“Perfect,” he says, lighting up more than I’ve seen since he told me about the development going to another firm. “Low tide. It’s beachcombing time.”
My dad is, well . . . he used to be, very serious about beachcombing. Thankfully, he doesn’t use a metal detector and look for buried treasure or anything lame like that. Typically, he collects things that people have left, and also items the ocean has returned to the shore. Once, he found an actual message in a bottle. He doesn’t go that often anymore because of work, but when I was a little girl, we used to go all the time.
“How about a round of golf instead?” Grandma Hope asks. “My wrist miraculously feels better already. Doctors today don’t know squat. They all just got into it because of that doctor soap opera. I watched that show once. All sex, no medicine. My doctor was probably too busy thinking about sex and he didn’t realize that my wrist is totally fine.”
I see my dad shiver dramatically each time my grandma mentions sex, but he keeps heading toward the closet near the pantry. He opens it and grabs a small shovel and a plastic laundry basket.
Grandma Hope gives my dad a onceover look and shakes her head. “Sand is the golfer’s enemy,” she says. “Why would I want to electively go spend time in what I view as the largest sand trap out there?”
“Hope,” my dad says firmly, pointing his nearly blue finger at her. “I need a distraction from work, and pretty soon Imogene is going to be a high-schooler with no time for us. Think of this like we’re going treasure hunting. Florida has more to it than golf, and the ocean was here long before the golf courses were. We can survive without golf, but not without water.”
“Speak for yourself, son. This no golf thing might just kill me, but okay, okay, I’ll go,” she agrees. “Just know that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, so I’m warning you that I’ll probably be grumpy. And if my wrist hurts, we’re calling it a day and going for ice cream.”
The three of us pile into the Wagoneer and head for the beach near the Naples pier. Once we get there, Grandma Hope and I quickly follow after my dad’s sand footprints, just trying to keep up with his brisk pace.
Immediately my dad finds a Nerf football.
“Awesome,” he says. He spikes it into the basket. “Now, Imogene, if I see something good out in the water, you have to be my retriever.”
“Okay,” I say, happy to make him happy. “It’s a good thing that I’m on the swim team.”
Often at low tide, objects will be brought back toward the beach, and we’ll see them floating in waves. A retriever is the person who swims out to get those items. The best times of all to beachcomb are the days right after a big storm like Hurricane Wilma.
“Georgia! I see something sticking out over there. Start digging. I’m injured,” Grandma Hope says.
Her voice sounds almost excited, so I get on my hands and knees, start to dig, and pull out a pair of kids’ cat-eyed sunglasses.
“Very cool,” she says. “The only free things on the golf course are rogue golf balls and broken tees. Maybe I should get off the golf course more often.”
“Please, Grandma Hope, you’ll be back on the golf course the day the doctor gives the okay. Or the day before,” I say.
I hand the sunglasses to my grandma, who dusts them off and squeezes them on, which makes my dad laugh. This would be a photo op for my mom, and we’d all have to stop to take a bunch of pictures.
I know it’s wrong, but I’m glad that she’s not here. Yet, I still keep looking around for a camera. I wonder if this is this same feeling people get the first few days after leaving a reality show.
Out on the water, past the first few sets of breaking waves, I spot a paddleboarder riding the Gulf’s small swells. He’s using his paddle as a rudder behind him. After a closer look, I realize it’s not just any paddleboarder—it’s Dylan. I should’ve guessed that I’d run into him since he lives near the beach, and we’re walking right by the Port Royal Club, a fancy private beach club for just his neighborhood.
Please don’t let him see me.
Grandma Hope catches my stare. “What a cute young boy! I wish that they had paddleboarding back in my day. Maybe I’ll pick that up in my nineties. They say it’s a great abdominal workout, and I’m always looking for a way to get into that itsy bitsy, teeny weeny, yellow polka-dot bikini.”
I know that my grandma’s only joking, as she’s firmly against bikinis of all kinds. “Goodness. Let’s leave something, even if it’s just a belly button, up to the imagination,” she always says when she sees me in one.
Like a puppy retrieving a tennis ball, my dad brings over his newest treasure, a dolphin-shaped sand toy.
He notices us looking out to the ocean and he blocks the setting sun with his hand so he can peer out too.
“Hey, isn’t that your classmate Dylan?” my dad asks. “He’s had that blond curly hair since Kindergarten. Why don’t you say hi?”
My dad begins to wave and I pull his arm down.
“No, thanks, Dad,” I say quickly. “He’s obviously busy. We’re not even really friends. We just have a couple of classes together.”
I turn back my back toward the ocean and start walking. I hope Grandma Hope and Dad will follow my lead.
“Does someone have a crush?” Grandma Hope asks. “I’ve heard your mom yapping about that possibility, and now it looks like we’ve found him. You’re blushing sunburn-red, Georgia. Hey, I have an idea: Let’s invite him over for dinner.”
“Are you sure you didn’t injure your head along with your wrist?” I hiss.
I take a few steps along the beach and then glare at my grandma and Dad, who are still gawking like seagulls at Dylan.
“I’m serious. Please keep moving,” I say, but it’s already too late. Dylan’s riding a wave all the way in, and he has already spotted us.
“Imogene, hi!” he says. He jumps off his paddleboard and drags it up past the tide.
“Hi, Dylan,” I say. “You looked like you were having fun out there. Sorry to run, but we’re heading back to the pier. See y-you Monday,” I manage to stammer out.
Dylan steps in front of our path.
He points at our basket. “What’d you all find?” Dylan asks.
“Junk,” I say. “Nothing special,” I add, hoping that I’m not hurting my dad’s feelings. But my dad’s not listening. He’s digging out a piece of driftwood with his hands.
“Whoa! Look at this beauty!” my dad says. He holds up a very worn two-by-four board, which is completely barnacle ridden.
Wow.
Without Mommylicious here, my grandma and Dad are taking over her job and making sure that they embarrass me as much as possible.
“What do you guys see when you look at this?” my dad asks.
“I see driftwood,” Dylan answers nicely. “Maybe something washed up from the hurricane last year.”
“You’re probably right,” my dad says, and adds the wood to our basket. “But I already have a great vision for what this driftwood can become next. Our house is full of my woodwork.”
“That’s very cool,” Dylan says politely.
I doubt he actually thinks that. Dylan’s house is like a modern museum. It’s definitely professionally decorated, and there’s nothing recycled or old about it.
“You should come by and see some of my pieces sometime,” my dad says to Dylan, even though I’m giving my dad the “are you out of your mind” stare. “I also have an old surfboard that I’m thinking of repurposing.”
“I’d like that,” Dylan says, but he’s looking at me—not my dad.
“Yes,” Grandma Hope chimes in. “I make a great BBQ. I haven’t grilled in ages, but now I have some extra time on my hands since I’ve got this bum wrist. You might not think a lady like me loves to grill, but I sure do. It’s important to do anything a man can do and do it better.”
Oh em gee, is this happening? Are my grandma and my dad inviting my crush on a family date? Thank God, Mommylicious is not here too; s
he’d be in overdrive with this content. I can only imagine the blog’s headlines. A Boy Finally Talks to Babylicious and the Whole Family Is There to Witness.
Dylan might not find my mom’s blog so charming if he ended up featured on it as much as I am. If that happened, he might not think I’m too hard on her.
At the very least, there won’t be any pictures to remember this awkward encounter by—although I wouldn’t mind a poster of Dylan in his board shorts.
Dylan picks up his paddleboard and puts it under his arm. His biceps ripple with the board’s weight. Forget football players—paddleboarders are my type of athlete.
“Well, I’ll let you guys go. Have fun with the search,” Dylan says.
“See you Monday,” I say to Dylan, and sigh with relief as we walk away.
“Don’t turn around now, but he’s watching you,” Grandma Hope whispers into my ear. “I haven’t felt that type of eye-heat in a very long time. And what a nice boy! You have great taste.”
“Grandma Hope!” I say. “I don’t like him. And if I did, I’d be totally mortified by that scene. You and Dad were both, like, flirting with him.”
And I am mortified, but maybe my grandma’s right. Maybe Dylan is staring at me. Maybe he didn’t think it was super-lame that my grandma, my dad, and I hang out. Maybe he will come over for BBQ and to see my dad’s old surfboard. Maybe things are changing.
Without Mommylicious here, I feel free, even though I’m technically still grounded. Maybe if we all put down our computers more often and spent that time at the beach, we’d all feel freer.
Mommylicious
“BFAB”
Dear Mommylicionados,
First of all, thank you SO much to everyone who came to the Orlando Mom-to-Mom event. I had the BEST time with y’all, and I’m just so flattered that you invited me as your guest speaker. It’s hard to believe that most of us had never even met in person before this weekend. But it’s like I always say: BFAB! Blog Friends Are Best!
Internet connections are powerful—especially high-speed bandwidth ones. (I know, I know, but I love a good blog joke! Who doesn’t?)
Of course, it’s always nice to be home, too! I’m very proud of Babylicious for spending some quality time with her dad and grandma. It’s totally thrilling (and a bit surprising) that the three of them can survive without me. I think—dare I say it—that they might’ve even had fun without Mommylicious. It seems like just yesterday that Imogene was a total mama’s girl.
And three cheers for the fact that Imogene’s finally growing out of her rebellious phase just as my awesome readers said she would. It’s so nice that y’all can share advice with me just like I’ve shared it with the Mommylicionados these last sixteen years. After all, that’s what blogs are about: sharing what we know and caring for one another.
Now that it’s getting closer, I’m starting an official Countdown to BlogHer! Can’t wait to see all my fellow bloggers and readers. We’re going to rock the Mini-Apple-is! (Hey, that reminds me, cold-weather readers, can I borrow some gloves? Maybe a hat, too?)
Butterfly Kisses,
Mommylicious
PS Still no Pirate’s Booty Ball date for Imogene, or at least one that I know of. . . . Hopefully, the girls get smart and get a stag group together! They can go as a gang of wenches. It’s always the most fun to hang out with your girls. Isn’t that right, my Mommylicionados?
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog
“Unplugged”
I spent the entire weekend grounded and unplugged. I’m turning my computer on for the first time in forty-eight hours—and I’m only back online just to write this blog post.
I was grounded by my mom.
But I unplugged by choice.
We treasure hunted. We ate ice cream. My grandma even grilled.
Nobody clicked. Nobody Tweeted. Nobody Facebooked. Nobody blogged.
There were no check-ins or posed shots to show everyone how much fun we were having.
For the first time, in a long time, I felt relaxed. I suggest that everyone try it sometime.
Skulls and Bones,
Babylicious Fights Back
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: Life with VeggieMom
“Emeril, Please Adopt Me!”
I spent the day watching the Food Network.
A perfect use of my time since I’m still grounded.
I now wish that Rachel Ray was my mom and Emeril was my dad.
If food is love . . . then why didn’t you let me have cotton candy at the spring training game? Mickey pancakes at Disney World? Or cake at anyone’s birthday party?
What is life without dessert? Not the type of life that I want to lead.
If we are what we eat, I want to choose what I eat—and therefore, who I am.
VeggieBaby Fights Back
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Ten
THE SAGE WARS
ON MONDAY MORNING I’ M EAGERLY WAITING OUTSIDE OF school at our regular bench for Sage. The second after Ms. Carter drops her off, I bound toward her.
“Sage!” I exclaim. “I have so much to tell you! I would’ve called you, but I committed to going unplugged for the weekend. And ohmigosh, you won’t believe what happened at the beach Friday, and I have this great idea about how to finally get through to our moms.”
I stop to take a breath. Over the weekend, I had a total epiphany that convincing our moms to unplug for just one week might be the real answer to our problem. If they would just step away from the computer, Twitter, and Facebook, they might not want to go back—or wouldn’t want to go back in the same way. Somehow I need to show my mom how much better life can be without all of it. Of course, I’ll need Sage’s help.
I’m about to reveal my revelation when I notice Sage’s face is all twisted up.
“Imogene, I know all about your going unplugged. I read your blog about you going all Swiss Family Robinson last night. Did you even see any of my texts?”
Sage puts her hand on her hip and stares at me.
“I only got them this morning. I just told you that I didn’t look at my phone or use the computer all weekend minus one blog post, which I’m guessing you must already knew from reading my blog.”
Sage pauses, then slides right past me toward the lockers, which are housed outside, under an overhang.
Another perk of Florida living.
I follow her and watch as she jams her entire backpack into a locker and slams the door shut so hard that it bangs back open.
I check Sage’s fingers and they’re especially ripped apart, which means she’s super-stressed. Maybe now is not a good time to discuss my idea.
“What’s wrong, Sage?” I ask. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts earlier, but I’m here now, so let’s talk about it. What happened this weekend? Is it about your mom?”
Sage pulls at the skin around her nail beds. “I had a terrible weekend. I guess it’s different for you, but my mom takes the word grounded at its Greek origins, so I was actually grounded. Unlike you, being grounded for me means being stuck home alone without anything to do. I definitely was not on any multigenerational beach-capades.”
I take that in for second. I actually did have a nice weekend despite being “grounded.” I never took the time to think about how Sage was stuck at home the whole weekend. She was probably home with her very angry mom—while I had a break from mine.
“I was pretty much alone for almost two days,” Sage continues. “My mom just left me and went on an eighteen-hour date with some organic orange grove farmer. He had a goatee. I mean, really?”
Sage breathes in and starts again. “And what was up with your last post, Imogene? It was all sunshine and rainbows, let’s lived unplugged, I had so much fun with my family . . . la-di-da. That’s not what the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters is supposed to be about.
Our blogs are about trying to get through to our moms that we don’t want them to blog about us anymore. And we’re supposed to do that by blogging about them, not by blogging some manifesto about going unplugged.”
I open my mouth to respond, but Sage holds up the palm of her hand like a STOP sign.
“I’m not finished. This whole thing was your idea, Imogene, and I got grounded because of it. We’re supposed to be taking on our moms and getting them to understand. Now you’re already totally flaking out on me and changing our idea.”
Sage pauses and picks at her fingers again. I go to stop her and she pushes my hand away. “I have a thought. Maybe you actually do like being Babylicious and getting attention for it. You’re probably scared nobody would notice you without your mom’s blog. It’s clear now that you don’t believe in the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters—and maybe you never did.”
I’ve never seen Sage this worked up before. Not even when her mom couldn’t afford Sage’s piano lessons. Finally Sage’s teacher agreed to give her a month of free lessons, which helped to get them through their rough financial period.
“You know that’s not true,” I say. I speak slow and soft, hoping that it will calm her down. “I’m very sorry, Sage. I didn’t know my post would offend you. I think that the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters is about a lot of things. Mostly, it’s about getting our moms to stop blogging about us, but I also think it’s about trying to get everyone to understand that we aren’t who we are online. I think Ms. Herring might’ve been right. Maybe we were being too mean or combative before. We don’t have to turn into cyber bullies just to get our point across.”
Over the weekend, I spent a lot of time thinking about how invading someone’s privacy online isn’t really that different than cyber bullying. I don’t regret starting the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters, but I do want it to evolve into something different from exactly what our moms do to us.
Don't Call Me Baby Page 8
