Some people claim that there's a woman to blame

It's not Mary's fault that she married into a vast publishing empire of some sort. But when she writes to me from a recent junket to South Beach, I can't help but feel she is deliberately pouring salt water into my wounds. I used to live on South Beach and it is no secret that my current life in Middle America is but a hellish shadow of the sun, fun and margarita-soaked days I spent there as a childless, barefoot and arroz-con-pollo stuffed beach babe. Not that mommy blames you.

Even so, I am gracious with the tips when Mary asks.

I give her the names of places only the locals know. I tell her what to pack, what to order and how to get past the bouncers at the gay dance clubs. I pretend to be happy for her.

Then she starts e-mailing me from Margaritaville.

"The sun is so bright it hurts my eyes!" she writes on Day One.

"How much do you tip a cabana boy?" she wants to know on Day Two.

"Tropical fish are nibbling at me," she complains on Day Three.

On Day Four I decide I will walk down the street to her house and teach her kids some Miami gangsta rap.  The kindergartner catches on fast. She is adorable.   

"The margarita I had at lunch is making me so sleepy," she whines on Day Five. By Day Six, I am thinking about having sex with her husband when they get back. At the very least I will stuff a red bra under the seat of his car. 

But I don't. After all, it's not like she is ever going to get into those clubs. Also, the red bra is one of my my favorites.

She brings me back a souvenir coffee mug.  Hah!  So Funny Mary! I can laugh now because you are back in Smallville and I am drinking margaritas at a salty little beach bar just off the interstate out by the Super Target.

Also, I know where you live.

Cheers,

 

- SK

More from the Something About Mary archives: Your Cardigan Says Merry Christmas But Your Pedicure Says Ho, Ho, Ho

Comments

[MommyTime]

I had a fantastic margarita in a bowl-shaped glass the size of my head the other day. I wasn't anywhere near the beach and was barely even near the outdoors (do open windows in a tiny midwestern town count?), but I am here to vouch that a really good margarita tastes very very fine almost anywhere. So at least you have that. It's small consolation, I realize. But at least if you drink a bowlful, you get to the point where it no longer matters to you that you aren't at the beach. ;)

[Suburban Kamikaze]

I suppose that is what the proprietors of the Interstate Crab Shack are counting on.

SK

[kd]

Awww, SK, I thought you were finally liking it after 5 years "up here" as you so frequently say. After that amount of time, you might want to consider saying "here" instead. As in "you are here." It may suck, and it may be raining today, but here you are. Cheers!

[Sue]

C'mon up by me for a few days. We'll have some nice margaritas to go with our breaded-and-deep-fried-cheese-curds, and you will forget all about that hot and muggy Florida place where the insects and the alligators are the same size.

[Suburban Kamikaze]

I am guessing deep-fried cheese curd is one of those foods that tastes a lot better than it sounds? Or else you make a really impressive margarita.

SK

[Sue]

Actually, I couldn't bring myself to try them until last year and they are pretty good. You get your choice of ranch or bbq sauce with them. I'm not touching the unfried ones, though; they look scary, all bunched up in a bag looking slightly fused.
Hmmm, now that I think of it, my poor daughter and several of her friends once spent a sad hour or so on spring break in that godforsaken Florida place looking for cheese curds and no one, not even Dairy Queen, had them in any form. They had no idea that cheese curds weren't available everywhere.
Sorry, my margaritas come from a bottle of Jose Cuervo premix. On the rocks, of course.

[foolery]

On the bright side: an opaque mug for Mama's DON'T-DRINK-THAT-THAT'S-MAMA'S-COFFEE, um, coffee.