I showed up at the house of the guy I was trying to interview for my job, and he answered the door dripping wet and wrapped in a towel. “I can’t talk to you, I’m on my way out,” he said. “You should have called first.”
Well, hey, I was getting time and mileage so since I was already at the beach, I … went to the beach.
It cost $5 for a one-day pass, but considering I haven’t had a vacation in six years, I felt entitled. I threw down a towel (I keep that kind of stuff in my trunk in case my Dead Ex needs something), dumped my sandals and went down to the water, where I stood knee-deep and looked around for sharks.
You can’t be too careful these days.
I wanted to taunt my best friend; I called her at the office but she wasn’t picking up. Finally, I left a message: “Oh, I’m sorry if you can’t hear me. That’s probably because of the roar of the ocean in which I’m standing. Well, talk to you later.” Ha, ha.
I always have something to read in the car – in this case, a May issue of Rolling Stone. I sat on the beach reading about Orlando Bloom, the Iraq quagmire and the Motley Crue reunion tour. Good times!
Where do I get all these fricking magazines, anyway? A copy of InStyle showed up in my mailbox the other day and I was totally baffled. (I mean, I know I didn’t spend money on it.) And a big clump of Rolling Stones showed up within a few days of each other.
Then I vaguely remembered some free-magazine offer from (I think) Salon right before my subscription ran out, and me checking off what were the least offensive titles. (Not much of a selection, as I recall.) Plus, I’m on some journalism mailing lists and people send me lots of free publications, hoping I’ll write about them.
Anyway, I stayed on the beach for maybe an hour, enjoying my Rolling Stone and watching the people. This was a dingy, working-class little shore town and these weren’t exactly the folks featured on Entertainment Tonight! But there was a beautiful little baby playing on a nearby blanket, and we beamed at each other. I love babies.
A nice moment.