Beach Bumming

I’m sitting on a pastel plaid couch listening to the sea and breathing.  The only boxes I can see are those housing board games.  Every now and again a Frisbee flies above the top of the dunes and pops into vision.  It’s a nice break from the desolate wasteland that is our apartment.

And where’s poor Rocco?  Enjoying said wasteland.  I’m pretty sure I’m a bad wife for abandoning him there, but his work schedule prevented him from joining us at the beach.  Of course I cushioned the blow by making sure the fridge was stocked and freezing some meals for him to reheat so he’s comfortable while I’m gone.  Har dee frickin’ har har.  In reality there’s a partial block of feta cheese, some cat food, and a half a bottle of flat tonic water in the house.  Even if there were meals to reheat, all plates and glasses are nestled safely in paper cozies within their happy cardboard homes.  In a moment of sheer brilliance, I even packed the delivery menus.  ‘Cause I would have put those to good use in Maplewood.  Good thinking there, El.

Technically Rocco’s not alone.  He does have the gatos.  I’m told they’re keeping him quite busy.  Lucy, the dumb cat, has been haphazardly scaling Mt McCardboard and knocking random boxes (much like loose gravel) down the side of the mountain.  This smaller debris usually ends up knocking loose larger debris and pretty soon there’s a full blown avalanche on your hands.  Slowly but surely the pile seems to be getting shorter and wider.

Simone, the old, crotchety, diva of a cat has been more traumatized by the pack-a-thon than Lucy has been.  (Old people don’t like change – just ask Mike.)  I figure she’s around thirteen years old now and she’s far less confident and coordinated than she was a few years ago.  But she still wants to climb that mountain of boxes.  Desperately.

When I’m in the apartment, I’ll sometimes pick her up and put her on one of the higher boxes and let her roam around where it’s a little less precarious.  She totally eats that shit up.  She gloats euphorically when she makes it to the very top and her ears brush the ceiling.  When she’s satiated, she walks to the edge, makes a sassy staccato meow, and waits for me to pull her down.

Apparently she’s found a way to surmount the pile of boxes herself.  She can not, however, get herself back down.  So poor Rocco gets home after a long day of work, flops himself in bed, and probably can’t sleep because he misses his adorable and witty wife so very much.  After hours of tossing and turning mourning the absence of his spouse, he finally manages to doze off.  Shortly thereafter, he awakes to the caterwauling of Miss Simone.  She was trapped on the precipice and had managed to get herself good and worked up.  Scared the bejeezus out of the poor boy I’m told.

Me, I slept like the dead.  We wandered up to the boardwalk for dinner (by the by I suck at Skee Ball) and stumbled upon a fabulous bar called The Bearded Clam.  These were my people.  Hank Williams on the jukebox, license plates on the walls, and drink prices that boggled the mind.  I bought two beers and a round of jello shots since we were celebrating a major birthday milestone – ten dollars.  Seriously.  TEN DOLLARS.  Toto we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Maybe I’ll just have all our boxes sent here to Ocean City.


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