The outside shower at Pop-Pop’s cottage at the beach is a rustic, sometimes scary place to lather your sandy self off.  Since I was a kid, I learned to take the world’s fastest shower in it, as I’m opposed to dodging flies and mosquitos, and heaven forbid, the occasional spider.  It’s not a place I would choose to linger as a child OR as an adult.

But this week a teenager showed me a different perspective.

His name is Freddie, and I believe he will go far in life.  You see, Freddie was out in the shower, washing sea salt and sand off of his sunburned body, when he remarked to his mother, who was passing by the stall, that his life is now complete.  Not only did he get to enjoy a shower outdoors, which apparently is every man’s delight, but he also got to do it bathed in the strong scent of bacon.

I was in the kitchen, which is on the other side of the cottage wall of the shower, cooking this appetizer for our dinner:

Jalapeno peppers stuffed with a mixture of cream cheese and New York sharp cheddar cheese, and wrapped in Bacon.   And since it was so close to the 4th of July, I used flag picks instead of run of the mill party picks.

Apparently I’m a genius.  And not just a genius, but a patriotic one at that.  Who knew?

Anyways, the fan/vent to the oven is adjacent to the outdoor shower, and it blows a strong draft right over the shower.

If you’re cooking something like fish, it’s not a pleasant experience.  But if you are cooking bacon……

I suspect that the only thing that might make the experience better for a man would be for the shower water to taste like beer.

Once again, a member of the younger generation has shown me another way to appreciate my own life.    I am thankful for it!

Well, thankful for that, and bacon in the shower.

I make it a point to post funny, happy stories here on Mama Boe.  I subscribe to the notion that anyone who comes back to read my drivel time and time again, is doing so for lighthearted entertainment.  Not Preaching.  Not Vicarious Thrills.  Not Sage Advice.

Seriously, Not Sage Advice.

So I am keenly aware that I am breaking my own rule here.  But this is something I feel compelled to do.

Yesterday 19 souls answered their last alarm in Arizona.  19 Firefighters.  19 too many died.  They died doing their job.

It’s an important job.  One that is unfortunately often taken for granted.  I live my life day-to-day knowing any emergency can be mitigated by a simple call to 911.  Maybe not solved, but certainly mitigated.  I know it, but I don’t think about it.  Until 19 people die.  Then I think about it and feel horrible.

19 broken hearts.

19 grieving mothers and fathers.

19 people who were willing to give up the only thing any one of us ever really has, in the service of others….their one and only life.

My Captain is such a firefighter.  He puts himself in harm’s way every shift, in one way or another.  Any day I could receive the same call the families of those 19 did.

I don’t live in fear of it.  Instead I celebrate that he is one of those souls strong and selfless enough to make that sacrifice for others.  Like the service men in the armed forces, like our police force, even like something less celebrated as a life guard on a beach….he is willing to die so that someone else may live.   How could I mourn such an individual?

Rather I am lovingly thankful and proud that he exists at all.

As I am grateful and proud of those 19 dead firefighters.

Well Done, men.  Well done on your Last Alarm.

May you rest in peace.

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.