“My oh my, isn’t the year flying by!” This writer is well aware that phrase is something that only “older folks” are supposed to say. There is no shame or denial in the fact that I’m a few steps beyond middle aged. However, a year’s passage hasn’t reached light speed just yet. From mine own personal perspective, at this stage in life, only certain parts of the year actually fly by… the parts I loathe seem to drag on for a hellish eternity. Case in point: the 93 ½ days of summer. And yet here we are at the bitter end of it.

Much too childish delight the new school year will commence in a few weeks. Swimming pools and water parks will close. The days will grow shorter and the summer of ’18 will come to an end. Oh boohoo! How we will miss the murderous heat, the randomly sporadic rain showers and bugs. Not to mention the rapidly growing grass and vegetation; which must be attended to…time… and time…and time again. But soon it will all be over…set the warp drive to ludicrous speed! And yet…there still may be enough time left in hell for a vacation. A little beach get-a-way perhaps?

The word “vacation” doesn’t come up often in the House o’ Saw. It’s not just the lack of time (there isn’t any) or lack of funds (there isn’t much) but rather desire. For the most part the residents within are placid, content li’l homebodies, so needless to say—we don’t get out much. However as the live-in grandson gets older, the need to get out and let him experience the world out there rises. And ol’ Chainsaw’s getting a little squirrelly in his old age too.

So last year we begin laying plans for a simple semi-fabulous beach holiday. Saving for the trip was important to ensure that we’d have enough funds to make the Tot’s first beach trip special fun without financial burdens slowing the pace. The saving was only impeded a little by somebody purchasing vintage Home-lite chainsaw parts online. Rest assured, when I find someone else to take the blame… err…I mean- when I find the culprit they will pay for their frivolous spending of precious funds. Hmmm maybe I can pin it on John Q. (the yellow stuffed bear side-kick). “Hey! Don’t bwame me! I don’t even any-no get to go to the beachtwip!” Sorry John. Anywho…

So we’ve saved and shopped around for a nice place to stay. We wanted to be away from the continuously crowded beach party scene, but not in such a desolate locale that we had to forage for food. So we settled for the in-between and with extreme luck landed a nice little 3rd story condo unit right on the beach with an amazing ocean view. To be honest “LUCK” “NICE” and “AMAZING” are just guesses at this point. There are pictures and promises, but for all we know this could be a roach infested nightmare…I am hopeful, but skeptical. Time will tell and we’ll see.

OK, monies saved (minus a few inexpensive saw part purchases—we’ll never miss it) now to pack and prepare, so much to do. The yard must be tended to, house cleaned, arrangements made for the care of the animals and bills caught up because there’s nothing like coming home to yard work, dirty dishes, dead pets and realizing you spent money you shouldn’t have.

Once everything’s tidy and shipshape (haha, beach pun) it’s time to pack and make sure we have everything we need. OK, we have to go shopping. Alright, now we have everything we…oops…we’ll have to go shopping again. There, now we have…damn it, we’ll just buy some when we get there. We saved money to spend on the vacation, not before the vacation. So now the lawn is cared for, the house is in order, provisions’ are provided for the furry friends, we are financially stable, packed and ready to go. This is when Lil Red begins to question my packing skills. Not so much the “how” but more in the “what.”

With patience she is accustomed to expressing where I am concerned, she inquires on why there are chainsaw fuel mix and shotgun shells in the toiletry bag. She’s equally curious as to the need for not one, but two twelve gauge shotguns and a chainsaw on a beach trip. Well, they’re obviously a necessity in the event of…oh she’s doing that arm crossed, hand over the eyes thing.

I am then informed that if I say they are “needed in the event of a zombie apocalypse” there will be smacking. But what do we do in the event of…I am further told that mentioning “any” type of apocalypse…or alien invasion, will result in more smacking. Well good, there’ll be no need for smacks because that’s not what they’re for.

She pursues her inquiry with- “OK then… what are they for?” Hmmm the “personal protection” excuse with that kind of arsenal would only work for a serial killer.

So…SHARKS! What about sharks? They’re protection against shark attacks. She tells me that carrying that kind of armament onto any public beach will get me banned from said beach and possibly arrested. But…and there’s that “I can’t possibly take any more of your s*** look!” the one I’m certain they teach in spouses for lunatic’s school. I decide not to mention the potential of a shark-nado and repack my bags.

NEXT WEEK: How did that beach trip go? Read and find out…unless we are killed by zombie alien sharks.

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Hope to hear from ya, until then try and stay focused. See ya!