Sand In The Garden

This morning I was reminded of the beach -- you know, the beach of last week, sunburn and shrimp?  Not to mention the record-size cobia which briefly grabbed my eldest daughter's baited steel line during her deep sea fishing outing with the men of our vacation group before snapping the rigging and becoming the biggest and best "the one that got away" fish story of our entire family.  But I digress.  My sunscreen took me back to the seashore: the non-comodogenic Neutrogena 55+ SPF tube which quells the melasma discoloration that erupts in patches on my face, a reaction between sun and hormones (like us women needed any further indignation where our hormones are concerned).  Was it the scent, perhaps, which stirred my memory?  Or the smooth way in which the lotion lightly glided across my tanned skin?  Maybe the familiar feel of the tube in my palm from numerous conscientious reapplications?  Well, no.  No.  An-n-d NO.  It was the sand which somehow found its way into the sunscreen and chafed my sensitive skin when I quickly applied it before my early walk.  All the same, a memory is a memory is a memory.  I may not have bought the t-shirt but I managed to bring back a memento all the same.  What was I to do?  Not a rock or a decent shell could I find on the trip.

 There may be sand yet undiscovered . . . 

 . . . now that I think about it . . . 

. . . the beach memories could be endless!

So, once my reminiscing dissipated, and all the sand and sunscreen and sweat mingled and dried after my walk, effectively sealing and clogging my pores for the duration of the day, I thought it wise to tackle a few rather obnoxious patches of overgrown weeds and Bermuda grass in my 'naturalized' landscape since it rained yesterday.  Hank the Wonder Pup, or Hankie Mutt as we now refer to him (his nicknames evolve in much the same way that mine do, courtesy of my moniker-loving husband), felt the urge to offer his brand of gardening assistance.  This manner of helpfulness can only be considered as such in the mind of a young and gregarious Labrador retriever.  I can't recount exactly how many times the phrase, "Hey, get outta there! STOP digging!  Leave it, Hank!" was uttered during the course of my back yard ministrations.  But plenty enough.  At some point, he nosed his way into something (I'd swear it was the fire pit but there was no evidence that it's entrances had been breached) that left a black swoosh atop his left eye.  In the end, he won me over, as he always does, with surreptitious licks at my sunscreen, which he disguises as kisses, and running passes in front of my bent form as I yanked several stubborn weeds from the end of the hydrangea bed.  Us dog lovers are easily swayed by our canine companions, regardless of the havoc they wreak.  I am hopeful, however, that he will mellow in the next year, or, gulp, two, as all my information states regarding his breed, and thus allow me to return to my enjoyable hobby of planting and gathering the fruits of my labor without fear of destruction!

 Hank the Dirty Dog

The mystery mark.

The remainder of my day passed in a colorful blur of varied activity bound together by food and family.  And, yes, Hank was right there in the mix.  My whole wheat quesadilla with three of the seven exquisite gourmet cheeses I selected for our beach trip, which managed to become that one item I forget every time I travel, along with my blendiferous splendiferous (Green Goodness drink, blueberries, strawberries and nonfat Greek yogurt) made my tummy pretty darned happy . . . if a bit gassy.  (Sorry.  It's the truth.  I occasionally suffer from flatulence after imbibing on too much dairy.  Or broccoli.  Or a compendium of other edibles I can't take the time or space to list.)  My daughter and mother-in-law (who vacuumed the front rooms and cleaned my kitchen) lured me to the patio not once, but twice.  There, beneath a slowly setting sun and under cover of the gaily-hued orange umbrella, we chatted about Sarah's good news regarding her imminent move to Germany within fourteen to twenty-one days (can you say overjoyed husband?!) and her quick trip to Colorado next week to bid her farewells to relatives up and down the I-25 corridor.  I schooled my mother-in-law, who I call Ollie (short for Olivia), on the finer points of Instagram and Pinterest.  And she oohed and aahed over my assortment of pictures stored on my iPhone for over half an hour.  I can sense the force is strong within her: she covets her very own iPhone for sure!  Who can blame her?

 Ollie lovin' on her little grandpup.

 Ollie's fun side . . . 

This is one of my most rePinned Instragram photos on Pinterest.

It's a dogwood in bloom in the beginning of our early spring this year.

It may be edited but I had the eye and the inspiration.

My bro-in-law and his family dropped in around seven.  He had the brilliant idea that it was the perfect time to break out my espresso maker and try our collective hand at concocting a couple of cappuccinos.  Through a comedy of errors resulting from our combined lack of experience with the machine, the final product resembled a thin dark syrup more than it did stout concentrated coffee.  Our drinks mutated into lattes to counter the potency as neither of us was  keen to grow a mat of chest hair to rival that of the glorious Mr. Tom Selleck.  (Very few can sport that look with such appealing success.)  Still, my energetic pounding at the laptop keyboard five minutes past midnight is testimony to the chemistry of the java bean under pressure.

 My espresso-loving bro-in-law hamming it up with his niece.

Oh, and before I close out for the day -- day referring to yesterday, Wednesday, which ended about fifteen minutes ago -- I learned a fun fact which pertains to me.  A new study has revealed a link between the regular ingestion of NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs) like aspirin and Advil and a reduction in the occurrence of skin cancers, including malignant melanoma.  Seeing how I pop ibuprofen to my womb's content every month for about a week, I believe I may have earned that evident protection.  A possible moment of justice in the face of those nefarious hormones?  Perhaps.

With that, I wish you sound sleep and better days.  Start taking a low-dose aspirin if you worry about your exposure to the sun.  Might save your life.  Or at least your skin.