Blondie at the Beach

By far the most magnificent place I have ever lived is Virginia Beach, Virginia. My time there was very fleeting but I somehow managed to live two blocks from the North End, the non-commercial section of the beach where all the fancy pants people live. Mind you, I am not, nor will I ever be a fancy pants. I wear very normal pants I assure you. I lived in the rundown house neglected by an old couple for thirty years. Hey, don’t judge. It was a fixer upper and I could walk to the beach in minutes and watch the dolphins play in the surf or ride my bike to the best state park in the universe. The boardwalk, although teaming with the ungodly masses, was a mere ten minute bike ride or a minute by car where the best beach front restaurants could be found.

One beautiful June day sporting my new aqua bikini and matching wrap I gathered my things and walked to the beach. I was enjoying the beautifully landscaped spreads of the very wealthy that increased in size and expense as I neared the beach. I was also enjoying the way that I filled out my aqua bikini top, a little extra jiggle in each step. I had my sweet shades on and a wagon full of necessary items.  

When I reached the hot sandy beach I didn’t fail to notice a few looks from fellow beach goers. I strutted my stuff just a little extra and continued to stroll the fifty feet or so to the prime location near the breakers. Unfortunately, I don’t think they were looking at my cleavage, although in my head I’m still going to remember it that way. They were looking from me to my three year old who was about ten feet behind me whining, “It hot. Mommy, it too hot.” While lifting his flip flop clad feet.  

“Come on darling. You’re slowing me down.” I was desperate to get to the water. To put my feet in the cool delicious waves, feel the squish of the wet sand between my toes. Those people probably didn’t know that I’d been itching to get to the beach for over two hours. If you’ve ever taken a toddler to the beach you will know what I’m talking about. I scooped him up, kissed his chubby sun screened cheek and carried him the rest of the way, pulling the wagon and starring down the nay-sayers.

My other precious cargo was my eight month old baby girl whom I had to thank for my additional aqua endowment. She was snuggled safely in her boppy pillow in the wagon. The problem with taking two babies to the beach are too numerous to count but let's start with the timing. You have to be sure everyone has napped and has been fed. Both beautiful blondies need to be put in their bathing suits, one with a swim diaper, slathered in sunscreen that will instantly become a sand magnet upon arrival. Sun hats, extra diapers, snacks, blanket, umbrella, shovel and pail, and drinks are packed. By the time you’re ready you can't help but think, “Is this really worth it?” I was born an optimist so I was sure it would be.

After getting settled the kids have a great time playing in the sand. My baby daughter has never seen sand before and dipped her spit soaked fist into it. She proceeded to put it where everything else ends up, in her mouth. The change of expression from blissful ignorance to pure disgust had me laughing pretty hard. I hoped that the sand I scraped off her tongue did not contain seagull poop, dog pee, or any other unsavory things.

As I sat on the blanket marveling at my son’s adorable chubby form chasing seagulls and snuggling baby girl on my lap, I counted my blessings: How lucky we were to be in such a beautiful place with such relatively little effort. I look longingly at the ocean. It is calling me to frolic in the waves. Certainly not with two short people who can’t swim yet. There is nothing more I want to do than jump through the surf and dive into the cool caress of the saltwater. It will have to wait for another day. After one heavenly hour at the beach, baby girl needs to eat, shorty-boy is doing a special “I gotta go” dance, and so I begrudgingly repack all of our sandy items and cringe at the outdoor shower fiasco that I will have to endure once I reach home.

Follow me on twitter at @kamajowa.

Blondie in the River

Thanks for visiting my blog. If you like it sign up and follow me. This is my first try at blogging so please cut me a little slack. I wouldn’t mind a wee bit of feedback so I can either stop blathering and get back to my novel, or be boosted up by your praise (ahem) and keep blogging.

First I’ll have to introduce myself. I am currently writing my first novel. A thriller set in Florida in 2004 during an incredible hurricane season filled with time travel, evil scientists, witch trials, the Wild West, Puerto Rico, hot blondes, and a Gerard Butler look-alike.

I was born in the Mid-Atlantic and grew up mostly in the beautiful state of Maryland.  You know, Maryland with the sailboats on the Chesapeake Bay also named after Bloody Mary, Henry the VIII’s daughter. So don’t mess with me, right (wink). I’ve lived up and down the East Coast from Massachusetts to Florida but have been jerked away somewhere landlocked for the moment.  I am definitely missing the beach although there is plenty of dirt here. So what does a water lover do when there is no water nearby? I can write about it, although it isn't so easy when I have short people in my house (ehem, my kids) I’m currently a writer and a mom and my days go something like this on my red couch warmed by the heat of my laptop:

Ronnie frantically swam towards the car trying to get back to Mike through the raging waters. She didn’t even know if he was still alive. Using every bit of strength she had Ronnie fought through the debris strewn river to reach him.  Moments before they were driving to San Juan before the hurricane flooded waters blocked their path. They were slammed by a wall of mud and crashed into the angry river below. She grabbed the door that was threatening to be torn off by the rushing water and pulled herself inside the car. He was unconscious. She checked for a pulse. He was alive but had a bloody gash on his head. She quickly unbuckled his seatbelt as the car continued to fill with water.  The car broke loose from its perch on the sandy bottom of the river and bumped and jerked downstream, slamming the door closed trapping them both inside.

“Mom, can you help me wipe my butt.” My four year old daughter yells from the bathroom.

“Yes, honey. Try for yourself and I’ll be there in a minute.” Because there is nothing more that I’d like to do right now than wipe your butt, cuteness. She knows how to wipe; she just wants a little attention. Maybe I should quit for awhile and go play with her.

Seriously, I’m drowning here. You’re going to ‘play’ while I am unconscious and about to die. You’re heartless.

“Mom, there aren’t any butt wipes in here.”

“OK, honey.  I’ll get you some.”  Sorry Mike, you’re just going to have to hold on a little longer.

You can see that Ronnie, hot as she is, is about ninety pounds lighter than I am. If you wait there’s no way she’ll have the strength to pull me to shore. Then we’re both dead. What are you going to do then? No book with dead main characters, right?

Hey, just because you look a little like Gerard Butler doesn’t mean I’ll just do whatever you say. The little girl is hungry and needs some attention. Just hold your breath till I get back.

Wait. When will you be back?

Stop looking at me with those gorgeous blue eyes. . . Fine, I'll be right back, damn you.

That’s how it goes, back and forth everyone wanting a piece of me. Unfortunately, my daughter doesn’t nap anymore. I don’t get that good two hour block of time to get some writing done while she lays her sweet curly blonde head down gripping Big Bird tightly in her arms. The mangy, eyeball-scratched Big Bird. Not the new fluffy yellow one that he used to be.  He’s a little like me at the end of the day; messy-yellow headed, scratchy eyed and gripped tightly in a hug by my cute-a-ful beauty.

Follow me on Twitter at @kamajowa.