I guess telling embarrassing stories on yourself really does pay off!  In honor of all the fun feedback I got on my first Courtney Chronicle, and of my impending trip to the Caribbean, I give you this tale:

 I have an aunt (known at Word To the Ys as ‘Crazy Aunt Linda’) and uncle who live on the Caribbean island of St. Kitts (also known as St. Christopher.)  It is very difficult and vexing for me as you can imagine, having these beloved relatives living someplace like that.  I’ve been forced to go visit them twice already, and this weekend will be making my third and final trip there to their home they’ve dubbed ‘The Bunghole Inn’ as they are soon moving back stateside.  Which, thank God, because living in the Caribbean?  Have you ever?

Okay, so obviously I kid.  It is like paradise there, and I’m lucky enough to be able to visit them and it’s the greatest thing ever.  You should really get yourselves a Caribbean aunt & uncle.  Highly recommended.  The first trip we took was when Max was a month or two shy of being 2 years old, so he came along with Joe and me for free.  It was an incredible trip and he really was a delightful little man the whole time.  The next time we made the journey was when Max was almost 4 and Ollie had just turned 1.  We left the kids at home with their amazing Grandma and Nana taking turns with their care and keeping so Joe and I could travel with my brother Mark and his then girlfriend/now wife Angie to the Isle of Dreams.  And that is when this story takes place.

You have read before about how awesome my brother is.  He is sincerely one of my favorite people and is undoubtedly the Best Uncle in the Universe to my three boys.  But sometimes I am so blinded by his general awesomeness as a person that I forget that, at the end of the day, this dude is my pesky little brother.  For instance: once I went to Fish Camp and was a counselor like a total family-loving trooper even though I despise fishing. At the end of the week I had just showered and put on my last clean articles of clothing and ran out into the deluge outside the cabin door to where my brother was waiting for me in the pickup, only to slip spectacularly in the mud, and fall hard on my backside halfway under the truck chassis.  While inside the dry pickup, my brother laughed his ass off at me. And when I finally managed to get my mangled self out of the mud and into the truck, he just looked at me and kept laughing, not asking once if I was okay.  Example number two: he still brings up on every occasion I see him the Thanksgiving when I was pregnant with Max (read: crazy, out-of-control hormones) and I spilled my milk at the dinner table and cried.  And he laughs and laughs.  So yeah, pesky little brother.  A role he plays well, especially in the sense that I often forget until it’s too late how maniacal the little punk can be.

We had such an awesome time visiting the peeps in St. Kitts; it is literally one of the highlights of my life thus far.  We’d done plenty of beach bumming, beer drinking, sight seeing, and late-night patio bonding.  On one of the last afternoons on the island, the four of us–Joe, Mark, Angie, and myself–were chillin’ at the beach (I wish I could remember which one.)  Anyhoo, Joe was out snorkeling (this is how he spent 90% of his waking hours on this trip) and the remaining three of us were lounging on chairs in the sand.  Angie and I had been reading until Mark loped along and sat down, and then we were just chatting when we see approaching us a graying, almost toothless native guy carrying large spears of aloe plant in one hand and a knife in the other.   This is not an uncommon sight on the beaches; these guys walk around trying to make a little cash giving all the fair-skin-burnt-to-a-crisp tourists like yours truly a “massage” with the aloe.  Having been here before, and having relatives living on the island, I knew just what to do: refuse.  Refuse firmly.  Because these guys can be really persistent.  As a matter of fact, I usually made it a point not to bring any money at all to the beach so I could truthfully claim broke-ness as my reason for turning down their offer. 

But on this day, this particular guy was a real salesman.  He took one look at my vermilion decolletage (I swear I use TONS of superhigh SPF sunscreen AND sit in the shade, but to no avail…I think I’ll bring a haz-mat suit this time) and thought, “That lady needs a rub.”  Before a single word was exchanged, he had sliced open an aloe spear and had the ooze in his hands, which were promptly ON MY BOSOMS.  People.  For seriously.  This guy just walked up to me and started rubbing my cleavage.  Did I mention he was old and had no teeth?  Because shallow as this sounds, I might not have been so uncomfortable if he’d been young and studly.

I sputtered my protest, my face now flushed the same bright red as the skin being kneaded by this stranger’s hands.  My husband was nowhere near to defend my honor.  So I ask you: who should defend the honor of this lady in the absence of her beloved?  Oh, I don’t know…how about HER BROTHER?   ‘I don’t have any money,’ I told the man who we’d later find out was named Coconut Joe.  ‘I can’t pay you.’  He indicated that this was alright by him, and continued to violate massage me. 

And what is my brother doing, pray tell, as this all is going down?  If you guessed ‘laughing his ass off’ you are correct!  He was practically rolling around in the sand.  I looked at him beseechingly, and then he finally sprang to action:

He paid Coconut Joe in cigarettes and thanked him for his services.

I might squeeze another entry in before I leave for this, my third and solo trip to the island, where I will be more diligent than ever to avoid “massage” “therapists”.  But if not…peace and love and pesky kid brothers I leave to all of you, dear readers.