Ideally, vacations should be planned months in advance. Plane fares must be followed like the stock market, and the good hotels need to be reserved. With so much uncertainty about selling the stupid house, we couldn't do that. Instead, Steve and I made hasty plans two weeks ago. I sat at the computer and threw out location names to Steve, as he sat at his computer. Upstate New York? Cape May? Disney again? We settled on Cape Cod, because it had what we needed. A whole lotta nothing. 

The lower Cape is nice. It's a beach area with trees. It's not as crowded and hot as the Jersey shore, but it still has mini-golf and ice-cream to keep the kids amused. You don't have to deal with Snooki-types, but there are plenty of Muffys and Buffys in sleeve-less polo shirts and pearl earnings. We didn't go there. 

We found a hotel-ish motel in North Truro, which is almost at the tip of Cape Cod. It has an end-of-the-world feeling to it. It's a remote sandbar. Little houses sit on a hill covered with rose hips and cranberries. After a day on a beach and a hike, we threw on clean t-shirts and roamed around the gay and artsy P-Town.

I bought a hippy purse that still smells like Petchoulli. Ian realized that he loves fish and chips. Sand got in our duffle bags, and bare feet rested on the dashboard of the car. Jonah rubbed wax on his surf board. We met up with friends at Moby Dick's and imbibed too much wine. After a crazy spring with color coded calendars and school meetings and bus schedules, this lazy weekend was much needed.