The Beach, The Park and Other Things

Sometimes I have a problem understanding native vernacular, as well as where I live in relation to other parts of my adopted state.

Folks 'round here, during the summer, go to "the beach." This has always baffled me, because, as a New Yorker, there were lots of different beaches. Jones Beach, Robert Moses, The Hamptons, Rockaway, Coney Island. You said, "I'm going to the Hamptons this weekend."

Here, "the beach" means any beach, I think. And then I need to ask which beach, because I just don't know. There's Myrtle Beach, Litchfield Beach, Folly Beach, and all kinds of beaches on the South Carolina coast, but you have to ask because that information is not offered.

So this Saturday, urged on and accompanied AND driven by my best friend Bill, we set off on a 45 degree morning to THE BEACH. We told people, though, that we were going to Charleston. Which we did. Dressed to the hilt in Nanuck clothing and making us look just like the Northeasterners we really are. Hoodies and jeans jackets and all manner of long sleeved attire.

We drove a lot around Isle of Palms and marveled at the homes. We had lunch, drove around downtown Charleston, and made our way to Folly Beach, where the above photo was taken. My drink is non alchoholic and my shoes are waterlogged. Just thought I'd let you know.

But so amazing. We live in South Carolina, in a part of the state that was freezing when we left, and landlocked. Three hours and change later, we are on a beach in 85 degree weather and I am digging my toes into wet sand and loving every second of it.

I just kept saying, "I need to see water." And my good buddy took me to water. He rocks. He so totally rocks!

We got back and then Zack took these two photos of the two "guys" in the house, Biggie (again, in his present size) and Elliot, who is our real nice guy. He's got some issues but he is a love (he's 8).

Le Chat Qui Mange

Now, we all like to eat.

Our dearly-departed Brigitte, a full-figured gal from the Bronx (much like her owner...), had, in her later years, forgotten that she'd had brekkie or din and "mehhhhhhhhhh"ed her way to largesse.

Biggie is another story.

He's only about 1.5 years old and already the size of Kansas. The photo above is about 5 months old. He's about 10 times that size now. He looks like he is ready to eat the stuffed bear. He may have.

He chases me all over the house letting me know of his displeasure surrounding my failure to feed him 24-7. Since he's missing a couple of parts, he can only squeak. By the way, those parts are flying over Denmark at 1,000 millimetres right now. (For more background on that, you will have to hear the song Zack and I created).

Since I refuse to indulge him a constant stream of free-range kibble, Biggie has been forced to become even more stealthy in his efforts to ensnare me.

Now he is hiding under my bed before I go to sleep. And then, an hour after I have begun dreaming of losing my shoe in the Hudson River whilst wearing crimson tulle, BAM!

Biggie jumps on top of me. Note that this feels the same as if someone dropped a large sack of free-range kibble on top of you. Oh, the lengths he will go to make his point, this one.

I am awakened and very, very unhappy. I can almost see his glee in the dark night but quash that by swiftly picking Biggie up and hauling him outside my bedroom door.

So I am really tired. I also have almost met my demise going down the stairs as he weaves between my legs as I descend. And this goes on all day. And now into the night.

Oh, and poor little Yoda...her bowl is also fair game, so she has to eat really quickly before the Behemoth is done with his bowl and on the prowl for more.

Squeaking all the way. By the way, he is gorgeous and we love him.