So yeah, the bitch ABANDONS me for an entire week to do....what? Sit on a sandy beach (ours is a tad rocky with tons and scads of razor clams. Hmmph, it’s a perfectly nice beach, you know), swim (we have ocean here AND the water’s probably warmer than way up north too!), lay abed through late morning, smelling the fine salt air while reading gloriously trashy vampire novels (fine salt air -- check. trashy novels -- check. beds -- got that covered) and enjoy fabola conversation and meals that she and her family of cooks (pro and très gifted amateurs all) create.
|High Tide at Home|
What I want to know is this -- who’s going to listen to me whine, kvetch and fume about:
1) the bankster/oil industry/health insurance/big pharma crime against humanity du jour
2) the heat -- as in ‘did the AC crap out AGAIN or am I having another fucking hot flash?!' (I seem not to be going gently into that 'good' menopause)
3) aging -- specifically (today anyway), regarding how much my feet seem to hurt after wearing nothing but Vans and flip flops for the last month. It’s summer for fuck’s sake! I should NOT have to wear real shoes in this heat! (yes, my rap gets a bit elliptical -- yes it does)
4) how I slept or didn’t last night (fine thanks, aside from the myriad claustrophobia themed nightmares that is.)
and the list can and often does go on and on.
Why a beach vaca when we LIVE on a damn beach? Hey, it’s what we do.
Funnily enough, there’s an article on Plum Island in today’s Globe -- dune erosion and how houses are at risk of falling into the ocean.
Bitch better not fall in while she’s up there -- I've got Cosmos and complaints to share with her! Also, too -- me undiluted, straight up, no chaser all week? Poor Bob.