Yesterday was my last day at work.
I'm going to miss it.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Log Books!
One of my favorite things about sitting in a tower is the log book. We write contacts, conditions, and various other things that go on during the day in it. It's also a way to alleviate boredom. I have compiled a list of the best "notes" that end up in the "notes" sections of the log books.
July 10, 2008; SS
1400: Out of towner claims she saw a "pack of sharks" (aka Arizona sharks aka dolphins)...
July 25, 2008; SS
1650: Learned to whistle.
July 30, 2008; SS
We are strangers again!
June 20, 2008; TP
1520: Poke squid.
July 19, 2007; TP
1300: Caught a girl riding a guy like a horse. Wonder if I witnessed the conception of a child? Will he be able to surf?
July 27, 2008; DMS
1200: Seal, possibly dog, in surf zone.
July 23, 2008; DMS
1403: Grow up-->get thick--> ? -->keep it real
1700: Boat?
June 28, 2008; DMS
Large rip in front of tower... no, seriously...
July 12, 2007; TP
"more kelp than sand" --Unknown Poet
July 2, 2008; DMS
You know, sometimes I like wearing jeans and wifebeaters in the water...
July 10, 2008; SS
1400: Out of towner claims she saw a "pack of sharks" (aka Arizona sharks aka dolphins)...
July 25, 2008; SS
1650: Learned to whistle.
July 30, 2008; SS
We are strangers again!
June 20, 2008; TP
1520: Poke squid.
July 19, 2007; TP
1300: Caught a girl riding a guy like a horse. Wonder if I witnessed the conception of a child? Will he be able to surf?
July 27, 2008; DMS
1200: Seal, possibly dog, in surf zone.
July 23, 2008; DMS
1403: Grow up-->get thick--> ? -->keep it real
1700: Boat?
June 28, 2008; DMS
Large rip in front of tower... no, seriously...
July 12, 2007; TP
"more kelp than sand" --Unknown Poet
July 2, 2008; DMS
You know, sometimes I like wearing jeans and wifebeaters in the water...
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Hole contacts...
"Is there a rule against digging big holes on the beach?"
Shit shit shit, I was zoning out. Repeat what you said, I wasn't listening. Okay, just pretend you didn't hear her, she'll ask again.
"Excuse me, but are there rules against digging big holes on the beach?"
Ohhh I heard you that time. Awesome.
Thinking the woman toting a caravan of children wanted to dig a big hole on the beach, I smiled down at her. Hah, I love being a lifeguard. I get to be taller than everyone.
"There aren't any rules against it, as long as you don't dig it in front of my tower..."
But Helicopter Mommy interrupted me.
"Because I just saw a documentary on KJDFLKJJHGFSDLKJDFUTYWUYGVX (or whatever fuckin' acronym they're using these days) News about a high school kid who died when the hole he was digging collapsed."
Yeah, he was probably drunk. "Well, we don't have rules against it..."
"You should." She stalked off.
Excuse me? So not only am I interrupting natural selection by even doing my job (a force of nature I believe in very strongly, in fact), but you want me to enforce a "no hole-digging" edict on the beach as well? In addition to "no dogs, no glass, no alcohol, no smoking, no sitting by the bluff, etc"? What was really disturbing about this exchange, however, wasn't that this mom was concerned for her (multitude of) children's safety, but she expected me to parent for her. Rather than saying, "Okay, cunt-dropping A, don't climb into holes, because they may collapse on you," she wants me to fill in all the holes on the beach. So am I supposed to yank people out of the water because someone might drown? No, that's ridiculous-- but it's essentially what this woman wanted me to do. And the worst part is that Helicopter Mommy is going to produce selfish, entitled little brats that take and take and take, and do nothing good in the world.
Shit shit shit, I was zoning out. Repeat what you said, I wasn't listening. Okay, just pretend you didn't hear her, she'll ask again.
"Excuse me, but are there rules against digging big holes on the beach?"
Ohhh I heard you that time. Awesome.
Thinking the woman toting a caravan of children wanted to dig a big hole on the beach, I smiled down at her. Hah, I love being a lifeguard. I get to be taller than everyone.
"There aren't any rules against it, as long as you don't dig it in front of my tower..."
But Helicopter Mommy interrupted me.
"Because I just saw a documentary on KJDFLKJJHGFSDLKJDFUTYWUYGVX (or whatever fuckin' acronym they're using these days) News about a high school kid who died when the hole he was digging collapsed."
Yeah, he was probably drunk. "Well, we don't have rules against it..."
"You should." She stalked off.
Excuse me? So not only am I interrupting natural selection by even doing my job (a force of nature I believe in very strongly, in fact), but you want me to enforce a "no hole-digging" edict on the beach as well? In addition to "no dogs, no glass, no alcohol, no smoking, no sitting by the bluff, etc"? What was really disturbing about this exchange, however, wasn't that this mom was concerned for her (multitude of) children's safety, but she expected me to parent for her. Rather than saying, "Okay, cunt-dropping A, don't climb into holes, because they may collapse on you," she wants me to fill in all the holes on the beach. So am I supposed to yank people out of the water because someone might drown? No, that's ridiculous-- but it's essentially what this woman wanted me to do. And the worst part is that Helicopter Mommy is going to produce selfish, entitled little brats that take and take and take, and do nothing good in the world.
Monday, August 4, 2008
I've got sunshine...
Good news! Unlike last Monday, I am decidedly sober today. Woooo, go me.
Today was slow. But I have tomorrow off! Yay!
I'm working a lot less in the coming weeks. Which feels weird. It's actually not that much less. I'm working 32 hours this week, and 40 next week. Then I'm going to Las Vegas on the 18th and the 19th, and then for the 21st-25th I have a friend in town, so... that's 24 hours the week of the 18th, which is my normal week cut almost in half. Which means less money, but more breathing space. Breathing space before school is good, because if I didn't have it, I'd go back really burnt out and that would be a bad plan. Anyway. My day was interesting.
I told a young woman with a lip piercing today that dogs are not allowed on the beach. She looked down at the yipping punt-a-puppy in her arms, and looks back at me, and goes, "seriously?" No, fuckwit, I'm just kidding, actually. Take your fashion accessory on the beach and have fun! God, do people think I make this shit up for the fun of it? You think I want to sit in this tower and police the beach? If I wanted to be a police officer, I'd have gone through the police academy. And then I'd have a gun/tazer/big-ass stick to beat people with, which would be much better than having to talk sense into people. Also, sweetheart, your scrawny-ass, tattooed boyfriend doesn't intimidate me. I HAVE tattoos. I HAVE piercings. They really aren't that intimidating for me. In all actuality, I want to hook a leash on his septum ring and tether him to the tower. Lol. Now I'm giggling at the thought of a scrawny, tattooed, punk-rawk-super-bad-dood tethered to my tower, whinnying.
Oh man.
Today was slow. But I have tomorrow off! Yay!
I'm working a lot less in the coming weeks. Which feels weird. It's actually not that much less. I'm working 32 hours this week, and 40 next week. Then I'm going to Las Vegas on the 18th and the 19th, and then for the 21st-25th I have a friend in town, so... that's 24 hours the week of the 18th, which is my normal week cut almost in half. Which means less money, but more breathing space. Breathing space before school is good, because if I didn't have it, I'd go back really burnt out and that would be a bad plan. Anyway. My day was interesting.
I told a young woman with a lip piercing today that dogs are not allowed on the beach. She looked down at the yipping punt-a-puppy in her arms, and looks back at me, and goes, "seriously?" No, fuckwit, I'm just kidding, actually. Take your fashion accessory on the beach and have fun! God, do people think I make this shit up for the fun of it? You think I want to sit in this tower and police the beach? If I wanted to be a police officer, I'd have gone through the police academy. And then I'd have a gun/tazer/big-ass stick to beat people with, which would be much better than having to talk sense into people. Also, sweetheart, your scrawny-ass, tattooed boyfriend doesn't intimidate me. I HAVE tattoos. I HAVE piercings. They really aren't that intimidating for me. In all actuality, I want to hook a leash on his septum ring and tether him to the tower. Lol. Now I'm giggling at the thought of a scrawny, tattooed, punk-rawk-super-bad-dood tethered to my tower, whinnying.
Oh man.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
My memorial to you.
The worst part about losing someone isn't the loss itself.
We don't feel pain equally. The worst part is understanding that as much pain as you're personally feeling, those closer to the person who is gone are feeling something more intense. Something more terrifyingly all-encompassing. It's empty and it's gnawing and it never grows smaller. There's a bubble in my chest that squeezes my lungs when I think of you. You were so good. And so genuine.
I hope you weren't afraid. It's the last thing I would wish for you-- I hope you died in peace, without pain, without fear. I can't imagine you afraid. I don't want to. Because imagining you afraid makes me so aware of how cowardly I am. When I think of you I see the parts of me that should be better. I should be stronger. Run faster. Push harder. Because I can. Because this is fragile-- it's all fragile.
It was impossible not to like you. You had life by the neck and you were shaking it. You were light and color and energy. I never saw you sad. I'm trying to understand this, but intellectually, I know there's nothing to understand. It is what it is. We'll change the world for you-- no, we'll rock the world for you.
Live life.
Love life.
We miss you.
We don't feel pain equally. The worst part is understanding that as much pain as you're personally feeling, those closer to the person who is gone are feeling something more intense. Something more terrifyingly all-encompassing. It's empty and it's gnawing and it never grows smaller. There's a bubble in my chest that squeezes my lungs when I think of you. You were so good. And so genuine.
I hope you weren't afraid. It's the last thing I would wish for you-- I hope you died in peace, without pain, without fear. I can't imagine you afraid. I don't want to. Because imagining you afraid makes me so aware of how cowardly I am. When I think of you I see the parts of me that should be better. I should be stronger. Run faster. Push harder. Because I can. Because this is fragile-- it's all fragile.
It was impossible not to like you. You had life by the neck and you were shaking it. You were light and color and energy. I never saw you sad. I'm trying to understand this, but intellectually, I know there's nothing to understand. It is what it is. We'll change the world for you-- no, we'll rock the world for you.
Live life.
Love life.
We miss you.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Day off? What in the hell do I do with those?
Uhhh... so I apologize for drunk-posting on Monday. This is why I should be allowed to drink till I pass out, people. It cuts back on the drunk-posting.
Anyway.
So I realized today that days off are confusing for me because I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do with myself. So I spend a good portion of the day working (teaching swimming lessons), or working out. Hooray. But today, I decided I wanted to go shopping.
I'm really bad at shopping. Anyone who knows me well knows this. I am the type of person to wander into a store and wander out without really seeing anything because I am so overwhelmed by all the choices. But anyway, the mall is out in the sun, and I forgot my sunglasses in the car. People, lifeguarding has turned me into a huge creeper. I WATCH people. Not just watch, observe. And when I have sunglasses on, this is okay, because even if they think you're looking in their direction, they can't really tell, and you could be looking at anything. But without sunglasses on... I have people looking scared and running away from me.
Gah. I swear people, I'm not undressing you with my eyes, I'm just memorizing details of your outfit in case you drown. Oh wait. That's my favorite pastime at work-- memorizing people. But apparently this is creepy outside of work. Who knew?
Anyway, peace out everyone... I'm off to work... on my day off... or something...
Anyway.
So I realized today that days off are confusing for me because I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do with myself. So I spend a good portion of the day working (teaching swimming lessons), or working out. Hooray. But today, I decided I wanted to go shopping.
I'm really bad at shopping. Anyone who knows me well knows this. I am the type of person to wander into a store and wander out without really seeing anything because I am so overwhelmed by all the choices. But anyway, the mall is out in the sun, and I forgot my sunglasses in the car. People, lifeguarding has turned me into a huge creeper. I WATCH people. Not just watch, observe. And when I have sunglasses on, this is okay, because even if they think you're looking in their direction, they can't really tell, and you could be looking at anything. But without sunglasses on... I have people looking scared and running away from me.
Gah. I swear people, I'm not undressing you with my eyes, I'm just memorizing details of your outfit in case you drown. Oh wait. That's my favorite pastime at work-- memorizing people. But apparently this is creepy outside of work. Who knew?
Anyway, peace out everyone... I'm off to work... on my day off... or something...
Monday, July 28, 2008
Shut the fuck up, people
I am pretty sure it's Monday. I never did quite get the hang of Mondays.
Anyway, it's Monday, I think. I'm pretty drunk. I just got deposited on my front step and made an attempt at not seeming drunk in front of the parental units. I probably failed miserably.
I keep thinking I'm British but I'm nota ctually British. See, here in America, home of apple pie and buffalo (seriously though I don't think they have buffalo anywhere else) we don't do that silly thing where we spell things like this: "burnt" instead of "burned" and "spelt" instead of "spelled" and "roofs" instead of "roooves." Okay, I totally made that last one up, but the point was that my fingers seemed to be thniknig that I'm British when I'm actually Americans.
Onward and upward.
I'm drunkt (that's like the British form of "drunked" for those who aren't in the know) and we had a lifeguard get-together tonight. J tried to walk through a screen door-- or as he tells it, "I didn't walk THROUGH the closed screen door, because the screen door stopped me." Lol.
Oh man, what the hell am I doing with my life...
Fucking balls. It's Monday.
Anyway, it's Monday, I think. I'm pretty drunk. I just got deposited on my front step and made an attempt at not seeming drunk in front of the parental units. I probably failed miserably.
I keep thinking I'm British but I'm nota ctually British. See, here in America, home of apple pie and buffalo (seriously though I don't think they have buffalo anywhere else) we don't do that silly thing where we spell things like this: "burnt" instead of "burned" and "spelt" instead of "spelled" and "roofs" instead of "roooves." Okay, I totally made that last one up, but the point was that my fingers seemed to be thniknig that I'm British when I'm actually Americans.
Onward and upward.
I'm drunkt (that's like the British form of "drunked" for those who aren't in the know) and we had a lifeguard get-together tonight. J tried to walk through a screen door-- or as he tells it, "I didn't walk THROUGH the closed screen door, because the screen door stopped me." Lol.
Oh man, what the hell am I doing with my life...
Fucking balls. It's Monday.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
So, um. Yeah.
I have a black eye.
Yes, I have a motherfucking black eye. From lifeguarding. No joke, people. Not only did I work a 14 hour day today, have the police (yes, the fucking POLICE) call the station looking for me (long story, I will tell it in a moment) I have a black eye. I would be pissed if I wasn't so proud of it.
So, aside from being elbowed in the face by a "swimmer" (I use this word with derision, because he swam through the water much in the same way that rocks don't swim through the water) I made the rescue and everything was lovely. I was bleeding from the face for the agency photo op (and I'm pretty sure they got me on ESPN bleeding fucking everywhere... no joke...), but hey, I'm just THAT badass.
It's still only a baby black eye now, but I am hoping that it will blossom into a lovely specimen in the next few days.
So I get my black eye, then I head out to get a smoothie, because I have an hour or so break before I have to actually go to work fo'realz. So I go to get my smoothie, and what do I witness? A mom beating the shit out of her kid in the parking lot. Child abuse=not cool. So the cops come and shit, except they aren't really the cops, they sent the fire department. Some kind of miscommunication happened here, but who am I to complain. And I have to go back to work, so I give them the station number, and my cell, and I peace out.
And promptly forget.
Until around four o'clock, when I'm breaking out a tower, and I get this phone call:
"SUNBURNED BEACHMONKEY."
"Uhhhh.... yes...?"
"WHY ARE THE COPS CALLING HQ LOOKING FOR YOU? WHAT DID YOU DO?"
"Aawwwwww, fuck me."
"WHAT?!?!"
So then I have to explain the whole story. And when he calmed down he told me they were putting bets on what I was wanted for. The top idea was bank robbery.
Oh yes. I am that badass. Fear me.
Yes, I have a motherfucking black eye. From lifeguarding. No joke, people. Not only did I work a 14 hour day today, have the police (yes, the fucking POLICE) call the station looking for me (long story, I will tell it in a moment) I have a black eye. I would be pissed if I wasn't so proud of it.
So, aside from being elbowed in the face by a "swimmer" (I use this word with derision, because he swam through the water much in the same way that rocks don't swim through the water) I made the rescue and everything was lovely. I was bleeding from the face for the agency photo op (and I'm pretty sure they got me on ESPN bleeding fucking everywhere... no joke...), but hey, I'm just THAT badass.
It's still only a baby black eye now, but I am hoping that it will blossom into a lovely specimen in the next few days.
So I get my black eye, then I head out to get a smoothie, because I have an hour or so break before I have to actually go to work fo'realz. So I go to get my smoothie, and what do I witness? A mom beating the shit out of her kid in the parking lot. Child abuse=not cool. So the cops come and shit, except they aren't really the cops, they sent the fire department. Some kind of miscommunication happened here, but who am I to complain. And I have to go back to work, so I give them the station number, and my cell, and I peace out.
And promptly forget.
Until around four o'clock, when I'm breaking out a tower, and I get this phone call:
"SUNBURNED BEACHMONKEY."
"Uhhhh.... yes...?"
"WHY ARE THE COPS CALLING HQ LOOKING FOR YOU? WHAT DID YOU DO?"
"Aawwwwww, fuck me."
"WHAT?!?!"
So then I have to explain the whole story. And when he calmed down he told me they were putting bets on what I was wanted for. The top idea was bank robbery.
Oh yes. I am that badass. Fear me.
Friday, July 25, 2008
This post isn't funny. Just warning you.
I'm not quite sure why I'm writing right now. I don't have anything particularly amusing to say.
I feel all weird. Tomorrow is Saturday, which is a good thing. Days off are hard. I'd rather be working than not. And Saturday is a day when R is around, and R always makes me smile. He's very silly and blond and cute, which is good when you're just generally feeling blah. And maybe a party on Saturday night? But Sunday is going to be such an early morning, so blahhhh on the partying thing. I suppose it could be all right, as long as I'm not still drunk in the morning. That would be Very Bad Indeed. And drunkenness always leads to Bad Decisions. And Bad Decisions are, well... bad. I don't know, maybe I'll harass E into going with me to the party.
In a couple weeks (or maybe this week? I am unsure) my heterosexual life partner comes home from being very much gone all summer (you know who you are and I miss you!). Then the ex comes home, which could be a good or a bad thing. And then KS comes to visit. And then back to school. So in the grand scheme of things, the next few weeks will go by relatively quickly. I'm just stuck in weird doldrums. Work is slow. I've made two rescues in what feels like the last million days. I mean, granted, they were badass rescues, but I like to average about 2 per week. That's enough to keep you on your toes without being too much running around. And B hurt himself, so he's not around for me to look at/stare at/creep on all the time. Sigh. But I did see him the other day at the BBQ with Skeletor (aka the girlfriend). Ugh. He did go out of his way to see and talk to me though, heeee. Too bad fishing off the company dock is generally unwise. And by "generally unwise" I mean "really fucking stupid."
I guess what it is, really, is that I feel like I'm wasting time and energy that could be spent doing awesome things. I like lifeguarding. Hell, I like it a lot. I just feel like my brains are wasting away inside my head and my many talents are going completely untapped, and all I am going to have to show for this summer is a kickass tan and a me that is about 20 lbs lighter (if all goes according to plan, which it is NOT right now. Gr.) I'm trying to console myself with the idea that this is the last summer I'll have to waste my brains. Except I might have to waste them a little next summer too to make some money before I move abroad. But that isn't a big deal because at least I'll have plans. I'm so anxious to get out into the world. I really need to relax and enjoy this as it is right now. And that's really really difficult right now. I feel like I'm wasting time, and even though I know that isn't particularly true, I'm jealous and angry that so many of my friends got to go away this summer. I wanted to go away, but instead I'm stuck at home dealing with parents and people I didn't particularly like in high school, and don't particularly like now. (I like some of you, but most of the people I enjoy AREN'T HERE THIS SUMMER. Jerks.)
Anyway, I've ranted enough. Time for bed (because I am an old woman...)
I feel all weird. Tomorrow is Saturday, which is a good thing. Days off are hard. I'd rather be working than not. And Saturday is a day when R is around, and R always makes me smile. He's very silly and blond and cute, which is good when you're just generally feeling blah. And maybe a party on Saturday night? But Sunday is going to be such an early morning, so blahhhh on the partying thing. I suppose it could be all right, as long as I'm not still drunk in the morning. That would be Very Bad Indeed. And drunkenness always leads to Bad Decisions. And Bad Decisions are, well... bad. I don't know, maybe I'll harass E into going with me to the party.
In a couple weeks (or maybe this week? I am unsure) my heterosexual life partner comes home from being very much gone all summer (you know who you are and I miss you!). Then the ex comes home, which could be a good or a bad thing. And then KS comes to visit. And then back to school. So in the grand scheme of things, the next few weeks will go by relatively quickly. I'm just stuck in weird doldrums. Work is slow. I've made two rescues in what feels like the last million days. I mean, granted, they were badass rescues, but I like to average about 2 per week. That's enough to keep you on your toes without being too much running around. And B hurt himself, so he's not around for me to look at/stare at/creep on all the time. Sigh. But I did see him the other day at the BBQ with Skeletor (aka the girlfriend). Ugh. He did go out of his way to see and talk to me though, heeee. Too bad fishing off the company dock is generally unwise. And by "generally unwise" I mean "really fucking stupid."
I guess what it is, really, is that I feel like I'm wasting time and energy that could be spent doing awesome things. I like lifeguarding. Hell, I like it a lot. I just feel like my brains are wasting away inside my head and my many talents are going completely untapped, and all I am going to have to show for this summer is a kickass tan and a me that is about 20 lbs lighter (if all goes according to plan, which it is NOT right now. Gr.) I'm trying to console myself with the idea that this is the last summer I'll have to waste my brains. Except I might have to waste them a little next summer too to make some money before I move abroad. But that isn't a big deal because at least I'll have plans. I'm so anxious to get out into the world. I really need to relax and enjoy this as it is right now. And that's really really difficult right now. I feel like I'm wasting time, and even though I know that isn't particularly true, I'm jealous and angry that so many of my friends got to go away this summer. I wanted to go away, but instead I'm stuck at home dealing with parents and people I didn't particularly like in high school, and don't particularly like now. (I like some of you, but most of the people I enjoy AREN'T HERE THIS SUMMER. Jerks.)
Anyway, I've ranted enough. Time for bed (because I am an old woman...)
Thursday, July 24, 2008
My quiet place.
Sitting in a tower alone leaves a lot of time for meditation. There's a lot going on in my life right now, and I appreciate the time spent alone with my thoughts. It's relaxing, in a lot of ways, to sit staring out into the ocean early in the morning before the beach is crowded, gathering your thoughts, contemplating the problems in an otherwise hectic, stressful life.
I'm really stressed out. I've been having a lot of problems with an ex, with food, and with coworkers. L makes me cry on a daily basis. A is the antichrist as far as I'm concerned, and apparently he has a crush on me-- we're back in third grade where "let me treat you like shit" translates into "I have a crush on you, tee hee."
Puh-leeze.
I had some sketchball of a kid (about fifteen, I'd say) stand at the foot of my tower and stare at me for no less than five hours on Tuesday. No joke, this kid stood there and stared at me until I went on my break. What the fuck. He had to have mental problems, because when I called over a couple of surfers to tell them not to surf in the swim zone, he punctuated my tired lecture with, "YEAH!!! NO SURFING IN THE SWIM ZONE!!!!!!" Bwah? Christ, people are weird.
I also think bocce ball should be banned within my eyesight. Because good lord, if people are playing bocce ball, it is damn near impossible for me to keep my eyes on the water. And it's such a stupid game! If you've never played, it's okay, because the rules are simple: everyone gets a certain color of ball. You get two balls. There's a white ball. Someone throws the white ball. Then everyone else throws their colored balls at the white ball. Whoever gets their colored ball closest to the white ball gets to throw the white ball next round. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
And I can't. stop. watching. Agh!
It's like my life depends upon whether or not blue ends up closest to that bloody white ball. It's a fucking stupid game. It's like bowling, but without the bad shoes. It's like horseshoes, but without the stupid "horseshoes and hand grenades" proverb. Guh! Kill me already.
Isn't it September yet?
I'm really stressed out. I've been having a lot of problems with an ex, with food, and with coworkers. L makes me cry on a daily basis. A is the antichrist as far as I'm concerned, and apparently he has a crush on me-- we're back in third grade where "let me treat you like shit" translates into "I have a crush on you, tee hee."
Puh-leeze.
I had some sketchball of a kid (about fifteen, I'd say) stand at the foot of my tower and stare at me for no less than five hours on Tuesday. No joke, this kid stood there and stared at me until I went on my break. What the fuck. He had to have mental problems, because when I called over a couple of surfers to tell them not to surf in the swim zone, he punctuated my tired lecture with, "YEAH!!! NO SURFING IN THE SWIM ZONE!!!!!!" Bwah? Christ, people are weird.
I also think bocce ball should be banned within my eyesight. Because good lord, if people are playing bocce ball, it is damn near impossible for me to keep my eyes on the water. And it's such a stupid game! If you've never played, it's okay, because the rules are simple: everyone gets a certain color of ball. You get two balls. There's a white ball. Someone throws the white ball. Then everyone else throws their colored balls at the white ball. Whoever gets their colored ball closest to the white ball gets to throw the white ball next round. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
And I can't. stop. watching. Agh!
It's like my life depends upon whether or not blue ends up closest to that bloody white ball. It's a fucking stupid game. It's like bowling, but without the bad shoes. It's like horseshoes, but without the stupid "horseshoes and hand grenades" proverb. Guh! Kill me already.
Isn't it September yet?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
I have been woefully absent, but do not fret, my friends. I come bearing good stories.
Sunday night was going to be like every Sunday night. The tide was coming up, the people were vacating the beach. All is well with the world.
Then She showed up.
Like I said in my first post in this blog, the beach attracts crazies. Some blend in. Some most certainly do not. She absolutely did not.
Picture it: She walks to the water wearing a full wetsuit (the water is seventy-two degrees, people), a pink skateboarding helmet, and reading glasses. In her hands, she desperately grasps an uninflated pool toy, a mask and snorkel, and one (yes, one) fin. She jumps in the water, and we all groan. No matter what happens, this woman is going to be a royal pain in the ass. The current is pulling south, hard. We watch her until she goes out of sight. A few minutes pass, and M says we should probably take the unit down to make sure she's all right. Everyone agrees, and then the radio crackles to life:
"[Ocean] Beach from [Ocean Beach Area] Dispatch."
Well. Crap. Apparently the fire department is coming.
In half a second, J is on the radio.
"Dispatch, this is [Ocean] Beach, go ahead."
"Fire Department with medics responding Code 3* to report of possible drowning at 123 Generic Street, over."
"Copy, Dispatch, [Ocean] Beach responding Code 3 as well, over."
So off they race, leaving me to man the phones. Now, when some big medical aid happens, all the important guards get a beep on their cell phones/pagers/whatever. So now every big shot in the agency is calling in and I'm going, "No, I DON'T know what happened, but I know no one drowned. No, you don't have to come in, G is coming in."
And with all the hullabaloo, I have never been so glad for someone calm and collected in my life. He calls me up:
"What happened?"
"Not sure, possible 5150**. J and M went Code 3 down to check it out."
"Copy that, I'm one minute out." Click.
Are we under attack? I feel like I'm in the bloody Air Force or something. "One minute out"? Seriously?
Nothing big actually happened. The woman (as suspected) was certifiably insane-- J and M found her drinking water at a surfer's house. He had apparently pulled her from the water at her request. Someone witnessed it, and called it in as a possible drowning. Upon locating her, she began weaving a tale of epic proportions-- she's having chest pain, she has a pacemaker, she had open heart surgery and a triple bypass, and all this. The medics hooked her up to a monitor-- her heart was perfectly fine. She then started ranting about how this one time she wrote a book, and she worked as a nurse in an Alaskan fishery.
Completely fucking insane.
*Code 3= lights and sirens
**5150= mental case
Sunday night was going to be like every Sunday night. The tide was coming up, the people were vacating the beach. All is well with the world.
Then She showed up.
Like I said in my first post in this blog, the beach attracts crazies. Some blend in. Some most certainly do not. She absolutely did not.
Picture it: She walks to the water wearing a full wetsuit (the water is seventy-two degrees, people), a pink skateboarding helmet, and reading glasses. In her hands, she desperately grasps an uninflated pool toy, a mask and snorkel, and one (yes, one) fin. She jumps in the water, and we all groan. No matter what happens, this woman is going to be a royal pain in the ass. The current is pulling south, hard. We watch her until she goes out of sight. A few minutes pass, and M says we should probably take the unit down to make sure she's all right. Everyone agrees, and then the radio crackles to life:
"[Ocean] Beach from [Ocean Beach Area] Dispatch."
Well. Crap. Apparently the fire department is coming.
In half a second, J is on the radio.
"Dispatch, this is [Ocean] Beach, go ahead."
"Fire Department with medics responding Code 3* to report of possible drowning at 123 Generic Street, over."
"Copy, Dispatch, [Ocean] Beach responding Code 3 as well, over."
So off they race, leaving me to man the phones. Now, when some big medical aid happens, all the important guards get a beep on their cell phones/pagers/whatever. So now every big shot in the agency is calling in and I'm going, "No, I DON'T know what happened, but I know no one drowned. No, you don't have to come in, G is coming in."
And with all the hullabaloo, I have never been so glad for someone calm and collected in my life. He calls me up:
"What happened?"
"Not sure, possible 5150**. J and M went Code 3 down to check it out."
"Copy that, I'm one minute out." Click.
Are we under attack? I feel like I'm in the bloody Air Force or something. "One minute out"? Seriously?
Nothing big actually happened. The woman (as suspected) was certifiably insane-- J and M found her drinking water at a surfer's house. He had apparently pulled her from the water at her request. Someone witnessed it, and called it in as a possible drowning. Upon locating her, she began weaving a tale of epic proportions-- she's having chest pain, she has a pacemaker, she had open heart surgery and a triple bypass, and all this. The medics hooked her up to a monitor-- her heart was perfectly fine. She then started ranting about how this one time she wrote a book, and she worked as a nurse in an Alaskan fishery.
Completely fucking insane.
*Code 3= lights and sirens
**5150= mental case
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Fever, till you sizzle; but what a lovely way to burn...
American Apparel, Training Tomorrow's Strippers Today
I like me a good hyperbole. That may be an understatement, which is hyperbole's less sexy cousin with the red hair and the weird-shaped nose. I like me a good understatement as well. Take for granted that the following statement is neither hyperbole nor understatement:
Unless you have negative boobage, American Apparel swimsuits are not for you.
Good gracious me, I felt like a grandmother as this chick in a shiny, red, American Apparel bikini strutted onto the beach today. How did I know it was American Apparel? Who else makes kitsch, pleather-y, shiny, lycra... shit? Who? No one, I tell you. Anyway, to my new friend in the 'kini that didn't cover anything but the nipplage: Honey pie, there is no WAY you were old enough to be smoking, and it's not allowed on the beach anyway. And I can see your asscrack. So not cool.
Ode to a Surfer
You are beautiful. No joke. I would have talked to you allllllll day if you had let me, or wanted to. But I could see you wanted to get out in the water. And you were completely, totally, one hundred percent wrong about the flags-- I had them up in the correct order. But for you, that order could be compromised upon. Come back to my tower, I will get the shovel, and we can negotiate over coffee or lunch, or maybe dinner, about what order the flags should be in. And then we can share the shovel. We could have had something (like DINNER). So come back! You can awkwardly shake shaggy blond hair into your eyes as we re-dig the holes for the flags. I'm not asking for anything serious! I get to look at you, and you get to just... exist. Simple, huh?
Instead, the Other Girl (tm) and I watched you walk away, giggling and staring.
As my old roommate would say-- "my life! Oh, my life!"
I like me a good hyperbole. That may be an understatement, which is hyperbole's less sexy cousin with the red hair and the weird-shaped nose. I like me a good understatement as well. Take for granted that the following statement is neither hyperbole nor understatement:
Unless you have negative boobage, American Apparel swimsuits are not for you.
Good gracious me, I felt like a grandmother as this chick in a shiny, red, American Apparel bikini strutted onto the beach today. How did I know it was American Apparel? Who else makes kitsch, pleather-y, shiny, lycra... shit? Who? No one, I tell you. Anyway, to my new friend in the 'kini that didn't cover anything but the nipplage: Honey pie, there is no WAY you were old enough to be smoking, and it's not allowed on the beach anyway. And I can see your asscrack. So not cool.
Ode to a Surfer
You are beautiful. No joke. I would have talked to you allllllll day if you had let me, or wanted to. But I could see you wanted to get out in the water. And you were completely, totally, one hundred percent wrong about the flags-- I had them up in the correct order. But for you, that order could be compromised upon. Come back to my tower, I will get the shovel, and we can negotiate over coffee or lunch, or maybe dinner, about what order the flags should be in. And then we can share the shovel. We could have had something (like DINNER). So come back! You can awkwardly shake shaggy blond hair into your eyes as we re-dig the holes for the flags. I'm not asking for anything serious! I get to look at you, and you get to just... exist. Simple, huh?
Instead, the Other Girl (tm) and I watched you walk away, giggling and staring.
As my old roommate would say-- "my life! Oh, my life!"
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
I AM Wikipedia.
Apparently, becoming a lifeguard entitles me to all the knowledge of the world.
Who knew.
I am now a GPS system (yes, I CAN tell you how to get from here to Phoenix), a trash receptacle (yes, I'll take that full beer that washed up on the beach... no, I'm not going to drink it on duty), and a babysitter (no throwing sand, kids). There are, unfortunately, some things that nature did not spontaneously grant me the ability to do upon the completion of my academy, however.
Ladies and gents, I can do NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, about the kelp.
What on earth do you people want me to do, anyway? Pull a giant strainer out of my tower and say, "oh yeah, in between setting the flags and the signs this morning, I forgot to use this huge-ass net to clear the OCEAN of the SEAWEED. My bad." Let me repeat: I can do NOTHING about the kelp. Just because I'm sitting up here in this nifty tower doesn't mean Mother Nature provided me with an override button. Sorry guys. My job is to interfere with natural selection, not interrupt natural processes.
On that note, don't tell me how to do my job. You expect me to be all-knowing in pretty much every aspect. Don't you think I KNOW when a surfer is surfing over the line? Trust me, I'm well aware. The poor guy came about fifty feet from your precious devilspawn, and you come hurtling over to me because "that jackass almost hit my baby!" Christ Almighty, dumbshit, don't you think I would be out there in a heartbeat if that surfer came anywhere near a swimmer? I have no desire to deal with the paperwork of calling in paramedics and shit when your fuckwit of a kid can't manage to get out of the way of a surfboard. On that note-- surfers shouldn't be in the swim zone, no. But it's fucking cloudy out. It's less than seventy fucking degrees. What the shit are you doing in the water anyway? This is simple math. You have two (2) children. There are more than fifteen (15) surfers in the water. It's their beach too, and I like them better than you. They're nice to me, and they are cute/young/flirty/etc. It's easier for your spawn to move than for me to get out on a paddleboard and move ALL the surfers, many of whom would just look at me in confusion, because they went nowhere near your goddamned kid. Besides, chances are, I'm farming your kids for a rescue. That's why I'm letting them play in that rip current. Do you really want me out on the water when they start drowning? On that note, are you more concerned with the surfer who went nowhere near your precious dumpling, or the fact that I'm letting them play in a rip current so that I can rescue them and break the monotony of the day?
This may seem obvious, but not to the nouveau riche. Apparently manners are a luxury they cannot afford. People, this may shock you, but I am not an idiot. I am articulate, intelligent, and athletic. Brains and sports don't have to be mutually exclusive. So don't talk down to me. If you talk down to me, I am going to go out of my way to make your beach excursion no fun at all. And yes, I can make it VERY un-fun. That beer you have in your hand is a $100 ticket if I choose to report you. If you're nice to me, I'll give you a heads up when I get the call that the sheriffs are coming to patrol the beach for booze. If you're an asshat, I'm going to let you get rolled.
So please, people, let's make our shared time at the beach a symbiotic relationship. You ignore me unless you're polite, I ignore you and do my job. You bring me food when I rescue your children from certain death. Everyone wins, see?
Who knew.
I am now a GPS system (yes, I CAN tell you how to get from here to Phoenix), a trash receptacle (yes, I'll take that full beer that washed up on the beach... no, I'm not going to drink it on duty), and a babysitter (no throwing sand, kids). There are, unfortunately, some things that nature did not spontaneously grant me the ability to do upon the completion of my academy, however.
Ladies and gents, I can do NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, about the kelp.
What on earth do you people want me to do, anyway? Pull a giant strainer out of my tower and say, "oh yeah, in between setting the flags and the signs this morning, I forgot to use this huge-ass net to clear the OCEAN of the SEAWEED. My bad." Let me repeat: I can do NOTHING about the kelp. Just because I'm sitting up here in this nifty tower doesn't mean Mother Nature provided me with an override button. Sorry guys. My job is to interfere with natural selection, not interrupt natural processes.
On that note, don't tell me how to do my job. You expect me to be all-knowing in pretty much every aspect. Don't you think I KNOW when a surfer is surfing over the line? Trust me, I'm well aware. The poor guy came about fifty feet from your precious devilspawn, and you come hurtling over to me because "that jackass almost hit my baby!" Christ Almighty, dumbshit, don't you think I would be out there in a heartbeat if that surfer came anywhere near a swimmer? I have no desire to deal with the paperwork of calling in paramedics and shit when your fuckwit of a kid can't manage to get out of the way of a surfboard. On that note-- surfers shouldn't be in the swim zone, no. But it's fucking cloudy out. It's less than seventy fucking degrees. What the shit are you doing in the water anyway? This is simple math. You have two (2) children. There are more than fifteen (15) surfers in the water. It's their beach too, and I like them better than you. They're nice to me, and they are cute/young/flirty/etc. It's easier for your spawn to move than for me to get out on a paddleboard and move ALL the surfers, many of whom would just look at me in confusion, because they went nowhere near your goddamned kid. Besides, chances are, I'm farming your kids for a rescue. That's why I'm letting them play in that rip current. Do you really want me out on the water when they start drowning? On that note, are you more concerned with the surfer who went nowhere near your precious dumpling, or the fact that I'm letting them play in a rip current so that I can rescue them and break the monotony of the day?
This may seem obvious, but not to the nouveau riche. Apparently manners are a luxury they cannot afford. People, this may shock you, but I am not an idiot. I am articulate, intelligent, and athletic. Brains and sports don't have to be mutually exclusive. So don't talk down to me. If you talk down to me, I am going to go out of my way to make your beach excursion no fun at all. And yes, I can make it VERY un-fun. That beer you have in your hand is a $100 ticket if I choose to report you. If you're nice to me, I'll give you a heads up when I get the call that the sheriffs are coming to patrol the beach for booze. If you're an asshat, I'm going to let you get rolled.
So please, people, let's make our shared time at the beach a symbiotic relationship. You ignore me unless you're polite, I ignore you and do my job. You bring me food when I rescue your children from certain death. Everyone wins, see?
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Pervert Files.
It's normal to get weird, weird people on the beach. Some are a little bit crazy, and really should be on their meds. But every once in a while, we get truly scary people down-- the ones that creep on little kids, or pre-teen girls. We had one of those yesterday. He was harassing women, trying to grope them and hug them, and it was just entirely unacceptable in my book.
I, quite honestly, refuse to deal with it. If there's a guy skulking on the beach, I am not going to flounce up to him in my two-piece suit and tell him he isn't allowed to stare down everything in a bikini on the beach. He's less likely to listen and more likely to try to grope me. Not something I'm excited to deal with. So instead of checking it out, I set someone on the ATV to check it out.
He proceeded to call me back ten minutes later--"You didn't TELL me the dude had GARDENING SHEARS."
Well, I didn't know. Since I wouldn't go check it out. But apparently he was carrying gardening shears in his belt, and upon being removed from the beach, pulled them out and started waving them around as he walked away. Luckily he was drunk and rambling, and not really trying to stab anyone. But it WAS a sobering reminder of what definitely could happen if someone unstable heard something they didn't like on the beach. All was quiet after that, with the exception of me getting stung by a bee, and the surfer who smacked himself with a board and got a huge gash on his head.
I, quite honestly, refuse to deal with it. If there's a guy skulking on the beach, I am not going to flounce up to him in my two-piece suit and tell him he isn't allowed to stare down everything in a bikini on the beach. He's less likely to listen and more likely to try to grope me. Not something I'm excited to deal with. So instead of checking it out, I set someone on the ATV to check it out.
He proceeded to call me back ten minutes later--"You didn't TELL me the dude had GARDENING SHEARS."
Well, I didn't know. Since I wouldn't go check it out. But apparently he was carrying gardening shears in his belt, and upon being removed from the beach, pulled them out and started waving them around as he walked away. Luckily he was drunk and rambling, and not really trying to stab anyone. But it WAS a sobering reminder of what definitely could happen if someone unstable heard something they didn't like on the beach. All was quiet after that, with the exception of me getting stung by a bee, and the surfer who smacked himself with a board and got a huge gash on his head.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Junior Lifeguards.
I really don't know whose idea it was to take 10-odd lifeguards (with the emotional maturity of middle schoolers) and put them in charge of fifty or so children, ages nine to seventeen. Don't get me wrong-- I AM a product of the junior lifeguard system. I get it. It's an awesome program. But now I'm seeing it from the other side-- I know these guys, and I know just how mature they are not. When I was a junior guard, I idolized the lifeguards. They were the coolest people ever, in my mind. They were awesome, and old, and mature... but now I know better. I know they love to go out and party, and I know that binoculars sit in the tower for the express purpose of checking out everything on the beach in a bikini.
But I digress.
I was sitting in my tower on Tuesday, and I hear a bizarre flapping/slapping sound. I was pretty distracted by a body-boarder sitting waist-deep in a rip current, so I just ignored it for the moment. The flapping sound got louder, and the body-boarder got out of the water. I looked down, and I see a junior guard. Not just a junior guard, however. A junior guard trying to run around my tower wearing fins about eight sizes too big, mask, and snorkel. Suspecting that someone put him up to it, I checked back down the beach where he came from-- yep, sure enough, there's his instructor, laughing hysterically. The kid made it all the way around my tower then tripped over the fins and ate shit right in front of my stairs. By this time, I am laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Then all of a sudden, eight or nine other junior guards come sprinting down the beach. Fin boy gets a panicked look on his face-- and starts SPRINTING back to his instructor, falling and tripping and sliding the whole way. If you've ever wondered why ducks don't run, you can try this for yourself: put a pair of fins on and try running with them. It's not as easy as it sounds. I can only assume there was some punishment involved if this kid didn't make it back before his group-mates did.
We are classy, classy people.
But I digress.
I was sitting in my tower on Tuesday, and I hear a bizarre flapping/slapping sound. I was pretty distracted by a body-boarder sitting waist-deep in a rip current, so I just ignored it for the moment. The flapping sound got louder, and the body-boarder got out of the water. I looked down, and I see a junior guard. Not just a junior guard, however. A junior guard trying to run around my tower wearing fins about eight sizes too big, mask, and snorkel. Suspecting that someone put him up to it, I checked back down the beach where he came from-- yep, sure enough, there's his instructor, laughing hysterically. The kid made it all the way around my tower then tripped over the fins and ate shit right in front of my stairs. By this time, I am laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Then all of a sudden, eight or nine other junior guards come sprinting down the beach. Fin boy gets a panicked look on his face-- and starts SPRINTING back to his instructor, falling and tripping and sliding the whole way. If you've ever wondered why ducks don't run, you can try this for yourself: put a pair of fins on and try running with them. It's not as easy as it sounds. I can only assume there was some punishment involved if this kid didn't make it back before his group-mates did.
We are classy, classy people.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Tomorrow is Monday.
Monday's A Working Day
Tomorrow isn't really Monday, but tomorrow is effectively Monday for me. I feel like a loser going to bed at 10:30 on a Friday night, but I'm tired, and I have work in the morning. I start my fo'realz work-week on Saturdays, and have Thursday and Friday off, so my schedule is a bit odd. But as I was driving to the mall today, I realized I've started into a habit that took me much longer to start last year.
I talk to myself.
I don't just talk, I chatter. I talk about what I should be doing, what the people around me are doing wrong, and what I'm currently doing. Often, I talk to myself in other languages. Namely Spanish and Chinese. I try not to combine the two, because I have a hard enough time ONLY speaking Spanish when I'm supposed to be speaking Spanish. Odd, but somehow fitting. I just have to take great care to not do it while people can hear. It's somewhat like nose-picking-- common, but completely unfitting for public.
---
Beware of Jellies
I stopped to ponder, the other day, the incidence of what we like to call 'Zonies. 'Zonies are from Southwestern states, usually Arizona. They are one of the most interesting groups we have on the beach (besides the woman that gets naked behind Seaside Tower every Tuesday morning-- I salute you, o nudist one! You are a rebel with no apparent cause). They interest me because they come to the beach with such arrogance. But such misinformed arrogance. It's the arrogance of the kids who learned to swim in the 2-foot-deep kiddie pool at the YMCA and haven't ever seen the ocean before.... but hey, they owned that pool. Bitch please.
They are also, inexplicably, terrified of jellyfish.
Now, this makes no sense to me at all. I get questions about sharks daily-- this is to be expected. There are dolphins out in the water, and to the untrained eye, or even just to someone not paying much attention, those fins could be mistaken for sharks. And hell, who ISN'T terrified of sharks? It's bred into our culture to be scared of what's lurking in the water. Jaws was a cultural phenomenon in its time. Stingrays I can also understand. Most people have a vague idea of stingrays as "those animals that killed the Crocodile Hunter." The logic that follows is usually this: "shit, that dude hunted crocodiles, and every other crazy animal ever, and he was killed by a stingray. And the sign says to beware of stingrays. AM I GOING TO DIE?!?" Well, no. You aren't, unless you're rather allergic to bees; our stingrays are small. But stingray stings, I'm told, are not pleasant--in fact, they hurt like a motherfucker if they're a solid sting. But do 'Zonies worry about stingrays? No.
Fucking jellyfish.
"Do they sting? Does it hurt? Will I die? What kind are they? When do they leave? Where do they come from?" As if I'm personally running a motel for jellyfish out in the surf somewhere, and I'm responsible for the infestation.
I can't blame people for not knowing things. I don't blame people for not knowing things. But the arrogance astounds me. The entitlement is just shocking. There's a general feeling of frustration and anger at me as I inform these people No, There Is Nothing I Can Do About The Kelp, and Jellyfish Live In The Ocean And I Can't Change That. I can't fathom the attitude-- the "why are you so USELESS and STUPID, you HAVE to be able to do something about the natural wildlife" attitude, coming from a family of land-whales with their wet suits on backwards, body boards upside-down, and surfboard leashes around their wrists. Oh the IRONY. I choke on it.
Tomorrow isn't really Monday, but tomorrow is effectively Monday for me. I feel like a loser going to bed at 10:30 on a Friday night, but I'm tired, and I have work in the morning. I start my fo'realz work-week on Saturdays, and have Thursday and Friday off, so my schedule is a bit odd. But as I was driving to the mall today, I realized I've started into a habit that took me much longer to start last year.
I talk to myself.
I don't just talk, I chatter. I talk about what I should be doing, what the people around me are doing wrong, and what I'm currently doing. Often, I talk to myself in other languages. Namely Spanish and Chinese. I try not to combine the two, because I have a hard enough time ONLY speaking Spanish when I'm supposed to be speaking Spanish. Odd, but somehow fitting. I just have to take great care to not do it while people can hear. It's somewhat like nose-picking-- common, but completely unfitting for public.
---
Beware of Jellies
I stopped to ponder, the other day, the incidence of what we like to call 'Zonies. 'Zonies are from Southwestern states, usually Arizona. They are one of the most interesting groups we have on the beach (besides the woman that gets naked behind Seaside Tower every Tuesday morning-- I salute you, o nudist one! You are a rebel with no apparent cause). They interest me because they come to the beach with such arrogance. But such misinformed arrogance. It's the arrogance of the kids who learned to swim in the 2-foot-deep kiddie pool at the YMCA and haven't ever seen the ocean before.... but hey, they owned that pool. Bitch please.
They are also, inexplicably, terrified of jellyfish.
Now, this makes no sense to me at all. I get questions about sharks daily-- this is to be expected. There are dolphins out in the water, and to the untrained eye, or even just to someone not paying much attention, those fins could be mistaken for sharks. And hell, who ISN'T terrified of sharks? It's bred into our culture to be scared of what's lurking in the water. Jaws was a cultural phenomenon in its time. Stingrays I can also understand. Most people have a vague idea of stingrays as "those animals that killed the Crocodile Hunter." The logic that follows is usually this: "shit, that dude hunted crocodiles, and every other crazy animal ever, and he was killed by a stingray. And the sign says to beware of stingrays. AM I GOING TO DIE?!?" Well, no. You aren't, unless you're rather allergic to bees; our stingrays are small. But stingray stings, I'm told, are not pleasant--in fact, they hurt like a motherfucker if they're a solid sting. But do 'Zonies worry about stingrays? No.
Fucking jellyfish.
"Do they sting? Does it hurt? Will I die? What kind are they? When do they leave? Where do they come from?" As if I'm personally running a motel for jellyfish out in the surf somewhere, and I'm responsible for the infestation.
I can't blame people for not knowing things. I don't blame people for not knowing things. But the arrogance astounds me. The entitlement is just shocking. There's a general feeling of frustration and anger at me as I inform these people No, There Is Nothing I Can Do About The Kelp, and Jellyfish Live In The Ocean And I Can't Change That. I can't fathom the attitude-- the "why are you so USELESS and STUPID, you HAVE to be able to do something about the natural wildlife" attitude, coming from a family of land-whales with their wet suits on backwards, body boards upside-down, and surfboard leashes around their wrists. Oh the IRONY. I choke on it.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Reflective post; thoughts on the last few days.
I am thinking about leaving my agency.
Next summer I will have two years of ocean lifeguarding under my belt. I'll have survived "rookie" status (in my first two summers, really), and moved on to a somewhat different limbo-status, in which I will no longer be a new guard, but I won't be anywhere close to an old guard. It's a vague, wavering respect for experience that easily disappears when compared to an older guard. If I try for another job next summer, in a different agency, I am pretty much guaranteed a spot with fairly high pay.
Today was the first time I considered leaving my agency. I spent the past two days at a class learning to drive the trucks and quads on the beach, as well as parking trailers and driving code 3 (lights and sirens). I realized how different my agency is from all the others.
In my first post, I said my agency is male-dominated. That is a slight mis-characterization. I am the one female full-time staff member this summer. One other female works three days a week. Two more are called in only if shifts can be covered by no one else. It's a testosterone-injected environment. Essentially, it's a fraternity. I realize that I am not the typical lifeguard. I am smart. Hell, I'm pretty damn smart. I'm driven academically. I love to read, I love mental challenges. I value intelligence, wittiness, and ability to carry on intelligent conversations. I'm also driven to excel in athletic arenas. If I weren't, I would not do the job I do. I think I'm a pretty interesting person to talk to-- I'm well-read, and able to talk about almost anything in some level of depth. I'm always interested in learning new things. I'm quiet-- but I always listen. But regardless of all of this, I cannot break into the social structure of the agency. Kaitlyn, Kelli, and I will always be outsiders in some way, and this realization has been particularly heavy on me for the past few days.
As I said, I attended an inter-agency class on vehicle operations for the past two days. I made friends there. People who were easy to talk to, friendly, without being standoffish for no apparent reason. People respected me and what I had done to get where I am, without judging me for my lack of Y chromosome. No one made me feel uncomfortable for being female; they treated me like just another person, rather than some anomaly to be studied and examined, and carefully kept out of the loop.
And I finally realized who my coworkers remind me of-- frat boys, looking for their next score. Let me cut to the chase-- I try not to envy their targets because they (the targets) have something I do not. That is absolutely not what this is about; I am not being a jealous female in this case. Said targets are tall, and thin, and beautiful. But my body allows me to do things those women can only dream of, just as theirs allows them to do things unknown to me, I'm sure. My body is imperfect, but I need to respect it for its abilities. It's difficult, however, to be reminded, day after day, of how imperfect you are in the eyes of all the men around you. It's not because they're men-- it's because they're people, they are my peers at this moment, and they make me feel small. I try to remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said about people not being able to make you feel inferior without your consent, and I try to keep a good sense of humor about everything. I feel like it's a personal dig sometimes, though-- you'll never be like her, you'll never be good enough. I could weigh ninety pounds and I wouldn't be good enough... too much muscle, too bulky. And it's really hard not to take that in and internalize it, and nurse it, and let it grow. Internalizing it is bad, and I know that of all things, this is what I absolutely MUST let roll off my back like water.
So I let them stare, I watch the water while they watch the girls through the binoculars. I don't complain, and I don't make a fuss. I am, perhaps, being a bad feminist. If I were stronger, I would protest. If I were stronger, I would speak up. And I hate that I am so distraught over this. It seems an insignificant issue. I am just emotionally drained. I'm drained from having to work three times as hard as my male counterparts just to have some recognition that I am alive and breathing. I'm tired of pushing and pushing and having male peers rewarded for my work, or being ignored regardless of how hard I work. It's draining and I am tired of it.
I don't know the right thing to do in this case. If I make a fuss, I will make things worse, much worse. If I make a fuss, I will permanently be on the shit list of the people around me. But I feel that not making a fuss, or at least talking to someone about it, is weak. If I don't, I am giving in to the pressures of the people around me. Maybe they're trying to make me leave. Maybe that's just me being paranoid. It doesn't matter, because I'm fucked either way. The system is set up to screw the whistle-blower. The question is whether I have the strength to take the brunt of that on my shoulders and carry on, or whether I want to deal with the passive misogyny so prevalent in my agency.
Next summer I will have two years of ocean lifeguarding under my belt. I'll have survived "rookie" status (in my first two summers, really), and moved on to a somewhat different limbo-status, in which I will no longer be a new guard, but I won't be anywhere close to an old guard. It's a vague, wavering respect for experience that easily disappears when compared to an older guard. If I try for another job next summer, in a different agency, I am pretty much guaranteed a spot with fairly high pay.
Today was the first time I considered leaving my agency. I spent the past two days at a class learning to drive the trucks and quads on the beach, as well as parking trailers and driving code 3 (lights and sirens). I realized how different my agency is from all the others.
In my first post, I said my agency is male-dominated. That is a slight mis-characterization. I am the one female full-time staff member this summer. One other female works three days a week. Two more are called in only if shifts can be covered by no one else. It's a testosterone-injected environment. Essentially, it's a fraternity. I realize that I am not the typical lifeguard. I am smart. Hell, I'm pretty damn smart. I'm driven academically. I love to read, I love mental challenges. I value intelligence, wittiness, and ability to carry on intelligent conversations. I'm also driven to excel in athletic arenas. If I weren't, I would not do the job I do. I think I'm a pretty interesting person to talk to-- I'm well-read, and able to talk about almost anything in some level of depth. I'm always interested in learning new things. I'm quiet-- but I always listen. But regardless of all of this, I cannot break into the social structure of the agency. Kaitlyn, Kelli, and I will always be outsiders in some way, and this realization has been particularly heavy on me for the past few days.
As I said, I attended an inter-agency class on vehicle operations for the past two days. I made friends there. People who were easy to talk to, friendly, without being standoffish for no apparent reason. People respected me and what I had done to get where I am, without judging me for my lack of Y chromosome. No one made me feel uncomfortable for being female; they treated me like just another person, rather than some anomaly to be studied and examined, and carefully kept out of the loop.
And I finally realized who my coworkers remind me of-- frat boys, looking for their next score. Let me cut to the chase-- I try not to envy their targets because they (the targets) have something I do not. That is absolutely not what this is about; I am not being a jealous female in this case. Said targets are tall, and thin, and beautiful. But my body allows me to do things those women can only dream of, just as theirs allows them to do things unknown to me, I'm sure. My body is imperfect, but I need to respect it for its abilities. It's difficult, however, to be reminded, day after day, of how imperfect you are in the eyes of all the men around you. It's not because they're men-- it's because they're people, they are my peers at this moment, and they make me feel small. I try to remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said about people not being able to make you feel inferior without your consent, and I try to keep a good sense of humor about everything. I feel like it's a personal dig sometimes, though-- you'll never be like her, you'll never be good enough. I could weigh ninety pounds and I wouldn't be good enough... too much muscle, too bulky. And it's really hard not to take that in and internalize it, and nurse it, and let it grow. Internalizing it is bad, and I know that of all things, this is what I absolutely MUST let roll off my back like water.
So I let them stare, I watch the water while they watch the girls through the binoculars. I don't complain, and I don't make a fuss. I am, perhaps, being a bad feminist. If I were stronger, I would protest. If I were stronger, I would speak up. And I hate that I am so distraught over this. It seems an insignificant issue. I am just emotionally drained. I'm drained from having to work three times as hard as my male counterparts just to have some recognition that I am alive and breathing. I'm tired of pushing and pushing and having male peers rewarded for my work, or being ignored regardless of how hard I work. It's draining and I am tired of it.
I don't know the right thing to do in this case. If I make a fuss, I will make things worse, much worse. If I make a fuss, I will permanently be on the shit list of the people around me. But I feel that not making a fuss, or at least talking to someone about it, is weak. If I don't, I am giving in to the pressures of the people around me. Maybe they're trying to make me leave. Maybe that's just me being paranoid. It doesn't matter, because I'm fucked either way. The system is set up to screw the whistle-blower. The question is whether I have the strength to take the brunt of that on my shoulders and carry on, or whether I want to deal with the passive misogyny so prevalent in my agency.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
OH MY GOD JET SKI
This is why I became a lifeguard. THIS. BEHOLD:
Jet skis. Oh man. Nothing better than riding on the back (on that sled-thing behind the operator). I spent a good two and a half hours on one today. As a result, I have no skin left on my knees or elbows. But goddamn, it was totally worth it. And I was having such a bad day this morning... I was really looking forward to moping all day, too. But it's hard to mope when you have a JET SKI DAY! YAY!
Jet skis. Oh man. Nothing better than riding on the back (on that sled-thing behind the operator). I spent a good two and a half hours on one today. As a result, I have no skin left on my knees or elbows. But goddamn, it was totally worth it. And I was having such a bad day this morning... I was really looking forward to moping all day, too. But it's hard to mope when you have a JET SKI DAY! YAY!
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Are you new here?
I consider myself a quiet person. I'm reserved around people I don't know or barely know, content, as the old adage says, to remain silent and be thought a fool (rather than to speak and remove all doubt). I'm shy, but I don't consider myself anti-social. I'm friendly if you talk to me first. If I know you, and think fondly of you, I love hugs and cuddles and most forms of affection. If not, stay the hell out of my personal space, thanks.
My tower is my personal space. I opened it, I'm closing it, and I'm sitting in it for eight hours. Me, no one else. All my stuff is spread around it, right where I like it. I have my chair in the spot I want it, I have the phone within reach. I have it organized. And I consider my tower like a desk in an office-- no one would expect another person to run amok in their cubicle, looking in drawers and reading files and all that. It's basic etiquette-- it just isn't done. When the person coming to break me out comes, they don't mess with the radio, they don't eat my food, they don't rifle through my stuff, and vice versa when I break someone out. It's just polite. The tower is part of my bubble. And I don't like people in my bubble.
So you, dear readers, can imagine my chagrin when a man approached my tower, climbed the stairs, offered me his hand, and said, "Hi, I'm Ned from Public Works. Are you new here?"
Am I new here? Me? You are in my tower! What are you doing in my tower! Get off my tower! I would be less offended if you had just grabbed my ass!
But he continued: "I don't think we've met."
"No, I don't think we have. I'm Sunburned Beachmonkey." We bloody well haven't met, you tower-infiltrator. I would remember some old guy getting all up in my shit. "I'm not new, this is my second summer here."
"That's nice. I'm surprised we haven't met before! Is Mike or Bill around?" Mike and Bill are well-known lifeguards that have been around for an eternity.
"I think Bill might be at headquarters today." Freaking out, freaking out. Weird old man too close for comfort, and he's on my TOWER. Oh God, just go away.
I don't know if Ned was actually from Public Works. I made smalltalk with him for a bit, him telling me about how he wanted to go back to work, but the doctor told him his muscles are still too atrophied to do anything. Then he left, with a stern, "you make sure none of these people get in trouble, now." Well that's what I was trying to do, Ned. You just make it difficult.
My tower is my personal space. I opened it, I'm closing it, and I'm sitting in it for eight hours. Me, no one else. All my stuff is spread around it, right where I like it. I have my chair in the spot I want it, I have the phone within reach. I have it organized. And I consider my tower like a desk in an office-- no one would expect another person to run amok in their cubicle, looking in drawers and reading files and all that. It's basic etiquette-- it just isn't done. When the person coming to break me out comes, they don't mess with the radio, they don't eat my food, they don't rifle through my stuff, and vice versa when I break someone out. It's just polite. The tower is part of my bubble. And I don't like people in my bubble.
So you, dear readers, can imagine my chagrin when a man approached my tower, climbed the stairs, offered me his hand, and said, "Hi, I'm Ned from Public Works. Are you new here?"
Am I new here? Me? You are in my tower! What are you doing in my tower! Get off my tower! I would be less offended if you had just grabbed my ass!
But he continued: "I don't think we've met."
"No, I don't think we have. I'm Sunburned Beachmonkey." We bloody well haven't met, you tower-infiltrator. I would remember some old guy getting all up in my shit. "I'm not new, this is my second summer here."
"That's nice. I'm surprised we haven't met before! Is Mike or Bill around?" Mike and Bill are well-known lifeguards that have been around for an eternity.
"I think Bill might be at headquarters today." Freaking out, freaking out. Weird old man too close for comfort, and he's on my TOWER. Oh God, just go away.
I don't know if Ned was actually from Public Works. I made smalltalk with him for a bit, him telling me about how he wanted to go back to work, but the doctor told him his muscles are still too atrophied to do anything. Then he left, with a stern, "you make sure none of these people get in trouble, now." Well that's what I was trying to do, Ned. You just make it difficult.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Stupid Questions and the Sixties
Tides Are Caused By What?!?
I get my fair share of idiotic questions. "Can jellyfish kill you?" No. No they cannot. "Are those SHARKS?!?!" Oh, you mean the DOLPHINS jumping around in the surf? "Am I too close to the bluff?" Do you need to ask? While staring at the tide board with the water temperature written on it: "what's the water temp today?" But I got the best one ever today (and it's not the first time, either-- this one just jogged my memory).
"What time is low tide on this beach in the morning?"
Well, darlin', you see, it changes every morning. What morning did you have in mind?
"REALLY? Well, how do you know?!?!"
We have these nifty little things called tide books. They tell us when the tide is.
"Why does it change?"
.....
"Why does the time of the tides change?"
.....
"Well?"
The moon.
"What?"
Jesus H. Christ! The moon! The moon makes the tides change.
Thankfully, the phone rang before I could start telling her off for being a complete dipshit. But sometimes I really want to. Just in case anyone is confused: the tide changes every day. There are four tides a day. At high tide, there is a lot of water on the beach. No, I can't do anything about it.
The Sixties
I've always held that I was born in the wrong decade. I just can't decide which decade I should have been born in. I'm a pretty big fan of electric blue eyeshadow. Maybe the eighties, which I missed by a few short years, were the decade I was meant to experience. But I'm not a big fan of the synthesizer, which was overused to a fault in eighties music. The fifties, with their bubblegum poppy sound, are fun and lighthearted and romanticized greatly in today's society, but anyone who knows me knows that I am not a housewife. Maybe the 20s, with the roarin' jazz scene, and the ambiguously-sexed flapper girls. I could get into that. Especially top hats, they're pretty badass. But it's not my calling.
Let me preface this story with this: I love showers. I am hugely concerned with the environment for the most part, but I indulge in 15-20 minute showers on a daily basis. Why? Well, I like to be clean, for one, and the beach injects sand into places I didn't know I had. Secondly, long, hot showers alleviate the chill that comes from sitting around in a wet swimsuit all day. On with it.
Guys, I love the sixties. I love the music, I love the feeling of the era, the hippie-dippy, peace-love-freedom-yeah-man stoner vibe. I hate the war with every fiber of my being, to the point where I'm not even sure which war I'm hating on-- Iraq? Afghanistan? Vietnam? Who cares! Peace and love, man, peace and love. I have been greatly disappointed by the aging hippies in my life. They've turned from sharp-tongued, astute, acerbic critics of government to wet-noodle run-of-the-mill conspiracy theorists. Boo. Am I allowed to love the sixties without being smelly or a conspiracy theorist? Can I shave, wear a bra, and shower daily and still emulate this wonderful decade? Can I be hopeful for the systemic foundations the country was built on, while hating the corruption of pure systems?
But the reason I'm having a fantastic day today has nothing to do with these aging hippies, or my shower conundrum.
Today, a surfer my age (20ish) walked by me, and without irony, flashed me a peace sign, and said: "Peace and love, friend."
Peace and love indeed.
I get my fair share of idiotic questions. "Can jellyfish kill you?" No. No they cannot. "Are those SHARKS?!?!" Oh, you mean the DOLPHINS jumping around in the surf? "Am I too close to the bluff?" Do you need to ask? While staring at the tide board with the water temperature written on it: "what's the water temp today?" But I got the best one ever today (and it's not the first time, either-- this one just jogged my memory).
"What time is low tide on this beach in the morning?"
Well, darlin', you see, it changes every morning. What morning did you have in mind?
"REALLY? Well, how do you know?!?!"
We have these nifty little things called tide books. They tell us when the tide is.
"Why does it change?"
.....
"Why does the time of the tides change?"
.....
"Well?"
The moon.
"What?"
Jesus H. Christ! The moon! The moon makes the tides change.
Thankfully, the phone rang before I could start telling her off for being a complete dipshit. But sometimes I really want to. Just in case anyone is confused: the tide changes every day. There are four tides a day. At high tide, there is a lot of water on the beach. No, I can't do anything about it.
The Sixties
I've always held that I was born in the wrong decade. I just can't decide which decade I should have been born in. I'm a pretty big fan of electric blue eyeshadow. Maybe the eighties, which I missed by a few short years, were the decade I was meant to experience. But I'm not a big fan of the synthesizer, which was overused to a fault in eighties music. The fifties, with their bubblegum poppy sound, are fun and lighthearted and romanticized greatly in today's society, but anyone who knows me knows that I am not a housewife. Maybe the 20s, with the roarin' jazz scene, and the ambiguously-sexed flapper girls. I could get into that. Especially top hats, they're pretty badass. But it's not my calling.
Let me preface this story with this: I love showers. I am hugely concerned with the environment for the most part, but I indulge in 15-20 minute showers on a daily basis. Why? Well, I like to be clean, for one, and the beach injects sand into places I didn't know I had. Secondly, long, hot showers alleviate the chill that comes from sitting around in a wet swimsuit all day. On with it.
Guys, I love the sixties. I love the music, I love the feeling of the era, the hippie-dippy, peace-love-freedom-yeah-man stoner vibe. I hate the war with every fiber of my being, to the point where I'm not even sure which war I'm hating on-- Iraq? Afghanistan? Vietnam? Who cares! Peace and love, man, peace and love. I have been greatly disappointed by the aging hippies in my life. They've turned from sharp-tongued, astute, acerbic critics of government to wet-noodle run-of-the-mill conspiracy theorists. Boo. Am I allowed to love the sixties without being smelly or a conspiracy theorist? Can I shave, wear a bra, and shower daily and still emulate this wonderful decade? Can I be hopeful for the systemic foundations the country was built on, while hating the corruption of pure systems?
But the reason I'm having a fantastic day today has nothing to do with these aging hippies, or my shower conundrum.
Today, a surfer my age (20ish) walked by me, and without irony, flashed me a peace sign, and said: "Peace and love, friend."
Peace and love indeed.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Confession time!
So, everyone-- I have a confession.
Whenever you set foot on my beach, I judge you. Judge, judge, judge. But it's more than just judging-- I profile you. Yes, I am a profiler, and I am not above racial profiling either. Also, I have a number system. Let me explain.
Let's say one hundred people come to my beach on any given day. It's a lot higher than that, but let's use it as an example. Twenty-five of those people never enter the water. Of the seventy-five people left, about half are children and teenagers, and then the second half is adults and a small amount of Old People. About ten of these people are proficient swimmers.
So based on experience, I devised a checklist. My profiling checklist goes like this:
1. The person is getting in the water. Shit. +1 point.
2. The person is very old or very young. Mother Nature will find it hilarious to make the rip flash wherever this person sets foot in the water. +2 points.
3. This person is overweight without appearing to be in any kind of decent shape. +2 points.
4. This person is so obese that (s)he causes tidal waves when (s)he jumps in the water. +4 points.
5. (S)he is carrying a body board that may as well be made of wet bread, and floats about that well. +2 points.
6. His/her wetsuit is on backwards (it zips up the back, people!). +3 points.
7. (S)he uses the words "dagnabbit," "ain't," "y'all," and "dubya" in a non-ironic manner. +2 points.
8. There is a caravan of 1.8 million children following the matriarch about. +2 points.
9. Farmer's tan. +4 points.
10. Enters the water wearing a t-shirt (usually a white t-shirt for some reason. People, t-shirts don't protect your skin, they just make you drown more easily!). +3 points.
11. Attempts to attach body board leash to ankle. Proceeds to trip over self all the way to the water and faceplant on the water's edge. +4 points, and +1 bonus point for idiocy.
12. Is a marine or other flavor of "macho" man. This type HATES to accept help, especially from a girl. Suits me fine, I don't have to bust my ass to save an idiot. Also, to the marines/manly men out there: you aren't as great of a swimmer as you think you are. +4 points.
13. Since I spent so much time making fun of the Midwesterners, here's one for you: any non-English speaker. They usually cannot swim, (Mexicans and Indians I've noticed are particularly bad... or maybe they just come to my beach in droves) and it's impossible to communicate. The men also usually are the aforementioned "manly" men, and like to refuse help. +3 points.
14. Asks about an "undertow" (these don't exist in the ocean, only in rivers), talks about a "rip tide," (rip tides occur miles out to sea, rip currents appear on the shore), or asks if the dolphins are sharks (mammalian fins and shark fins look exactly nothing alike). +2 points.
15. Is an adolescent male (aged 12-23) trying to impress a female. Big trouble. +4 points.
16. Makes any kind of Baywatch joke. Hey guys, you realize that not only are you entirely unattractive, but you're making yourself seem old? Pam Anderson hasn't been hot in YEARS. In fact, her face looks like a leather sofa these days. +5 points.
The higher the score, the more likely the person in question will be a rescue. It helps me keep an eye on troublemakers and idiots.
Whenever you set foot on my beach, I judge you. Judge, judge, judge. But it's more than just judging-- I profile you. Yes, I am a profiler, and I am not above racial profiling either. Also, I have a number system. Let me explain.
Let's say one hundred people come to my beach on any given day. It's a lot higher than that, but let's use it as an example. Twenty-five of those people never enter the water. Of the seventy-five people left, about half are children and teenagers, and then the second half is adults and a small amount of Old People. About ten of these people are proficient swimmers.
So based on experience, I devised a checklist. My profiling checklist goes like this:
1. The person is getting in the water. Shit. +1 point.
2. The person is very old or very young. Mother Nature will find it hilarious to make the rip flash wherever this person sets foot in the water. +2 points.
3. This person is overweight without appearing to be in any kind of decent shape. +2 points.
4. This person is so obese that (s)he causes tidal waves when (s)he jumps in the water. +4 points.
5. (S)he is carrying a body board that may as well be made of wet bread, and floats about that well. +2 points.
6. His/her wetsuit is on backwards (it zips up the back, people!). +3 points.
7. (S)he uses the words "dagnabbit," "ain't," "y'all," and "dubya" in a non-ironic manner. +2 points.
8. There is a caravan of 1.8 million children following the matriarch about. +2 points.
9. Farmer's tan. +4 points.
10. Enters the water wearing a t-shirt (usually a white t-shirt for some reason. People, t-shirts don't protect your skin, they just make you drown more easily!). +3 points.
11. Attempts to attach body board leash to ankle. Proceeds to trip over self all the way to the water and faceplant on the water's edge. +4 points, and +1 bonus point for idiocy.
12. Is a marine or other flavor of "macho" man. This type HATES to accept help, especially from a girl. Suits me fine, I don't have to bust my ass to save an idiot. Also, to the marines/manly men out there: you aren't as great of a swimmer as you think you are. +4 points.
13. Since I spent so much time making fun of the Midwesterners, here's one for you: any non-English speaker. They usually cannot swim, (Mexicans and Indians I've noticed are particularly bad... or maybe they just come to my beach in droves) and it's impossible to communicate. The men also usually are the aforementioned "manly" men, and like to refuse help. +3 points.
14. Asks about an "undertow" (these don't exist in the ocean, only in rivers), talks about a "rip tide," (rip tides occur miles out to sea, rip currents appear on the shore), or asks if the dolphins are sharks (mammalian fins and shark fins look exactly nothing alike). +2 points.
15. Is an adolescent male (aged 12-23) trying to impress a female. Big trouble. +4 points.
16. Makes any kind of Baywatch joke. Hey guys, you realize that not only are you entirely unattractive, but you're making yourself seem old? Pam Anderson hasn't been hot in YEARS. In fact, her face looks like a leather sofa these days. +5 points.
The higher the score, the more likely the person in question will be a rescue. It helps me keep an eye on troublemakers and idiots.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Day one: the battle of the bluffs begins.
Bloody fucking people and their complete fucking inability to read signs.
Yes, it's the first day and I am reduced to the f-word.
There is ONE set of stairs to my beach. One. I put that huge orange sign that you looked at perplexedly there because to get to the beach, you have to WALK AROUND THE BLOODY SIGN. The sign, incidentally, says "stay clear: cliffs unstable" with a picture of some big fucking rocks falling on a person's head. Just for the more visual learners, you know.
Does that mean that YOU, oh entitled one, deserve to sit beneath the cliffs? No, that means I have to leave my tower to run over to you and tell you to please move, because the bluffs are unstable. Now, I don't really care about the running back and forth and up and down and whatnot. That's my job, and I get payed pretty damn good money to do it. But what I DO care about is the fact that I am one person watching a half-mile of beach. And while YOU demand an explanation of why you cannot sit under the unstable bluffs (they will fall. on. your. head. and. you. will. die) no one is watching the rest of my water.
I know people who work in retail must deal with this too-- the idiot who tries to use the out of order vending machine (with the coin slot they ripped the tape off of to stick their money in), or the moron who slips and falls right in front of a "Caution-- wet floor" sign. But this is a little different-- someone could DIE while I'm reiterating what these people should have been intelligent enough to deduce in the first place. I always start the day with such enthusiasm: "if I put the sign HERE, there's no WAY anyone can miss it!" Alas, it works for about fifty percent of the general beach populace.
Yes, it's the first day and I am reduced to the f-word.
There is ONE set of stairs to my beach. One. I put that huge orange sign that you looked at perplexedly there because to get to the beach, you have to WALK AROUND THE BLOODY SIGN. The sign, incidentally, says "stay clear: cliffs unstable" with a picture of some big fucking rocks falling on a person's head. Just for the more visual learners, you know.
Does that mean that YOU, oh entitled one, deserve to sit beneath the cliffs? No, that means I have to leave my tower to run over to you and tell you to please move, because the bluffs are unstable. Now, I don't really care about the running back and forth and up and down and whatnot. That's my job, and I get payed pretty damn good money to do it. But what I DO care about is the fact that I am one person watching a half-mile of beach. And while YOU demand an explanation of why you cannot sit under the unstable bluffs (they will fall. on. your. head. and. you. will. die) no one is watching the rest of my water.
I know people who work in retail must deal with this too-- the idiot who tries to use the out of order vending machine (with the coin slot they ripped the tape off of to stick their money in), or the moron who slips and falls right in front of a "Caution-- wet floor" sign. But this is a little different-- someone could DIE while I'm reiterating what these people should have been intelligent enough to deduce in the first place. I always start the day with such enthusiasm: "if I put the sign HERE, there's no WAY anyone can miss it!" Alas, it works for about fifty percent of the general beach populace.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Becoming.
I seem an unlikely candidate for lifeguarding. Short of peroxide out of a box, I am not anything close to what a normal person would consider blond. My sentences are not peppered with the words "dude," "gnarly," (I am unsure exactly how to spell this word, since I'm pretty sure most of my coworkers who use it are illiterate and it is written down infrequently), "sick," or "ill." Unless, of course, I am sick. The best part about all this is that ninety-five percent of what is said in lifeguard towers can be re-created with any combination of these four words. It's ill, dude.
I am perpetuating myths here, I think. My coworkers are sweet, if not a bit vapid, and like it or not, I am one of them. Sometimes I wonder how exactly I ended up where I am, and there's not really an easy answer. I joined junior lifeguards when I was twelve and someone told me that it was difficult to become a lifeguard. So I decided "screw you, I'm becoming a lifeguard." And then I did. I guess to a certain extent there was more to it than that. Being an overachiever meant that I spent most of my summer either in summer school so I could take AP classes and still graduate on time, or at the beach. It meant that I waded through two years of some of the worst government-sanctioned sexism I've ever experienced as an intern, helping run the junior lifeguard program. Ah, military and para-military organizations-- the last stronghold of sexism in government. But regardless-- these things aren't funny. They aren't even inspiring, so there's no need to harp on them. I spent four weeks-- eighty hours, ten hour days on the weekends-- being so cold I wanted to die. I cried on every lunch break. I've never been so stressed in my life. It was boot camp for lifeguards. It was miserable, and if I never have to go through it again it'll be too soon. Do I regret it? Not a bit. Is it difficult? For some, maybe not. But I can tell you this: in my academy, forty people started. Twenty were thrown out the first day for not making the first swim time cut. By the time the academy was over, we went from a class of forty to a class of fifteen.
So getting into that tower on the first day? That, my friends, is the most amazing feeling ever. It dims, but it never leaves. It's what makes it okay when a pasty land-whale of a Midwesterner trots out in a microkini and flirts with your coworker (who is trying very hard not to laugh). Ladies, just a tip-- they see the best of the best every day. If you aren't the best of the best, you're going to be laughed at. It's that simple. We have binoculars, and if they're interested, you will know. It's that feeling that stops you from laughing when fifteen minutes later, said land-whale lumbers out of the water as fast as her tree-trunks can carry her screeching at the top of her lungs about jellyfish. Then she decides she doesn't dare to brave the dangerous shallows any longer-- so she lays out on the beach (usually removing her already disturbingly tiny top), causing locals to run about in a panic, covering her with wet towels and trying to return her to the sea, thinking a whale has beached itself on the sand. And all the while-- you try not to laugh, while relishing your fantastic vantage point. Because you're a lifeguard-- and you're badass. Hell yes.
I am perpetuating myths here, I think. My coworkers are sweet, if not a bit vapid, and like it or not, I am one of them. Sometimes I wonder how exactly I ended up where I am, and there's not really an easy answer. I joined junior lifeguards when I was twelve and someone told me that it was difficult to become a lifeguard. So I decided "screw you, I'm becoming a lifeguard." And then I did. I guess to a certain extent there was more to it than that. Being an overachiever meant that I spent most of my summer either in summer school so I could take AP classes and still graduate on time, or at the beach. It meant that I waded through two years of some of the worst government-sanctioned sexism I've ever experienced as an intern, helping run the junior lifeguard program. Ah, military and para-military organizations-- the last stronghold of sexism in government. But regardless-- these things aren't funny. They aren't even inspiring, so there's no need to harp on them. I spent four weeks-- eighty hours, ten hour days on the weekends-- being so cold I wanted to die. I cried on every lunch break. I've never been so stressed in my life. It was boot camp for lifeguards. It was miserable, and if I never have to go through it again it'll be too soon. Do I regret it? Not a bit. Is it difficult? For some, maybe not. But I can tell you this: in my academy, forty people started. Twenty were thrown out the first day for not making the first swim time cut. By the time the academy was over, we went from a class of forty to a class of fifteen.
So getting into that tower on the first day? That, my friends, is the most amazing feeling ever. It dims, but it never leaves. It's what makes it okay when a pasty land-whale of a Midwesterner trots out in a microkini and flirts with your coworker (who is trying very hard not to laugh). Ladies, just a tip-- they see the best of the best every day. If you aren't the best of the best, you're going to be laughed at. It's that simple. We have binoculars, and if they're interested, you will know. It's that feeling that stops you from laughing when fifteen minutes later, said land-whale lumbers out of the water as fast as her tree-trunks can carry her screeching at the top of her lungs about jellyfish. Then she decides she doesn't dare to brave the dangerous shallows any longer-- so she lays out on the beach (usually removing her already disturbingly tiny top), causing locals to run about in a panic, covering her with wet towels and trying to return her to the sea, thinking a whale has beached itself on the sand. And all the while-- you try not to laugh, while relishing your fantastic vantage point. Because you're a lifeguard-- and you're badass. Hell yes.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Blog virginity, and the epic tale of the shittin' man
Short of a terribly whiny stint with a livejournal in high school (I am very ashamed) this is my first trip into blogland. Because I work with the public on a daily basis, I have been exposed to a variety of silly, if not downright bizarre behaviors by the general population. I can't imagine this blog is going to get any more traffic than the people I know who have the url, but just in case, I'll cover my ass. What you need to know about me:
1. I work for a small, predominately male lifeguard agency somewhere along the coast of California.
2. If you know me and want to respond, please don't use my name-- for my sake, my coworker's sake, and the sake of the city I work for.
3. All the names here are pseudonyms.
4. This is all 100% truth; everything here has happened. And after reading some of these stories, you will understand the need for privacy.
That's all the rules for now. The season starts officially in a week; until then, I will regale you all with tales of last summer's shenanigans. And now, for....
The Epic Tale of the Shittin' Man
The bathroom in the main tower, is, to put it lightly, sketchy. It has two doors, neither of which lock securely. So for me, my paranoia of being walked in on in the bathroom, coupled with the random males that roam the lifeguard station aimlessly-- this bathroom is a thing of nightmares. I prefer to take my chances with the possibly HIV-encrusted thrones in the public bathrooms rather than play roulette with the bathroom in the station.
I was on my break (I use the word lightly, for reasons that will be expounded upon later), and I needed to pee. Rather than holding it all day, I decided to brave the public restrooms in the park. Most people understand that the beach and the park have a tendency to attract crazies-- and a park by the beach? Well, it's a crazies-mecca.
As I quietly relished the shade and relative peace of the bathroom stall, I heard stomping.
Clunk. Stomp. CLUNK. STOMP.
CRASH.
The stall next to mine in the woefully unisex bathroom was torn open with a battle cry: "IT'S SHITTIN' TIME!"
Never have I heard a man so intent on doing his business. Before I could be party to the surely audible er... shitting, for lack of better word, that was about to occur, I decided to leave the poor man in peace.
1. I work for a small, predominately male lifeguard agency somewhere along the coast of California.
2. If you know me and want to respond, please don't use my name-- for my sake, my coworker's sake, and the sake of the city I work for.
3. All the names here are pseudonyms.
4. This is all 100% truth; everything here has happened. And after reading some of these stories, you will understand the need for privacy.
That's all the rules for now. The season starts officially in a week; until then, I will regale you all with tales of last summer's shenanigans. And now, for....
The Epic Tale of the Shittin' Man
The bathroom in the main tower, is, to put it lightly, sketchy. It has two doors, neither of which lock securely. So for me, my paranoia of being walked in on in the bathroom, coupled with the random males that roam the lifeguard station aimlessly-- this bathroom is a thing of nightmares. I prefer to take my chances with the possibly HIV-encrusted thrones in the public bathrooms rather than play roulette with the bathroom in the station.
I was on my break (I use the word lightly, for reasons that will be expounded upon later), and I needed to pee. Rather than holding it all day, I decided to brave the public restrooms in the park. Most people understand that the beach and the park have a tendency to attract crazies-- and a park by the beach? Well, it's a crazies-mecca.
As I quietly relished the shade and relative peace of the bathroom stall, I heard stomping.
Clunk. Stomp. CLUNK. STOMP.
CRASH.
The stall next to mine in the woefully unisex bathroom was torn open with a battle cry: "IT'S SHITTIN' TIME!"
Never have I heard a man so intent on doing his business. Before I could be party to the surely audible er... shitting, for lack of better word, that was about to occur, I decided to leave the poor man in peace.
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