Six-Degree Love

Oops...I definitely haven't kept up with the whole-blogging thing. Alas, here's a new post.

If you've read previous posts, I'm a volunteer in the Emergency Department at a local hospital here at home in South Carolina. Well, today something stupendously fanstastical happened to me. I say stupendously fantastical, like I won a million dollars or something, but it's almost as awesome, in my opinion. Get ready.

So, as a volunteer, I always sit at the front of the Emergency Room with an ER tech, and a triage nurse, if it's not busy enough where the triage nurse needs to be triaging people all the time. I walked in this morning at 8 AM and an ER tech I had never seen before (or at least I thought I hadn't ever seen her before) was holding down the fort. After I settled in my chair with my coffee and she had checked in a patient, we both exchanged hellos and all that jolly goodness. Well, hello turned into WHAT A FREAKING SMALL WORLD WE LIVE IN and I LOVE LIFE AND ALL ITS CONNECTEDNESS.

The extent of my small-world encounter is as follows:
The ER tech is from Haiti, and came to the United States for her senior year of high school. Where did she go? The same high school I went to. What year did she graduate? The same year I graduated. The mother of the host family she stayed with is my dad's periodontist. My brother graduated with her host family's sister. Anywho, after talking with her, I started vaguely remembering her from the international program I studied with in high school. Now, you're probably confused as to why the encounter with someone I vaguely remember from my past is so exciting to me? 


REWIND ..... to last Christmas ..... wait, no .... REWIND to spring semester of my senior year of college. I was enrolled in an Anthropology course about Latin America, and a fellow classmate and friend of mine brought up an individual and a book written about him during a class lecture one afternoon; that book being Mountains Beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer, A Man Who Would Cure the World and that individual being Dr. Paul Farmer. And that was it. 

Now, FAST FORWARD ..... to Christmas of this past year. I got in a car accident last fall and had to pay to get my car fixed, so I was not able to travel home from upstate New York down to South Carolina for Christmas, and it sucked. During Christmas break, while my car was way out in the boonies being fixed, I walked from my little apartment to the hustling and bustling metropolis of downtown Plattsburgh to The Corner-Stone Bookstore and its next-door neighbor, The Koffee Cat, to soothe my soul and ease the craptastic feeling of not being home for the holidays. I perused the entire smorgasbord (can one use that word not in connection with food jargon ? ... if not, let's go with mélange) of books up and down from Twain to learning how to cook with Julia Child recipes. After countless hours in the store, I was about to leave before I came across the health section and that book .... yeah, that book that I heard about in my Anthropology course from a brief comment a friend made about some random doctor doing medical outreach somewhere global. It looked interesting. So I bought it.


Then, I read it. And Dr. Paul Farmer became my hero. Seriously, the man's life is incredibly interesting and inspiring.


Now, to the PRESENT. After talking with the ER tech about what we wanted to do with our lives, she said she wanted to go to medical school, studying for the MCAT, she's from Haiti, yadayadayada. With my knowledge of her being from Haiti, I thought, hey, I'll just throw it out there and ask her if she's ever heard of Dr. Paul Farmer and his work in Haiti.

Hitmeupsidetheheadwithafryingpanandfeedmecupcakes. SHE KNOWS THE MAN. I literally started flailing around like I had seen divine holiness. Most people getting excited about seeing a celebrity in an airport. Not this kid. I get excited when a person I re-connect with knows an interestingly amazing individual that is basically saving the world. Seriously, this happened at probably 9 AM this morning and I'm still in shock.


That's my story of the day in the shell of a nut. 


If you're interested in learning more, check out the following:

The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer | NPR's All Things Considered

Paul Farmer Books

Everything, In Its Right Place.

No! My blog didn't die. Or decease. Or expire. It went on hiatus. Like people do, when they go on vacation to a remote corner of the world to ride elephants and go on safaris.

Hell, I wish my blog went somewhere to ride large African elephants and take really epic photographs of black and white stripes and circular prints. But it hasn't. Nevertheless, where it has been, makes me really happy. I promise Cats and Watermelons will be back and running on a normal schedule now that the current season narrows itself to the end of that zipper pull we call summer.

So, where, in fact has Cats and Watermelons been hiding? In the recesses of my brain, of course. Actually no, in the front part that records everyday activities and beauty and interest and laughter and expression. But I've been busy. It's been there, I've just been busy. ¿Por qué?

Porque. I work. And I started volunteering at a local hospital. Read on to find out how that's been going and my thoughts on the medical field. And the curly hair headed man who now has no curly hair that I wrote about a few posts ago ... well, yeah, read on to find out how that goes, too. And I'm on the hunt for jobs and have landed some solid opportunities. And I'm applying to nursing school. Boom.

_________

On volunteering in the E.R. at a hospital | What a ridiculously awesome learning experience. I started 3 weeks ago and I go in once a week for 4 hours. And I look forward to that small chunk of time, like I look forward to Christmas and the fall of autumn with its crispy colorful leaves and awesome smelling air. It is absolutely fascinating and a whole shebang of beauty and interest to interact with individuals from every walk of life. Plus, I KNOW FOR A FACT that the medical field is for certain what I want to do with the rest of my life and I c.a.n.n.o.t. wait. I swear, volunteering there is similar to eating a batch of your favorite sick nasty deliciously scrumptious cookies. It makes me happy, content, and excited for life. 

On human sources of happiness in my life | Everyone deserves happiness. It just so happens that the swirling aura of life thinks that I deserve it right now. And it just so happens that a solid portion comes from the hombre I mentioned a few posts ago from my wee tot past. I just investigated "happiness" in a thesaurus and here are the results: beatitude, blessedness, bliss, bright, cheer, cheerfulness, cheeriness, content, contentment, delectation, delight, delirium, elation, enchantment, enjoyment, euphoria, exhilaration, exuberance, felicity, gaiety, geniality, gladness, glee, good cheer, good humor, good spirits, hilarity, hopefulness, jolly, joviality, joy, jubilation, laughter, lightheartedness, merriment, mirth, optimism, paradise, peace of mind, playfulness, pleasure, prosperity, rejoicing, sanctity, vivacity, well-being. My man does damn fine work of swaying my embrace of all of the above. For him, I am grateful. As for the laws of the world that worked in our favor of reconnecting, I offer gratuitous thoughts and recognition. I am a firm proponent of the notion that one can't depend on other people to make one's self happy. It's a terrible, awful trap. So, when one does meet a beautifully real person that unknowingly aids in one's sourcing of our human inner and outer sunny disposition . . . it is pure whatever positive word you want to insert here. Pure positive word. Pure positive feeling. Natural, simple, good, yes.

On finding work | It seems as though my life has just ... fallen into place since moving back home. The last thing I expected, especially in the aftermath of me declining my offer to fulfill a want of mine to attend nursing school. Finding meaningful, interesting work that will be starting in the next couple of weeks has just ... worked out. Like everything else. Everything. In Its Right Place.

Thanks for the read. Cheers.

La Dulzura

Working in a restaurant and in a busy retail environment, and just, you know, getting out and living, you tend to see all types of people. Tall, small, short, fat, orange, red, purple, smart, not-so-smart, funny, boring, lovely, hateful, beautiful. People.

Recently, I've been in a state of constant, but not purposeful awareness of just everyday people, and holy crap, I am amazed at how we all just keep on rolling. At the restaurant I work at, last week a large party came in with a special needs adult about my age. He was mentally retarded and could eat a ridiculous amount of chicken legs. No joke, like 2 whole plate fulls of chicken legs.  The remnants on his plate looked like a graveyard. And he had a cell phone. And he was taking pictures of his family. And I was in total wonderment of his personality and communication. He was a mentally disabled individual, but he was obviously high-functioning, and what an amazing sense of jolliness he had to him. Fact: I cried watching him interact with his family. Probably about a week prior, we had a similar party with a special needs girl about 6, who had to be fed through a feeding tube. But talk about happy. She was bee-bopping all around the table and waving and she was a beautiful little being. Fact: I cried when she walked out of the restaurant waving with her older brother. Why am I so emotional when I interact with individuals like in the accounts aforementioned? I have no idea, but a little piece of something within me breaks off and I haven't yet figured out why. I don't think I'm sad for them, maybe I am. I think, perhaps, it's just something that happens to me that I can't figure out why it does yet. I'll let you know, if I ever figure it out. Yeah, I don't know.


I was talking to my mom recently about the risk of having a child. It is ridiculously nuts that we all come out of a woman, and most of the time normal. There are a gazillion things that have to happen and form and twist and turn and go right for us to end up living, and breathing air.


The whole round doughnut of my thoughts: Life is so crazy in the way our cards are dealt. The jelly in the middle of the doughnut: If you are mentally and physically capable of acceptance, accept, move, and assert. Don't take life for granted. I feel that most of us  float around life in a safety bubble and forget that ... things happen.


And I'm not just talking about disabilities. Not a full circle of the sol and the luna passes that I don't think about the countless individuals that I came in contact with in Nicaragua 2 summers ago. I could have been born there in a ramshackle hut. I could have been the lady who I called a doctor for that had broken both her legs, which had colored themselves a deep blue and which she would probably lose in the near future. Hell, I could have been born in Africa and died 2 days later from an illness. I could have been my twin that stopped developing in Mom's womb. I'm not sure why I've turned out the way I have, and ended up where I am now, but thank you, to the laws of the world that have turned out in my favor.


Same goes for the people around me. Craziness surrounds most people's lives and for one reason or another, he/she/it ends up weaving in and maybe eventually out of your life. As of late, I am more aware of the weaving skills of life. More attentive to the cards I've been dealt. More grateful for the way my sendero has convoluted and distorted and looped. Meandered.  


Gracias, a la dulzura de la vida. De mi vida.

Milk Dud: Dealt some pretty rough cards. Awesome dog.

Blind Faith Beauty

So, if you're a regular reader of Cats and Watermelons, I apologize for the lack of postage the last couple of weeks. As everyone knows, life happens. Usually all at once. Mine has recently.  Here goes it, read if you're interested. 

Setting for my blog writing at the current moment: Dusk in Surfside, SC on my parents' porch. The sun is slowly falling into its continuous hula hoop of looping the earth's entirety. The mosquitoes have yet to come out and feast on my legs and arms. I'm listening to Bon Iver, and I'm at peace, happy. 

Since my last post, which stated that I had officially made up my mind to attend nursing school in New York City, I changed my mind. If you know me well, you know that I'm super indecisive. Alas, my inability, well maybe inability isn't the word. Rephrase: My lack of ability to make certain decisions reared its ugly head. It's official. Change of plans. Again. I withdrew my seat from the class of 2012 cohort for the Accelerated Bachelor of Science in Nursing program at Concordia College in NYC. Now, I've set my sights and dedication on the attempt to get into the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston for admission in January 2012. Why?! What the hell?! I know that's what all my peeps out there are thinking. Well, it's like this. 1) I don't want to be in a massive amount of debt for the rest of my life, which is where Concordia College would have left me. 2) The thought of taking six months off to work, save money, and mentally relax and prepare for nursing school sounds appetizing. 3) It's about damn time I do something for myself ... like run when I want, do yoga as I please, and soak up all the beauty life has to offer.  


The decision not to go to NYC was a bit crushing. A break of sorts of letting go of an opportunity that might not come my way again for a while. A brief grieving session on the couch with my dog, Pickles. A risk. A meh, I'll be fine and I'm ready to hop on the jet stream of life and let it blow me around wildly with intermittent storms and sunshine. I'm ready and open and willing. Ready. Set. Go. Life. Go. Set. Ready. [Props to the Ma and Pops for their support while I fretted having a life crisis at age 23.]


Moving on. Let's see. From the time of the last post, I ... turned 23. Actually, I became 23 on the day of the last post, but I think I forgot to include it in there. I ...'ve had some of the most enjoyable days/nights/periods of time since I can't remember when. I ... experienced one of the most entertaining 4th of July celebrations, ever. I ...'ve worked my bum off between 2 jobs. I ... got accepted to start volunteering at a local hospital in the ER. I ... am content.


On a birthday: I'm 23. It's a good age. Time for living and time for sponging. I'm excited for the year of the numbers 2 + 3 side by side.


On recent sources of happiness in my life: Besides getting an abundant amount of Vitamin D that accompanies getting reacquainted with South Carolina, a curly-hair headed man from my wee tot past has been part of my recent reintegration into life back home. I might dare to say that he could potentially be one of the most entertaining and interesting and real individuals I've ever met. He makes me laugh. Really hard. Thumbs up for his reappearance and presence. I'm a fan.


On the 4th of July:  Said curly-hair headed man is a lifeguard and I attended a 4th of July fiesta of sorts with him hosted by the owner of the beach service company he works for. Why was the party for the anniversary that the United States of America declared its independence so interesting? Two reasons: 1) The surfer-lifeguard lifestyle really exists ... it's not just something you see in the movies. 2) It took place in 1975. Yeah, we actually teleported back to 1975. Be jealous. I grew up in South Carolina and went to high school with people who surfed, but I don't think I've ever met a true lifeguard-surfer person. I'm talking blonde, long-haired, surfer lingo, catch-phrase words users, surfers. Wildly entertaining, to say the least. As for the ambiance to where the party took place, I was in the middle of Myrtle Beach in 1975 at a random abandoned hotel. I don't think I can even begin to explain how much of a crazy dream I thought I was in, holy whoa. I even have some retro owl lights for your visual pleasure from the event. Righteous, brah. 

On working and volunteering: I'm making dinero. Nothing exciting on the job front. As for volunteering at the hospital, I'm beyond stoked to start it up. Should be really interesting.


On contentment: I'm at the point in my life where I'm ready for things to happen, on multiple levels, if you know what I mean. Being ready for things to happen goes hand in hand with uncertainty, and who really likes uncertainty? It has the potential to be TERRIFYING. AS. HELL. The unpredictable nature de la vida also has some knockyouintheheadthisisawesome beautiful aspects, too. And that's what I'm going with these days. 

Bring it, life.

Concrete Jungle

On Tuesday of the past week, I traveled to New York City, the land, or island, depending on where you are, of pigeons, cockroaches, rats, smells of piss, a ridiculous amount of people, and awesomeness.  My thoughts, experiences, and observations are as follows:

So, after being stuck on my plane sitting on the runway for over an hour, I stepped off my aircraft, rejoiced in a solid urination stop at the bathroom, then met my trusty side-kick friend, subway extraordinaire, and tour guide for two days, John. We hopped on a bus, then we got off of the bus, and onto the Q train (I hope I'm recounting my trains right). BUT. Before we got on the train, we had to climb up a set of sketchy looking stairs to get to the rail. As I had been awake since almost 5:30 AM that morning, plus a 1.5 hour run on the beach in 90+ degree hot weather and throwing in some work and travel on a plane before I arrived in NYC, I was, let's say, a little fatigued. John and I were walking up the stairs and then this happened: "AHHHHHHHHH. OH MY GOD. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH. HOLY &$#@! OH MY GOD. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! WHAT IS THAT?!"

Mind you, I had only been in New York for a total of probably 25 minutes when the incident occurred. The incident was enough to scare the pants off of anyone. John played it like a legit New Yorker, but I did not. Okay, by now, you're probably wondering why I was screaming. Well, we were traveling up the stairway to sketch ball heaven and I wasn't paying attention because well, I just wasn't paying attention. The story in short: I almost stepped on a seemingly unconscious pigeon that appeared as if it had a tumor of some sort. Holy smokestacks. I screamed, jumped, and almost ran back to the LaGuardia Airport. If I had been two more inches to the right, I would have stepped on that pigeon and Lord only knows what would've squirted, spurted, and squeezed out of that piece of fowl. 

After collecting myself, we waited for the train, and then got on, with a sweet surprise awaiting in our near future. After about 2 stops, a young fellow in his twenties excitedly scooted his way on the subway, accompanied by a sweet (sweet as in cheesy situational awesome) pink electric guitar and an amp in a canvas satchel. I say that he excitedly got on the train because he looked so stoked to be getting ready to expose his music to the world. Almost like when you have Show and Tell in Kindergarten. John and I were pretty pumped for the in-house concert, but to our dismay, after much fumbling and fidgeting, the amplifier didn't work. Show and Tell canceled for today, kids. Bummer.

After a solidly awesome cookie from a superb cookie store, two run ins with a cockroach in the underground and a hobo in Washington Square Park, and a visit to Rockwood Music Hall, we made our way back to John's place in Harlem via another subway journey with bloodshot-eyed, zombie commuters. Man, I love New York.

The whole purpose of my trek to NYC was for orientation at Concordia College, about 25 minutes outside of the city by Metro North transportation. So, the next morning we woke up, downed some grits and coffee, and headed out to the area of wealth and natural vegetation. It was really crazy to see the transition from walking past stores like Hot Sexy Pants That Fit (not joking, a real store) to strolling past multi-million dollar homes in Bronxville, where my school is located. We took a long walk through neighborhoods of wealth, where the college students home on summer vacations were driving Lexuses. Hell, the landscaper man with his leaf blower even stopped the leaf-blowing machine for us when we walked by. Talk about nice. 


I had been a bit hesitant about deciding to even go to the school, because I'm kind of weary about the loans I will be taking out, but Concordia College does a great job of making you feel at ease. And I was, and now I'm officially going to nursing school at Concordia College. Before orientation, I was super on the fence about how to decide what to do with my life. Unfortunately, life doesn't provide you with a lightning bolt in your head (sometimes it does, but not when you need it), like I wanted it to. Alas, I had to make a decision, and I did. 


After an exhausting and overwhelming financial aid appointment and nursing overview orientation, John and I made our way back into the city for a little jaunt in Central Park. I had never visited or walked in the park, so it was nice and interesting and pretty and lovely. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Then, we met my dear friend Lindsay for dinner where I housed a 3 egg California omelet, 2 pieces of toast, home fries, and a bite of John's pancakes. Walking around a city and running multiple miles will do that to you. After leaving dinner, I witnessed my first NYC rat scampering on a sidewalk into a dark fence hole. Almost as terrifying as Pigeon Sighting. John and I hit up the Whole Foods Market for some pre-birthday celebration beer, found ourselves on the rooftop of his friends' apartment building, and sat in beautiful awe of the wonder of New York City. 

And that was the end of my beautiful trip to New York City, beginning of my birthday festivities, and introduction to the transition to the next chapter of my life.

Stay tuned for tales of my adventures and witness of crazy travelers in LaGuardia Airport. You will not be disappointed.

Props to You, Manly Men

I know Father's Day is only for fathers, but I find today a good time to share a recent story that I observed. Maybe the man you'll read about below was a father, maybe he wasn't, but I think he was pretty cool, either way.

The other night at work [the retail job, not restaurant work], four very friendly older customers, I'd say in their mid - 60s, walked into the store. One woman was looking for a pair of shorts and after I told her they were $16.99 instead of $34.99, she almost jumped in them to try them on. I picked out her sizes and set up a fitting room for her, then walked back to the front of the store where her husband and the accompanying couple were waiting.

While the petite little woman, Georgia, was trying on her several pairs of shorts, the woman of the other couple ventured over to the men's section of our store. I thought, "Oh, how lovely. She wants to buy something for her husband, or son, or son-in-law or something." She scanned the men's graphic t-shirts back and forth and waved for me to come over. 

"I just have to have this one. I love this shirt. Do you have my size?"

She was a larger woman and she needed an XL, so I checked all of the shirts on display at the front of the store and when I couldn't find her size, I ran to the back to look in our back stock for the size she wanted. When I returned to tell her that the store didn't have her size, she was pretty bummed. By this time, her husband noticed that we were discussing ways in which she could get the shirt that she really wanted. [Reminder: The t-shirt she wanted was a men's t-shirt. It wasn't that great of a shirt, but it's what she wanted.]

"What's up, honey love?" he said, walking over to our conversation.

"Oh, I just really wanted that t-shirt over there, but they don't have it in my size," she replied.


Pulling me over to the side he asked, "Ma'am, can you get me all the information on that t-shirt so I can get her one on-line? I don't know how to work that internet thing, but I'll get someone to help me."

Like the awesome sales associate that I am, I got all of the ticket digits for him and he looked at his wife, "We'll get you that shirt, babe."

How crazy sweet is that? I almost wanted to cry or give him a hug or a high-five. His wife, a heftier woman, wanted a men's shirt and by golly, he was going to get it for her. Because he loved her. And you could tell. Props to you, Mister ManWhoLovesHisWifeEvenIfSheWearsMen'sShirts. Rock on. 

My Awesome Papa Bear lovin' my Mama Bear

Props to all you manly men out there who love your women regardless of size, shape, weight, hair, or fashion style. My Papa Bear has set a pretty awesome example of loving my Mama Bear todo el tiempo. He leaves Mom notes telling her she looks beautiful on whatever particular day he decides to write a note, without even seeing what she's wearing or how she looks that day. He just knows she always looks beautiful, and she does. I can only hope my husband loves me as much as the man in my store and my awesome dad.

Happy Father's Day.

I love you, Pops!

Today, I Fell in Love

My day in one word: beautiful. It started today with Pickles running in to remind me at 6:30 AM that I had set the snooze alarm, and I needed to get my working bum up and moving. Painful, but it happened and I'm really happy that it happens every morning. I've been without a dog the last two years while finishing up my first degree in New York and I have missed having a little four-legged companion, so I don't mind when my furry hot mess of a dog uses herself as a canine cannonball or bum rushes me into a door or wall. So,  I dragged my sleep-heavy body out of the lovely snuggle nest I had burrowed myself into during the 5.75 hours my eyes were closed to the world. God, I love sleep. Comparing it to my love of FRITOS®, sleep might be better, but they run a close tie. Sleep last night was definitely not sufficient, but it's strange because I had a fantastic day, even though I didn't get my usual chunk of beauty rest. Maybe that's why I looked like Peter Pan today? I recently chopped off all of my hair, and Mom has taken a liking to calling me Peter Pan when the strawberry blonde chaos on my head gets a little ... wild. 


Mom and I took a drive up to North Carolina this morning, just over the South Carolina border to Indigo Farms to pick blueberries. Known fact in my family: Peter Pan HATES being schlepped to blueberry picking events. I really don't enjoy breaking my back and causing unnecessary pain to my lumbar region, just because Mom wants to make a blueberry pie. I actually don't even really like blueberries all that much, except if they are in a solid, legit pancake or muffin. However, the lumbar region gods were shining their love down upon my sweet face today because the blueberries were actually on trees so I didn't have to inflict soreness on myself. 

It was the absolute perfect morning for the hunt of the rich indigo fruit. The sun was settled just above the tree line and its rays were illuminating the verdant color of lime in the leaves of the blueberry trees. Soft yellow. Vibrant, soothing green. Deep, wobbling shades of royal blue painted my morning. Southern men and women of all shapes, colors, and backgrounds were strolling along the three available rows of lush fruit vegetation in search of the perfectly shaped blue pearls that will flavor pies, jams, spreads, muffins, cakes. You might be thinking, how does she know they were all Southern? It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that thick, long - drawled accents + large hats that could provide enough shade for an entire continent + the fact that I was at a farm = Southern. Definitely Southern. 

And then, I fell in love.


After picking blueberries in the shade just before the sun's rays would fling themselves over the tall, leafy structures that give Earth its shade, I stood in line with two buckets of berries while Mom went to the car to grab dinero for the purchase. Old, old music was playing inside a not-so-brand-new red pick-up truck with the windows rolled down, so the notes were audible and sweet in the ears of passersby. The whole process of waiting in line probably took a whole of 10 to 15 minutes, but I felt as if I had been standing around in a snow globe of observance and story-telling and slow-paced life and beautiful patience for eons. No one was hasty, rude, short. The kind blueberry stand man's tongue didn't fumble over itself in a fury to speak nor did his fingers scribble or scratch to write orders in order to hurry customers along to get people through the line faster. Nope, he took his sweet time, and I say sweet time in a non-negative intention because that's exactly what it was today: sweet time. I stood in a quiet line, and watched women with their brimmed hats talk amongst each other as Southern women do about cooking, gardening, living. The temperature balanced almost flawlessly with the humidity and the colors around were precise, organic, unblemished, complete. I was in a honey dew drop clung to a blade of grass on an early summer's morning when the light is extracting the energetic shade of brilliant green. I tumbled into a sweep of love with nature, the sun, patience, with simplicity.

 

After blueberry picking, Mom and I rode up Highway 17 Business and ended up wandering over to the beach with our car. It would've been a total crime of the worst kind if we didn't get out of the car and onto the sand because it. was. just. so. damn. gorgeous. The undulations that greet the blanket of sand were an awesome blue. Here in South Carolina, sometimes Mother Nature possesses the ability to make waves look a not-so-appealing color, but today was the opposite. Mom and I hopped out and made our way down the beach, and we actually ran into a family friend of ours who is doing the whole saving lives thing on the beach.  Then, we sat. I was content. Maybe it's because I've been locked up in either a restaurant or corporate commercial atmosphere for almost the last two weeks, but man, did I ever appreciate my day. Life doesn't get much better than nature shining down on you positively.

It's official: I'm in love with the South.