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  1. Forgive my being Tardy to the (blog) Party and Greetings from Asbury Park!  As promised, today’s blog is brought to you by... The Beach.

    Some shore memory (thanks for the suggestion from my bff, Darryl Graham):


    Getting lost

    Always involved my parents buying me an abnormally large  ice-cream cone ... that I really didn’t need what with a FUPA and Chitties (chubby child bosoms) at 7 years-old.  I’d stare, lovingly at the colossal heap of custard, bewitched by the rainbow sprinkles, as it oozed down my fist, into the cracks of my sausage-link fingers.  I’d look up from my frozen lover, eyes glazed over, and suddenly notice that my parents were nowhere to be found.  These yearly occurrences always resulted in my standing like a deer in the headlights, snapping my Dorothy Hammil hair styled head from side to side looking for a familiar face, not caring that the mountain of custard love had plopped to the ground, into my sandals, just about to burst out crying, and then seeing my family, watching from a distance laughing at me.  At this point, I’d burst into tears,  fake-limping toward them, telling them that I’d twisted my ankle, hoping they’d never be able to forgive themselves for laughing at this poor, gravely injured child.

    My brother would laugh and say, “Shut up, Samooontha” a name that would make me cry harder, thus exaggerating the limp, “We were watching you the whole time.”

    To which I’d wail, “I’m huuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrttttt!!!”

    "Do you want another cone," my mother would ask?  And I'd skip and pirouette gleefully over to the custard stand.

    Stubbing My Toes

    Another yearly event.  My best friend, Marygrace, can attest to the fact that nary a summer would go by without me having bloody toes with chunks of boardwalk embedded in the bottoms of my feet.  Every summer, just as we’d step foot on the boardwalk, Mayr would call out her yearly warning, “Maybe you should wear SHOO...”  Too late.

    This summer, no different.  Seems some things never change.





    Sand in the Crotch of My Bathing Suit

    Guys, you have mesh.  Count your damned blessings.  Let me explain.  We lady-folk have a little pocket sewn into the crotch of our bathing suits.  It serves no purpose other than to gather sand in a very inappropriate area to make us feel as if we’ve just shit our pants.  Once said sensation is evident, we cannot relax until we go into a nearby restroom, peel the suit off, dump the hard-packed, log-shaped lump of sand either onto the bathroom floor or into the boardwalk bathroom and confirm that it is not, in fact, a turd.  It's been a problem for me for as long as I can remember.

    Speedos (thanks for the suggestion from my bff, Genevieve Hall)

    Never gets old.  Why?  Guys?  Why?   We weren’t on the beach for 3 minutes yesterday and we heard the kids start whispering to each other.  “Did you see that guy in the brown bathing suit?  His junk was almost hanging out of the bottom of his suit.  Ssssshhhh.  There he is.  Look.  Look!”  Sure enough, there he was.  A large, hulking man of hot chocolate love... he looked like the guy from Green Mile, minus the protruding lower lip and retardation (jury’s still out of the latter)... in a Speedo.  Two words.  Not Jewish. 




    I have to go now.  It’s time for me to decide whether I should put on make-up for sitting on the beach.  I need to get the make-up that the synchronized swimmers used.  They look like swimming mimes.  










    They look like blow-up dolls (little known fact:  Hitler is credited with the invention of the blow-up doll...don’t ask how I know that).





    How on earth do they keep that make-up from running?  Doesn’t matter if Maybelline says her mascara is water-proof. I look like Tammy Faye after I get out of the ocean.









    Happy Summer Everyone!


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  2. 4 comments:

    1. Miguel José said...

      i've never heard the term "chitties" before but it is hilarious! Although in the future please give a warning for any "feet" pictures that may come up in your blog. Today was a hilarious read minus the 10 minutes of throwing up after looking at feet...

    2. She So Funny said...

      I thank you, Miguel. I, however, cannot make any promises as far as foot photos are concerned. PS dear readers, follow Miguel's fabulous blog at migueljose85. blogspot.com. you won't be disappointed

    3. Oh my God! Too damn funny! Seriously what the hell is that stupid flap for in the crotch. I have not sat down on the ocean in years because I didn't want the log between my legs....at least if it's not attached to a guy. Also there should be some kind of ID that men need to present at the store to purchase Speedos. Something saying they are a professional athlete like dive team, gymnast, swim team, running back etc so Speedos don't fall into the wrong hands or below the wrong gut.

    4. hee-larious. Never heard chitties before either -- too funny. And relatable, from family memories to the dreaded deal-breaking speedo. Can't relate to sand logs (i get mesh), but still funny.
      And I got a shout out! How cool izzat?

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