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go enjoy that heat if you are in sf! i don't care if i have to take multiple cold showers a day and my only refugee is water and the beach. this weather is needed. it will be in the 50's by friday. so take that look off your face and go bask in the sweat of it. . .here is a quick write for the phrase- humor me-about a new years eve gone terribly wrong.Humor me and tell me I’m not like the others. The other drunks out there. Go ahead. I might have believed you. I might have. I crossed the line over drinking too much early on in my career with the bottle and finding my head in a toilet and to the bed and to the toilet and to the bed. I would drink in such a fashion that my mixing, my escaping would put me completely out of commission. There was no ‘a few drinks’ in my vocabulary.
So the first time it went to physical violence, I was at a New Year’s Party just nearly out of the supposed grownup stair of college. The party was the type that costs 100 dollars but there is no food in sight but with an open bar to boot. I was having a love affair with vodka cranberries. I was hanging out with my older cousin and her friends-they my 5-year seniors. No food -me humping vodka crans all night after the infamous double-parked break up of my last boyfriend. I asked if he wanted to go to LA with me. He told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. While double-parked in front of his house. Nice. That kick to the gut hurt. Hurt so much that my pain could be only minimized by you guessed it- that stupid open bar.
Fast-forward to I am now staring at my own reflection with blood all over my face. I stared at my bloody mary version of myself and I had no idea what had happened. I had no idea how I had got to that bathroom or how I was injured. I was staring and crying and women around me staring. Staring. Because who comes to a 100 dollar a ticket party and gets into fist fights. Something must be wrong with her their thoughts not spewing out but mixed inside their heads below their perfectly done hair dos. No blood was on their faces. But bloody mary I was.
My cousin appears and asks me who had done this to me. I don’t know I am breathing now through blood and tears and guilt and embarrassment. I didn’t know. Kate you have to tell me. I have to kick their ass. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what had happened. I knew I was in a fancy place and my love affair with vodka crans was done for now and I had an awful gash across my nose. My cousin gave me the first aid of family and of backup and putting pressure on my nose. I am going to figure this out as she stomped out of the public restroom. I didn’t care what happened anymore. I just wanted to go home.
My lawyer cousin became the investigator outside those doors of my protection. I wanted to go home but to go outside in the middle of a fancy party seemed like death to me. I might have, I might have broken my nose. Holy fuck. I am screwed. I hated the color red of my face, of my drinks. I hated the party for people not supplying food. I hated that guy for breaking my heart. I hated myself. I eventually would hate my cousin for keeping me there with a gash on my nose and then making me take public transit-the N home. In the bright lights of the train- everyone could see me, no bathroom where I could hide. I just closed my eyes and laid on my good friend’s shoulder. If I couldn’t see them-they couldn’t see me. It wasn’t real.
The facts came rolling in little by little not like a news station alerts more like calling someone without call waiting. It takes time to get through. You had to wait sometimes for the truth. So it turned out after my cousin had asked everyone there she knew and didn’t that I had gotten in a fight. A fight with the asphalt. Her friend replayed the torture of I was outside smoking a cigarette talking to him. When I came falling down like a tree in the wilderness. He thought I had blacked out. I hadn’t stopped myself. But he couldn’t stop me either. I had repressed all of it. All of it had. The worst part was I had to face my mother’s family the next day- a family I didn’t know very well- with a fucked up face. I had to come up with a story and quick. Humor me. Tell me the story.
I don’t usually walk my body into the chains. No I don’t. I used to think going out to dinner revolved around the Red Lobster, and Chevy’s, and Olive Garden and and and. See that is what we had in the lovely planned community I grew up in. They had more drug stores per capita and now today starbucks holds that title. They did things like tear down the Price Club just to rebuild a Costco years later or it was planned but they forgot to plan a downtown. Probably no accident there. There were no places. Really family owned. Everything was big, everything fluorescent, everything was manufactured just as the track houses in the sections split off by letters. I used to think this was going out to dinner but now.
So when I walked into Chevy’s for the first time in years probably 10 or more. I had my stepmom, father, and her church friends in tow. My usual partner in crime was smart and conveniently hailed her cab of an exit. I walked in and it seemed dull. Less light. But the scene was perfectly constructed. The certain phrases in Spanish, such as banos and cocina written in the mexican flag colors across the walls. And then the stereotypical things all mexican sombreros, blankets, pictures of mexican men looking revolutionary, and probably ceasar chavez. They didn’t have a picture of a burrito but they should have. Maybe a map just to make sure. You know where you are. In a mexican restaurant.
It was like a white person sat down and thought hmm how to make this feel more mexican for a white person who has never been to mexico or ate in a proper authentic taqueria. If you surround someone with the “artifacts” of what it means to be a mexican then you will want to eat the food and feel like you are in some coastal town in the baja not on 3rd and howard. Fail.
The plates, the portions literally blew my mind. The plate of “mexican food” was double the size of me. My waist. Double. I am not a big girl but I am not so tiny that this would warrant a sad comparison. I pushed my plate/ food around and made sure to only eat a third. The calories were listed on the menu probably deemed necessary by the city of rules. No way I was wasting almost all my daily caloric intake on this.
I was going to take my ass to get a proper burrito in the mission. With mexican people working and eating there. There won’t be many whites there except the tattoo clad hipsters and me. But I feel more at home in the realness of it all. Even if burritos are an american creation. Dad do you have a pen? I say. And I start writing. Writing it down before I forget.
Playing with fire. I play with fire regularly. Not the typical webster definition of the wood and oxygen and flames and sticks and air and heat and those things. No I play with fire. The type that can burn you more than just on your skin. The first and second and third types so deep so below the surface of the abyss of you that when you play- you play with fire- the risk is great. But somehow worth doing. Worth the risk of the burn again. I like to live on the edge or so I say. Mostly I push buttons. Mostly I say things I shouldn’t. Mostly I say too much. Mostly I am too honest. Mostly I am just playing with fire even if I don’t know it. Sometimes. But sometimes I know it and still do it. Say something that will make my heart beat or stop the pulse-the pace-the flow of the room but I still do it.
I started to think about when this started. It’s hard to say. It’s hard to remember when I thought it was fun to play with fire. I didn’t understand the boundaries, of child, or girl, or white, or woman, or working class or pretty or smart or any of the other titles I have been bestowed upon by birth, by social constructs, by my genetics, by so much that is not choice and so much that is. See it is hard to remember when I started playing with fire because I was an adult child. I was the negotiator between my parents as long as I could remember. Dad on one side Mom on the other and me in between. Always. I had honest conversations about my life-about who I wanted to live with and where and when before I was done with the 3rd grade. No child can answer these questions. I looked into the judge’s face, the therapist face, my own private lawyers face at 8, my aunts, my doctors face all saying the same thing I want to live with both my parents. All the faces the same. All the words the same.
It is hard to know boundaries of age if no one instills them in you. It is hard to know boundaries of gender if no one tells you women shouldn’t act this way. Because as much we pretend we have changed, progressed- a woman and what it means to be one fits perfectly in a neat little box on top of that shelf. Still it does. If you only smile and looked pretty life would be so much easier for you. I have heard more than once.
I play with fire. But I remember the first time I played with fire not with my family but with my peers. See my parents- divorced or not- together or not- my dad with or without a new girlfriend weren’t rolling in the dough. My dad started his job 3 months before my mother gave birth to me. He climbed telephone poles and climbed his way up without a degree or an almost degree to manage systems and the such. But we were poor. Not poor like starving poor. More like we had a Volkswagen before they were cool- two of them- and I would force my father to park down the street from school to drop me off as to not have anyone see my car. I didn’t realize I was being a shit. Then of course I didn’t. I was embarrassed of that car. And the roar of it. Dad please just drop me off at the corner. I never admitted why. I didn’t want to see his face, his hard working face, look at me with despair.
So when my parents- more like my dad and his girlfriend allowed me to get my first acid washed jean jacket-I was side pony tailed and gummy bracelet and legging out full of joy and beyond belief. I probably sang a rendition of my own personal Madonna in celebration. I wore that jacket- my coolest item- the coolest item- the item that anyone who was anyone was wearing. I wore it with pride like I once wore my green izzy kid outfit or the badges for most cookies sold as a girl scout. The pride I had for being cool. My father reminded me to put my name in it. Just in case he said. Just in case you lose it. I probably rolled my eyes at him. My green glass eyes, my mothers. Every time he looks at me he must remember. Or does he? He never says. I would be rolling my 9-year-old eyes as he provided me with his black sharpie from his toolbox or art supplies. For my father had all the answers. At one time I thought he did. Even though I played fire with so many things he did tell me.
I wore that jacket as if it was my pride and joy my second skin of acceptance in the 80s-I might have even popped that collar before I knew that was reserved for the preppies. And so I wore it for a week until until I lost it. Of course I lost it. I left it out at recess while I was running my skinny ass around playing something I am sure tetherball or handball or something with a ball. And after recess I returned to where I had thrown it on the ground and to my dismay. Gone. Nothing. Tons of jackets. Piled but mine was missing. There was only the pavement, hot from the afternoon sun, painted partially from the wear of playing.
Shit, shit, shit. I decided it was time to act. I asked my friends and classmates my teachers and anyone who would listen. I went to the lost and found until they told me don’t call us we will call you. I made reward posters. I posted them in the hope that it would return to me. Return it did. But only because I played with fire. After I posted the posters everyone at hahn school knew kate b. had lost her jean jacket. Her cool.
So when I saw that girl, that girl in my jacket at recess. I had no other choice than to. To take my 65 pound-4 foot-something self over and tell her- take off that jacket. She was older than me but I didn’t care. If I could redo it I would say look bitch take off my acid washed jean jacket. Now. Instead she bought time. Playing with fire practiced so I didn’t give up. Take off the jacket-it’s mine. I knew without a doubt that was the flesh and blood of cool, my cool. Look take it off and if it doesn’t say my name- it’s yours. We did the 4th v. 6th grade stare down. And eventually she saw the fire in my eyes and realized she shouldn’t play with a girl’s first love of the jean. She took it off and there there in the black sharpie eye rolled upon it was the words- kate b.
this is being blogged from martha & bros. coffee- one of my second homes, a cheers of sorts, everyone in deed knows my name. check them out they are around the city and all owned from the decents of the same family. and family they will treat you as there own. 10 minute quick write for the word- disorder-written after a good few days of rain. kind of how i feel in this fog. 3 days in a row of sun. please universe send me one more day. i need it. there are no puddles to stomp in.
Disorder. I forgot about the disorder of the rain, the raindrops, the disorder of cabin fever of the young. I used to get it all the time when I was a kid. That feeling of both nostalgia and crazy into one. You want to run outside and jump in the puddles and get wet. Lift your eyes up into the air full of rain. The moisture feels good at least at first it does. It does. But then you get too wet or someone doesn’t let you outside and then you are stuck indoors for hours -sometimes days. I forgot about the disorder caused by rain until today.
Today when I walked into Kid Space a place for occupational therapy, therapy kids style. The type that most kids with extra privilege learn how to grow muscles and multi-task and hold a pencil. As I walked into the waiting room, I remembered the disorder. How I had forgotten? All these kids, kids were losing their shit. You could feel the energy of the raindrop disorder everyone is miserable-everyone crying visually or with looks in their eyes. Everyone wants something they can’t have. Have. They long for either a run outside, a stomp, or just a juice box, or a game of heads up 7 up. They want their parents to stop talking and telling them what to do. I am sick-they say. Give me fresh air- they mouth to me. Let me jump in a puddle-they sign. Bring out the sun lady. Because this raindrop rain cabin fever disorder makes you batty, makes you crazy, and the adults around you don’t know what to do. To do.
So I looked around the room and I remembered. This disorder will only last so long and soon these kids and these adults will be normal. Again. Normal. The disorder only strikes when we aren’t walked properly or watered enough or sun hasn’t shone on our roots. There is no way to get rid of it. Rid of it. Except the disorder will pass, pass like many of the disorders I study. Have studied in myself, in others, in strangers. I try to understand the order of those around me. The disorders of those around me. We name them, we say them, they pass, they come back. But what are we really talking about? About.
With the rain, it’s about freedom of the air. Freedom itself. But the other disorders might not be very different. The freedom to not worry about about the ills of life and what you have inherited or your childhood or your love life or any of it. Maybe the disorder is trying to organize it all perfectly. We can’t stop the rain, we can’t stop heartache, we can’t stop the laughter. The disorder might be the controlling. Instead let us let the drops fall down on our heads. Cabin fever is our enemy and the air of rain filled cloud our friend. Some might call it a disorder but it might be the only order I have ever known. Splish. Splash. I say.
okay folks- warning this has sex in it so. . . if you are related to me you might want to pass if not please partake. i would if i was you. . .
This is the sound of settling. I hear against my ears. But I don’t do the settling. I do not. Not really. I settle for less than I deserve guilty as charged but I don’t settle for the someone in the passenger seat of my car or bed unless they mean something and I see that. That. I don’t allow them into the crosswalk or lane next to me on the sidewalk of life. The good ones making sure to be on the outside protecting me from the incoming traffic or so I thought. Some might have manners but they don’t know the way to love a woman completely, entirely. I fall hard and desperately and in love and do the crash and burn and then its over. I am surrounded in the abyss-the leftovers of what was. I have friends who settle, settle for those who will give them attention but, but I don’t know how. How. Until. I am settling now. And I have settled before. With this man. Allowing for there to be no commitment though committed until there was no way out but out.
But this time I was settling for sporadic sex on swings next to fires by accident while the pint glasses broke, one and two but we didn’t stop. Condom wrappers on the ground glass shards next to them. We walked inside and didn’t skip a beat and went for another round. Until he passed out. He passed out and I wondered what the fuck am I doing.
He had just told me upstairs in the kitchen after making weird food concoctions of leftovers and dancing around and having cheese inside of cracker boxes-he was happy we were just friends and he was nervous we were drinking. Drinking together again. Because every time we did, every time we do, we sleep together. It wasn’t long until I felt him move closer to me. First massaging my shoulders before we went back down to our bon fire in the backyard. Then when we start swinging. Back and forth and the drink of beer, the pint moved from my lips to his. He had found a place on my lap. His head on mine.
This wasn’t looking good folks except swing sex is fun especially on a backyard variety-fuck the store bought bullshit. I feel him reach up to my lips taking a dabble at each. And I speak the last words, the last words of pause. Are you sure you want to do this? And then it is happening- we are going down the slide of lust and lost love into more lost-swinging back and forth not caring about the glasses-one and two-breaking and laughing. We just keep fucking. Fucking. The freedom of the swing, the freedom of swinging, the freedom of not caring about anything but this moment. I don’t care for anything but for this swinging. And care I didn't. Except I know I am swinging with someone I should walk with. I am swinging with someone I probably shouldn’t. I keep going and it’s too late.
I settled not in that moment. But in the accepting of calls and the listening of life of woes of not getting the position at work, and his mom who cracked his windshield, and the travel of father’s day up and down northern california on his only day off. I settle each time I pick up that phone and listen. Listen to his words. I show up and swing every time. It doesn’t matter if we fuck that is just a technicality. So as I drive, drive up the hill down to my home. I know that I have settled. For what I am not sure. For how long I am not sure. Settling while swinging. Swinging high and hard and not caring for tomorrow. But I care for tomorrow and what it will bring. Bring me more than the sound of the swing settling to a slow pace and stopping again.
Eating alone. I am eating my words of judgment, as I sit alone. By myself in this bar. See I was a feminist before I knew what feminism was. I choose to always study women who stood taller than they should. Susan B. Anthony. I ran to be the only girl in the mock elections in my 5th grade class in the Dukakis v. Bush (I) election. I wanted to be the first woman president. I used to do things like play sports with the boys even when coaches or teachers said girls weren’t allowed to play. Play basketball in the gym with guys because girls never played when he wasn’t looking. So if he came in and I wasn’t playing I would fail this pe class. In my sophomore year. In my planned community. I took up the challenge. For no one told me no, not because I was a girl. Not now, not ever. I played my heart out as the only female on that court. Sweating and not caring just playing. And every time that teacher walked in his head turned down more quickly. I took the apology as easily as I took the challenge from him. He told me he was wrong, he was.I got in fistfights with boys. I realized this helped out in my case because no bitches fucked with me. It was risky I realize this now. But two times I threw down over what I thought was justice. First a guy in freshman year started making fun of someone who was jewish. I got up and promptly slapped him across his face. In the middle of math class. We didn’t have a problem again until senior year and he yelled at me for not buying enough donuts for the senior picnic. Later, I was donned with the nickname Tyson. After the ear biter/rapist/boxer/tattoo slurrer we call a boxer. Tyson was my name because I stood up against the injustice of a partial canning (when you literally put someone in a trash can) by a guy who was a year ahead of me in school. Canning was a type of flirtation of high school. I kicked my legs against the metal aluminum in the middle of the school quad of all the eyes on us. I got out of the trashcan. And saw all dots staring my way. I didn’t have any other choice. I swung my fist back and punched him square in the face. In front of the whole school. At lunch. Tyson they called me. I walked a little lighter.See I was raised by my father so the limits of femininity were never mine. I never ate them. Consumed them. Threw them up as a bulimic. I didn’t starve myself beautiful. I didn’t squelch in fear that I couldn’t. A father raising a daughter is a sociological experiment and I am the researcher and the subject. See I had ideas about my mind v. my body and my looks. I always knew that my mind would always trump what was on the outside but it wasn’t until I left the black and whiteness of things. That I had to eat my words. Poverty does that-makes your ideals and stances and soapboxes diminish. I didn’t strip, or pose or anything that would have been too much. But I was a miller lite girl once upon a time. For a few minutes of my life, for a few months. I don’t even drink such shitty beer even when I was poor. My snobbery of beer was mine even then. I ate my words every time I put on the whole black outfit. I put the real me-the qualities of wit and mind- somewhat on the shelf as to do my job. Everyone at each bar mostly guys were surprised I actually had a brain. Because miller lite models are idiots. Or so we thought. Women who use their bodies and faces to sell things are. I ate my words alone at the bar. I took the words in of claims for idiocy and stupidity and I swallowed my words when I ran into my former college classmate across the country where no one knew me. I wasn’t just a miller lite girl- I wanted to say. But I just ate my words. Alone. At. The. Bar.
hello all-thanks for reading! this was inspired by the lovely word paradise. enjoy and have an amazing weekend- i am signing off for a spa day of sorts tomorrow. paradise will be mine. again.i want to give a shout out to my former professor and dept. head at Columbia's Teachers College. I am humbled to know he reads this thing i call a blog. he was brave enough to tell me. i am glad to be expanding my target audience- Aaron Pallas- sociologist i will always be. . .Paradise. What was paradise yesterday is not my paradise today. My paradise before was a beachfront property in a miami style vice house. My paradise was falling in love with bloody marys. It was the first time we took a run on the dance floor of drinking. I loved them so much- I took the orders from all the family members- first one then multiplying until one day I had more glasses lined up in a row, bartender I had become. I tried to perfect it each time. More family members kept coming back for more. My cousin’s husband said my final one rivaled zeitgeist. I took a moment of silence. A comparison to a godfather of bloody mary makers. I only was in the ring for a week. Paradise for me was waking up eating and coffee along the lake and then reading, swimming, and making a bloody mary for me and co. Then repeat again. And again. That was my paradise. Paradise was swimming in the lake so much it became my bath. I was a mermaid again on my back floating-my hair back and forth-the heaviness of the hair weighing me down and freeing me all at once. My childhood habit of being a mermaid still mine as I lay on my back floating and my head and the weight of it to and fro. It was my paradise to sit along the hot shore with a towel small or big and the waves crashing rhythmically as the screen doors opens and closes and opens and closes and opens and closes. I sat there by myself. I laid there and could have laid there forever sun beating on my irish german skin brown. I took off one of my 5 bikinis to see a tan line I hadn’t had in years. It was my paradise. Bloody marys and swimming and white bottoms and family and kids running around saying they are robots and wrestling on the damp grass.It was my paradise until I came home. Home to a forgotten feeling of despair and anxiety. And after I was able to shake the familiar feeling away. I found paradise again. Again I did. Today while driving. I left my friends home in the richmond the fog melted away into the sun of the haight. As I drove, I saw two kids on their bikes on the corner bubbling with summer. I drove behind a person with a red party cup plastic type out the window. I slowed down. I saw a tall man walking a toddler across the street. Paradise again. 
Dog days. Dog days of years past. As I walk down my dog-lined street- I almost step on some but in my neighborhood dogs trump people. I live in the valley of the noe. The valley of the dog. I love dogs I do, well at least the dogs that you can call dogs. Big enough to be one. Not into the ones that could fit in your purse too easily, slipped away and maybe forgotten. I love the catwalk only done by a dog that sway of the hips back and forth and no responding to others in barks. Just prancing away.
The other day Y and me got in debate about what makes a dog. I told her I didn’t like the yap variety and she promptly told me that SPCA, where she doing her weekly day camp of summer, would not share the sentiment. We respect all life she said. Really? I shot back. Tell me what about mice. Pets, without skipping a beat. Rats? Pets. Okay how about fleas? What is your and SPCA’s stance on those animals? I glance back into the rearview mirror of truth- her smile turned sideway, her eyes now thinking, spinning round the fleas through her well connected brain of a machine. We keep them in a jar. As pets. We are at a red light. I turn around and laugh. Really? In a jar. They take them off the dogs. And my voice trails off and we just are smiling. Beaming the smile when no one is looking and you don’t care.
I don’t really care. Except making sure to challenge her. Her thoughts. Her mind. As she challenges me. I never thought I would call a nine year old one of my best friends. I never thought a nine year old could challenge me more than adults surrounded around me. I never thought her happiness could be mine, her pain felt as a pang. The strangeness of love for a child. One you didn’t birth. But one of your own. Not in the genetics or bones, but the heart and soul of family. Real family. Family that you feel lucky knowing and angry to know their right. Right when they tell you aloud. Your shirt is too low. Or I think you look better without makeup. Or he wasn’t right for you but I liked his dog. Or I love you Kate- is it because I gave you the vanilla lotion to hide the smell of SPCA dogs and cats and goats from your dad’s sensitive nose? No, I loved you before.
Playing the game. I was so very good at playing the game of an alcoholic. I once was. And it wasn’t until I recently tried a repeat offense-I realized I am a lapsed alcoholic as I am Catholic. There is no way of denying it. You can’t deny you used to be good it. But now one bottle of red puts me so far in the remission of a hangover-it’s depressing.
I used to play the game so well. So after I decided to have a liquid dinner of red wine-a full bottle and grabbing my emergency cigarettes-packed away randomly in the shared bathroom under the sink. I was trashed half way through. I used to drink a bottle of wine for breakfast and then go on to do the sobriety test of work. But not now.
I wake up to my computer that I fell asleep more like passed out to- it is on the ground. No big deal right until I look down and realize it’s on a broken plate. A broken plate that held my midnight snack-scratch that dinner of the poor woman’s quesadillas- find what you can in the fridge and voila white woman’s Mexican skills tested and served. Left over cheese from my roommate, abandoned corn tortillas and salsa that salsa is mine. No sour cream so I pretend by using plain yogurt to be healthy again. I am not. Then I find 4 jalapeños floating in mia jar in the back of the fridge. It filled me up and I forgot about it until. Until of course I woke up and found that I had passed out and pushed my computer to break my quesadilla plate into two. I am laughing. Maybe I am not as lapsed as I had thought.
I used to play the game of alcoholism so well. Finish work and the put it straight into my vein, whatever alcohol would do. Would do. No dinner. That would complicate things. Make me less drunk. And then the bumming of cigarettes from randoms. At that time I was a good drunk with the assistance of doses of anxiety meds I wasn’t supposed to drink on but I didn’t heed any attention to such warnings on labels too tiny to read, too tiny to care. I needed that iv drip to deal with me. To deal with my life. To keep going.
I was good at playing the game of an alcoholic by hooking up with randoms and not remembering exactly how and waking up to-oh shit how do I get out of this. I was good at hooking up with friends. I was good at stumbling and spilling and fighting when I needed to. Never physically just with my biting tongue. I was good at the apologies the next day. There always are. I was good at being a drunk. I never wanted to leave. Just keep drinking. Drinking and drinking so I could keep going. Going nowhere fast but not caring as I blew my high paid salary of miserableness on being miserable.
I was a drunk with the best of them. I used to have a tolerance. I used to slur but now now I try but fail. I used do the textbook things like miss work because of being hungover- actually I think those are the only times I called in. I would roll into work reeking of alcohol and I knew I smelt. I knew I might still be drunk.
What saved me other than my weak stomach? What saved me? Was a fight over chips I had one night. One night the fight over chips made me less of a social binge drinker and face the reality of being a drunk. A drunk. Playing the game of alcoholism- I was good at it- I miss it- I miss the simplicity of washing it all away.
go enjoy that heat if you are in sf! i don't care if i have to take multiple cold showers a day and my only refugee is water and the beach. this weather is needed. it will be in the 50's by friday. so take that look off your face and go bask in the sweat of it. . .
