IslandRoar

Rising With The Sun

Are you a morning person or a night owl?

I have always wanted to be a morning person. The kind that springs out of bed at the crack of dawn, ready to take on the world. But God had other plans. And me being an early riser was not one of them.

Even as a young child I could easily sleep past ten o'clock. My mother was surprisingly tolerant of this, allowing me to skip summer day camp on occasion so I could sleep in, and screening my phone calls when I hit adolescence.

On the flip side, no matter what time I woke up, I was still wide awake and ready to go well past midnight. For years I worked 11pm to 7am at the hospital, suffering little of the well-documented effects of shift work.

I could clean the whole house after I put the kids to bed. And when we moved to the Vineyard, I spent many nights up till three or four o'clock, sorting through and packing up the fragments of our New Jersey life.

But I'd realized quickly, upon entering motherhood, that my night owl ways did not mix well in the real world. For one thing, unless you're in college or on a busy hospital unit, the world is a lonely place after 10pm. And children wake up at whatever time they wake up, irregardless of whether you went to bed at ten or two.

But lately my body is playing tricks on me. I will be 48 within the next month, so I suppose this may only be the beginning of an odyssey several years in length. I wake up frequently during the night and can no longer fall back asleep if it's past five or six o'clock. There aren't any night sweats of hot flashes (yet), but my mind starts to race, and I'm awake for the day.

As a result, I'm tired by ten at night and rarely make it past midnight, even on the weekends when I know I could sleep in, if only my body would allow it.

While I mourn the loss of late night TV (I miss you Conan and Dave!), I am trying to look at this as a positive thing. I plan on living a very long time. So I'm hoping when my body gets done readjusting itself, it will leave me literally a new woman: a morning person.

And I can spend the the second half of my life being one of those annoyingly chipper people, bursting with energy and ready, when I hop out of bed, to greet the day.

A Stitch In Time...

My Little Dividends

Last week Daughter #2 performed a surgical procedure on me. Well, not really a surgical procedure; she removed two stitches from my back where I'd had a skin biopsy done at the dermatologist's a couple of weeks ago.

Knowing I was an RN and would never schedule an office visit just to remove stitches, the nurse practitioner had given me a small sterile blade. I couldn't reach the sutures, but I planned on asking my friend, also an RN, to remove them for me.

She, however, has been busy working two jobs, and the stitches were doing what stitches do: growing tighter and itchier by the day. Finally I approached First-Born Son and asked him if he would try and cut them out.

"No way." Completely panicked, he held up his hands. "I'm too shaky. I'd hurt you, bad."

"No you wouldn't." I tried to be encouraging. Like when he was three years-old and afraid to go to sleep with the door closed. "I know you can do it."

"Please don't make me," he begged. And I was forced to relent.

Damn. One down.

I had better luck with Daughter #2. She approaches everything like a science project.

"Uh-oh," she giggled from her perch behind my back. "I think I cut your skin. But just a little."

I felt a tiny pinprick and the stitches were out. "You should be a surgeon," I told her. Stitches today, gallbladders tomorrow. Hey, a mom can dream, can't she?

It's extremely satisfying to witness the ever-increasing capabilities of one's children as they grow nearer and nearer to adulthood.

Daughter #1 is going to Manhattan for four days with friends in August. She has planned the whole trip in great detail, down to a line by line budget including how much they'll need for food, transportation, shows, and souvenirs.

It's especially gratifying when you are the recipient of some of these capabilities. When I am working and the internet goes down, First-Born Son messes with a few miscellaneous wires and ta-da! I'm back in business. I recently inherited Daughter #1's old iPod, but quite frankly, I'm at a loss on how to load the thing. I suppose I could learn if I had to, but for now why bother when Daughter #2 is here to load it with all my music?

It's sort of like finally receiving a dividend on a long term investment.

I'll admit it; I've wondered what it'll be like when I'm old and senile. Which kid will visit, and which one will succumb to sending lovely cards or letters on Mother's Day and my birthday (yeah, right, like cards and letters might even still exist then)?

Occasionally, when she thinks I'm a tad too sarcastic, Daughter #1 will remind me, "You really shouldn't talk that way to the person who may be picking out your nursing home one day."

Real wise ass, that one. I've no idea where she gets it, but if she's picking out my nursing home, boy, am I in trouble.

Spin Cycle: Friendship

When I saw the topic for this week's Spin, I automatically thought of this poem. I wrote it about a friend, my neighbor across the street in New Jersey. We each have three kids around the same ages, and all those kids are friends. I was devastated to be leaving her.

Moving

I lack the words to explain
what you have been for me
these nine years.

Instead I see our hair.
Long short permed thinning.
I see our bodies.
Too thin  not thin enough
bulging with babies
dripping with milk.

I see your eyes.
Laughing careful filled needing.
But always looking
straight into mine.

And I see the path we’ve woven
from your backyard across
the street to my own.
A walkway through the grass
through the blacktop street.
Grooves worn visible
to anyone who might see.

How long it took
to etch out of this
suburban wilderness
and how much longer
do you suppose
before it’s gone
without a trace.
                 

The best part of all is that, as I go into my 9th year out here on the Vineyard, her and I are still good friends. Of course it's changed, but in some ways it means more now, because we've made the effort to stay close, despite the distance.

I was so afraid of losing her. But I've learned I never will.

Now you need to click on over to Sprite's Keeper and check out some more of this week's Spins.

Wild Horse to Killer Whale

If you could be any animal in the whole world, what would you be?

When's the last time someone asked you that question? If it's been a while, has your answer changed since then?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a horse. A wild mustang. I guess that running free in the open range with a posse of other horses was what I found so appealing. But then I started hearing about herds of wild horses being shot at from helicopters, and sent to meat-packing plants. And horses can break a leg so easily, and then that's pretty much it.

So somewhere in my 20's, when my ex and I played this "What Animal Would You Be?" game, I decided to go with killer whale, or orca. You know, Shamu, except I wanted to be one in the wild.

It made a lot of sense. Whales have no natural predators except man, and they're not supposed to be hunted. They live in the water swimming, which I would absolutely love. But, unlike fish, they're mammals, so they get to nurse their young and hang out with their families, whom they also travel and swim with. And they can live to be 80 years old in the wild! Whales are smart. They  communicate with one another. They play and show affection.

And they get to jump around in the waves and blow water out the top of their heads. Sounds good to me.

My ex wanted to be a mountain goat. Figures. Lone and solitary, up in the mountains climbing, which he would enjoy. Interacting by butting heads.

Okay, I'll stop. I don't want to get mean and petty. But a mountain goat on a rocky cliff and a killer whale in the depths of the ocean???

I should've known it wouldn't last.

Reunion: Part Two

Parting Thoughts

So do I have any overwhelming impressions or prophetic words of wisdom after going back for my 30th high school reunion?

I think not.

Daughter #1 had given me a hard time before the reunion. When I looked out that hotel room window at the women, all former cheerleaders from my class, lying by the pool, I'd made the mistake of uttering a few not-so-nice words about the one of them down there that I'd never much liked. I'm sure this was partly because she didn't like me, but she was also conceited and unkind, traits I cannot abide.

"Maybe she's changed," D#1 said. "You're not even giving her a chance."

"You're right," I admitted. "But I don't really think people change much. I think they just become more of who they really are."

The night would prove that to be true. The teenage flirts, both male and female, still had their skills in tact. The class clown still cracked me up. And, unfortunately, the bitches remained... well, you know what.

My childhood pal, Butch, was still a charming, clever, wise ass who could always make me smile. We wasted little time in analyzing the years of high school that had alienated us from one another.

"You were a goody-goody," he said accusingly.

"Well, you were always high," I shot back.

And then we moved on.

He couldn't believe I remembered his dog, Fuzzy. I was amazed that he recalled the "Little Room" off our garage that we'd used as a clubhouse, and how my father always tried to keep out the boys.

"I can't blame him," Butch said. "He had two daughters he was trying to protect." He could relate, now that he was married with a 10 year-old daughter of his own.

He wanted me to know he had his own business, that he was successful. He had, in his words, "made something of" himself. I told him I was not at all surprised.

I was saddened to hear his mother had died a few years before. And he wanted me to be sure to tell my parents he'd said hello.

"I never forgot," he said, "in high school, the day my father died, I came home and your mom was there. She was really good to my mother. She took care of her that day." His voice was thick. "I never forgot."

We can never be sure what people might leave us with as they pass into and out of our lives. Just as we may never know what pieces of ourselves we've left with the people whose lives we've touched along the way.

I had fun at my reunion. I got dressed up, I danced and laughed. It was a blast.

But the surprising gift was the unexpected opportunity to make new memories with people I'd already had some pretty great old memories with.

Reunion: Part One

Transcending

(Okay this is me trying to look sultry and seductive; not very convincing, am I?)

It's the first day of school. Third grade. We've just moved to this new town over the summer and, although I now have friends on my block, none of them are in this class. I am the new kid. Other children are laughing, joking, non-stop talking.

I try to keep a smile on my face as I find the desk with my name tag on it. I don't want these kids to know how nervous I am. Then suddenly, the girl sitting at the desk in front of me turns around. She has platinum blond hair in perfect ringlets and her eyes are the bluest blue I have ever seen.

"Hi, I'm Cathy." She smiles at me and my nervousness evaporates, just like that. Her smile doesn't just light up her face; it causes the whole room to glow. I am so relieved. And completely enchanted.

Fast forward almost 40 years. I walk into my 30th high school reunion. Alone. It's a blur of bald guys in suits and women huddled in small packs, laughing. I see people I know, but not in the way I am looking for.

I glance quickly around the room. What had I been thinking, coming here by myself? Then I see her. When she looks up and recognizes me, I can tell one thing hasn't changed: her smile is still an incredible gift, an open invitation.

Cathy and I became instantaneous best friends. From third grade through fifth we were inseparable. Then things tapered off. In high school she became a band kid. I was into theater. It might as well have been two different schools.

We said hello in the halls if our eyes met. We even signed each other's yearbooks. But the unspoken social rules did not allow for much more.

I think that was my favorite thing about this class reunion. So much of that high school crap had just melted away. Not that there weren't some remnants.

There were a couple of bitchy girls who had morphed into bitchy women. I smiled and said hello and kept on moving. I had nothing to say to them, but it was liberating to realize they could no longer intimidate me in any way (of course, it didn't hurt that my dress was way prettier than theirs, either).

Cathy and I talked on and off all night. It is oddly weird and unexpectedly comforting to have someone you have not seen in 30 years remember so many intimate and important details of your life. And you, of theirs.

"I'm so glad you're writing," she said. "It was always so important to you."

"I think of you every time I go past Harcourt Avenue," she confessed. And I wondered how she could remember the name of my street, even as I knew I could still point out her old house, her old street, and remember that she always put her open can of Coke in the fridge before she drank it, because she liked it better flat.

Some other "kids" who had been in that third grade class with us came by the table at one point. None of us knew what had happened to our teacher. She'd been one of those rare and important teachers for me, the one who helped me recognize, at eight, that I was a writer. A few years after that, her husband died in Vietnam. I don't think either of them had even turned 30.

Yet here we were, 40 years later, a disparate group of middle-aged men and women, living entirely separate and unknown lives, none-the-less connected to one another through this teacher and her class that we'd experienced together so long ago.

Everyone took plenty of photos. At the end of the night there was a group shot. Cathy's husband, her high school sweetheart, already has it up on Facebook, and I can't wait to print a copy.

It will remind me that, although I moved away from that town the day after high school graduation, and no longer even live in that state, I did manage, we always manage, to leave a little piece of ourselves behind.

Reunion: The Prologue

Pre-reunion

It's amazing, that no matter how old and mature and confident we may think we are, the awkward adolescent we once were remains lurking somewhere deep inside, needing only a high school reunion to re-emerge. This unattractive truth was thrust on me before my actual reunion even began.

We'd checked into the hotel where the big event was to be held that night, and my daughters were standing at the full length windows that overlooked the pool.

"There's  a bunch of women sitting down there in bikinis," Daughter #1 reported. "Maybe you know them."

I went over and gazed down at the pool. Sure enough, the bathing beauties were, in fact, five of the cheerleaders from my high school. They sat there sunning themselves, chatting, and at one point, some of them smoking, for the longest time. They were joined by other classmates who came and went at various points.

How, you might ask, would I know all this? That's simple; I spied on them.

At first I simply stood at the window looking down. But I swear I saw a couple of them look up at one point, and I realized it was not out of the question that they might recognize me. So I decided to proceed with stealth.

"You're being ridiculous," D#1 informed me, when I dropped to the floor and resorted to peeking around the curtain.

"Yes," I agreed. "I am. But at least I'm having fun."

I don't know what acts of insidiousness or debauchery I thought I might catch them in the midst of. Aside from an occassonal guffaw, I was too far away to hear a word they said. But somehow I'd been swept up in a momentary drama of my own making. And, not only was I enjoying it, but I was powerless to resist.

"You're so antisocial," D#1 continued. "Why don't you just go down there and talk to them?"

Why, indeed?

"Just because I know them doesn't mean we're friends," I said, robustly channeling my 15 year-old self without even trying. "Besides, I'll see them at the reunion. Right now I have to get ready."

It was true. In between crawling on all fours to the window, I was showering, shaving, and enjoying a glass of wine. I needed to blow-dry my hair, and then find long moments to sit while Daughter #2 burned her fingers and (once) my ear straightening it with her new iron.

Still, they lingered poolside. I started to become indignant. Didn't any of these women need to get ready for the reunion? Was I the only one putting in the required time and effort to look my most beautiful? Or did these cheerleaders, still clinging, albeit somewhat precipitiously, to their bikini-ready younger selves, need only to run their fingers through their hair and toss on a fresh coat of lip gloss before making their grand entrance?

At one point I heard clapping and I was sure they were about to perform a cheer. I nearly tripped over the pillows on the bed in my mad scramble across it to reach the window. But alas, the squad was merely disbanding, no doubt to prepare themselves, FINALLY, for the night to come.

"You're insane." D#1 shook her head, frowining to stop herself from laughing, as I crouched on the corner of the bed, where I could see out the window, yet be camaflouged by the bedside chair. "And really immature," she added.

Sure, that's what you think now, I wanted to tell her. But just you wait 30 years. Your time will come...

Spin Cycle: Vacation

Growing up, we went on a family vacation every summer. My mother could not stand sand, so we were mountain people. Catskills, Poconos, Adirondacks.

For many years we stayed at a resort my parents had frequented with friends even before they were married. The owners knew us by name. There were cottages, but we stayed in the Main House where the rooms were large and airy.

Meals were served family style in the dining room. My sister and I planted ourselves outside it way before meal times, hoping to be delegated the all important task of ringing the bell.

The bell was heavy and golden. We took turns swinging it back and forth, clang-clanging it loudly in the open air as we skipped the paths, up by the cottages, then down past the Main House to the pool and around the huge old abandoned barn, summoning all the guests to come eat.

There was entertainment in the Clubhouse every night: live music, dancing, contests. One year my father judged the Costume Contest, and an older teen-aged girl trounced out the door in a huff when she was not chosen. She was, my parents informed us, a sore loser, something we were to avoid being at all costs.

We sipped cokes and watched our parents dance, then were pulled onto the dance floor with them to Alley Cat, Twist, and even, on occasion, to butcher the Tango.

When the band took a break we begged for quarters and met the other kids at the jukebox. It was the first place I heard "American Pie," which was so long it required two separate selections and additional change.

One year, primed for adventure, our gang of kids crossed the road and waded through the field of cows to the woods beyond, where we'd been told we'd find the remains of an old graveyard. The cows largely ignored us, but the bull, whom we'd been warned about, seemed intent on threatening us, and we wound up running for our lives (at least, that's how I very clearly remember it).

The gravestones were hidden under an overgrowth of vines and brush, but the ones we were able to uncover told stories of late 17th Century settlers with long Dutch surnames,  who lost wives and children far too young, burying them in what must have once been a family plot, 300 years before we stood there.

The summer I was 12, the resort's owners divorced and closed the place down. There were other mountains, other family vacation spots, but none, alas, with hidden graveyards guarded by fierce bulls, or serenaded by the sweet peal of a dinner bell.


Even though she is headed for Chicago, Jen is still hosting the Spin Cycle over at Sprite's Keeper, so head on over there right now and check out some more vacation Spins.

Suburban Bliss

 

I got back late from my weekend, and I'm still gathering my thoughts about my 30th high school reunion. So I'm running a post today I already had prepared. I promise I'll have a couple of posts about my weekend later this week. But since I was in New Jersey these past few days, this post seems pretty appropriate.

That Sweet Sound

I've mentioned before that one thing I really miss, living on an island, are trains. But something I know my kids felt the lack of right away after we moved here years ago, was the ice cream truck.

They were born and bred suburban kids from New Jersey. The sound of the ice cream truck was a quintessential part of their summer, as it had been part of my childhood summers years before.

When First-Born Son or Daughter #1 heard the organ-grinding, jack-in-the-box-like music somewhere in the neighborhood, their eyes would light up and lock with mine.

"Please? Can we?"

If I said yes, they would take off at top speed, racing toward the sound to catch the truck before it left the neighborhood (I say F-B Son and D#1 only because D#2 was too young when we lived in NJ, and therefore not allowed to cross the street).

I'd grab my purse, take D#2 by the hand, and meet them out on the street, where hopefully, they or some other opportunistic kid from the block, had managed to flag down the "ice-cream-man (or woman, as the case might be)."

At the NJ pool we belonged to, the ice cream truck came by every hour on the hour, blasting his music and taking one lap through the parking lot so we'd all know he was there. The ices had to be eaten outside the fence, and everyone who was going to indulge grabbed their towel and slipped on their flip-flops, or else paid for it by burning the soles of their feet as they picked their way across the searing parking lot black-top to reach the truck.

Throughout the many years my son played baseball for the town youth league, the only way to entice my daughters to sit through those long games, was the promise that, sooner or later, the ice cream truck would arrive. And we'd huddle in the bleachers, bundled in sweatshirts, spooning Italian ices past our shivering lips as we cheered.

There are some amazing ice cream parlors here on the Vineyard, but alas, no ice cream trucks. So, if you hear one pass through your neighborhood today, flag it down, buy an ice cream, and think of us as you enjoy it.

Sure, we can get in the car and go out for ice cream, or we can buy it and keep it in the freezer. But I'm sure you know exactly what I mean when I say, somehow, it's just not the same.

Reunion Bound

My Buddy Butchy

The perfect dress is carefully hanging in the car, and the hair has been cut (well, trimmed). In fact, by the time this posts, I'll be in the car, on my way to my 30 year high school reunion, to "Party Hearty," as we used to say in New Jersey back in the dark ages of 1979.

I seriously don't have any expectations. I just want to have a good time with whomever shows up. My best friend since the very first day of high school can't come. And another good friend I recently reconnected with on Facebook isn't going either.

But, according to the list, a couple of theater kids (yes, I  actually just wrote kids), I mean, people, are coming. I was a theater kid, so this is good news. A bunch of the cheerleaders are coming, of course. Maybe I shouldn't say "of course," because after all, I'm going too. But it just seems like an event cheerleaders would flock to.

Cheerleaders were very cool in our high school They could all do crazy gymnastic feats like back-walkovers and splits. And most of them were nice, which really pissed me off. Because if they're going to be pretty, popular, flexible, and smart, it would be a hell of a lot more satisfying not to like them.

But the name I was really excited to see on the list was Butchy. Well, that's not his real name, so that's not what it said. Let's just say it read, "Luther." With a name like that, you can understand why everyone, including his parents, called him "Butchy," or, as he grew older, "Butch."

He was my neighbor across the street from the time I was seven until I moved, right after high school graduation. He was one week younger than me, and we hung out together all the time. He played jump rope and hopscotch with me, and even brought his GI Joe over to my house when I wanted a romantic interest for my Barbie.

We were such good friends that he forgave me when I'd had a bad day at school and he was joking around with me and I tripped and fell and told my mother he pushed me and my father screamed at him really loud and mean in front of the whole block.

We were such good friends that I forgave him when we'd walk to school together every day but he took off and ran ahead when we were about a block away because he didn't want anyone to see that he walked to school with a girl.

We went our separate ways in high school. He started hanging out with a pretty rough crowd. My mother swore he was selling pot right out of his house. Our relationship was relegated to chin-bobbing hello's on the street or in the hallway at school.

His dad died when we were seniors. I remember waiting to catch him outside with his dog so I could tell him how sorry I was. It was somehow really important that I say it to his face. That may have been the last time we spoke. Then we graduated and I moved, and I never saw him again.

But......he's coming to the reunion! I hope he remembers who I am. I guess I'll have to call him "Luther."  After all, no one calls a grown man "Butch," right?

Or maybe, I'll just have to see what happens if I do.


I don't know how much internet access I'll have the next few days. Hopefully, there'll be some, but if you don't hear from me, I'll be back by Tuesday!

Spin Cycle: Routine

I don't like to think of myself as a routine-oriented person. Somehow I see me as more loose, ready to go with the flow.

Yet the truth is, I don't do well with transitions. Maybe that's a little harsh. It's not that I don't do well; it's just that I need a transition period to get through the transition. And for that, I rely on certain things that comfort me, a routine if you will.

I never realized this about myself until I recognized it in my son. Even as a baby he loved vacation, but he seemed so relieved when we returned home. He enjoyed school, but I learned to dread September.

Every year he'd be cranky and exhausted until he felt at ease with the new teacher, the new class of kids, and the new routine. Only then, when he once more felt like master of his universe, could he relax and do what he had to do.

In trying to help him learn to deal with transition, I saw that I had been unconsciously "handling" myself the same way for most of my life.

Routine gets such a bad rap. BORING. But everyone likes knowing what to expect. It helps us feel safe and secure. Babies are happier when they have regular mealtimes and naps, and even teenagers respond better when there are clear limits and rules that they know they need to follow.

Sometimes it's the little things. When I go away I need to bring enough books with me to read and to write in. If I can, I always take my favorite pillow.

My son knows he needs to call or text me when he's left school in Manhattan to come home for the weekend, and then again when he arrives back at school. My daughters do the same throughout their day, to let me know if they'll be late, who's driving them home, or if their plans change. It's part of our family routine, just like sitting down to dinner, or all three of them kissing me good night and good bye.

Family traditions see us through holidays and other special times. But maybe our daily routines are just smaller traditions that help us touch base as we get through the day.

I'm writing this post while lying in bed before I go to sleep. First-Born Son came in when he got home from work, like he does every night. He sat on the bed, roughed up the cat, and told me about his day. It's part of our routine.

Now I'll read a little before I turn out the light, because that's my routine. Boring? Maybe. But comforting? You bet.


Now head on over to the Never-Routine Sprite's Keeper for some more of this week's Spins.

Island Magic

Presidential Playground?

If you live on the Vineyard long enough, you will eventually have your share of celebrity sightings.

My son has been on the wait-staff of a private golf club for the past four summers, and he's served his share of actors, athletes, and politicians. Last summer in one two week period, he waited on Bill and Hillary Clinton, and then Barrack and Michelle Obama.

Daughter#1  got to attend Carly Simon's Christmas Eve party when the high school choral group she belonged to was asked to sing last year.

I have been able to provide my parents with celebrity sightings of Meg Ryan jogging in the road one summer, and Ted Danson and his wife, Mary Steenburgen, walking on an up-island beach one day after Thanksgiving. My mother still cannot accept that I moved to this "God-forsaken island," so I'm pretty sure I'm not exaggerating if I say these star sightings have been the highlight of her time spent here.

The word on the street recently is that Chelsea Clinton is getting married on the Vineyard this summer. And the whole world probably knows by now that the Obamas are set to vacation out here in August, despite the lack of comment from the White House.

Of course, the "island playground for the rich and famous" so often described in news and society columns is so completely out of sync with the island that I live on, that I wouldn't know where to begin. Sure, there's a lot of money out here in the summers, but the reason most celebrities love coming here is that it gives them a place to escape the circus of their daily lives (think Hunchback of Notre Dame yelling, "Sanctuary!").

While it would be pretty cool to actually see Obama, I realize I stand a much better chance of being held up in traffic, due to the Secret Service creating road blocks while he's here.

We didn't live here when Clinton was president, but our island vacation coincided with his on at least three occasions. The day he decided to walk up Circuit Avenue, the main drag in Oak Bluffs, for ice cream, the whole street was closed down. All the people already there had to stay, and nobody else was allowed access until he left.

The same thing happened at the Agricultural Fair, the August highlight of our island summer. When the Clintons decided to go to the fair, the gate was frozen. Nobody in or out until the president left. My friend needed to leave to get to work at the hospital. She says, and I believe her, that she had to get in the faces of the Secret Service guys, telling them she was leaving Now, and they could just Try and stop her (they didn't).

We'll see how it goes with the Obamas. I hope they have a great vacation and experience some of our island magic. But, hopefully, not at the expense of the rest of us.

Crowning Glory

To Cut or Not to Cut...

Now that I have the dress for my high school reunion, I made an appointment to get my hair cut.

I've been going to the same woman since I moved out here, and after all these years she's become a friend, as well as being amazing with hair. She did Daughter #1's hair for her junior prom, and Daughter #2's for her eighth grade graduation last year, and they looked like they should be in a full page spread in Vogue.

Not that I'm going to let her do much. I wear my hair long. I'm sure many people (yes, I mean you, Mom) think 47 is too old to wear your hair down your back. But I like it this way.

I've always liked my reddish hair, the texture and the color. I got a lot of attention for it as a kid. I still don't have any gray, but the blond highlights have gotten lighter and lighter the past couple of years, and I'm wondering if they may just eventually turn from blond to white.

I've cut my hair pixie short exactly three times in my life, at 6, 13, and 37. Each time, even at 6, I was looking for a big change, and each time I hated it. At 13 I went to school wearing a hooded sweatshirt, trying to hide it.

"What happened to your beautiful red hair!" my English teacher moaned. And I wanted to cry. I told everyone I needed it short to be on my swim team, which was a bold-faced lie.

That trauma kept me from cutting it short for almost 25 years. But after my marriage ended I wanted to change everything. Native Americans used to chop their hair off as an act of mourning, and sometimes I think that's what I was doing: mourning.

Other times I think I might have been hiding. A woman's hair can be a very sensual thing. I mean, what's the deal with men and long hair anyway? I've seen men turn their heads at women that are seriously not attractive, just because of the hair. I look back at when my marriage ended, and it's easy to see why I may have wanted to hide.

A couple of years ago my hair had grown really long, pretty much the way it is now. Again, I was looking for a change, but I wasn't going to chop it all off. Instead, I had it cut to just above my shoulders. It was dramatically different, sure, but I was totally not prepared for the way the men in my life, from my friends to my ex, responded.

"You cut your hair." They practically whined, seeming to be in mourning themselves.

I felt as though I'd had my breasts removed. I couldn't believe this connection men have between hair and sexuality, or even attractiveness. Come on guys, it's only hair! Has anyone else ever had a similar experience?

I know plenty of women that look stunning with shorter hair. But apparently, I am not one of them. Luckily, that suits me.

This time I'm only going in for a decent trim. Nothing drastic. Clearly, I don't think I could handle it.

Snake Charmer

Hide and Go Snake

Daughter #2 and I made an attempt to be snake charmers last week. We weren't very effective.

 I was walking into our laundry room bathroom when I saw it: a very long garter snake wrapped around a wooden bowl I keep on the counter by the sink. For one brief innocent moment, I thought it might be a rubber fake.

But then it started to move. No, it started to slither. I am not, as a general rule, afraid of snakes. But it's easy to say that when you've only encountered them in your garden. Seeing this one in my house, it might just as well have been a six-foot boa constrictor.

I backed quickly out of the bathroom, hoping it hadn't seen me, and shut the door. I wanted to trap it in there until Daughter #2 got home from walking the dog. I wasn't sure how much practical help she would be in the catch-and-release operation I knew we were facing, but I definitely needed the psychological support.

I could understand that the snake must have somehow slipped into the laundry room from the nearby garage, but how, I wondered, had it gotten onto the counter? Did it jump from the floor to the toilet, and the toilet to the sink, or did it just slither up the side of the cabinet (I don't really want to know the answer to this, do I?)?

D#2 arrived home, and I informed her of our mission. She seemed game, and I silently applauded myself for all the years she's spent working at a nearby island farm. Clearly I had raised a rough and tumble outdoorsy girl.

We gathered our equipment: a bucket to put it in, a big spoon to knock it into the bucket, and a cookie sheet to cover the bucket until we could throw it outside. D#2 grabbed a pair of tongs for picking up the snake. I thought that seemed very wise.

We didn't see it when we opened the bathroom door, and the idea that it may have moved to an undisclosed location within the house terrified me more than actually seeing the snake itself.

Then D#2 said "There it is," and pointed to the floor under the window. How did it get down so quickly? Did it jump? Again, I think it best that I never know. I held out the bucket and D#2 attempted to pick it up with the tongs. But it slithered out of her grasp and disappeared under the dryer.

And at that, for some curious, unknown reason, we screamed in unison like little girls and threw ourselves onto higher ground. From my perch on the sink, I looked up at D#2, standing high on the toilet. This was my brave frontier farm girl?

She looked down at me. "Why did we do that?"

I shrugged, attempting nonchalance. Duh, I wanted to say, I don't know about you, but I don't need to experience the sensation of a snake sliding over my flip-flopped foot in its mad dash to escape.

Have I mentioned that I am not a country girl? Oh, I may live in the country and do a fairly good imitation, what with my gardening and bug-rescuing and tick-extraction skills. But in my roots and at heart, I still prefer that my jungle be concrete.

That doesn't mean I'm a sissy. So don't judge me because I like my snakes outdoors where God, and every sane person I know, truly intended them to be.

At that point we couldn't find the damn snake, and D#2 needed to be at a rehearsal. Daughter #1 was just pulling into the driveway as we left.

"Oh no. We didn't tell her there's a snake in the house," I realized, as we drove away. "I hope it doesn't come out while we're gone."

D#2 said nothing, but I swear I saw just the faintest hint of a malicious gleam in her eye.

When I got back, D#1 was lying on the family room couch watching TV. The bathroom door was still closed, but as I approached, I saw that the snake had escaped into the family room itself.

"Quick, it's a snake," I screeched, grabbing the bucket and cookie sheet. "Don't be afraid; I need your help!"

"Oh, how cute." D#1 rushed over and picked the snake up, holding it close. "See? If you grab a snake behind its head, like this, it can't bite you."

I stared at her. Who Are You??

"Please," she pleaded, "can I keep it?"

And then I remembered. This was the daughter who, at five years of age, when the 17-year cicadas attacked our New Jersey neighborhood, picked them up and danced with them on the sidewalk outside our house. This was the daughter who, years ago, begged me to buy her a snake as a pet.

Somehow, in my snake-in-the-house induced hysteria, I had forgotten these simple facts.

"Go put that thing outside," I instructed. "And make sure it's far away from the house."

I watched her as she went, talking to it in a high pitched voice the whole while. Here was the real snake charmer.

Well, I thought, at least I raised one rough and tumble outdoorsy girl. Too bad I'd forgotten which was which.

Smoking In The Girls Room

Back in the Day

In honor of my 30th high school reunion, which I'll be leaving for a week from today, I thought I'd do a post that had to do with high school.

My high school had two stories and four staircases. Unlike my middle school, where two staircases were only for going up, and the other two for going down, on these four sets of stairs we could travel either way. One staircase, however, was only for seniors. It was labeled as such, and technically, no underclassmen were supposed to darken its steps.

When I was in junior high and went with my older sister to events at the high school, I thought this senior staircase was the coolest thing. It wasn't until I started going to the high school that I realized it was in the least trafficked area of the building and there was no formal policing of who actually used it.

Never the less, most underclassmen steered clear of it, and, as seniors, we had a fun time acting like we were willing to kick anyone's butt who dared try and bend the rules. I wonder if that senior staircase still exists in that school today.

Did anybody else out there have one in their high school? Or know of one that's still around today?

Another thing I almost can't believe when I look back, is the lax attitude that existed toward students smoking. Our high school did not have a smoking lounge as I've heard some others did, but there were five minutes between classes, and kids would head outside to the curb to have a cigarette then, and during lunch or free periods.

All this was completely within the rules. Of course, it was the 70's, and when the door to the teachers lounge swung open, huge clouds of thick cigarette smoke drifted into the hallway every time.

There was also so much smoking in the girls bathrooms that I rarely used them. If I really had to go, I'd travel way to the other side of the building, where I knew I could find an empty bathroom (probably right by the senior staircase). Sure, I had a few friends that smoked, but several of those other girls seemed to hold court in the bathrooms, and they were mean.

Two or three times a year the vice principal would do a sweep of the bathrooms and kids would be suspended. But everyone was right back at it the next day.

At my 20th high school reunion, at one point there were several women out on the dance floor together. As we danced, a woman who looked familiar but whom I did not know, leaned over, peeled my name tag from my dress, and stuck it on her own.

"I want to see what it's like to be you," she said.

"Oh?" I was clearly taken aback. "Did we go to high school together?"

"Yeah," she said. "But we didn't travel in the same circles."

Sure, I thought, she  assumed it had been so great to be me, while I'd probably been scared shitless of her.

"So," I told her, "you must have been one of those girls that had me too afraid to walk into the bathroom?"

Looking as surprised at my comment as I'd been by hers, she seemed to consider for a moment. Then she laughed and said, "Probably."

And, having cleared that up, we continued to dance.

Ah, high school. Aren't we glad that's over?

Spin Cycle: Driving

I taught two of my kids how to drive. Next year will be Daughter #2's turn. She'll get her permit at sixteen, then drive with me coaching her for six months, and get her license at sixteen-and-a-half. That age seemed so old to me when First-Born Son was there. Now, suddenly, it seems quite young.

My days as chauffeur are almost over. You would think I'd be relieved. After all, I've spent the last 20 years driving kids where they need to go, requiring that, on many occasions, I be in two or three places at the same time. And I am relieved. But still.

I've learned so much about my kids from driving them around. I was privy to conversations with their friends that I would never have heard if I was sitting in the same room. There was something about being one-to-one in the car that always offered up a wealth of unanticipated and surprisingly intimate conversation.

It's like when they were young and I was putting them to bed. It was late, I was tired. Yet it always seemed to be the time they picked to open up and share the secrets of their day: who had been mean at school; what they loved about their friends; what was really worrying them. I learned to relax and listen.

Driving them is a lot like that. I've had a long day. I need to start dinner or get ready for work. I'm tired and I still have to fold the wash and pay bills. But instead, I'm driving someone to play rehearsal or basketball practice. Or they're going to a football game or a sleepover.

Yet when we're trapped together in that small space, I find they so often open up about the things that are going on in their lives. And miraculously, these moments for the most part, are devoid of the usual adolescent indifference and belligerence that so often defines my days.

It was during these times in the car that First-Born Son confided his girl-troubles, and Daughter #1 shared the pressure she was feeling to get good grades for college.

But those two older kids of mine have been driving on their own for a long time now. These days, it's a lot harder to coax them into meaningful conversation or get them to sit in the same place with me for 20 minutes at a time.

Daughter #2, however, is still dependent on me to be her wheels. So I must remember, this next year as I drive her here, there, and everywhere, that these days are numbered. Just as when I used to put her to bed, I need to remind myself to relax and listen.

D #2 can be a regular Chatty Cathy while we're cruising. But too soon, like her brother and sister, she'll be getting behind the wheel of her own car. And, just as it's meant to be, leaving me in the dust.


Head on over to Sprite's Keeper for more of this weeks Spins on driving.

Toxic Tylenol?

Acetaminophen

Acetaminophen, or Tylenol, is getting a lot of press these days. The FDA is considering lowering the recommended dosage and putting warnings on the labels about the potential for liver damage.

All I can say is it's about time. As an RN I transferred to my hospital's pediatric unit back in 1984, and that was when I learned how toxic too much Tylenol could be. Almost every month we would admit an adolescent who came in after attempting suicide. They were rarely actually suicidal. Most were crying out for attention, trying to get someone to take them and their problems seriously.

So they would overdose on Tylenol, not realizing that they were doing far more damage than the kids who scraped their wrists with razor blades or needed their stomachs pumped clean of their parent's sleeping pills.

After all, their moms and dads had been feeding them Tylenol, for everything from fever to headache, since they were infants. How much harm could it do?

They and their parents were always shocked to discover how serious this particular overdose could be. "But it's just Tylenol," they would insist.

We'd have to treat quickly and aggressively to avoid permanent liver damage, and we never knew what their eventual outcome was at the time of their discharge.

Adolescents weren't the only ones. Every so often a toddler would get their hands on a bottle of acetaminophen infant drops and wind up on our unit in big trouble. The drops are concentrated so that babies only need to be given a tiny amount, but it's that concentration that is so very dangerous.

One couple rushed their 18 month old baby to us in the middle of the night after finding him asleep in his car seat with an empty bottle of the infant drops. They'd been on their way home from vacation, and he'd been crying in the backseat, bored from being strapped in so long. The next time they'd looked back in the darkness, he'd reached into the diaper bag and was holding the childproof bottle of acetaminophen drops.

"Then he fell asleep. We didn't think anything of it," the mom tearfully reported. "Till we got home and saw that empty bottle."

I felt for those parents But I learned from them too. I never left the diaper bag within my babies' reach. And I was paranoid about pushing Tylenol on them for every little ache and pain.

Not that they didn't want me to. My son, especially, loved the sugary taste. "Meanies," he'd say when he didn't feel well. We never figured out how "Tylenol" became "meanies," but he would have taken it every day if we'd offered it.

I remember friends confessing to dosing their babies every four hours around the clock when they were teething, or giving them the medicine because their kids were convinced it made them "all better."  They had no idea that after a few days of this, toxic levels in the liver were hard to flush out.

Parents want to make the best and safest decisions for their kids, but they can't do that without the correct information. So I'm glad the FDA might finally be about to put a warning on the acetaminophen label.

I repeat, it's about time.

Firecracker, Firecracker...

Boom, Boom, Boom!

I've always loved fireworks. The best fireworks on the Vineyard are in Oak Bluffs every August, but the 4th of July fireworks in Edgartown each year are pretty good too.

This year my family was scattered in all directions for the 4th, and for the first time in a long time, I did not see any fireworks.

When the kids were little and we lived in New Jersey, every year we would go see the fireworks in Cranford. Folks walked around selling glow sticks and necklaces, there were booths with popcorn and ices for sale, and the lawn was always wall to wall blankets covered with people of all ages.

First-Born Son loved the fireworks but he hated the noise. Little did we know he was the first in line to exhibit what must be a gene-related fireworks-noise phobia, present in all my offspring. My ex soothed his hysteria by sticking a huge pair of padded earphones on his head.

I guess he looked a little silly. People couldn't help staring at him, running around in his red white and blue OshKosh overalls, waving his glow stick wildly, oblivious to the contraption on his head. But at least he was able to enjoy the fireworks without fear.

Then Daughter #1 came along. That first year she was an infant and nursed her way through the fireworks without fanfare, but year two she started to scream at the first bang. First-Born Son was only four, and there was no way we were yanking those headphones off him.

So D #1 and I were banished to the car. There I turned up the radio and danced her feet on the ceiling of the car in the attempt to distract her from the booming. I like to think somewhere in her brain she maintains a sweet memory of that night; I know it was a keeper for me.

By the next year, F-B Son was feeling like a big enough boy to gallantly pass along the headphones to D #1. And all was well.

Eventually, Daughter #2 arrived and grew old enough to exhibit the firework-freak-out gene. But D #1 was only four herself, and not ready to give up the sacred headphones. That year my ex took his turn in the car.

When she was two-and-a-half, we discovered D #2 had a congenital hearing loss. That precluded her need for the headphones on the 4th. Although she could still hear the fireworks, we realized if we simply turned off her hearing aids and left them in her ears, that worked just as well.

Looking back, I wonder if it's weird that we made the decision to plug up our children's ears, rather than forego the fireworks. But at the time the noise seemed to be the issue, and they appeared to sincerely delight in the visual display.

Nowadays we can all enjoy our fireworks minus the ear accoutrements. But I was a little sad this year. D #2 went off to view them with her father and some friends on the beach, and F-B Son was out and about with his pals. I actually sat on the couch in my PJ's, reading and listening to the far off booming. I may have felt a bit nostalgic, but I have to admit it was pretty rare and relaxing.

D #1 got home late from her babysitting job. The two little boys had been asleep in their beds during the fireworks, she reported. She had anxiously hovered outside their bedroom door, absolutely certain they would awaken and be terrified by the noise. But, wonder of wonders, they slept through the whole thing.

Clearly, I explained to her, they do NOT have the gene.

Award Time

Love My Friends Award

 

I received this award from my pal Joanie over at Joanie's Random Ramblings, and I was really touched. She's been a bright spot for me since I started this blog, and I am happy to "pass on the Love."

The Love My Friends Award is given to those bloggers who aspire, inspire and share the most beautiful of human attributes: art, wisdom and friendship. Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more.

It's a little tricky to define a "friend" in the blogosphere, sort of like the way my kids define their "friends" on Facebook. But for the list below, I went with people whose blogs I really enjoy checking in on as much as possible, and with whom I have exchanged thoughtful and genuine emails with as part of the whole "comment" process.

Getting to know these bloggers has made me really glad I started this whole thing.

    1-Juggling Life
    2-Sprite's Keeper
    3-Forever A Jersey Girl
    4-One of Life's Little Twists
    5-Pseudonymous High School Teacher
    6-Voted Off the Island
    7-f8hasit
    8-Jan's Sushi Bar

I realize some of them may already have received this award, or they might be too busy to deal with passing it on right now, both of which are fine. But I really wanted them to know I think they rock! Go see for yourselves.

The Price of Perfection

A Dress to Kill

So my 30th high school reunion is in two weeks and I'd had yet to get a dress.

This can be a big deal when you live on an island. I can't just decide to buzz off to the mall this weekend. Even if I had the time to take the boat off and back on-island, I probably couldn't get a ferry reservation at such short notice this time of year.

I'm not sure how I let this happen. I'm usually pretty good at knowing when I'll need  to buy something off-island, and then planning ahead of time when I can go. But with my daughter's graduation and my parents visit, this one got by me.

It's not that I can't buy a dress on-island. Of course I can. The Vineyard has some of the trendiest little stores around. Trendiest, very expensive little stores, especially, again, this time of year.

But unless I wanted to order something on line and risk having to exchange it in time, I really had no choice. So Daughter #2 and I hit some shops. She's good for me to shop with. She gives me her honest opinion and, even more important, she doesn't make me feel terrible if I decide to ignore her advice, and buy something she hates, anyway.

We tried four stores and each seemed to have two dresses I felt were worth trying on, and one that could have been a possibility (did I mention how picky I can be?). They were all expensive, but like I said, at this point I was paying for convenience, which is never cheap.

My mother had given me some cash as an early birthday gift when she was here, so I was using that to rationalize further. Let's just say I was willing to spend $500. That's not the real amount, but I'm sure if I said the real amount, half of you would think it's too much and half of you would think it's too little, so I'll just go with $500 because, hopefully, we can all agree that's too much for one freaking dress for a freaking 30 year high school reunion.

At least that's what one would think...

But at the fourth store there was the dress. It was soft and silky and turquoisey and awesomely amazing. It was also at least three times as much as I wanted to spend, which, for the purpose of this post, makes it $1500.

"I can't buy it," I said to D #2. "But I can at least see how it looks on me."

Well, you know the rest of this story. It fit like Cinderella's fairy godmother had waved her magic wand.

"You have to get that dress," D #2 said, in no uncertain terms.

I swirled around before the dressing room mirror, trying to justify the unjustifiable. What if I didn't buy shoes? That would save me a considerable amount, right? And it's not like I won't wear it again. After all, my summer social calendar is always stock full of formal events.

In mere minutes I was leaping from, "I cannot get this dress," to "I don't know how I can NOT get this dress."

So I did.

I'm still waiting for that morning-after guilt to knock me flat. You know, the feeling you get when you wake up and realize you were drunk and dancing naked on the table top the night before?

But so far so good. Maybe I'm getting too old for guilt. Or maybe I just love that dress.