I may have mentioned once or seventeen times that I was born, raised and still live in western New York and that everyone in my immediate family up and scampered for greener, warmer, prettier, gamblier, Golden-Gate-Bridgier pastures long ago. My parents moved down to Southern Pines, North Carolina, my brother to Las Vegas and my sister to San Francisco.

Leaving me to rhyme out loud WHAT THE HELL? DO I SMELL? all by myself in western New York in the dead of several winters to anyone who would listen which was no one because everyone either abandoned me for greener, warmer, prettier, gamblier, Golden-Gate-Bridgier pastures or stayed put and froze to death.

For awhile, I took it personally.

Then I realized that my family moving to those places meant that I was going to have some pretty awesome places to visit because leaving your high-strung, uptight kin who already suffers from abandonment issues thanks to a five day stint in the neo-natal unit at birth because her twin brother hogged all the umbilical cords in utero which left her malnourished and tense and questioning her place in this cruel world, means that you are morally and ethically obligated to let her visit you anytime she wants.

You’re probably legally obligated to as well but I’m too lazy to look it up.

Then I thanked my parents and my brother and sister for not moving to Buffalo or Camden, New Jersey or anywhere in Pennsylvania.

This is the little train station that sits smack dab in the middle of Southern Pines.

Can you even stand it?

There’s something so Fried-Green-Tomato-ish about it, don’t you think?

Except there’s no Whistle Stop Cafe and no Idgie or Ruth or Big George stirring a pot of steaming hot barbecue, presumably with bloody remnants of a murdered wife beater’s corpse floating around in it.

The train pulls in almost every night around between 11:00 p.m., and midnight with its whistle echoing past the shops, through the town and all the way into the spare bedroom windows of my parents’ house.

It’s a comforting sound, almost like the town is welcoming me home, wishing me a good night and whispering to me not to let the bed bugs bite and then softly laughing because it knows all too well that no bed bugs will be biting since I inspected every inch of our hotel room the previous night before I’d let Nate and the kids unwrap themselves or the luggage from the shrink wrap.

I love that train whistle.

Except when I’m exhausted from a full day of driving to and from Myrtle Beach, narrowly escaping Jaws, losing at Scrabble three times in a row to my mother who can’t keep her grubby little hands off the triples and then repeatedly explaining to my husband that no, we cannot have sex anywhere in the entire state of North Carolina because my parents might hear us and no, you only wish the whistle was that loud and yes, actually, it would be the end of the world since they still think we ordered the kids from the Pottery Barn catalogue. Then, and only then, does the train whistle irritate me to the point of yelling FOR GOD’S SAKE, I DON’T GIVE TWO SHITS THAT YOU ARE ARRIVING, WHOEVER YOU ARE.

Unless you are Anderson Cooper, in which case, I very much give two shits that you are arriving. Three, even.

Every good southern town needs its own ice cream shop.

And it absolutely has to be on a corner and have “parlor” somewhere in its name or it simply doesn’t count.

Somewhere out there is a town zoning board with my name on it. Spelled correctly, in big neon lights, with the words “smart, talented and gorgeous” prefacing it.

Not that I’ve given it much thought.

This is Green Goods, an eco-friendly store right on Main Street.

It’s where my mother, an avid fan of recycling herself, bought me this fork bracelet a few years ago.

Is this not the coolest thing?

It almost made me forget about earlier that day when she smacked me upside the head for tossing an aluminum lid into the trash can instead of the recycle bin.

Almost.

She’s freakishly strong for her age.

I thought this would look amazing in Zoe’s dorm room at college next year! Except, what is up with all the Yoo-Hoo? Couldn’t they have thirsted for something a little more color-coordinated?

OH MY GOD I REMEMBERED SOMETHING.

Twenty plus years ago, when my ex-husband Dave and I were looking for our first home, we went to an open house that was advertised as having a second family room in the finished basement. The realtor showing the house would not shut up the entire time we were there and as we walked downstairs into the basement, he yammered on loudly and enthusiastically about the brand new wall-to-wall carpeting and bar, both installed by the bachelor who owned the house.

Poor guy. He was probably hoping that we’d never even notice that the walls were covered, from floor to ceiling, with thousands and thousands of empty beer cans.

The sheer amount of blood, sweat and cirrhosis that went into those walls was impressive, to say the least. That is, if I could have said anything at all, which I couldn’t, since I was pretty much rendered speechless.

One of the few times in my life that that has ever happened.

Another time was when my mucus plug dropped out of nether regions and splashed  into the toilet.

Just to give you some perspective.

Look at what else they sell!

PooPooPaper!

Believe it or not, this stuff was actually kind of cute and hey, talk about re-purposing!

I do believe I might have found Oliver’s calling in life. Who knew pooping behind the couch could one day be considered a humanitarian effort?

I wound up not buying any of the PooPooPaper because then I’d have had to bring it back to mother’s house and she’d be all Well, isn’t that just the niftiest idea? And I’d be all Yep! And before you know it, someone would be all OH MY GOD, IS THAT A COLANDER IN THE DAMN TOILET? And then frantically rifling through a desk in search of a valid Power of Attorney to get her mother committed.

These are my new Keens. Child size 4.

They have nothing to do with my love of Southern Pines. I just like ‘em. Even though my kids hate them and think they make my feet look like somebody beat them to death with an ugly stick.

And no, I have no idea where the entire right side of my shorts are. They were there when I put them on in the morning.

Corfu, the best Greek food in Southern Pines, bar none.

Well, except my mom’s own kitchen.

Unfortunately, not everyone is lucky enough to eat dolmades and pastitscio and avgolemono and kourabiethes in my mom’s kitchen but really, Corfu is the next best thing.

And bonus! Corfu doesn’t stuff their toilets with strainers or slap their customers when they accidentally throw recyclables into the trash or sneak cigarettes in their bathrooms under the guise that it helps them with their bowel movements.

Trust me, their food is much better than their spelling.

Speaking of food, can’t you just smell the fried green tomatoes?

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While we were down in North Carolina visiting my parents, we decided to take a day trip to Myrtle Beach. It was a two and a half hour drive from my parents’ house and even though I detest driving longer than thirty minutes at a time, I took charge of the wheel and let everyone else sleep during the ride.

Just call me a thoughtful and courteous human being! With a husband who had a headache and a teenager whose learner’s permit was only valid in New York and a ten year old who can’t drive anything but me to drink.

Or you can just call me a martyr and get it over with already!

Your choice.

We got there about half-past WHO’S THE IDIOT WHO FORGOT THE SNACKS? I’M STARVING so we bought lunch before we did anything else because while Helena couldn’t wait to dive into the ocean, I couldn’t wait to dive into a low calorie turkey burger without a bun so I could pretend it was a quadruple cheeseburger dripping with grease, fat and angioplasty.

Then we hit the beach.

And by hit the beach, I mean one of us gingerly touched her bottom to the ocean and shrieked IT’S C-C-C-C-COLD before throwing caution to the wind and flinging herself into the frigid water while two others collapsed onto beach towels in a desperate attempt to soak up as much skin cancer as possible and the last one waded into the water up to her ankles to take this shot, only to regret it moments later when a small wave pushed half the ocean’s contents up her legs, past her underwear and straight into her hoo ha, giving her what amounted to a massive salt water douche that could potentially kill sperm from ten years ago.

This is your lot in life when you are built like an Oompa Loompa.

I bet my fallopian tubes are still peppered with tiny sea shells and look like those little macaroni necklaces kids make for Mother’s Day in preschool.

Nothing says I Love You Mommy like some blinged out reproductive organs hanging around your neck!

I think it was just about is-it-raining-sweat-or-am-I-having-a-hot-flash o’clock when we bought some ice cream and walked on the pier and looked down into the water and saw this …

Somebody squealed Hey, look! Cool! A Shark!

The squeal may have come from one or both of my kids. I’m not sure. I was busy having a small myocardial infarction.

Somebody else shrieked SHAAAAAAARK! SHAAAAAARK! OH MY GAWWWWWWWWD, HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT, SHAAAAAAAAAAAARK!

Don’t ask me who because I have no idea.

Don’t ask my kids either.

I can’t tell you what happened next because I was too busy grabbing Nate and the girls and pinning them to the deck with my body while screaming WE’RE GONNA NEED A BIGGER BOAT and frantically looking about for a scuba tank that I could shove into the shark’s mouth and shoot with a rifle to blow the monster to bloody smithereens.

Why don’t piers come equipped with scuba tanks and rifles and Valium for just these situations?

And by the way, wouldn’t this whole premise make an awesome movie?

I should write a script. I’d make millions!

And then maybe I’ll invent the VCR and make zillions! Bajillions, even!

Thanks to the tourists standing to our left who were busy tossing their homemade chum concoction of leftover hamburger and crab cake and stupidity into the water with as much splashing as possible, our friend was soon joined by three of his friends.

I’d have gotten a photo of all of them thrashing and frolicking about but I may or may not have been passed out at the time. At the very least, I was traumatized by the thought of how close we came to becoming chum ourselves had one of us not had the presence of mind to exit the water, jump into menopause and demand an ice cream on the pier to ward off a long, slow, painful death by hot flash.

You know, as opposed to a short, quick painful death by Jaws and Company.

Who knew schizophrenic hormones could be so fortuitous?

Who knew I knew how to use big words like fortuitous?

A visual, to give you a rough idea as to how close we came to our own immortality.

In case you couldn’t tell, I’m the one with the mad Photoshop skilz!

And freakishly short legs atop a sopping wet, invisible wedgie.

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We’re taking a little trip down south to see my parents this month which means I’m trying to get all the laundry done which is a euphemism for 67 PAIRS OF UNDERWEAR? SERIOUSLY? DO WE OWN KIDS THAT I DON’T KNOW ABOUT?

I also have to make sure that the following is done before we leave:

• Show our house/dog sitter how to operate our home alarm system.

• Introduce our house/dog sitter to our local police department so that when he inevitably forgets to disengage the alarm by pressing the correct button out of the 324 available ones on the main console and then opens the garage door to take Ollie out to potty and all the windows in the neighborhood spontaneously explode from the deafening roar of the alarm and the police arrive with sirens blaring and lights flashing, they’ll recognize him and not shoot him and then we can avoid that whole awkward, excessive force/mistaken-identity/negligent homicide trial ordeal and I won’t have to worry about a grudge-filled future where I call 911 because I’m being attacked and instead of a black & white, they send a patrol car filled with Jehovah’s Witnesses to save me.

• Create a power point presentation whereby our house/dog sitter can familiarize himself with all 43 of our remotes and the various electronics they control, as well as their corresponding How To Use Me Without Blowing Anything Up manuals.

• Introduce our house/dog sitter to our local fire department, just in case.

• Update all of our season tickets on all of our TVs so that when we get back, we have approximately 3,622 hours of TV with which to waste time and avoid responsibility. And when I say “we” I mean … well, no need to bore you with the details.

• Stop by Aunt VeVe’s house to get the jigsaw puzzles that she picked up for Mom and Dad so that we can bring them down there with us so that every day my mother can ask Wasn’t that nice of Aunt VeVe to pick these jigsaw puzzles up for us? and every day Aunt VeVe can call down there and ask Did Andy bring you those jigsaw puzzles I picked up for you? and every day Dad can yell DO I EVEN LIKE JIGSAW PUZZLES? whenever he enters the kitchen.

• Get Helena a new bathing suit, one that is not made by Hoochie Mamas ‘R Us.

• Explain the meaning of hoochie-mama to Helena.

• Clean our house from top to bottom, install hardwoods and apply a fresh coat of paint to all the walls so that in case we die on vacation, I won’t have to look down from Heaven and holler SHUT THE HELL UP, ALREADY. YOU TRY KEEPING IT LOOKING GOOD WITH TWO KIDS AND A DOG WHO THINKS POOPING BEHIND THE COUCH IS AN OLYMPIC SPORT. THE DOG, NOT THE KIDS to the new owners.

What do you do to prepare for vacation?

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