Zonie

I always wanted to be one of those California girls The Beach Boys sang about - the long, blonde hair, the dark tan, the oh-so-cool way they ride their beach cruisers down the boardwalk in their oh-so-tiny bikinis. But I'm just a Zonie. A poser. A fake. Somebody that pops in from next door Arizona right before it gets so hot it's about to melt. You can always spot us, too. The sunburned noses, the Noxzema smell, the cactus on the license plate, the bored kids trailing the parents, desperately wanting to escape and sneak down to the pier for a bonfire with the locals. But every summer we descend on southern California like we own the place, taking up every last parking space, every last inch of sand near the water, licking every last cone of fro yo as we try to look cool, like we belong, like we're really California girls. But we're not. So we shake off the towels until next year and go home.