Insert Sand in Face, Then Scream

Things have been good lately.  Too good.  I know mommy feels the same way, because she tells me every day that I have been such good boy lately, and she loves me sooo much when I am her sweet little man.  Which begs the question, how much does she fucking love me when I’m not?  That being said, good shit happens to boys who mind their mothers, let me be the first to tell you, and while I will never disappoint you all and turn over a new leaf completely, it doesn’t hurt to let it fly through the wind once in a while–especially if the end result falls between the lines of treats, trips, and toys.

Daddy had to work this last Saturday, and since mommy wasn’t convinced that I would make her life a living hell, she plead insanity for the afternoon and drove me and Leona to Santa Cruz by herself for a day at the beach.  Leona had never been, and we were both very excited.  After driving around for almost thirty minutes to find parking once we got to the beach, mom was about to have an anxiety attack.  We’d already been in the car for an hour, looped through the North Harbor three times and tried unsuccessfully to bribe one young parking attendant with a ten-dollar bill to please let us restaurant park, we promise not to tell! and she knew if we had to turn around and go home, me and The Rat would surely be hurling feces at her from the back of the minivan the whole damn way.  The beach parking gods were with us though, and right before mom was about to give up and hit a liquor store to grab a pint for the long drive back, an overflow lot opened up in the marina.  Rock star.  We were off!

I had my helmet on and was waiting on my bike in under a minute while mom hauled no less than four large bags of shit into and onto the top of the stroller.  As always, it was about twenty-five degrees cooler here than in San Jose, bringing us to a nice, windy 70 degrees, but me and Leona didn’t care.  After slathering us up with some SPF, and squeezing us into life jackets, we headed to the shore to chase waves.  It. Was. Cold. As.  Fuck.  But after five minutes, my legs were numb up to my penis, so it didn’t matter much.  Leona was a bona fide psychopath in the water.  It took her all of forty seconds to realize she liked the waves, liked them very much indeed, before she was hauling ass down the slope of the shoreline at the incoming 7-foot waves, screaming in terrified delight, completely out of control and off-balance and ready to bite it at any moment.  Mommy had to bend over and hold the back of her life jacket every single second so she wouldn’t get swept out to sea, which meant she couldn’t keep her eyes on both of us 100% of the time, which meant that when I sort of lost track of where I was and did the down-shore shuffle in and out of the tide, mommy would have to scream like a lunatic to get my attention.  Then, if she had to pick Leona up to come to get me, Leona would throw an absolute fit, flailing her arms and legs, flipping her body upside down, kicking wet sand into mommy’s face.  We did this song and dance for about twenty minutes before mommy declared it lunch time.  She told me to go rinse my hands and legs off in the water before following her back to the blanket.  I did, but then ran so fast and furiously at her that I bit it, sprawling in the sand and re-blanketing myself with beachy goodness.  The first time, mommy laughed, rolled her eyes, and said, okay, clutzo, go rinse again, but after six rinses and six diggers in the sand, she was fucking pissed.  Leona was crying and squirming in mommy’s arms because she wanted to be playing in the sand and water, so mommy had to put her down to come and get me.  We rinsed, mommy told me to walk very carefully so as not to fall, or we were going home.  Right about that time, we noticed Leona had left the dry sand perch mommy had left her at and she was running full-throttle in the opposite direction down the shore.  Mommy ran after her, yelling her name, but this was clearly Leona’s plan.  Rat Baby turned to look back over her shoulder at a frantic mommy and overestimated her coordination by a long shot.  She tripped and fell face-first in slow motion, her right knee digging into the wet sand while her left leg continued to follow gravity, lifting up behind her arabesque-like, while the palms of her hands tried to keep her from eating more sand than entirely necessary.  The end result was shitty.  The night before, Leona had fallen on the concrete outside in our back yard and scraped up her eye and cheek pretty good.  This new swan dive into the sand–which somewhat resembled a strength pose at a female body-building competition (don’t ask me how I know this shit)–re-opened all the lesions and scratches on her face from the night before.  Throw in some sand and a little salt water and Rat Baby was screaming her Sweet Jesus’ all the way back to the blanket, especially after mommy tried to wipe her face clean with a sandy towel.  I actually felt bad for The Rat.  She continued to wail through my peanut butter and jelly sandwich (which mom had to feed me–inevitably, I fell on the way back to the blanket), and it wasn’t until she had cried all the sand out of her eyes and was sipping on a cold Capri sun that the sobbing subsided.  Mommy leaned back on the blanket, took a deep breath, and looked up into the sky, clearly wishing buckets of vodka would rain down on us at once.  Leona started playing with the sand toys and I started drilling mommy with questions about sharks.  While we were engaged, mommy caught Leona face down in the sand again, this time with her mouth wide open, on purpose.  Dammit, Leona!  she snapped, scooping her up and force-feeding her a water bottle.  Leona just gave us both a funny face while gnawing the sand and water so that an awesome stream of mud ran down her chin.  Mommy was shaking her head and sighing again.  I smiled at her and told her I loved her.  She cocked her head, smiled, and winked back at me.  Then I told her I had to poop.  Like immediately.  I knew the bathrooms were 100 yards away, but what was I supposed to do?

In the end, the day was a blast.  We pooped, played in the waves a bit longer, then loaded up the stroller and dropped off a bunch of crap at the minivan.  Mommy didn’t even try to slam a margarita at The Crow’s Nest bar while I stood next to Leona in the stroller at the hostess stand.  I know, right?  Then we went for leisurely bike/stroller ride through the marina and looked at all the boats.  Leona was kind of crabby, but mommy bought her some Cheetos to shut her up, and me and mommy got to enjoy ourselves for a while.  I even got an M&M ice cream cookie sandwich after my ride, which of course, Leona wanted instead of her popsicle, and so after a lot of annoying shrieking, I had to eat my ice cream two benches down by myself while mommy distracted Leona with seagulls and beach volleyball players.  Fine by me.  I would eat the shit out of that thing in solitary confinement at San Quentin.  I barely remember getting strapped in the van before I was out like a light.  Leona, too.

I’m not sure mommy will take us by herself again anytime soon, but I give the hag credit for trying it once.  Besides, it’s unlikely that my good behavior streak will last long enough to warrant another beach rendezvous.  Mommy is sober this week for reasons she will not expound on, which means her temper will be shorter, which means I will get blamed for shit more often (guess what, mommy and daddy dearest, Leona has been climbing up on the couch by her-fucking-self for over a month now.  I’M NOT THE ONE LIFTING HER UP, DAMMIT.  The little bitch knows how to climb up there, and she knows I get blamed too, because you think she ever crawls up there when mommy or daddy are in the room?), which means memories of her sweet little man that she loves sooo much will soon fade away.  Enjoy me while I can be tolerated, sweet mother of mine.

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