No Crabbing?

There are more ways to crab than with bucket and net.

I was on the way to raid my metaphorical "crab pot" when a neighbor woman, eyes blazing, fists shaking, accosted me.  “I saw your website!” she shrieked. "The whole neighborhood's seen it!” Then, before I could even whimper, she spun and stomped away, apparently too hopping mad for further threatening vocalizations. But just as well, I guess.  Who knows what mischief might have popped out of my mouth?  I just stood there, torn between cringing and swelling with pride.

It reminded me of the time when I was a snotty little kid, and some girl in the school yard said, "I hate you, I hate you, and so does everyone else in school," and I answered, "I will grant your farsical bombast the infinitesimal consideration it deserves."

But then the introspective willies hit me:  Me, crabby? Are the neighborhood's distasteful anomalies such petty things that they must never be mentioned? But my inner little self jumped up and blurted, "Pollyannas and the tourist industry and the code of silence be damned! Somebody’s gotta do it."


As for the Other Kind of Crabbing . . .

Young crabs frolicking in The Hague?


Maybe do some cautionary contemplating about what those Elizabeth River crabs eat and drink:





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