Pirates, Prom Gowns, and Putt Putt

Buying a new bathing suit is like selecting an alias for the Witness Protection Program. You want something that fits and has flair, but that will keep all your hidden assets locked away where no one will ever find them.

In my experience, the main function of a bathing suit is to gather oceanic sand in the lining of the crotch while you’re trying to balance on the retracting grains of an outgoing wave without spilling your drink-filled coconut. With my typical lack of coordination, my coconuts take a dunking every time.

I went shopping with my sister and my niece, Knockout. This girl could wear an oven mitt and have guys follow her into deep water. I was painfully aware that my thighs had expanded to the Outer Banks and my behind had relocated to the subtropics. No wonder my temperature light keeps flashing.

We’re at Wal-Mart, browsing through the racks. It’s the only place I can get support hose, Sugar Smacks, and sinus medication without having to change parking lots. Presently my buggy is loaded with a month’s worth of Friskies and the floral pack of Hanes Her Way Full Coverage. Nothing says party like a well-fed cat and chubby sized underwear.

While Knockout was slipping on bikini tops over her clothes, I was fumbling through the racks looking for something with sleeves and a bib. I couldn’t fit a bathing suit over my clothes if I had the Jaws of Life to help me dress.

“What about something with a little sarong to cover up problem areas?” Knockout suggests, flattening an invisible wrinkle in her belly button.

I couldn’t fit a sarong over my shin with a shoe horn.

“Do they have anything with a hoop skirt instead?”

I’m headed to the seashore for a weekend away from the Labradors. All I’m going to do is pick up a few seashells, eat some fish without having to share, and play a round of beach putt putt. I shouldn’t have to use up the gross national output of latex to get a hole in one at Shipwreck Cove. Actually, the closest thing I ever got to a hole in one at putt putt golf was the time I chipped a shot into the Diet Coke of the Paris Hilton clone in the parking lot, but that’s All Star stuff and I can’t do it every time. The ensuing altercation is still a topic of conversation among local law enforcement officers. Whoever said golf is boring never saw my follow-through.

Besides, I figure if I can’t see it, it’s not a problem. I’ve played hide and seek with my navel for 35 years. Once I passed 40 and realized I’d need a topographical map and a satellite signal from NASA to find my waist, I declared myself the victor and began looking for my original chin. We might have to call in the Mars Rover for that one.

“What about a cover up? You like retro.” She held up a tye-dyed washcloth, swirling with all the colors of a bowl of breakfast cereal.

“It looks like something you used to clean up a chemical spill. Besides, I have a doily on the back of my couch that hides more than that thing.”

I wandered across the aisle to a rack of likely-looking house dresses. My idea of coverage is mountains-to-sea. I’m not interested in anything that leaves the foothills or the Great Plains out in the open. I untangled a handful of spaghetti straps and pulled out a prospect. “What about this? It’s almost long enough to cover the coast at high tide.”

“That’s a prom dress.”

“How can you tell?”

“There are sequins on the thong.”

“I thought that was an armband to hold my IPod.”

“There’s a clip on the tiara for that. See, there’s a secret compartment behind the disco ball.”

Three dozen prom gowns and I pick the one that needs John Travolta in a white suit to complete the package.

“Here’s an animal print. You’d be right in style.” Knockout whipped a bikini bedecked with pink and green peace symbols off the rack and held it up with a flourish. A trail of leopard prints the color of blush traipsed through the peace fields.

“The leopard is already embarrassed and I haven’t even tried it on.”

She flipped through a few more prospects. “There’s nothing left on the rack but old lady swimsuits.”

To this kid, Paris Hilton is ancient history.

With a sigh, I tossed the sequined thong and tiara selection into my cart. I may not be Queen of the Prom, but I’ll be the best dressed gal at the Pirate Ship Putt Putt course.

Quirks and Quandaries

I’ve been tagged by Karen, aka Karen-Bob, over at Write Now. She said I should list six personal quirks. The problem is, there’s nothing about me that isn’t a quirk, so picking only six leaves me in a dilemma, much like having to choose one dessert over another. I mean, are you going to pick the cherry cheesecake and leave the six-layer Chocolate Sin untouched, or are you just going to Do the Right Thing and dive into the whole dessert tray with a decided Joie de Vivre which is a French term meaning "a fork in each hand"?

So as not to court obvious favoritism, I’ll just throw out six random Highly Interesting Fun Facts and you can decide for yourself the nature of their oddity. (One quirk is that I love words like oddity and use them in conversations. Well, whenever anyone will have a conversation with me. Which is usually in the fruits and vegetables section of the grocery store where I trap someone who doesn’t know me well enough to hide behind the clearance bananas into a discussion of the merits of mangos over kiwis.)

1. I will not be wearing a bikini this season. Oh, it’s not just because I’m worried about throwing Kate Moss and that whole “Cheekbones R US” set into a jealous rage. I’m saddened by their despair and lack of double-fudge brownies, but I’m not going to spend my lunch hour fretting about it. No, the thing is, I just don’t see the point in paying $150 for a swimsuit that no one will ever see the bottom half of. I’m to the stage in life where nothing worn above the thighs and below the belly button is visible to random passers by, and I don’t want to spend a week's wages for a triangle of stylishly designed cloth that will be covered by stretch marks.

2. I read children’s books at night to relax. With ADD brain cells hurling themselves against the insides of my skull with the same relaxing regularity of sixteen marbles and a wheat penny stuck in the dryer with a load of delicates, it’s reassuring to know that the ducklings are going to make it to the island in the public garden every single time.

3. I like geeks. They don’t go with anything, are ill-at-ease in every situation, and have no idea that you’ve just relayed the wittiest joke of the season. But if your computer throws out a fatal error, they can have you back on track in six minutes using only their hands and whatever software they have on their belt-holstered flash drive.

4. I am no longer afraid of circus clowns. After viewing them from behind a popcorn and cotton candy barrier as they cavort in their natural habitat, I am pleased and relieved to say that I am completely comfortable with them in a circus setting. But if I see anybody in a costume at the mall, go ahead and phone for Security. And a First Responder team. And the Jaws of Life.

5. I hate melodrama. If you can make me cry honestly, you get to wear the tiara, but if I have to hear the song “Christmas Shoes” one more time, I’ll puke glitter and rainbows. Luckily, I’ve calmed down since the last time I heard the song six months ago. They’ve almost finished the repairs and hope Santa’s castle will be in shape to grace Center Court at the mall again come Christmastime.

6. I tend to exaggerate.

I’m supposed to tell the rules and tag six people, but I’m feeling rebellious (free quirk; no purchase necessary). I’m just going to tag KODB over at The Doggerel King. That’s because he’s supposed to be working on a daring pirate novel that I really want to read, but instead he’s whiling away his time with selfish miscellaneous activities such as fixing computers for a living. Therefore, I’ll make him write for his blog, an activity which annoys him in a highly motivational way. So be sure to check him out in a month or two and see if he’s taught his new dog some old tricks.