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In Which I Survive a Severe Climate Change (A Tale of a Bloated Frog)

Yes, you read that right. A Bloated Frog.


I'd better go back. Last month, my grandparents asked me if I wanted to bring my friend Caeli down to their condo in Cocoa Beach, Florida for a few days over Easter. As much as I love the slushy mud and the toe-numbing weather this time of year, we went anyways. So I found myself on a plane for the first time without an adult, even though my sense of direction plus attention to detail equals something close to zero.


And, miraculously, we made it. The pilot didn't announce "Ladies and Gentlemen, you have about thirty seconds until we all die," the aircraft doors didn't open (the what-ifs were unnecessary, Caeli), and we landed on warm Florida soil. Caeli even got a complimentary Coke from the nice dad next to us because airlines don't accept cash. (Note to self--always sit next to someone with kids. And act thirsty.)



We were less traumatized than we look. We've just always looked like that.


And then bam:



We officially have the frizz-hair of Northerners who are not used to such contrasting humidity. (Though her hair managed to look gorgeous anyways. *eyeroll*)


And then bam again:



Ocean. Yes. The beautiful, violent, salt-smelling, feisty-waved Atlantic. And also a very special piece of my heart.


One neighborhood in Cocoa Beach is informally dubbed "the peacock neighborhood." I'll give you three guesses as to why...



These beauties were waiting in anticipation for us to drive by and gawk at them. As we drove by one house, I somewhat yelled, "THAT ONE'S ALL THE WAY OPENED UP," and we pulled over to get a camera out...




And he turned around. We were not worthy to see his beautiful feather-ness.


The first day we were there, we went to nearby Cocoa Village to walk around and look at all the little shops.


This beauty (oh hey look, it says his name is Moby!) was walking around the village with no one to carry. The lady driving him was looking bored. I'm not sure what he really does all day, but he made it into a picture! (I took this for sOmEoNe in particular...if it's you, you'll know it. *cackles maliciously*)



And then ice cream (because ice cream). I don't know why I took a picture of the probably hand-painted ice cream freezer, but it's cool. The one on the top left is my favorite.


Next up was Rusty's, the beautiful outdoor restaurant that I always remember for its paper straws, live music, and the pelicans that sit on the poles nearby and w a t c h you threateningly. Oh, and the amazing food.


I'm more amused than I look, I promise. In my defense, I did not know there was a picture being taken.

This little flower on our way out to the beach was cute. :D


On Saturday night, there was a gorgeous full moon. The kind of gorgeous that's really, really breathtaking. It was bright orange and the clouds partially covered it, so as to look like something from a fairy-tale. Our reaction? "Let's take a picture! We're great photographers."

This, my dear friends, is what you call a miserable fail. That tiny white dot? Yep, that's supposed to be the large orange moon I was talking about. It's like the cameras were being hijacked... *peers around suspiciously*


Monday morning, we were heading down to the pool and my grandma informed Caeli and I that there had been a frog in the hot tub this morning. "Dead?" I said. (No, of course not, it's just floating upside down trying to get tan. Right.)


So, obviously, we went down to the hot tub to fish it out with a net.


I told Caeli this is where her inner heroic friend needed to kick in, because I was NOT scooping the dead frog out of the hot tub. Frogs have a special (though somewhat forced) place in my heart, and I was feeling slightly sick looking at it. She said fine, she'd do it. So I hopped into the pool where I could not see the proceedings.


She was supposed to throw it into a far bush.


But ten seconds later: "...Lily...?"


The net had tried and failed to fling the poor deceased creature far enough. Instead, it landed in the nearest bush to the hot tub.


With its legs prominently and proudly sticking out of the top.


Oh to have had a camera, but alas and alack, you must use your imagination. Picture two giggly, unsure teenage girls slowly pulling a bush apart so that the frog, bloated legs and all, sank down inside to rot, unseen.


R.I.P. Frank. (We named him post-bush incident.)


So naturally, we got into the hot tub right away to soak up all the dead frog diseases. 🤨


Later that day, I got this beautiful text from my father:


Love you too, Dad.


Let's end by saying: Isn't Michigan weather just gorgeous?


*sarcasm*


do you like the warm or the cold better? are you squeamish around bloated frogs and the like?


Toodeloo, friends!

~Lily May

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