The Shore

I'm kinda missing this place...which is kinda weird because I'd much rather hang out in the murky mire of a lake than a sandy hot sweaty place like the beach. However, and that's a However with a big "H"...as in the Hurricane of Howevers, this place is really special to us because of the certain crazy beautiful people who inhabit this shore house.

But here I go...I hate the sand.



I hate the saltwater.



I hate the seagulls that try to eat your lunch.



I hate the sand in my sandwich. ***especially when they're turkey with Cooper Sharp (i.e. crack) avocado, chipolte mayo on those new Arnold's round sandwich rolls. Paaleeze. No side of sand needed.



I hate the sunscreen (we don't need no stinkin' sunscreen in Vermont).



I hate having to go into the water to pee.



I hate having to pick my wedgy a hundred million times because I'm playing a game that is more active than my bathing suit was made for.



I hate the idea that the ocean can, if it wants to, rip me out to the deep end and keep me there in its tide until some hot hunks of love (i.e. lifeguards) come save my weak and silly little self. Although that wouldn't be so bad, albeit a little embarrassing.



I hate how the beach drains my children of all their energies so that on the way back to the house no one can 1) carry the same shit they came with, 2) walk, 3) walk without whining, 4) walk without stopping.



And okay, so this isn't fair...or nice (to say the least) to the fine LOVELY friends who put us up every year. Megan and Kevin and all you beautiful girls, I love the shore because of YOU...and because of this:



My children love you...all of YOU.



And if Frankie, if she marries (ever), chooses one of these two fellas' it will be the happiest day of my life.


And I love watching your children grow, especially this girl because she's becoming such a fine sweet young girl, who knows what is right in the world.



You know, I've got it all figured out. Because labels aren't so bad in the end. Right? **click to enlarge



I love the house. And more importantly, I love how clean and white the house is. Especially the white sheets. My black labs could do wonders. They're never invited, I realize that.



I love the blocks. I love that the kids can ride their bikes (and I'd like to point out that Frankie turned 4 in May and was kicking both my boys' asses on the bike, despite learning how to ride it the day before yesterday) to the end of the block and turn around and come back. I love that the blocks are paved and not made of dirt.



I love the seagulls in the morning.



I love the food. Flank steak (thank you Kevin) to die for and Avalon Freeze paleeze.



I love the drink (John Daly's all around...and I'll have another please and thank you).



I love the air and the breeze, which smells like it actually came from Africa, because it may have.



I love the smiles.



And more smiles, even if they're dirty.



And the fact that none of our children are still in strollers. This is Frankie three years ago.



But I love this...mostly (besides being able to sit on the beach with Megan and not get up for what, say, ten minutes or so). I love seeing these girls (and boys) get to know each other over the years. I watch them grow and laugh and love (and fight) and although we see them twice a year (if we're lucky), I love seeing how it all just fits together so easily...like we actually do live down the road from you (or you from us). And how fun would that be? But here's to many more crazy times, and please tell me you're coming to ski because I'm all good with the cold and the frost and wet hats and mittens and stoking the fire. Yea, I'm all good about that kinda stuff, just as long as there is no sand.