STEPPING OUT

"I do what?"

“A half step. Like a baby step. But with bigger feet.”

The Captain and I are standing face-to-face in the living room. We’ve decided, after a half century of ignoring choreographed moves, that we should learn the proper way to do the Carolina Shag, the official dance of the South Carolina coast. Around these parts children learn to Shag before they learn to blame broken dishes on their little brother.

Just now we’re stuck at the most difficult part. Getting started. The Captain can slow dance smoother than morning fog on a bass pond, but when it comes to following directions, it's like asking a cat to walk a straight line.

“Which direction do we step?”

“I guess toward the beach.”  We are presently five hours and six more weeks of winter away from the shore. We pause and gaze serenely eastward in honor of the ocean.

“What are you doing?” The Captain wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his Jimmy Buffett t-shirt and peers at me.

“I’m gazing eastward.”

 “You’re gazing toward the kitchen.  East is the other direction.”

 “It’s the thought that counts.”

 “You’re thinking of the cheesecake in the refrigerator.”

“It reminds me of the beach”

 “Because it’s round like the sun?”

“Because they both remind me my swimsuit doesn’t fit.”

We observe a moment of silence in honor of the good things in life and traitorous swimwear.

He takes my hand.  “So where were we? Half. . .”

“Step.”

 “Okay.”

We immediately step in opposite directions, then back, then smash each other’s toes into the biological equivalent of strawberry jam. Our arms are locked around each other and we’re stuck together like purse-bottom postage stamps. Every time he breathes, my glasses fog up in a half moon shape.

I glare at him through a sliver of light at the bottom of my right lens. “The men on the video were light on their feet.”

 He grimaced and limped to a chair.  “I wish you were light on my feet.”

 “You need to practice. You’re supposed to look like you’re hovering just above the ground.”

“The last thing I saw hovering was just above swamp level in a bad science fiction movie.”

 “What happened in the movie?”

“The hovering thing got beat up before I got the butter on my popcorn.”

“So you don’t want to learn the Shag?”

“I’d rather line the bed of my truck in taffeta and throw an afternoon tea for the Sugar Tit chapter of the Hell’s Angels.”

 “The only motorcycle in town belongs to Old Man Pirkle, the Volunteer Fireman and Assistant Mayor.”

 “We could just watch You Tube demos and eat cheesecake.”

 “Turn on the laptop. We have six more weeks to buy a swimsuit.”

Countdown

Of all Mother Nature’s gentle and endearing creatures, I most identify with the groundhog. He waits patiently underground all year, feasting on delicacies and delights, only to appear in the gloom of a February morning while all the world waits to discover his secret. Then, in a burst of media attention, his single accomplishment of the year is over in the flash of a newsman’s camera.

For the groundhog, fate balances on the turn of a sundial. If the way is clear, we will throw open the windows and welcome in the twinkling sunbeams of spring. But if the groundhog sees his shadow, he runs to hide his face and we trudge into a tunnel of deep, dark, depressing days, trailing our winter boots and woolen scarves behind us.

I feel the same way when I try on bathing suits.

During the winter months, I while away the demi-days of the season gorging myself on cream-filled snack cakes and marking off blocks on the calendar with a tube of decorator icing. Something happens to me in between the time when the autumn leaves start falling and the spring seedlings begin to sprout. Cold weather brings the opportunity to stir up sweet snow cream and savory soups. Winter holidays that taste of cornbread dressing and pumpkin pie whip past, and before I know it I’m two Ho-Ho’s and a Ding Dong away from fitting into my stretchy pants.

And so, I dig in my closet to the bottom of the pile of Things Left to Die, past the leggings, past the belly shirts, past the sports bra, and pull out—gasp—last year’s swimsuit. It took three paramedics and the Jaws of Life to remove the thing last year, and it will probably take my weight in bacon grease to get thing wretched thing to slide on now.

And suddenly Puxatawney Phil pops up to remind me that the days of carrots and calorie counters are waiting just around the cold front.

And here I am without a recipe for groundhog pie.

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.

STOMP!

I made my husband miserable today, which was a relief, because he’d gone about his business in relative calm for several days, and I was afraid he would think I wasn’t taking my job as a wife seriously. Nothing says "I Care" like a sticky note telling him to cut the grass before I braid it.

Several times a week I like to remind him of household projects he’s neglected or impending gift-giving occasions he should prepare for. That way he knows I’m showing interest in his personal obligations.

I have a theory that it doesn’t show proper personal attention to receive an orchid bedecked greeting card that has, “In sympathy for the loss of your pet” scratched through with a black marker and “Happy Anniversary, Honey” scribbled in its place. Advance planning can go a long way toward creating a Hallmark moment that doesn’t conclude with projectiles launched by an offended party and an emergency room visit.

It’s also important not to let his schedule get too lax or he’ll wind up in mischief of some sort and before you know it, he’ll start pulling out power tools, and it will take forever to restore order. The last time the electric sander saw the light of day, the cat lost his eyebrows. A responsible man would have told me that the black button meant ON.

This time, however, my job was easy. All I had to do was say, “Honey, why don’t you see the doctor about that toe?”

After years of marriage, I've come to understand that the word "doctor" transforms the male pschye into something resembling a castoff retread. He regarded me with the same loving gaze I’d seen the time he refused to buy a Poodle so I suggested we attempt a home perm on the Labrador and put bows in his ears.

“Why don’t you buy clothes that fit instead of pants that you have to lose five pounds to wear?”

I love the man, but honestly, sometimes he says things that just don’t make sense.

The offending toe was swollen and sore and gave him the charming, easy gait of Quasimodo thumping through the streets of Paris. It seemed that we were hovering on the brink of something serious, such as me having to take a look at it, so I suggested the unthinkable.

“You could go to the doctor tomorrow on your day off.” Call me crazy, but I thought days off were there to take care of these things. In truth, days off were created so you could cut your grass in time to make your neighbor’s lawn look like Don King’s hair by comparison. Then you whiled away your time in the hammock reading last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

I could see he needed some understanding and encouragement. “There’s no need to be afraid.”

Here’s a clue for newlywed brides. If you want your marriage to last longer than it took to eat the wedding cake, don’t suggest he’s afraid of anything. Especially doctors or other naturally frightening things.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, staggering along beside me. “I just don’t need to go. I’m fine.”

“The last time you were fine it required a course of industrial strength painkillers and a week’s worth of muscle relaxers. I had to do the fireman’s carry whenever you had to go to the bathroom.”

“That was different. That was my back.”

“The only reason I got you to the doctor that time was your muscles spasmed and you couldn’t put up a fight. Son One, the Incredible Hulk, carried you into Urgent Care like you were a statue. You’re just lucky it was too early in the day for the pigeons to be out.”

“Very funny. I’m fine.”

A light breeze came along and he winced at the pressure on his foot. I could see this was going to get ugly if I didn’t pull a clever idea out of the 98% humidified air.

“I guess we won’t need those tickets to STOMP I got for our anniversary.”

“You got tickets to STOMP? They’re always sold out.”

“Yep. A stage full of guys abusing every day items with sticks, all in the name of rhythm. I’ve heard the best part is the finale.”

“I know. They strap trash cans to their feet and don’t even get in trouble with their wives for digging divots out of the linoleum. It’s the best show ever. I guess since you went to all the trouble to get the tickets, I’ll go to the doctor.”

“Good for you. While you’re gone, I’ll go shopping for something to wear.”

He raised one eyebrow. I hate it when he does that. It means he already knows what I’d rather not say.

“Well, I’d have to lose five pounds to wear anything I have now.”

Happy Anniversary, Honey!

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?

Say Cheese

Of all Mother Nature’s gentle and endearing creatures, I most identify with the groundhog. He waits patiently underground all year, feasting on delicacies and delights, only to appear in the gloom of a February morning to decide if he needs to reinforce his self image with six more weeks of romance novels and chocolate chip cookies in order to face the world.

I feel the same way when I try on bathing suits.

Something happens to me in between the time when the autumn leaves start falling and the spring seedlings begin to sprout. Cold weather brings the opportunity to stir up sweet snow cream and savory soups. Winter holidays that taste of cornbread dressing and pumpkin pie whip past, and I while away the demi-days of the season gorging myself on cream-filled snack cakes with delicious layers of artificial flavoring. Before I know it I’m two Ho-Ho’s and a Ding Dong away from fitting into my stretchy pants.

Suddenly Puxatawney Phil pops up to remind me that the days of carrots and calorie counters are waiting just around the cold front. And here I am without a recipe for groundhog pie.

And so, I dig in my closet to the bottom of the pile of Things Left to Die, past the leggings, past the belly shirts, past the sports bra that proved just how indecisive elastic can be, and pull out—gasp—last year’s swimsuit. It took three paramedics and the Jaws of Life to remove the thing last summer, and it will probably take my weight in bacon grease to slide the wretched thing on now.

My family cringes outside the bedroom door gnawing on fingernails and popping their whitened knuckles. Will their life be full of pot roast and potatoes or are they headed toward tiny plates of lettuce and low fat cheese? If the spandex snaps into place, defining my shape like a pushup bra that is Victorias' real Secret, a bounty of bread and dessert will fill our table. If, however, the material pins my arms to my sides like an elastic straitjacket, they’ll have only memories of fast food french fries to keep them warm.

Inside the bedroom, I’m struggling to free myself from the evil grip of a tank suit that has snapped around my legs and is binding my thighs together like two teenagers at an after-prom party. I can’t turn the other cheek because there’s no room in front of the mirror. Even with all the advancements in modern engineering, three inches of material cannot be arranged to cover four decades of biscuit and gravy. The tenacious grip of spandex renders me unable to walk.

Suddenly a news flash comes on the radio. The groundhog has seen his shadow and retreated back underground. I hop to the closet, wrench the wretched garment off and gleefully hit the speed dial for pizza delivery on my cell phone.

I have six more weeks to eat real cheese.