Monthly Archives: June 2013

A true story:

“MOM!  Come down to the beach!  You’re missing the whole day! The waves are really big!”

So far I’d mowed the lawn with Pop-Pop’s ancient, rusty, cantankerous, unpredictable lawn mower.  I’d edged the grass so thoroughly I had to use both of the trimmer’s rechargeable batteries.  I’d fertilized the grass and garden with a hundred pounds of dehydrated cow manure.  I’d sprayed Round Up on the gravel driveway and stone walkway.  I’d re-seeded in the dead spots where the neighbor had irresponsibly let his dog pee in Pop-Pop’s yard.  I’d re-painted some of the deck furniture ocean blue. All of this I accomplished in the blazing sun, high humidity, and no breeze…basically Hell.  It HAD been a long day for me and I WAS wishing I could be down on the beach with my munchkins.

I told Varmint I’d be down as soon as I finished weeding, and was true to my word.   I paused only to take off my cut-off jean shorts and paint-splattered t-shirt, and put on my granny dress bathing suit.

Incidentally, I did try to find a non-granny dress bathing suit this year, but nothing hides bacon-doughnut belly rolls like a granny dress.  Still, you’d think the R&D guys at L.L. Bean could design swimwear that a 45-year-old chub-a-lub soccer mom could wear  without making her look like a dead-ringer for Ethel Merman.   They’re missing a bet, I tell you.  While I would venture to say that MOST 45-year-old soccer mom’s do NOT have the ability or desire to pull off the cougar-esque styles you see all over the swimwear sections these days, we also don’t like looking like a granny so early in life.   There HAS to be some middle ground, I tell you!

Where was I?  Right, meeting the kids on the beach after spending the day doing yardwork.

I hoofed it up and over the inferno that was the dunes…the sand was hotter than John Travolta in the ’70’s…and flopped down on the chair Varmint had lovingly put out for me.  It felt so good to relax, just reclining and letting my toes sift through the wet sand.

But after a moment or two, I was uncomfortably hot.  So I hefted myself up and ambled over to the surf, where Varmint and Critter were boogie-boarding like pros.

What is the difference between amateur and professional grade boogie boarding?  The quantity of sand caught in the crotch and pockets of their bathing suits.  A Pro doesn’t even notice that they look like they are carrying a load of poo in their suit.  They just keep on rolling, man! Amateurs, on the other hand, are constantly trying to get the sand out of their cracks and crevices.  Trust me on this.  Just leave the load in your shorts when you’re boogie boarding.  Otherwise you’ll be deemed an amateur.  That’s my advice to you, free of charge.  Leave the load where it is.

Where was I?  Right, ambling over to the surf.

So I’m standing there, enjoying the cold water on my ankles, the wind in my hair, and the sun on my back, minding my own business.  Several beach combers passed me with grins on their faces.  I figured they were just being nice.  Varmint climbed out of the surf towards me with a confused look on her face.  She was staring down at my legs.  I followed her gaze.

It was immediately clear to me that I should have, perhaps, paused longer than I did when I changed.  Maybe it would have been wiser to clean the dehydrated cow poo off of my calves, and perhaps scrape the blue paint off of my feet.   It might have been a good idea to, oh, I don’t know, actually glance in the mirror before I thrust myself upon the innocent public.

I rolled my eyes, dove headfirst into the waves, and scrubbed my body with the sea water.

I didn’t worry about polluting the ocean…after all what better way to clean off the cow poo than to swim in the fish pee?

And I wonder why I swim alone……

Everyone relaxes their eating habits on vacation.  Don’t tell me you don’t.  It’s just that ‘some of us’ relax them a little more than others, and if those ‘some of us’ that do, have less-than-stellar eating habits to begin with, it can get ugly.

This week our diet has consisted of:  Bacon wrapped tater tots.  Bacon wrapped cheese-stuffed jalapeño peppers.  Bacon Quiche.  BLT Sandwiches.  Bacon-Topped potatoes au gratin.  And Bacon/Turkey club sandwiches.  Oh, and doughnuts.

Truly, I don’t know why we are on such a bacon kick.  Bacon ain’t cheap, and this vacation diet is killing us financially, not to mention cardiovascularly.  I won’t lie to you, the sludge in my arteries definitely smells like pork.

My Captain interrupted his vacation – went home for a couple of days to work one 24 hour shift, and then work another 12 on overtime. Why would anyone interrupt a vacation, you ask?   I think he needed a break from the saturated fat and nitrates.

And possibly from me, but we’ll not delve into that.

So I’m sitting here pondering what today’s breakfast ought to be, and I’m out of bacon.  There is not so much as a single bacon bit in the fridge.

Thank goodness I have some Milton Sausage hanging around.

And a leftover doughnut.

Years ago, when I was young and supple and resilient, I used to walk the beach in the summer dreaming of my future husband.  I just knew he’d be a handsome prince of a guy, thoughtful, caring, strong and virile.  All of my hormones raging, I would invent romantic scenarios in my head about my prince walking the beach with me, hand in hand, the wind dancing becomingly in my hair, the sun glistening off his huge bulging shoulders….ah…those were the days.  Nora Roberts had nothing on my imagination.

When I met My Captain, I kid you not, it was as if my dream guy had materialized.  My Prince was real.  I didn’t fall head over heels, I fell Ass over Teakettle, which, if you know anything about clichés, is a lot harder.  Believe me, I know how lucky I am that I married my fantasy prince.

And early yesterday morning I found myself walking the beach with him….just like in my old fantasy. The wind was in my thinning hair.  The sun glistened off his bald head.  I’m telling you, it was uncannily JUST like my old fantasy.

Except for the rash.

At some point I had gotten too close to the surf, and my legs had gotten wet.  And that means my enormo-thighs had water AND sand between them, rubbing with each step.

The friction was impressive.  I was sure that by the time we got home, I could have started a fire worthy of any Boy Scout, right there in between my legs.

Oh it’s okay, I don’t feel disillusioned.  I still believe in the fantasy.

But next time I’ll be pre-medicating with Diaper Cream.

If you have never seen the awesomeness that is Prancercize, I beg you to check it out before reading further.   Go To:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-50GjySwew , watch the video, and once the uncomfortable, disturbed feeling has passed, come on back to this post.

It’s okay, I’ll wait.

Now, imagine my Varmint, at the tender, typically self-conscious, pre-pubescent age of 12, prancercizing down the beach in front of everyone to make her mama laugh.

No, she really did this.  Two days in a row.

Imagine her in her adorable L.L. Bean, incredibly preppy pink tankini, prancing into the waves, looking back and winking at me, prancing some more, looking back and waving at me, and so on.

She’s a total, hilarious, loveable DORK.

With so much self-concept and strength of mind that even when she is at an age where most people would CRINGE at making silly fools of themselves in public, she embraces it.

Because she wants to make her mama smile.

Daughterhood:  She’s doing it right.

I’ve got these damn progressive reading glasses now, and they are ruining my life.

Sounds dramatic, eh?  It’s nothing less than the truth!

I have to move my head up and down to find the right spot in the lens to be able to focus if I’m reading, and then I have to find the other part of the lens if I am doing anything else but reading.

So my head bobs up and down like a bobble head in the back window of a ’74 Buick.  It’s continually nodding in assent.  I’m assenting to everything.  I’m the most agreeable person you’ve ever met these days.  And that is fine and wonderful, except I have two kids who use this turn of events for their own benefit, shamelessly.

I’m agreeing to things I didn’t even know I’d been asked.  People are getting away with murder in this house.  Even My Captain!

I’m ready to pitch these things into the trashcan, but I’m cheap and can’t bring myself to essentially throw away money!

(Oh dear lord, I just heard my father in my own head. And close the damn door!  Are we trying to air condition the whole neighborhood?)

It’s a real problem, but I don’t see an immediate solution.

Hell, I don’t see anything.

Ya’ll might as well jump in on this bandwagon.  If there is something you want from me, make sure I have my readers on before you ask me.