P.S.

There was more to our trip to the beach than just eating, I promise. Games and movies ("Hancock" is the worst movie I have seen in years.), walks on the beach, Guitar Hero, book reading (a new Lauren Winner find for me - yay!) - lots of good times. And my Uncle Bruce showed mercy and did not throw me in the water.

Greener Grass

I made a discovery yesterday: Coming back to work after a lovely relaxing vacation always stinks.

I used to think that was only true in the teaching field. I hated taking sick days, because it meant typing sub plans the night before, organizing all my stuff for the other teacher, and then cleaning up the mess anyway. (Subs almost never seem to accomplish what you want them to. Maybe my expectati0ns were too high, I don't know. But I can count on my hand the number of times I have walked into my classroom after a sick day and found the my plans actually done.) I thought that it must be better with a nine-to-five job.

But it's not. I mean, not having to make sub plans is great, let me tell you. Before leaving for the beach, I basically stacked my papers on my desk and walked out the door. But coming back was just as rough as always, in some ways. Sure, there aren't 25 eight-year-olds clamoring for my attention, tattling on one another, telling tales of how rotten everyone was the day before. But there was still the sense of being behind the game, having missed something. There was still a mountain of new work on my desk, new tasks to remember and appointments to keep.

Our friend J picked us up from the airport on Wednesday. We started talking about work - about Vid's work being fun, in particular. I made a crack that I wanted to find a job that was fun all the time. Then J reminded me of something important: aiming to find a job that was so much fun it didn't feel like work ever was basically the same as desiring industry pre-Fall. He's right, you know.

Work is work. No matter how much fun it can be most of the time, it's still going to feel gross at times. Especially compared to a trip to the beach.

Ocean City, MD

We're at the beach.

We've had beautiful weather so far, but today is cloudy. D is Guitar Hero-ing it, so here I am.

Being at the beach with my family means three things. Eating, sun, and mini-golf. It's hard to say whether those are written in order of importance or not. I think they are.

The eating never stops: full breakfasts of fresh fruit, donuts, eggs, Taylor's Pork Roll, blueberry buckle, coffee, juice, whatever you want, may beloved Ganny will dish up. I think she's probably earned sainthood from the Catholic church just from the number of made-to-order breakfasts she's cooked in her lifetime. We hungry masses descend upon her every holiday. Lunch usually consists of a visit to the local Italian deli, DeVito's (quick description here) over on the next block. It's wonderful. There's a woman who is usually behind the counter (I don't know her name), who I love seeing each summer. She has a tall gray bun and a long, soft, wrinkled face. She is always in a dress and full white apron. She was old and gray twenty years ago when I first began noticing her; I'm sure she was there prior to that, and so she must be about 80 now. She and her sons run the business that her father began. Subs and pizza, with Utz's potato chips and a Coke - make up the late afternoon lunches. And of course, we are on the east coast, so what would an evening be without a cocktail hour at five PM? Complete with cheese and crackers, of course. Dinner arrives shortly afterwards. After so many years, we have our routine. One night is fried chicken and sweet corn, one night steamed crabs and shrimp. Grilled hamburgers and Veinies (steak sandwiches) another evening. One night is appetizer night - a smorgasbord of yummy all for my grandmother, who always schedules beach week over her birthday. So much food, so little time. The dinner list goes on, but I think I should move on.

I got creamed in mini-golf last night. I scored a whopping 47 on 18 holes, the lowest score of all nine of us. Even my 9-year-old cousin beat me. By five strokes. Yeah, I know.

In spite of my love of being here, the beach illustrates a paradox in my life. I love the beach. But I hate the ocean. I mean, I don't hate the ocean. I love standing on the shore, looking out at that great expanse, listening to the surf. I love the sand under my feet, I love the look of the beach after a storm. But don't ask me to go in there. I hate the feel of the salt and sand scraping against me. I hate the thought of all the creatures that swim in it swimming with me. (Although I am amazed by the quantity and diversity of life that must lie under the surface, I don't actually want it near me. And yes, I know a lot of it is far away, but much of it is far too close for my liking.) I am terrified of the strength of the water. This week, the riptides are frequent and strong, which adds to my awe and respect for the way God created the oceans and tides. I'm staying away, thank you very much.

Stay away, that is, unless my Uncle Bruce decides to throw me in. There's absolutely nothing I can do to avoid that force of nature.

Rocking the Suburbs

Let's admit it: I'm sooooo suburban. And I think I like it.

Case in point: I drove to work early today so that I could run by the Starbucks near the office to get two bags of coffee beans ground. (We were receiving a monthly supply of beans from my friend Shauna... bless her. I didn't have to buy coffee or tea for a year. These are the last two bags.) I pulled my little Sentra up next to a blue Mini Cooper and got out of the car (feeling particularly professional in what I had decided to wear to work today). Even though this morning is overcast, there were several people - two business women, a guy with his laptop, and a biker - all sitting outside the Starbucks. I went in, passed the coffee over the counter, ordered my Chai Tea Latte, glanced at a Starbucks compilation CD (80s punk - D might like it), heard my order called, grabbed it, took a sip, pushed the door open, beeped my car fob to unlock the doors, sat down in the driver's seat and thought, "I like being a grown-up."

Then I realized that this morning was not so much a picture of being a grown-up as it was a perfect snapshot of life in these (suburban) United States. I like to pretend I'm more of a hippie than I am. But it might be time to own up to the facts.

We are (finally!) getting Internet on Wednesday, so I should be able to post some move-in day pictures soon. However, we're going with AT&T, which we (read: David) has to set up. And we leave for Ocean City on Friday (woot!) so I don't actually know when we will have Internet access at home. Soon and very soon, that much I can say.

Death by Frustration

We do not have Internet yet.

I'm going slowly insane. I had no idea how addicted I was (am) to communicating via email. I've been driving myself crazy. Each morning when I get up, I automatically head towards the computer to check the weather, or the news, or my email... and I can't do ANY of it! Auuurrrgh!

I brought my camera to work today to load pictures onto the hard drive, so I could post them. But I found out there's no photo software loaded into our computers, so I don't know if it's legal for me to do that. So... no photos yet, folks. Sorry.

And my work day is beginning. Sigh. Better go.