This past weekend, Bossy went to stay with her friend
Eric Wendy Amy at her family’s beach house, and speaking of Amy’s family beach house, Bossy never revealed the correct answers to her Vacation Match Game Giveaway.
Anyway. There was Bossy this past weekend, at the beach, visiting with her friend Amy. Bossy just loves sitting in the sun, where sitting in the sun equals sleeping under a large canvas umbrella with towels covering every inch of Bossy’s exposed skin, which is already slathered with SPF 60.
“You are an 86-year-old woman,” Bossy’s friend Amy kept repeating, but Bossy couldn’t hear her because Bossy was too busy taking her afternoon heart pill.
So there was Bossy,
sunbathing shadebathing, when all of the sudden Bossy’s friend Amy said, “Look, it’s the man of your dreams!”
Maybe it was the way he sat squarely in his shade, or the way his towel draped from his sensible trunks to the tips of his narrow white toes, but there he was, the man of Bossy’s dreams.
The next thing Bossy knew the man of her dreams was eating a boardwalk hot dog — and then another — while Bossy’s heart leapt out of her chest at the way he leaned over his patriotic beach towel so as to prevent errant crumbs:
Of course all of the excitement of the hot dog consumption required the readjustment of patriotic toweling around the delicate ankle area:
While the recently ingested meat slurry moved through her dream man’s pyloric sphincter, it proved time for the dutiful reapplication of sunblock:
And then Bossy’s hunk of burning love gah willing not burning settled in for a good book no doubt suggested by one of the gals down at the accounting office.
Lulled by her dream man’s complacency, Bossy chose this time to go up on the boardwalk and purchase her own mechanically recovered meat on a bun. But when she returned, she saw this:
Poor Bossy. Summer lovin’ happened so fast. The end.