As I casually read my email, sometimes my wife reads along with me. She does
not shell, but sincerely feigns interest in my hobby. When I wonder aloud
what I should be called, she says I fit 100% into the crazy category, not the
"amatuer."

The following complaints she brings to my attention:

She is brought on our "vacation" to the smelliest, nastiest mudholes on the
planet,
to where she must battle insects, the sun and utter desperation while I shell
( I.E. pursue my hobby), then she is forced to try other "spots that I heard
were good" while the same tormenting conditions apply there. Then she
constantly worries about me shelling slippery, rocky areas, whereupon a
person falling there, would promptly lose 87.5 % of their blood supply due to
barnacles and/or oysters on the rocks. My young son likes to tag along, so
the accusations of me being an irresponsible parent are astounding. Once my
choice specimens are aquired, I am given the "anal" title as to collecting
data, and keeping them cold in the cooler. An explanation of "Collected
somewhere in the keys in a smelly spot by a rock, is her idea of data. Any
more than that is ridiculous. Now the fun in getting home. She can cook all
sorts of stir-fry "goodies" that make the house smell like a sewage depot,
but look out when I need to boil out a keeper! I got the old "how can you use
my pots for that?" speech, but  when I'm steaming shrimp or lobster for
dinner, then I'm "Darling." So now I have all of my own pots, and even a hot
plate for the garage. Now it's stinking up the garage, and why do you need
the third bedroom for all of this? What happened to all of my Ziplocs! Please
tell me you didn't use every cotton ball that I own! If bleach got on my new
shorts, you are dead meat!

So, to all who is interested, I vote for the "crazy" category. My wife will
be pleased, as admitting what you are is on your way of knowing you have a
problem.

Hello, my name is Scott. And I'm a shell collector.

Scott
Florida