Archive for September 7th, 2009

I feel it in the air, the summer’s out of reach

Monday, September 7th, 2009

Dammit!!!

It IS out of reach! It’s slipping through my very fingers as I type these words.

I’m heartbroken and grief-stricken: How did Summer figure out it’s September!?

Who told her!?!?

I thought I firmly instructed you to say nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip.

Traitors!!! All of you!!!

This is maybe a LITTLE more sun than I need. But only a little.

This is maybe a LITTLE more sun than I need. But only a little.

Okay, okay. Sorry about that. I’ve composed myself. Seriously though, who does that woman think she is? It’s only September 7th, for crying out loud.

Why did she already start passing the baton to Fall? And when I tried so hard to fool her: Hiding the fallen pine needles and random leaves in my pants. Sleeping with the windows open and nearly freezing to death. Braving some highly unpleasant and distinctly northerly winds (was that snow???) in a bikini.  And, who can forget, slathering on SPF 50 even though there was zero trace of Summer’s warm, happy sun?

And all this pretending and posturing and outright lying and for WHAT?

Another freaking winter, that’s what.

(Dear Hawaii: Save a place for me at the table.)

Meanwhile, it’s ironic that I’m quoting The Boys of Summer, because I have always hated Don Henley’s The Boys of Summer. I think it has something to do with the melody, and definitely there’s a long-standing beef with the synthesized noise of seagulls.

Seriously, who would want to listen to seagulls if you don’t have to?

It’s not even like they’re localized to the sea anymore. Seagulls are as equal-opportunity as pigeons.

Don’t believe me? Name any American lake, and listen for the hideous squawk.

Lake Michigan? Seagulls.

Lake Mead? Seagulls.

The Great Salt Lake? Seagulls.

A large puddle at your average Wal-Mart? Seagulls.

Speaking of which, I got crapped on by a seagull yesterday, and I am so not making that up. I wish I was, but it’s the 100% USDA-certified truth.

What’s white and brown and warm all over? My crotch and upper thigh area. (Sorry. Is that horribly vulgar? I now realize it is – which wasn’t my intent at the time – but now that it’s written I find it a wee bit funny, and I’m kind of inclined to leave it.)

So back to the non-vile point, it was not a small amount of crap either – a solid two tablespoons/half a shot worth. Admittedly, I was sitting on the beach and there’s a certain amount of risk inherent. At the same time, it seemed like there was more than enough unoccupied sand to use for target practice, in lieu of my privates.

Jerk seagulls.

I’ve heard people say that if a bird poops on you, it’s good luck. If you ask me, that’s rationalization in its purest form.

Some random lame thing happened to you?

That’s a sign that some random good thing is going to happen to you!!!

As if.

Moreover, as further proof to my pudding, nothing particularly good happened to me yesterday in light of my bird crap shower.

Oh well.

At least I’ve still got the disenfranchised Boys of Summer (who are these boys, really? Punk teens? Guidos? Old men with metal detectors [given the name in jest]?) to keep me company through the short, cold days and dark nights ahead…

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