Gunboats Arise!

I might can hear the beach from here. In approximately five days, we'll all be down there. All. Of. Us. That means Ken and I, all four of our grown children, our three daughter-in-loves, our daughter's boyfriend and eight grandchildren, ages 6 and under. We rented a big ole house with five bedrooms, but I imagine that's not enough. Our daughter likes to sleep on the couch so that she gets to wake up with little people all up in her business. 

I'm already feeling so lazy, I'm certain I'm going to be a disappointment to a lot of people while I'm there. My flipflops are trying to jump into my beach bag and I can already smell the salt air. Do I have to cook? Why would I do that there, when I barely do it here? You can clearly see that I am doing serious work, getting ready for this holiday. I always bring stuff to write with, things to draw with, and a snorkel kit. It's possible I'll dribble something in those books or float out to the sandbar. Or not. Or I'll read during naptime and answer many questions from inquiring little minds. 

Maybe I'm of an age now where, like wearing my Clark's shoes, nobody's expecting a whole lot. Speaking of which, I don't know where along the way I thought of myself as a fashionista. I'm way too fluffy and goofy to look trendy. I gave up heels a long time ago, except for boots. I thought I was swank with my name-brand tennis shoes. Truth is, if I stand back and look, there's nothing svelte about my feet, no matter what you cover them with. This past winter, I got tired of trying to figure out what shoes looked nice with professional clothing. Pumps and pointy shoes made me hurt and downtrodden. So I just died to it and plunged headlong into the arena of granny shoes. What in the world took me so long? They're supportive and expensive, but they last forever. You can multi-task in them and they don't care if you're walking the dog or closing a deal. They still feel really good.

But back to the beach. These nasty toes have been concealed most of the winter. It looks like somebody beat them up and tried to put them through a meat grinder. I'm going to have to sashay over to the nail salon and get somebody to haul out the power tools. I know I should feel guilty for spending money on those digits, that I should attempt to get my wood chipper out and get to work. But no. There are some things that are worth delegating, particularly when they involve hoof-like appendages. The only redeeming quality of my feet is that they look just like my dear-departed-Daddy's. I can look down at them, laugh, and hope that when you get to heaven you get a new pair. Hoping to see them surrounded with lots of sand very soon.