This morning after breakfast on the upper deck of the house, I observed Tres running up and down the 53 steps again and again…up and down, up and down, up and down. I just assume he keeps forgetting what he came up here for because the alternative, that he is voluntarily exercising on vacation, is too horrible to consider. Only a psycho would do that, but this is Tres we’re talking about so anything is possible.
About noon we loaded up the van and headed for town. A little lunch, a few drinks and some shopping. That was our plan and how we found ourselves walking down the beach searching for a restaurant we went to five years ago. Telling someone that something is “just down the beach” is like telling someone at the Wynn in Vegas that the MGM is just “a little way up the Strip”…only you’re doing it barefoot in sand. I have to admit the beach was incredible, but that sand was damn hard to walk in.
By the time we walked back to the shopping area (or Wynn in my previous analogy), I had blisters on both feet. Julia traded shoes with me even though that meant her heels were hanging over the back of my sandals. If I’d had more to drink, I probably would have wept at her kindness and slobbered something along the lines of “I love you, man!” A woman that will trade shoes with you, especially when you don’t wear the same size, is a special kind of friend.
Back at the house we had more pool time, because there is always pool time. If we ever rented a house without a pool, which will never happen, but if we did, I swear we’d chip in and buy a kiddie pool to hang out in. It’s our favorite activity.
After dinner, Martha Feakin’ Stewart, a.k.a. Gina, threw together a cherry cobbler for dessert. Eddie wanted to turn in early, but he also wanted cobbler. The struggle is real, people. A nanosecond after dinner we heard, “How long until we get some cobbler?” There were six minutes left on the timer. The bookies in Vegas would have given the situation even odds. It was touch and go, but the cobbler won. It was the right decision.