It's a New England vacayshun

Back to reality. Back to the grind. How many ways can you say vacation's over, wipe that smile off your face, dust the sand off your flip flops, and pull your head out of your arse 'cause the real world's been waiting and he's ready to bite you? Post vacation slump? Me?

But as you know, it isn't just a post vacation slump, it's a post B slump. And needless to say it's only a slump because the past week was wonderful.

Since B is spending the summer on the South Shores of Boston to go to the beach teach tennis and learn a thing or two about the family biz, I decided that while staying with him and the only other people besides my mother who read this blog his family, I wanted tennis lessons from him too. So last week I spent a few mornings swearing sweating on the tennis court working on my anger management swing.

When the sun was shining, we spent our days on the beach. In B's town, there are many beaches to choose from, but our favorite is the Spit. Part of the Spit's appeal is that you need a boat to get there.

The other part is that besides the whole sand and water thing, you're allowed to bring all the other ingredients for the perfect day, such as booze and barbeques and booze and music and dogs and booze.

For a girl who spent her summers down the Jersey shore, this is pure anarchy. And if you ask any of my friends who may or may not have ever tried bringing one or more of these things onto the Jersey beaches, it is certainly not smiled upon.

And in B's town, when we weren't on one beach, we were on another.

And if we weren't on the beach, it was probably only because we were eating, which, in B's town, we do often. And while we were eating, we were probably drinking, which, in B's town, we also do often. With limes. At a place I call the harbor, but people in B's town call tha haba. Some people walk there, and some drive thea cas.

When the sun didn't come out, we spent our days being self-indulgent. That means that besides drinking, we also went shopping. And watched movies. And played games. And let me tell you a little something about playing games with B's family.

They're brutal. That's because some people in B's family, who I won't specifically name but let's just say it rhymes with Smiley, have a little something I like to call a competitive complex. And when they are losing, their eyes turn red and they start to froth at the mouth and they resort to tactics I won't say but they rhyme with schmeating.

When you play games with Kiley Smiley, cards start to disappear and game pieces suddenly move spaces and you're all WTF and she's all idunnowaturtalkinabout. But because I'm so wicked good at games (you like that word? I picked it up in B's town) and because I'm always partners with the most skilled gamer in B's family, who I will name because it's Jessie, I always win anyway.

Except for the time we played celebrity. But I would like to know who the shite you think would have been able to guess Boutros Boutros Ghali anyway.

And while I was in town visiting B, one of his sisters left to study abroad in New Zealand, and in case you didn't know, New Zealand is my favorite place in the entire world. I've been home from my own semester abroad in New Zealand for two years, and I still miss the country every single day.

So we had a party to say goodbye, and while B's sister cried because she was leaving her friends and family for a semester, I cried because I couldn't find a way to fit myself in her suitcase that would pass the airline's 44-pound suitcase rule. Maybe it was her thirty pairs of jeans that set me over.

And after B's sister left the country and I spent the night sobbing over my New Zealand scrap book, we celebrated the Fourth of July. And on the South Shores of Boston, the Fourth of July is kind of a big deal.

Since the morning was rainy, we decided to scrap our plans for boozing barbequing at the Spit, and instead organized a healthy little tournament at the tennis club. Only we didn't use the courts, we used tables. And we didn't use tennis balls, we used ping pong balls. And although things got pretty heated, it wasn't our sweating that dehydrated us, it was all the drinking.

A few nights, including the Fourth, were spent barbequing at B's brother's house at the harbor.

The fourth of July was also Hurley's birthday. We celebrated by tying a patriotic blue and white scarf around his neck and treating him to some delicious foods.

And once it was dark, we walked out to the dock and watched the fireworks.

In the end, my week in B's town was the perfect combination of relaxation, fun, and never having any idea what time it was because on vacation, it doesn't matter.

But the thing about a great week like this is that the gods of vacation are always so quick to disappear and that little monster known as the real world is always very happy to have you back.

And not long after I got on the highway on the way back to Philadelphia, the real world gave me a slap on the arse when I was stuck in traffic with sebenty seben crajillion other cars on I-95 during my forever times infinity hour car ride home.

Next time I'm totally flying.Thanks for keeping my blog stats up the great times. See you soon. Tweet