The bunch of us from my office packed up some coolers of food and beer, jumped on a co-worker’s boat and headed out to a teeny tiny island in the Gulf the other day. As we boarded, I shot out a quick text to a friend in the Coast Guard to have him put the rescue team on stand-by. Call me cautious, but you just never know.
It was a farewell party, since I’m off to the DC area at the end of the month. Had a super time, but next time I run off to a deserted island, I’ll need to bring more sunscreen.
For those of you not in Florida, and therefore at the mercy of the media with respect to the oil spill debacle, I’m happy to report the site is tar ball free! Well, for now.
The very next day, I rolled out of bed at o’dark thirty and threw on a sundress for Part II of my month long moving sale. It was eighty degrees at seven a.m. You can’t imagine how uncomfortable it is to stand outside in eighty-degree weather with a sunburn bartering with strangers over old linens.
By ten, I was offering them money just to haul the stuff off.
By eleven, I was pulling entire tables into the garage to pack up what was left just so I didn’t have to spend an extended length of time in direct sunlight and going all Katie Scarlett, mumbling to myself as I used an old valance to wipe stinging sweat from my eyes:
“I’ll deal with this next week. After all, next Saturday is another day. I will get rid of ALL this crap, and after that, as God is my witness, I will never be a hoarder again.”
Now where the heck is Rhett, so I can get these !&%*$ boxes into the loft?