I get it now.

As a toddler, she was given paints and crayons.  Encouraged to draw and paint, dabble and create.
She did well in elementary school, great marks on all her projects, and I marvelled at the fact that she spent as much time on the COVER PAGES as she did on the actual content.  As long as she got good marks, we didn't mind how long she spent on the extra stuff.
In high school. she took art and photography, as "easy" electives to compliment the maths and sciences into which we guided her.
She did well at all of it, all of it, and graduated with honours, and scholarships to two universities.
We thought she'd major in English, one of her best subjects, but she really could have chosen anything.

Her summer job, after Grade 12, was to work with a team to paint a Remembrance Day mural for our city.
"What a neat summer job", I thought.  "How great that she gets to have a little fun before settling down to her studies in the fall."

Here's her portion of the mural - four soldiers walking along a war-torn street, crosses from Flanders Fields in the background.

She went to university, and became bored.  Did well enough at her courses, but wasn't motivated to try hard.  She just wasn't interested.

"Maybe you should take a year off", we said.
So she did.
She got a job as a waitress (It's called a SERVER, Mom!), moved from the suburbs to the big city, and met her sweetheart.

Instead of going back to university she applied to Film school; to the Make-up and Specialt Effects department.

"What?", we said. 
"Well, I don't want to be a server all my life", she said.
"What about university?", we said.
"I'm not interested in university", she said, and paid the deposit at the Film school.
"What's she going to do with that?", we thought.  "I know we live in Hollywood North, but geez, the movie industry is so unstable, and how's she going to make a living, and when's she going to do something serious, and...and..."

She's an adult now, and fully self-supporting, so we really have no say in the matter, and she continues to make her quarterly deposits at the Film school.


About a month ago, my husband and I went to Mexico for two weeks, partly to celebrate my 50th birthday.
When we returned there was a present waiting for me.

It's a view of my favourite camping lake - with a white sandy bottom that makes the water an amazing Caribbean blue........and she's captured it perfectly.  She painted it for me.  She painted it.

And suddenly, finally, something in my 50-year-old brain clicked.

I get it now.

She's an artist.  An artist.

School starts this January, and I wish her ALL the best.

Congratulations, sweetie.  I know you'll do well.

I get it now.

Delkiboose

Canadian Thanksgiving is this Monday.  We're having our dinner on Sunday, like a lot of people do.
This year I've been hearing a lot about a "delicacy" called a Turducken, which is a deboned chicken stuffed inside a deboned duck stuffed inside a deboned turkey.  Who thinks of these things?

I've been thinking that we could do this in a big game version: a deer stuffed into an elk stuffed into a caribou stuffed into a moose.  Delkiboose.  If it's good enough for birds, then it's good enough for mammals, eh?
~~~
In other news, it's been a slow day here at work.  Out of 18 phone calls, 14 were from Dave's friend Lloyd.
When I see his name on call display I'm tempted to answer as some other business.
How about, "Alzheimers Pizza!  May I take your order again?"
~~~
The other day it was just Dave and me here.  No customers.  For some reason we decided to see if we could name a disease for every letter of the alphabet.

Asthma! he shouted.

Botulism!, I countered.

C-C-C-Cardiac Arrest! he said.
That's not a disease, that's an event, I said

Diabetes!, he said, ignoring me.

Then, it happened.  That perfect synchronization that can happen between couples that have been married a long time.  That merging of the minds. That pairing of souls....

Erectile Dysfunction! we chimed, simultaneously.

We basked in the glow of this for a few seconds, then resumed.

F-F-F Flatulence!  I said, after some thought.

I knew you'd say that, he said.
Then:
Gout!

Hirsutism! I trumpeted, then wondered if this means that my legs are officially diseased...

I-I-I....he gasped
I-I-I...(deep thought)
I-I-I've got to go and do some work!

...and just like that, as mysteriously as he came,
he was gone.

Back to work, leaving me groping for a disease starting with J.

and THIS is why I haven't blogged in a while.  It's all trivial around here.

Voyage of the Poo Sucker

Technorati Tags: jobs,poo,emergency,mess

I don’t have any pictures to go with this post.  You will thank me later, I expect.

My son has a job.  It’s one of those jobs that you talk about when you are older and you’re trying to tell your kids that life was harder “back then”.  In my son’s case, he will probably, hopefully, be right.

My son’s company does, among other things, waste removal.  For most of the summer my son does Catch Basins, or “CBs”  .  A pumper truck, loaded with 1 driver and 1 labourer, drives the local streets, stops at storm drains, and the labourer (my son) gets out,  lifts the grate off the hole and then  uses a remote control to position a boom (small crane) over the hole, lowers a hose, and sucks out the sand and silt.  The truck carries a tank for waste and another tank holding water used to flush things out.I think my son enjoyed the job for the first hour of the first day last summer; after that, not so much.  However he has stuck with it, and is still at it while he figures out what he wants to do with the rest of his life.  In the meantime, he has to set his own alarm, get his 19-year-old self up very early, make his own lunch, and be at the truck yard by a certain time each day.  As parents, this delights us to no end: valuable skills that will  stand him in good stead the rest of his life!

Some days our son doesn’t do CB’s.  Instead, he does laser cutting (digging holes for construction using concentrated beams of water that can “cut your arm off!” if you don’t watch what you’re doing).

Other days he works at cleaning out septic tanks and/or pit toilets.  Everywhere there is a basin and a substance that fills it, my son may be required to empty it out.  As he says, “It’s a SH***Y job, but someone has to do it.”

Yesterday was a pit toilet day.   For my more genteel readers: a pit toilet is an outdoor toilet positioned over a large hole.  One uses these at campgrounds and public places not connected to the sewer system.  If you’ve ever used one of these and wondered, “What happens when it fills up?” (and who hasn’t  sat there and pondered this while listening for the distant splash or plop), now you know.  It gets sucked out!

The community of Pemberton is located a few miles north of Whistler BC, home of the some of the events of the 2010 Olympics.  To get there, one must travel the beautiful Sea-to-Sky highway for 2-3 hours.  The road is winding, the scenery breathtaking.  The destination, in this case, not so lovely.  Somewhere in Pemberton six pit toilets are filled to capacity, brimming with a pungent primordial soup.    The two men locate the toilets and start to work.  The driver positions the truck, my son inserts the hose and the truck pumps it all into the holding tanks. Everything is as hunky-dory as it can possibly be in such absurd and smelly circumstances.  The truck is now full, and the two men set off for home. 

Purveyors of poo, exporters of excrement, these shippers of sh** sail down the Sea-to-Sky highway at a jaunty clip!  Talk turns to the weekend ahead and a pleasant drive continues until the frantic honking of horrified passers-by alerts the men to a problem.

The twisty road has set the boom a swinging, and this swinging boom has bumped a cap on the holding tank.  The cap has parted company with the holding tank, apparently some miles back up the road.  The result is an excremental exodus.  A trail of breadcrumbs this is not.  Pulling the truck over has mixed results. My son runs to the back of the truck to survey the damage.  What was formerly a steamy stream has now turned into a powerful pile of poo. A muddy mountain, if you will.

“How much poo?,” I interrupt breathlessly.

“Oh, bigger than dad’s Honda civic!”, say my son. “More sh** than I’ve ever seen in my life.”

A few million of my brain cells explode at this spectacle, but I urge him to go on.  He continues with the story:  apparently there is a valve inside the vomiting exit port, which is controlled at the truck’s dashboard.  “Shut off the effing valve”, my son yells at the driver, and the valve is shut off  forthwith.  At this point most of the contents of six pit toilets is now percolating at the side of the road just outside the town of Squamish BC (which I shall now ever more think of as “Squeamish” BC, for obvious reasons).

“Was there, er, toilet paper in the pile”, I ask, trying to picture the problem (I am a visual learner, incidentally).

“Oh Mom”, he says, “Toilet paper, tampons, diapers, condoms….”he trails off and his eyes glaze over slightly.  I feel another billion brain cells popping and decide to think about something else.  But I can’t.

“What did you do then?” I ask, wondering about post traumatic stress, if not for him, then maybe for the tourists driving by on the highway. Is there counselling for this type of thing?  What form will their nightmares take?

Fortunately there is a spare cap in the truck. Once the tank dribbles out it’s last, the cap is attached and an eerie silence fills the air. A cricket chirps, oblivious to the load of lava sliding his way.  Driver and labourer look at each other and consider their options. The phrase, “Oh Sh**” comes to mind, but remains unuttered. No point in belabouring the obvious.

There is only one option.  The driver flips a switch.  My boy manoeuvres the boom, lowers the hose, and a fresh round of poo-sucking begins.  “It’s different when you can actually SEE what’s happening”, my son explains. “ It seemed to take forever.”

He sucks up as much of the mess as is possible, and the driver calls the regional district office to explain that there is a stretch of highway where it is best not to stop to change a tire.  They request that a street sweeper truck be sent out.  The regional office dispatcher tells the men that they will take it from there, and my son and the driver once again set off homeward.  They get back to the yard after a 10-hour workday; some of it an easy ride and some of it a hot, stinky lesson in humility.

We don’t normally talk about poo in polite company.  Such talk is reserved for doctors’ exams when we are asked to describe it and encouraged to produce it daily. After that, we don’t discuss it, even though it is something we ALL have in common.

  When people ask my son about his job I don’t know what he tells them, but if and when he moves on, whether it be to a “cleaner” job or to go to acting school (his dream), he will have earned the right to be there.  I’m proud of him, my poo-sucking young man.

The Man in the Yellow Shirt - The Great Wall

My husband often wears a yellow t-shirt.  Maybe it's because he has 16 of them. 
This is the story of a backyard, a patio wall, and the man in the yellow shirt.  A story of danger, intrigue, mystery, suspense, courage, shovels, swearing, dirt, the wheel-barrow, the level.  Man vs. the elements.
The taming of one small corner of the planet, a triumph of the human spirit.....a wall going boldly where no wall has gone before...........and the man in the yellow shirt who tamed the dirt, tamed the yard, and ultimately tamed me (well, no, not quite).

First, he dug.  And dug, and dug.  And dug some more.

Over 70 wheel-barrow loads of dirt were removed from this small area.

I don't have a "before" picture, but it was all weeds.  Weeds, I tell you, weeds!

Then he put over 35 loads of stones in, as part of the patio foundation.

Then, he bought and carried all of these Allan blocks to the back yard.  They weigh approx 75 lbs each, and he used about 45 of them. This was the dangerous part.  Danger of dropping block on foot.  The courageous part was me watching him almost drop block on foot.  Repeatedly.

Did I mention swearing?

He carefully places each stone, mindful of my screeching reminding him to use the level.

A purposeful stride to the next block. Thinking "Whose idea was this wall, and when am I going to have some beer?"

These are the caps - about 60 of them were used, at about 30 lbs each.  He had to rent a special saw to cut them for the curved area and other tight spots.

Now some of the previously-removed dirt comes back to fill in the planter areas. this is the intriguing part.  Dirt go away - dirt come back.

He goes to get more dirt.  Things are shaping up.

The photographer is relentless!

Artful stepped planter area: to be filled with stunning greenery.

Bedraggled old greenery to be rearranged/removed.

Money to be spent at nursery; credit card to be further melted.

This is still the old greenery. Not enough form, shape, colour!

It's mostly shady back here, so a few hostas and other shade-lovers are in order, I think.

Another angle.  I love this wall, and plan to praise the man in the yellow shirt daily for the rest of our lives.

Or, until I get distracted.

I think my deck pots need scrubbing.

Oh man in the yellow shirt....another chore for you....

(Just kidding, I'll do it myself)

A final shot of his holy walliness.

We're off to the store to buy some plants.

We'll tackle what to put down as an actual patio some other day.  Now he's talking about putting in a Japanese garden instead of a patio.  We'll see. This is the mysterious part of the story...and the suspense.

Stay tuned for plantings, patio or garden construction, and more stunning images of the man in the yellow shirt!

The Flowers - they talk to me...

Howdy!  Mah name's Coral.  Coral Nasturtium.  Ahs a been growin and growin, fit to bustin out all over.
Ahs a bin soakin up that there rain and suckin it right up mah stem, ah have.  Gits so a girl caint suck up no more rain without showin' off her pistils n stamens n such.  Never thought ah'd see the day when ah would open up mah petals just as easy as yuh please, n let all n sundry see mah insides n such.  Ah feels kinda funny bout that. Still, it seems all the uther gals 'round here are doin' it.  Guess ah'm no better nor worse than the rest of'm....

What's that yer sayin? Yuh wants ta friend me on Facebook?  What the hell's Facebook? That one o them naughty sites where gals lift their petals and wave their dad gum pollen around?  No sirree, ah aint a goin' ta expose mahself ta that there cow poop.  ah jest aint that kind a flower.

Mumble, mumble mumble.... 

Now take mah cousin Arleen.  Arleen Fuschia.  Now SHE would do anythin ta git herself some more attention.  Flippin back her petals and stickin her parts way out.  Shameless she is! Shameless!

Go on, ask HER ta go on that there Facebook naughty cow poop site.  Oh Arleeeeeeen.....

What? Whaddya want Coral?  Quit yellin at me - ah'm tryin ta get me a suntan.  Jezebel? Who'r you callin a jezebel?  Why you little nasturtium.....ah hope a little ol slug climbs all over you, ah surely do.

Sheepdip. 

A trade-off

I need to exercise.

I am a bit overweight, and there are a few nasty diseases that run in my family.  This year I turn 50, and the biggest gift I can give to myself is to improve my health.  I have already started to eat better, and am making good, 'tho not perfect, progress on that front.
I know all the great reasons to exercise (here's a partial list), and I know that it IS possible to find an extra 1/2 to 1 hour a day if I really try.  Right now I spend too much time on the computer, and too much time watching TV.  WAY too much.  I love my TV shows, and I love my e-mail friends, and I love the blog world.  BUT, those things are sedentary.
So here's the trade-off: It's time to spend less time on my butt, and more time on my feet!

Are any of you on this same path?  Are you further ahead?  Would you like to join in?  Have you tried and failed/tried and succeeded? Do you find it ironic that I'm blogging about this (as opposed to just doing it?)

I'm not about to turn this into a fitness blog.  It's just a reflection of where I am on my journey...and I'm interested to know where you are on your journey!

Incidentally, if any of you have a story to share, involving slightly chubby, sedentary, 50-year-old women who have managed to get fit, I would really like to hear it.
Come to think of it, any motivational story will do.
Really, anything.
Help!
 

On the Phone at the Bike Shop

Dave: Hello

Customer: wah wah wah?

Dave: For which bike?

Customer: wah wah

Dave: What year?

Customer: wah.

Dave: I don't have any of those.

Customer wah wah wah?

Dave: How much would it be if I had it?  I don't know, I don't have it.

Customer: wah wah wah!

Dave: OK, you want to know how much I'd charge for a part I don't have?

Customer: wah !

Dave: OK.....a MILLION dollars!

Customer: wah wah wah?

Dave: Yep, a million bucks. Canadian.

Customer: wah wah wah?

Dave: That's just under a million bucks American.

Customer: wah wah wah...wah wah

Dave: Because, if I don't have it, it must be really rare.  For something that rare, I want a million bucks!

Customer: wah wah wah WAH wah!

Dave: Yes, you probably CAN get it cheaper on EBAY.  Why don't you try that?  Bye!

Click.

Me: Did you enjoy that?

Dave: Yup.

~~~~~

Another stimulating customer encounter...at the Bike Shop.

Conversation at the bike shop

Him: Jeez, I've got a headache.  Fixing that bike gave me a headache!

Me: Were you exposed to any bad fumes?

Him. No, but I set a rag on fire right in front of my face.....

Me: Would that be a highly flammable, chemical-soaked rag?

Him: Maybe.

Me: Ah.
~~~
The End. Another deep conversation at the bike shop.

Where have I been?

One of my scarce-as-hens'-teeth loyal readers, Jo, mentioned that I haven't posted much lately.
Without going into agonising detail (like I usually do), I'll just say that it's our busy season as work, and I've been a little preoccupied with some "stuff" happening at home, and I have lost all my marbles.

I do have another blog post in the chamber, ready to fire out when I get a moment or two.
It concerns motorcycle parts, scantily-clad women, the US postal service (and I use the term service, loosely), humiliation, and a guy named Steve, in Germany.

Stay tuned...
...and thanks for your loyalty, all three of you!
Kathryn : )

The plot thickens...and then it curdles.

I'm re-using a title I used already.  I was updating a group of friends on some events in my life, and that expression seemed to fit the situation. 
Now I'm going to talk about a different situation, so same title, different story.  OK?  OK !
~~~~
Remember my last post, about me finding a strange pair of boots in my front hallway, and jumping to conclusions? (I nearly said jumping to conTUsions, lol - that's what the men in my life do).

Anyhow, my dear husband has told me more than once that I need to "not always think the worst".

Believe me, I try.  

But, what would you think if the following happened to you?
...................
I was getting into my car to go to work one morning.  It is MY car, but other people drive it occasionally.  I LOVE my car - fun to drive, good on gas, and the rear seats fold forward to create a totally flat, large cargo area in the back.  Perfect for lugging around motorcycle parts and other weird things.  Large enough to sleep on!
As I climbed into the front seat on that particular day, I glanced in the back.  Amongst the usual collection of cloth grocery bags I saw....

...a pair of underwear.
Men's underwear.

Not the type my husband wears, but the kind my son wears.  Cotton plaid boxers.  Except I don't recognize them as being HIS in particular; just youthful plaid cotton boxers.

Now, what would  pair of men's underwear be doing in the back of my car?  Try as I might, all sorts of weird images come to mind.  Some of them I will not share. (brokeback mountain).  Oops.

Has someone been sleeping in my car?  There is a homeless shelter a few blocks away, and I have heard of homeless people sleeping in people's cars.  Would a homeless person leave their underwear behind?  Why did they take it off in the first place?  Has their naked body touched the inside of my car?  Did they get dressed in the dark in a hurry and forget to put on the underwear?
Also, one of our son's friends has recently left home and sometimes needs a place to stay.  Is it his?  Is my dear son letting his friend sleep in my car?  How do I feel about this?  Bamboozled, as usual!

I can't stand the thought of driving this pair of underwear to work with me (what if I were to get pulled over for speeding?), so I pick it up in such a way as to hold the fewest threads possible at the very end of my fingertips, and transfer it to a garbage can sitting in the driveway.

The garbage can has some rainwater in it ; I see the underwear sink in and I realize I have made strange underwear soup.  I wonder if I need to do something about this, but I choose to go to work instead.  There, I will find my husband, and I will rant and rave until he phones our son and asks about the underwear.  Not that it's our son's underwear, but it is young man underwear, so he should have to explain it.

I drive to work and in the 20 minutes it takes me I manage to start to think about groceries, the Olympics, hockey, menopause, my parents, supper, cat hair, k d lang, needlework, the fact that the back of my hands look old, etc........and I FORGET about the underwear!

Later that night, the underwear comes to me in a dream.  I am re-immersed in wondering where it came from.  I toss and turn, and decide that my son is letting homeless people sleep in my car and that my husband knows all about it and doesn't care.
I wake up to find my husband already showered and dressed.

"Good morning bunny!", he says cheerfully to me. (Yes, I am his bunny!)

"Someone left their underwear in my car", I croak.  "Who's been sleeping in my car?"

"Oh", he laughs.  "I got those from the rag bag.  I was using them to polish blah blah blah......."



~~~~~~

I guess I need a bit more practice in "not jumping to conclusions". 
But wait, why is my son throwing away perfectly good underwear?

I'm over the shock now. It took a week.

I think I've recovered sufficiently from the Easter weekend to post about what happened here on Easter Sunday morning.
This is how it goes when your children are young adults.

~~~~~~
Very strange here - no Easter treats, no one interested in chocolate (except me, secretly) any more.
Dave and I woke up to find evidence of a 'house guest' in our midst.
Our 19-year-old son went out last night, to a club, and we didn't hear him arrive home.
BUT...
We found a pair of boots in the front hallway this morning, obviously belonging to a female: very tall black leather boots with high spike heels.
Argh.

There is only one bedroom door closed: our son's.  Our 22-year-old daughter doesn't live here any more, and all other spare rooms are unoccupied.
We can only conclude that our dear son has brought home a female from the bar last night.
We also conclude that this must be someone we do not know; he was seeing a vegetarian girl (who wore running shoes all the time), but is no longer.
This does NOT sit well with me. NOT AT ALL.
I want to burst into our son's bedroom and wake them up and tell him to take his floozy "new friend" home.
Dave wants to wait until they wake up, and then talk to our son more discreetly.

I rant and rave at Dave and the cats: This is totally inappropriate, this is MY home, this is WRONG, this is EASTER SUNDAY for cripe's sake (the irony of me being even more upset on a religious holiday when I'm not even religious is not lost on me). When are they going to wake up?  The grandparents are coming over!

Dave is more sanguine: maybe there is a reasonable explanation.
Like what? I say.  He's got a transvestite in there?
Argh.

I am mad that Dave is not more disturbed by the situation.
Is he secretly proud of his son, the stud?

Suddenly, our son's bedroom door opens and he zips into the bathroom.
Dave and I exchange glances; "Go and see who's in that room", I hiss.
Dave refuses: Just go and ask him whose boots those are, he says.

I waylay my boy on the way out of the bathroom, yelling, "T_______ (his name), Whose boots are those?".
My tone is nasty. I am ready for confrontation. I am near tears. 
~~~~

Ahem.
Turns out they are our daughter's boots. She too was out last night, and ended up closer to our home than her home.
Since she's coming here for Easter dinner tonight, she thought she might as well sleep here. (this is so logical and practical that my head explodes!)
I follow T____(son) back to his room and find T____ (daughter) sleeping in his bed, and that he had been sleeping on a pad on the floor!
He climbs back under the small throw he's been using as a blanket and says he's cold.
Why didn't you put T_____(daughter) in the guest room, I say?
We didn't want to make noise (opening up the hide-a-bed), he explains.

Not only has my son NOT brought a strange girl home from the bar, he has been a gentleman and given his bed to his sister (this same sister who would never in a milion years have even set foot in his room when they were growing up, lest she get his cooties on her).

Suddenly I feel warm and fuzzy. (like a unicorn kissing a care-bear under a rainbow with sparkly hearts exploding in the background).

Dave says I have to learn not to let things bother me so much, and not to assume the worst.
I mumble that it's the wrong time of the month, and he says, "That's still happening? I thought it stopped years ago", 
so I say, "I'm still a spring chicken!" and "Let's have another baby!"
to which he says "Are you insane?",
and I say, "I'm kidding, kidding, kidding....(no I'm not insane, are YOU insane to think I meant it?)

Meanwhile Milo (the cat) has gone into T___(son's) bedroom and all three of them have gone back to sleep. 
Happy Easter,


Kathryn : O

More Chesterman Beach-last part of trip report

OK, now even I am tired of this three days trip that's taken months to report.

  Still, the beach pics are lovely....

We took only pictures, and left only footprints.

Does this NOT look like a dragon?  What do you see?

My mother-in-law sees a heart, complete with veins and arteries!

A hobbit house?

It's more artsy when you frame the object off-centre.  So I did.

Go ahead - click on it!  A Sand Dollar is a work of art.

Looks like he's walking on water.  Sometimes I think he does.

It's a big beach when the tide is out.  It's starting to clear up here, too.

What's this?  Another (Love) Mussel?

Click to see the colours better.  Sublime!

Another artsy shot.  I like to call it "Broken shell on sand".

Or "Sand under broken shell"

Or "Shell that is broken, above sand that is underneath".

Whatever you call it, it's quite clear, isn't it?

Cliquez-la, s'il vous plait!

...and still another artsy shot: "Barnacles on Rock".

or, perhaps: "Barnacle Ghetto on Lithic Structure (based on the novel 'Push' by Sapphire)"

Sorry, couldn't help it.

Click on it anyway.

The waves are lovely,  in they creep,

for they have promises to keep...

and foamy bits to sit and steep,

in artsy photo, very cheap!

(I'm channeling Robert Frost)

Look at all the reflections of the photographer (me) in the bubbles.

Oh!  Finally - a bit of colour.  A jaunty young urchin out for a stroll.

A very slow stroll.  OK stuck there, but waving a bit.

If you haven't clicked before, you could try it now.

But wait, what light from yonder window breaks?

It is the sunset in winter, and there is no window!

"Dave, dave - the sun is out!", I scream.

(But Dave is having a nap in the room, and misses the following spectacular scenes)

 

"Giant Rock in Winter Sun"

"Foamy Sea in Pinky Glow"

(subtitled: "What are those clouds doing in the background?")

Click, damn you, click like you've never clicked before!

Oh, oh oh, I am AGOG at this! 

"Sun Behind Weird Cloud"

Oh! (Luckily there is no one on the beach to hear the noises I am making)

Oh, oh, oh!

OH!

"Goddess of Light behind Cloud-that-looks-like-a-hedgehog-playing-chess-with-a-turtle!"

Clicking on this photo will bring you good luck.

"Sunfish doing Yoga under water against a Rock"

Namaste!

"Two Sunfish Making Foamy Love in a Crevice"

No, wait, is it three?  Who can tell?

"Purple Urchin Craving a Dairy Queen Blizzard"

(I put my heart and soul into these captions, you know.)

"Ululating Undulations"

or

"Rippley Beach Sand"

and, finally

"Picture taken by Camera Timer to Prove we were here Together!"

Clicking is optional.

The End (of the trip report).