Memories of the Gulf and other assorted debris

And along comes Alex. Well I don't know about you, but all my worst fears about the oil gusher in the Gulf are coming true. I can hardly bear to think about the devastation. I grew up in Georgia and spent a lot of time vacationing in the Gulf, sticking mostly to the tourist areas: Panama City, Destin, Pensacola. Some years ago, my sister Cindy discovered an incredible secret in the Gulf called Cape San Blas. Cape San Blas is defintely off the beaten path and we had a great vacation there one year. Cindy's kids were little, our aunt went with us and if I just hadn't gotten drunk that one night it would've been a picture-perfect trip. Oh, except Carlee hit her brother between the eyes with a boomerang. Accidentally, of course. That was some drama. Anyway, the cape is so far off the beaten path it's a real trip to eat in a restaurant, but with her superior gastro-investigative skills Cindy found the best place for fresh oysters in the entire region: Boss Oyster. Located in Appalachicola, they offer menu items like Oysters Lim-o-zine: bay oysters and artichokes poached in champagne and cream over tender baby spinach layered in a puff pastry. Can you feel it?? Unfortunately, pastries are out for me these days. Anything made with commercial flour produces a very unpleasant response in my tummy. I guess good fresh oysters at Boss are soon to be a thing of the past as well.

I browsed through the websites for the Gulf towns listed above. One of them has a link to the Unified Command webpage, BP's response site. Take a look and tell me it doesn't look like those boys are having fun.

When I see my mental health doc she always asks me a set of questions.

"Have you felt like hurting yourself?"

"No."

"Have you felt like hurting anyone else?"

Pause

"Only (fill in the blank)."

"Who's that?"

Complete and utter silence as I wonder in amazement that this intelligent, thoughtful woman had no idea who it was. So I told her. I mean, he'd only been on the news and in those disgusting commercials every day for a freakin' month.

She changed the subject.

Later that same day I saw my mental health therapist. I told her I needed a revolution to join. She thought I was kidding.

I have found a good therapy for myself, though. I call it chop therapy. Rustic eating requires lots of chopping of vegetables and herbs. I can really get into chopping. Chop! There goes one head. Chop! Chop! Two more. Chop! Chop! Whack!! I feel my blood pressure begin to lower.

And I pray. All the time.