I hate sand.
Love the beach, but hate sand. I hate little sandy hands and sandy feet. I hate sand in my shoes and sand in my mouth, but getting to spend an entire week with one of my favorite groupies made it somewhat easier to tolerate. And since she hates sand as much as I do (possibly more), we were left with no alternative but to consume massive quantities of cocktails. I think I drank my weight in alcohol.
Seriously.
When we weren't busy making our offspring wish Jaws was for real with our 80's musical genius, or perfecting our Mary Catherine Gallagher poses (they especially loved those), we exchanged slurred words about the lack of progress involving my current MS during our drinking binges. After I stopped beating myself over the head with the Wii remote while playing Spades, her words penetrated my drunken haze in bits and pieces.
"I think you're trying to take the characters in a direction that's not very realistic. That's why you're stuck."
She is always the voice of reason. Even when she's double fisting tequila shots and especially when she says things like, "If the kids want more food, we can throw a block of cheese at them to gnaw on."
When the bed spins subsided and I was able to keep both of my eyes open, I realized she was right. And since I was forbidden to get into the pool or go to the beach because of my new tattoo (perfect timing), I wrote.
I wrote a lot.
And now what I'm over my slump, I hope to wrap it up pretty quickly.
On a side note. It wasn't the liquor that caused my floor crawling hangover. It was the damn straws that I drank it through.
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