Pre-Vacation Day...The Worst of all Days - Redux

We just returned from the Jersey Shore...because, you know...we're.."Stronger than the Storm".

Well, sort of.

We actually only went for a few mid-week days this year, because...well, just because.

We weren't going to go at all, but then Saturday came and I started thinking about all the things I should be doing down there and wasn't. 

 

"Ahhhh…this is about the time when I run screaming into the first public rest room on the island because I've been holding it in since Cheesequake…and then the door is usually locked….ahhhhhh” 

So I took a chance and called one of the motels…and lo and behold they had some rooms. 

Well, they always have rooms….but they actually had vacant rooms. 

So I hid Z’s car keys juts before she was about to head out for Zumba and wouldn’t give them back until she agreed to go. 

So we went…and now we’re back…already.

Ahhhhhhhhh…. 

Of course I haven’t had any time to write anything up about it, so in keeping with this summer’s current theme of irresponsibility….

Original Post 7/29/11  

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Today is pre-vacation prep day. 

The worst of all days. 

We’re heading out for a week at the Jersey shore tomorrow. 

Z usually takes the day before we leave off and, well, you can guess the rest.

The first thing is to prepare a list of all the lists that need to be made.

The second thing is to adhere to the lists and check completed things off the list as we go. If items are attended to that were not previously on the list, they are added to the list…and then checked off...the list.

Of course packing is a big item on the list. There’s all sorts of packing. There’s food packing. Food preparation packing. Beverage packing, both non and non-non-alcoholic. There’s entertainment packing, which has become much more manageable with the advent of the IPod. No more lugging around 500 CDs just in case you feel moved to play “Lime in the Coconut” one night.

There’s linen and towel packing, pillow packing, shoe packing, sundry packing, mondry packing and tuesdray packing, as well. Snack packing, which is in addition to food packing, book packing and of course, clothes packing, which most definitely includes bathing suits and towels, since we are going to the beach for a week. 

Don’t laugh…it’s been known to happen; but not with us…not with the list…no way!

Once the lists have been scrutinized and check assured, car packing can now commence. The car is carefully backed down the driveway so that the packing materials can be efficiently hauled off the deck and onto the driveway, where the Rubik’s cube of packing can begin. You might think that packing a Hyundai with the stuff of two people should be pretty easy, but you would be wrong. 

As you know, if you’re shore savvy, weather wise, the beach is a funny place. While it may be warm and sunny at 11 AM, it can be cold, windy and cloudy by 4 PM. Therefore one must pack accordingly and pretty much just bring everything they own, including that natty sweater from Aunt Louise.

So there’s a lot of stuff and we kind of look like this when we're done.

I’ve actually thought of photographing or diagraming past packing’s to expedite things; but I thought that might be excessive. Not to mention weird. Besides, after a while it becomes second nature; until you buy a new car and then you start all over again. So it’s best to keep what you drive as a long as you can.  And 1988 was a good year for Hyundai’s.

Once ALL the packing and list checking is completed, a call to our house sitters, Gunter and Gerde, is made to assure them that their required supply of lutefisk is in the basement fermenting. We also let them know that there’s a brand new cushy sofa in the living room for their two very large, very scary, Great Danes, Hans and Feats, to have their way with.

It’s nice to know the place will be in good hands while we’re away, and the smell of week old lutefisk is always oddly reassuring upon our return.

Before we found Gunter and Gerde, we would just lock everything up tight and take all the usual vacation precautions; stop the mail and the papers, etc.

Z would leave a note behind with our mobile phone numbers, just in case any intruders wanted to get in touch with us; you know, in case they couldn’t figure out the remote for the flat screen or where we kept the “good” gin.

Z would also clean the place like a fiend the day before we left and make sure all the trash baskets were empty in the morning.  She always claimed that it was nice to come home to a clean house.  But I always suspected that she was really planning ahead in case we became shark food, and she didn’t want the “bereaved” relatives who came over to pick through all our stuff to think we had a messy house.

So, with all that in place, we look toward an early morning departure in hopes of beating the incessant traffic on the Garden State Parkway. 

Best of all, we’re now free to hit our pillows, which mostly prevents us from hitting each other. 

I mean vacation prep is stressful…list or no lists.

Check back in a couple of days and I’ll update you on our progress.  

I better add that to the list….
 

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Summer Half Time - Redux

Original Post 7/15/11
(How fast time flies...unless it takes the train, in which case there are inevitably delays)
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It’s July 15, the half-way point of “real” summer.  That is if you count June July and August as your “real” summertime.

Some folks get to carry their summers straight on in to October…but they don’t count since they’re mostly writers or something weird like that. Plus they’re largely disparaged and reviled by the normal working population

So, as I was saying, before I interrupted myself, seeing as Summer Half Time was fast approaching, I decided to take a stroll through the neighborhood to enjoy the summer heat and humidity.

As I came around the corner there were some roofers working in the hot broiling sun. Not sure how they do it. I guess they have lots of determination, and mind over matter type stuff working for them. Unlike myself who has no determination, let alone a mind that matters...or anything that actually works for me 

I was feeling kind of chipper so I thought I would go and say hello; you know, kind of let them know that their hard work was not going unnoticed.

To be honest, I don't think they get a lot of that kind of thing since they were already up on the roof, and seemed kind of surprised to see me suddenly appear up there with them.  Luckily, Marty landed on the lower roof, which was only a 7 or eight foot drop.

Which reminds me...

Hang in there Marty!  I’m sure that broken leg will be as good as new in no time! 

Gotta take care of your peeps…  Know what I mean?

Anyway, after we got the Marty situation sorted out, I helped them roll out some of the tar paper, and told them when the shingles looked a little out of line, which they seemed to appreciate. Some of the guys kept saying something to me in Spanish, which meant, I think, “Thanks for all your help”!

After a while, I got the impression that the fellas were worried about my not getting enough fluids since they kept telling me to piss off.  I guess that’s some sort of a roofers test for dehydration.  So I thought I would leave them to their work, satisfied that I had made their day a little brighter, if not easier. 

I’m not sure why they moved the ladder, but I was able to swing down from the gutter, without a problem. Not for me, but that gutter is going to need some straightening,

So, off I went, until next I came upon this sweet little old lady walking her little dog down the street.  She looked as if she were struggling a bit in the heat, so I told her to go sit down in the shade and I would walk the dog for her. 

After the police left and I had cleared up all the confusion, I was once again able to continue on my way.  But those plastic little handcuff straps they use nowadays, left me with a little bit of a rash on my wrists…and my ankles.

It seems this sweet old lady was nutty as loon and had stolen her neighbor’s shiatsu and was holding it for ransom the last few days. When the neighbors saw me “watering” the mising dog on their front lawn, they immediately called the police. 

When the first patrol car pulled up, siren whooping, lights flashing, I thought it might have something to do with Marty, or that maybe I wasn’t supposed to let the little fella go on someone’s lawn. But when the swat team arrived and ordered me onto the ground with my hands behind my head, I had a feeling there was some kind of mix up…maybe’s with the dog’s license or something. 

Then the Cable news truck pulled up, and while it was exciting to be on TV, I didn’t think anyone would recognize me with my face pushed into the grass.

But, like I said, it was all just a big mistake.  The old lady eventually explained everything, and even made us all some lemonade, but no one else would drink it but me.

Finally, I made my way over to the high school where it appeared there was some kind of summer camp going on. There was a bunch of young kids with cool tattoos all over their arms sitting on motorcycles smoking some kind of funny smelling cigarettes I wasn’t familiar with.

I’m thinking the motorcycles belonged to their dads or uncles since a lot of them had some pretty racy pictures on the side, and the cigarettes were some sort of non-tobacco “safe for kids” type thing. 

They were a nice group of youngsters and they invited me to “hang” with them for a while.  One of them offered to get me set up with a nice set of “tats”, which I misunderstood as nice set of “cats”, so I thanked him for his offer, but politely refused saying that I was allergic.

For some reason they seemed confused by this.

Another one of these super nice kids even offered to let me hang with his “old lady” for a while— which I thought kind of odd, but didn’t want to offend, in case he was a little on the simple side—so I told him I kind of had my fill of old ladies for one day, to which they all guffawed and proceeded to give me big pats on the back. I guessed they had heard about the incident with the dog.

I “hung” with these happy campers for a while, discussing the New Harry Potter movie, then finally said my farewells and headed on home to the air conditioned comfort of my little house.

First thing I did, when I got back to my office, was jot down a few quick notes so I wouldn’t forget anything when I was writing this up because, these days, I tend to forget a lot of the small details that make or break a good story. 

And now, looking back at what a great day that was, I can’t help but think what a great summer it’s been so far.

Here’s hoping the second half is just as much fun!



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YOU NEED A DOG! - Redux

Original Post 6/18/11

Janey’s been complaining about the lack of original posts this summer. She says, “How much longer do I have to wake up to this same old crap, every morning?”    

To which I respond, “Hang in just a little longer and I promise to have some brand new crap, up and rolling, soon…hopefully before we dip much further into the month.

“Well, I don’t like it at all…and you know none of this would happen if—“

“Yeah yeah…don’t say it….” I stop her before she starts up all over again.

“And what the hell is ‘Redux’ supposed to mean, anyway?  Why not just say, same old crap?”

I say, “I thought it sounded classier than ‘repeat’ or ‘rerun’.  Besides, a lot of people have never seen any of these things before. So it’s like I’m doing a public service…at least until the guy who does all the creative work gets back from wherever he ran off to with the coffee clutch money.”

So in order to get Janey off my back—which I constantly tell her, looks odd in public—I thought I better re-post this one…which should keep her quiet, hopefuly…at least through the weekend.

______________________________________________

My friend Janey, who I’ve known for more than 23 years, now— as impossible as that may seem to both of us— is the biggest animal lover I know.  She has never, in all that time, been without a house full of cats and Golden Retrievers. 

She loves her animals so much that she gives them the best of lives, and the best of her, for 15 years or so; then, when it's time, with a broken heart, she stays with them and holds them, until they’re ready to move on.

Janey wants me to get a dog….always.   

She’ll call me and say…

YOU NEED A DOG…!!!

WHAT”S WRONG WITH YOU????

Then she goes on to chastise me in her exceptional Queen of Queens twang—which mostly sounds like other people do when they have a very bad cold—and tells me that since I work from home I’d be a perfect dog owner, but I am the most selfish person in the universe…because I don’t have a dog!!!

And I don’t disagree. I am the most selfish person in the universe....

 I can barely take the time to water my plants...

.

let alone a dog.











She’s says, a dog will keep me company while I work...and make me laugh

All true, I say.

She says, a dog will give me companionship on my walks, fetch my newspaper and give me a sense of responsibility by demanding I take care of it.

I tell her that what I would really like is for the dog to not only fetch my newspaper but read it to me as well.

Then she usually says I’m an ass and hangs up the phone.

And this goes on and on in some variation several times a month.

In between, she tells me I should do more writing because she says I have a knack for it and people would like to read it.

She told me, 10 years ago, I should start a blog, she reminds me. 

She said I would enjoy it. She said she would enjoy it. 

I told her that maybe I would, soon...and now, 10 years later, I have.... 

And she was right…she does enjoy it…but I’m still on the fence. 

She says, you’re a great writer but people just don’t know that yet.

I tell her, I know I’m a great writer because my friend Joanne gave me a mug that says just that, right on the side…

Janey says, see, it must be true…it says so on the mug!

I say, I also have mugs that say I’m Cool as a Moose…

She says, you are Cool as a Moose, and with that I can’t disagree…I am.

We go on like this all the time.  Sometimes I’m her therapist, sometimes she’s mine.

She tells me, she can’t imagine being dead.

I tell her, no one can…unless they're dead. And then it’s difficult to talk....

She gets annoyed and says to stop kidding around. She tells met that she’s serious.  That she was watching a Cary Grant movie, the other night, and everyone in it was dead.

I say, it must be a very boring movie....

She again says, I’m an ass and hangs up the phone.

Then Janey will call and tell me that her landscaper is an ass, which makes me feel better, since now, I'm not the only one.

She says, she tells him to clean out the weeds on her fence, but he only cleans the weeds off her neighbor’s side of the fence and leaves her weeds alone.

I say, maybe he misunderstood, and she says no, he understood.  He just did it to spite me.

I say, why would he want to spite you?

And she says, because she told him that he cut the lawn crooked.

Crooked?

Yeah, she says. All the blades of grass are crooked. You should see them.

I say, maybe you’re just standing crooked, you know because of your one flat foot.

Then she starts to call me an ass, and I stop her and tell her, I’m glad she’s been my friend for all these years.

She thinks about this for a second then says…

Me too…but …

YOU NEED A DOG…!!!

WHAT”S WRONG WITH YOU????









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There’s Always Some Nun to Blame - Redux

Original Post 1/18/12
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I’ve mentioned a time or two that I attended Catholic Grammar school, full time, from 1960-1968, so I spent much of my early life surrounded by nuns.

Hey, why wouldn’t I?

Nuns are great….

We’d hang out at the convent to all hours, listening to the latest from Dylan; debating if this whole British Invasion thing was going to take off or wondering why no one really knew which of the five was actually Dave Clark.

Good times!

Well…not really….

I mean maybe if we actually did those kinds of things, but we didn’t.

Mostly we showed up every morning, sat quietly, hands precisely folded at the edge of our desks, backs straight, feet flat on the floor, and tried not to make eye contact with them. 

Making eye contact was bad.

Making eye contact meant that you were noticed and might be called on.

Being called on was bad.

Being called on meant you had to respond to the question being posed, and if your mind had chosen just that moment to wander back to the perplexing theories being proffered by Captain Kangaroo, earlier that morning, on hot cereal vs. cold…you had a problem.

See, the nuns of that era, had a theory of their own, which was that a little bit of pain was a good thing to get the old brain power in gear.  Not enough to draw blood or leave a mark, but just enough to help you recall those pesky times tables.

We had a nun, in the first grade, named Sister Helen, which may or may not have been her real name.

I suspected at the time that her real name might actually have been Natasha, and that she was a secret agent for the KGB who pal’d around with Boris Badenov.

That’s what I suspected.

Anyway, if you weren’t able to respond in the proper hands precisely folded at the edge of your desk, back straight, feet flat on the floor manner that was expected, “Sister Helen”, who was fairly youngish by nunish standards, would sidle up behind you—because they were experts at sidling— and grab hold of the one, precise little hair on the back of your head that was connected to every single nerve in your body…and pull. 

Never could you imagine that one little hair could be the source of such pain.

Now, panicked and totally clueless as to the nature of the question posed, you begin to throw out anything that pops into your head. Numbers, letters, historical figures and dates, bodies of water, continents…major and minor exports and imports of Brazil.  Anything and everything, hoping against hope that by some miracle you’ll hit on the correct answer. 

But you never did and the pain would continue until eventually a bright light would appear, beckoning to you, calling you home, bringing you some measure of peace, until you realized it was just Mrs. Gordon, the cleaning lady, opening the door to the cloak room, where we stored all our cloaks when we weren’t using them. 


The dagger room was in the back.

Then, to further add to your humiliation, Sister “Natasha” would keep on tugging until someone was finally able to answer the question, which was usually Marybuttercup Pennyloafers, with her smug little smile, who always had the answer to everything…including what exactly happened to Marilyn Monroe.

And then the pain would stop; at least the physical pain.

To be honest, I guess it could have been worse.  This was pretty much as deep as Sister Helen’s bag of tricks went. For the most part she was nice to us as long as we were paying attention. 

She had birthday parties for us with cupcakes, and holiday games and celebrations, exercise time when we would open all the windows on a 4 degree day, breathe in and breathe out, stretch and touch our toes.

She would even let us smoke in the back of the room….

No…I’m kidding.

We had to go outside to smoke.

So Sister Helen wasn’t so bad.

Some of the other nuns, and to be fair, lay teachers, I had along the way—those primarily left over from the Mesolithic era, when corporal punishment was widely accepted and expected— incorporated teaching methods that would have been frowned upon, even by Boris and the KGB.

But that was the way of the world before us, and even if our parents had a problem with it, there was a definite “ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies” policy in place.

In stark contrast to today, where if a teacher even hurts a kid’s feelings, they could be brought up on charges.

Someday down the road I’ll tell you about my 90 year old, or so it seemed, 4^th grade teacher, a bull of a woman, who blamed us for the untimely death, over the summer, of our 100 year old 3^rd grade teacher. She told us that we may have gotten Mrs. Cooney, but we weren’t’ going to get her….

Oh, and she also blamed us for killing President Kennedy.

Yep…marched right in after they announced it on the PA system, which was out and up the hall, so it was mostly unintelligible to us, and said, “The President is dead and it’s all your fault because you were talking instead of listening!”

And then we all felt bad about it.

I still do….

But don’t tell anybody. 

Especially Oliver Stone….

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A Hometown 4th of July - Redux

From 2011
_______________________________

Today is the 4^th of July!

My favorite holiday as far as holidays go. Even better than Christmas, except of course there’s no gifts. 

4^th of July means only one thing:  The 3 B’s…beaches, barbeques and… beautiful fireworks at the old High School. 

Okay, I took some liberty there with the B’s, but 2 B’s and an F just didn’t sound right.

When I was a kid, our 4^th of July usually began with a quick trip to “The Beach”.

Back then a beach card cost just a few bucks and maybe a dime to get your toes in the water.

Today…it’s more. 

Back then you had to fight your way through huge crowds of people just to claim a tiny spot in the sand to set down your dad’s scratchy, old, olive green army blanket; the one with the giant grape juice stain in the upper right corner. 

Once settled, we’d open up the Scotch cooler, grab a grape soda, and jump in the water. Maybe even take a swim out to the float…but only at low tide.

If you were lucky you might’ve scored a hot dog from the snack bar, and if you were real lucky you might have scored a pretzel stick…maybe even two.

After the beach, we’d come home for a family barbecue in one of my Aunt’s backyards, which were both within walking distance of the High School. We’d stuff ourselves with hot dogs and hamburgers for an afternoon “snack”, then Grandma's fried chicken and potato salad for dinner, with lots of watermelon in between.  Then off to the High School…


Back then, we didn’t have the big Grucci, computer choreographed displays we have now.   Back then we had “Arnie’s Real Good Fireworks” and a half dozen lines of mortar shells, which took most of the day to set up, and a poor guy, probably Arnie, running  back and forth with a flair lighting each one off individually, and running away like a mad man.



Throw in a couple of cool ground displays and we had ourselves a show!



Sitting on that scratchy old blanket…again…it was the most magical of shows.



If you came early, and sat in the bleachers there were also a lot of speeches and other goings on. Sometimes there would be a squad of army guys demonstrating how they could over run and capture College Avenue, if the need should arise.

 

And then, at last, Arnie would set off the first rocket and the oohs and aaahs would commence.  

Sure, those fireworks were nothing like today’s…but siting on that smelly, rash inducing blanket, decorating my t- shirt with a red white and blue Good Humor on a stick and risking incarceration by waving a pathetic little sparkler around like a manic little fool…it was a show that will never be topped in my imagination

And after Arnie rocked us with the grandest of finales—and the final big BOOM!— that Grand ol’ Flag of fire would light up, and the roar from the crowd would stay in your head all year long.



Now that’s a 4^th of July!  A Hometown 4^th of July.



See you at the Fireworks. I hope Arnies’ there too!

For more  4^th click here to check out “Morgan on the 4th of July” 

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My Little Corner of the World - Redux

Original Post 7/13/11
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I had a suburban moment, yesterday. Right here, in my little corner of the world.

I was out front about 7:30 AM-ish attending to my mandatory watering chores. Z is the Master Gardner so I graciously do some watering. We alternate the chore every other day…but sometimes I forget.

But not yesterday; yesterday I was up early, so I thought I’d get a jump on it.

So there I am, out front, hose at the ready, watering our beautiful array of Impatiens, Day Lilies, Dusty Millers, Russian Sage and a whole lot of other stuff that I’m sure I’ll get some flack about for not knowing what it is.

The fine spray of water glistens as the golden sun of early morning, peaks across the rooftops and sets the whole thing ablaze with light. The scene, reminiscent of the Weeki Wachee Mermaid show, dazzles.

Not really, but I wanted to use this cool picture….

Anyway, a neighbor passes by, walking her dog, waves and says, “Good morning!”

I return the wave and say “Good morning!” in kind, because to say good afternoon would make me seem odd, if not an idiot.

After apologizing for spraying my neighbor with the hose that was in my waving hand, I return my attention to my idyllic Weeki Wachee surroundings. And it was then that I realized…hey, I’m having a real frickin suburban moment.

But of course my version of the suburban moment also includes my having a Twilight Zone moment, where I’m transported back in time, to the imaginary town of Willoughby.

There I stand, much like today, garden hose in hand, but dressed in an ill fitting grey flannel suit, complete with skinny tie, and haircut resembling Dick York’s…the original Darren on “Bewitched”.

Yes…I know.

“Willoughby… Willoughby, next stop Willoughby”, I hear the conductor call as the train pulls into the quaint little depot, down the street.

But I’m quickly transported back to the present by my neighbor’s beefy husband who has dropped by to also wish me a good morning and politely ask me not to hose his wife down in the mornings, anymore; to which I happily agree to comply.

They’re rare, these idyllic moments. They’re even harder to spell. So we need to capture them in whatever way we can. Whether or not that includes the use of weapons is strictly a personal choice. I prefer Peanut Butter, which I find to be an excellent attractant.

The Hydrangeas are in full bloom as you can see. They say their color is determined by the amount of acidity in the soil. They also say that Jimmy Hoffa was buried in the west end zone of the former Giant Stadium, under about 6 feet of cement. Now he’s under parking spot D1245. Somehow, not as cool….

But I digress…again.

Our Hydrangeas are this cool pink color. My neighbor’s are blue…also cool.

Same soil…different colors…except I like mine better, mostly because they're mine and my neighbor doesn’t like me walking on his lawn, let alone picking his flowers.

Also, according to Wikipedia, that mostly dependable font of information, pink hydrangeas have many different meanings, but generally mean, "You are the beat of my heart", as described by the celebrated Asian florist Tan Jun Yong, where he was quoted saying, "The light delicate blush of the petals reminds me of a beating heart, while the size could only match the heart of the sender!"

Now there’s a guy who knows how to get lucky….

Way to go, Tan!

Moving on, here’s our own little island of tranquility in a sea of troubles, which is mostly the kid up the street, with the noisy motorcycle

This used to be where the previous owner of our house kept his boat…which I thought was odd since I always thought boats did better in water.

After we imported the holly bush from a charitable source, Z brought in the bird bath—which the ungrateful birds bitched about since they were hoping for a hot tub— added a couple of hanging baskets and some Adirondack chairs and viola…instant serenity.

Kind of like floral Zoloft.

This is our Red Panda Bamboo bush.

Believe it or not in less than 3 short years it’s grown from these few skinny little sticks. I’m concerned that in another few years it’s going to want to borrow the car instead of ordering take out.

The tomatoes are shaping up. No wise cracks there. I take my tomatoes very seriously. Now the cucumber, that’s a whole other story….

And here’s where I would be writing this little piece of Americana, if I were not taking the photo.

Yes…I know…I have to do everything!

So that’s my little suburban moment. A little piece of Twain, right here in my little corner of the world.

“Willoughby… Willoughby, next stop Willoughby…

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