The Brute Squad

Two strong and not very silent friends are on their way over to do the grunt work of expanding our patio. I was hoping to be able to help but Mrs. Boss is out of town on Eastern Star business (Mr. Boss calls it "cross burning," I don't think they actually do that for real, but it sounds funny) so I have to work. Boo. I'd much rather get dirty and haul patio blocks or shovel gravel than sit in the dive shop waiting for someone to come in and buy something. I should have been a laborer instead of a girl. In my day (wow, that makes me sound old) girls weren't laborers, they were... well, they were ladies and you'd better bet that the twain never met. Now you can be both. Oh, here are the Brutes, gotta go.

I'm back. We went and bought the pavers, 18" squares in plain gray--45 of 'em, and I moved the birdfeeders, etc. off the patio, now I'm stuck at work while all the fun stuff's happening at home. Durwood's not a very good reporter and he likes to tease so phone calls aren't very satisfying. Guess I'll just have to wait until after 5 pm to see what's what. I did remember to ask him to take pictures of the process, not the dirty, sweaty men, just the digging, graveling, and paving. I'm excited to have more patio so we can sit out there and grill at the same time.

May 17--Jerba Island, Tunisia. It looked like a postcard or a movie set. Carole stood in the entrance to the resort grounds thinking it had been a huge mistake to come here. She was more the type to rent a bungalow or a studio, to shop in the local market, and ride her rented bicycle to explore the island than loll around a pool and eat in restaurants tree times a day. So far every staff member she had seen since she got out of the taxi out front could have come from Central Casting. She felt her shoulders tense at the thought of being trapped for five days in the artificially festive atmosphere here peopled by genetically engineered Tunisians so as not to offend Western sensibilities. She wanted a little dust, a little noise, and the sounds of bartering in the souk, not the three o'clock limbo contest and feeling she had to be sure she got a good spot at the swim-up bar for sundowners. She was going to strangle her sister Camille, who had arranged the trip. It was all too fake and Disney-esque for her tastes and she wouldn't hesitate to say it.

So, when you travel are you a Carole or a Camille? I'm a Carole; can you tell? I'd like to be a Camille sometimes but I get bored with the lolling and the dressing up for meals and the falsely peppy fun engineers or whatever those relentlessly cheery people at resorts are called. Ugh.
--Barbara