Beach Birds and monsters

Sometimes, the greatest of ideas become the worst of ideas. Having found myself turned into a lobster, I quickly discovered the beach umbrella at the local grocery store. “This could work” I thought, snatching it up for myself like a gluttonous pig in a cupcake shop.

Eager to put that little treasure up, I went straight to the beach, snapped it together and screwed it into the sand. Viola.. Instant perfection.

But then again, nothing is ever perfect. Neither is weather. Obviously, ignoring the gusting wind blowing ferociously off the ocean I proceeded to plop out my things in a neat arrangement under the shade of my giant red umbrella.

I opened my book and began to read, while feeling extremely proud of this new found comfort I had successfully created for myself. Without warning, as these things usually happen, the giant umbrella snapped itself loose from the pole still screwed into the sand and began to flip and roll across the beach like a paper sack. It managed to flip itself right into the lap /stomach of a woman sunbathing with her elderly Mother and Aunt who happened to be visiting from Connecticut.

I’m of course chasing behind the giant red bohemeth of an umbrella, now lumbering in somersaults worthy of an Olympic medal. I, of course can’t catch the red tumbling megalodon anymore than they can stop it’s unwanted invasion upon their relaxation. Spirited and kind, these women managed to grab a hold of the beastly creature disguised as an umbrella, although I think it might have been something they sell to make fun of tourists with.

The elderly mother quickly says, “I’m fully Vaccinated” and I reply “Yes, so am I” and think, this is what our world has weirdly become. Nevertheless the oddity of the conversation didn’t stop her from helping me wrangle that bucking bronco back to my, now disheveled things. Pissed at this monster I had created but couldn’t hide, I beat it into a ball and shoved its unruly red canvas into its easy to carry case and pitched it to the side.

I certainly couldn’t allow such a hideous contraption to ruin my perfect afternoon, so I proceeded to play it off by straightening my things and picking up my crumpled book.

Peacefulness isn’t always something I have experienced and it wasn’t then either, because the man who runs the umbrella /chair rental business for the hotel made no qualms in walking past me to say, “Those umbrellas aren’t meant for this wind, someone’s gonna get hurt” as if his umbrellas were somehow better or his intelligence keener than mine as the tragedy had already happened and he hadn’t bothered saying anything until it had already occurred. So, I’m thinking, “OK buddy, suck some sand” when low and behold the wind Goddess reached out and plucked one of his golden umbs from the sand and launched it in a tailspin.

“karma is I bitch I hear” I mutter under my breath, but I could have screamed it, he couldn’t hear me chasing his massive blue umbrella, now spinning like a vaulted spear, towards the pool.

Returning to my book, ignoring the spectacle behind me, I settle into a few good pages before I hear racket to my left. A large builded, old man of retired age has begun setting up his lawn chairs, practically next to me. His buddy, (Gerald) and two unnamed grandma ladies, show up talking as loud as lawn mowers running diesel. They begin to argue about what the concrete structure to the side of us is, although only a hotel with bad 1970s architecture, they yell about what it must be, never even considering that it might be a hotel.

Try as I might, I attempted to continue reading, but the noisy elders decided yell talking wasn’t sufficient enough in decibels and turn on music from a phone or small device one of them has carried with them. That only creates one more thing to cause them to yell at each other whilst sitting in their matching fold up chairs, all in a a row like roosting birds on a lone wire.

Gerald, loudly announced over his wife’s now humming, that the other man and his wife will be responsible for buying dinner and they did care what they ate, after which the other old man yells “What!? I can’t hear you”

His wife yells the repeated words of Gerald before he says “Okay, I ain’t got nothing to do so it’s no problem”

At this point, I have decided between old yelling grandparents, attacking umbrellas and a vicious sun that is hell bent on cooking me alive, my best bet is to seek refuge on my balcony.

I didn’t mention that I purchased some cute sodas in glass bottles did I, with no bottle opener, well I did. And, determined to open one left me with two split open, bleeding fingers and no bandages. So, I’d say that today was extremely adventurous and full of whimsical Follies designed to make me laugh, except, I’m not laughing.

I’m not crying either, but I did give the chair/business guy the stink eye and smiled nicely to the old birds who seemed perplexed at my departure.

Tomorrow is a new day and a new adventure, but one that will not begin with a monstrous umbrella named Goliath asshole.

Thank you for reading ❤️

Lucky is the Lobster

The disease has begun. The transformation is upon me. I have yet to relinquish wearing my bra, thank God for small miracles. And, I still have put on my make up, but mostly because it’s required for me to receive the specialized SPF formula in my lovely Estee Lauder foundation. All of which could potentially be threatened if the disease takes over fully.

I can’t exactly say when I contracted this, but my guess is sometime in the wee hours of the morning it must have slipped in under the door and found its way into my slumbering head. It has rendered my rational thoughts into one’s with no logic given the full understanding of what ocean sun does to pink white skin.

I am fully aware of these things and you would think in my sane mind the first trip to the store wouldn’t be for just deodorant or a new tank top. One could assume the intelligent action would be the one that provided me with a bottle of sunscreen. Unless of course, the disease had already perverted my thinking and beckoned me to sit upon the beach, unprotected like a hormonal teen on a first date.

The disease rotted my brain into believing I wasn’t getting burned or turning into something altogether, different. I started out the day as a woman and it is now with great confidence I can say with absolute, I’m no longer a woman, but a lobster.

A very largish, black haired and slightly feminine lobster. That’s right. Lobster. There’s no imagination in this as figurative speech, but in actuality a real lobster. I have been turned from white pink to blustering red in a matter of hours. It’s not that I mind the color, but I must say, it doesn’t quite match the estee lauder foundation color of “Pebble” and even if it did, my eyeshadow is all wrong. I’m not sure if I have acquired a keen sense of swimming yet, or even if lobsters swim at all given the opportunity. But, I shall not chance it today and opt for more lobster discovery tomorrow when the sun is highest in the sky.

I do hope it’s not lobster season as I’m not quite interested in finding myself flayed out on someone’s dinner plate either. I do think that might hamper my discovery adventures. I don’t think I’d be a great catch anyway, I’m rather large for most stock pots so I’ll have to pray this will keep me safe longer than if I were a wee smaller size.

Besides, if I remember correctly lobster is often tough and chewy. Who wants to eat that for a premium…although from the looks of it, lots would.

I should have only hoped for ever becoming one of those Floridan hobos, but instead, I’ve become a creature worthy of an aquarium. Perhaps this is the greatest folly of them all.

Thanks for reading ❤️

Floridan Follies, Hobos and Retirees

When I use the word Hobo here, it’s by far a completely different definition than the Obispo Hobo. Florida Hobos aren’t actually homeless although they might appear as such. These particular hobos have traded in their luxurious shopping carts and hiking backpacks for a bike or even a walking stick. The Florida hobo almost never wears clothes, if any, trading outerwear for darkened brown, leathery skin just as worthy as a cowhide is to a pair of fine shoes.

The strong scent of coconut oil and suntan lotion replaces the usual noxious stench of body odor coming from the typical Hobo. These hobos play in the day as if there is no tomorrow to only retire to a fancy hotel, condominium or retirement retreat in the evenings for a little needed R&R.

Women of all body types, but mostly ones that would make any self conscious girl feel better, slather on sunscreen smack dab in the middle of the beach as if no one is watching, carefully applying the creamy concoction to every single part of their bodies by merely shifting their suit to one side or the other. In my opinion, it might have been easier done and perhaps with more privacy in the confines of their hotel rooms. However, this is not the way in which it is done here, and for reasons I haven’t figured out being that I’m the only person fully clothed.

The aging Florida Hobo seems to have lost all sense of awareness when it comes to modisty. The men ride their senior bicycles in nothing but wind shorts just shy of being daisy dukes. The sheer ability to keep their jewelry tucked up is a complete mystery, but one I’m unwilling to investigate further. The granny’s have slightly more self awareness than the retiree male by wearing a few more articles of clothing, but only because it’s prohibited for women to go around topless. They have traded lofty cardigans and floral dresses for short mumus and skirted swimsuits. They sport those suits like Sundays best while walking small, manicured dogs down the lush sidewalks covered in flowering hibiscus bushes.

Lizards run about as if they own the places and some as large as small cars. If anyone could think a rat could make me scream, they haven’t witnessed my encounters with iguanas. They are horrific events that nevertheless leave other people around me stumped by my inability to stop screaming like a complete and utter psycho. Especially, if that particular, horrifying Iguana, does nothing but be the lizard it is by merely staring at the screaming freak in his solid, unmoving stance.

There are other predators here than just an Iguana. Large pterodactyls that everyone here calls a pelican, swoop and dip over my head as if I might be their next snack while beach hobos appear unaware of their pesky existence. Fortunately for me, I have an umbrella which completely tricks this bizarre Dino bird into thinking I’m furniture, furthermore eliminating me as prey. Thankfully, I’ve been spared.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been spared from viewing the young girl in her late twentieth who decided to pretend she were a bond girl by bending over abruptly in the midst of a crashing wave to dip her brassy yellow hair into the ocean and then flip her head back in a rendition of an old Bo Derek move from 5.0. She took that move as a que to look for anyone watching. Pleased with herself, the young woman decided to turn from the salty heaven and run, bouncing her body around as if she had just become Pamela Anderson in Baywatch, giving all of unlucky spectators a few laps to gather it all in.

The other strange folly comes from the strongest urge to take a nap or pass out right where I’m sitting as if I had been slipped a roofy in my morning coffee although I would have been the only person to do that and, I certainly did not.

For now, I shall return to reading my book and keeping a watchful eye on the Pterodactyls I know want to devour me whole all the while burning my skin as if I were toast.

Thank you for reading ❤️

California Triangle

The California Triangle is much like the burmuda triangle. It’s not as glamorous of course, but nevertheless it’s real. It sits on a fairly quiet street, behind a shopping plaza and across from an embassy suites. It’s a place where strange burrowing squirrels along with a few lone cats, call home.

In essence, it appears to be nothing more than a triangle of grass at the back of a parking lot. But, it’s much more than that. You see, It calls to hobos of all kinds. They love to frequent the lone tree in the back corner as a motel of their own, pitching tents like real campers.

Random cars, often of the Japanese car make, as an example, Mazda and Honda, enjoy spinning circles into donuts in front of the triangle as if they are there for its entertainment purposes. a

In the wee hours of the night, teenagers dressed in t-shirts, scarves and sweat pants ride down the sidewalk on their skateboards outfitted with headlights as if they are drawn there by some unseen force.

Police officers visit in the morning, often parking against the shrubs to smoke cigarettes as if no one can see them. Late night drug smugglers or people trading large, brown bags of brachs candy (not sure which) edge against the shrubs to do their dirty deeds. Sometimes they gluttonously cram things from those paper bags into their mouths greedily.

Transients, typically traveling in threes equally enjoy the green by coping a squat for a midnight piss, all the while cars buzz down the freeway behind them. Fortunately for the drivers the hobo ass is obscured from the massive shubery separating the triangle from normal civilized life on the other side.

It’s a baffling occurrence, but nevertheless happens on a daily and if your lucky, you can catch bizarre men and women, park their cars to sit for hours as if in a complete trance. It’s as if they are unable to move or go about their day. I can’t be for sure but I think they may possibly be deadlocked into some mind blowing orgy only they can see. Although I haven’t tried it myself.

People, usually men in large trucks, a few suvs and one mini van love to bring their big, massive dog to the triangle just so to defecate on its luxuriously green patch of triangular bliss. They almost never pick up the doo, but instead opt to talk on the phone pretending they didn’t see the massive hound dropping tootsie rolls on the naked ground below their tiny starfish.

The triangle even calls to winery tour buses, beckoning them to frequently do drive bys on a dead end street, making it more suitable to a Nascar track than a road to nowhere. Where the people go or if there were even any on the bus is anyone’s guess.

This triangle is as diabolical as a scorned ex wife hell bent on eating her child support as if it was all just for her. It’s as sinister as a walmart shopping cart in a covid pandemic and as evil as a hearty bowel movement to find an empty roll of toilet paper in a public restroom.

It’s mystifying and intriguing, but yet not enough to lure me out with an attempt to explore its magnetic pull, any closer than my third floor micro balcony. It’s safer here and for some reason casts an invisible shroud over me so that not a single soul notices my presence.

These are the oddities in which I find folly and solace. These are the moments of my life.

Thank you for reading my satire ❤️