Today was massage day and that’s always a favorite with this group. Eight of us signed up and two masseuses with really strong thumbs showed up at 10:00. We set one up in the spare bedroom and the second was on the lower deck by the firepit. I chose the inside room because who wants to flash everyone on the beach, well, besides Tres? But that’s sort of a given. Everyone certainly had that dazed look of the relaxed when they were through.
Tres’ masseuse asked if there was a name for our group. It’s not the first time we’ve been asked. When I used to travel to the Sweet Potato Queen parade as part of a group, we would be in tiaras and hideous queen bee vests that we picked up at Cracker Barrel, and my friend Debi Weaver would always answer the inquiry with a story about us being a group of cloggers on our way to a competition. I’m not sure that this band of misfits could ever be mistaken for cloggers. So, if this bunch had a group name, what would it be? The Dirty Dozen would work most years but we’ve only got ten this year. The Hateful Eight + Two? Twister Ten? The conversation degenerated, as it always does, when Tres piped up that our group should simply be ”We Ain’t Right.” Ding, ding, ding. And we have a winner, and it will be appropriate no matter how many people attend.
We had good old Texas steak for dinner. It’s bought and frozen at home, wrapped up and added to someone’s luggage and always superior to what you can find on the island. We’re usually ready for some red meat by mid-week. After dinner we played a dice game called Hot Dice or Farkle. It was a fun way to end the evening even though half the participants didn’t know any more about the rules of the game at the end than they did at the beginning…and one of those people came from behind to win. We ain’t right.