IslandRoar

We Rock

I slept on curlers the other night, for the first time in a long time. The soft, foamy kind. Electric rollers don't work so well on my hair. It's kind of thick and stubborn. Like me.

I like my hair a lot. I've said this before. I consider myself a pretty humble person, but, for the record, I realize I've made a point of stating here that I like my hair and I think I smell nice.

Oh, and my feet. I think I have pretty feet.

I try to take photos of them in a variety of exotic warm weather locations. It's a love found late in life.

Believe it or not, I didn't start polishing my toenails until I was over 40. It seems the older I get, the more of a girly-girl I become. But a tough girly-girl. I am, after all, from New Jersey.

I'm a little worried that by admitting this stuff, you might think I have an inflated ego. Because of my feelings for my hair and my feet and how good I smell.

Why is it that we as women are so often hesitant to admit the many good things about ourselves, to praise ourselves? Are we worried other women will label us conceited bitches?

I've noticed most of us are pretty quick to point out our faults. I'm trying to stop doing this. I could name five negative things about myself right now in the blink of an eye.

But I won't. Instead, I'm going to tell you three good things about myself. Things I like.

And I'm going to have the nerve to ask you to do the same.

Here are mine: (in addition  to those I've already mentioned) I think I'm a generous and fun person; I like to think I have a really good sense of style; I like my fair, freckled, Irish coloring.

Okay, your turn. Come on, three things you like about yourself. Really, I want to know.

We all do.

 

Blog Roll Please...

One of my very fine bloggy buds recently pointed out to me that her blog was not listed in my blog roll.

She wasn't complaining, mind you. But she wanted me to get on it. Right away.

Which brought to my attention that I had not updated my blog roll in a mighty long time. I read a lot more great blogs these days, and have developed some wonderful relationships.

So last weekend I tried to go through my reader and bring some order to my  blog roll. There is no doubt in my  mind that I will have screwed up and omitted someone , so if you don't see your blog there, and you think it should be, please let me know.

I'm aware a whole bunch of you couldn't care less, but lots of you do, and with good reason. One of the best ways I've found to discover new blogs has been through your recommendations and your blog rolls.

And I know that the first time I saw my blog listed in someone's blog roll, I definitely felt a little thrill. Yes, I'm that simple.

So I thank that blogging friend for the kick in the butt. Now if only she could help me get the rest of my life in order so easily...

 

The Kindness of Strangers

I had a doctor's appointment off-island in Hyannis last week. And of course it turned out to be the day the whole east coast was slammed with a major storm.

The cape and islands (Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard) mostly got rain, but lots of it. Wind gusts were over 50 miles per hour. I was sure the ferry would be canceled. That happens when we get really bad "weather," as New Englanders like to say.

But fortunately the boats were still running, and, after a rocking, rolling passage, I drove off on the other side into the storm.

No off-island trip is complete without a supply run, if only because items cost so much less off-island, never mind the convenience and choice factors.

So even in the monsoon-like conditions, I stopped at Walmart, where I needed a bunch of miscellaneous crap.

When I finally got home late that evening and unpacked my stash, I discovered I had an extra Walmart bag that wasn't mine. It must've been left on that baggy carousel by whoever had been in line before me.

The bag held three clunky watches and three boxes with faux pearl jewelry, as well as three of those big plastic candy canes filled with Runts. No doubt this was someone's bag of stocking stuffers, or maybe even gifts for some kids in their life.

It wasn't as if I could drop it back at the store any time soon; I doubt I'll be off-island again before Christmas. But the next day I called the store to see if anyone had reported a missing bag. Nobody had, so they took my phone number and that was the end of it.

"Wow, this is really nice of you." The manager sounded surprised. "Not many people would call like this."

Really? I find that hard to believe. I have more than enough of my own junk; I don't need to confiscate anyone else's. I think most of us would at least drop the bag back at the store if they could.

What would you do?

Once in New Jersey, shortly after my marriage ended and my brain was not quite functioning to capacity, I left three bags of groceries underneath the cart in the parking lot. I packed up the car and drove home, where I realized pretty quickly I didn't have my fruits and veggies.

Not feeling very hopeful, I decided what the hell, and gave the store a call anyway.

Yup. Someone had brought in my bags from under the cart and left them with the manager. All my produce was there.

How surprising was that!

Have you ever been pleasantly surprised by the good will of perfect strangers?

I like to think that what comes around goes around. Maybe I'm hopelessly naive, but it's a hell of a lot better than settling for cynical and bitter, don't you think?

 

 

Flying Solo

This weekend I'm going to the one big formal holiday party I'm invited to each year.

By myself.

You don't get invited to many social events when you're divorced. I'm not trying to induce any pity here. It's just a fact.

I have some very good friends, and if they're having a pot-luck or a barbecue they'll be sure to include me. But when people decide to go out to dinner or have a drink at a restaurant or see a movie, it's generally a couples thing.

Two years ago when I was dating someone for a relatively long period of time I had many more invitations. Which is ironic, because I'm much more in need of a social life when I''m not dating and I'm by myself.

Nobody means to be cruel. I'm sure they don't think twice about it. It's one of society's best kept little secrets.

But this one party I am invited to each year requires flashing your invitation at the door to get in. I was lucky enough to land a spot on this mysterious "list" several years ago while I was working with one of the several people who host the affair (herself a single divorced woman). They key to remaining on the guest list, apparently, is that you must attend the party.

So I have. And, every year but one, I've attended it alone.

The first time I did this I thought I would throw up.

Go to a fancy party alone? The idea of merely walking in the door made me want to run home, grab some Haagen-Dazs, and break out the Netflix. It's not that I don't love parties. I do. But I'd never attended this kind of affair solo.

Two of my married friends, who themselves coveted a spot on the guest list, took me under their wing. One loaned me a vintage black wool halter dress that had belonged to her mother-in-law in the 60's. The other sent over several beautiful pieces of costume jewelry for me to choose from.

It may seem neurotic to think people turn and look when you enter such a soiree alone. But believe me, they do.

I headed straight for the bar. It was like being back in college, that feeling that I was capable of bridging any social barrier if I had a beer in my hand. Except now it was cabernet.

Martha's Vineyard is a small place, especially in winter. There were a lot of people there I knew. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a sight to behold here any time of year, take my word for it.

There was makeup, heels, men in actual suits and ties, tuxedos and gowns even. It felt a little like we were all Cinderella, transformed somehow from our every day selves by magic to attend the ball.

I wasn't prepared for the first comment on my flying solo.

"You're here alone?" an acquaintance boldly exclaimed. Then she patted me on the arm enthusiastically. "Good for you!"

I wish I could say she was the only one.

To be honest, some years it would be easier to stay home. But it's kind of become a challenge I feel I must rise to year after year.

I always end up having a good time. And I always leave feeling a little stronger, a little more whole in my self.

And, of course, I'm always happy to realize I've clinched my spot on the guest list for at least one more year.

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Newsletters

 

Let me preface this by saying that I have, on occasion, sent out holiday newsletters and I may again some day in the far off future. I receive a couple each year and I'm always eager to find out what people are up to. But let's face it, some newsletters read more like an ostentatious listing of Can You Top This rather than a warm friendly note of catch-up.

This then, is my tongue-in-cheek version of how one such holiday newsletter might read. I know none of you would EVER send out anything even remotely like this...

 

To all our wonderful friends and family,

Can you believe another year has rolled by? If not for the photos of little Chloe's Yale graduation (magna cum laude of course,) and the new addition to our summer "cottage" finally being complete (see photos on other side), it wouldn't seem possible.

In this time of financial hardship for so many, we're blessed that Tim has received not one but two promotions. His Christmas bonus will just about cover next year's college tuition for the twins. Hughie, that little braniac, got into Harvard and is cruising toward clinching class valedictorian. But poor Louie is another story. He was wait-listed at Princeton and it looks like he may have to settle for either Brown or Columbia.

Baby Stewie is now president of his middle school class and captain of both his soccer and basketball teams, as well as first chair cello in the orchestra. He's raising funds for a class trip to Every-Country-in-Europe and he'd really appreciate it if you could purchase some candy or wrapping paper to show him you care (brochure enclosed).

Tim's work keeps him so busy that he's only been able to compete in three triathlons this year. His new BMW is small consolation. And Peg is her usual hectic self, running the PTA and the Junior League. But she still manages to volunteer at the hospital AND do her weekly Meals-on-Wheels deliveries. Her new organic beauty-care product-line has been a huge success (website below). You should definitely check it out!

Well, we hope everyone's had a terrific year. We're sorry we didn't get a chance to see you all, but with our Family Volunteer Vacation to rebuild New Orleans in February, and our two short weeks cruising the Virgin Islands in April, time just seems to fly by. Maybe next year...

If you're ever up this way please give us a call. Barring scheduling conflicts, we can meet for coffee or brunch at your hotel. Or maybe a drink at the airport before you leave. That will give us a chance to really catch you up on our lives!

Sincerely, The Mimi-Mee Family

 

For more heartfelt and less jaded Spins on holiday newsletters, check out Sprite's Keeper.

 

Spin Cycle: Parental Confessions

 

I wasn't going to take part in this week's Spin because (choose one of the following):

    a) I am such a perfect parent that I have nothing to confess.
    b) My parenting confessions are so deep and dark that they cannot be 
        released into the blogosphere.

Then I realized I did have one confession I might be willing to share. And that is: I have every intention of one day being my grandchildren's favorite grandparent. And I don't care what I have to do to achieve this goal.

No, I am not yet a grandmother, and if things go as planned, I shouldn't be for at least several years too come. But when I do become one, any other grandparents the kid may have, whether real, step, or adopted, better watch out.

When my son was in high school, for a time he had a very serious girlfriend. He seemed to spend every waking moment with her and often her family. They treated him as extravagantly as they did their own kids. Presents were ridiculously expensive and always carried a designer label. Clearly they were bent on making a certain impression.

"He better not marry her," I complained to The Ex. "We'll be the schmo grandparents. I'll be baking cookies with our grandchild and they'll sweep in with tickets to Disney World. Or I'll plan a trip to Disney World and they'll take the kid to Hawaii. I can't compete with that."

"Who's getting married?" He stared at me blankly. "What are you talking about?"

Of course they eventually broke up, but not before I'd carefully thought it through, and bestowed on my imaginary future grandchildren the uncanny ability to spot any and all phony displays of affection (imaginary grandchildren are convenient that way).

I'll be the Fun Grandma, I decided. The one they stay up late with watching movies. The one who takes them sledding and chases them around the playground. The one who lets them make messes in the kitchen and splash water out of the bathtub.

I'll take them on special Grandma Vacations and spend one-on-one time with each of them. Then, when they're in high school or college, they can get a job out here summers and stay with me. What kid, after all, doesn't want to spend their summer on the Vineyard?

Let those other grandparents just try to compete with that.

Whew, simply writing all those plans exhausted the hell out of me. I may need to reconsider. Maybe it's easier to be the grandma who visits and sits regally in her chair, passing out 20's.

What do you think? What kind of grandparent do you plan on being?

Either way, I bet we'll all rock.

 

Now slink on over to Sprite's Keeper to read some more Parenting Confessions.

Real Housewives of the Vineyard?

 

Don't Judge A Book

A small group of field hockey moms were huddled on the chilly metal bleachers recently, watching the season home-opener.

Now, I don't know these women well. But our daughters have been together in school since they were little. Over the years we've commiserated on soccer fields and in school auditoriums, about everything from teachers and sleepovers to adolescent attitude.

Last season our girls were the new freshmen on the field hockey team. We sat through games, perplexed at the ref's never-ending whistle-blowing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. A couple of us, myself included, even played the game (briefly) back in the day, and we still couldn't figure out half the calls.

Our banter became sort of a joke. And this year we fell right back into it, trading horror stories about our daughters' belligerence, joking about the game as we tried to figure out the ref's calls, and loudly cheering the Vineyard team.

At first we didn't pay any attention to the lineup of four moms a few rows down from us. We could tell by their cheering that they were from the off-island team.  After a while though, I started to notice them sneaking glances back at us and then looking at one another meaningfully as we giggled.

At one point they turned around and set us straight regarding the foul we were wondering about out loud. We thanked them politely.

Okay, I admit it, we were being silly. But we weren't hurting anybody; we weren't being "mean girls." It was simple fun, damn it.

The women stood to go shortly before the game ended (2-0 Vineyard, BTW). We assumed they had a boat to catch to get off-island and home at a reasonable hour.

"Did you see the way they checked us out?" one of the Vineyard moms remarked when they'd left. "Talk about judgmental."

"Oh my gosh." It suddenly dawned on me. "They think we're The Real Housewives of Martha's Vineyard!"

We all laughed when I said it, but we shared the distinct impression it was probably true.

They had some preconceived notion about what women that live in a place like Martha's Vineyard must be like. And based on our shallow bleacher-behavior they'd no doubt decided we fit the bill.

If only they knew...

But they didn't, and that's really the point, isn't it?

I would've liked to tell them I'm originally from New Jersey and see what they'd think then. I have it on good authority from friends who follow the show, that those are the women they'd really need to watch out for.

Go Vineyard.

Beach Etiquette

Has this, or anything like it, ever happened to you?

It was late afternoon. We were enjoying a wonderful couple of hours at the beach. Like everyone I know, I've had a crazy-busy summer, so these moments sprawled in my chair on the sand were definitely precious and few.

Until a family traipsed over and parked their coolers, chairs, and blankets practically on top of us.

Now understand, it was after 4 o'clock. The beach was emptying out, parents whisking their little ones off for baths and dinner. There were endless wide open expanses of space on which to set up camp.

Daughter #2 raised her eyebrows at me and mouthed the word, "Tourists."

But I refuse to believe that just because a person is a tourist, they are unaware of basic beach etiquette.

I grew up going to Jones Beach in New York with my parents, or the Jersey shore. It was always crowded, blankets laid so close together that sometimes we had to walk single file, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, as we navigated our way to the water, making every effort not to kick sand onto any blankets or sunbathers along the way.

It's not like that on the Vineyard. Even on the rare occasion when the beaches fill up, there is still room for a respectable distance between encampments.

But these folks seemed oblivious. The kids ran off toward the water and the adults settled into their chairs. I could've reached out with my foot and touched the grandpa, who turned, making no attempt at discretion as he eyed us curiously.

There was a sudden tell-tale ripple of noise.

"That wasn't my knees," Gramps announced loudly. His family burst into hysterical belly laughs.

"Let's move," Daughter #2 whispered.

"We'll see," I said.

After all, I didn't want to be rude.

Miss Manners

Mole Person

My son had a friend from school staying with us for a week this summer. We called him the Mole Person.

Now let me state out front, he is a perfectly nice boy. He's younger than my son, who started college late. So I expected he'd be a little less mature. I know he's been well brought up; his mom called three times to touch base and express her appreciation. And he bought me a little candle before he left to thank me. So I will not judge him for life based on this one experience.

But the thing is, he spent most of the week in his basement room, while my son was at work. He'd emerge around 4, and then tell me he'd been up a while, on his computer or watching TV.

I think guests have obligations the same as hosts do. And I don't believe being a mole person, submerged in my perfectly nice, finished, but practically-windowless basement family room, qualifies as acceptable guest behavior.

"But he doesn't know you." First-Born Son tried to defend him.

"Then come upstairs and get to know us," I insisted.

Here's a clue: If you don't think your mother will approve of your behavior, it's a pretty good sign it doesn't pass muster.

I'm sure his mother would be horrified if she found out. And I think he knows it.

My son is hoping that he and Mole Person will rent an apartment in Manhattan for the upcoming school year. If it works out, I guess it'll be fine with me.

*Sigh.*

But what does one get a mole person as a housewarming gift? Curtains? A blindfold maybe?

Believe me, I won't waste my time worrying about it.