September 02, 2007


As of Weds., I'm another year older. The big 3-1. I think it'll be an auspicious year; perhaps I'll finally hit puberty.

And as we have done the last few birthdays, we went to the Indiana Dunes. Matt drove up 5 hours, fresh off his first week of law school, to come to the sand party. Whatta man.

We got off to a fiascous start: We hit the road late and the holiday traffic was such that the 45 minute trip took three hours. Meanwhile, JR had to be to work back in Chicago by 5:45 or else and it was after 3. We dropped everyone and their watermelons off at the beach and I took JR to the Indiana commuter train stop so he could head back to the city. He did not even get see the beach or touch the sand, only ride in the car. We gave him a sodie, some pretzel bread and train fare and off he went. I felt like a real shit for insisting he come with, but he is gracious as ever. Also, I forgot to bring the knife, so we broke a Sean Kingston CD in half by wacking it with a shoe, and then used the sharp edge to cut up the watermelon. In case yr wondering what to do with your Sean Kingston promo--that's my suggestion. Kate says she saw him on Good Morning America and he seemed like a real a-hole, so maybe it serves him right.

Morgo got hit by a car while on her bike and went to the hospital the night before. Despite being gimped out with blackening contusions, she refused to miss the beach party.

Kate, accidental Tura Satana, resplendent in her fake ponytail and Nora's inside out underwears, framed by the nuclear cooling towers. I forgot to tell her the Dunes were the beach, but she made due despite being unprepared. Nothing stops her good time.

I also forgot to tell Kelly the dunes was the shore. She thought it was regular nature--the hiking kind. She didn't make good on her promise to swim in her jeans. but she did come up with a fun game--

that involved trying to replicate the impossible poses of the photo spreads from XXL magazine. The woman in the picture says her sex drive on a scale of 1-10 was an eleven and that she has sex four times a day if she can. That must not leave her much time for playing badminton at the beach with her friends, which, speaking from experience, is about as fun as it gets.

Jesus read our minds, and sent a beach ball rolling to us out of no where.

In between crawling up and then running down the dunes and rounds of Frisbo (another new game which involves throwing a frisbee on under an ever lowering beach log, while singing the Frisbo song, while Kate does her old cheerleading moves between turns)--there was a lot of swimming.

New roomie Annielaurie had her paw in a cast, but was the best badminton player out of us all. I think she thinks we are a bunch of revolting weirdos--as a crowd, we work a bit blue.

Some one started a long digression on the topic of "weiners" on the epic drive up. I'm not naming names.

It's not the same person who got chocolate frosting all over the bed sheet. And also not the same person who pretended to "do" the watermelon. Or the person who made us watch them pee in the waves. Or the people who were making gross motions with the frisbo stick in between turns.

Morgan snuck up on Miles when he was changing and tried to yank his towel off with her cane. You give that girl a cane and suddenly she's Benny fucking Hill. The beach turned us into a pack of feral teenagers.

We had to be out of the parking lot by dusk; we cut it rill close.

To paraphase the master--bonjour birthday and au revoir, beaches.

Posted by Jessica at September 2, 2007 11:47 PM | TrackBack