by George

Hilton Head was a blast! The five hour car ride with Irene and Gena filled with incessant chatter about nothing of any interest to anyone; the condescending comments about my beliefs and faith, and the repeat on the return home, are some of my best memories! Dining in Harbor Town on glorious shrimp while Gena weighed-in with raised eyebrow as the waiter brought me another - and o’ so necessary - glass of wine was spectacular! Tour of Homes was grand; beautifully crafted homes on the golf course filled with fake ivy, woven baskets packed with everything from painted wooden lemons to recent copies of Southern Living, and the Laura Ashley prints looked like something, well, out of Southern Living! Meeting Chip was so exciting; gracious southern gentleman, attorney no doubt, and part-time golfer, with the Ralph Lauren sport sock tan line to prove it, was clearly enamored with your looks and charm. But watching you and your mother circle him like two vultures while contemplating your cougar-like ambushes, and witnessing the delivery of your phone number, and later taking his calls in our home, was the cherry on the ice cream I never wanted!


George is writing to relieve the pressure in her head, because the Advil isn’t working, and a gun is out of the question.