beach

To clean, or not to clean?

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‘The best way to get ready for house guests’

I remember vividly the time I was chatting happily away on the phone with my Middle Younger Brother Roger when I caught myself and said, “Darn. I’ve gotta go. Wayne’s sister and her squeeze are coming for the weekend, and I have to clean.” At which my wise brother said, “No, no. You’ve got that backwards. You don’t clean before guests come — you clean after they go.”

Major crumb-producing loaf. When The Dude’s Bro visits, we go through one of these puppies each day

Well. How smart is my Middle Younger Brother? He was absolutely right. Guests — even beloved, dear, wonderful guests — make messes. Where I am, here on gorgeous Eastern Long Island (the land some folk call “The Hamptons”), guests produce not only crumbs on the countertops and hair in the showers but also sand on the floor. (And often there is sand in those showers too.)

Whattaya gonna do? It’s a sandy place

If you clean before guests come, you’re in that awful Hostess Place where you’re following your guests around with, like, a sponge or a cloth, trying to deal with crumbs and sand and whatnot, thinking “Oooooo…I just vacuumed that floor!” instead of relaxing and enjoying yourself — and them.

Big ole messy family birthday celebration. Trust me, I wasn’t thinking about crumbs

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“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

The (One) Time I went topless

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‘A tale of balmier climes and steamier times’

No. There is no photographic evidence. (She said, breathing a sigh of relief.) But once upon a time, I did go topless. It was at a Club Med. A French Club Med, I feel compelled to add. And it was back in the ’80s, when people did things like that. Or at least did things like that when they went to a French Club Med.

I’m reminded of this story because we New Yorkers have been frozen fast during the Third Coldest February on Record. Now we’re well into the second week of March and the beach here still looks like this:

Contrast this beach shot with the one at the top of this post. Snow castles, anyone?

Indian Wells Beach last weekend. A March weekend, people. Snow castles, anyone?

Anyway, back to the ’80s. And Club Med. Whatever you may think of Club Med now (if you think of Club Med at all), Back Then it was considered quite the racy venue for a vacation.

At Club Med, money was forbidden (pop beads were used at the bar), mixing of guests and (sexy) staff was encouraged (a ‘crazy signs’ song, wacky precursor to the Macarena, was performed at random times by any and everyone) and clothes (or tops anyway) were optional.

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