Carpe Beach’m: My Quest for the Perfect Puntastic Beach House Name

July 23, 2014 / DeeDeeFilly / 5 Comments

Some people collect shells at the beach. (Yawn.)

I collect really dumb beach house names.

Exhibit A:

I have quite a Beach House Hall of Fame going now – from the fun-to-say “Whale Rested” to the dated cultural reference “Farfrumwerken” – each name treasured for its breezy goofiness, clever punmanship, or that most highly sought-after quality of all, sheer stupidity. Try this one on for size:

I’m not making this up. it’s just THAT bad.

But the dork in me loves that there is thought and love and ridiculousness in every pun-filled morsel.

And I love that someone paid good money for a sign to hang on their multi-million dollar home that says, “Scooby Dune.”

You can go in a myriad of mind-bending pun directions with a beach house name, most of which lead straight to the sea (usually because “sea” rhymes really well with stuff):

And there’s always something fun to be done with “dune.” (And by fun, I mean AWESOME.)

Other “dune” also-rans: Dune R Thing, Just Dune It

The bounteous wildlife of the sea is all but bursting forth with pun possibilities:

Also would have accepted: One Good Tern, All Conched Out

And always and evermore, there’s the “shore.”

Shorely you jest.

Personally, I’m sucker for a good pop-culture pun, and this one ranks as maybe my favorite of all time:

And another pop-culture favorite with the kiddies: Looney Dunes.

And a favorite with the kiddies: Looney Dunes.

Sure, you could get all Downton Abbey and name your beach house something dignified like “Windswept” – as if it stands on the White Cliffs of Dover and not on stilts.

But as for me and my nonexistent beach house, I choose:

Unexpected. Imbued with a sense of togetherness. A timeless reference to John Hughes. Grand champion in my book.

Ah, smell that salt air? Wanna get “A Wave From It All” right from your arm chair?

My friends, the sea beckons you to share your favorite beach house names with me.

I will treasure these tacky postcards as cherished souvenirs of our vacations past.

They will live on as…(God forgive me)… our “legasea.”

My Own Private S.S. Minnow

July 10, 2014 / DeeDeeFilly / Leave a comment

I’m Throwing Back Thursday in my own way — dusting off some columns I’ve written in ages past and putting them back into circulation again. This one originally appeared in the Lyme Times on July 10, 2010 – long before my children actually started binge-watching Gilligan’s Island and could get the joke.

Summer clunkin’ 2011

You picked a fine time to leave me, Ma Bell.

It’s the dead calm of summer.

Nobody’s around except my two kids who do little more than shadow me with expectant looks and requests for snacks.

And of all my lonely and desperate hours, this is the time our phone line decided to go on the fritz.

I won’t bore you with the details, but basically, talking on the phone sounds like I’m inside the microwave with Orville Redenbacher. What’s worse, this crackling mess is blocking my main escape hatch — e-mail and the World Wide Time Suck.

The phrase “trapped on a desert island” has now become part of my daily parlance.

Life here is starting to look a lot like Gilligan’s Island, and I’m the Professor.

Now, I’m sure you were all thinking I’d be Ginger. That is soooo sweet of you, but I don’t own a single scrap of gold lamé, and Ginger would never be caught dead in a skirted swimsuit and a farmer’s tan.

No, I’m the castaway in charge.

I’m the guy this ridiculous cast of characters waits around on to engineer a new means of escape every day, plans that involve initiative and occasionally monkeys and never seem to work very well. And like that guy, I tend to wear a hunted expression that all but pleads, “Help me. I’m surrounded by lunatics and head-hunters.”

I can’t make up my mind exactly which parts my kids are playing as the scene is always changing.

Sometimes they’re Thurston and Lovey – a pampered pair who were quite sure their three-hour tour was going to be way more fun than this, who expect daily ice cream from the passing truck (only to have their hopes dashed), who need a full-time travel agent to entertain their every summer whim.

But more often than not, they’re bumbling buddies trapped in a love-hate state of mutual annoyance –Will as the cranky Skipper and Lucy as the goofy Gilligan.

There’s the constant background noise of growling and groaning and clunkings over the head, followed by complaints lodged with the Professor over what irritating things Gilligan has done or said now.

But some days, Lucy’s our Mary Ann, all sunny contentment and bouncy pony-tail, wearied by the grumpiness on this stupid island.

And then there’s my husband, Bill, who’s one of the random guest-stars who would just magically show up – a Harlem Globetrotter of sorts.

He flits in and out, making nice friendly appearances to keep things interesting. Then he inexplicably gets to return to civilization every day – while here we sit, still stuck with a hole in our boat with no new ideas and no place to go. Being a Globetrotter is good.

Desert island living definitely has its merits.

The pace is easy. You don’t have to be anywhere on time. You can wear the same capri pants every day and nobody knows the difference.

Sometimes there’s even time to kick back with a coconut drink – as long as you can tune out the ruckus of Gilligan and the Skipper squabbling their way out of that wretched hammock again.

This is 40…and then some

July 7, 2014 / DeeDeeFilly / 9 Comments

I just got out of the bathroom, plucking another fistful of grey hairs.

Shut up, I know. They just grow back in an army of little silver spikes, intent on total scalp domination.

And yet I pluck. It’s what you do when you’re 43, which is what I am, as of today.

Back when I was young and beautiful…and apparently a boy.

I now join the ranks of other 43-year-old women who haven’t exactly taken the world by storm – Shannen Doherty, Denise Richards, Debbie (now the more stately Deborah) Gibson.

Mind you, the 43-year-old guys are still ruling the school – Jon Hamm, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg (who has long since left Marky Mark and his Calvins behind).

But the 43-year-old women…hmmm…not as strong a showing. I can’t speak for how well Wendy Whoppers is holding up (an aging porn star, according to my handy “celebrities who are 43” list), but I don’t hear a whole lot from Claudia Schiffer anymore.

Even so, I doubt anyone’s ever offered her a senior discount.

Now, you may have heard this story before. (All my friends pretty much have.) But hey, old people repeat themselves a lot.

Back when I was a sprightly 42, I went treasure hunting at Goodwill. I’d hoped for a little pick-me-up, the kind that comes from unearthing a stain-free J. Crew rollneck sweater just your size.

Speaking of cheap thrills, how bout Barbie clothes?

Speaking of cheap thrills, nothing beats Barbie disco ensembles on your birthday. (Please please note my midriff-bearing top.)

But know this: nothing brings you crashing back down to earth like the check-out lady inquiring in all helpfulness, “Do you qualify for our senior discount?”

(Let me be clear. I was NOT buying girdles or Maeve Binchy novels at the time.)

All I could do was stare at the woman. Mouth agape. Eyes squinty.

And I hung on for the laugh. Surely, there had to be a joke in there somewhere. Surely.

Instead, she offered this qualification: “Our discount applies to people 55 and over.” Oh, well then, that makes everything better.

I squinted harder. My mouth hung slack. And I waited for her to cast her eyes upon my dewy complexion and blush hotly at her mistake.

Not to be unkind, but perhaps there’s a reason this woman worked at Goodwill. Clearly she was not one for making wise life choices, because she had the gall to ask me again, kind of snotty this time: “Well, do you?”

Being old and slow-witted, all I could muster was a haughty laugh and (perhaps a little too long and loud) an indignant, “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

It’s a good thing for her that I’m a lover, not a fighter…and that I have very little upper body strength for strangling.

Because, man, that’ll set you back.

You’re walking around thinking, I’m young. With it. Quasi-hip. I may have two kids and a station wagon and spider veins, but I’m still pulling it off. Sort of.

I mean, I’ve got it going onnnnn.

Then you have that soul-crushing moment when you discover you’re not 25 anymore. And that nobody my age says “hip” much — unless they’re joking about breaking one.

The thing is, I don’t want to be 25. I am perfectly content here at 43 – right along with my friends, Sarah Silverman and Melissa McCarthy.

I’m just not quite ready to share that 55-year-old senior discount with Jamie Lee Curtis. Or her Activia, for that matter.

There’s plenty of time for all that.

Twelve years to be exact, not that I’m counting.

Tales from the Crib

Married with Children…& Other Issues

Month: July 2014