Not only is Lisa Rosman an awesome psychic, she's also an awesome friend. She picked me up at 6 a.m. this morning and cruised out to Rockaway Beach, arriving in time for prime parking and our pick of blanket real estate as the sun rose and the first surfers went out. The tumbledown vibe (my college boyfriend, a streetwise, smooth-talking Ivy League Sicilian surfer boy, who I dated for almost three years based on the following phone call:
Him: We're having a party at my place tonight. Would you like to come?
Me: Mmmm, I don't drink so that wouldn't be my scene. If you want to go out for coffee or something, call me back sometime. I'd like that.
[an hour later]
Him: Do you want to go out for coffee tonight?
Me: I thought you were having a party...?
Him: Canceled it.
––grew up there in the '70s and understandably hated it, and, as such, I'd never been) was so unexpected less than an hour from the city, and we agreed that it felt more like some heretofore hidden corner of LA or another mid-East Coast state. Definitely not New York. By 11, we we ready to hit the community corner nearby that houses Jack's Coffee, which doubles as a farmstand (I bought a sack of peaches), and adjacent Rockaway Taco, and a pocketsize surf shop next door that offers lessons and sells sundry goods and talismanic jewelry. As everyone else hit the waves, we retired like pros. We're going back next week.
I'm back home, watered my plants in my bathing suit, shook the sand out of my ballet flats, made a big pitcher of cucumber-lime water, now contemplating a nap or finishing up work for the week first. A beautiful start to a weekend that sounds like this: