It appears to have been nearly a week since my last entry,
though that seems nearly unfathomable.
The days are bleeding together into a mélange of euphoric training hikes
and monotonous single parenting opportunities.
The wife had not so much as left the driveway when the boys and I
crafted a plan to hit the beach for a little fun in the sun and possible titty
watching. The latter seems to be of
increasing interest to my eldest which makes me have to shield my laughter when
I catch his eyes darting about the beach in hopes of catching sight of an
elusive nipple or two. I am far from
what one would call “reserved”, so I take great pleasure in occasionally
nudging him on the shoulder to point out a pair he might have missed so that I
can watch his face turn bright red. And yes, while Mom is away, you can be certain
that I am doing my part to place a stitch or two of wild open-mindedness into
their moral fiber. Any damage done can
certainly be re-sculpted in my month long absence in September. My poor wife!
We didn’t bother with the body boards given my correct
assumption that the water would be so intolerably cold that we would spend most
of our afternoon digging in the sand rather than splashing in the waves. It was just as well, as the beach was under
yellow flag and the wave conditions were far too dangerous for my guys to be
paddling around in anyway. We splashed
around on the periphery and dug a few healthy holes in the sand before our day
was done. On our way back to the car, I
thought it would be a special treat for the boys to watch the equivalent of a
coast guard helicopter take flight. I
guess I should have paid closer attention to those episode of M.A.S.H. when BJ
or Hawkeye would scamper away from the chopper as it lifted back into the
air. This being France, no great
precautions are taken to prevent you from shuffling into mortal danger, so our
vantage point was barely out of rotor reach.
I would guess we couldn’t have been more than 10 or so yards from it
when all hell broke loose. The deafening
noise was the least startling event in the no-holds-barred assault on our
senses. As soon as flight commenced, the
rotor wash flooded our every pore and unguarded orifice with irritating flecks
of microscopic sand particles sent our way at what felt like Hurricane
speed. The three of us dove for cover
behind the far wall of the toilet chalet and waited for the storm to
clear. We laughed and spent several
moments dusting each other off before heading for home.
After getting them hosed down and appropriately situated for
the evening, I sat down for a spot of UK television and was immediately
confronted by a commercial for “Hiscox” lnsurance. That’s the name of the company by the way,
not a variety of available coverage, though there may be a niche market there
that someone might be interested in. I
have said it before and I will say it again, marketing fascinates the shit out
of me. What makes something sell in one
part of the world would send consumers running for the hills in others, or at the very least
have them laughing so uncontrollably that their orange juice shoots out of
their nose. That hurts by the way, just
in case you were wondering. I get it, I
have the sense of humor of a 13 year old.
Still, I think you get my point.
We expect Mom home tomorrow and life will return back to its ordinary
ebb and flow. This in turn will perhaps
allow me some more keyboard time to hash out the next five posts I have already
written titles for, the content of which I am struggling to keep hold of in the
usual storm of ideas bouncing around inside my balding head.
For now, I shall bid you all a good eve
despite the fact that I have much more to write. Truth is, the damned cursor keeps jumping
around the page when I brush against the touch pad from my uncomfortable typing
position and my aggravation level is making it impossible to go on. The uncomfortable typing position is due to
the fact that my laptop is on the verge of a catastrophic melt down. The fan works non-stop by blowing scalding
air onto my genitals which, in turn, forces me to set the “lap”top next to me
on the bed. I know what you are
thinking, but desks are for suckers. Why
else would they call the fucking thing a “lap”top anyhow? So, again I bid you a good evening and
promise to give another shout as soon as time permits, provided the burn cream does
its part in cooling my seemingly fire scorched testicles. R.
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