Oh The Douchebaggery

I had a day at the beach.
Sounds relaxing, right? Not so much.

So I get all prepped, do the requisite grooming and lotioning, pack my beach bag full of the necessities, and get online to try and figure out my destination.

I've been told that North Kingstown beach is free after Labor day (huge plus as I am fiscally challenged at the moment) and according to my Mapquest directions, it's also surprisingly close.

So I get in my car at around 12:30, thinking I'd get there around prime time, 1:00.
Of course my car is on empty. I have been driving it on empty for two weeks without worry, ya' know, cause' Providence is small and I figure if worse comes to worse I can walk somewhere.

I know, my sense of adult responsibility is staggering.

But seriously, since recent events I have had a lot of time on my hands and I have always preferred walking to driving when I can, so I can justify my avoidance of the pumps.
I figure, I'm doing my part to conserve our natural resources, all the while helping the environment and my anorexic wallet.

I guess that seven dollars will get me to and fro (judging by crapquest's projections) my destination easily.

Three miles, THREE MILES after I hit the interstate, my car is back on E.
Now, I hate pumping gas. Always have. Something about having to pay for my freedom, I guess. I don't know. But I have ended up running out of gas in some sincerely seedy places so I have already studied my owner's manual and kept track of exactly how long I can go once the orange light comes on.

Honestly, I once drove blindly on empty with a gas can in the trunk and the sole intent of finding out how far I could drive without re-gassing.
My car's reserve is around 53 miles.

That's a lot of miles.
I don't even know if Rhode Island encompasses 53 miles from one end to the other.
We live in the Mary-Kate Olsen of states!
Therefore, I have never worried about being stranded.

Point is, it took me seven dollars just to land back on empty.

Do I panic? Do I stop to refuel?
Nah. I am straight up Alfred E. Neuman.
What me worry?

SO, I keep going with the knowledge that I have at least 50 miles before I should start to sweat.

But because I am low on gas, I am forced to turn off my a.c.
And it is hot. So much for that no sweating thing. My fucking eyeballs are perspiring!

So I get to within 1 mile (according to stupid-motherfuckin' don't-get-me-started-i-will-kill-a-shady-bitch Mapquest) of my destination, find a gas station and begrudgingly feed my card into the machine.

I'm good to go!
It's almost 1:15...perfect.

I set the thing that gauges my miles and when I get to three, I stop to ask directions from some utility guy fixing some sort of utilitarian thing (I know, I have a way with words) and the dude just looks at me with a Forrest Gump look on his face.

I couldn't have been more direct.

All I asked was, "Hi! Can you tell me how to get to the public beach from here?"
Blank stare followed by a stupid smile.
Followed by, "Uuuh, yeah. Just keep driving thataway".

Okay.
Thanks, buddy.

I failed to mention that because of the extreme temperatures in my car I had long since removed my top.
I didn't think twice about it because I am wearing a bathing suit and this is beach country. It's not like I am wearing a thong, or a bikini even.

On a side note, I never understood why guys will go absolutely ga-ga over a chick who shows some cleave at a bar or a grocery store, or say a job interview (Never know who you might meet, right?) but you can go to the beach in the equivalent of a bra and panties and nobody even acknowledges your practical nakedness.

Anyway, I follow the sage's directions and drive "thataway".

I am driving until I hit Narragansett.

12 miles, my friend!
What the fuck?

I have now taken the long way to get to a beach I would have gone to originally had it not been for the tantalizing draw of spending less on gas and the promise of no admission fee.
The principle of it all irked me enough to turn the fuck around rather than just parking and taking an easier and faster way home.

So I recalibrate my mile counter thingie and figure my original mapquest location should be round-a-bout 8 or nine miles.

I get there and see a road that is named Beach St. I figure, this has got to be it.
Even if Mapquest never mentioned it.
I dunno if you can read through the subtleties, but I HATE mapquest.
Bitch has got me lost more times than I ever found my destination.
I suppose I should also blame Rhode Island and it's total "road renovation all the time" attitude/complete lack of consistency in actually using placards to mark street names.
I have mapquested a few destinations only to find that some pivotal exits and/or routes no longer even exist.

I swear to God, more than once I have followed the Mapquest directions to a T, only to end up meandering around Connecticut or Massachusetts.
I have seen more of this land than Ponce DeLeon!

So, at this point, I throw the fucking mapquest directions out the window (that's a proverbial window, folks. When you litter it makes a Native American cry. And that makes everybody cry. Give a hoot! Don't Pollute! I know, I am mixing up my eighties P.S.A.'s---if only I had One to Grow On right now!).

I end up turning down the beach road and wander far too long around a residential neighborhood.

It's now almost 3.
I am more pissed about the dollars than anything else and I have already budgeted my time so that I am certain to be back in Providence by 5 at the latest. I have plans!

So, I turn around and find myself back on the street I drove up on 2 hours prior.

I see a traffic cop and pull over.
I ask, somewhat exasperated, "Can you tell me how to get to the N.K. public beach?"
He says, "Take your next left".

Really?

I took my next left, and sure enough...there she is!

At first I am psyched because there is absolutely no one there, save one guy in a beach chair at the far end.
Unfortunately the far end isn't that far.

The beach itself is Skee-Lo short.

Alas, I do have some privacy (p.s. in my head I pronounced that priv-acy---with a soft i...all British-like 'on account of I'm feeling fancy and a little sun-stroked).
So I lay out my towel, apply the SPF 45 'cause I have had one too many nasty encounters with the sun.
I love you, earth-feeder! You keep my vitamin D levels in check and rule over the whole day/night dynamic, but why you gotta' make me so pink and silly looking?

So at this point I am weighing pros and cons.
Pro-I am finally here and the waves are lapping and the breeze feels awesome and I am practically alone.
Con-fucking stingy, buzzy, sand flies biting the shit out of me.

Honest Abe! My right foot looks like a topographical map.

And I forgot my phone. So I have absolutely no clue what time it is.

I do what my body tells me to and turn over when I feel hot and then finally cry uncle when one of far too many aggressive gnats decide my ass would make a delightful dinner.

I get back on the interstate just in time to make rush hour in Providence.

Rad!

I have barely enough time to shower and change before I have to be in Seekonk to baby-sit my nieces.
But I make it.
And as much as I moan about family obligations, I truly do love hanging with my girls.
So, I was trying to get them to go to sleep after hours of play by reading to them in my best drone "you are getting very sleepy now" voice.

I must have read 20 books.

Sounds like a lot, but childrens' books are not at all that comprehensive.
You will never find Clif Notes for Horton Hears a Who.

One of the great literary tomes I read to my angels was entitled, "Feelings".

Sample line, "Sometimes I feel sad, sometimes I feel mad".
Mind blowing, Right?

So, Lena says, "Sometimes I have dammit days"!

I'm like, do tell!

My perfectly brilliant little 3 year old niece clarifies, "Oh, you know, Mimi...Dammit, Dammit, Dammit"!

Yes, Lena! I do know.