>There is nothing like arriving home from a red eye, getting two hours of sleep, and then learning that the plans for your mini vacation at the Jersey Shore are completely fucked up. The plan was for Husband to rent a car and Brother-in-Law (BiL) to also drive down, both with cars loaded with food and supplies. BiL, Future Sister-in-Law (FSiL), and I would stop off at Newark Airport and pick up my sister and brother, freshly arriving from Iowa. Good plans.

Of course, Husband and BiL overpacked the cars and there was not enough space to pick up Sister and Sister’s Husband, who I later learned is the incarnation of Honoré de Balzac and thus I will refer to him as Honoré, but more on that later. Anyway, much yelling was going on and Husband and BiL accused each other of bringing unnecessary things. Finally, despite my sleepless haze, I came up with a rare brilliant idea. I suggested that BiL drop me off at the Airport on his way down to the Shore, and I would wait for Sister and Honoré and then we would rent a car and drive down ourselves, returning the car the following day in Atlantic City, which is near our Shore house.

This worked very well, and we all arrived at different times, but safely at the Shore, where I had an interesting discussion with The Explorer and another friend about celibacy and vibrators, while Sister stared at us with her eyes opening bigger and bigger as more was revealed in talk. BiL BBQ’d for dinner, and finally Steph arrived at 10:45 with sheets and pillow cases, which Husband asked her to pick up on her way because he thought they were included with the rental, only to get here and to find 10 beds with blankets and nothing else.

Steph is a Jersesy Shore pro, having vacationed here every year with her parents until the ripe old age of 25. She led Sister, Honoré, and I to one of her three favorite pizza places on the Boardwalk. As we hustled along, she pointed out the best shooting gallery, the second best mini golf course, the best frozen custard, and other sites of note. When we arrived at Mack & Manco’s, it was hopping. Steph said the “only place” to sit was the counter, but as there were not enough seats available, she settled for a booth.

The waiter hustled over to us and took our orders. Honoré was delighted to learn that they would custom create a slice with ‘shrooms, sausage, and olives. When the waiter left, Sister said, “How embarrassing!” None of us knew what she was talking about, so she explained that the waiter had a big booger hanging out of his nose. Our food and birch beers arrived not long later, and after chewing the slices and the fat, we walked back to the house.

On the walk back, we discussed boobs. Steph mentioned that her friend found a fake boob on the floor of the club that she was at last night, and waved it around, wondering if anyone would claim her lost tit. Sister mentioned my story about flashing my bra at the old lady bra shop when I was home, and Steph said that was nothing; I used to flash her more than my bra all the time. Sister said that sometimes Honoré flashed his balls to people when he was drunk, and once someone took a picture of them. It seems that he had a massive hernia a few years ago, and after it was repaired, his balls remained stretched out for eternity, thus he has a huge sac. (He once even peed on it.) Steph made some crack about Balzac, and thus the nickname was born.

Anyway, Husband refers to Ocean City as the “town that time passed over,” and he is totally right. (Last night on the Boardwalk, Honoré noted that this place is the whitest on earth, and this is coming from someone who lives in Iowa). It is super weird, like being time warped into 1963. I will have some fabulous pictures of random things I have seen to post when I get home.

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