Hot Pink Payback
Nantucket is hardly unique in that it is comprised of land swiped from the Native Americans by English colonists. Now, I’m a big believer in karma’s ability to serve up some major cosmic tit-for-tat, but in the case of Nantucket, the acquisitive English settlers not only survived, they thrived. From the whaling fortunes made in the 19th century to the real estate fortunes made over the past two decades, it seems that when it comes to the WASPs, karma was asleep at the wheel. But last night I was strolling around town and I checked out the Lilly Pulitzer store.
I’m happy to report that my faith in karmic payback has been fully restored.
Nature Vs. Man
There’s an abundance of nature in Nantucket. By “nature” I don’t mean nature in the gestalt sense, like expanses of sky and the sweep of ocean that you can ooh and ahhh over from a respectable distance. I’m talking about the kind of small, sneaky nature that worms its way into everyday life. This year, it’s like we’re under attack.
The first sign of infiltration was the bee hive in our mailbox. Then, there was the toad hopping across the kitchen counter. Next, a baby bird was sitting under our bedroom window, chirping loudly, and no matter how much we tried to scare it so it would fly away, it just sat there under the bushes and kept squawking. The only way we could get it to shut up was to keep stuffing it with stale cereal. Now it’s too fat to fly. Yesterday, Sarah and I were riding our bikes to the beach and a snake slithered under our tires. And today on our run, the girls and I almost got slammed by projectile oyster shell, courtesy of a crazed kamikaze seagull.
While nature is perfectly fine in theory, is it too much to ask that it remain abstract? It’s one thing for nature to surround us, but when it keeps on popping up in unexpected places and situations, I don’t like it. No, sir, I don’t like it one bit.
I have no real problem with that corny “Leave Only Footprints” campaign. But here’s the deal- shouldn’t it work both ways? Think about that, Nature. And while you’re thinking, please stay outside.
Old Jake, New Jake
Every year in Nantucket, things change. Old houses are torn down and new ones take their place. Retail shops and restaurants change hands. There is a constant shift, an ebb and flow, like the surrounding ocean tides. While new things can be invigorating, it is almost impossible to avoid feeling some measure of nostalgia for the old.
Perhaps the biggest change I’ve noticed so far this year isn’t on the island, but within our nuclear family. This summer, Old Jake has been replaced by New Jake.
Old Jake would sleep until noon, then stagger into the kitchen and whine for someone to make him a bacon omelet. New Jake gets up at the crack of dawn to stretch before starting an eight-mile run. Old (underage) Jake would hide a suitcase of beer underneath the bushes next to our house. He’d drink with his friends, then head off into town, where he called himself Cooper and hit on girls. New Jake drinks water as he watches the rest of us swill down beer and says things like, man, that beer looks good, but it’s kind of a waste of calories and I have to run early tomorrow, so no thanks. Old Jake used to watch The Real World and similar crap TV from the time he got back from the beach in the late afternoon until our shouts that dinner was getting cold would rouse him sufficiently to saunter out to join us at the dinner table. New Jake lectures us on the amorality of shows like Intervention, and how playing voyeur to the misery of others is a horrible form of entertainment, then roundly chastises us for supporting this type of programming.
While it’s true that New Jake clears the table and hangs beach towels on the line and even found and inflated an air mattress for Micah’s friend to sleep on, I can’t deny a pang of nostalgia for Old Jake. Say what you want about him, he sure knew how to relax.
Ciao for Now
We’re about to load up the car and head off for two weeks! Just so you know, I might have a tough time fitting blog posts in between the incessant trips to the beach and strolls into town. But then, who knows? Maybe I’ll get bored, or it will rain, or something or someone will annoy me sufficiently that I’ll be compelled to crack open a laptop and launch into one of my rants. In fact, I think one (or even all) of those scenarios is a pretty good bet.
I’ll miss you. But I know I can count on you all to keep the mainland together until I get back.
Lost and Found
I knew that my jewelry was taken when our house was broken into a few weeks ago, but then, last week, I discovered I was also missing a pair of underpants. It actually occurred to me that there might be some connection between the underpants and the break-in, but I wasn’t about to call the police to report a pair of missing panties.
Then, we were contacted by the detective working on our case. They had a suspect in custody and they had confiscated some of the jewelry he’d pawned. The detective asked if he could bring it to show me.
“Sure,” I said.
Detective Guido is a lovely guy in his early thirties with puppy dog eyes and a very earnest manner. He showed me the jewelry, and I recognized one silver chain as mine.
I thought about bringing up the underwear. After all, he was here, right? “There’s one other thing,” I said. “I’m missing a pair of underpants.”
His eyes lit up. “You are?”
“Weird, huh?”
He pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. “What did they look like?”
“Blue. Kind of a medium blue. You know, not navy, but not light blue.”
“Medium. Not navy and not light.” He looked at me quizzically, head tipped to the side. “Sort of like a royal blue?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“Regular cut?”
Was he serious? His frantic scribbling told me he was. “Bikini cut, I guess they’re called.”
“Not a thong?”
“God, no.”
“Satin? Lace?”
“Cotton,” I said. “With a small rip at the waistband.” He dutifully recorded even this detail. “I still don’t get why anyone would take them.”
“They can be used to wipe down fingerprints,” Detective Guido said. Then, he paused. “Or, for a souvenir.” He blushed a little. “I realize that’s kind of embarrassing.”
“I can’t imagine he’d chose those for a souvenir,” I said, and I’m not sure why I kept talking, but I have a tendency (just ask my family) to volunteer way too much information. “I have other stuff that’s way more interesting.”
Detective Guido fidgeted and, clearing his throat, started back to his car. “Let me know if anything else turns up missing,” he said, and drove off.
Later, I was putting new sheets on my bed when I discovered the blue underpants. They must have gotten stuck by static after the sheets went through the dryer. I considered calling Detective Guido and telling him. But the fact is, we’d already spent way too much time discussing my underpants.
Summer Loving
For most of us, there comes a time when you’ve had enough of summer. You’ve had your fill of the relentless humidity that causes your hair to explode and cereal to droop. Swarming insects, mildew, even the profusion of sunlight can begin to wear you down. It doesn’t matter that you have waited all year for this, the most wondrous of seasons; there comes a time when, like an all-you-can-eat buffet, you reach your limit. For me, I first notice this when I’m in a retail establishment and the sight of fall clothes doesn’t make me feel anxious or annoyed.
Anyway, I wanted to report that yesterday I was in Urban Outfitters. I saw the corduroy skirts and the wool sweaters and cashmere scarves and guess what? I am not there yet. I am still hungry for summer.
When I was expecting Jake, the doctors told me that, based on the heartbeat, he was a girl. And when I went into the hospital to have him (two weeks late, after they told me he’d be early), the doctor left because he told me I was in for at least several more hours of labor. Jake emerged in the hallway twenty minutes later, with the help of a stunned intern.
This was the beginning of a trend Jake has maintained his whole life: proving people wrong, wonderfully and totally unintentionally. I love you, Jakey. Happy birthday!
Pssst. Over Here.
I was riding my bike down the street bright and early this morning, loving life. How could I not? The air smelled of newly-mown grass and the birds were chirping. Across the street were two women. They were walking, deep in conversation. As I approached, I shouted “Morning!” and waved merrily. The women stopped their conversation, looked me over, and wordlessly continued on their way.
I was devastated! Had they been oblivious to my presence, that would be understandable, but that pause, followed by such calculated snubbing, cut me to the quick. Suddenly, the pastoral beauty of the summer morn faded into behind a dark cloud of wretched misery.
I thought about this event for the next several hours, but after a good cry and a hearty lunch, I felt sufficiently invigorated to adopt a change in attitude. I would refuse to assume the role of victim.
Instead, I resolved to fight back. Tomorrow, I will try to engage them again. Who knows? Maybe they’ll chose to ignore me, but I have a feeling they’ll be less inclined to ignore my new friend, Mr. High Powered Crossbow.
Malled
Next time you hear me say I’m going to the mall, stop me. Please. Even if I insist I’m only returning a pair of shorts to American Eagle and I’ll be out in under fifteen minutes. The mall is the humanity at its most desperate, set in a plant-filled atrium with a food court.
From the moment you pass through the portal that connects the outer realm to the swirling vortex of depravity (some call this the mall entrance, but they lack imagination and insight) you are sucker-punched by human frailty in retail form. It’s as if they’ve franchised the Seven Deadly Sins.
There’s the Envy stirred by six foot tall posters of a pouting Gisele Bundchen in push-up bras and see-though lace panties at Victoria’s Secret. There’s the Sloth of the surly teens behind the counter at Hollister who cram your merchandise into a bag instead of folding it because they’re too busy laughing at some inside joke with their co-workers through their store-issued headsets. There’ s Greed, corporate and pervasive. Gluttony reigns in the food court, where thunderous herds of 200 pound twelve year olds gobble down their sixth slice of Sbarro’s pizza, washed down with milkshakes from McDonald’s. There’s the Wrath you feel when the Israeli guy from the Dead Sea Salt kiosk assaults you with hand lotion even though you’ve told him the six times he approached you previously that you’re not only really not interested, you might be allergic. And Lust, unabashedly pedophiliac, oozes through those photographs of largely naked underage models lining the walls at Abercrombie.
That leaves only Pride, which you surrender the moment you enter.
Yoga
I’ve been practicing yoga for a long time- more than 25 years. I love the way the strength and flexibility of the postures connect to the spiritual aspect of yoga. I feel that because of yoga, I am a more grounded and aware human being.
Sometimes I can’t manage to get to a class, which can be frustrating. For those of you who are not yoga novices, there is a really cool website, Aliveyoga.com, which offers live audio of classes in progress from some incredibly inspiring teachers, so you can participate from home. You have to have a basic knowledge of terms and postures, though.
And then, there’s something I do when I’m feeling stressed out, and I recommend this to everyone, even if they’ve never tried yoga before. Lauren, my teacher, calls it “legs-up-the-wall pose” which is a perfect and very literal description.
Find some wall space. Slide your butt as close to the wall as you can, then, lie on your back on the floor with your legs extended up the wall at a 90 degree angle. Place your arms at your sides, relax your shoulders and let your arms relax by your side. Close your eyes. Spend the next five to ten minutes breathing deeply and allow your mind to wander.
This is both invigorating and restorative. Namaste!