Sea Island (the above is a picture of the Cloister, not anyone's house!)

Again, paradise, plain and simple. It's amazing how many people have never heard of Sea Island. Mention that the G-8 Summit was held there and Davis Love III is the golf pro will NOT help the situation. I will confess that I had never been until college and HOLY COW is it fancy. Dinner on Saturday night requires tuxedo, Bingo is a coat-and-tie affair and designers abound. BUT, in true Southern style, you can always run into the most chic of men and women bumming around in flip-flops, boat shoes and ratty beach clothes when not dressing to impress.

The saddest part of the trip...I missed Bingo! For those not in the know, Bingo is the most fabulous of traditions. Spencer and Hope introduced me to this and it's a family affair. Daddy continues to protest MIGHTILY (I'm too old for this; it's a kids thing; it's too late; I have a tee-time, blah blah blah). I just tell him he's practicing for taking the grandkids to which he replies-"I'll never have grandkids-I have a three pound dog and that's it for grandkids." Sheesh-let me finish graduate school first :) Besides, Bingo rocks. Alcohol is VERY MUCH a part of the evening and grown-ups may be seen knocking them back as their kids compete for decent cash rewards. I once won a bottle of champagne at the Forest Lake Club bingo game but I was 9 so they passed it along-sigh...

Sorry, Sea Island Bingo! It's run by 'Billy Bingo' who is an institution himself. It's probably a sad reflection on the length of time my stepsibs have spent down there but Spence honestly knows EVERY SINGLE PHRASE to be uttered. 'Couple of Ducks' (22), 'Thirty-two skadoo' or something, 'my old football jersey number' 'a couple of good looking legs' (11), and the list continues. Yes, this should be annoying but it's just charming and good family fun. Apparently Barb almost won the jackpot (SO CLOSE!!!!) the best part is the milk and cookies set up for afterwards. Not to obsess on food but it brings back fond Ilahee days....

Having missed Bingo fun I settled for Debi Boot Camp. Now D is a fitness marvel. that woman is *roughly* twice my age (I must be 15) and could kick my ass all over the gym and back. Every morning (thanks jet lag), I woke up just in time for coffee and workout. Luckily my knee popped out and prevented any more strenous workouts after Day 1-such a shame. Actually it totally sucks but what can you do? On the flip side of Debi Boot camp was Camp Gilbert. Barb and RC acted like kids at sleep away camp. There was tennis, golf lessons, shooting lessons, coffee at the veranda, nature walks, sauna, property drives-they had a little intinerary and entertained themselves!

The best part of Sea Island-first time to see Bard and RC, the rents, H&S, AT&T (brother and wife), E-beth (Spence's girlfriend) and myself all in the same location since my brother's wedding. We are nothing if not a loud group and mutal great fun was enjoyed over copious amounts of champagne and nippy boat rides (Dad's little gift to himself). I hated only being there for a few days but it was worth it for family time and to celebrate Dad's B-I-G 6-0! He he he. I might be out of the will now.

As with all Southern things, God forbid we did not stock enough food in the pantry to feed Patton's entire army plus the enemy. Dad must have some latent and hidden love for red velvet cake because not one but TWO appeared over the weekend. For the unknowing, Red Velvet cake is a grand old tradition with the following ingredients: shortening or butter, eggs, cocoa (or not), LOTS o' sugar, red food dye, milk and some vanilla. It's a double-layered cake with a cream-cheese icing. WARNING: If you are diabetic or have thought of becoming one, don't even be in the same room. It will kill you. Steel Magnolias had a fabulous Red Velvet Cake in wedding scene. The groom's aunt made the groom's cake in the shape of a gray armadillo with the red interior-yick!
The cutest thing about my dad, other than his penchant for 'pearls of wisdom' and self-eprecating humor (we're nothing alike, I swear) is his embarrasment at being the center of attention (see, clearly not my dad). We went to Ocean Forrest for his birthday dinner and I think he was honestly a bit steamed when we all sang to him. He HATES opening gifts in front of a crowd and likes watching other people have fun around him. Hmmmmm, apple, tree...one of the best things about my family is their ability to totally ignore his wants and wishes and make as big of a damn fuss as they wish.
Another great thing about Dad is he puts up with hyper-active, aimlessly wondering daughters. I can't golf for shit and am in fact banned from the course unless I get better so Dad and I find other ways to bond. We both love the water but with 8 houseguests and a new boat, it was like the SS Minnow everytime we left the dock. We sort of developed a 'coffee-talk' over the holidays because jet lag had me hopping at 7:30 and Daddy has tee times. It's funny the things that always stick with you because parties, dinner and presents can kind of fall away after a while I can always remember things like sitting by the deck and chatting, or walking around 'Dad's Domain' as I refer to his backyard (he has continual ideas on how to fix lawn problems-they mostly work) and talking, or watching the golf, bouncing along the roads at Milaree. Sometimes it's a bit of awkward silence as if we both have to remember what the other person is actually interested in talking about (!) but there it is. This trip was an hour by the pool in the sun.

Although the visit was WAY too short and I didn't visit the Crystal Burger near I-95 (probably the reason I'm still here), it was a fabulous 48 hours of catching up, long beach walks, great conversations and a return to the good life. I found myself DESPERATELY hanging onto that as I boarded the plane back to England. To recap:
1) At check-in, LaShonda, in her 300 pound glory, sheparded me over to the domestic flight self check-in. In an attempt to follow the rules, I pointed out that I was 'international'. actually, first I said, "I'm flying to London." this brought, "London, KY? This way." "No, England, I'm flying internationally, out of the country, not in the US of A." She took this to mean i was confused about my destination and tried to 'help' me through the process. I had wanted to shoot for an upgrade but LaShonda was not having me miss out on the learning fun of using self check-in. Now, I generally try to avoid being a snotty twenty-something and point out that I have YEARS of solo travel under my belt to odd destinations and can, in fact, operate a check-in machine. This was not to be one of those times. First I insert my credit card, bring up my flights, which she referred to as: "Oh, is THAT where you are going? You should have been in that line (which she had yanked me from)." No shit Sherlock. Sorry Mama, but I was leaving a fabulous weekend and boring a wicked long flight back to a cold country only to return in three weeks on another long flight. I was NOT in the mood to suffer fools.
2) After nearly canceling my reservation, she starts picking out my seats. In the middle. Is she crazy? NO ONE wants the middle seat, let alone on an 8-hour flight. Before I could change back, my original seat was gone and I had to settle in what I later found to be a partially reclining adventure directly in front of the toilet area, both of them. One of which broke halfway though the flight but people continued to use (I found this out from a flight attendant later).
3) I hate connecting. It's irritating and avoidable at all costs. Rushing through Charlotte, I climbed into my booster/smelly seat and prayed for at least an empty row. This hasn't happened yet and why whould today be an exception? My seat companion for the evening was a gentleman who rivaled George Foreman in size and Muhammed Ali in speaking ability. He hailed from an African country but I couldn't sneak a look at his passport long enough to determine exactly which (I'm getting good at 'Guess the Country'). Without so much as a 'Hello, I'll be squashing you all night' he set arms akimbo. Okay, Arms Akimbo in a small area equals he managed to deflate a breast and shove me up against the window, where I remained contorted and highly torqued for 7.6 hours. The loo situation didn't help and I must say that I was in quite the piss-ripper of a mood somewhere over Iceland. His left leg invaded my leg room so I was accordioned up around his limbs like a highly pissed Slinky. Plus he snored. Plus he never got up so I could get up. My knee started seizing somewhere past Iceland and I was cramped, in pain, twitching and damn near ready to go vigilant on his ass.
4) The man in front of me, one of a reasonable height, had no seat partner! He did look back at my predicament as he lazed across 24A AND B and sort of gamely grinned as he levered the seat in front of me into a full tilt before lowering his eyeshades and snoozing happily into the Land of Nod. I almost let me inner four-year-old yank on his seat back and slap my tray table. With my range of movement now totally restricted I sat back and 'enjoyed' the flight. Somewhere over the beginnings of England I finally jammed an arm into my seat companion in a bid to sit up. He looked shocked but I persevered and reclaimed two inches of space. VICTORY IS MINE!
5) I got off the plane smelling like broken toilet and unwashed strange man rather than Dove and Lolita Lempicka. I was waiting for SAS to pick me up but for their sake Customs was a breeze. A hop, skip and a train to a cab ride home later I 100% crashed.


Sea Island-AWESOME; flight back-not so good. I'm still reinflating my right side and the knee has taken on it's own genre of pain but who can be blue with a great house and famly to go home to!