‘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.
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:
Oh, and we often ran into our next-door neighbor Lorne Michaels and his houseguests on the path to the beach that we share. The Child was with an equally-comely friend recently when they heard a gravelly ‘Can I help you, Ladies?’ coming from none other than Jack Nicholson. (They said ‘no thank you’. Whew.)
Speaking of houseguests. I’m gonna miss them too, bless their towel-draping sand-strewing little hearts. But what am I saying? I am in possession of an empty room (actually The Child’s, but empty most of the time now, thank god) in New York City too. And you know what they say: ‘It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a hostess in possession of an empty room must be in want of a guest’. But I say if you are over 18 and didn’t share a bathroom and/or bedroom with me while I was growing up, it is extremely tacky to ask to stay with me. So there.
Books on the deck. Cooking and eating there too. (Sometimes all three at the same time.) This was the summer of reading about a tortured individual facing brutal cold and virtual starvation in the face of soul-crushing emotional deprivation. Oh, and I also read about some Australian in a Japanese POW camp.
Man buns at the farm stand (and pretty much everywhere else). In case you didn’t know, the East End of Long Island, sometimes known as The Hamptons, used to be a pretty sleepy Bonacker-populated place. Until the hipsters discovered Montauk. Click, and you can read all about the Doom at the End of the Season, which has crept into Amagansett too.
All this trendiness hasn’t affected me all that much, since I rarely leave The Compound, except to go to the IGA, the post office, or the dump. (I can sense your envy escalating.) Oh, and I do visit the farm stand, for my corn-and-tomatoes fix. Where the clientele this summer resembled the cast of ‘Portlandia’: hair swept into high ponytails, gingham-check shorts, Birkenstocks, a discreet tattoo or too, those Buddhist-Bead bracelets. And those were the guys.
Resort wear. Speaking of clothes, I am going to miss the way I got to dress all summer. Basically, it was: get up, throw on shorts and one of a vast collection of tee shirts, slip on flip-flops (which I used to call ‘thongs’ until The Child convinced me not to). You can admire one of my several functioning pair in the photo at the top of this post. And here are a couple of my favorite shirts:
So, I guess it’s time to get out there and enjoy my last day of Summer before both of us (me and Summer) sail off into the sunset. See you next week, with a very Citified Story of Some Sort.
Amagansett, New York. September 2015