going coastal

Todd's family has a shabby little bungalow at the beach. And by bungalow I mean rusted out 30-foot trailer held together by duct tape, memories, and scads of useless relics packed into dank corners. As you may have ascertained, this place holds virtually no endearment for me. Except that Todd and the kids love to go there. Ten times a year or so, he rattles off the weather report, at which point I pretty much flat-line, and tries to stir up a "go team go!" attitude about spending the weekend there. Immediately my gears begin whirring in an effort to get me out of it. Obligations? (Generally a series on dvd with B and A) Cramps? Hangnail? I absolutely dread being faced with this proposition. My kids dash into their rooms and pack immediately, and then serenade me with loves songs in hopes that I will drag my misery along. They know I hate it, and they have plenty of fun with just their dad, but you know, it's better when Mom's there. So they slather on the guilt and I dangle in torment until I either assert myself and stay home, or surrender. This past weekend I did the latter because I had skipped the past few trips, and the guilt was eating away my guts.

Suffice it to say, I get very little, well, no, sympathy from friends when I bemoan an impending trip to the beach. I quickly realized it's a bit like grousing about my fillet mignon to the starving man on the street. B offered to smack the scowl off my face, and ordered me to smile and refrain from all swearing and hissing for the entire trip. Talk about tough love.

So we pile in the Jeep, and several of our various familial idiosyncrasies emerge immediately. Reilly got carsick, I forgot my iPod, skipped breakfast, hate the roaring engine of Todd's Jeep, and lament the fact that for him, music while driving is not a given. Then of course, I am further dismayed to discover that our option is a boxed set of Jimi Hendrix. For shame. So roaring engine it was. That is, until Reilly boldly asked Todd to put in her cd, an assortment of music much-maligned by Todd. You know, a little Daft Punk, some Eagle Eye Cherry, Bill Withers, and Shania Twain, for whom Todd has an inexplicable tolerance. In every other capacity, he is the Grinch of music.

We ate at Burgerville, and no sooner did I place my order and B texted to remind me "no soda, no fries...not even one." We're dieting you see, so she was being helpful, but it felt like the kind of help where someone twists the knife once you've jammed it into your heart.

I should mention that in addition to not needing music on a trip, Todd also doesn't speak. Can you see how paradise was unfolding before my eyes? We finally make it to Newport, at which point I will cop to feeling a surge of nostalgia, having grown up there. We hit Starbucks, and I was recognized by the barista from the Obama video, I asked T if we could drive up 101 to see what has changed. He flatly denied my request and we headed south. Destination: rusty lean to. Hoo-fucking-ray!

I must qualify this whole excessive tirade by adding that I have torn the meniscus in my left knee, on top of the arthritis I already have in both knees, and am currently undergoing a battery of testing to determine whether I am candidate for...you guessed it! Another surgery! Anyway, I was in agony, and I should mention the 208 stairs that separate the dungalo from the sand. Just what the doctor ordered. When we first arrived, Todd spent ten minutes trying to get his key to work, worried that his sister may have changed the locks. I fell to my shattered knees and prayed that we'd be forced to go home. (Mother of the Year, I'm telling you.) It might help for you to know that I have a weird form of beach narcolepsy, and the minute my feet hit the sand I fall asleep for two hours. No matter what. Todd and several others theorize that it's because in my real life, the life wherein there is no sand in one's unmentionables, I am always running, always going, always in search of new ways to busy myself. So at the beach, stripped of these diversions, I go into a coma. Anyway, I finally awoke, and gave my Rip Van Winkle beard a good swipe before joining my kids at the shoreline. After frolicking happily, despite the shards of glass that had become my knees, we were ravenous. We favor a particular eatery in Waldport, called Grand Central, and we were all eager to get there. In an effort to win the prize for most qualifications ever in a story, I must interject a bit more back story. My best friend in high school, Zach, still lives at the coast. We had a bitter divorce wherein I abandoned him with no warning. And, he is just petty and malicious enough that he would relish seeing me with sandy wind-swept hair, 100 pounds overweight, with wet jeans rolled up and my mascara running down my face. So I make a point never to venture out unless my clothes are impeccable and my hair is straightened, make-up perfect, etc.


WARNING: Don't read what's next while drinking a beverage. Gail, I'm sorry.

Once at Grand Central, Todd and Rei scurried inside and Quinn waited for me. As I manipulated my knee-like things out of the car, and stood up, I felt a rock hit my head and shatter, like clay. Alarmed, I looked up, only to find a motherfucking seagull swooping past, smirking. That's right, it was not a rock. And it was not a rock running down my head. It was not a rock that I reached up and touched with the very hands I was planning to wrap around a veggie grinder. Quinn was horrified, alternately laughing and crying. Seriously. I ordered him into the restaurant to fetch his dad, who was less than pleased to be pulled out of line for yet another Cheyenne drama. And I was equally jubilant to have to say to him, "Um. A seagull shit on my head." I must confess, that despite wanting to curl up and drown myself in a scalding hot bath full of Ajax, it was satisfying to see him smile. Well, guffaw, actually. Sprinting to the car dodging imaginary birds as though they were torpedoes, we got back in the car so I could go wash my hair before Zach sauntered out from behind from corner all sparklingly, gay-ly clean. We've now reached the 4,085th reason I hate the coast: The microscopic bathtub/shower at the lean to. I swear it was built for a doll house. It is the length of a bread box, the height of a space heater, and as inviting as a fucking cactus. I wasn't about to disrobe and stuff myself into this Houdini chamber, so I bent down on my former knees, and scrubbed my hair until it was nearly gone. I then had to put it up wet, as I'd forgotten my straightener, and resign myself to seeing Zach (though I never did). We sped back to the restaurant and devoured our sublime food, then headed to the store for s'more fixins, snacks for later, and some movies.

Back at the beach, I managed to stay awake, and in spite of my prediction, my knees did not fall out. I read the local paper, watched my kids run, and ate my very first s'more, which I must say was so scrumptious I immediately ate another. I don't like chocolate, nor gooey marshmallow oozing out onto my hand, nor graham cracker crumbs running down my shirt, so I've avoided these absurd things for 30 years. Man was I wrong. The smoky marshmallow flavor, with the thin, cold layer of chocolate snapping in the middle. OMG. I'd have given both knees for a third.

We settled back into the boxcar, watched a movie, and then went to bed. The next day we hit our favorite breakfast place, where I promised B I'd be good, and only ate four bites of French toast, along with my vegetable hash. Onto Starbucks, and then next stop: the outlet mall. With the trip mostly behind us, and the mall around the corner, I was in pretty good spirits, except that we had just learned of the circumstances surrounding the birth Pam had been attending all night. The baby was not doing well at all, and I couldn't shake the gravity of the situation. At the GAP, as I schlepped 75 pounds of clothes around, a text came in saying the parents had opted to let their new baby boy go, and I literally collapsed to the ground sobbing. I didn't know these people, but it really struck a cord. Clothes went flying, people were staring, and I had been under fluorescent lights so long I had lost all concept of time or reason. Not to mention that my knees were the size of watermelons. After a 45-minute debacle at the register, wherein the new girl had been deprived of food for too long to know how to do her job, and with Todd this close to slitting his throat, we left the mall.

The drive home was uneventful, with the one Shania Twain song we could all agree on on continual loop. We pulled into Chez Fitzpatrick, which I hate almost as much as the bungalow (I know I know, I am a wretched, unfathomable ingrate). Got everything unpacked, some laundry going, and met B at the gym for a MUCH-needed swim and soak in the hot tub. As we sat, in our redunkulous matching Fantasia bathing suits, I pleaded with my knees not to ditch me just yet, that I needed them, that I would be more attentive from now on, and say kinder things to them. Suddenly, B pierced the serenity by asking what my worst indulgence was on the trip. A film strip of coffees, s'mores, and various bites of things played in my head. With my head lowered, I confessed that my "bites" of French Toast were the size of footballs.

"Hm." She said. "That's okay. You earned it. I mean, a bird shit on your head."

(I wish I had known she'd be that understanding. I'd have eaten all the French Toast, and the bacon!)

Now can I get a little more understanding next time Todd turns to me and says, "Hey the weather is supposed to be 75 at the coast this weekend?"