You’re From The High Plains, Whoorl
Yesterday was one of those days that just physically kicks you in the ass. Repeatedly. The kind of day that makes the middle of your back burn and ache; the kind where you find yourself exhaling as you finally, FINALLY melt into the couch at day’s end. And I totally over-emphasized the couch-exhale bit last night, similar to Kyra Sedgwick’s character in Singles when she is about to brush her teeth before Steve Dunne shows up at her door.
Can we talk about Singles for a bit? Like the fact that it was released in 1992? 15 YEARS AGO?! Dude, I’m old.
I’m pretty sure I’ve memorized the entire dialogue of Singles. God, I LOVED Cliff Poncier. Most likely because I was dating (in a Janet/Cliff kind of way) a long-haired brunette band member at the time who looked remarkably similar to Cliff. Interestingly enough, they also shared the same IQ. We had an extremely deep and intellectual relationship. Alas, I was not an amazon woman and we eventually parted ways.
My shiteous day revolved around the beach. AGAIN. Really beach, what the hell?! The beach and I are headed for disaster. That, or couples counseling.
We have been experiencing early June gloom (or May Gray, is that what we’re calling it?) for the past week. Yesterday, between the hours of 11 and 1, the sun miraculously parted the clouds, the angels were singing and I knew it was time. I packed up the jogging stroller with my beach gear:
6. Diapers and wipes
7. Crazy pop-up tent (fucking fucker)
8. Beach blanket
12. Burp Rag
13. Are you catching my drift?
Say goodbye to the days when I could throw on my bikini and iPod and head out. Noooooo sir. Now, it’s an Olympic event that takes WAY too much planning and thinking and planning and thinking. Anyway, we finally got out the door and started the walk to the beach. I use my jogging stroller at the beach because the large front wheel glides effortlessly through the sand, unlike my eleventy trillion dollar Bugaboo. The only problem with the jogger is that it’s pretty hard to steer when you aren’t actually jogging. Which is pretty much a BITCH, people. Turning tight corners makes me want to cry (cue the middle-of-the-back burning). Whatever, we made it there. Quit blubbering.
We found a great spot, opened the tent (fucking fucker) and things were great. Before I go any further, you must know that our pop-up beach tent is dangerous. Literally, you pull it out of the bag, throw it on the ground and run like hell, hoping it doesn’t smack you in the ass. However, the biggest issue is folding it back up. Now, being the planny planner that I am, I practiced folding it up SEVERAL times before we left for the beach. I didn’t want to be that dumb ass that can’t fold up the damn tent.
Doesn’t look that difficult, right? Little tent, you don’t fool me…
Janet, I could not be fooling you less. (Who can name the scene?! Anyone? Anyone?)
After relaxing for a mere 45 minutes, the damn clouds rolled in and it was time to make a move. And this is when I would have given anything for a wingman with a camcorder. Because the tent-folding episode would have provided much entertainment on YouTube.
I could not get the damn tent to close. I tried and tried and then forcefully tried, which bent one of the rods the wrong way, resulting in a big 1 – 2 PUNCH right in my face, knocking me down on the sand in front of several beach-goers. Oh, and did I mention there was a hottie hot men’s volleyball tourney going on? Awesome!
Just imagine – glistening, sweaty hot dudes spiking the volleyball on the horizon. Oh wait, what’s that in the foreground? Is that a woman WRESTLING a pop-up tent to the ground? DUDE, the tent just knocked her OUT!
30 minutes later (yes, 30 – THREE ZERO), when it became clear that 9-month-olds can suffer from utter embarrassment, I called D at work. “I CAN’T GET THE FUCKING TENT TO CLOSE! I’M LEAVING IT HERE! ON THE BEACH! I DON’T CARE! (clenched teeth) People are laughing at me. What?! Yes. YES! I don’t want to drag it home! FINE!”
He said maybe it could be salvaged – he had a point. I had to find a way to get it home, but this type of tent doesn’t “fold” or “collapse”. It’s like a huge juicy zit, just seconds away from exploding all over the mirror. If you press one side down, the other side pops up. It was a huge pain in my ass.
Somehow, I managed to contort it into a 6-foot-long pressure cooker, laid it on top of the impossible-to-steer jogging stroller and attempted to walk home, trying to keep the breeze from turning it into a kite. All I can say is, that was one long-ass walk.
When I finally arrived home- sweaty, sandy and STINKY- I tried to get the tent through our back alley gate. Wito was sleeping in the stroller, so I was attempting to be quiet when the tent exploded and hit me in the face AGAIN. You guys, Whoorl done lost her shit.
To all of my lovely neighbors: I’m very sorry for the slight disturbance you may have heard yesterday around 1 pm in the alley. You may have witnessed some cursing, kicking, yelling and possibly, lots more cursing. And yes, the altercation was fueled by an inanimate blue and yellow object.
BUT, HE STARTED IT.
Needless to say, the tent is no longer salvageable.