Yes, there are plenty of fish in the sea.

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‘I know because I had my share of stinkers.’

I don’t want to embarrass The Child. Well, not any more than I have to. But I must say that she has excellent taste in boyfriends. So far, fingers-and-all-toes fervently crossed, she has managed to choose ‘dates’ who have not inspired The Dude or me to put on that Fake Nice-to-Meet-You Face. Or not very often, anyway.

(I put ‘dates’ in quotes because I don’t think that’s what Young People call ‘guys you go out with’. But, for my purposes today, it’ll have to do.)

Now, before I dig myself in deep here, let me say that this is not going to be a story about The Child and her ‘dates’. (I can hear her ‘whew’ all the way from Cambridge.) Nope. It’s going to be about me and mine.

See, I was about as opposite from The Child as a young dating girl could be. It seems I had a rather bad habit of picking ‘dates’ that my poor long-suffering parents most definitely found, well, ‘inappropriate’ if not downright cringe-worthy.

Part of this, I’m convinced, had to do with the fact that I was the oldest child — and a girl to boot. My mother has actually gone on record (see the comments section of ‘Double-Dating at the Drive-in with Bonnie and Clyde’ for proof) admitting I was her Test Cookie.

Me. Age 14, but I look all of 11, when I was allowed on my First Date. Bowling. On a Sunday afternoon. But still, it was a date

But, speaking of ‘testing’, if I’m honest — as honest as a Lutheranliar can be — I must admit that I was testing them a little. The more they showed their disapproval/dismay/disgust with a boyfriend, the more I liked him. I call this the Romeo and Juliet Syndrome. Because, young and naive as I was, I thought it was infinitely romantic to cling to a ‘love’ that my parents opposed.

Some of these guys I honestly couldn’t see anything wrong with. That guy in the picture at the top of this post, for example. Brad was his name. He was handsome, he was popular, he was sexy. Oops. Now I get it.

Speaking of ‘handsome, popular, and sexy’, here’s The Dude during his high-school days. Though if my parents liked him, I might not have. Or would I? OK, now my hair hurts. You can read about how I met him here

And then there were the guys who were so obviously wrong that I can’t imagine (now) why I ever gave them the time of day, much less went out with them — some of them for Very Long Periods of Time.

There was the Really Old Guy Who Wasn’t-Even-Divorced-Only-Separated Who Had Kids Closer To My Age Than He Was. But much funnier than That Old Guy (and who wouldn’t be?) was the Walloon. So here goes.

In my defense, the Walloon was the Very First Guy I Met When I Moved To New York. He was handsome. He had a big important job. He was a few — but not too many — years older than me. And he spoke French. I thought he was very sophisticated. And, to my parents’ dismay, allowed myself to be totally swept off my feet.

See, my parents could see right through that accented veneer to the creep within. In fact, their nickname for him was (and is) ‘Philippe the Creep’. Well, they had learned (by then) that to outwardly oppose any of my Bad Choices only served to bind me more closely to them, so they kept their nickname — and their dismay — a secret from me.

But just the other day I was on the phone with my Mom, praising The Child’s BF, and talking about some of my, er, lemons, when Mom said, re: the Walloon, “Yes, no one could stand him. That time you brought him to Gramma’s for Christmas? When he had you carrying the suitcases? And when he brought his own coffee and coffee maker? Marilyn (Mom’s sister) and I would have to go out and walk around the block, he made us so mad!”

It was Marilyn’s husband, my Uncle Arlyn, who coined the (kept secret from me at the time) epithet “Philippe the Creep”, and my Gramma who muttered “I thought so” when I explained that he was a Walloon. No, I’m not going to share a photo of myself with said Walloon. But I will tell you that the romance crumbled when I visited his family in Belgium and his mother served our dinner, then ate by herself in the kitchen.

Mom and Me. Not talking about the Old Guy, or even The Walloon. Or at least I don’t think so

Anyway. Belgian Bullet dodged. Now, back to The Child. So far, she has not exhibited any of those unfortunate Romeo-and-Juliet tendencies. And, like I mentioned, we’ve liked her boyfriends. But, even after she’s moved on, we make it a point never to say anything negative, even if prodded. Because you never know. She just might get back with Mr. Whomever, and we will have said something bad about him. Which can never ever be unsaid.

Couldn’t resist this pleasant pictorial interlude: The Child at her prom. Dates not shown to avoid embarrassment (mine, not the dates’)

We know this for a fact because The Dude had this extremely close friend, his college roommate in fact, whom we adored. He spent weekends in Amagansett. We visited him in Arizona. He even came to Thanksgiving. (And you Faithful Readers know how I feel about Thanksgiving.)

He was dating this Woman We Could Not Stand. And they (whew) broke up. He told us all about it, sobbing, over dinner. We did our best to console him, patting him on the back and saying soothing things like “No one liked her. She was really mean to you behind your back. You deserve much better.” I think we may even have muttered something (god help us) about there being “plenty of fish in the sea.”

Well. You guessed it. They not only got back together, they got married.

And no, we did not get invited to the wedding.

New York City. October 2017

 

 

 

“I’ll take a hot foot sandwich, please.”

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‘It’s August. Grab those beachy memories while you can.’

Somebody wise once said that August is like the Sunday of Summer. (I think it was me, actually, but it’s the kind of thing that more than one wise person certainly could have come up with.)

Now I’ve written about this bittersweet end-of-summer stuff before, in ‘Yup. Even Slackers Get the Labor Day Blues’ and ‘The Days Are Long, But the Season is Short’. But, hey, it’s my blog and I’m feeling, well, a tad ‘Augusty’.

How many times did I get out the boogie boards this summer? Do you have to ask?

I’m pretty sure you know what I mean. It’s like you’ve just dusted off your white bucks on Memorial Day and then you realize Labor Day is coming up and you’ll just have to put them away again without having worn them even once. Or like you told yourself you’d have plenty of time to go through all the photos from that birding trip to Africa and make a book out of them already. And, speaking of books, please don’t get me started on yes, this summer I’ll get my act together and find an agent and/or a publisher to turn my stories into a real pages-and-ink book.

Stories? You bet I have stories. Some didn’t have such a happy ending. Just ask that Belgian guy in the back

But enough whining. Speaking of summers and beaches, here’s a joke that’s a favorite of my mom’s. She tells it best, but I’ll give it a shot. Continue reading

Stars in stripes

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‘Looking back and forth on the Fourth’

For the past several summers we’ve had this fun Fourth of July tradition where we let The Child fill up our house with as many of her friends as we have beds to lay their pretty little heads on. Sometimes it’s guys and girls; sometimes ‘just’ girls. The Dude and I are happy with either arrangement, though we have noticed that when it’s girls-only, the Young Friends seem more inclined to activity — like going to the beach, hopping on the bikes, or heading into town to catch what’s up at The Talkhouse.  

Last year’s crop of Nation’s Birthday Beauties. Haven’t wrestled this year’s photo out of The Dude’s camera yet. But, trust me, they’re equally sparkly

(The guys, when the guest list includes them, seem content to hang around The Compound, sipping beer and, well, being content. Sometimes they bestir themselves to demonstrate their CrossFit routines; there was a Matt-shaped indentation in our lawn for a few post-Fourth days one year. Oh, and one other memorable Fourth, Somebody’s BF soaked his iPhone in our hot tub, though not intentionally. BTW, putting a soaked iPhone into a jar of rice does not dry it out, no matter what you may have read on the internet.)

Speaking of food, this year I inaugurated a new tradition: The USA Birthday Cake. From Carvel, of course. No, we didn’t sing

But hey, anything anybody wants to do — or not do — is A-okay with me. I’m happy to provide food — beaucoup de food — and stay the heck out of the way. I was in the kitchen in the midst of doing just that when one of this year’s Young Lovelies (and they are — lovely — each and every one of them) strolled by on her way to the pool, and I happened to catch the unmistakable whiff of — Coppertone.

Continue reading

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas”?

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‘Not so fast, Facebook Friends. Not so fast.’

I was all ready to write an amusing Memory Lane type tale about my first Real Summer Job (the kind that did not involve babysitting, but did involve the procurement of a Social Security Card), when I saw this on Facebook:

Posted on June 25. Exactly six months before Christmas. I get it, I get it. But I don’t want to play, OK?

So, excuse me, but the First Real Job at the Carlyle Union Banner story will just have to wait. Because (speaking of waiting) I plan to wait till at least after Thanksgiving to begin my own Countdown to Christmas. A “countdown” that will be “brutish and short”, if not “nasty” (sorry, Thomas Hobbes).

Those of you who have read my rants (er, pieces) for a while know that Thanksgiving — not Christmas — is my absolute A-Number-One Favorite Holiday. Christmas, with its obligatory gift-and-tip-giving and endless trapped-in-an-elevator playings of “Little Drummer Boy” doesn’t even come close. (For an amusing and non-crabby recounting of Five Big Ways Christmas can’t hold even a red cinnamon-scented candle to Thanksgiving, just click here.)

‘Little Children Forced to Greet Benevolent Uncles dressed as Scary Santas’ isn’t on my list, but probably should be

The other reason I’m not even close to being ready for a Countdown to Christmas is that I haven’t even begun my Countdown to the Fourth yet. And the Fourth of July is coming up this very next weekend. So I’d better get a wiggle on, as they say where I come from. Continue reading

“I do, I do. I really do like weddings.”

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‘After all, what’s not to like about a big ole party with champagne and dancing?’

There was a long dry spell there for a while. But I’m happy to report that not only is June bustin’ out all over, but so are the weddings. Not only are we going to a dandy weekend-long affair in a couple of weeks, but we just found out Nephew Chris and Squeeze Sarah are engaged. (I was going to use some corny euphemism like ‘getting hitched’, ‘tying the knot’, or maybe even ‘making things legal’, but restrained myself. Though I could not resist saying ‘Squeeze’. Oh well.)

Nephew on the left: engaged to be married. Nephew on the right: just got married. Yes, this is how I picture them in my Auntly Mind’s Eye

The long dry spell was because The Dude and I are long past the stage of going-to-friends’-and-relatives’ weddings and have finally broken into going-to-friends’-and-relatives’-kids’ weddings.  (There was a blip in there with a few do-overs, including my own, but not many, I’m sad/happy to say. My First Wedding is now a fond memory and funny story called ‘My Polio-Shot Marriage.’) Continue reading

“I’m watchin’ him!”

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‘The “Playdate”, back in Midcentury Modern Times.’

Last week I wrote about the Midcentury Modern custom of sending a high-school social studies class on a field trip to a maximum-security prison. I say “custom” because, frankly, I was astonished to find that many of you readers out there had done the very same thing. (And that’s not counting those of you who went to the very same high school as me.)

This week I’m curious to see how many of you grew up experiencing the Midcentury Modern version of the “playdate”.

“Playdates”, for those of you who don’t have, haven’t had, or don’t know anyone with children, are when parents or caregivers (what we used to call “babysitters”) set up specific times and places (“dates”) for kids to get together to “play”.

I just love that there is an actual Wikipedia entry for “playdate”. If you don’t feel like clicking, here’s what it goes on to say: Playdates have become common because the work schedules for busy parents, along with media warnings about leaving children unattended, prevent the kind of play that children of other generations participated in.

Hmmm. Just what “kind of play” was this? Continue reading

The gift that keeps on giving

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‘It really is the thought that counts’

First, I must extend my heartfelt apologies to The Child for using that photo up top from a Christmas-morning-in-her-early-teens-when-she’d-dyed-her-hair-an-unfortunate-hue. But it’s the only picture I could find of her actually presenting us with Christmas Coupons. So I simply could not resist.

As for the Christmas Coupons themselves, here’s one I had the foresight to save. Too bad it has, alas, expired.

I don't have a photo of The Child presenting me with this, but she was not a teen, and had normal-tinted hair at the time. I'm thinking maybe 8 or 9

I don’t have a photo of The Child presenting me with this. But I’m betting she was 8 or 9 at the time, with untinted hair and pretty impressive cursive

The Child came up with the idea of Christmas Coupons when she was barely able to scrawl with a Number Two pencil on lined paper. Instead of going to the Ben Franklin store to buy her Mommy a teensy vial of Evening in Paris (like I did for my mom, and which she probably still has), The Child would inscribe small bits of paper with promissory notes, usually for personal services. (Her foot rubs were in great demand, by her Dad anyway; I’ve never been able to let anyone anywhere near my feet.)  Continue reading