Last week Jeff’s parents treated us to a really nice week’s vacation in Gulf Shores, Alabama. We had a lovely view of the ocean from the 12th floor balcony of a very pink condominium, decorated generously with beach themed paraphanalia, like tropical fish wall hangings and ceramic seagulls. Jeff’s brother Jim and his wife April were also there. We ate lots of fried seafood, hush puppies (Amber can do a google search if she still doesn’t know what those are) and iced tea by the bucket load. We all walked around in flip flops and–with the exception of April, who I liken unto a tanning goddess– each took turns getting zapped into lobster-like redness, despite the responsible use of sunscreen. At one point I decided that the sun was cryptonite– a radiating, inescapable ball of burning toxicity. However, once the sting left my skin I changed my mind and went out for more exposure, and to take advantage of the lovely weightlessness that all pregnant women desire, and which the ocean afforded. I haven’t seen my freckles this dark since before age thirteen when I decided that I looked absolutely unacceptable in a bathing suit, drew the blinds of my bedroom, and began my wallflower’s journey into guitar playing instead of being a Florida resident.
I took a lot of photos of the colorful beach houses that lined the shore, including this one here (see my flickr page). Only one house I saw bore evidence of hurricane Katrina, but looked as if a leviathan (per the Old Testament book of Job) had reared its head from the sea and taken a large, tasty bite out of its backside (again, see my flickr page). The colors, against the stark blue, beachy sky, reminded me of sugary candy, like nerds, or maybe sweet tarts.