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Monday, May 12, 2003
 
Stats that Shape a Weekend
Minutes I spent on the beach (total) all weekend: about 150
Number of Mia's outfits that were thrown away because they were covered with . . . oh, never mind: 1
Alcohol consumed Saturday night: three beers, half of a bottle of champagne, and a bourbon and Sprite

Well, Mia likes the beach about as much as her Daddy. After about 15 minutes of flopping around, getting half-covered with sand, and trying to eat a handful of the pure-white powdery stuff, she'd had enough. This is after I'd set up a tent for her. And before Michelle realized that would be the most she'd get to spend on the beach (her favorite place) all weekend.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

We left Tallahassee around 2 o'clock on Friday. About 45 minutes later, we had the first omen of what lay ahead: Mia had a blowout in her car seat. I won't go into too much detail, but we had to pull off at the next exit and perform an emergency diaper change on the grass at the side of the road. Very traumatic for all involved. And we were able to salvage that outfit.

We arrived at the resort in Sandestin and checked in. We grabbed the room in the condo (sharing with another couple) with the beach view. (And from the 9th floor, we had quite a view.) We fed Mia and thought it'd be a good idea to squeeze in an early supper.

Upon checking the nearby dining possibilities (at the resort, rather than the traditional Crab House 5 miles down the road), I noted the restaurant immediately next door to our building had "reservations recommended" under their description. Not wanting to overpay for dinner, we opted for the Sea-something-or-other blah-blah-blah Cafe, which was just across the highway and next to the bay. Well, it turned out that there was no menu, just a seafood buffet . . . for $25.95 per person. Oh well.

Saturday started out with the beach scene, whereupon Michelle took Mia back to the room. I hung out and waited for a volleyball game that never materialized (well, not while I was there). Our condomates came down and reported that Michelle was waiting for me to get back from the beach to go shopping at the nearby outlets, so I packed up and headed back to the room. And that's when I learned about Mia's second (and more harrowing) diaper-filling fiasco. (I'll spare you the details again but, rest assured, it was pretty gruesome.)

Saturday night was the traditional company get-together, where the company supplies the shrimp and everyone else brings something for a super-beachy pot-luck. (Yeah, I bring the soda every year.) Well, Mia hadn't napped all afternoon. She wasn't being wholly cooperative with our attempts to get her to lie down. So, we had to let her know that she was up for the long haul. We took her to the dinner get-together. And, of course, Michelle had to take Mia back to the room before she got halfway through her first beer. Ah, parenthood.

I raced through my dinner and then grabbed some shrimp and bbq meatballs and pork for Michelle and jetted to the room. Mia was asleep. After Michelle had her dinner, we killed off a bottle of champagne and chilled on the balcony watching the Gulf sky sink from darkish blue to black. That was the most poetic part of the weekend. Maybe there's even a poem there!

Later that evening, I took my bass guitar to a jam in another room. A little background: For the past couple years, one of the guys in the company brings an entire mini-P.A. to the beach, along with guitars, effects, and various percussion instruments. He rarely ventures out to the beach, choosing to stay in his room and play music all day (and all night). Well, I sat in on the impromptu jam last year as the bass player, and was expected to do the same again. I only made it through until a little after midnight. We played lots of rock and blues standards, including some Pink Floyd, The Who, Rod Steward (yes, really), John Lennon, and Bill Withers (sp?). I'm really not a good bass player, for the record. Semi-drunkenly picking out the root notes and keeping a mushy rhythm does not qualify as "very skilled."

Sunday was the return-home day. We had breakfast at IHOP in Destin, which was somewhat of an adventure. The drive home wasn't bad. Mother’s Day festivities were somewhat abbreviated.

Last night, my band had an interview on the radio . . . a corporate station (owned by The Devil, Clear Channel Communications) that has a local-spotlight show on Sunday nights. I was, appropriately, on my knees during our spots. We were supposed to talk about our upcoming show and other interesting things about the band. We talked about Traci Lords and this toy lightsaber I found under the desk. It was fun. Or not.

That is all. I'm glad to be back.