The house we’re renting is called Carpe Diem. It’s spelled out on a rooster sign hanging over the front door. Every house on St. George Island has a name. A Place in the Sun. Blues Away. Casa Blanca. Cubby Hole. Fun Kissed. Bay Watch.
The rooster sign doesn’t mesh with the rest of the decor, which is all sea-faring creatures, stuffed or otherwise. Wait. On second thought the rooster sign does mesh with the bullhorns on the wall in the master bedroom.
Bullhorns aside the place feels like the inside of a boat. The smell of wet wood will do that, transport you to the stern of a boat where as a girl you slept in the shape of a question mark beside your sisters and your parents on long trips to Port Colborne, Canada.
Joe and I took a day trip to Tallahassee today. It rained bucketloads, so it was a wise use of our time. We toured the FSU campus and tracked down Joe’s alumni brick, which was no small feat since we had no friggen clue where his brick was laid.
We ate lunch at a diner neither one of us can remember the name of on Apalachee Parkway, passed up several nitty bookstores on our two-hour drive from Apalachicola to Tallahassee, where we settled on a big box Borders, drank fancy coffee drinks and bought an assortment of poli-sci books and literature.
I would proclaim the day a wild success had it not been for a devastating 515 to 530 Rummy loss two hours ago, robbing me of a 15-minute massage I rightly deserved given that last night’s loss ended in fisticuffs.