_It’s Sunday at the Lake with Donna. I was going to say close your eyes and allow me to transport you here with my words, but if you close your eyes you can’t read this, so it kind of defeats the point.
I am sitting on the deck of our houseboat wearing bejeweled sunglasses, plaid, flannel pajama bottoms, and a silk caftan. I’m barefoot and will remain that way since I somehow misplaced my shoes last night. M was turning 32, a fact we didn’t know until we arrived, so were unprepared. But the residents of Royalty’s Fishing Camp are a resourceful bunch. For a present, our neighbor contributed Vicadin and Loratab. I found perfume samples in miniature baggies. We put one pill in with each vial of Midnight in Morocco, FrouFrou, and Romantica. Happy Birthday!
Frank is sunning on the slip with our dogs, basking in the pride of getting our new marine toilet installed. It sounds like a freight train every time you flush, but it’s a small price to pay not have to walk all the way through spider alley to the bathroom on the dock. He looks like a giant turtle that’s lost it’s shell. Maybe it’s with my shoes.
George Thorogood is blaring from the speakers embedded in the ceiling...Bad to the Bone...ba-ba-ba-ba-bad. Thanks to the past owner being a perpetual bachelor party boy, there are no less than ten speakers throughout our three-room floating home. I take off my pants. A sudden breeze blows up my way-too-short-to-be-worn-in-public tunic. I thong flash a passing boater. He just waves proving my bare ass has become commonplace around here.
R pulls up and shows us his daily catch. Five big Bass. I smile and act impressed. I’m torn about fishing. Though I’m technically a pescetarian, I imagine that the fish on his string have left behind friends and family. It makes me sad to think about, so I don’t. I can eat the hell out of oysters, mussels, and clams without a bit of guilt. Mollusks don’t have friends.
The fairy sisters who are part of the Lake Lesbian contingency are going home early. Their respective girlfriends are returning from Baton Rouge this afternoon.
One yells over to M, who has the boat next door to us, “My honey’s getting home tonight.”
“Is your stuff throbbing?” he yells back, and continues stirring the cream gravy he’s making in an electric skillet on the deck.
“It’s too early for that kind of talk,” I declare, and add a shot of bourbon to my coffee.
Lake Law #46- 9:45 am is too early for vulgarity, but not whiskey.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.