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...

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.

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.

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...)

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 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

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 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?

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.

It's the fourth of July and I am having one of the most terrible days/weeks I can imagine. I'm just praying it gets better.

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.