Sunrise, Sunset. . .What's the Difference?

I’m of the opinion that if you don’t see the sun rise over the ocean at least once in your life, you can’t get into heaven. It might not be on your bucket list, but it deserves a place on your sand pail and shovel agenda.

The Captain says today’s sunset is tomorrow’s early sunrise, so there’s no need to get up when dew is forming on the newspaper just to see one. If you’re upset about the direction, look at it in a mirror.

Our priorities are different. His are wrong.

Vacationing at the beach, I undertook to secure him a spot on the scenic side of the pearly gates when he finally goes to the big place computer techs go when they die, and although I’m uncomfortable mentioning gates and windows in that context, I don’t mean a big room with lots of windows and a high speed Internet connection and a billion users that know how to synch their own Blackberry.

It was 7:00 a.m. The sunlight streamed in the window like it was on a video loop. The Captain’s face was one with the pillow and held the relaxed, peaceful air of a summer firefly in the meadow.

Time to get up.

But how to facilitate the waking process without also calling the enemy to battle? He doesn’t always show the proper appreciation for my efforts to initiate husband-wife bonding time. After the last unpleasantness, I decided not to use the car alarm ploy again. The policeman that issued the warning seemed adamant about the possibility of a future fine.

Law enforcement officers that have gone all white around the mouth do not always make their point clear, so I’ve never been sure if the greater infraction was disturbing the peace or indecent exposure. And the fire was already out when they arrived, so that wasn't a factor.

I sat in bed, resting against the wicker headboard, celebrity magazine in hand. I try to improve my mind, even when my body is on vacation. You can’t fight too hard in the fashion battle, and this issue focused on Jessica Simpson’s shoes. Flipping pages like they were fan blades, I glanced over at the Captain. I’ve patented a look that will freeze jalepeno poppers, but to be considerate, I set my eyes to stun.

No response.

I cleared my throat meaningfully.

No response.

I repositioned myself repeatedly due to an uncomfortable wrinkle in the linens.

No response.

Inspired by the sheets, I succumbed to a previously undiscovered allergic reaction to thread count.

With a snort, he turned to face the other wall.

Somewhere on another street, possibly in another town, an unknown hand flipped a switch on a small countertop appliance, and a dark beverage began a slow drip into a pyrex pot. Nobody gives a wake up call like Mr. Coffee. Captain Caffeine sensed the change in the atmosphere immediately. If they could train him to sniff out bombs like he can track down freshly brewed coffee, he would always have a job as an airport monitor.

He sat up, sucking in air like Smokey the Bear on the trail of a forest campfire.

I padded to the kitchen and back bearing a cup filled with the drink that never sleeps.

He burst from the bedclothes like Superman from a 50’s era phone booth. “So, wanna go see the sunrise?”

“Sure, but you’d better gas up the car.”

“Why?”

“Because we’d have to travel three time zones toward the west to get a glimpse.”

He took a long drink from his mug. Some women go their whole lives without the caress that the Mickey Mouse on that cup was getting. The Captain leaned his head back and closed his eyes with a look of complete serenity.

“That’s okay. We’ll catch the next one tonight. Got a mirror?” He took a draw of coffee that made Mickey’s ears stretch and shot a boyish smile at me from across the room.

Just my luck. I have a plan to get to heaven and he finds the door right here on Earth.

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.

Getting My Good Side

What I lack in skill as a roadtrip copilot, I make up for with a total lack of talent as a navigator. As far as I'm concerned, maps have an unfair advantage when it comes to computing distance since there is always more than one inch to travel in real life, and North is never in the same place twice. So, having no sense of obligation to duty, it remains a fact that when I climb in the passenger seat my eyes drop into the closed position, my mouth hangs open, and I have no idea that I’m of this world until I’m drowning in a pool of drool and my internal Rest Area sensor flashes an emergency signal just as we whip past the official roadside facilities.

Traditionally, the personal riding shotgun holds the title of Photographer General in Charge of Scenic Stuff, and fulfills the duties of securing pictures of Important Vacation Memories, such as the historical marker where my bladder gave way to temptation, roadway turbulence and the 64 ounce Biggie drink I sucked down without sharing three exits back. The saying “Let the Punishment Fit the Crime” can be downright embarrassing on an Interstate toll road at high noon.

I’m not a family favorite when it comes to photography because, as a general rule, when I assume the nesting position I adopt when traveling, I end up sitting on the camera, so the only pictures we get are of intimate and not altogether attractive family secrets. So far, I’ve felt no inclination to stage a viewing of family vacation slides.

“What is that?” the Captain made a face usually associated with the consumption of unappealing vegetables as he squinted at the blurry object on the digital screen.

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s the Continental Divide,” I answered, accidentally disconnecting power to the camera by tossing it casually out of the car window.

“Hey! We needed that to complete our Four Corners of America Photographic Display!”

“The only display those pictures would complete could get us excommunicated from the PTA, the Smiling Seniors Sunday School Class, and the 7-11 Coffee Club.”

“The Coffee Club?”

I can call his mother any name I want, but even Juan Valdez couldn’t save me if I abuse his coffee privileges.

“They should use a better grade of ink on those cups. The last time I stood up, the words, “Biggie Size is Better” were tattooed on my. . .”

“Okay, so you drive and I’ll take the pictures.”

We retrieved the camera,which unfortunately was still operational after a close encounter with a lurking mud puddle and swapped seats. While I maneuvered the driver’s seat into dwarf position so that I could reach the pedals without having to hire extra feet, Cap popped his seat back and stretched his legs into the glove compartment. Before I could say “What are these squiggly lines on the map,” he was snoring loud enough to set off the car alarm and signal a passing police cruiser.

He jerked awake. “What’s that noise?” His hair had taken a route of its own, there were peanut shells in his ear, and a Ho Ho wrapper was stuck to one cheek.

I waved airily at the officer who had pulled over and was phoning in our tag number to Federal authorities.

“That was the sound of me rounding out our Four Corners of America Photographic display,” I grinned, tucking the camera under the front seat.

There are some vacation memories you want to relive. And some are only good for blackmail.

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?

From Hot Dogs to Handcuffs

Once upon a time, as the newspaper accounts tell it, there was a whole pile of parents with nothing better to do than sit in the school pick-up line and talk about life and love and what to wear to Wal-Mart. As time went by, they came to school earlier and earlier until they started getting there before their grits were even cold, and since it’s just natural to get hungry doing all that waiting and talking, they began bringing snacks. Everybody knows a sausage dog is no good unless it’s been sizzling on the George Foreman for a little bit between the Pledge of Allegiance and Recess. So these folks lined up in the elementary school pick-up line four hours early, popped open the campers, set up the grill, and tailgated til the cows came home. Or until school let out, whichever came first.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all about tailgating. I’m not above getting out grandmama’s stainless and grocery store china and grilling corn dogs from the back of the Toyota whenever there’s a high school football game worth going out in the cold for. Nothing says “party” like Hi-C punch in a Dixie cup. But there’s a time and place for everything, and it’s just downright tacky to pull out your cocktail weinies while you’re waiting on your first grader to get out of show and tell.

For some reason, the principal of the elementary school felt it wasn’t conducive to good study habits to have the students’ parents giving each other high fives and downing SteakUms in the parking lot all morning. Maybe if the parents had invited the principal to join them, the police wouldn’t have got involved. A little tact and adherence to good manners might possibly have headed off the jail time, or at least cut down on the assault charges. When school let out and the principal headed off to shoo the partiers away, one of the Mamas took it personally. Threats regarding the principal’s future health plans filled the air, phrases full of colorful adjectives and a more than a few unseemly nouns were exchanged, police came to visit, and a whole pile of bright-eyed grade-schoolers just getting out for the day learned some new words. And all the while there was the naughty woman’s husband, rubbing his face and shaking his head, saying, “I TOLD her to get in the camper.”

I’m just glad it wasn’t me. If the police were leading me away from the scene in a set of fancy bracelets, all the members of my family, from Dad to Dachshund, would queue up in a nice receiving line by the squad car to witness the festivities. As I drew near, Son Number One, who at 19 has his priorities firmly in order, would lean out to me and whisper softly in my ear, “Mom if you’re not cooking, we’re going out for pizza. Where do you keep the coupon's for meat lover’s?”