Waiter, there’s a beach in my beach.

Picture it: Sicily, 1922…er, Vancouver, 2015.

It is a beautiful June afternoon, one of many such recent afternoons in a magnificent streak of good weather. The sun is shining high in the sky. A soft wind blows in from the west, helping to take the edge off the heat.

I stand at the edge of paradise and soak it all in.

The tide is out. Toddlers in water wings splash happily in shallow pools while older children dig holes and adorn sand castles with kelp and shells. Screaming teenagers dance around their friends, knee deep in the chilly water, gleefully threatening to push each other all the way in.

A Frisbee whizzes through the air, is caught via a spectacular dive. The catcher’s cry of triumph is muffled as he disappears momentarily under the rolling waves. Further up the beach, the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk of a volleyball being passed back and forth echoes by the concession.

And in between, a hundred glowing bodies lie sprawled out on blankets, mats, sarongs and towels, simply being there.

My turn.

“You shouldn’t have…”: Father’s Day edition.

Dear Hudson’s Bay Company,

You have quite obviously never met my father, Lord of the Beige Socks.

Try again.

Sincerely,
The Nut

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DadCat is displeased with your offering.

Chanel, you’ve done it again.

You know, I was starting to think I wasn’t going to have anything to write about this week. I’ve been depressed and work has sucked, and even though Nutty Hubby and I went on a mini-vacation to Whistler last weekend to get away from it all, all that did was make me want to stay in Whistler and never come back.

And then I checked my email.

The fridge is dead, long live the fridge!

Last weekend brought with it some of the best early June weather I can remember. Temperatures soared, the sun was shining, and Vancouverites soaked it all up with greedy enthusiasm. My husband and I sunned ourselves on the beach and bought ice cream cones and ran around the city shoeless like giddy children. Everything just screamed, “Let’s pretend it’s already officially summer!”

Oh, yeah, and our fridge died.

Which was perfect timing, because we all know cold food and drink are hideously overrated during a heat wave, right?

Chicken Soup for the Soles

So we didn’t win the lottery on Friday.

Same shit, different date, I know. I’m not entirely unrealistic in my expectations. But it’s been a bad couple of weeks for me health-wise, and it would’ve been really nice if this had been the draw that rescued me from the job that drains all my energy and the stifling hot bedroom with zero air circulation that won’t let me have a proper sleep to build up any new energy to drain.

Although it’s probably best that we didn’t win this week. Turns out there were four winning tickets in total, and Nutty Hubby and I don’t like to share, and it might look just the slightest bit suspicious if all the other winners mysteriously disappeared.

So we’re not millionaires, and we’re not murderers. I guess there are worse things.

Cave Johnson and I are bad at optimism.

So you’ve forgotten your one year blogiversary.

Step 1: Don’t Panic.

Okay, maybe panic a little. Or a lot. Grab your towel. You know where your towel is, don’t you?

Step 2: Apologize.

Dear Blog, I has a sad because I forgotzors ur birthday.

Step 3: Apologize like you mean it, asshole.

You can’t tell me what to do.

Step 4: Continue being an asshole while your blog quietly weeps and plots revenge.

Are you- you’re not really- oh for fuck’s sake…c’mere, you. Give me a hug. I’m sorry, really.

Step 5: Make restitution.

Here, have a cookie. Blogs love cookies.

Step 6: Make better restitution.

Beers all around!

Step 7: Make decidedly-hazardous-to-your-remaining-brain-cells restitution.

Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters all around!

Step 8: Make a drunken and ultimately regrettable speech.

“Lishen up, everrone. SHHHHHHHHHHH. SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I jusht wanted to shay *hic* happy *hic* belated birthday to the…*hic*…to the…the besht gosh darn blurrggggg everrrrrrrrr!!!1!#%!! *sobs into drink* I love you, man. I love you.”

Bartender: “Who’s she talking to? We’ve been closed for a half hour.”

Busboy: “The jukebox, looks like.”

Step 9: Sober up, invent time machine, return to May 29th, celebrate blogiversary on time to eliminate need for belated regrettable speech and ensuing hangover.

…OR more likely fuck up, go further back in time than intended, step on a stupid fucking butterfly and doom humanity.

Step 10: Fuck that noise.

Because A Sound of Thunder was bad enough the first time.

Step 11: Thank your readers for being awesome… (Psst: You’re awesome!)

…after you’ve spent a while marveling yet again over the fact that you actually have readers.

Step 12: Give yourself a pat on the back and a phony award.

Go ahead. You’re worth it.