It would seem that I have a bit of the writers block. Not because I don’t have much to say, rather I have too much to write about but for once my impulse to be honest is stopping me because I feel guilty. You see, I’m struggling a bit with Z gone even though I have an incredible amount of support and help. And I feel terrible about it. I want to work through how I’m feeling by writing, but it feels just too indulgent even for me. I’m being an ungrateful ass. My parents have been amazing, they have planned tons of cool stuff for us to do. Right now we are at Myrtle Beach with my sister and her family and the Cordano cousins are having a blast. On top of the help I’m receiving from family I don’t want to make Z feel like shit during his trip of a lifetime by complaining about how I’m having a tough time stateside. My anxiety is pretty bad. And when it gets pretty bad I start to believe it isn’t real, instead I’m just a shitty person who should be able to just pull myself up by those old bootstraps.
So. Not a lot of writing.
Z is home in a week and a day. My parents have gotten us a night in a B&B including a couples massage (!!!!!) for the Wednesday he gets back. Yes, we are spoiled rotten. So there is a lot to look forward to.
In the meantime it is lovely to be with family at the beach.
Last night my sister and I decided that we needed hats for additional protection against the sun. The Cordanos really are pale enough that we glow and she and I have each gotten sunburn because we weren’t careful enough with sunblock application the first day-I have an unfortunate triangle of red on my back, she has two blobs behind her knees.
We went to one of the ubiquitous beach supply stores that line the main drag of every town on the shore. This one happened to be operated by a couple with strong Eastern European accents. I convinced my sister to forget the ball cap route after finding some Gilligan-like fishing hats. We arrived at the register and I stood behind her.
“I’m paying for both of them.” she told the man as she handed him her hat.
“No,” I said, “I’m paying for my own.”
“I’m paying for both of them,” she repeated.
“No. Nope.” I said. “She really isn’t. I’ve got mine.”
“Karen, let me pay. Please.”
“Barbara. You are being ridiculous. I’ve got mine.”
“But you bought me tea today.”
“What? That was like a buck!”
“Stop!” the man barked at us. “Stop fighting!” He held his hand out to me. “Give me the hat. What is wrong with you? Let her pay.”
I meekly handed it over as I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t start laughing. My sister and I studiously avoided eye contact with each other. He asked if I wanted him to cut the tag off the hat and I told him yes. After he handed it to me I noticed it was stained.
“Oh, I think I’d like to get a different one. This one has marks on it.”
“Yes.” he agreed. “It was $12.99. Now it is $5.99. The stains aren’t a problem. They all have stains.”
“Oh…..” I was having trouble processing his logic or coming up with a good retort.
“Does mine have stains?” my sister asked.
“Yes, yes! It is only $3.99! It is marked down because of the stains! If it is a problem you can wash them in the ocean! It’s fine! It’s a good price!”
We were speechless in the face of his forcefulness. He was just so sure that we were being unreasonable for wanting unstained merchandise. We are our father’s daughters. Usually we’d ask for MORE money off because of damage. But this man completely disarmed us.
My sister handed over her card and we managed to make it to the sidewalk before we collapsed into a fit of giggles. I sort of want to go back again tonight. I quite enjoyed being bossed around by a grumpy Eastern European dude.
Our new hats. You can’t even see the stains! And our heads felt much more protected this morning on the beach.
Unsure how he managed to achieve this perfect sand soul patch.
Little man is so skinny his swimtrunks won’t stay up.
Cordano sisters rocking the beach. My current favorite picture of the two of us.
View from where we are staying. We are lucky ducks.