Bermtopia by the Sea: The 36-Hour Edition

One of the many advantages of being retired is the ability to pick up at a moment's notice for an adventure.

Well, not exactly a moment's notice. . . finding a Ben-friendly hotel in Cannon Beach proved somewhat vexing for my date. And took a couple days. Largely because when the website of said hotel said it was pet-friendly. But wasn't. 

But that's neither here nor there. We found The Guest House Inn and took off with Ben Wednesday for an overnight at the beach, or as Ben calls it, The Place of Noisy Water.

Ben: Sweet. But I won't get my paws wet.

Although Arch Cape is our go-to coastal sweet spot, we landed in Cannon Beach because of the plethora (or so we thought) of dog-friendly hotels that will book one night with you. Of course, it helps it's February -- the lowest of the low season on the Oregon coast  -- and the middle of the week. We packed for a windy, wet overnight trip -- and were rewarded with balmy shirt-sleeve (well, long-sleeve/sweatshirt) weather. 

Fat Bastard and I are having such a time of it, figuring out these mild climes.

Upon arrival, we beat feet to Ecola Seafoods for clam chowder. My date ordered the bread bowl and promptly sent a cell phone pic to the Number Two Son. Simply to torture him.

I ordered a side of pickled herring. Simply to torture my date.

Then on to the Cottage at the Guest House Inn. Just steps from the beach, it's a tidy little place, fully equipped with a serviceable kitchenette, electric fireplace and -- ahem -- the biggest jacuzzi tub I have ever seen. 

In the living room.

Use your imagination. 

*sound of crickets*

On to the beach. You know it's going to be a good walk when this is the first thing you encounter:

Don't tell Ben, but I have an inexplicable obsession with pugs.
This 14-week-old puppy cemented it.

The rest of our walks over the next 36 hours did not disappoint either. Especially a chance encounter with a South Korean choral group who took approximately 8 zillion selfies with Ben. A sweet soprano's voice guided us home Wednesday afternoon.

It's good to be retired.

Golden

Quite inexplicably, the month of January turned out to be golden.

There were windfalls and pratfalls, and good family and friend time. Two dozen ping pong balls are providing endless hours of skullduggery entertainment at The Chambers of Horror my place of employment (more on that later), and a wallpaper-less dining room wall awaits a new coat of paint at the Nine-One-Four. The Bulldogs continue their winning ways -- sometimes by the hair on their chinny-chin-chins. And we damn near made it to February without any appreciable crap snow -- well, until Tuesday when we got the requisite dump that will now freeze and fester and be with us till mid-July.

Thanks, George Takei. My sentiments exactly.

But, you know, I really don't give a rip. Because I leave for Maui in 29 days. But who's counting? And that's golden, too.

Let me give you one little glimpse into how I define golden these days.

See these gloves? I love me these gloves. They are my dog-walking gloves. I've easily had them for at least 15 years -- maybe more. They've weathered frigid football games and soccer matches and countless early morning, below-freezing walks at Comstock Park. Though well-worn, they remain largely impervious to snow and ice. And when not protecting my dainty digits from the delights of winter, they safely reside in the pockets of my trusty dog-walking jacket, Fat Bastard.

Until Thursday morning when I reached into said pockets and found only one glove.

Damn. Must have dropped it in the garage when I was brushing five inches of snow off Ben, the dog.

Nope. No glove. Not even after my date scoured the place. I had lost one of my precious gloves -- probably, as it now occurred to me, during one of the 80 bazillion times I stopped to pick snow out Ben's paws on Wednesday morning's walk.

The world dimmed just a tiny bit.

But here's when golden comes in.

Wearing a pilfered pair of my date's winter gloves, Ben and I headed up to the park yesterday morning. Passing by the neighbor's house across the street, I spotted a single, black digit peeking up through three inches of snow -- in essence, flipping me off.

By the time I got the old boy inside, it had thankfully thawed into a
more acceptable gesture. This is, after all, family-friendly blog.

Yep. My beloved glove. Frozen solid in the bird position. And I am not talking yoga here, folks.

And that's golden, my friends.

Simply golden.

Fat Bastard

This is



Fat Bastard.

It is one of the more splendiforous articles of clothing that I own and is a key member of my most awesome of awesome Official Winter Dog-walking Ensemble. I mean, what girl DOESN'T dream of doing a three- to four-month stint as the Michelin Man?

Thank god, it's usually dark when Ben and I walk these days.

In recent years, I've cracked open Fat Bastard when the temps start tap-dancing around in the 20s as they did yesterday morning -- and today as well.

Note: Puffy Pants won't make an appearance till there's snow on the ground -- or we go sub-zero. I do have SOME standards, after all.

Mind you, I'm not complaining. FB has been very good to me -- keeping me warm and dry through high school football (the American flavor), many wonderful years of soccer AND hundreds of inches of The White Stuff that continue to plague me (it IS all about me, you know) and Bermtopia year after year.

Upshot: Fat Bastard is my seasonal bestie. Give me a hug, Big Guy!

Together, we carry on the crusade, true and pure, against the dark forces of Frigid Cold and Sucky Weather Which Generally Involves About Five Feet of Stoo-pid Snow.

Fat Bastard, I've got your back. And I KNOW you've got mine.