jesus is my barista

I come to you today from Latte Litchfield in South Carolina, where the partner and I vacation with her parents annually. We're not actually vacationing at the coffee house but at a beach house about a half mile from here, a house that, as it turns out, has Internet access--sadly, that feature wasn't advertised in the brochure, so we didn't bring our laptop. Question: Had you a beach house to rent, which features would you highlight in addition to the obvious, i.e. oceanfront beach access, A/C, and the like? For instance, if it had an elevator and wireless Internet, would you gloss those amenities and instead use your precious brochure space to talk up the plantation shutters?

That being said, Internet access is only 10 cents per minute here at Latte Litchfield, and I get to sip a delicious java chip blended mocha as I blog, so all is well. Besides, last year the rental computers were located smack underneath two giant Ten Commandments tablets mounted on the wall. The tablets are still here, but the computers have been moved across the room. Still, I'll do my best to post morally. What would Jesus write?

While Jesus, with a hard e, is certainly at home here in S.C., Hay-suse is not. Yesterday at the Piggly Wiggly I asked the deli ladies where I could find tortillas. "You mean chips?" asked one of them. "No, tortillas, like for burritos and stuff." The ladies furrowed their brows and shook their heads at each other, like I had asked for something as rare and unappetizing as cow spit.

We did eventually find a small Mexi-Asian section, the cuisines being very similar, you know, and against our better judgement bought a package of pillowy Old El Paso flour tortillas (the only option available), the kind that are so processed they never really expire, like Twinkies. So anathema to a girl born and raised in Southern California.

On the drive out (we generally fly into the in-laws' home city then drive to the coast) we once again interacted with the lawmen of Springfield, about 100 miles from the coast, where I was pulled over for speeding last year. This time it was a routine driver's license checkpoint, which nevertheless resulted in a fair amount of knee-slapping over the fact that we had come all this way to go to the beach. "You took yourselves a wrong turn somewhere!" said one of the officers.

My California license saved me a ticket last year. "California!" the officer who pulled me over exclaimed when I handed it over, then asked, "If I give you a ticket, will you promise to pay it?" That "if I give you a ticket" part made it seem optional to me, so I answered, "Well, officer, I would prefer not to get the ticket." He slapped my registration and license against his wrist and, to my everlasting surprise, handed it back to me with an admonition to "Take it easy from here on out." I thought I was all cute, having charmed my way out of a ticket, until my partner told me that the officer was weighing whether to arrest me to ensure payment.

So, no trouble with the law, and the swimsuit is performing like a champ: The mastectomy suit is the single greatest invention since seamless undiepants. Ooh, and we swam with dolphins yesterday! Or rather dolphins passed by roughly 25 feet from where we were swimming. And even I'm not too jaded to squeal with delight when dolphins leap through the ocean within my spitting distance--you know, if I were a whale, with a blow hole in my skull.

Three days passed. Four to go. Hope to check in again soon.