Salty Tears at the Beach

So, after a wild ride of a year, my Beloved surprised me and the now almost 13 year-old offspring with a well-needed trip to Maui (apparently, Paris HIlton was there too, but thankfully there was no sighting). After asking around for all the "must do's" we planted our fat asses firmly in the sand outside our hotel room and never moved unless food or drink was involved. We splurged on those gay little beach chair duos with the pull-up canopy (they called them "cabanas" just to make them even gayer, but darlings, you might want to google "French Riviera" and see what a real cabana is). To complete the visual, wrapped a sarong artfully around my rotundity, perched a large, floppy straw hat on my pate and donned sunglasses large enough to serve dinner on. It was a look that screamed, "yes, I'm famous. And NO, you may not talk to me."

Shortly, a couple in their mid-50's, AND THEIR TEN YEAR-OLD SON (I'm sure offspring seemed like SUCH a good idea in your mid 40's), plopped their assets down on a "cabana" immediately to my right. Now, knowing that a couple of old queens are hardly the ideal playmate for an almost 13 year-old (unless of course, said queens are Catholic priests), I immediately thought young Kieran might like to meet The Offspring. Two only children forging a bond over sandy shorts and ugly sea shells. Ahhh!

The kids dashed off to play in the surf and I went back to eavesdrop--I mean, relaxing. Apparently, Kieran's last name is Bickerson, because SWEET JESUS every word that came out of these people's mouths was cutting. Apparently even a task as menial as brushing sand off of a beach chair was not done properly.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. Bicker, bicker, bicker. I was just about to say, "Excuse me, this is my fucking VACATION. If I wanted to listen to bickering, I would just call up a co-worker." Then a bottle of wine magically appeared. And disappeared. Not the bottle. Just the wine. And the bickering turned into arguing.

What? Time for lunch already? I adjusted my sarong and headed to the bar. After a delicious repast, I returned to the beach. Mr. Bickerson was now nowhere in sight. His stuff was gone, too. All that was left was a sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. Excuse me, a DRUNK-ON-HER-ASS-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. A drunk-on-her-ass-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson, clutching her 10-year old to her bosom while she sobbed her salty, wine-fueled tears of desperation and, I presume, divorce.

Man, I hope they are putting as much money away for kid therapy as they are for booze. Soon, Mrs. B passed out cold. YAY!!!

Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good sideshow as much as the next guy, but seriously. Kieran began frolicking in the waves like he hadn't a care in the world. I could only assume that he was well-practiced in this particular routine. Mrs. B soon awoke from her fitful slumber, stumbled down the beach and fell into the water. I would have laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. (Okay, I DID laugh, but discreetly.)

Soon, Mrs. B was clutching her child to her heaving chest, adding a little more salt water to what was already an ocean full. And this was the beginning of their two week vacation.