Tequilla should come with a warning other than the one about not drinking if you are pregnant. Like, maybe, don't drink in the sun or don't consume if you wish to remain conscious for longer than it takes to consume three of these.

But then, where would the fun or challenge be in that. Star drank me under the beach chair yesterday and she claims that she wasn't even trying. Of course she says that now, but the last clear memory I have is of a story wherein she told a co-worker that she could drink him under the table and he didn't believe her, but the bartender did and told the kid if he wanted to see the morning through clear eyes, he wouldn't try to prove Star wrong.

Brrrrrrrr. At least I passed out in the cool dark of my room and not the beach, which means only that I slept for 15 straight hours and not that I have the sort of sunburn one associates with German tourists and French Canadians.


Limetree was as good as their word, and did, in fact get a wireless network up and running. The best part of it is that the only place to get a good connection is out here on the lanaii, overlooking the Gulf. "Tough life," says Star, from her chair next to me. Those are my feet, and that is the adorable little tote that the equally adorable Jade brought as gifts when she came up to meet us.

Jade is just a stitch, and if she lived in Miami, she would be one of the regulars at the Casita de Zapatos, that's for sure. She's already mentioned this multi-tasking monstrosity, but sweeties, words (and even pictures) cannot do it justice (?).



This dress... this dress... is a sweet little faux-wrap in the most hideous of shiny, slippery, synthetic knit fabric that you know will be cursed with static cling every nanosecond of its miserable life. It will stick to you and crawl around on you no matter what you try to make it stop. And then there is the print. It is a photo-real print of crocheted granny squares in some of the most unfortunate colors since they showed up in kitchens in the 50s.

Star says that if you made this dress in real granny squares it would be unwearable, because it would be heavy and it wouldn't drape correctly. I say: your point is? Because if it wouldn't be wearable if it were real, then why would anyone think that it would be wearable as a simulacrum?

I present the dress. That's Jade's arm.

Tomorrow, the RLA, Star and I head over to the Gulf Coast for a week of serious laying around doing nothing. Except laying around and drinking and eating. And Star and I have sworn to drag our sewing machines and make a few quilt tops while we're there. That remains to be seen. I may drag some yarn and knitting needles, instead, because they're lighter and take up less room. Or not.

While we're there, I've made a date to meet up with the crafty (as in fiber arts, and not as in sly and devious, but then, I don't really know that, do I?) Jade of Unfinished Object. We've agreed to meet in a bar. It was that or a shoe store.

Jade has expressed some reservations about meeting me, saying that she didn't know if any of her footwear was fabulous enough. I told her that contrary to popular belief, there's more to me than just shoes. There's snark and sloth. And a large percentage of alcohol.

While the Limetree swears that it has added a wireless internet service, we'll see if I update while I'm gone.

Stay cool, wear things that fit, and I'll see you all next week.

P.S. The Miami Heat victory lap will be going right past my office building. I'll try to get some pics to share.

The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won!

And what a glorious face-stuffing it was. Damn, I love it when my home team wins on the other guy's turf. Like when the Marlins thrashed the Yankees in the high cathedral of baseball.

Can I get a witness?

I've been working on a joke all week, the punchline of which was going to be "It wasn't the Heat, it was the Humidity." I never quite got the set up to my satisfaction, but as things stand (The Heat won!) I don't need to, do I?

And then there's this joke that I can't remember (do we sense a trend creeping in) the punchline of which is "Trick question, Lemmy IS God." But I think that today, that would have to be Dwyane Wade is God.

What a game! What a bunch of clutch players! What a game! What a hot time in Miami!

And for the record, sports announcer guys? The fact that Heat players can't hit from the free-throw line is sort of a team hallmark, OK? It started 18 years ago with the guy who was supposed to be the franchise then, one Rony Seikaly, who was the most-fouled player in the NBA because it was universally known that the guy couldn't sink a free-throw if his life (and/or career) depended on it. How bad was he? He was sooo bad, that even Heat fans yelled "AIR BALL" every time he stepped to the line.

Or at least one of us did. But then, I also had this theory: Rony Seikaly and Vinnie Testaverde are the same person. You never see them in the same place at the same time, and they both needed the Heimlich manuever every time they played in the clutch.

Oh, and Pat Riley? Total. Hottie.

I've clearly died from this crappy lung infection, because I could swear that I read in the morning Herald that:

1. The Miami Heat are one game away from winning the NBA championship.

2. The Florida Marlins have an 8-game winning streak going.

I have a raging sinus infection. Is it moldy air-conditioning vents? Is is brush fires? Is it something else?

Don't know, don't particularly care.

Want teeth to stop throbing. Want head to stop hurting. Want sinuses to stop bleeding into the back of my throat.

Yeah. Way too much information. On the other hand: I'm wearing the cutest little drag queen shoes today. For them, I even forego my usual rule about white shoes.


And here's a close up of the bling and matching toenail polish. Hey! I practice what I preach, people.

Again with the cankles. Again with the leggings. In Miami. In the summer. And this dress? I love this dress style. I'm making one for myself even now. And Erin, over at Dress a Day has been obsessing about the Duro for a couple of months now.

But, see, it's supposed to be loose. And flowing. Not tight across the bust and constricting the ribs and giving one an appearance of either A) advanced liver disease or B) advanced pregnancy. And I may possibly be wrong, but I don't think the sleeves are supposed to be medieval in length, either. You know, like only to the wrist, not over them and down to the tips of your fingers.



The things I have to put up with, living in this city... I swear, it makes me yearn for the days of old men wearing bad wigs cruising the beach in their white shoes and shrimp-colored sports coats. At least in those days a person could get a decent pastrami sandwich over in Miami Beach without having to take out a loan on their house.

And while I'm on the subject of "what ever happened to Jewish delis in this town", what ever happened to the bowls of free pickles and cole slaw and the basket of rolls on every table, even before you ordered? Huh? And Jewish bakeries like the late, great, sorely missed and never to be replicated in my lifetime or yours, Pumpernick's? Where the ashtrays had "Nicked from Pumpernick's" printed on them. It was at 63rd and Collins, and I once rode there, on my bicycle, in the dead of night, from the University of Miami for a slice of cheesecake.