Shopping. My Personal Hell.

I.  hate.  shopping.  Always have, probably always will.  I don't know if I missed some girl gene that makes you enjoy this horriffic experience or what, but to me, shopping of any kind is an absolute torturous nightmare.  All of my fears were reaffirmed when I made the mistake of returning a recent online purchase directly to the store yesterday.

One of my precious, dearest friends in life was kind enough to send me a $50 gift card to Ann Taylor as a congratulations on my new job.  SO sweet, and SO unexpected - just an absolutely amazing gesture!  And back when I could still partially stand it, that is the one store that I would occasionally brave.  However, despite the shipping charges, I did most of my damage online. 

Anyway, I received this glorious gift and within three hours had spent the entire thing online.  I bought a pair of businessy pants in "sharkskin" grey and a "citronella" colored wrap top thingy.  Could not have been more excited to recieve these beauties in the mail!

When they arrived I practically ran to try them on.  I was shocked and amazed to discover that my optimistic purchase of a size 6 pant actually worked and they fit!  Then I unwrapped the top - if by "citronella" they meant "so bright that you will have to squint your eyes to even consider looking in the general direction of this garment", then yes, it was citronella colored.  But color aside - because I actually started to like it - it was too big.  Which I was really bummed about because it was very cute and had just a tiny touch of cashmere in it, so it was super comfy too. 

I was going to mail it back and just switch out the sizes, but being the impetuous gal that I am, I simply could not wait for snail mail to get the replacement.  So yesterday afternoon I decided to truck it up to the Ann Taylor store to swap my dayglo gear.

Now here's why I hate shopping.  It all starts in the parking lot - finding a space, doing the whole "are you going?  No I'll go..." dance with other cars, and then when you do see a space you can't get to it in time because of all the stupid pedestrians.  So my frustration level is already at about a 2.5 before I even step foot in the store.  Yesterday I finally found a spot and then walked 43 miles to the store in 90 degree heat.  Frustration level 3.25. 

So I go in the store, go straight to the back counter and announce that I need to exchange something.  "OKAY no prob!  I'll be processing this for you while you look around!", says the painfully stylish chick behind the counter, who then goes on to ask me if I know about their "ONE DAY ONLY storewide promotion?!"  Well no, since I don't work here and I just stepped in the door, I sure don't know about your one day only storewide promotion.  I'm still not even sure what the promotion was - she just started to sound like a bunch of bubbly noise after about 45 seconds as she launched into her sales pitch. 

At this point I am starting to ascertain that I will NOT be merely switching out this top for a size down.  I am going to be forcefully bullied into trying on, and consequently purchasing, things that "look so great" on me.  They are going to ask me if I need other sizes, bring me shoes to complement the "outfit", and force me to come out of the comfort of my private dressing room to show them "how it fits".  And that is exactly what happened.  Frustration level bypasses midrange and jumps from a slightly annoyed 3.25 to a panic-induced, sweaty 9.0. 

I finally manage to plow past little miss "do you need another size" and wriggle my way out of the dressing room with my selections balled up in my sweaty hand.  At this point I am not even sure what I've decided on buying.  I just knew that I wasn't escaping with a clean, no out-of-pocket expense getaway, as I'd originally planned, so I'm sure I just picked a few of the least expensive things my oh-so-helpful fashion nazis had tossed in there.

I went in to merely switch a shirt for the exact same shirt, and ended up with a dress and two cami-ish tank kind of things that are apparently a "must have" to wear with suits.  I don't even own a respectable suit.  I'm still not sure what the hell I'm going to do with these things.  And as if all of this wasn't enough, when the girl checked my I.D. at the counter, she looked me right in my flustered face and said, "Oh wow!  You don't look your age at all!"  UMMMM fuck you in your heart, you worthless retail whore.  How the hell old is TWENTY-NINE supposed to look exactly?!  I guess I must have done a hell of a job covering up my crow's feet and liver spots today, huh?!  Frustration level....  one million...  head exploding...

Shipping charges be damned - online shopping it is.

How I'm Reminded I'm Not Ready for Babies...

I haven't discussed it here, but it is FBO (Mom, that's "facebook official") that I got a new job.  We'll discuss in more detail later - I am working on a post about the sheer joy of interviewing - but today I'd like to discuss one of my constant reminders that I am not ready for kids.

As previously mentioned, I got a new job, and therefore turned in my notice last week.  And I have Short-timers.  BAD.  I am so mentally checked out it's not even funny.  I didn't really even want to get involved with people's crappy $50 projects when I knew I was going to get paid on them, and now that I'm not?...  I've been spending the majority of the day at work hiding.  Unsuccessfully. 

Anyway, Saturday is typically a slow day, but last Saturday, for whatever obnoxious reason, we were slammed.  And shorthanded, of course.  We had a momentary lull in traffic and I was standing behind the counter close to the front door.  There was only one lady in the store and she had a kid that was about two and a half or three feet tall with her.  (I don't do kid's ages, but I was told later that children of this height are maybe three-ish?)  So this kid had her blanket and a stuffed animal with her and you could just tell she was a little princess.  Not the cute kind, the demanding, "look at me!" kind.

So the kid's mom was standing there talking to one of our sales associates, and the kid was running around their feet, knocking stuff over, and just generally being a three year old I guess.  Well I looked away for two seconds, and when I looked back little princess had pulled her pants down past her butt and was sitting down on the freakin' WELCOME mat of the store, knuckle-deep in her butthole.  Justa goin' to town.  Doing what, I have no idea. 

I looked around for a second, to make sure that I wasn't hallucinating or to see if there was another witness to this kid violating herself at the entrance of the store.  There wasn't.  So as soon as there was a lull in conversation between the kid's mother and the sales associate, all I could say was, "Uh ummmmmmm....."  At this, the mom turned around and saw her precious angel swirling her disgusting little finger around in her no-no place.  Her embarrassment was obvious, and she immediately told the kid to stop, and stood her up and handed her the blanket - which the kid anxiously grabbed with her butthole fingers.  Sick.  And note to self - do NOT touch a kid's sheet of filth blanket, like EVER.

The mom was all flushed and nervously mumbled some sort of apology under her breath.  I went back to what I was doing and tried my best not to think about what other objects in the store this kid might be running around stink-palming, and the next thing I know, the three of them go walking by the counter and the kid deliberately stops, turns to me, and sticks her tongue out.  WTF, man?! 

And are you ready for it?  The most recent of my constant reminders that I'm not ready for babies?...  As a 29-year-old woman, my natural reaction to this tougue-sticky-outy absurdity was to do it right back to her.  Score one for the grown-ups.

Kindness... A.k.a. Out of My Comfort Zone

Most of you who know me personally know that Lane and I are quite different.  I grew up on the hardest streets of Atlanta (and by 'the hardest streets' I of course mean 'the suburbs of') and he grew up in a smaller south Georgia river town.  Long story short - where I'd say 'piss off' he says 'yes ma'am'. 

I have even done such things as call him a weirdo when he does things like take our leftover and oh-so-yummy fried shrimp to our pals working late at the bait shop or when he took a bottle of water over to our neighbor who was sweating his ass off doing yard work the other day.  Never mind the fact that I had been refilling and drinking out of that exact water bottle for three weeks...  I only hope that our neighbor didn't go back into his pregnant wife with my sparkly lip stuff on his mouth.

Anywho...  I have no idea why, but I am just generally uncomfortable with these unsolicited acts of kindness.  But people LOVE Lane because he does these sorts of things.  And I mean LOVE him.  I think that they overlook the fact that they are getting someone else's crusty water bottle because it's just such a nice gesture and so unexpected and rare.  And Lane always says that it doesn't cost anything and it only takes a few seconds to make a big difference to someone, so why not? 

I have really tried to follow this philosophy, because I do whole-heartedly agree with it, but for me it doesn't come as naturally...  Case-in-point happened the other day...

As I have mentioned, I walk my precious baby Baron every morning.  When we are out is usually about the time that all the neighborhood kids are walking to the front of the neighborhood to catch the bus.  Every single morning I am amazed that none of these skinny jean, Converse-wearing douches will look me in the eye or say good morning or even ACKNOWLEDGE my presence at all.  They all shuffle their feet and swish their bangs and stay plugged into their i-pods, looking straight down at the ground as we pass each other on the sidewalk.  And every morning I think, "how will these idiots ever make it in the world?"...  Well, every kid except one of them ignores me. 

My next door neighbor's son is friends with a kid who gets dropped off by his grandmother at the asscrack of dawn so that he can catch the bus from our neighborhood - I don't know it to be a fact, but I can only assume that it would have something to do with going to school in a better district?...  Anyway, he gets dropped off at the neighborhood entrance, walks to my neighbor's house, walks back to the entrance of the neighborhood to catch the bus, walks back after school, and then gets picked up around 6:30 p.m.  It's gotta be a long day for the poor kid.  He doesn't roll out of bed and saunter to the bus.  He gets up early and commutes.  And he doesn't carry an i-pod, he carries a Ziploc bag of cereal and eats it on the walk.  And he is the ONLY one who looks me in the eye and smiles and says, "Good Morning!" every we pass each other, without fail.  In a skinny jean, no eye-contact-making kind of world, this kid really stands out to me. 

Until the other afternoon our little exchanges have never gone beyond "good morning".  I don't even know the kid's name.  I was outside putting up our American flag for Memorial Day when I saw the kid's grandmother pull up to pick him up.  As soon as I saw him I thought about how proud I would be of him if that was my son or grandson.  Then I thought that I should tell his grandmother how much of a difference he makes in my mornings.  But I thought twice because then I would be the weirdo!!!  And then I heard that little voice in my head - it doesn't cost anything, it only takes a few seconds, and it could make a big difference to someone...  So, despite my natural inclination to be super uncomfortable, I sucked it up and ran over to the car before they pulled away.

I walked over to the passenger side where the kid was sitting and looked through to the woman driving.  I said, "Is this your son?"  (At this point I didn't know she was the Grandmother.)  Both the woman and the kid looked at me like deer caught in the headlights.  They were so taken aback it was almost comical.  Then she cut her eyes and the kid and looked back at me and said very cautiously, "he's my grandson..."  And the kid shifted nervously in his seat, like I was about to say something that would get him grounded until he was 47.  I said, "Well I want you to know that I walk my dog every morning and pass about twenty kids in this neighborhood and your grandson is the only one that says good morning.  It really means so much to me and I just thought you should know." 

By the time I was done talking I thought the woman's teeth might pop out of her head she was smiling so big.  She said, "Oh really?!  Thank you!" and I looked back at the kid and he was half-smiling, half awestruck.  I told them to have a good night and they were on their way.

Every morning since then this sweet kid smiles the biggest smile and really puts extra effort into his "good morning", like we are best of friends.  And I will never forget the look on that proud grandmother's face.  I know what I said made a difference to both of them.  And guess what?  It took two seconds of my life and it cost me nothing.  Not only did it cost me nothing, I got something from it...  and that was the satisfaction of knowing that (although it IS my specialty) not everything that comes out of my mouth has to be a smart ass, dripping with sarcasm type of comment.  Albeit rare, sometimes I can just be nice.  And it's worth it.  Even if it makes me a weirdo.

To The One...

Who has a smile on his face every morning, even when we haven't slept enough and I am grumpy...

To the one who works six days a week and hasn't had a vacation for two years, but never complains about it and even asks for extra work to make sure the bills are paid and we are comfortable...

To the one who cleared out a vegetable garden for me, and lets me do all the fun stuff while he does all the hard stuff...

To the one who lets me sleep in, fixes my car when it's broken, always puts me first, and loves Baron as much as I do...

To the one who chooses what we're having for dinner when I can't make up my mind, goes to the grocery store, and cooks everything, and then packages the leftovers for me to take for lunch the next day...

To the one who rubs my back and listens to me whine when I've had a hard day, and then turns on the radio and fixes me a cocktail...

To the one who taught me how to fish, and more importantly how to have a day off that involves enjoying each other's company and the beach instead of cleaning toilets and laundry...

To the one who laughs while dancing at weddings, even though he doesn't like dancing...

To the one who gives all he has to everyone else without thinking twice...

To the one who makes me happier every day that I took the biggest chance of my life...

To the one who's smile makes my whole heart light up - HAPPY BIRTHDAY!  I love you more than anything.  Thank you for being my perfect one.

xoxo

Jersey Shores Comes to Jax

I can't say what it is exactly, but after living here for two years, it is easy-peazy to spot tourists vs. locals on the beach.  I shudder to think what we looked like when we trucked our pasty white, fresh-from-Georgia butts out on the beach for the first time when we landed in Jax.  I have a horrible image of floaties and zinc stripes down our noses...  ok, maybe it wasn't that bad, but close.  My point is, now that I know what you look like Tourists, I don't like you.  You are rude and disrespectful and you dick up my beach every time you all pile in for your precious little summer vacays.  Point in case happened yesterday, so I thought I might share this fist-pumping experience with you all.

As I have mentioned, Lane and I fish most every day that we have off together.  We have a beautiful secluded spot, a perfectly honed get-up-and-go routine, and most often it's just what we need to get our heads back in order, and "hit the reset button" as Lane says.  This is what "our spot" usually looks like...

Pristine, peaceful, uncrowded, and amazing.  Just the way we like it.  We ususally go on Wednesday, but this week we had a funky schedule and we decided to try our luck and go yesterday (Sunday).  Big mistake, because it was a freakin' parking lot. 

Within five minutes we decided that we just couldn't take it and started driving back down the beach to get the hell out of there.  There were two rows of parked cars, one to the left of the two lanes of traffic driving down the beach, and one row the the right, nosed up to the dunes.  The cars to the left were parked just where the water was lapping their back tires, and the tide was coming in.  For another TWO HOURS.  So basically we have sinking cars to the left with no where to go, two lanes of traffic in the middle, and 50 bajillion people running in and out of all the cars to the right.  In a word, DANGEROUS.  I was freaking out.  I told Lane a million times how scary I thought it was, and that I wouldn't have my kids out there for anything in the world.  Come to find out, a two year old did get run over yesterday - she survived and had no broken bones (???), but still.  Not a good plan.  So after this shitshow, we decided to mosey on down A1A a few more miles and try another, not-so-easily-navigable state park. 

I was not optimisitic, but this park turned out to be MUCH better.  You can only get out on the beach if you have a 4x4 and the beach is really narrow, so not many people will brave it.  Plus the fishing is great!  In addition to a few whiting, a blue fish, and a horseshoe crab, we also caught a bonnethead shark baby!  Very cute. 

We were enjoying the day and soaking up some rays and chatting when a truck dragging a jetski came sliding down the beach behind us.  About 100 yards away from us, the guy driving the truck slung it sideways and backed the jetski right into the water.  I asked Lane if that was even allowed, and we had a brief little discussion about how it's hard to build boat ramps in the ocean because of the tides and stuff and then we went on about our business.  I looked back down there about five minutes later and this is what I saw...

That's right.  The jackass sunk his truck.  Do I hear a "You might be a tourist if..."  YES.  Our Lane's natural inclination was to help, so he went running down there with a shovel.  Thankfully, our park ranger friend told Lane that he'd better scurry back down the beach, because when the sheriff got there he would ticket everyone who was hooked to the sunken truck trying to drag him out.  Hmm.  Good to know. 

A few different people tested the might of their own trucks by attempting to drag this guy out, but the tide kept getting higher and the hopes of getting this dummy out kept getting lower.  Eventually they just gave up and set up their tent and shit and let the truck sit there.  I guess just waiting until the tide went back out?...  Anyway, the longer we watched this whole debacle, but more annoyed I became with these people.  They were clearly from New Jersey.  (That's not the reason I was annoyed with them...  well, not entirely.) 

Lane and I always do the same fishing set up on the beach.  We put our rod holders in the sand about three feet in front of our chairs, the cooler goes in between us, and the tackle box goes beside Lane's chair.  It's like our litle beach nest.  Well about two minutes after I notice this guy stuck in the water, two greasy haired dudes come strutting down the beach towards us carrying a card table.  (Umm card table?  WTF?)  Anyway, they get closer and closer and it is starting to look like they are just going to bust up in our little beach nest (card table and all) in the three foot space between where we are sitting and our fishing rods, and not do the courteous, personal-space-respecting thing, and go around the back of our chairs.  I started grumbling (not so quietly) about how I was going to trip them and throw the card table in the water if they didn't go around, but STILL they marched right in between us and our fishing poles with no reservation.  They were so close that I could see the red on their faces where they'd just had their greasy eyebrows waxed and hear their giant silver eagle medallions jingling on their Mr. T chains.  Gross.

After they brutalized the beach buffer rule, they went on to upset a lovely little family in a small boat right off the shore by running circles around it at about 100 miles an hour the jetski.  They also came so close to the shore that they almost snagged our four fishing lines several times.  They were doing this on purpose, so that they could get close enough to the beach to spray their fellow Jersey Shores castmates that were hunkered down playing Rummy or whatever by their sunken truck.  Then they had the nerve to give Lane a dirty look when he just so happened to cast one of the lines out in their general direction.  It was a real scene. 

Undaunted by my shit talking, they even walked back into our beach nest SEVERAL more times before we left.  I am NOT a fan of personal space invasion, and after the third or fourth time we had to bust a move out of there. 

I have no idea how (or IF) these idiots got the truck out of that sand.  Part of me hopes it's still there, but most of me hopes they got it out, because I don't want that beautiful beach to be destoyed by the gallons of grease that would surely come off of the headrests if the truck was to sink entirely. 

And to you Yankees who ruined a beautiful day on the beach for everyone around you...  the only Snook we need in Jax is a FISH, not a short, orange, obnoxious, poufy-haired guidette.  Keep it on the Jersey shore, k?  Thanks.

Today I Saw...

A lady driving a Subaru Outback station wagon with a bumper sticker that said 'Gourd Artist'.  Seems about right.

A Pirate Minister + Fallic Bubble Wands + A Mini Stroke = Mom's Wedding!

Congrats Mom & Eddie!

The weekend before last was my Mom's wedding.  It was on the beach about an hour and a half south of Jacksonville, in a place that is very special to her.  In fact, the last time she "ran away" and wouldn't answer her phone for about a week, she was there.  We always tenatively wait until she gets back for whatever life-changing decision she's made while there - it's just one of thsoe "change your life" kind of places.  Anyway, that's why they wanted the wedding there. 
Since it was out of town and the sweet bf still had to work, for him it meant driving down on Friday morning, partying like a rock star after the wedding Friday night, driving back to work on Saturday morning (he left at about 6:30 a.m.), driving BACK Saturday night for dinner, then driving BACK again on Sunday morning to be at work by 11 a.m.  I think he only spent about $250 in fuel - not to mention how exhausted he must have been - but he did it all with a smile!  I still owe him sexual favors for this, I'm sure. 
Anyway, the wedding was Friday night and was to be outside on the beach.  It stormed the whole.  freakin. trip. down.  We anxiously kept checking the forecast on our phones and it looked rough.  We began  to wonder if there was a Plan B.  Pshhhhhh.  Please.  So we crossed our fingers and hoped for the best. 

We arrived at the "NO PETS" hotel early Friday afternoon, with Baron in tow.  I could not stand to leave that sweet precious baby by himself and I figured my awesome beach bag would do the trick for sneaking him in and out.  We met my brother and his sweet gf at the hotel and Operation Doxie Sneak-In commenced.  After some ridiculous maneuvering around, we finally got the little pup-pup up into the room.  I promised my bro that he wouldn't bark and Baron immediately pranced out onto the balcony and started woofing down some seagulls.  Whoops.

Trust me - it looks totally natural when you're walking.  HA.

The four of us had a cocktail or two and reviewed our individual wedding duties - KB (KB = bro) was to give a toast/introduction, I was the official photographer for the event and was to read everyone's advice/well wishes cards aloud at the ceremony, and KB's gf was the official "bubble girl".  We couldn't help but laugh at the bubble wands...  though they matched the color scheme perfectly, their uncanny resemblence to a giant turquoise schlong and/or a lightsaber was too funny to ignore!

honestly what would you think?

We headed over to Mom's condo a smidge early so I could get some "before" shots (that's pictures, not jager bombs).  Being the official photographer has it's perks - I was let in on one of the biggest ceremony surprises beforehand...  my uncle had been ordained and would be performing the ceremony!  Now this is awesome for several reasons.  #1) It's just so dang sweet.  My uncle is a tough and proud purple-hearted Marine, but when it comes to his family he is such a softy.  #2)  He loves to party.  He loves Budweiser.  He once told me (and my Grandmother, with whom he was arguing at the time) that he hated water and hadn't had a single sip of it for two years.  For whatever reason, when we would all take big family trips together he would get stuck driving me, my brother, and my grandmother.  Now that I am older, I totally understand why he used a cooler full of ice-cold Bud as his armrest.  Anyway, as we were doing some last minute prep, UT (my uncle) sat quietly on the sofa reviewing his sermon (and finishing a little brewskie) and then when it was announced to me that he would be performing the ceremony he proudly proclaimed, "I haven't even been drinking beer today!"  I glanced over at his empty can on the coffee table and then looked at his smiling little face and said, "Cool UT!"  (What he MEANT was that he hadn't been drinking on the beach all day with the rest of the fam.  I got your back UT!)

Rev. UT poppin' a cork pre-ceremony - hey it's not beer!

Oh and did I mention that UT's robe had a custom pirate scarf?  Perfection.

you may kiss the bride - ARGHHH!

The ceremony itself was lovely.  Miraculously the rain held off and the sun came out for the rest of the afternoon.

The whole crew ready for the bride and groom



Highlights of the reception include Rev. Ted telling my precious aunt to watch her behavior because she's "a minister's wife for God's sake", a toasty Tish (who's been friends with my mom for 47 years, literally) taunting my sweet bf into dancing with her and then mortifying both of us when she shouted across the reception hall that "he must be good in bed", and the mommy and baby toilets in the reception hall bathroom.

he's such a sport!

yes, as the night wore on, they were used simultaneously.

Oh yes and aside from all that fun, the bride and groom did a sand ceremony that involved everyone, Mom's new hubs sang her a song that he wrote for her himself (so sweet), and the toasts were very heartfelt.  My favorite thing (which I don't think was one of the planned "activities") was that a week or two before the wedding, Mom requested that everyone send a song to her to be put on the playlist for the night.  As each couple's song came on they got up and danced to it.  It was really fun to listen to the first part of the song and kinda try to guess who's song it was.  Very cool.

So we had lots of cocktails throughout the course of the night and by the time we got back to the hotel we had just enough energy to sneak Baron out to potty, shove some pizza in our faces, and pass out in time for Lane (BF) to get about 47 minutes of sleep before he had to get back on the road to go to work for the day. 

My beer induced coma peaceful slumber was interrupted shortly after Lane left by a dancing little dachshund just aching to go outside.  It was 9:30 a.m. and as soon as I shoved his pudgy butt into my beach bag and opened the door, housekeeping was bringing the heat.  I had to run down the hall and hide by the ice machine until the elevator was empty.  I snuck on and managed to go down ONE freakin' floor (we were on the 8th) and when the doors slid open, two more merry maids greeted me with a cheerful "mind if we ride down with ya?!"  Ummm yes.  I kinda do.  I managed to blurt out, "I'm getting off here anyway" and shove past them with my twenty pound wiggling beach bag in tow.  I finally conceeded to walking down the remaining seven flights of stairs and got the little baby outside in time to avoid a big doxie dump rollling around in my bag.  I guess my mind was too clouded with residual hopps and barley to think it all the way through, because I didn't consider that once Bear-bear's business outside was done, I didn't really have a non-stair way to get him back to the room. 

O.  M.  G.  Eight mother freakin' flights of stairs.  Doesn't sound like much, does it?  Well, IT IS.  And aside from being grossly out of shape, add in a raging hangover and a chunky squriming dachshund in a bag that is ripping your shoulder straight out of it's socket, and I'm here to tell you that it's a recipe for a 29 year-old's first mini-stroke.  By the time I got to the sixth floor, I was seeing stars.  I managed to work through the jello legs by the seventh floor, and by the time I burst through the door to the eigth floor hallway, I could have given a fuck less if housekeeping was there to bust me with Baron or not.  It was brutal, but we managed to make it back to the room undetected.  Even the sun shines on a dog's ass every now and then, right?  Well, not if it's stuffed in a beach bag I guess...

The rest of the weekend was awesome.  Spent some time during the day on Saturday chilling by the pool with friends and fam, and then we all went out to a lovely dinner at a beautiful place called "The Garlic" on Saturday night.  Well, I say it was lovely...  and it was, but my judgement would be based strictly on the atmosphere and the drinks, because out of a group of TWENTY FIVE, mine was the only dinner that they forgot.  Oh well.  I'm sure I didn't need that seafood cannelloni anyway. 

I'M STARVING!!!



All in all it was a great weekend and a great way to celebrate the start of a new chapter of my Mom's life.  I loved spending time with my family, and especially getting to be all goofy and fun with my bro and his lady.  I do NOT miss toting a baby boy puppy in and out in a beach bag however...  that reminds me - I meant to look into stairclimbers...

I'd truck up 20 flights for that face!