An Open Letter to My FaceBook Friend-To-Be

Dear Friendless,

I see by my little pop up timer that you want to be my friend. That’s thoughtful of you and I’m sure you have a great personality; a people person that draws other folks to you like barbecue draws rednecks. But upon searching my memory banks, my old address books, and the pictures from my high school yearbook, I find I have no clue to your identity. I’m afraid to check the mug shots on the county jail website.

I asked my children if they had teachers that might be motivated to make my acquaintance on the sly. I wondered if my coworkers had friends with motives for revenge. Aside from folks touched by that episode with the chocolate diaper in the microwave, I can’t think of any work-related citizens who might bear ill will toward me.

I’d like to think you’re a fan, too shy to say anything out loud, but wanting to duplicate my every move so that you can be more like me every day.

Sort of like a stalker with poor life choices.

Sort of like the shy girl who sits in the corner by the cheese dip waiting for the chance to say “No problem” when someone drops a jalapeño in her shoe.

Sort of like the fellow that knew how to work the slide rule in math class back before everybody had calculators that could figure the change in your body fat ratio before you ate the chocolate chip cookie.

I married that guy.

I was going to ignore your friend request. I was going to go gleefully on my way accepting gifts for my virtual megafarm. I was going to go toss a pie at one of my less needy friends.

But then I looked closer. That’s not a stalker. It’s not even a fan. It’s a picture of me at a recent Christmas party.

I’m sitting by the cheese dip.

And eating out of the bowl.

And picking a jalapeno out of my shoe.

Going, Going, Guilty

I held up a tee shirt with a navy theme and shook my head. “Horizontal stripes are out.”

“Of course. You don’t want to take any chances.”

“And vertical stripes scream, “Cell Block Nine!”

"You wouldn’t want to be cited for bad taste.”

“Orange would be tacky.”

“There’s nothing worse than a fashion police repeat offender.”

“And a jumpsuit would be out of the question.”

The Captain snorted. “Look. You’re going to jury duty. Not a Totally Inmate Barbie fashion extravaganza.”

I knew my stubborn streak could outlast his sarcasm. No contest. No charge. "Barbie’s done a lot of things in 50 years, but I don’t recall Ken ever having to bail her out of the pokey for a wardrobe felony.”

It’s Jury Duty Eve and I’m trying to select an outfit that says “Trial by Jury” without stepping over the line to “Accessory after the Fact.” The Captain doesn’t understand the importance of dressing for an occasion. Any gal can tell you that the right wardrobe choice puts everyone at ease. It’s easy to see who the people person is in this relationship.

Of course, except for a kindred feeling toward Judge Judy and a lightning round session in divorce court a while back, I don’t have a lot of experience with the judicial system here on the outskirts of Sugar Tit. I’m just hoping I don’t get so carried away with the Hammer of Justice that I drive a nail through my foot.

Although I've been keeping a keen eye on the whole Lindsay Lohan jailbird drama, I have more experience with cell phones than cells. When I have a set of bars, I can call out of network. She calls her network from behind bars. But if I use her time table, my term in jury duty will last about ten minutes.

Right now I’m torn between a white sundress to emphasize the importance a clean record and a gray pantsuit to point out the no man's land between right and wrong.

Cap cleared his throat. “If you wear white, you’ll probably spill ketchup all over yourself at lunch and illustrate the appearance of a murder victim.”

He’ll never understand the nuances of Truth and Justice.

“I might not spill anything this time. In this country we emphasize the concept of ‘Innocent Until Proven Guilty.' I'm completely unbiased."

What if the Defendant were somebody like your ex-husband, on trial for not paying child support?”

I grabbed a black robe and pulled it on.

“In that case, stand back. I want to be the one that pops open the trap door on the gallows.”

If freedom is going to ring, I want to crack his Liberty Bell myself.

No Holes Left Behind

Holey Sand Castles!

Fill ’er up? We may not hear that question at the gas station any more, but that might be the question of the day on the South Carolina coast before long, proving a day at the beach is no day at the beach.

From the state that brought you possible leash laws for cats, comes talk of a new law designed to protect your pursuit of happiness and ruin your vacation.

Apparently flagrant and widespread sand castle building is endangering the health and well being of the good people of South Carolina and the visitors to her sparkling shores. Couples walking on the beach at night are sometimes hurt when they come across holes in the sand left by unscrupulent castle-builders.

At least they don’t have a problem with crabs.

The Isle of Palms City Council is not just going to sit and watch. No! In the spirit that made this country great even at the expense of a load of Earl Gray in the Boston Harbor, the last time it was acceptable to serve unsweetened tea, they’re going to do something about it.

Normally I try to avoid the news whenever possible and stick to factual stories like they have in celebrity gossip magazines. But some stories are so compelling that they demand attention, and I mean besides the age old question, “Why is Heather Mills going to judge the Miss USA Pageant?” You can bet your Rodham that Hillary’s not the only one dodging bullets.

It has come to my attention due to diligent research when I dropped jelly on the funnies and had to take the newspaper apart, that a proposal is under consideration that would result in fines for evildoers (Mom, Dad, and the pail pushing shovelers they call children) who do not fill in the holes they create while building sand castles. Before they leave the beach, all divots, moats, and shallow graves must be returned to their normal state or Junior is going to be spending his allowance trying to buy Get Out of Jail Free cards from the locals.

God only knows the penalties clams will incur.

They say the No Holes rule will be difficult to enforce, since the police must watch the alleged instigators build the alleged sandcastle and then leave the alleged hole unfilled, and then serve the warrant before the tide fills the hole back in.

Considering the time between low and high tides and the amount of time the family remains on the shoreline, the average policeman would be required to spend hours at a time on the beach.

The entire population of the Isle of Palms, Charleston, and Summerville has volunteered to serve on the police force.

Personally, I’m willing to do my part. On my next trip to the beach, I plan to return all the shell fragments, sand dollars, and shark’s teeth I’ve taken over the years. Vast numbers of seagulls have undoubtedly spent their lives with sprained ankles from tripping over the tiny holes I left behind. I’ll feel better knowing that I’ve made retribution.

But what do I do about the sand in my swimsuit?