And if that weren’t an overdone enough title for ya, let me make it a lil more cliche by throwing this in:
Vacation is over…I’m a little more rested than I was…a lot more tan…and dreading Monday as much as ever.
All in all, a good trip. Un-blogworthy for the most part. For the most part…
If you notice in the photo from last Monday there’s an empty lot next door to the beach house. Or at least there was when the photo was taken a couple of months ago. This week, there was a pile of cinderblocks and a bobcat. All in all, the construction next door was unobtrustive, except when they ran the bobcat over our cable connection.
But the construction on the next street was downright unnerving. Imagine being awakened at the ungodly (at least during vacation) hour of 8 AM by what sounds like King Kong stomping down the street. BAM BAM BAM. The entire house shook. The pictures on the walls banged. The blinds clanged against the glass. A look outside revealed a giant crane type of thing that was slamming pilings into the ground. BAM BAM BAM. We counted 12 pilings, and counted down throughout the morning to when we would be able to enjoy the beach in peace. “Only five more!” we thought. “Only three more!”
And then came a truck with another load of pilings.
And another truck.
all friggin week. Back home, I won’t be able to sleep in the relative silence of the vinyl village.
Midweek the folks came to clean the pool out back and mow the grass. A discussion had come up on whether the pool replenished it’s own water supply. My MOL (that’s mother OUT law in case you didn’t know, cause I ain’t married you see) asked the pool boy (an appropriate name for the kid–who looked to be 19 or 20 and was no doubt cleaning our pool on his break from college) if the pool filled itself.
“Oh no ma’am.” he said. “I’ve got an extra long hose, and I’ll get it filled for ya.” Granted, I have a dirty mind, but how can you not think that’s funny??
Anyway, driving back from the beach yesterday I was reminded of a vacation from years past. I was home for the summer from college, and because one of my brothers was taking a friend with us to the beach, there wasn’t room in Dad’s SUV for everyone. I somehow got suckered into driving and got stuck with the older of my two younger brothers and his friend–a likeable but troubled hoodlum from the other “side of the tracks” who was staying with us for the summer while his stripper mother worked through some issues.
The night before we left I overheard my brother and friend discussing some of the “recreational” materials they were packing. I didn’t recognize the names, as I’ve always been a bit naive about such things, but I read between the lines enough to realize that the DEA might be interested in the contents of their duffle bags. I insisted the next morning that their bags go in dad’s car.
We were a couple hours into what should have been a seven hour drive to Kiawah when we stopped for lunch and to fill the tanks of the cars. (Virginia’s gas was always cheaper–in those days it probably meant the difference between paying $1.09 at home or $0.98 in Virginia–how nostalgic I am for those days!)
We had some Burger King and set off. Ten miles down the road, dad made a hasty exit again. I couldn’t imagine why we were leaving the road again so soon, but I followed and parked next to dad’s SUV at a gas station. My younger brother was in the backseat of the SUV and he looked positively green. The child safety locks on the back passenger door had been broken for some time, and my stepmother hurried out of the front seat and placed her hand on the back door just as the little brother emptied the contents of his stomach, projectile-style, onto the glass of the door. By the time stepmom got the door open, there was puke running down the door, into every groove, and onto the floor of the car.
We must have had to stop another 10 times along the way for the poor kid to puke. The 7 hour trip ended up taking 10 or 11. Dad’s car stunk the whole trip. Luckily, this vacation was nothing like that.
two things I want to mention.
One of the entries I set up to post for y’all while I was sipping gin and tonics on the beach had two Golden Girls-ish clips. Of course I had no idea when I composed that entry that Estelle Getty would pass away last week. I didn’t mean the clip of her to be a tribute of any sort, but I am a big fan of The Golden Girls–and all the ladies who made the show great. She will always be “Sophia” to most of us, and the world is left with a void much larger than her petite stature.
Also, one of the first folks I put on my blogroll was TheRealEstalker. I don’t know him in real life, but his dirt on celebrity house hunting, selling, and buying is delivered in a way that makes the most mundane real estate transactions hilarious. Well, the bitch was on CNN this week talking dirt about celebrity foreclosures. While his “long bodied bitches” Linda and Beverly were not included in the piece, and Dr. Cooter was notably absent as well…I nonetheless congratulate the Real Estalker for hittin the big time.