Heck, I'd Settle for Being Beach's Mistress

Last week it was beer for dinner, this week it's Diet Coke for breakfast. My body is about one carbonated drug away from an all-out mutiny. Any moment now I expect a Round Robin from my liver, stomach, kidney, intestines, and heart. Sure, the simple solution would be to go to sleep before 2am, but what fun is that? But “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” sounds perilously close to a self-fulfilling prophecy at this rate of consumption. Fine, body, you win. I’m headed down the shore until Sunday (bless you, Goddess of Four Day Weekends!) so I'll have plenty of time to relax and recoup.

I know I’ve said this at least ten times, but I love the beach. We eat a lot of ice cream. SisterOh and I run together every day. My hair curls from the humidity and salt air. I can walk or bike most everywhere I want to go. DadOh makes the world’s best peanut butter & jelly sandwiches for lunch on the beach. I can kayak, surf, boogey board or play bocce at a moment’s notice. I can’t move ten feet in any direction without bumping into a close friend or relative. It’s perfect. If the beach were a man, I’d want to be Mrs. Beach. Or Mrs. Oh-Beach because I plan to pretentiously hyphenate when I get hitched.

Anyway. This is my way of warning my dear readers that any posts between now and Sunday will be exuberant, impassioned, and invoking the words “love” and “beach” ad nauseam. Bear with me; bitter and bored JackieOh will be back on Monday, though the beach afterglow could carry me to Wednesday.