes to sea breezes, although I’ve experienced just the opposite with ex-husbands and overdue bills.

So, without taking time for logical thought, I took a gamble, I hopped the outbound train, I grabbed the golden ring; I accepted the gift of two condominiums at your resort.

It was my last resort.

The odds were stacked against me, the train derailed, the price of gold plummeted.

Sure, for someone who routinely spends $500 on a week’s vacation accommodations, your offer was a portfolio of suntanned memories, a patio dinner overlooking an ocean sunset, shrimping and crabbing in the creeks.
And I get the opportunity to pay double that every year.

Plus upgrades.  Because we don’t want the beautiful people struggling with outdated beach blankets. Sand in the suit detracts from the vacation experience.  Even crab legs can’t scratch that itch.

The last time I spent over $500, I kicked in extra for flowers to go by the headstone.  I have the memories for that one.  And they’re not all bad.

So now we’re at an impasse.  I have two of your condominiums and you want money from me.  I’ve tried to give you away, but that sentimental catechism that says, “if it’s yours it will come back to you” is wrong. 

It will come back to haunt you.

So I’ll sit here far away from sandy beaches, broken shells, and ocean breezes.

And you can stay there.

With the crabs.


No comments: