IslandRoar

Let It Snow...

Like many places, it's been a snowy winter for Martha's Vineyard. Curiously enough however, we've not had any snow days from school. Quick, knock on wood before I jinx it!

Most of our snow has miraculously fallen on weekends, and our last blizzard was deftly maneuvered by an early dismissal one day, followed by a late opening the next.

Not that I don't enjoy a good snow day, so long as they don't pile up (the way I know they have for many of you this winter), or cause us to stay in school till July.

Recently, when Daughter #2's high school was dismissed at 11, the snow was falling thick and fast. We hunkered down with some Ben & Jerry's, purchased purposefully the day before along with the milk and bread, in anticipation of the storm.

Daughter #2 rejected my pitiful offerings from Netflix, so we indulged ourselves by watching (500) Days Of Summer on pay per view. 

Then she fell asleep on one end of my beautiful and comfy new couch, while I blogged from the other, our feet overlapping in the middle under the quilts, the wind whipping the flakes sideways as they fell in the yard.

It was a far cry from the snow days of yesteryear, when my kids piled outside to go sledding and build snowmen, working their way through multiple pairs of mittens, and not returning until their faces were numb and the hot chocolate was on the table. With marshmallows.

And, while those days were fun, I couldn't help but think, as I snuggled on the couch with 15 year-old Daughter #2, that this was pretty darned nice too.

What are snow days like in your neck of the woods?

 

525,600 Minutes

 

Daughter #2 is an actress.

Last week Martha's Vineyard Regional High School premiered its musical production of Rent.

My daughter, 15, had a small role. She was the drug dealer. Leggings, hot pants, and leather jacket, a stage cigarette hanging from her mouth, she leaned against the set wall like a hooker.

I was so proud.

Frankly, I'm amazed the human eye can remain open with that much eyeliner and sparkly eye shadow applied.

Now, you must understand, Rent is practically iconic in our house. Between my three kids, they've seen it performed on stage in New York or Boston five times. Not counting the film.

I've also seen both. And I am not one of those gushing, Oh, everything My child does is fabulous kind of moms. So let's just say my expectations were adequately adjusted.

But let me tell you, these kids knocked it out of the park.

First-Born Son managed to make it home from The Big Apple to see his younger sister strut her stuff (literally). Playing Danny in the school's production of Grease his senior year, and having considered, briefly, becoming an actor himself, he's a rather severe critic. And even he felt compelled to give the show his Big Brother Seal of Approval.

If you know this show at all, you realize it's pretty heavy: drugs, sexuality, Aids, transvestites. Some of the more objectionable profanity was removed, but otherwise the production was pretty authentic. Actors and audience both dealt with the mature subject matter with the appropriate mixture of laughter and tears.

The auditorium was packed for each show. Yet another thing I adore about this community: the way it shows up and supports its kids. Standing ovation. Every time.

But my favorite "review" had to be long distance, via telephone from my mom. She called to wish Daughter #2 luck.

"Tell her to break a leg," she directed. Just like she used to say to me, whenever I performed as a kid.

Then she added, "And you tell her to PUSH those drugs."

Aw, did you ever hear anything so sweet?

 

Spin Cycle: Birthdays and Anniversaries

I did not have birthday parties when I was a kid. My mother always said that, since my birthday was in August, it was pointless to have a party because everybody was "on vacation." I didn't question this until I got a little older and noticed that we were the only family on my block who ever vacationed in August. Oh well.

The only exceptions to this were: when I was nine, and got to bring three friends to see 101 Dalmatians, then sit on the curb and eat ice cream at Dairy Queen; and when I turned 13 and had three friends sleep over. We went rollerskating and then played Strip Poker in my living room where our sleeping bags were laid out.

And, if I recall correctly, my sister spied on us and threatened to tell my parents about the Strip Poker, and I had to promise her my first-born child, or punch her really hard, or something like that, to keep her quiet. It's all a little fuzzy.

But I was never bitter about the lack of birthday parties. I mean, it wasn't like I didn't have food or a roof over my head, right? And, although there were no parties, there were presents, so I wasn't about to complain.

But deep down I secretly longed for a surprise party. It just seems like people really have to love you an awful lot to go to all that trouble. I'd given a few surprise parties in my life, but I'd never been lucky enough to be on the receiving end.

Until three years ago, on my 45th birthday. I thought I was going out to have lobster ravioli at my favorite island restaurant with my kids. My daughters and I had just gotten home from the Fair, and my son greeted us in the driveway.

"Come quick," he said. "There are baby ducks in the pool. They're so cute. Hurry!"

I know; you can't believe I fell for the old "baby ducks in the pool" routine. But when we lived in New Jersey, each summer this mama duck laid her eggs in the bushes at our swim club. Then she'd parade her little tribe up to the pool and they'd take their first swim in the lap lane. My kids thought this was the cutest thing. We looked forward to it every year.

So you see why I fell for it. I followed my son around to the backyard, where my pool is surrounded by a tall, ugly, gray wooden fence. And when I barreled through the gate, everyone shocked the hell out of me, yelling "Surprise!"

My wonderful friend and neighbor Karen, who knew of my secret longing for just such a party, had planned the whole thing. There was food and Mai Tai's and a cake.

And yes, I am happy and relieved to say there were presents. Because even though I know you're not supposed to care about the gifts, I am just shallow enough and immature enough, that I still do. They don't have to be big or expensive or fancy. They just have to Be.

It was the best birthday. Ever. Although I have to admit, I was a little bummed there weren't any baby ducks.


Now go read some more Spins on Birthdays or Anniversaries at Sprite's Keeper. If you're lucky, maybe one of them has some baby ducks.

Here's Looking at You...

Movie Night

Tonight I go off to another of my odd and unrelated jobs. I take care of Bill. It's another pretty nice gig.

Bill is 86. I cook him dinner and we eat together. He watches the news while I putter about. We chat, and I catch him up on the details of my life and my kids. I make sure he takes his meds and that he's set up for the night.

Oh, and here's the best part. We drink bourbon and watch old movies.

Yeah, life it tough. Actually, Bill is really the one drinking bourbon. But it makes him happy if I have a drink with him. His son, a good friend of mine who gave me the job, encourages this seemingly reckless behavior. I don't drink hard liquor, so my bourbon is mixed with lots of ice and water. Even Bill gets a little twinkle in his blue eyes when he sees my watered-down glass on the coaster.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?" he says, every time.

And when I bring him his second shot, he announces like clockwork, "You're a sweet, sweet girl." Add that to the fact that he tells me every week how nice I look, and he is pretty much the definition of my fan club these days, not a thing to be taken lightly.

He forgets a lot, Bill does. Each time I have to remind him which of my kids is at which school, and what they're studying before he nods. "Oh yes, I knew that." The short-term memory stuff is hard. But the long-term memory is sharp as a tack. When we decide which movie to watch he tells me "You're the boss," but he makes his preferences clear.

We watch the same films over and over, and for each one he can remember where he was the first time he saw it. "I was in the army in Basic Training," or "I saw that in Philadelphia in 1940." John Wayne in Stagecoach, Gary Cooper in High Noon, Robert  Montgomery in Night Must Fall.

And then there's Bogie. Bill adores him in The Maltese Falcon, and Key Largo, and he'd probably watch Casablanca every night if he could.

"I think it may be the best movie ever made," he'll say, and wait for me to agree.

Bill lives in an old island house that's been in his family for generations. There's an authentic whaling harpoon hanging over one of the fireplaces, and an original document signed by Abraham Lincoln on the opposite wall.

He ran his family's newspaper for many years, and with his wife raised five children. Now he spends his days reading, watching the news, and waiting for evening to come so he can have a couple of shots of bourbon and watch a movie with one of his kids or, sometimes, me.

He turns to me during certain scenes as we watch our movies, and grasps my hand with surprising strength. I know he's remembering some moment long gone, maybe from the first time he saw this film as a young man, or maybe something special about the person he saw it with.

"Do you like Humphrey Bogart," he asks, yet again.

I assure him I do, but what I really want to tell him is that, for the rest of my days, I will never hear Bogie utter those famous words, "Here's looking at you, kid," without thinking of him.

The Ideal Man

Star Wars Geeks

After long and deliberate consideration, I have decided that the man I am looking for, the man of my dreams, is very likely a Star Wars geek.

You know the type I mean. They come in all shapes and sizes, old and young, out in the open or in-the-closet with their Star Wars affection.

But they know the characters, from each and every Jedi to the evil assortment of "Darths." They can give you details on all the Star Wars vehicles and weapons, and they know which planet has two suns (come on, that was easy; even I knew Tatooine). They probably also really liked all the Lord of the Rings movies, and this latest installment of Star Trek.

It's not that I'm some big science fiction freak myself. And, although I like Star Wars, I am not over the moon about it (sorry, First-Born Son, but maybe it's time you knew the truth...).

But I've been paying attention. And the nerdy guys, the Star Wars geeks, they're funny. They make me laugh, a skill that should never be underestimated. Many of them aren't the most polished or sophisticated guys around, but I've been there, done that. I'm on the market for sincerity, big time.

Sincerity and creativity. If there's one thing a Star Wars geek is, it's creative. I am sick to death of being the only one in a relationship with any ideas about what to do or where to go.

It's not as though my expectations are unrealistic. I'm not talking about freaking Prince Charming here. I just want someone to pull out their lightsaber, slash a few stormtroopers, and whisk me away at light speed. I want a guy who knows what the Jedi Mind Trick is. And knows how to use it, if you know what I mean. There's got to be some guy out there who understands how to have fun. And I'll bet he's a Star Wars geek.

There's only one thing. I hope it doesn't cause anyone to label me as superficial, but it would be really good if he didn't look like Yoda. Or Jabba the Hut. Or a droid. Anything else, I'm pretty much open.

May The Force be strong with you.

*My apologies to all the non-Star Wars geeks out there

Spin Cycle: Memories

Movies In The Park

When I was growing up, my New Jersey town would show movies in the park one night a week all summer. They weren't kiddie movies and the crowd was often older, but I don't remember anything shown being explicit. "The Music Man" and some Vincent Price thrillers particularly stand out.

My sister and I went with the other kids from our block. We'd bring blankets and snacks and, at nine or ten years old, we thought we were the coolest things in the world. I can't imagine sending my kids off this way at night, but I guess it was a different time.

The movies never started until it grew quite dark. I remember grownups in lawn chairs telling us to be quiet and quit fooling around, but with none of our parents there to enforce anything, I'm not entirely sure we complied.

The biggest thrill was the night we were convinced we'd been offered drugs by the small group of teenagers that hung out at the park's entrance. We were on our way home and it was really dark. This being the early 70's, the "hippie" drug culture was in full swing, and we'd all been warned by our parents about the evils of both hippies and drugs. These long-haired, fringe-flaunting kids smoking cigarettes clearly fit the bill, at least in our drama charged minds.

"They're popping pills," I remember my neighborhood buddy Joey whispering. "I saw him take some."

They must have heard us and decided to teach us a lesson. Because, whether the pills Joey thought he saw were acid or Tylenol, I am pretty darned sure they were not trying to push them on us.

But they did, at that point, offer them. To scare us, no doubt. And it worked. We screamed, "Drugs!" and ran like the wind, certain they were on our heels in hot pursuit.

We didn't slow down till we reached the safety of our street, several blocks away. Of course, when we told our parents what had happened, they wouldn't let us go back for any more movies in the park. For years after that we passed by there with exaggerated caution, convinced some pill-pushing derelict was going to emerge from the bushes and grab us.

Ironically, this same park, years later, became a major hang out for me and a certain male friend of mine when we were teenagers ourselves. And no, we didn't go there to pop pills. But maybe that story is best left for another time.

For more of this week's memory Spins, head over to Sprite's Keeper.

Procrastination

I am devastated. Okay, maybe that's too strong a word. Not devastated, but definitely irritated. I took one of those quizzes on Facebook, the ones that ask you a few lame questions and spit out what kind of tree you'd be if you were a tree (or maybe that's Barbara Walters?). Have you ever tried any of them? Fun, right?

Anyway, I was supposed to be spending quality time working on my writing, so of course I was messing around on Facebook. I took the quiz to see if I was right-brained or left-brained. It was absolutely a no-brainer for me because I knew what the result would be. After all, I'm a writer, a poet, an artist. If I'm not right-brained, who is?

Except apparently, according to this highly scientific and in depth quiz, I'm not. I'm left-brained. Organized, meticulous, and by the book.

So yes, I'm irritated. Big time. Because you know what happened, don't you? Motherhood. Babies, children, carpools, schedules, and routine; that's what happened. I've spent years being a Parent with a capital "P." I've made meals and lists and doctors' appointments, and singlehandedly run the lives of at least four people (sometimes five, if you include the occasional overlapping life of my ex).

And I've been doing this now for nearly all of my adult life. At first I was a disorganized (yet artistic) mess. But I slowly evolved. So much so that if I picked up a paintbrush and palette these days, the only thing I'd wind up painting would probably be a list.

Do I really believe my brain has switched sides? No, I don't think so, but the fact remains, it's definitely been debriefed and reprogrammed, so to speak.

So enough with the Facebook quizzes. Or at least, next time I'll maybe try one that's harmless, like "What Disney Character" might I be. Except that I think of myself as a Pocahontas or a Mulan, and what if it tells me I'm more of a Cinderella?

I guess I'd better just stick to the writing. It's obviously a lot safer.

Potty Mouth

The "D" Word

Can someone please explain to me what the deal is with the sudden explosion of the word "douche" on family television? When did it go from the kind of word I wouldn't want to hear my kids use in the casual company of their friends, let alone in front of adults, to being bandied about on the likes of "Scrubs," "How I Met Your Mother," "90210," "Parks and Recreation," "Lost," and "Greek," just to name several of the ones I've actually witnessed over the past few months alone (can you tell I'm watching TV with adolescent girls?)?

I don't know about you, but when I was young, back in the dark ages when we actually had to get up to change the channel, "douche" and "douche bag" were shocking, soap-in-the-mouth inducing No-No's.

But then, other words were loaded back in the day as well. In seventh grade Angie Beals was suspended from our middle school field hockey team because the coach heard her utter the fateful words, "Hackensack sucks." And when I told my mother what had happened, she self righteously snapped, "Serves her right."

For me it was a lesson well learned. To this day I cringe at the uber-casual way adults and kids alike sling the word "sucks" around. Not that I don't occasionally use it myself, but not before carefully glancing around to make sure no one over the age of 65 is close enough to hear me.

I have a friend, just over 60, who does not approve of the expression "to blow something or someone off." I suppose for him it conjures up a tawdry description of vague and illicit sexual innuendo from his youth. But I use it quite complacently, as in, "You better not blow me off (by not showing up to my party, for example)," or "Come on, blow off work and let's go to the beach," without blinking an eye.

So is the shock value of words guaranteed to fade slowly as one generation ages and another pops up to take its place? Is it a foregone conclusion that one day my (as yet unborn) grandchildren may jump off their teeter-totter and run to greet me exclaiming, "Grandma, we're so F___ing glad to see you; we missed you so F___ing much!"

And I will disapprovingly glare at their parents, my children, who will of course merely laugh and say, "Oh Mom, you're soo old fashioned. Don't be such a douche."

I hope not. But you never know. Because the last thing I expected to see last month, when Daughter #2 and I went to the movies, was baby-blue-eyed, teen heart throb Zach Efron calling another character a "douche bag" in the recently released film "17 Again."

Am I the only one? What words are deal breakers for you? I'd really like to know. So please, leave a comment. I'd really rather you didn't blow me off.