I have been such a beach this week.

Seriously. It hasn’t been pretty.
Since I’m being anti-social, I decided to see if I had any pix on my phone. Seems I took more at the beach than I thought. So here they are. They made me smile. Now there’s an awesome feat.

Now I can just hope I win some bucks at poker tonight. That oughta cinch the deal on shaking this mood.

Hello?

In response to a question I asked one of the boys….

“I was listening, but I had to turn my mind off for a minute for something else. What did you say?”

Crazy thing is, I get it.

As if.

As if we needed another vacation, we headed for Long Beach Island, NJ this past weekend to hang out with a dear friend.

It’s amazing how the beach air slows everything down. I love that.

Are we there yet?

So there’s this house. It’s down the street a couple miles – right near a wine bar that we sometimes visit. Across from a petting zoo on a farm that bought and re-installed all the neato stuff from The Enchanted Forest from my childhood.

So there’s this house. It was a burned out shell. An eyesore.

Until someone bought it. And every time I drove past, I was excited that the burned out house would be returned to home status. It was thrilling.

So I watched.

In the first months, it got walls. And a roof.

Later…much later…it got shingles. Really fancy schmancy shingles. And it stayed like that – a raw shell of a house with a fancy roof – for a long, long time.

And then one day, I noticed some stone work starting. The house was taking some sort of shape. And they built some lovely steps. Still, the porch needed some work and some plans. It was very unfinished. Unloved.

And one day, they put a door in. A door with an intricate cut glass design embedded. A very ornate door.

Then the porch work started. It had carved wood and stone and brick. The details couldn’t be missed.

And then it sat for a while.

One day, I noticed a brass figurine being hoisted to the facade below the roof line. Now that was a surprise.

It’s almost complete, I thought.

But I thought wrong.

Over the next weeks and months, I saw more woodwork, more stonework, more bricks. More glass and more columns. Don’t even ask me about the columns.

And then, the landscaping began. There are stone gardens. There are tall grass gardens. Flowers and greenery and topiaries. The landscapers who got this gig must be planning a trip around the world with the profit from this one.

And then, I thought, it had to be finished. What more could they do to this house?

And then, the trim got painted.

Today, I drove past and there were 2 Bentwood Rockers on the porch. There was an old couple rocking.

And there they were, in the most outwardly decorated home of all time, rocking on the porch overlooking the petting zoo with the castle and the Mother Goose.

I pulled in next door at Ironbridge to buy a bottle of Albarino.

And it occurred to me that the house would never be completed. This house, like so many other things in life, is a work in progress.

Aside from….

Aside from the huge delays on the flight home and walking in to piles of mail and newspapers and some cat excrement, the trip to Sedona was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Like father, like daughter.

Today, I took a roadtrip with my dad. He was always the driver, but today, I drove. It was an easy trip; 2-1/2 hours up to Fleetwood, Pennsylvania. Lunch at The Inn at Moselem Springs. My sister drove down from the New York City area to meet us. She brought one of her daughters. I had one of my sons.

My dad commented that he was about the median age at the restaurant. I actually did the calculation when I got home. Assuming there were 30 of those “really old” folks there, my dad (75), 6 people between 30 and 50 (including my sister and I), a 12 year old and a 9 year old, I’d say the median age is 5 years older than his age. Must be nice to be one of the young’uns.

But I digress.

What is really striking to me when I spend 5 hours straight talking to my dad (well, honestly, you have to subtract the 1 hour that he slept in the car when I took a client call) is that some of the things I like best about myself come from him. He’s happy. He’s funny. Okay, a little corny, but I can relate. And, admittedly, he’s a little odd. Did I say a little?

Those who know me, know I have many of his odd habits and sayings. And a lot of his ideals and viewpoints.

When I was young, I took the opposite view of my parents – maybe because I thought I was supposed to or maybe because I wanted to the discussion. And discuss we did. We talked about serious issues and world problems and stupid stuff too.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve come around to agree with much of his politics. And religious viewpoints. Not all. I’m my own person.

But it’s amazing to look back at a body of work and say, I know that I was influenced by that artist and I’m still an original.

Overheard. Again.

I’ve got bacon on my head.
My head in the pan.
The pan’s on the stove.
The stove is on high.
Making bacon and I don’t know why.

Disclaimer: this is absolutely all Liz’s fault. She started talking about shaving heads and tatoos. That’s how the bacon tattoo came up and hence, the song above. Thanks a f!*&%g lot, Liz.

Overheard at dinner.

SON 1: Dad’s not that old.
SON 2: He’s pretty old.
SON 3: Not old enough for cheap movie tickets.
SON 1: Soon……Not old enough for free bus rides.
SON 3: Nope.

Shabbat Shalom – Sedona Style.

Eleven’s a crowd.