The Bloody Doors Off

I am struggling.

The dentures feel so foreign to me. I’m popping them out every once in a while, for a few moments, to get some respite from the alien feeling.

I forgot to put sunscreen on yesterday.

It was cloudy. And I forgot the UV rays can still penetrate.

So I am every pink.

And must slather SPF 60 if I am to go out on the dock today to read.

We discussed the possibility of leaving early.

There were convincing arguments on both sides by the adults in the room.

Vetoed by the boy who, despite spending the majority of time in his room, says he is enjoying himself.

We care that much for his happiness.

I have bug bites all over my body.

Despite the OFF bug spray. I guess pasty (now pink), plump white dude is on the menu up here.

I suspect I enjoy all-inclusive vacations more as there is less responsibility to clean.

It feels like just another day at the condo. Only I can walk to water, instead of drive to it.

Auggie is having the time of her life. Doubtful she’ll want to leave.

The cats are acting up at home, with the lack of omnipresent humans.

Apparently one of them (*cough*Hannah*cough*) took a poop in my slipper as a form of protest. I shudder to think of what else we’ll find.

Guess I’m hitting Walmart when we get back.

(Seriously, it is hard as fuck to find slippers anywhere else.)

TL:DR. I am grateful for the break, but am ready to come home.

First came the spoons.

They took over the utensil drawer before making their play for world domination.

The war was bloody.

They thought they’d won.

We thought they’d won.

Then came the Resistance.

Both sides suffered major casualties.

But the tide turned.

The spoons were beat back into the drawer.

All the while, waiting for their opportunity.

Were the socks.

Left by a Zaidy, accepted by his grandson.

They were washed. Any with holes per pitched.

Socks that were then added to the boy’s collection.

For he wore many, but were mostly mismatched.

But at the cottage.

As I unpacked.

There they were.

In my suitcase.

I’m not a paranoid person.

And it’s one hell of a conspiracy theory.

But what if it’s true?

Skinny jeans had their time.

Now the socks.

Rise up.

Are you prepared to fight?

it was supposed to rain today.

Thunderstorms, even.

Which I’d love to witness here.

Alas, they changed the forecast.

It’s now projected to hit overnight.

So I’ll be asleep.

And I tend to sleep through those events.

Eh, scratch that.

The forecast changed again.

Am I weird for wanting it to rain on my vacation?

I’m sort of relaxing now.

Spent a few hours on the dock today, read the first chapters of Terry Pratchett’s last Discworld novel, The Shepherd’s Crown. (I’d been putting it off; I don’t like the idea of there not being a new novel coming out in the fall.)

Punted a work email to next week.

(The second in two days. I did tell my clients I was unavailable… but it’s nice to be needed.)

Ate a grilled ham and cheese sandwich.

Cottage life?

“Kathy, I’m lost”, I said, though I knew she was sleeping
I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike
They’ve all come to look for America
All come to look for America
All come to look for America

America, Simon and Garfunkel

Sometimes you just gotta throw off the shackles and say, “What the fuck.”

I bought a steak from the Minden butcher shop. A nice rib eye.

Cooked it perfectly.

Also grilled some turkey burgers and impossible burgers.

So far, no complaints.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

And I don’t care.

Letting go of routines is fucking hard.

At home, I’d wake up around 7am, make coffee, check emails, surf the internet for an hour.

If work was in, I’d jump on it.

Otherwise, I’d watch the news for an hour, and then a couple episodes of Law & Order: SVU to get me through the morning.

But this is vacation, and I don’t want the same old routine.

Yet I find myself unable to break the pattern.

The dock is calling me, but do I go to it?

Do I enjoy my coffee while listening to the ambient sounds surrounding me?

At least I’m not watching television.

Granted, last night I watched both the Blue Jays and the Saints play.

You know, instead of doing cottage-y things.

And I hate myself for it.

You know what?

Fuck this.

I’m going to the dock with my coffee.

If they ask me, I could write a book
About the way you walk and whisper and look
I could write a preface on how we met
So the world would never forget

Songwriters: Richard Rodgers / Lorenz Hart

Apparently I’m a Pants writer.

As in ‘by the seat of my pants’.

I don’t like outlining things in advance.

I’m sure you’ve noticed by now.

It’s even that way with plays.

Usually starts with a snippet of dialogue, a character talking in my head.

Or a bare bones concept.

It’s how I wrote A Song for Rachel.

The Intern made a crack about a comment Mary made about having ‘a healthy glow’.

And Bob’s your uncle.

I think this style serves me well enough.

Spaghetti is a bugger to relearn.

You need your front teeth to bite off the excess noodles. And because you’re concentrating on chewing with just your back teeth, a few strands tend to slide down the esophagus. Which you have to cough up. Or stick your fingers down your throat.

I don’t recommend the second option.

No I didn’t do it.

But i know enough not to recommend that course of action.

There’s definitely a heightened sense of self-awareness.

I’m failing at everything.

The boy is in his room, talking with his friends.

Marlo is indisposed, and Maddy is phone surfing the internet.

While I write about eating spaghetti.

I should be trying to gather everyone and start an activity.

You know, like families do.

Or did.

Okay, not everyone does.

My parents didn’t.

The closest we came was Sunday night dinners with my mom’s parents, followed by a game of Rumoli (look it up), and a snack of toast and jam with tea to wash it down.

It was very British.

My grandparents emigrated to Canada during the second World War. Which I think makes my mom a first-generation Canadian? There were stories that their boat was hit by a submarine torpedo, but they still managed to cross the ocean to Canada.

My dad’s family is from Luxembourg, and came over a few generations earlier.

And for 3? generations, the Kosters have worked backstage at live theatre venues.

If you count writing and producing plays, that’d make it 4.

…

Okay, I lied about reaching down my throat.

How freeing would that be?

To not hold secrets.

To live authentically.

I know.

It’s not feasible.

You don’t want the convenience store owner to know your 401K.

Always keep hidden your gambling addiction.

Never divulge you believe in psychic phenomena.

Or that garden gnomes make excellent security systems.

Am I sounding paranoid?

Or am I being authentic?

I don’t know what sparked this post.

Well, I do.

But I’m not sharing.

But yes, it veered off into strange territory very quickly.

Blame the wine.

And maybe something else.

My point.

I do have one.

Surprisingly.

Is.

I am in a good place at this moment.

Let’s not ruin the moment with logic.

The heat is bearable today. It’s maybe 30 degrees C with the humidity.

A tiny breeze blowing off the river.

Spent about 30 minutes on the dock drinking McGuyvered coffee.

It was a rough morning.

Wasn’t feeling connected.

Worried I was going to ruin this trip for everyone.

Feeling a bit better now.

Kinda hoping it rains later today.

Maybe I’ll put on my bathing suit and get drenched.

Did you know Mister Freeze makes watermelon freezies?

And did you further know that it has an after-taste that is not enjoyable?