Alias.

Ah, vacation. A chance to rejuvenate, get some color on my pasty skin, and eat seafood. I'm talking our annual pilgrimage to meet up with family in Sanibel Island, Florida. Woot, woot. Only this time, four new people came along...

It's a lovely day on the lanai in our condo, and I'm overhearing my husband on the phone trying to book a boat rental and he's repeating his name way too often. "Bryan." (Pause) "No, it's Bryan." (longer pause) "Bryan...no just Bryan."

What was up with that? I ask. Apparently, they started a bit early at Jenson's Marina and had a wee bit of trouble understanding someone who is now booked for a pontoon rental tomorrow under the name Ron Bryan.

"I don't know..." Bryan says, perplexed, "I kept telling them my name isn't 'Ron', it's 'Bryan', but somehow they decided on 'Ron Bryan..."

My husband, now asserting himself in a more confident manner, decides to adopt this new persona with vigor. Grabbing me tightly around the waist and planting a very dramatic smooch on me, he declares in a baritone voice, "Ron Bryan kisses like that."

Turns out Ron Bryan does a lot of things different. He speaks of himself in the third person, he collects only the best shells, he orders beers with a thunderous bellow.

That afternoon as Ron Bryan, myself, and my parents sit in beach chairs on a quiet stretch of sand, my father sits staring out at the ocean.

"Dad?" I ask, a bit concerned.

"My name is Hawk." What the...? It's as if for the better part of his life he has waited for the chance to claim this. No hesitation, just 'Hawk'. And apparently he no longer answers to 'Dad', either.

"Well, I want a name too." My mother whines. "I'm Periwinkle...no, I'm Sandollar. Sandollar!"

My father looks at her, disgusted. "Hawk doesn't associate with someone named Sandollar." He scoffs. "Your name is Blade."

My mother, in her polka-dot bathing suit, sipping chardonnay, wrinkles her nose. "Blade? That doesn't sound like me-"

"BLADE. That's it." He interrupts. I guess 'Hawk' wasn't the only name he has given forethought to. I later am christened as Scout, and the fab four raise their plastic glasses in a toast to our new found secret lives.

"Blade broke her toe." My mother announced as she limped on the beach the next day. Hawk rolled his eyes and said, "What's new." Turns out the alias didn't protect Blade from wayward driftwood or a lifetime affliction of clumsiness.

Scout doubled over with laughter as Ron Bryan pulled her back onto the boat with the grace of a blind juggler. "Was Blade a ballerina in another life?"

Hawk chuckles at my comment as Blade glowers at me, "Oh, shut up."

The fab four conquer sharing appetizers, finishing 1000 piece puzzles, and being overall fabulous. We later return home to our normal lives; Ron Bryan mows the lawn and Scout sweeps up dog hair. The aliases becomes less visible as we blend into the day-to-day, until we are virtually one in the same.

My cell phone rings the next week and my mother, laughing, speaks dramatically into the receiver.

"Hawk is going to be so mad at Blade! I got pulled over for speeding! I only got a warning, but-"

Without hesitation, Scout reacts: "Your identity has been compromised!! Abort mission! ABORT MISSION!"

Until next year, Sanibel.

Yours,

Scout

Three's Company.

In my house I like clean counters, no cell phone chargers left out, and the air fresh with dryer sheets. That being said, when my husband's brother Brent moved in with us six months ago, I immediately imagined my small quaint home resembling something like a locker room. Sports. Beer. Ugh. When the two of them tried to tell me of the amount of football about to be on my television, I mourned. Men. I was outnumbered.

What had I done? Why did I agree to this? Wait. Is the dishwasher emptied? Brent! You are amazing. I was wrong. I inherited a neat freak! A neat freak who cooks!?! You have got to be kidding. My good fortune!

Things changed around our house. We sat down for dinner. Not in front of the TV. We used my table now, the three of us. Ribs, shark, bacon-wrapped jalepenos. Grilled for me almost every night. We talked about our days. Laughing a lot. We played board games on the deck, drinking margaritas.

The atmosphere in the house changed. I guess it kind of...woke up. Brent liked to prank, do stuff like hide behind doors scaring the heck out of me when I came home from work, or hijack my Facebook page. I hid his dinner on the bookshelf, which I thought was funny. And I made a life-size Mel Gibson and hid it in his bedroom. My greatest creation.

I don't know, but slowly it was like he had always been there. Someone that was just my brother-in-law before was now like...my buddy. I looked forward to hearing his police stories from work. I even kind of like the mounted hunting trophy's he hung up-though I made a rule that anything with eyes had to go in his room. I'm still a liberal from Massachusetts, after all.

Last month when their grandmother passed away Bryan, Brent and I drove 5 hours to go to the funeral. We joined the rest of the family and headed to the wake, or visitation I think it was called, the next day. I remember scanning the room full of relatives I didn't know for Bryan, to see if he was ok. I saw him chatting with someone, he was smiling, and I sighed and relaxed. Then immediately I did the same for Brent. It was like, Bryan is ok-check, Brent is ok-check. My family is ok-check. When they cried at the funeral, I felt an ache. When they are sad, so am I.

I don't know how long Brent will live with us. He'll get a wife, a home, and be happy. I foresee nothing but good things for him to come. He deserves it. I think I'll probably be really sad when it's time for him to go. Yeah, I know I will. My house will be too quiet. And who will tease me? Who will I make fun of? Bryan is too easy a target. And too nice. But for now, when I am doing a jigsaw puzzle, got some Ray Lamontagne on the radio, watching two brothers cracking each other up, asking me to make them homemade margaritas, I'm a happy gal.

Abby, our little lamb

She quietly lived while we busied ourselves around her. She loved to be relaxed, running did not come naturally. She preferred to stand tucked away in the woods watching safely from a distance when the gas man came to fill the tank. She wasn't especially lady-like, but she wasn't particularly sloppy either. She wasn't loud, demanding or moody. She was content. She was Abby, our Golden Retriever, and today she passed away.

My parents brought her home 14 years ago and she smelled like a barn. Her coat was the color of fall leaves. Her fur wasn't long and shiny like the Goldens on TV, instead it was kinda fuzzy like a teddy bear. After her first bath my mom wrapped her in a beach towel and she fell asleep like that in my arms. Mom named her Abby.

Our previous beloved Golden named Katie had recently passed on, and Katie lived for tennis balls. Fetch never ended for her, it only had intermissions. So naturally we bought Abby tennis balls, too. It was not for her. Abby preferred, even from a young age, to nap.

And so she grew, living a slow, peaceful existence all the while probably confused what the fuss was all about with the rest of us. My parents joked that she was like a sundial, moving her napping location as the sun moved around the house. Never a vain dog, she had no qualms about warming her exposed belly in the middle of our driveway.

When Abby was about 6 or 7 years old my parents went to Hawaii on vacation. I was told to take her to the groomers to get her first haircut because she was looking less like a teddy bear and more like a molting buffalo. So I dropped her off for a new 'do. Later that day, a nice lady smiled when I asked where my dog was, then gestured to the animal at the end of her leash. I was in shock, then I laughed until I couldn't laugh anymore. Abby, the russet haired chubby dog was gone and in her place was a thinner, platinum blonde animal with a disproportionately large, dark head, dark shins and feet. She had been given a crew cut, her long hair was now a 5 o'clock shadow. She looked, quite literally, like a lamb. I choked through gasps of laughter as I called my parents to tell them what they now had. It wasn't until they arrived home, got out of the car and Abby trotted to greet them that my dad fully understood how funny it really was. A bit chilly from the lack of coat, she spent the following spring sunbathing as on her back, legs spread. From then on we would call her "Little Lamb" every time she went back to the groomers.

Abby patiently tolerated, and maybe even grew to love Pencil. Pencil is my parents (and once mine) spunky,bossy, full-of-it Jack Russel Terrier. They would sleep together in the garage in the summer and spend days together in the dog house. Pencil would bounce off of poor Abby when she was excited, which was often, but Abby would just look at you with a face that said, "What is with this dog?"

Mom told me Pencil is a bit confused today, and is looking for that large lazy girl that was a good friend to her and a good sleeping buddy. Eventually she'll move on, but today she waits anxiously by the door for Abby to come inside. I think I feel the same way. I know someday I will smile and be grateful she was in all of our lives, but today I'm like a confused Pencil, waiting for Abby to come awkwardly galloping home, and missing her.

I love you Abby. You were a good, good dog.

Krazy Tok

Yesterday I was sitting in Victors office going over the winning candidates from Tuesday's election. I noticed one local guy who was elected some small-town such and such position ran with his name listed as Lawrence "Larry" Wilkins.

Really? You needed to include your nickname in quotes?

This drives me nuts. Like a law firm sign I once saw above a door, his professional place of business, it read: Michael "Mike" Brown, esq.

Again, REALLY?

I picture walking in that law office on with a neck brace from a recent car accident and asking for Michael Brown and getting a blank stare.

"I...don't know who you mean...Oh! Do you mean 'Mike'?"

C'mon.

It's just as irritating as the intentionally misspelled stores. Kwik Wash. Whhhyyyy..... Why is it 'Kwik' with a 'Kw'? I asked Bryan this once and he actually replied that maybe it was because those letters were cheaper.

Or Pic N' Sav. Really? Every word? Is your target demographic only able to read phonetically?

I love you, Kool Kone, you know I do. But honestly. The taste of your onion rings only barely, just barely covers the distaste of the unnecessary K.

I got a bone to Pic N' Komplain about.

-Carrie "Carrie" Beatrice

Laura & Bryant!!! So proud of you.

I had just finished my lazy first cup of coffee this Sunday morning when I heard the intro to Won't Get Fooled Again by The Who chiming somewhere in my house. When I finally found my phone and silenced the ringtone, I realized I had just missed a call from my sister-in-law. Crap! I thought to myself, I hardly ever get the chance to catch up with her, and I quickly called her back.

Laura and her husband Bryant had recently spent six months doing -what I believe is called 'hiking'- the Appalachian Trail. They posted beautiful pictures of their experiences, but I was confused by the overwhelming amount of trees and overall lack of amenities. I have been told, though this must be a paraphrase of some sort, that they slept in the woods. As in, on the forest floor. For months. On purpose. I initially assumed they must have been lost, but no one seemed to search for their whereabouts, almost to the point they assessed their situation without concern.

Puzzled, I played along so as not to arouse suspicion. If I was the only one who thought six months without sitting in a jetted tub and a glass or three of Chardonnay was normal...well then, I would play my cards close to my chest. But THEN, things got even stranger.

I was told that after six months walking burdened with heavy packs and enduring something called 'blisters', they did not immediately locate a medic and/or cocktail lounge. Apparently there is a place in West Virginia where there is a river riddled with dangerous currents and boulders. That's not all. People pay Laura and Bryant to take them down this cold, wet death trap on-get this-a rubber flotation device. I get upset when it rains and my patio furniture gets damp. This is beyond my understanding.

So, this morning I flip through my decorating magazine and listen in shock as she happily tells me they are NOW leaving for a month to navigate the Grand Canyon. I am hesitant to tell her that I am pretty sure this area has previously been located by an explorer of some sort and there is no need to do this, but she seems unfazed. I mean, I have never been to this area, but I have seen it on my Hi-def flat screen and it is SO lifelike! I don't even have to leave the comfort of my sectional! Maybe I will tell her that when they come into town. She'll probably feel so foolish she didn't think of it first.

I am so looking forward to seeing them. They must miss easily accessible shopping plazas and food you can purchase while sitting in your car. They will probably immediately want to know what has been happening on Fox News.

I tell her we all miss them, and we're all doing well. The weather? Not sure, I say. But our air-conditioning has been nice. Yesterday? Oh, I went to greet Taylor as she finished her first 'Marathon'. It turns out this isn't the type of marathon where they show a whole day's worth of your favorite reality TV program, she RAN for 26 miles. I tell Laura I am going to lend Taylor money for gas. Poor girl. I have got to tell these poor misled women about buttery Chardonnay, they'll thank me.

Momma told me there'd be days like this.

Remember when your mom could not say one thing right? Yes, I'm talking about those ugly, ugly teen years. When my mom would speak, the Earth's rotation would shift due to the exaggerated rolling of my eyes.
"I KNOW." I would say, before she could finish her sentence.
Nowadays, those little gems she gave bounce around in my brain and get passed on to anyone who will listen. She's pretty smart with the life stuff, my mom. And the stuff that doesn't really make sense still, well I'm sure it will someday. Here are my top ten:

10: Buy the good bed linens. Turns out if you skimp on the thread count or buy something called a 'blend', it can feel like rubbing dryer sheets on your bare behind.
9: Moisturize your neck, for Gods sake. Wrinkles will appear in the most bizarre places if you give it a few years. Your neck is one of them, and you don't want to look like a Basset Hound.
8. Honesty really is the best of all policies. I once saw my mother drive back to the gas station to return change she was mistakenly given. When you're 13, you have no money and giving back free cash is insane. When you're 33, you worry about going to Hell.
7. Give, give, give. My mother gives her time so selflessly, her thoughtfulness so earnestly, and her gifts so sincerely. Yeah, some people don't care, don't appreciate, don't reciprocate. Never stopped her. Give now, forgive now, and leave the grudges for someone else. Life's just too damn short.
8. Marriage is a compromise. Big one. "Sometimes it's 50/50, but not often. Most of the time it's 70/30 or 80/20. There are times it's going to be 100/0. Point is, you don't always get your way, but every once in a while, you will."
6. Wait until someone gets up, then ask for more wine. This used to drive me crazy. Before I could drink. Now I echo the long-crafted skill of my mother by curling up in my comfy chair and holding up my empty glass like the Statue of Liberty. (clause: repay with a kiss or a compliment.)
5. Clap when you are excited. She will stand next to me absorbed in conversation, then abruptly clap and exclaim, "Ooooooo! You're here! I'm so excited!" If her moods are an open book, then the best stories are the ones with the clapping.
4. "Don't get your panties in a bunch." Yep, panties all bunched are no fun, she was right. Un-bunch those knickers and just relax.
3. Fall in love forever, not just in the beginning. It used to make me gag, but my mom and dad set the most stellar example for love. Not nauseating, in your face, or a facade. Just real, honest, sometimes we fight but you still make me giggle (and clap) love. Over 40 years of a prime example can really set a kid up for success.
2. Learn how to sew a button, stitch a tear, prune a plant, make 'hospital corners', cook a decent meal, paint a room, decorate a home, and still be utterly, fabulously un-domestic. Enough said. She's still herself, she's nobody's housewife, but she's got mad skills. Thanks for the lessons, mom.
1. Most everything can be solved by Advil or Chardonnay. Or on a bad day, both. I used to tease her for her Costco supply of both these household items, now I see the light.

If you can come up with a list of things your mom did for you, no matter how small, tell her. I promise you she'll appreciate it. She may even clap.

I'll give you an answer, just not a correct one.

I should be examined by National Geographic on one of those medical mystery dramas. The ones where I am interviewed in a dimly lit room punctuated by moments of a dramatic reenactment. My character would be portrayed by a rarely-used actress, like Kelly from Life Goes On or something. So there's Kelly, playing "Carrie", and she is shown in a work environment. A nearby coworker casually muses to herself about the origins of the blue jean. There is no need for a response, but "Carrie" confidently states, "Oh, I think jeans come from the mid-western farmers who needed sturdier clothes to work the fields."

"Sadly, this is a common event in the life of Carrie," the narrator interjects. "She suffers from a genetic disorder. A disorder passed down from her mother, and her mother's sister, Diane. Carrie feels the need to give inaccurate information and pass it off as a statement of fact."

It's true. I have the affliction I spent years accusing my mother of having. I once listened to my mother and Diane talk at length about a field of crops we had passed by driving on a country road in Texas. They had not only come to the conclusion-quite quickly- that it was asparagus, but had also agreed that asparagus was the main export of Fredericksburg. I endured this nonsensical chatter for as long as I could stand before I had to be the voice of reason.

"Not only is that not asparagus, neither of you have any experience whatsoever in the field of agriculture. You are a realtor, and you are a banker. And that is hay. Not asparagus, hay. And you really should also know that the American Alligator is not a native species here. Really a non-issue. Too bad that guy on the plane is now sadly misinformed for life."

And now, coworkers give me the same sympathetic look of false encouragement you would give a three-year-old who thinks they're a great artist. I will hear myself tell Taylor that you should apply ice to sore muscles after running, and then there will be a long pause between us. Because I don't run, Taylor is training for a marathon, and she is too nice to point out my massively ill-informed 'knowledge'.

"I'm talking out my rear end, again." I concede.

"You are. That's okay."

I don't know the name of the pine tree in Florida we once saw, but Mom, Diane and I all agree it is a "Princess Pine". I don't even know if that's a real type of tree. I don't know that the blue jean actually originated in 17th century France in the town of Nimes, but it doesn't stop me from answering. It's like I can hear the nonsense leave my mouth, and think, hmm..there is a 25% chance that is a real answer...

Just be prepared. If you are ever in a room with me, my mother, or my aunt, that you should keep an open mind and have access to Google. Because you most likely just got fed a whole lot of nonsense.