Salt Encrusted

Here I am, Patricia, typing out my Haphazard Meanderings to you, nonexistent reader. 

I haven't washed my hair since Friday. Today is Monday.

So is the life a young girl leads when she surrounds herself with males who obtain different priorities than that of the average female. 

I got my nails done with my mom last week (its supposed to be mother daughter bonding, but we sit on opposite sides of the room and don't talk while me get simultaneously rubbed by Vietnamese women), and they are already chipped into oblivion. Instead of feeling like a more feminine version of myself, I feel like a twelve-year-old little girl that can't stay off the jungle gym long enough to let her sparkly pink nail polish dry. 

John is still asleep. So here I be. 

We spent the weekend in Ventura with a nice man named Zeph who shapes some pretty functional surfing devices (maybe you've heard of him). We ate his non-wife's enchilada's, wrestled with his three-year-old, surfed knee-high Rincon, and get aggravated at overhead C Street. 

My biceps are still sore from frantically trying to duck dive my 6'6" fish that floats me like a high performance longboard as headhigh white wash come thundering at me. Than I watched the men boogie womp at Oxnard shores on the same peak I watched a man break his board in four different places. I ran to the water and saved his now ruined board for him. 

When he got to me he said, "Wow, that's the worst break I've ever seen."

"Congratulations!"

He didn't seem to think that was appropriate. 

The thing was cracked right along side of the stringer and creased in about four different places. Congratulations where definitely in order. 

Then John got into a fight at Malibu.