My friends all got this one yesterday--"Look at me!" I got out of the house once again. Beach Redux. It was quite beautiful. I am trying to get to the beach this month as next is going to be much hotter and stormier. This is the perfect month for beaching. Up the coast, the beaches of South Carolina look identical to the ones here but the sun is not harsh. It is more like an autumn sun here. I don't think the S. Carolina sun will give you cancer. I could be wrong, though. I'm just guessing.
I used an SPF 50 spray and didn't stay out too long, and so I think I avoided damage. There is no burn, nothing but my nut brown skin and long golden hair. I look like a beach bum for sure.
I bought another shirt at the surf shop, too. I'm getting decked out.
On my way home, my former secretary texted. "Are you in town?"
"Just crossing the bridge on my way home."
"You can stop by if you like."
"Oh, honey, I'm a stinky mess right now. Next time I come over, I'll let you know."
By god, that is a hideous picture, though, now that I'm staring at it while I write. I should remove it. I might. But. . . you know. . . every picture tells a story. . . . .
I showered before I left the beach and I was bushed when I got home, so I lay down and took a nap. When I woke up, it was time for mother's. I jumped in the shower and washed whatever salt was left out of my hair. I cut my nails. It was hot. Too hot. I called my mother and told her I was just too driven out, too worn, to come over. I always feel guilty when I do this, but it was Friday night. I should be partying.
And so I made a refreshing cocktail. The clouds had suddenly covered the sky and there was a nice breeze. I sat on the deck which had become comfortable and began bothering friends with cocktail photos.
"O.K. They are all looking the same, but they all taste the same, too."
It is as close as I come to social media. Rather than post it on a FB page, I send it right to their inbox where it is more difficult to ignore, more irritating, too, I imagine. I need to stop it, but then I get a text:
"What? No drink pic tonight?"
Every picture tells a story, don't it?
I was feeling pretty groovy. And hungry. I thought "spaghetti." I make a good spaghetti, really meaty. Really, really meaty. It is probably meat with sauce and spaghetti noodles. That's what it is.
And a Cole slaw salad. Cole slaw without the dressing. Just a little Kosher salt, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar.
A quick run to the grocers. And then. . . the least desirable part of every meal is the time I take peeling and chopping garlic. Every night, clove after clove after clove. But garlic is important. Lots and lots of garlic.
While the water boiled, I sat outside with my salad and a glass of wine. I snapped a phone pic, of course, but I decided not to send it. Even I, at times, can show restraint.
And then the big bowl of spaghetti, my white shirt splattered with sauce per usual.
Well, kids, it's time to open the old C.S. fan mail bag and answer some of your questions. Huh. I guess the mailman didn't come today. Wait. . . here's one. Let me see. . . uh. . . no, that's not fan mail. Never mind.
Red texted me again to come to Vegas. She is staying on there, she says. She's made a lot of friends. They are having a pool party today.
"I will confess, you and your friends scare the shit out of me."
"Which of my friends do you know?"
"I might come. I need to decide. Tell your friends I'm a photographer. We'll have fun."
She sent back a phone pic right away of herself and another pretty girl.
"She lives here. She says she's down."
Like I said. . . they scare the shit out of me.
My "other" friend texted. She was at a bar. Phone pic of her and a woman I don't know. I must have said the wrong thing. The line went dead.
Selavy. I have reservations. Maybe everybody scares me.
"Sell your house and move to Tibet or somewhere," a friend writes.
"Yes, that's exactly how I want to spend my remaining days--in a hut drinking yak milk tea and listening to prayer bells day and night while the Red Army roams the streets. Would have been good long ago. Now I just want to play shuffle board."
My great travel desire is to the most expensive place on the planet just now--Japan. I really want to go to Japan before all the old stuff is gone. It is going. . . going. . . right now. So I've read. I so long to go.
The weekend spreads itself before me, legs wide, arms akimbo. Like all the others, it scares the shit out of me, too.
Next time I'm sending selfies, I'll remember to photograph the back of my head. It might be more appealing.