I spent a loverly weekend at Assateague Island National Seashore
, whatwith the wild ponies and the miles (five-ish, to be precise-ish) of unblemished (albeit, drudged so that the surf is worthless) seashore. And in the course of my weekend, I had a few revelations/valuable life lessons, which I relate to you forthwith:
1. Have you ever noticed how there's not a whole lot of pornography or fetish stuff related to camping on the beach? There's a really, really good reason for that. Consider the following:
- "I just want to slather you in DEET and lick it all off!"
- "Let's get naked, cover ourselves in sand and see where it goes!"
- "Are you pitching a tent? No, seriously, are you pitching a tent? Because I'm really tired."
- "No, leave the lights on... ow, stop shining your headlamp in my eyes!"
2. Assateague is the island off the coast of Maryland where the wild ponies are1
. And if you're anything like me, that is to say, female, you like ponies and/or horsies for some strange, reason, which had been inexplicable- until now
Yes, I have solved the mystery of why little girls are so damn hepped up about the ponies: it's because they exhibit almost exactly the same behaviors
. Both ponies and little girls are cute, but deadly, vicious creatures. They both really
want to be in social groups, but once they get into a pack, they are mean, snotty, territorial beasts. And when crossed, both really like to toss around their hair, stomp their feet, and whinny. It's precisely
the same sound. And so long as other members of the group are looking on, girls/ponies will nibble on salad-y grass kind of things, but the minute they're alone, they'll go for trash. In the ponies case, quite literally. Actually, probably in some girls' cases, too.
So, there you go, the Goo solves yet another anthropological mystery of the universe.
And is not at all bitter about all those years she was forced to go to school with all girls.
3. There is no happy ending to the following: "WOW! It's slimier and grosser than I thought it would be in real life. Can we keep it?" No matter how it ends, someone
is going to suffer.
4. I've been told that sometimes fairy tales come true. However, it has been my experience that stereotypes come true a lot
more often. Particularly the stereotypes you really don't want
to think about a family of fat, pasty, mustachioed white folks relaxing with their fishin' gear on the beach, spilling out of their matching American flag swimwear as they baked their necks into a deep, angry red. But then they start talking about their trucks and how Mitt Romney ain't gettin' their vote cuz he's all Mormon, and how somma the mommas on the beach jist needed to give those kids a good hard smack to shut 'em up, and well, it's just downhill from there. I do have to admire their candor, though; they felt perfectly comfortable (negatively) critiquing my ass in my bikini bottoms (seriously, they did) as though I couldn't hear them, despite the fact that they plopped down no more than two and a half feet from where I lay.
5. My final Life Lesson from the Beach was taught to me by none other than the Object of My Affection. Now, he claims that he isn't a bad
driver, he is merely an inattentive
driver. And despite the fact that my driving record is completely
unblemished and the only thing more scarred than the Object's driving record is his car, he still feels the need to teach me about the Unwritten Rules of the Road
In this weekend's lesson, we were surrounded on all sides by a group of terrorist crotch rocketeers; the stupidest people I have ever seen. I have been through some terrifying experiences: held up at gunpoint, almost kidnapped by a cabbie in Dakar in the middle of the night, and forced to watch a seven-hour marathon of The Simple Life
, but none of those compare to how scary this was. The seven of them would zoom in between lanes of packed cars at 80-100 mph, then stomp on their brakes to purposely slow down traffic. They wove in between lanes of traffic, cutting off anyone they could. At one point, some of them followed a driver off the ramp and surrounded him forcing him back on the highway.
I am still shocked that no one died.
As the crotch rocketeers came up behind the Object, who is normally a mild-mannered, if somewhat (COUGH) distracted driver, he gripped the steering wheel and yelled, "No way, motherfuckers; you are not
getting by me!" He then proceeded to steer uncomfortably close to the car in the next lane, who was trying to give as wide a berth as possible. Meanwhile, I popped my thumb directly in my mouth, curled into a fetal position, and prayed the rosary, not giving a flying fuck that I'm an atheist.
Why didn't someone just call the police, you're wondering? Ahhhhh, but we did; we called 911! AND GOT A RECORDED RESPONSE:
do not hang up the phone. Your call will be answered in the order it was received."
No, not even kidding.
And after five minutes of waiting, we just gave up and I went back to the happy place inside my head.
Much to my delighted surprise, we got home in one piece. I politely inquired why the Object chose the particular course of action he did. He smiled patronizingly at me (for I am but a simple womanfolk), explaining, "That's what you do
with douchebags like that. You don't give them an inch.
No exceptions! What are you gonna do, just slow down and give them all the room they want?"
"YES. That is exactly
what I would have done."
"Noooooo! That's exactly the wrong
thing to do! That just rewards their bad behavior!"
So you see, now I know better. And I will teach this lesson to kitty, too, so that next time the Object stretches his overly long legs2
into my sleeping territory, kitty and I will know that we are to apply this valuable life lesson to the Object and shove him out of bed, as there are NO EXCEPTIONS.
And then we will all call 911 and rock out to the hold music.
Not to be confused with the island where the wild things are, natch.2.
Seriously, they don't actually fit in the bed.