A funny thing about vacation – it has to end sometime. Gone are the lackadaisical days with our feet in the sand, trashy books in our hand and evenings filled with shrimp shells, Old Bay and inventive games of “Go Fu*k Yourself”, a delightful variation of “Go Fish.” Though just back less than 12 hours, I’m already in the midst of “Vacation Hangover”, gazing longingly and lovingly at the sand that permeates every square inch of my car, my suitcase, and my body. Instead of waves lapping gently at the shore, feet burning on the hot afternoon sand, I’ve got an inbox that will need attending to, messages that will need returning, a house that is not only crying out for a good cleaning but is practically weeping in neglect. Face it, my friends, I’ve got the Post-Vacation Blues.
I suppose I could sit here in my melancholy (but Oh-So “Golden Brown”, Lori-style, state) and mourn the loss of tomato sandwiches and Beatty’s Chicken Salad, or I could recap some statistics:
The Cost of Debauchery
22 Cases of Beer: $300
10 Bottles of Sunscreen: $50
3 Bottles of Off Skintastic: $10
9 Rounds of Mini-Golf: $45
Pictures of Beatty in Drag circulating the Internet: Priceless