No, you don’t have to put your white bucks away after Labor Day.

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‘Not if you never even got them out in the first place.’

Perhaps some Labor Day will roll around when I won’t say how amazed I am that it’s already Labor Day. But somehow I don’t think so.

In fact, I think my tendency to mutter such things as “boy, this summer sure went fast” and “I can’t believe it’s September already” will only get worse. I have this theory about why time  seems so much shorter and goes so much faster the older you get. See, when you are twenty, ten years is half of your life. When you’re my age, ten years is, well, I won’t get all mathematical, but the fraction would end in an “eenth”.

Me, back when I bought the white bucks. When ten years was still a significant chunk of my already-lived life

Not that I mind. I rather like that time is now so pacey. The calendar rolls along in such high gear that if I get stuck doing something I’d rather not do, I just know that whatever it is will be over in no time. And then I’ll get to complain about it. Dental work? A blink in time. Delay at La Guardia? A mere pause in the clock. Excruciatingly bad musical theater? Well, there was the show last season that had me counting the fake bricks in the scenery. But even that ended, and now lives on as a party anecdote.

When I do feel rather gobsmacked by time’s ever-increasing rapidity, is when I, say, look in my closet and realize that I never even wore my white bucks — and now it’s time to put them away till next summer.

Gosh. White bucks would have looked pretty nice with that stripey-shirt-topped outfit. But I bet I was wearing my blue Birkenstocks. Which I, um, don’t put away. Ever

I know a couple of extremely astute women who run a website called lustre.net who claim that you can wear basically what you want to wear — white, and (I’m assuming) white bucks included — whenever the heck you want to wear it, calendar be darned.

Well, I respect these women and their mission, but I’m gonna stow the white bucks. I figure wearing them could go either way. Either people on the street will think I am original and daring and brave and funky and fun. Like, you know, Betsey Johnson. Who is ten years older than me and wears tutus. Often.

Or (more likely) they’ll think I’m a batty old lady who doesn’t know better than to switch to the brown bucks, already. (Yes, I have brown bucks; bucks and brogues of all shades and degrees of shininess are quite the Thing among women of my set — or at least in my personal closet.)

Incidentally, I thought about going to my closet right now and taking a picture of my bucks and brogues to share with you. But, nah. That would be a seriously batty old lady thing to do. That picture at the top is the closest I’ll get — that’s me (or my feet, anyway) modeling my other Summer Footwear of Choice: flipflops. Which The Child taught me to say rather than “thongs”. For reasons embarrassingly obvious to her then-teen self but not to me, until she ‘splained it. (“Thongs” are underwear, Mom!”)

Speaking of underwear. Speaking of embarrassing. Fortunately, those aren’t thongs

Well, enough about me and my closet and my unworn white bucks. It’s time to bid both you — and the summer — adieu.

What I’ll miss even more than not wearing my white bucks: not getting to see summer sunsets like this one until next year

New York City. September 2019

 

 

Crime ‘n Stuff

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‘Waves of summer mayhem out East Hampton Way’

Well. No turkeys-storming-the-birdfeeder excuses today. I’m late because Labor Day Weekend brought me a full complement of competent Twenty-Somethings to liven things up here around The Compound. And after they left I had to immediately erase all traces of their occupancy (change the sheets; wash the towels; wipe up the avocado-toast crumbs) — or feel super sad.

These turkeys are welcome at my ‘feeder’ any ole time. I miss ’em already

So now that I can walk around the house without feeling assaulted by reminders of a rollicking good weekend (oops, somebody left her wineglass out by the pool; er, that would be me), let me get down to the actual topic of the piece. Which is crime.

Now this is a crime: floaterless pool floats

Yes, crime. Out here on the Eastern End of Long Island, otherwise known as The Hamptons, we do have our share of crime. In the summertime much of it has to do with road rage, which is understandable when you consider that the local population explodes from around 20,000 to upwards of 60,000. Some sources say 100,000, even. All I know is that they all have cars and that all summer long it’s impossible to leave my driveway without doing that queen-wave-with-a-smile gesture that means “You’d better let me out now, if you know what’s good for you and that shiny finish on your passenger door!”

Why, just the other day I watched in wonder as a Range-Rover-wielding Botox Fan backed out of Brent’s Deli (home of the Best Fried Chicken on the Planet) right into a hapless Camry waiting at the red light. I hope she at least bought him a bucket. With sides. Continue reading

“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 days are long, but the season is short

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‘Childhood and Summer. Both over way too soon.’

Some wit on Facebook said the other day that September was kind of like one big ole Monday. Well, I totally get that. Places to go, people to see, work to do, school to go back to.

But, hey. If September is Monday, then isn’t August Sunday Night? You know what I mean. Summer starts out so full of possibilities and then all of a sudden it’s August, and you’re filled with regret over all the stuff you didn’t have time for. That New Thing you were going to learn (yes, I mean you, bridge.) That project you were going to finish (the Christmas pillow I’ve been needle-pointing my entire adult life). That book you were going to write (or just, um, read).

If August were a book, it would be this one

If August were a book, it would be this one

When it comes right down to it, that unused paddle board in the basement isn’t so different, really, from that pile of math homework that used to confront you accusingly on the dining room table while ‘Sixty Minutes’ ticked away in the living room.

What makes things even worse is when you realize that you actually had the time to do all these things, but just didn’t get around to them — because, well, summer is so long, and you have plenty of time. Continue reading

Yup. Even Slackers get the Labor Day Blues

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‘Summer, I miss you already’

I know, I know. Summer isn’t officially over till, like, September 21. But even if yesterday wasn’t Labor Day, I say that if I have to grill my burgers by flashlight it’s Autumn. Okay? And today it’s back to Reality (and the Big City), since even sporadically-employed freelancers like me have obligations and responsibilities. (See ‘I love the smell of SoftScrub in the morning’ for envy-inducing examples.)

But before I go, I’d like to recall a few of the summery things I miss already, along with those white bucks I never got a chance to wear:

Glam home upgrades. Look out. If the Southampton Hospital Designer Showhouse Committee gets wind of our new propane tank, they’re sure to come calling.

Nope. It's not the Oscar Meyer WeinerMobile. It's our snappy new propane tank. Now everybody's gonna want one.

Nope. It’s not the Oscar Meyer WeinerMobile. It’s our snappy new propane tank. Now everybody’s gonna want one.

Newsy neighbors. Due to an amazing stroke of parental luck (The Dude’s Dad had many famous–and grateful–patients*), we live in a neighborhood of BoldFace Names. One of our neighbors was recently on the front page of the Post for erecting an electric fence to protect the ‘Hillary for Prison’ signs he put up in his yard. Another, Jerry Seinfeld, was in the East Hampton Star’s Crime Log for running an illegal lemonade stand: Continue reading

Blame it on the Cronut

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‘Shamelessly flogging the blog’

Surely you’ve heard of the Cronut. It’s a hybrid of ‘donut’ and ‘croissant’, and is extremely popular amongst the nose ring-and-fedora set. So popular that I’ve read of Cronut Wars in Williamsburg (that’s Hipster Williamsburg, not Colonial Williamsburg). You can read about this pastry rivalry by clicking on the link below.

‘In Greenpoint, a Situation Ripe for a Doughnut War’

But first let me indulge in some shameless self-promotion. And introduce you to the Plog. Like the Cronut, it’s a hybrid. A hybrid of ‘plug’ and ‘blog’. See, unlike those dueling bakers of hipster pastries, we bloggers receive no compensation for our labors (at least I don’t anyway–there’s not even a tip jar on my countertop.) What do we get? A nice warm feeling knowing that our posts are being read (and, fingers crossed, enjoyed).

Call me crazy, but I’d really like to avoid the literary version of the ‘tree-falling-in-the-woods-with-no-one-to-hear-it’ scenario, so I’m going to go out on a limb here and invite you to Continue reading