I'm laying out in the sun a lot lately. I know it's not good for you, but I am going to California to be in a beachfront wedding next month and I'm not having people whispering amongst themselves about how pale the girl from Florida is. Plus, I drown myself in Mary Kay skincare products morning and night, so a few weeks of sun shouldn't kill me.
Anyway, I'm headed to the backyard in a non-matching, ill-fitting two-piece that I have no business wearing, but my privacy fence keeps any neighbors from turning into pillars of salt if they see me.
So there I am, the latest issue of Rolling Stone in one hand, electric-blue Ipod in the other, a watch to let me know when to flip, my cell phone and the waterhose dialed to the mister setting. I know it's a lot of crap just for being in the back yard, but hey, I get bored easily.
I lie down and get settled in, flip to the article on Zac Efron, hit shuffle on the Ipod and just as I fall into the sounds of Robin Trower, the neighbor behind me cranks up the lawn mower for the first time in two months.
Two laps around the yard and he's kicked up a dust cloud the size of a swarm of locusts. Then I smell the unmistakable odor of German Shepherd dog shit. Judging by the fact that the odor has reached my nose, the guy must've rolled over a sizeable pile, too.
Thus brought an abrupt end to today's sunbathing experience.