So I really just wanted to use that title (inspired by the divoon Mrs. B.), but I'm also back in Northwest Florida where it hit 76 degrees today. I was laying out by Pa Olsen's cement pond on a vinyl chaise with Enrique Iglesias blasting on the radio. Had I been transported back to 1999? I didn't have a BlackBerry then, or contractors calling me on it, or much else to do but watch Melrose Place reruns and freebase Triscuits before tackling an epic trigonometry problem entitled "The Water in a Lake." (I should've sued over the trauma we all suffered leading up to Mrs. Calley's announcement: "There is no solution. Whoops!")
Anywhiz, Pilgrim-centric holidays aside, for me the Gulf Coast now always translates to "vacation." And isn't that what Ms. Prada sends down the runway, spring season after spring season?
She loves her some postcard prints and so do I. JJ Fad --I mean Crew--got on it:
And is it creepy that a movie about a gay serial killer might be one of my all-time favorites (again, '99 was a good year)?
Forrest Gump's mom said "Vacation's when you go somewhere ... and you don't ever come back." Doesn't Dickie Greenleaf know it.