Summer: Good Riddance

I haven’t spoken of Exit 25 in quite a while.   The fact is that something has happened to squelch my love of this town and this house.  The further fact is that something happened to squelch my love of summer.

Heat.  And lung disease.   And nausea and stomach issues.  And fatigue.  And sweat.  And anxiety.  And sun sensitivity.

Last summer I was all about tree hugging and forest bathing and swimming pools.  This summer I was instead about pulmonary rehab and toilets.

So here I sit at the “shore” saying good bye to a summer I could just as well lived without.   I walked the half block to the beach and stuck my toes in the sand this morning just to say I did it.   Once.   And now I watch the crowds leave in a mass exodus and think to myself.   “Good Riddance!”

Cheese Steaks and Pork Roll

O.M.G.!!!

That's what we Jersey Girls say.

Drip Dry and I went to a wedding yesterday in Asbury Park.  I guess you might call it a destination wedding because whenever we travel to "The Shore" we get off the parkway at exit 25, of course.  So imagine our excitement in exiting the parkway at exit 102.
  
I believe I had only been to Asbury Park once before in my life.  I don't remember why, but it had nothing to do with Bruce Springsteen, and certainly had nothing to do with a wedding but, of course, this trip did.  And boy did they Jersey it up.

A flute of champagne up arrival. A lovely (and brief) wedding ceremony in a beautiful room.  A quick sprint into the cocktail hour to nab one of the few cocktail tables with a chair for me to sit it.  

And then it began.  The food. 

Cheese steak, waffle fries, perogies, kielbasa, short rib sliders, grilled cheese, penne, filet, shrimp, crab, canoli, fried dough, cupcake, and ice cream; all topped off with the best of all Jersey inventions - pork roll and cheese sandwiches to go!

Oh.

My.

God!

You gotta love New Jersey!

Drink. Nap. Blog.

So because of my irrational fear of small furry rodents in movie theaters I am in the middle of reading Eat. Pray. Love.

And just like Elizabeth Gilbert toyed with the idea of naming her book something else, I - too - batted around a few other names for this blog post title. . . things like. . .

Read.  Sweat.  Sleep.

Shop.  Doze.  Imbibe. 

or even . . . Spend.  Talk.  Slurp.

All because my sister pried me away from reveling in my clean, orderly, and teenager-free house in order to enjoy the last days of summer at The Jersey Shore (although if you asked me, it was something akin to a religious experience to enter Trigger and Ponzi's rooms and actually see the floor . . .) but all-the-same I thought I would share a list of the verbs that I am NOT participating in while here at Exit 25 on my mini-vaca:

Clean.  Cook. Communicate.

Whine.  Launder.  Swear.

Worry.  Wince.  Work.

Yell.  Vacuum.  Load.

Slam.  Feed.  Insomniate.

 I think you just might get the picture now. . .

Here's to those last days of summer

and a quick prayer that I don't get evacuated by Hurricane Earl. . .

Shoobie, Doobie, Do's . . .and Don'ts

So the computer Gods have smiled on me again and - just as suddenly as my lifeline to the blogging world was severed due to signal-interruptus - the wireless network which I have been pilfering returned this morning to its unsecured state.

Bingo!

But the lack of signal strength yesterday forced me to go in a direction I don't normally go while here at the Jersey Shore. I went to the beach.  And though some folks may head to the beach with a metal detector, A Mom on Spin went - instead - with a Shoobie detector just so I could bring the following post to you. . .

The Rules of Beachgoing for Shoobies at the Jersey Shore

• Footwear - As I recall, we covered this topic in yesterday's post. Sporting black socks and sneakers on the beach are the very thing that earned you this moniker in the first place and serve as an immediate red flag, alerting all other beachgoers that a Shoobie has landed.  Much better to try to sneak onto the beach unannounced donning flip-flops or the occasional sandal.

• Beachwear - When I suggested yesterday that Shoobies should consider wearing thongs to the beach, I was referring to footwear, NOT swimwear.  All folks who travel from land-locked states to come to the Jersey Shore should be banned from wearing any form of beach regalia that boasts of a string as an integral part of the attire. And, yes, that counts for you men in your Speedos.

• Umbrellas - Word on the sand has it that attacks by Shoobie Harpoons on innocent beachgoers are on the rise.   How many times do I have to tell you that one cannot stick an umbrella in the sand like a bartender floating a cocktail garnish in your pina colada?

• The Sand/Land Grab - Aside from footwear, nothing screams Shoobie faster than failing to maintain the prescribed six-degrees-of-separation while on the beach.   If I wanted my extended family with me on my vacation, I would have invited them to join in the fun.  And anyway, last I checked I didn't have any long-lost relatives from . . . like . . . North Dakota.  I'm tired of spreading buffer blankets out around my stuff to prevent the dreaded Shoobie Cousin Encroachment.  I'll have enough of that when the tide changes and your fellow Shoobies  belatedly realize that what goes out, must come back in. . .

• Beach Chairs - Various kitchen and family room chairs dragged over to the shoreline from rental property are not appropriate for use as beach chairs. Perhaps you can return that ridiculous floppy hat you purchased for a suitable place to rest your backside while on the beach.   Or - on second thought - you can sit on your hat instead.  By all accounts it appears to be cavernous enough.

• The Dip in the Ocean - Please ensure that all bathing suits are buckled and secure prior to take off.  I am tired of trying to avert my tired eyes while you emerge from the water revealing body parts which are traditionally viewed only by your proctologist.

• Food - Now I understand that you like to bring enough food to feed an army, because you took the trouble to employ the family mule (a.k.a. the man of the family) to haul your entire household to the beach with you, but feeding the crusts of your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the seagulls is strictly forbidden.  It may be good luck to have a head full of gull-crap where you spawned from, but let me assure you that your fellow beachgoers do not agree. 

• Another Tidbit You Might Find Useful -  Life guards do not blow whistles at you because they think you look buff in your thong.  If a guard is blowing a whistle at you, chances are you're doing something incredibly stupid . . . .or lifethreatening. . . or downright Shoobie-ish.   

Oh, and if by chance you have any cold beer in that cooler, you owe two to the nearest cousin whose land you have so thoughtlessly grabbed. . .

So much to say. So little signal strength.

So fate, as it is wont to do, has decided to take this week at the Jersey Shore to teach me a big fat lesson.

That's right. . . publish one little unfriendly post about a seaside neighbor, add an innocent post script about pilfering her wi-fi service, and BAM!. .  . the unsecured wireless network which you have been piggy-backing off of for years suddenly becomes a security-enabled network overnight, leaving A Mom on Spin walking her trusty netbook around the block in a baby stroller, trolling for another benevolent home which will provide the life giving succor so desperately needed.

Cruel, cruel, fate!

And I had so many more humorous blog posts floating around my cavernous head during this, my vacation week, along with countless non-beach-going hours to compose them!   Not only did I have that nice little letter to Broomhilde to share with you, I also had beach advice for Shoobies. . .Trigger's birthday post. . .Ponzi in Tuscany. . . and The-Husband-Formerly-Known-as Drip-Dry's $4,000 car repair bill. . .

So much to say.   So little signal strength!

So Happy 20th Birthday Trigger! Too bad you decided not to make the long trip down the Garden State Parkway for your big day, but your father and I understand that bra sales were calling.  We hope you like the present we gave you -  paying all those overdraft charges from that mean, mean bank.  And don't worry, we're still going out to dinner tonight to celebrate your birthday. Without you. . .

Ponzi, the photos you've sent from your Italian vacation look awesome.  I'm overjoyed to see you clutching your purse just the way I taught you - protecting my credit card from all harm in the process - but are you sure that the international phone plan we purchased allowed you to send picture messages for free?  'Cause, if not, we can wait to see your smiling face in the Roman Coliseum once you return home.

And Shoobies?   You'll have to be left to your own devices for the week, for I do not have the bandwidth to teach you all of the beach-going etiquette you need to know.  But let me just start by telling you that you should leave the street shoes and black socks back at the rental house and don, instead, something called a flip-flop, and sometimes a thong. . .

Until the next stroll around the block, 

I will remain, my friends. . .

A Word to "Broom"hilde

Dear Broomhilde from the Lane,

So I guess you know by now that I've been watching you.

And even if I don't escape to my parents' beach house as often as I'd like, I've been here enough since you moved into this neck of the woods (you know. . . off-season weekends . . .wine-filled-ladies-only getaways . . .the occasional Memorial Day or Fourth of July . . .  and precious weeks - like this one - of vacation time spent alone with Drip Dry . . . ) the point being. . . I've seen enough of your obsessive ways to know what I'm talking about here.

Now it's widely known that the alleyway that runs between the backs of the endless homes on this island is a prime source of entertainment for me - something akin to the Lanes of Limerick, where everyone sees and knows their neighbors' business. . . for we all know that any family on holiday might look happy and content on the front porch of their vacation home, but - much as it is in real life- it's the rear-end that shows the true colors of a family.

Oh, and the rainbow I've seen spawning from your rear-end, Broomhilde!

First, there's your obsession with hanging your laundry on the line.   Now, don't get me wrong. . . I come from a  long distinguished line of clothes hangers myself . . . but never before have I seen so much laundry generated by two people! Tell me. . .do you suffer from an incontinence problem or do you just have a burning need to wash your bathroom rugs each and every day?

And then there's the post-beach shake-and hose-down of every naughty bucket, chair, and umbrella that might have touched a errant grain of sand while being employed for the very purpose it was manufactured . . . followed - barely a half-hour later - by a myriad of freshly-laundered bathing suits and towels adorning the already-overworked clothesline.

And what's with the daily washing of both family cars?   Could they really get that dirty in just one short day?

And even though you live in the first-of-its-kind hermetically-sealed beach house - built without benefit of screens on the windows in order to prevent any chance of the fresh sea-breeze ever flowing in - somehow you have managed to maintain an effective anti-trespassing detector; rushing outside the second someone attempts to turn their car around in your driveway while threatening to notify the local authorities.

But all of this A Mom on Spin has withstood without complaint.

Until today.

Yes. . . today I saw you demonstrate the most inhospitable behavior ever witnessed in the long and richly-storied history of the lane.

Now I ask you. . . would it have killed you to have let that nice old lady cut through your yard to get to the beach?  Oh yes, she was a shoobie no doubt. . . freshly arrived in town and thrilled to be renting a house for the week as was evidenced by the shoes she was wearing to the beach.   And although, I admit, I had already labeled the entire family "cutters", my little playful moniker was bantered about for the benefit of my intimate family circle.  Never would I have ever dreamed of insulting those innocent shoobies to their face!  But not you, Old Broomie!  You had to break the hermetic seal (yes, I think I distinctly heard a whoosh as you opened the door) and run outside like the very lunatic that you are and turn that poor woman away!  That's right. . . you barred her from proceeding further, turned her back on her heels, and forced her to endure the walk of shame back out to the lane.

Shame on you, Broomhilde.  Shame on you!

I bet it was precisely this type of behavior that inspired that husband of yours construct your oh-so-precious clothesline about six-inches too high for you to reach comfortably - forcing you to stand on tippy-toes to hang your laundry.  It may also be why I've seen him aim your spotlessly-cleaned car at puddles in the lane after a rainstorm.  

And yes, Broomhilde, I venture to guess that it also may be the very reason that same husband sneaks to the garage fridge at 5:00 p.m. every evening and sucks down three beers in rapid succession when he thinks that no one is watching!

Oh but someone is!

                                    . . .watching, that is. . .

Signed, the Lady who sits on her back porch all day 

pretending to be reading because she hates the beach 

but really loves people-watching

(a.k.a.. . . )

Oh. . .and another thing?  

It gives me great pleasure to inform you that - although you may have successfully protected your house from all foreign invaders visible to the naked eye - I may, in fact, be pilfering your wireless internet service as I write, for I have recently noticed that my signal gets stronger as I approach your house. . .

Houston, We Have a Problem

Turns out there's a very good reason why I should never be allowed to go away on vacation.

And that, my friends, is because I invariably have trouble with re-entry.

In fact, I think there may be a direct correlation between the level of pleasure experienced while away from the house, and the level of distress upon entering back in it.

Picture this scenario for a moment if you will. . .

When last we spoke I was at the Shore for a few days - after which I traveled up to the scenic shoreline of Connecticut for the first-ever Spin Family Reunion.  And, although Drip Dry and the Spin grandparents were able to accompany me on the journey, other members of the Spin household were allowed to remain in the Garden State without parental supervision due to previous commitments to concert tickets. . . .camping trips. . . mall employment . . . and plain-old-not-liking-their-mother-enough-to-spend-the-weekend-with-fifty-other-human-beings-who resemble-her.

So there I was. . .


Visiting a family cottage on a secluded cove. . . lodging in a waterside bed & breakfast . . . sitting dockside watching Drip Dry get thrown from a tube on the back of a boat . .  . drinking mohitos at lunchtime - fine wine at dinner. . . conversing with philosophy professors, chefs, epidemiologists, authors, and neuroscientists. .  . distributing family heirlooms. . . sharing memories of those who are no longer with us. . .  listening to my 86-year-old father and his 84-year-old brother regale us with memories of their childhood.

Yes, my friends, that was my little slice of Heaven right there on the Connecticut coast. (Let's face it, any day where I am the only one who brings down the collective I.Q. is a good day in my book)

But it wasn't long after I exited the car upon my arrival home that the re-entry problems began.

For despite the fact that I had sent out a warning signal upon crossing the state line to inform my daughters of the estimated hour of splash-down, the first thing I spied upon entering the household (smack-dab in the center of the kitchen table for all to see. . .) was  Drip Dry's prized lantern which I had allowed Ponzi to take on her camping trip - ignoring the fact that her father had expressly forbidden her (and me) to do so.

And I knew right then and there that I was in for a bumpy landing.

For the amenities and accouterments in the Spin house in no way resemble a bed and breakfast. . .  nor could I put my toes in the sand (although there was a perfect coating of downy dog hair on the floor) . . . I saw no sign of the water  (unless you count the sound of splashing in a dishwasher which had been hastily loaded and turned on) . . . the frozen "Bubba Burger" which I rustled up for dinner somehow lacked the appeal of grilled swordfish . . . and - smart as I make her out to be - conversations with the dog somehow do not provide the same level of intellectual stimulation as those which I have aforementioned . . .

So you see, it's not my fault - really - that the cursing began when it did.  For the stream of swear words that followed went something like this:  I don't care what those feckin' girls say, they had time to clean up after themselves. . . who do they think I'm am . . . a cleaning lady or something?. . .  oh nice. . . look at this. . . someone left a g-dummed glass on my wooden table . . . and that smell. . . my God. . .how the freakin' frackin' way could they stand to be in the kitchen with that smell ememinating from that stinking garbage . . . oh, and look here . . . someone cooked a gourmet pizza for themselves and left the pan and pizza cutter out on the stove. .  .well I hope she enjoyed it 'cause that's the last fecking pizza I'm buying until H-E-DOUBLE-TOOTHPICK freezes over. . .and where the holy heck did I think I was going to put these freakin' tablecloths I brought home. . . what's with those Irish and their ***#@#**#$@*  linens anyway?!?!?!?

Well I think you get the picture. . .

Things A Mom on Spin Hates about the Beach but Loves about the Shore

Greetings from Exit 25.

I've snuck away from the job and family for a few days for some rest and relaxation at The Shore!

And yesterday, while at the shore, I even went to the beach.

That's right. . .  A Mom on Spin donned her old lady bathing suit, picked up a beach chair, walked the 50-or-so yards from her parents' summer house to the beach, stuck her toes in the sand and the rest of her Jersey body in the Atlantic Ocean!

After which I was bored.  And that is why, an hour later, you could find me back home under the awning on the deck with my nose in a book.  And even though you haven't asked me to, I somehow feel compelled to justify my dislike of the beach for you. So here goes. A Mom on Spin's Complete List of Things She Doesn't Like about the Beach.

• The sand.  It's hot.  And on a scorcher of a day like we've had this week, the sand can be hot enough to burn right through your flip-flips.  (No, I didn't say "thongs".  . . .)  Wasn't there a form of medieval torture whereby the penitent was forced to walk through hot coals?  And we Jerseyites voluntarily subject ourselves to that punishment time and time again. . . most of us even gladly paying for the privilege????

• The heat. Where else would you let a ball of flaming gas beat down on you without the benefit of shelter or shade until a big old cloud comes along to block the sun at which point you hear a collective sigh of relief from all beachgoers washing down the shoreline like the "wave" at a Giant's game???   That is, of course, unless you choose to bring the next item on the list to the beach with you. . .

• The beach umbrella. Now umbrellas are invariably brought onto the beach by non-professional beachgoers. . . shoobies if you will (neophytes who wear actual street shoes to the beach instead of thongs.)  And if shoobies don't know enough about beach etiquette to wear proper footwear, you can bet your bottom dollar that they don't know how to install an umbrella in the sand - leaving all of their fellow sun worshipers prone to attacks from a shoobie harpoon each time a strong wind picks up.

•  "Cousins".  You all know who I'm talking about here. . . .  the folks who - even though there may be miles and miles of unclaimed beach up and down the water's edge - decide to plop themselves and their mountains of beach-going paraphernalia smack dab next to you. . .like they're family or something!  

•  The ice cream man.  Who, without fail, arrives at the bulkhead just as you're about to drift off into sleep. . .  ringing his bell and yelling  Ice Cream! Get your ice cream here!  If that man thinks that the likes of this lady is making the long trek back over that burning sand to pay an outrageous sum for an item that is guaranteed to make me look even worse in this bathing suit, he must be nuts.  Much better to hire a kid from the nearby cousins' camp to run and get one for you and use the dripping remains to cool down your feet upon his return.

•  The loudmouths.   Did you ever notice that the mere sound of waves breaking in the distance causes certain folks to raise their voice so that - even though they may be sitting way on the other side of the cousins - you can hear every word of their conversation as if they're sitting in your lap?  And it's not like the conversation is something you want to listen to. . .  for their talk invariably centers around how much (now I believe that this may be another Jersey thing here) salt water taffy they're going to bring home to the neighbors who have been kind enough to bring in (and read, no doubt) the newspaper for them while they've been on vacation.

• The ocean.  Now I'll admit that this item on the list stems only from A Mom on Spin's deep-seated-and-somewhat-irrational fear of being present when someone drowns so I don't really need to elaborate here.   Suffice it to say that I tend to play the part of a backseat lifeguard. . . diligently watching all those in the water. . . waiting for the worst to happen. . . ever-ready to spring into action and save a life like I am wont to do.  If they'd give me a whistle, some zinc-oxide, and a high wooden chair (with a lift, of course, to get me up there) I could actually get paid for my time at the beach!

And that, my friends, is my list of things I don't like about The Beach.

Perhaps in a future post I can list for you all of the things that I love about The Shore, but I certainly don't have time for that now!

Toasters of the World, UNITE!!!

I think I may be a minimalist.

For some, vacation may be about excesses - an overabundance of sun. . . food. . . family . . . drinks. . . games. . . loud and raucous laughter. . .

Not for me.

I search for order out of chaos. . . solitude from the swarm . . . and silence over shouting. A stray coffee cup has me itching to clean it. A sloppily-hung beach towel affronts my eyes. A blaring television, an insult to my ears. (Good thing Mr. Drip Dry's favorite past-time down here is watching the Golf Channel - gotta love those broadcasters. . . they all whisper. . .) And although my favorite word is akimbo, that's not really how I want my world to be.

And so it is that each time I'm here, I can't keep myself from purging unneeded/unwanted/ outdated/outlandish stuff from my parents' beach house.

Every once in a while we have to ask ourselves. . . do we really need a napkin holder that says Hold 'em Here, Mate? Sample pieces of carpeting under trash bins? Bookends crafted to resemble Abraham Lincoln? Are toasters so ugly that we need to design elaborate covers for them? And would no one ever guess that it's actually a toaster hiding under that lighthouse???

Toasters of the world, Unite! Do not be afraid to show yourselves! Shed those silly garments that housewives of the world have been dressing you in since the 1950's! Let's hear you! Say it loud! I Toast. . . and I'm Proud!!!

And into the garbage that toaster cover went. . .

I Could Get Used To This. . .

Getting woken up at 6:00 a.m. by Ponzi's Boyf.'s cell phone alarm while away on vacation isn't so bad after all.

In fact, I highly recommend it.

For it gives the awakee some precious alone time to read a sweeping historical novel. . . or blog on Ponzi's MacBook . . . or people-watch (well, you can't really call them "people" in the true sense of the word . . . at this time of day it's "crazy obsessed athletes" or "people with impatient little doggies"watch. . .) or ponder some of life's greater mysteries (like how it was that I never thought I liked crabcakes until just the other day. . . ) all while quietly sipping multiple cups of coffee on the breezy front porch.

Yeah, I could get used to this (especially the MacBook part . . . )

It's Just Me, Here . . . on Vacation . . . Suffering from a Few Syndromes. . .

So driving over the bridge yesterday to get to the liquor store (because Exit 25 is a DRY town - which simply means that all inhabitants must drive to the mainland in order to purchase alcohol and bring it back) my husband suddenly switched lanes and I let out a little Yelp!

You're easily frightened you know, he said to me.

No Shit, Sherlock! I replied. That's because I suffer from TDSS!

What on earth is that?

Teenage Daughter Stress Syndrome . . . and you already know that!

Now, my husband is well-aware of the fact that I suffer from this well-documented ailment. The trouble is that its symptoms have been . . . let's say . . . a wee-bit more apparent during this vacation week because some of the stresses have been out of the ordinary. . . you know. . . the kind that don't always crop up at home. . .

Take - for instance - the drive here.

The ever-plotting Ponzi wanted to prove to her parents that she could negotiate the two hour drive to The Shore by herself (ammunition for a not-so-distant argument, no doubt) and so we let her drive us in the minivan. Because my husband called shotgun before I did, the dog and I were relegated to the back seat.

I'm proud to say that the dog didn't scream once.

I can't - however - say the same for the other back seat driver. . .

Or how about Trigger's drive down by herself to meet us on Sunday evening?

Trig. . . you seemed to get here in record time. How fast were you driving???

Oh. . . I don't like to look at the speedometer when I'm driving, she answered me. It makes me nervous. I just pick a car and then I pass them. Then I pick another car and pass that one. . .

Could someone please remind me just who it was that taught this child how to drive????

And then there's the dreaded beach.

I used to like the beach until the fateful day that Veggie and Trigger almost drowned. And I used to tolerate the beach until the day I had to go out and rescue Trigger and two of her friends from a raging rip tide.

Now I go to the beach only when required by law.

Besides, would you want to sit next to your scantily-clad teenage daughters when their only beach reading consists of The Hot Issue of Cosmopolitan - whose cover boasts of the following hot topics . . . The Orgasm Whisperer - Every Woman Needs One! . . . or how about . . . Guys Rate 125 Sex Moves. . . or perhaps . . . What You Should Never Let Your Gyno Do. . . or . . . Secrets His Sex Style Reveals . . . .

Now I am dangerously close to turning the big Five-O, my friends, and this is the first time I have ever heard that guys actually had sex styles! Oh, I knew all about the Orgasm Whisperer (What??? You mean you don't have one???) and the sex moves. . . but I never knew about men's sex styles. I may have to steal that issue when they're not looking. . .

I even got fooled by the title of one article which read, Five Things That Can Blow a Job Interview. (Can't imagine why - in heaven's name - my mind wandered to the gutter on that one. . .)

And so you see that when - like me - you suffer from TDSS, vacation is not all fun and games, my friends. . . . not all fun and games. . .

And the only known cure?

Well that brings us full circle back to the purpose of that drive over that bridge. . .

Oh. . . and it seems that even the dog is as stressed as I am - for she is suffering from SPS (Safe Potty Syndrome) and can't find an acceptable place to do her business (as we call it) and so insists on dropping it a turd at a time as she walks . . . imagine trying to look all beachy, cool and sophisticated while stopping to pick that up every third or fourth step. . .

Don't you wish that life were a tad easier at times????

Exit 25

I'm leaving you for a while.

Beachin' it.

That's right - vacation! And here are my instructions to those I leave behind. . .


To the Churchgoers . . .
Nobody die. (Okay, depart from this world if you must, but you will not get a funeral of distinction. . . )

To Trigger Who I Trust Beyond Words . . .
('Cause if I say I trust you, you just might feel compelled to earn my trust. . . .)

No parties!!!

No orgies!!!

No funny business. . . Period!!!


To my Sister and Parents Who Live Next-Door. . .
Watch Trigger!

To my Sister Who Lives up The Street. . .
Keep your eye on Trigger!

To the Cat. . .
I cleaned your litter box, you picky thing. . . no go watch Trigger!!! Oh, and enjoy your week without the dog. Who you gonna pick on now???? Perhaps someone your own size instead of our giant lab????

To the Cleaning Service Who Will Come on Wednesday. . .
If you see any evidence of any hanky-panky, call me! You have my number.

To the Guys in the Liquor Department of My Favorite Grocery Store. . .
No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, just gone away for a while. Oh, and can you tell the guys in the produce aisle for me? I'm sure they'll be going through withdrawal too.


To the Mail Carrier. . .
You probably won't notice a difference anyway, 'cause we're never great at emptying that mailbox. Just shove it all in there like you normally do.

To All My Blogging Friends. . .
I may, or may not, be posting for a while. Depends if I can pilfer wi-fi from any of the neighbors.

Low Tide

Being psychic and all, I knew these few days away from my family and job might present a problem.

I never want to leave this place.

And can you imagine how I might feel if the fog had lifted, the sun was shining, and I did not feel it necessary to carry around a space heater to act as my personal shadow???

But, being the eternal optimist (No people, that was not a joke. . . ) I have made the most of it.

I have awakened bright and early this morning (the unintended consequence – I might add – of actually sleeping through the night for a change) made myself a pot of coffee, plugged in my string of scalloped lights, lit a Yankee candle which claims to smell like Sun and Sand and another which calls itself Ocean Water (if I could add Low Tide, I’d have the perfect troika. . . ) and perched myself in the only spot in the house where – if/when the fog lifts – I will have an unobstructed six-inch view of the ocean.

I ask you. . . does it get any better than that? (Well, maybe if they weren’t currently building that monster of an oceanfront house which very clearly intends to cut my six-inch ocean view down to four. . . )

Okay, so here’s a very profound thought I just had. . .

Perhaps – just perhaps – my tired soul is like that candle (oh, I don’t care which one it is . . . let’s just call me Low Tide. . . ) waiting patiently through a long, cold, and isolated winter for some sort of energy to come and reclaim the house, stir up some molecules, dust off the memories of inertia, and quite literally breathe some life back into it.

Yikes!

That’s some deep thinking!

I’m not quite sure what it means, but if I thunk it. . . it must be quite insightful. . .

p.s. I cannot tell a lie (well, I can tell one, but I usually have to set the record straight later. . . ) I had the aforementioned profound thought while in the bathroom staring at the hand soap that reads Tropical Escape. . .

A report from Exit 25

So here I am. . . at the “shore” (exit 25 for all who are interested. . . ) surrounded by all the comforts of home. . . well . . . except Internet access. . . and sunshine. . . and, in the absence of warmth from the sun. . . heat. . . and my dog. . .

I’m missing my dog.

And it’s a windy 53 degrees and raining.

But there are many other things I do not miss about my life with my teenage daughters.

I do not miss hairballs (no the dog’s, silly, my daughters’). . . I do not miss the daily screaming match over the bathroom at 7:00 a.m.. . . and I do not miss the oodles of dirty dishes and empty chip bags that are left in the family room for me to retrieve each morning.

And I'm proud to say that I have not unwittingly turned over money to anyone in the last two days.

The toilet paper proudly sits in its proper place in the bathroom. And if – by chance – I should happen to exhaust the roll that is currently there, I will promptly replace it with its soulmate.

The only errant item I find in the kitchen sink when I awaken is my own wine glass from the night before.

And the crabs are sleeping in the other bedroom (quite literally!)

I have brought with me a quite heady array of reading material. (Marinka, are we on for Ulysses. . . because I’m not delving in without a partner in crime. . . ) and a book of Sudoku puzzles (which I have pinkie-sworn to become addicted to) and my trusty box of wine (a brand spankin' new box, mind you, not the same old one I talked about ages ago. . . )

Oh yes, and let me not forget to inform you that I have brought an abundance of Dunkin’ Donuts dark roast coffee with me. . .

And so I will sign-off now and go in search of some cozy internet café that hopefully has both central heating and some good herbal tea. . . . and a place to plug in my laptop because the battery doesn’t really work (it’s my daughter’s cast-off, remember?) . . . and some table space to use my mouse, ‘cause I’m not real proficient in using that keyboard thingy. . . and I will post this post and hopefully catch up on some of your blogs and make some witty comments. . .

And when I return, I will bask in the silence of a house that is not in turmoil. I will listen to the pitter-patter of those raindrops on my windows and enjoy the solitude that allows me to hear them. And I will thank my loving God that I am utterly and completely alone. . . well. . . except for my parents who are in the house downstairs. . . .

And - damn - I didn't bring my boots!!!!