Vacation chronicles I: A shaken waitress, a lost goose

So we're at lunch today, a diner by the airport in Half Moon Bay, and it gets crowded. The waitress is a ditz but has a nice smile which makes up for the fact she is in way over her head.

She is waiting tables by herself, and she can't keep up. Two pain in the ass guys give her a hassle because they didn't get their coffee in a timely manner. They bust her chops and she busts right back, explaining the situation. After saying her piece, she comes to our table to offer my dad more coffee, her hand trembling as she pours it.

Then we go for a walk by along the hills by the ocean beach. My dad seems unsure of himself with his footing. As if he's afraid he's going to tumble to the sea, he walks on the plants instead of the path, breaking some sort of California law, I am sure.

My mom stays in the car.

Down below, the water is pretty calm, considering the wind and the season. The gulls are sunning themselves, nonchalantly walking about a few corpses of their brethren. There seems to be a lost Canada Goose among them - smart bird, I thought. Most of your kind have grown fat and stupid, choosing to stay along semi frozen rivers in the Midwest instead of seeking warmer weather.

There are supposed to be surfers galore, but my folks don't really know where, and I forgot to look it up online.

A shaken waitress, a misplaced goose, no signs of rubber suits.

The things you can see or not see living the retired life.

My folks spend their days between my brother's apartment along the Northern California coast and my sister and her family's digs near Lake Tahoe. They spend a lot of time reading crime novels and watching TV (CNN, Wheel of Fortune). They don't seem to have made any friends since moving out here 15 months ago.

It kind of makes me sad, for them and for me.

The self-pity meter starts spinning when I visit because I realize, as of now at least, I don't really have ANY retirement options.

Perhaps my niece and nephew will take pity on me. Or maybe I should start forming a commune of sorts for the legion of soloists just like me where we can look out for each other. Barren, we used to be called. Or bachelor farmers. Now it's just another lifestyle choice, though in my case it's not like I sat down and planned this as some cause or grand statement.

Some married folks look upon us single folks with envy, but sometimes it's like being that waitress and that goose.