"Doody in the Pool!"

Wednesday night, the adult crew at the beach house watched Caddyshack on DVD. It is one of the dumbest, plot-free pieces of crap movies I have repeatedly watched. Except for that one part where the Baby Ruth bar falls into the pool and is mistaken for a floating turd log. That is hilarity.

Speaking of turds, Husband just insisted that I must stop blogging immediately so that I can "fold the laundry while it is hot." According to him, it folds more nicely this way. Did I mentioned that yesterday he refused to leave for the Mets game until his bow tie was tied?

I Married a Lunatic

In the unlikely event that your spouse/partner decides that he needs to wear a 1940s sports-writer style outfit, complete with suspenders and bow tie, to a baseball game, I highly recommend this fine clip to teach you how to tie the fucking bow tie:It only took me several dozen tries before I figured it out, but that's no fault of the gentleman in the clip.

Lazy Saturday Afternoon Flashes of Brilliance/Mundaneness

As I was drifting off to sleep on the smelly hard bed in the beach house last night, a sentence popped into my head:

While I may personally dislike bare snatch, my ambition is completely bald.

This made me laugh out loud, although I no longer remember what it was in reference to. I think it had something to do with the online class that I signed up for, but whatever the point was got lost in the fitful slumber that finally overtook me. When I woke up this morning, I only recalled that fine line and how relieved I was to be returning to a bed made from cushiony material that lacked a hideous ocean-themed comforter that smelled musty.

This is not to say that I did not have a good time in Ocean City. I enjoyed myself immensely. While I wish some other people could have made it, everyone who did join us was super fun. It was especially great to spend a full week with Alex and her two kids, and half a week with Dianne and her daughter. I even managed to splash around happily in the waves of the ocean, the consequences (seaweed crotch) be damned. Further, I stopped by an old lady boutique and got a new bathing suit. It was 40% off and it fits quite nicely. When I look in the mirror, I no longer have the urge to smear Gorgonzola on myself because my resemblance to a ripe juicy pear is not as strong as it was in my old suit. (While I love pears with smelly cheese, I am pleased to not look like what I eat.)

At the same time, I received an email while I was gone, instructing me that I "will have fun" at an upcoming event. If you have to remind me that it will be a good time and I should look forward to it, that's probably not the case. Oh well. At least I'll come home to a nice bed.

Doin' Time in OC

My time in Ocean City, NJ – aka "The Land that Time Forgot" – is over. Here's what happened by the numbers:

- Number of people who stayed in the house the first weekend: 20
- Number of people who stayed the full week: 5
- Number of people who canceled: 4 (sniff!)
- Number of people who called randomly to see if they could join us after all: 2
- Number of foot injuries I incurred in the first half of the trip: 4
- Number of people contracting pink eye: 0 (last year: 2)
- Number of children who stayed at the house various points: 3
- Number of temper tantrums thrown by 3 children: countless
- Number of temper tantrums thrown by me: more than the 3 kids combined
- Number of compliments I received on my "My Bush could do a better job" shirt: 1
- Number of compliments I received last year on my "Bush is a Tush" shirt: 0 (one guy yelled at me that I should consider myself "lucky to have Bush")
- Number of times I went to the beach and enjoyed it despite my hatred of sand: 4
- Number of times it rained: 3
- Amount of food consumed during the week: Tons
- Number of times I used the workout gear I packed, including my roller skates: 0

I think that pretty much says it all. Once I get back, I have no trips planned until the end of the year, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, having reliable internet access, and catching up on all my blog friends' writings!

Welcome to McDonald's, Now Get the Fuck Out

Upon entering the grease and ketchup stained mess that was also known as the Ocean City McDonald's so that I could use their very cheap wifi to log onto a online class that I registered for, I approached the counter.

"What time are you open until tonight?" I asked the cashier after I ordered a medium Diet Coke.

"I don't know. It depends," she said. I found that odd. How the hell do people not know what time their restaurant is open until?

"OK, do you think you'll be open until 11?" It was 9:00. My class ended at 11:00, so I needed internet access until then.

"Yes, probably, at least 11."

"Thanks," I said. I took my Diet Coke and sat down, logging onto the Mickey D wifi and paying my $2.95 for 2 hours of internet excitement.

At 10:25, a woman began yelling at us. "We're closing the dining room in 10 minutes. You'll need to get out."

"Excuse me?" I asked, confused. "I was told that you were open until at least 11:00. I need to use the wi..."

"Well, I'm the night shift manager and I decide when the dining room opens and closes, and you must get out of her in five minutes," she sneered.

Now I was mad. "I see. So this restaurant has no standards whatsoever. You just open and close at your whim. I'm sorry I inconvenienced you by daring to come." I didn't bother mentioning that this was the filthiest McDonald's I ever set foot in.

We glared at each other. "Your five minutes are up. Get out."

I understand that this woman is not thrilled with her job as the night shift manager of Ocean City's McDonald's. (She also made that clear by bitching at one of the new employees, yelling in her face that she didn't care if it was the girl's first day, she better do her job perfectly.) At the same time, she can suck my dick. I went outside and sat near the drive thru, using every last minute of my wifi purchase. Later today, I plan to call the corporate office. Then a call to the health department. They might be interested in hearing about the vile conditions of the facility, don't you think?

Six Feet Under Grease

My online travel writing class is "meeting" at 10 pm tonight, so I headed over to Mickey D's for some reliable internet access. Wifi is only $2.95 for 2 hours, which is a very sweet deal indeed. Unfortunately, someone decided to "mop" the floor with what seems to be leftover grease from the fryer. I nearly wiped out during my quest to find a clean table (mission: near impossible) until I figured out that I should just pretend I was wearing ice skates and glide on the floor. Also, let me mention that it reeks of ketchup in here. That the grill exploded all over the dining room is a distinct possibility. I'd have gladly settled down for two hours at another location, if anything in this godforsaken beach town was open past 9 pm.

The gliding around McDonald's might not be so painful had I not injured my feet. My left foot is sporting an impressive blister on my 4th toe, which developed as I played pirate miniature golf last night. (Score: 63, only 25 or so over par. It's a talent, I know.) My right foot is another tragedy. I sprained the 4th toe on Sunday when a wave knocked me over and I twisted my foot under me as my head charged directly into Husband's ass. Then on Tuesday, I stepped on a rock that flayed my heel and onto something sharp that punctured the center of the sole.

At least my sunburn is not too bad.

Swim Suit Surprise

Given how much I hate sand, it is ironic that I find myself hitting the beach in Ocean City this week for the second summer in a row and that I am going to Hawaii at the end of the year. Sand truly is one of those things that never, ever goes away. When we return and unpack our bags, I will not be surprised to find Tycho, our ginormous rabbit, building sandcastles in his quarters.

The other things that disturbs me about beaches are the surprises I find suctioned to my flabby white body when I peel my bathing suit and swim shorts off to shower. On Sunday, my titties were draped with seaweed. This afternoon, my gut was coated with dark sand and little rocks. There were bits of seaweed plastered to my thighs both days. Fortunately, it rained on Monday, so I was tortured at a children's museum in a nearby mall instead of by my regular Jersey Shore nemesis. Actually, the museum was kind of cool and I scared the bitch at the front desk into giving me a refund after she fooled us into paying as group, which only allowed us to use one coupon. I think she sensed the anger bomb that was about to go off and wisely chose to diffuse it.

Regardless of the sand, seaweed, surly museum officials, and the ants that invaded the upstairs apartment of the two family home that Husband rented again, it is good times. As every postcard says, wish you were here.