Your sister comes the last weekend, and you dance with her in the kitchen.  You take the male position.  She smells good.

You know your way around without using the GPS.

You begin thinking that you should cut your own hair.

You call your friend, Mary Ellen, the day after you’ve seen her several days in a row and ask if she’s missed you.

You look at a nasty rental apartment, a converted garage, on Balboa Island and firmly believe you can make it look “cute.”  After all, the only important rule here is location, location, location.

Your whole ambition in life is to work on the Balboa Ferry collecting fares.

Your husband is only calling once a day and it’s a short conversation at that.

You think John Wayne was the president of the United States.

You know more people in Mary Ellen’s ward than you do in your own.

You’ve begun photographing your food.

You think Newport Tattoo off 28th Street is calling your name, “Hey Beach Babe, come in and have a butterfly tattooed on your sagging behind!”  La la la la la la.