Beach Music

I can use a little levity on the weekend. Thank God there is Scott. When you need a little silliness, he's The Man.

I tell him when I see him that, true to form, Estelle has roared back to life and is clawing at all the people in her life hoping to draw blood once again.  He is appropriately horrified at the Plain Jane comment. At the total inaccuracy as well as the over-the-top meanness of it.

But that is the end of that. No dwelling on idiotic comments made by others. We have a beach to get to.

It is a gorgeous day. The sky is clear. There is a nice breeze. The heat wave is cooking everything in sight but it is glorious to have my fanny in a beach chair, my toes deeply dug into the wet sand, and the surf lapping up just far enough to cool us.

Scott goes in the water and body surfs a bit. I have just lathered on half a bottle of ridiculously expensive sunscreen and decide not to wash it all off by swimming. Instead I check in on Facebook and brag about what a fabulous time I'm having (using extreme restraint and not gloating about my handsome half naked man and not posting a picture of him looking like a magazine ad for board shorts)

Scott rejoins me on the sand and we chat about what we might want to do later. What we want to do for dinner. What each of our kids is doing later. What we have at home in the fridge to drink.

And then it is time for a walk. And the silliness begins.

We walk south toward the beach where they teach surfing. Always a good laugh.
We count pairs of surgically enhanced boobs, the ones that don't lie down when the owner does.
We point out the whitest people on the beach and guess at the SPF they are wearing to prevent bursting into flame.
Scott mentions that his head is burning.

"Did you put sun screen on it?"

"Yes, but it still feels burny." Scott has a very short Sargent Carter flat top that has been pure white since his 30s.

"Do you want to wear my hat?" I ask, extending it to him. I wear my hat to prevent my color from fading to 50 Shades of Grey. "It is a girly hat but it's a hat," I say practically. It is a baseball hat. Lime green with a sailboat embroidered on the front. Not exactly a Tucson Rod and Gun Club hat.

Scott looks at the hat like I've just offered him a live opossum. "No. Thanks."

"You could put your hand on your head." And for a moment, he does.

"No, silly. Like this, so people think it's hair." I put my hand on his head with my fingers dangling like bangs on his forehead.

He laughs, and says what he really needs is just a yarmulke. I look around to see if there is an Orthodox Jew we might pilfer one from, but alas, it is the Sabbath and there isn't likely to be any today frollicking in the surf.

To mitigate the disappointment I mention that a yarmulke would never stay on Scott's head anyway. It would blow off in the sea breeze. And sadly, there isn't enough hair to even bobby pin it to. (Go-o-o-lly!)

He says,"Maybe they make one with a chin strap."

"Perfect! Better yet. You could just wear a birthday party hat with a little elastic strap"

"And I could hide things under it. Like my wallet."

The image of Scott, handsome and brown, sitting in his beach chair, reading Surf Magazine wearing a polka dot birthday hat makes me laugh out loud. Imagining him pulling it up a few inches to retrieve his wallet when he walks up to the ice cream man to get a Dixie Cup is even more hilarious. I imagine there would be a Chapstik under there too.

And just like that, Mom and her Plain Jane comment are like the spray of the surf. They rise up and startle you but in no time are gone and forgotten and leave little trace of themselves behind.