Liquid Courage and the Dancing Queens

I returned from Italy last Tuesday evening, super crabby following the maddening inefficiency of the airport immigration experience. The dreary, gray skies and the general ugliness of Jamaica, NY did nothing to improve my mood, and the scary bus ride home only added to my misery. Within 24 hours I could add to my bitch list a canine chocolate overdose and an overwhelming to do list at work My full upcoming weekend should have lifted my spirits, but instead it all seemed like an ill-timed inconvenience given how much else I had to do. Given this piss poor attitude, the absolute blast I had this weekend came as a complete surprise.

On Saturday Rob and I went with friends Dave and Karen to Atlantic City. Dave and Karen are "those" friends. The bad influence kind with whom you always have a good time. Since our friendship began I've gone to more concerts and drank more beer than at any other point in my life.

The purpose of our trip to AC was not gambling-related. We were in town to see Jerry Seinfeld. You'll appreciate this tidbit: Karen originally proposed this idea to Rob because she knew I'd say "Hell no!" when I saw the price. But it was worth the gouging expense. Not only were Jerry and his opening act hysterical, but I had an absolutely awesome time post show, which translates into post 10 p.m. at which point in the evening I generally bow out and hit the sack. Not only did I not hit the sack after Seinfeld, but I actually hit the dance floor! This is BIG. I do not often dance in public. If you've seen me dance you know why. But we were at the Gypsy Bar where they serve beers not in 16 ounce pints, but in 22 ounce glasses. This liquid courage explains the dancing. And a good band playing today's popular hits also helped spur us on.

The wall-to-wall crowd offered a good deal of visual stimulation to go with the musical vibrations. I saw a woman with Life Savers strategically attached to her t-shirt, allowing various men to sample her wares. I gawked noted another woman whose dress ended where her thigh-high stockings began. I was surprised at the range of ages co-mingling. I'd guess 21-60, though I'm notoriously bad at guessing age. I still think I'm younger than everyone I meet, when in fact that rarely holds true anymore, which is depressing as hell, but that's a blog post for another time. Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about myself out there. Had on my favorite dress. My ass wasn't hanging out. I wasn't stumbling about in 4" heels. Wasn't spilling my beer while I danced. It was all good. Until my dancing and jumping caused a small leak and I was rudely reminded that I am not young and that I still need to do kegel exercises. But I didn't let that stop me! In fact, it was not boring old Kim who called it a night, but rather her usually gung-ho husband. We made our way to the hotel room where we promptly crashed and slept soundly until the next morning. (Note: Moderation is important if a romantic night is on your agenda.)

Sunday was a continuation of the good times that began with our AC adventures. I played with my pup and played in the dirt, readying the gardens for spring flowers. My pup also played in the dirt--if you need a hole dug, she's your girl. The evening ended on a more age-appropriate, but equally awesome note: Indigo Girls with the Philadelphia Youth Orchestra. Loved, loved, loved it! Even my aching hip, the result of the previous night's dancing, couldn't diminish my enthusiasm.

I figure if I get 10-hours of sleep each night this week I'll be good to go again next weekend!

Who's in?

No Thanks, for the Memories

I always thought it would be great to be part of a big family, but it turns out when you combine my parents, my sister, her husband and son, with me and my two kids in a two bedroom cottage, even a small family unit can be too close for comfort. Still, my sister only comes home from Denver twice a year so I was prepared to deal with the accommodations so I could see her my awesome 2 1/2 year-old nephew William. I guess I should back up and explain the setting. When my sister comes home the one place she most wants to be is at the shore. (This may be the only thing we have in common.) For the Shimers, that translates into a second cousin's six-room (not bedroom) cottage in Waretown, NJ near the marina where my dad keeps his boat on Barnegat Bay.

Last Thursday evening, I traveled with Ian and Abby to Waretown to spend the night so we could have a full day together with William, et al on Friday. This is how the sleeping accomodations worked out:

• Abby slept on my dad's boat with my mom (Nana). Sleeping accomodations are probably about the size of a bunk on a submarine, but Abby was up for an adventure and my mom actually enjoys sleeping there.
• Dad (PopPop) slept alone in one of the bedrooms because he has that scary-looking breathing aparatus that folks with sleep apnea use.
• Dawn and husband Rob took the other bedroom
• And somehow I ended up with William and Ian on the sofa bed. Ian laying (or is it lying?) horizontal across the bottom at my feet

When Dawn first put an already-sleeping William in the bed with me (she can't sleep with him for some reason), he was angelic -- sound asleep, holding his blankie. I was transported back to that idyllic time in childhood with my own two. It was/is so easy to love them when they're asleep. But somewhere around 12:53 a.m., angelic sleeper boy turned into bed-hogging non-stop motion boy. My nightmare included William, at irregular intervals, flopping around like a fish, sticking his feet in my mid-section, scratching his stomach, and whimpering. At one point he even made motorboat sounds. Seriously. (Obviously knowing this, Dawn was apparently trying to get even with me for some long-held resentment over a sibling wrongdoing during our childhood.)

Somewhere around 2:03 a.m. I gave up trying to get a minute's sleep with the little pain in the ass dear and moved to a recliner next to the sofa bed. I was close to settling down when he started crying out softly with that heart-wrenching "Mommy" that brings even non-maternal women like me to our knees.

I crawled out of my recliner to lie next to him and calm his fears and you know what the little stinker said in his in his semi-coherent state? "My side."

Yes, apparently my resting to his left was a problem for the little control freak William. As I moved to his right side, the little bully sweetheart proceeded to steal my pillow. After that it's all a blur. The last time I looked at the clock it was 4:12 a.m.  And by 7 a.m, my adorable nephew was awake, chipper, and all smiles and charm.

Ask me if I miss having little ones. Go ahead, ask me...

A Shore Thing

I just enjoyed my first summer 2011 weekend at the Shore and I have to tell you that each year it feels more like coming home. Whether in Avalon, Ocean City,  or my childhood "home" of Long Beach Island, I'm struck by the overwhelming sense that there's nowhere else I'd rather be. For years I joined my mom and sister in chiding my dad for never wanting to travel further than Barnegat Bay, but as the years have passed, I must confess that the Jersey Shore has become my happiest place on earth.

I can't claim that New Jersey beaches are more beautiful than others. I won't try to convince you the water is clearer or more blue. The sunsets there are no more special than yours. It's not the food or amusements or entertainment. It's just that the Shore is home, and I suppose as I get older, home becomes more important to me.

From this past weekend I want to forever etch in my memory:

• The size of Abby's smile when catching the perfect wave on her boogie board
• Her sand drip castles
• Jumping the waves with Ian and friends
• Digging for sand crabs
• The perfect ocean breeze 

I never want to forget the satisfying exhaustion and feeling in your chest after a day spent diving under, jumping over, and crashing through the waves. I never want to be too old to float on my back, toes up in the air, as the swells carry me. I never want to sit out with the other grown-ups who claim the water is just too cold. No, I want to be the 80-year-old grinning after a dip. I want to be the 60+-year-old with a smile as big as Abby's when he catches the perfect wave.

I know at some point Ian and his friends will decide they're too mature to dig holes in the sand and instead they will start "digging" girls. I know Abby will soon be too embarrassed to lay her beach towel next to mom and dad's. I know that in the blink of an eye both of my children will be heading off to summer jobs, and then college, leaving Rob and I alone. Then we will smile at the grandparent holding the hand of their grandchild as she toddles for the first time to the water's edge, knowing that day too is not far off.

You know sentimentality is not my thing. You know I'm usually counting down the days till the kids move out. But there's something about this place that makes me want to stop time. To freeze everything as it is today. The kids. The friends. The smiles and laughter and love. The memories that seem so much sweeter because they were made at the Shore.