A Scatterbrained Sea Shanty of Sorts

Happy Monday, lovers! My cheeks are still flushed with that after-beach glow. I’m wearing my favorite dress and a matching bra and thong set. It’s going to be a good day.

I hated to leave the shore last night after such a wonderful long weekend. Although I adore the chaos of six families taking over the 65th street beach, our circle of chairs flanked by piles of surfboards and coolers of sandwiches, there was something comforting about coming home to my hot, quiet apartment. Last night was one of those rare moments when New York City felt vacant to me, the contrast between the city and the beach more dramatic after a few days of acclimation.

SisterOh and I had a few good runs together, though I was struggling with a toe-crushing sneaker issue. I’m pretty sure my right pinky toe needs to be amputated now, and four other toes aren’t looking so hot either. I’ve been relegated to purple nail polish for pedicures – light pink is entirely out of the question – and it won’t be long until I can’t bring my feet into the nail salon at all out of embarrassment. Remind me again why I love this sport? Oh right, tall skinny runner boys. Check.

On Friday night Mrs. F had her annual Italian dinner, serving up baked ziti and ravioli, meatballs and garlic bread, and of course, plenty of wine. BrotherOh had us in stitches as he described how good he has gotten at signing his name – apparently Division I ice hockey players now have celebrity status, and his team holds autograph signing sessions. I ran for a Division III school and the most I ever heard was, “Overpriced Private University has a track team? Where do you run?” Yeah, I’m a little jealous.

The R family hosted another great dinner on Saturday night, complete with Mr. R’s lethal cosmopolitans and Mrs. R’s famous mint brownies for dessert. I think I had four of each. After dinner, the kids (ages 20 to 26) played a head-to-head drinking game where you have to be the first person to yell out a word that starts with the same letter as the card drawn. So if you draw an Ace, you’d have to yell out “apple” or “arm” or whatever A-word comes to your mind before your opponent, and if you lose you drink. I know, it’s not a very deep game, but it gets dirty quickly. “Apple” turns into “asshole” by the second round of drinking. Not wanting to be left out of the fun, the parents joined in and then it got even dirtier. Mr. McB used some choice words that parents are NOT supposed to teach their children, but the real highlight was when Mrs. R, the proper fourth-grade teacher, went up against her son J and a seven was drawn. “SEX!” they both shouted, but Mrs. R eked him out in possibly the only situation where it’s better to be fast at sex.

We went out to the bar after dinner, and when I paid my (ripoff) cover charge the girl mashed my hand with the mother of all handstamps. Huge blue block letters spelling out the band’s name stained my skin and despite two showers and a lot of scrubbing, it’s still faintly there. K let me sleep at her house that night, and I totally had a Walk of Shame the next morning in my tshirt and gym shorts carrying my dress and heels, except, you know, K is a girl and I wore my oh-so-sexy retainers to sleep.

Sunday was gray and thunder clapped over the bay. Determined that the weather would break, I pranced around in my bikini for a while, but I spent the majority of the day curled up on the back deck with a good book. Rainy days at the beach are bit disappointing, but devoting an entire afternoon to eating and reading is pretty close to my idea of heaven.

Snap back to reality of Monday and boring work. They gave me another guy to support, but I haven’t come up with a name for him yet. At first Easy refused to allow it, and HR was very concerned that I’d be overwhelmed with the additional work, which is downright laughable. I had to make sure my tone wasn’t too eager or sarcastic when I agreed to the situation. Oh, gee, now I have slightly less NOTHING to do all day. Rats.

Loud Guy has been on the phone with his girlfriend FOREVER and it is taking all of my willpower not to spin in my chair, grab the headset off him and yell at the girl “BREAK UP WITH HIM!” Really, honey, for all of our sakes. They’re fighting about calling each other. He calls her, she doesn’t respond, she calls him back hours after she says she will, etc. Clearly, she does not want to be dating him. C and I are relatively sure she is married, and the new tattoo she just got on her neck sounds deliciously skanky. GIVE IT UP, LOUD GUY.

Lord knows I’m in no position to judge the Miss Dysfunctional Relationship Pageant. I’ve probably been in the running for the crown a few times myself. But this much I know for certain: cell phones will kill your relationship. The mandatory marathon conversations, inane text messaging, feeling that you have to “check in” with the other person at regular intervals…even the healthiest relationships can’t withstand that kind of technological bombardment. Hang up the phone, Loud Guy, and stop texting her. And I hear you pounding on your keyboard back there – an angry email is really not the way to go here either. Call me old fashioned, but when I want to talk to someone, I like to do it in person whenever possible. You know what else meeting in person facilitates, Loud Guy? Kissing. You can’t argue when you’re kissing, you can’t kiss when you’re on the phone, and kissing is the most fun thing.

The end.