I know, I know.
It’s the end of August and the rancor that I hold for tourons should have been spit out in maybe May or maybe June. But I got caught up in other things and forgot.
But that’s OK ’cause there’s plenty of rancorness left.
It’s a new rental week and another turd of tourons (and, yes, I did make that up- kinda like a gaggle of geese or a pride of lions. A turd of tourons. I like it.) has been squeezed out of the quivering cheeks of somewhere-elseville.
If you’ve never lived in a vacation community it goes somethin’ like this-
Saturday is check-in day and the flood of tourons is almost overwhelming. Soft, fleshy wantness presses up against us. Check-in to the cottages isn’t till two o’clock but a lot of tourons hit the road early hoping to dodge traffic and end up sitting in the driveways of their vacation villas waiting for them to be cleaned. It’s always fun watching whole families sitting and sweating staring at a beach house wanting their vacation to begin.
Sunday is beach day. Forget it if you’re a local. There are so many white bodies turning pink it’s disturbing. And something I can’t understand- if everybody LOVES the beach so much why do so many tourons come down and camp out under awnings all day, bitch and moan about the heat and the sand and never swim in the ocean? I don’t get it.
Miss Carol just laughs and points.
Monday.Tuesday. Wednesday. These are the settling in days, days the tourons slip into the rhythm of the beach and into their one week exercise regimen. It’s also the time when Miss Carol and me have made friends with some of them over the years. Surprisingly, some tourons are, like, regular people?
Thursday and Friday are the manic ends to vacations dreamed of and lusted after for an entire year and the tourons tend to go on frenzied alcohol fueled final flings of repressed adolescence before piling their sunburnt and bloated kids back into the car and driving home. Locals hide until they’re gone.
Saturday morning is quiet and we bask in it. We walk Cutter and Tug on the beach, we breathe the fresh salty still air and revel in our little lives.
Then, by noon, the cheeks of somewhere-elseville clench once again and a whole new turd of tourons squeezes out.
I love summer.
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