Boyz Noyze

Halfway through chapter twenty-four of The Awakening by Kate Chopin, Edna Pontellier finds herself alone in her house, maybe for the first time in her life. No husband, no kids, just her children’s silly little dog and some pesky servants. The passage that describes her rapture at the thought of solitude is one of my favorite passages in all of literature:

“When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief. A feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. She walked all through the house, from one room to another, as if inspecting it for the first time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as if she had never sat and reclined upon them before. And she perambulated around the outside of the house, investigating, looking to see if windows and shutters were secure and in order…after a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled comfortably beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her, such as she had not known before.”

It’s hard for women to find time and space to themselves. We invent all kinds of excuses to get out of the house. “I’m going shopping,” you tell your family, and you find yourself sniffing candles in Marshalls, or touching fluffy blankets in Home Goods. And when you have boys, making time for yourself is all the more crucial.

And so as October looms mere days away, and my sons prepare to leave for the semester, I am faced with the inevitability of an empty, quiet home. I haven’t had one in 22 years. I’m looking forward to it, although I must confess the thought makes me uneasy. Even with frequent travel, the lack of boy noise will ultimately be something I will wrestle with, I’m sure. But there is something that parents eventually realize, mothers especially:

Empty houses and cessation of noise spells success. The unsettling reality of losing your children to the world is the point. When my sons are out of the house working, traveling, playing their sports, entertaining their girlfriends, even screwing up in college, my heart soars. Because I know that I have done what I have set out to do: grow men and unleash them into the world. It is when they are cowering at home, afraid of what the world can do to them that I mourn. They should not be home, at least not all the time.

Visiting, o.k. Cowering at home? Not o.k. They should be gone.

So in dedication to the cacophony that is boys, here is an actual family exchange I took down word-for-word a few years back entitled “Boy Noise”:

One winter Monday morning I was peacefully writing at my kitchen counter. The house was cozy and warm, Mozart was playing through the speakers, and a cinnamon candle was wafting through the kitchen. But by 10:00 a.m. I was forced to pack up and leave to write in the library. My twins, home from college, were in rare form and despite my recriminations to turn off the power if they didn’t stop screaming, their video game cacophony quickened my pulse and forced my departure.

“What the f***?!!! How did I die?”

“Dude, what the F***??!!!”

“If you’re not going to help me, leave me the f*** alone!”

“Is that you? Is that you? Who is that? WHO IS THAT?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Asshole, pause it, and get me toilet paper!!!”

“The Mini-mester starts WHEN? (now speaking to an entirely different person on the opposite side of the globe). “Holy shit, I didn’t even register yet!”

And so on.

I couldn’t even get away from them in the library. The twins started a four-way group text, including in it even their (then) sixteen-year old brother who had done nothing to deserve this except strive in school and sports in order to one day get accepted into a good college. The twins’ texts seemed to indicate that they were shaken to the core with the responsibility of an empty house, a pacing dog and their tape-worm like appetites, which of course they never know what to do with. In my earbuds, I heard a text come through.

Twin 1: “Mom, where are you?

“Library.”

“Why?”

“Writing.”

“About what?”

“About the lack of time and space mothers get when their college-age children return home for Christmas break.”

“Oh. How long do I microwave a bloomin’ onion for?”

“A what?”

“A bloomin’ onion, you know, like a big fried onion ring?

“Why is there a bloomin’ onion in our house?”

“I don’t know, it’s in the refrigerator in a to-go box.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Who cares? How long?”

Twin 2 enters conversation.

“Dustin, that’s mine. I went out to dinner last night, don’t eat that.”

“Please? I’m starving, there’s nothing else to eat.”

“Are you guys serious? I’ve been cooking for seven days straight. There’s leftover meatloaf, meatballs, salad, pasta. There’s lunchmeat and frozen pizza. What exactly are you looking for?”

“A bloomin’ onion, it’s exactly what I was in the mood for. John, please can I eat it?”

Sixteen-year old appears. “Yo idiots, I’m in AP English, will you please get me out of this group text? I didn’t mean you when I said idiot, Mom.”

“Yo, Tommy, come home and play video games with us.”

“I can’t, I’m in school.”

“Sucks for you.”

“Yeah, it does.”

Me: “Can I go back to my writing now?”

Twin 1: “How long for a bloomin’ onion?”

Twin 2: “DUSTIN DON’T EAT THAT.”

“I’m eating it, you went out to dinner and you didn’t bring anything home for me. I’ll buy you another one.”

“Fuck that, no. Don’t.”

“Too late.”

“MOM. TELL HIM HE OWES ME A BLOOMIN’ ONION NOW.”

“Will you guys leave me the hell alone? I left the house to get away from you. Aren’t you both in the house, why are you texting?”

Twin 2: “I’m in the bathroom, I need toilet paper, so I have to wait until someone comes up here.”

Me: “What?! You were waiting for toilet paper when I left! How long have you been in there?”

Him: “Thirty minutes or so.”

Me: “ON THE TOILET?”

Twin 2: “Well, yeah, but I’m not bored I’m playing on my phone.”

Me: “Dustin, why won’t you get your brother toilet paper?”

Twin 1: “I have to finish this campaign.”

Twin 2: “F*** your campaign.”

Twin 1: F*** yours.”

Youngest boy: “I’m turning my phone off, my teacher is getting pissed.”

“Peace out, Tommy. Make good choices.”

Twin 1: “Whose leftover cheesecake is this?”

“DUSTIN, DON’T EAT THAT!”

Withering Heats

(Reader note: Enjoy the flippant nature of today’s and tomorrow’s posts. Thursday I will be writing about the debates, and I will take no prisoners).

I’m glad September is almost over. It’s second only to July as my least favorite month (no offense to my youngest son, who was born in July). July is every loud, crowded, hot, obnoxious, overbearing thing I hate in the world.

I hate having least favorite anythings. But I’m sitting here drenched in sweat, my weather app tells me there is 103% humidity in the air (how can humidity be over 100%??), and my hair already looks like a frizzy horror at 8:00 a.m. I just visited the boots, sweaters and tights in my closet, and we talked about the fun we will have once the weather gets cooler. I’m tired of sundresses, and sweat, and cold sandwiches, and loud tourists, and boating, and flip-flops, and sun that wants to kill me. I want to drink pumpkin spice, walk through crunchy leaves, wear cashmere, puffy coats and Frye boots, bask in the chilly gloaming, and simmer stews in my slow-cooker.

And my mendril is always in fine form in September, I may add. My mendril is, of course, the tendril of hair at the base of my scalp, under my bangs, that curls up when it’s humid out or when I have a hot flash. Thus:

Tendril + Menopause= Mendril

In humidity, my mendril curls up and turns black no matter what kind of hair product I use to try and combat it. My hair hates summer in New Jersey. My hair loves Colorado and Utah and Nevada and Arizona.

My hair is close to divorcing me under the terms of irreconcilable differences.

Side note: When I was young, single and fancy-free, I visited Scottsdale often, and was always pleased at the profuse attention I received from Arizona men. It took some time to realize that my hair was reaping the rewards of the almost non-existent desert humidity. In the desert my hair becomes soft, ethereally blonde and smooth. Good hair puts me in a good mood and makes me smile. The smile reaches my eyes and my heart, and voila, dinner invitation.

The men were asking my hair out.

Now you know why it wants legal separation. It brings the guys in, I get all the action, and all it gets is a cursory glance in the mirror and an occasional naughty tug in bed.

(Since I digress, let me digress further. I once had a student named Jon who was a senior in my freshman English class. I felt for him- here was a grown man with a job and bills who had to sit with a bunch of pre-pubescent farm animals because for whatever reason he had never passed the class as a freshman. I tried not to bother him too much- he did his work as required, and I let him sit in the back near my desk. Every so often, when I would go off on a tangent in a lecture, he would raise up a piece of paper with the word “Digression” written on it. No one else could see it but me, and it made me laugh every time. But it is important to not show human emotion in front of freshmen. They detect it as a sign of weakness, and before you know it, they are circling around your carcass like the carrion you are. So I would try to keep a straight face, which if you know me at all is nearly impossible. It was our secret joke all year. If you’re reading this, Jon, that was a great year with you).

Here at the Jersey shore, September is a between-time. An almost-time. They call it the “shoulder-season,” which is code for “use any insidious means possible to keep the tourists coming here as long as possible.” Car shows? Check. Air shows? Double check. Parades, festivals, block parties? Check, check, check (Note: not this year, obviously). It’s understandable, and no different from any other beach tourist town. But I think I can speak for at least some locals in saying that by September, it gets old.

(You: “What the hell is this blog post about anyway?”

Me: “I haven’t the faintest idea.”)

Oh wait, I remember. It’s about September at the Jersey shore. I dislike September at the Jersey shore. But other than humidity I can’t seem to find any basis for my hatred. Today is 77 degrees with a light breeze, people are going about their September business hopping, skipping and jumping, and I ask you: where is there room for hatred on such a beautiful day?

Hold on while I find something.

September to me is like that chirpy tiny blonde cheerleader you loved to hate in high school. Think Kelly Ripa, or Kristin Chenoweth, or Kristen Bell (wait, does your name need to begin with a “K” to be a chirpy blonde?)

You wanted so much to hate her, so you thought up reasons. “Airhead ditz,” you told others, and then one day she showed up in your AP class. Shit, you thought, she’s smart. “Selfish,” you said next, then you saw her walking dogs at the animal shelter. Damn, she’s altruistic, you thought. “Well, she’s stuck-up,” you countered, and then one day she turns to you in class and compliments your shoes and sits with you in lunch. Fuck, you think despondently, she’s nice.

But then you hate her anyway.

September and me.

I was researching where I can travel in September to get away from heat and humidity, and I figure the only ammunition I have against tourists whose sole ambition in life is to continue to stream onto this island every weekend and wring as much beach time as they can from the summer is to become a tourist myself and stream onto someone else’s territory.

Help me out and send ideas. I’m looking for clouds. Cool weather, cold even. Sparse to no crowds. Visceral beauty. Craggy peaks, heaths, valleys and dales. Ok, I’m looking to be plunked down into the novel Wuthering Heights.

Where does that take place?

How We Covet

I picked out my wedding dress in one hour. It was twenty-eight years ago, but I still remember my mom and the boutique owner voicing concern.

“Are you sure?” my mom said worriedly. “You just started looking at dresses.”

Uh-uh, ladies, I thought. You just started watching me look. I’ve been looking at dresses my whole life. Flipping through magazines, taking photographs, studying form and cut and bias. The dress of my dreams was a sepia daguerreotype nestled snugly in the corner of my brain, waiting impatiently for animation.

When I walked in that store, my peripheral vision rejected every color, silhouette and design until my eyes rested on the one. It was almost comical, how easy it was. It was sitting right there, with movie montage light streaming down on it. Ivory, silk shantung, off-the-shoulder. It’s not a dress I would pick today, my taste has changed so much. But that day, I knew I would wear it to walk down the aisle. That day, it was familiar. That day, we were intimate. That day, I bought it. No frill, no fuss, no Bridezilla energy.

It was already mine, it just didn’t know it yet.

The way I choose the things I love, the things I covet, the things I inherently know belong in my life is consistent across the aisle. I bought my car in an hour, the salesperson looking shell-shocked as he printed out my financial statement.

“You made my job easy today,” he said.

That stung, and I remember telling him that it wasn’t my intention to make his job easy.

“I’ve been researching this car for five years,” I said. “You just happened to be standing there with an iPad.”

He looked at me. “Fair enough,” he said.

I may have high standards, but I know what I love, and I don’t see any reason to quibble once I have found what I am looking for. I picked my dog out of a squirmy gaggle of puppies after one look in his big brown limpid eyes. I chose my beloved house, a house more beautiful to me than any mansion in the world, after a walk around the block. I committed to my undergraduate college after a seemingly casual flip through a brochure in my guidance counselor’s office. It may look easy, the way I choose. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Not everyone chooses the same. I had a friend who years back was looking for an eggplant brocade tablecloth for the table in her formal dining room (I didn’t know people used tablecloths anymore; for that matter, I didn’t know people had formal dining rooms. The formal dining room in my house is when the boys take their cleats off the table before they eat). For months she agonized over choices, visited hundreds of stores and searched tirelessly online. Throughout an entire year she bought and returned over a dozen tablecloths she thought would do, but never ended up with the tablecloth of her dreams.

I thought the waste of time and energy was shockingly sad. But it is how she chooses- trying this one, trying that one, seeing if it fits, sometimes ending up with nothing.

People choose the things they love differently. Some people buy and immediately return. Others may regret their purchase but convince themselves that what they have will do just fine. Others keep what they have for a period of time thinking it’s what they wanted, then chide themselves for settling for less than they deserve, eventually buying what they wanted in the first place.

Is the way we choose the people we want in our lives any different?

You’ll recall I presented to you three theories as to how people get together. What if there aren’t three theories, but FOUR? Could I have been wrong? What if along with the Sunflower theory, the Mismatched Socks theory and the Upgrade theory, there is a fourth called the One Stop Shop theory? What if some people walk the earth alone, happily alone, because what they desire is so rare and so unique to their personal taste, that their eyes and heart immediately rejects anyone who does not fit? And what if this goes on so long that they figure they’ll never find this person?

Malcolm and I missed something very important, I think. And it causes me to ask myself a series of not-so-comfortable questions:

What if my search for beautiful enduring things is the same with my search for enduring new love? What if I am so honed and so completely and absolutely sure of what I want, that I will know him when I see him? What if when I meet him, I feel like I have known him my whole life? Would that spell the end of my journey? Would I feel compelled to continue?

Purely hypothetical questions for another time. Talk amongst yourselves.

Spikka Dolphin?

In 2016 I was at a viewing for a friend’s mother, and inevitably, the subject of the election was raised. My outspoken conservative views hardly a secret, a friend put me on the spot after I voiced my intense distaste for Hillary Clinton.

“I’m surprised at you, Mary,” she said, her hostility barely concealed. “You’re such an intelligent, accomplished woman. Why don’t you want an intelligent, accomplished woman as president?”

“I do,” I replied. “But it has to be the right woman.”

I liked my answer. I still like it. But judging from the way she stalked off, I think it’s fair to assume she didn’t. I was surprised, because I had heard that it would be a non-partisan funeral, so I had worn my best non-partisan outfit.  

A waste of perfectly good black rayon.

Talking politics nowadays with anyone outside your own party line is at best, contentious. Bi-partisan debate is like an American trying to order creamed chipped beef on toast from a French waiter off of a French menu. Like a morning person trying to explain the quiet delights of waking at dawn to a night owl. Like a human trying to explain the Kardashians to an alien.

I try not to broach politics with liberal friends, because I literally have no idea what they are talking about. None. I don’t understand the words coming out of their mouths, or why they are putting those words in the order they have chosen (I know, I know, it’s because Republicans are so illiterate and stupid, we don’t understand the simplest of concepts, right? I’ve heard them all, trust me). When I talk to a liberal, I feel like Tom Hanks in the movie “Splash,” waiting for the beautiful Darryl Hannah to speak, and then just hearing dolphin noises. On the rare occasion that politics does come up with a liberal friend, I say very little and keep my side brief and to the point. All they hear are dolphin noises too, so why bother?

I try to stay informed. I am devoted to Fox News, but I watch CNN and MSNBC when I can, hoping partial immersion might help with my confusion, and that I might begin to at least understand some of their dolphin language. Much of the buzz recently has come from their intense dislike of Amy Coney Barrett.

Shocker.

Amy Coney Barrett will most likely be nominated tomorrow to fill the vacancy of Ruth Bader Ginsberg on the Supreme Court. Trump wants to fill the seat left vacant by a woman with a woman, understandably, and I’m left with the question:

Is she the right woman?

My research was rudimentary, but today I offer you ten fun facts about ACB, hoping it will help you begin to decide for yourself if she is the right person, the right woman, for such a prestigious appointment:

  1. Summa cum laude from Notre Dame Law School
  2. Clerked for Justice Antonin Scalia
  3. Nicknamed “The Conenator” by other law clerks, for the ability to destroy flimsy legal arguments.
  4. Married to Jesse Barrett, a prosecutor with a private practice
  5. Mother to seven children, one with Down’s Syndrome, two adopted from Haiti.
  6. Federal judge for three years
  7. If nominated, will be the sixth Catholic Justice
  8. Is an “Originalist” or a “Textualist”- meaning she applies the original intention of the writers of the Constitution or the statute at hand
  9. Once said to Dianne Feinstein: “If you’re asking me whether I take my Catholic faith seriously, I do, though I would stress that my personal church affiliation or my religious belief would not bear on the discharge of my duties as a judge.”
  10. Member of conservative Christian faith group called People of Praise- this group teaches that husbands should assume authority as the head of a household.

I like her. I’m honored to say I will be part of the beginning of her lifelong appointment.

The nomination interviews should be fairly brutal. Liberals don’t want her and will vet her to within an inch of her life. But remember, she was already thoroughly vetted by Democrats in 2018, so unless she has taken to crack-pipe smoking or animal abuse in the last twenty-four months, my guess is?

She’s in.

Taking the weekend off to work on content, see you Monday.

How to F**k Like Zuck

Warning: Controversial material follows

In 2017, I emerged from my 25-year marriage like a walking anachronism, like a befuddled character in a corny time-machine movie.

I was Marty, stumbling out of his Delorian into 1955.

Peggy Sue, reawakening smack dab in the middle of 1960.

Richard Collier, walking out of the Grand Hotel into 1912.

Marty, Peggy Sue and Richard all had their Achilles’ heels, the things that revealed them as the anachronisms that they were. Marty wore a strange, beeping watch, Richard donned a dated and defunct pin-striped suit, while Peggy Sue smoked grass and indulged in pre-marital sex to the great consternation of society in general.

My chronological infirmity was simply one question: how does a widow in her 50’s actually date? Meet men? Acquire sex? I’ve spoken to many single women and men my age over these past three years, and we have all reached the same sad conclusion:

No one meets organically anymore. At least, no one in my age bracket does. We used to think we could get introduced to someone through friends, get approached in the gym, the supermarket, in a bar or restaurant, bond over a cool activity like boating or golf, maybe even meet someone while traveling.

How naïve we were.

I’m embarrassed to say that the picture I had in my head of a man walking up to me and saying, “Want to get dinner this weekend?” was so off-base it wasn’t even in the ballpark. It wasn’t even in the stadium. How about a man getting my number from someone, and then actually calling me? Is there anything better than, “Listen, I hope you don’t mind my calling you like this, but I got your number from John. I really wanted to talk to you, maybe take you out for a drink?” I remember distinctly that men used to do that. It’s so ballsy.

Men don’t do that anymore, apparently. They stare. They walk past your house. But they don’t stop. They don’t ask you out. Because Facebook gets in the way.

Facebook always gets in the way.

Will someone please forward this message to Mark Zuckerberg:

Facebook sucks. You suck. I think you have single-handedly caused the global ruination of the sexual and social dynamic. No one knows how to act, think, socialize, flirt, seduce, or talk anymore because you have made damn sure that the only way people know how to interact is to slap some stupid pictures up on a computer screen with a few insipid captions, and present this false-front to the world. I hate you and everything you stand for.

I’ll be honest, I know so little about Facebook that the following description could be wrong. But it seems to me that in 2020, men request to “friend” you, right? How emasculating. Sometimes it’s not even a request to “friend” you, sometimes it’s just a “suggestion.” Jason is a “suggested friend.” So now what? Now fucking what? Don’t waste my time, Jason. I hate you, too.

(I’m sorry, Jason, I don’t hate you, despite the fact that you probably hate me now for suggesting that Mark Zuckerberg has emasculated you. Nor do I have contempt for men who think Facebook is a good substitute for picking a woman up, walking up to her door, kissing her on the cheek, taking her hand, opening the car door for her, telling her she looks beautiful, having a lovely dinner over great conversation, then having hot date sex. You’ve all just been hood-winked by Mark “Tiny Weenus” Zuckerberg).

Regarding date scenario above: Just because I like sex doesn’t mean I’m not a hopeless romantic.

So the way I see it, if making Zuck even richer than he already is the only way to meet men, I’ll stay happily single, thank you very much. HAPPILY. Besides, any relationship that starts with “friending” is doomed from the start. Friendship, great, but “friending?” What is that? How in the world would I ever get turned on by someone who can’t walk right up to me and talk to me the way a man talks to a woman? What would our story be over an anniversary dinner?

“Oh, remember the day you requested me because of a friend suggestion? I played hard to get and didn’t accept right away, remember? But I finally did, and sent you a friend request, and then you accepted it. Then remember I messaged you? Your message to me was so funny, and I complimented the dress you were wearing in that picture with your college roommate. Then we ignored each other for two more weeks, just posting pictures, like foreplay, then you waved at me, and then we messaged for three weeks before I finally worked up the nerve to ask you out. Good times.”

Puke.

I prefer Tinder. I’d rather have a guy message me, “Wanna f**k?” than wait three days on Facebook for the honor of Jason accepting my friend request just so I can look at pictures of him at his daughter’s wedding.

Facebook is just so…PG.

To Jason: These are just my opinions and are obviously not representative of every woman. There are plenty of women who get off on the harmless and asexual Facebook method of dating cat-and-mouse, complete with the silly games and the sexual innuendo. Alas, I’m not one of them. Sucks for me, I know. So be it.

I envy Peggy Sue. At least Peggy Sue Got Laid.

Dog-Eared Book Club

If you’re hoping for a post dripping with sex and sarcasm, today is not the day. Today is the first post from the “Dog-Eared Book Club.” Reading is as big a part of me as sex, happiness and travel, so here we go.

I didn’t retire from teaching because my husband passed away. His death just rushed the process. I retired because I grew weary of trying to persuade technology-addicted teenagers to read the books on my syllabus. Any English teacher can tell you that it’s the kiss of death when you no longer care if your students just look up the summaries online, and that’s where I was in 2017, my thirtieth and final year of high school English teaching.

“Why do we have to read?” they would ask. Gee, I don’t know, why do you have to breathe, eat, drink, and move? Early in my career I knew how to answer that question. By 2017, I had nothing.

“I’m not reading this,” a student would say.

“So, don’t,” I would answer. “Marinate in your ignorance.”

Yikes. Time to go.

Rather than wax on about how reading defined my childhood, my high school and college years, my professional writing career and beyond, perhaps I will let that trickle into my posts gradually. I will simply start at the beginning. The books that molded me into the reader, writer, student, teacher, mother, and human being that I am. I managed to whittle it down to ten, and it wasn’t easy. All ten books sit in exalted positions in my personal bedroom library, a very small and select collection. These books are never more than an arms-length away from my heart:

  1. Eric by Doris Lund
  2. Death Be Not Proud by John Gunther
  3. David’s Story by Marie Rothenberg
  4. Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
  5. Mrs. Mike by Benedict and Nancy Freedman
  6. Watership Down by Richard Adams
  7. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
  8. Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
  9. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
  10. Seventeenth Summer by Maureen Daly

The first three deal with sick or injured children who overcame great odds: Eric Lund, who died of leukemia, Johnny Gunther, who battled a brain tumor and David Rothenberg, who in 1983 when he was six years old suffered burns over 90 percent of his body when his father burned him alive in a hotel room (David recently passed in 2018 at the age of 42, a very advanced age for such a severe burn victim).

Maybe I was a little morbid as a young girl, but the inspiration I gleaned from these stories lives on today, as charities such as St. Jude’s, the Children’s Burn Foundation and March of Dimes continue to be organizations I stridently and aggressively support.

Charlotte’s Web and Watership Down are not books to me, they are family tomes, and characters like Charlotte, Fern, Templeton, Wilbur, Fiver, Hazel, Bigwig, and Blackberry are not abstract literary characters, but close friends. I revisit them often, just to say hello.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume showed me how stream-of-consciousness dialogue can connect you to a character, a plot and a setting like nothing else. This book is one of my best friends, and made me want to be a writer.

The romance books: Mrs. Mike, the love story of Boston girl Mary O’Fallon and Mike Flannigan, a sergeant in the Canadian Mounties, and the life they built together in such a harsh, unforgiving land defined to me what it means to sacrifice for love. And the sweet, pure, ethereally-beautiful love story in Seventeenth Summer, the falling in love of Angie Duluth and Jack Morrow was (is) for me the apex, the pinnacle, of what it means to fall in love. I still get chills when I re-read the chapter when Jack begs Angie not to go away to college, because he can’t bear to be without her.

Sigh.

I re-read Jane Eyre every year. Jane and Rochester. My God. And Velveteen Rabbit? I read it every Easter, and it never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

So that’s the list, for now.

Sex and sarcasm tomorrow, I promise.

Aunt Glady

Tomorrow is the first day of fall and it’s feeling positively…brisk outside.

To merchants, big companies and the entire national consumer industry: I know your red line has been decimated. That might be the greatest understatement of the decade. The decade we just started.

(Yikes).

But please.

We have enough chronological upheaval, don’t you think? Since March, Friday has turned to Monday which has turned to Sunday with nary a clear demarcation to be found. It was March and five minutes later it was June, and now guess what?

It’s September. Joke’s on us.

So as an ardent fall lover, I’m hoping you will do the right thing and not cancel fall this year.

We all laugh. “Earlier and earlier every year, huh?” I get it. Christmas is for the materialists and consumers. But what does one buy for fall? Some pumpkins, mums and corn stalks, maybe. A Halloween costume, a few bags of candy corn, a pumpkin spice latte?

But some of us, MANY of us, wait all year for it.

We love everything about it. The cool air, the crunching leaves, the fuzzy sweaters and tall boots, the pumpkin-everything. We love everything that fall stands for, especially that fall is the Earth’s final hurrah before it takes a much-needed break from growth and life, into dormancy and rest. Earth deserves naps too, and isn’t it beautiful when the planet reawakens in the spring, and thanks us for our patience through the long, cold winter by rewarding us with flowers, chicks, baby rabbits, babbling brooks, and Easter candy? Many of us flee to faraway destinations at spring, to celebrate the Earth coming alive again.

Why does autumn deserve so much less?  

To many people, fall is a low maintenance single aunt- the one who wears frumpy sweaters, gives you a dollar, sometimes smells like moth balls, other times chicken soup. She’s Aunt Glady in the movie “Home for the Holidays.” You like her- she is sweet and content, still loves you even if you only see her once a year, even loves you when you visibly grimace when she hugs you. She doesn’t seem to require too much attention, she’s just happy with the attention she gets. We have learned that we can ignore her, and still she will come back with that beautiful smile on her face.

Halloween is Aunt Glady’s 40-year old son named Funk who still lives at home. Slightly odd and slightly goth, he plays videos in the basement and works at Gamestop. His favorite book is Reanimator, his favorite movie “Requiem for a Dream.”And although he is disheveled and unkempt, it does not escape your notice that Aunt Glady’s eyes light up every time she looks at him. She calls him “the most interesting, funny and intelligent boy that has ever lived,” and he rolls his eyes, admitting he wishes he could find a better job so he can move out of his house.

Thanksgiving holds its own, and is Aunt Glady’s sturdy dependable eldest child. The child that reminds Aunt Glady to take her blood pressure pills, always drives the speed limit, tells brother Funk that maybe if he wore something other than black he might find a date. Thanksgiving is comfortably ensconced in its position between Halloween and Christmas, content and reliable in its culinary delights.

Christmas is like your single rich Uncle Flash who drives a Mercedes. Everything about him reeks of luxury- you can smell his cologne before you see him, and his teeth are bleached so blindingly white they have their own Instagram account. Everyone wants to be near him, to know him, to soak in his magisterial energy force. He bips and bops, skips and pops, handing out hundred dollar bills and hypnotizing everyone with tales of his scuba diving in the Maldives, running with the bulls in Pamplona, hang-gliding off the Sphinx. You are entranced by him, and when he leaves, the world seems duller and less exciting, and you wait all year for the chance to see him again.

Aunt Glady doesn’t expect to compete with Uncle Flash, but she’s just happy to be invited to the party. Without Aunt Glady so many interesting things would be missing, and Funk wouldn’t come without her. And as Uncle Flash is regaling you with tales of cage-diving with great white sharks, you might find yourself rolling your eyes, wishing Aunt Glady was there.

And she will be nowhere to be found.

So after so many months of heat and humidity, crowds and traffic, let’s celebrate a season that is quieter, cooler and more confident in its abilities. Display those mums, corn stalks and pumpkins, and let us celebrate a season that simply asks to be invited to the party we call Life.

Corn Nut

Mary Oves, intrepid traveler, arrives at airport early for her first flight. Breakfast eaten, Ruby Woo lipstick freshly applied, all things on her checklist done, passport and boarding passes ready, she heads to security.

Oves detects danger when security branches off in two directions, and she eyes the situation. To the right is a mother with two squirmy stained toddlers and in back of them, an elderly woman moving like slow-moving sap who seems confused as to why she needs to remove her thick-heeled shoes. To the left is a middle-aged couple with only two duffle bags, and the woman is already heading through security. No brainer. Oves heads left.

TSA (looks through the man’s first duffel bag): Any waters, food, chips, Starbucks, cereal bars?

Man: Nope.

TSA: Laptops, cigarette lighters, e-cigarettes?

Man: Nah.

TSA: How about food for him? Treats?

Man: Oh, yeah (hands TSA guy a bag of small brown pellets).

(Oves is confused. “Him?” This is going to be so bad.)

TSA: Want to carry him?

Man: I don’t know if he’ll come out.

(They both motion to the second duffel bag)

Oves (to herself): Shit. (Makes a move to other lane, but it is now ten deep).

TSA: He can’t go through in the duffel bag, but you can carry him through. His collar needs to be removed.

(Oves jumps as small furry cute creature size of a gerbil pokes his head out of duffel bag.)

Man: Copy that.

TSA: Ok, sir, you can go through when you’re ready.

Oves continues to wait and notices with great dismay that the right line she rejected earlier is now moving steadily and confidently.

Man: Ok, let’s go, Corn Nut (Picks up gerbil with one finger).

TSA guy: Hey, how’d you pick that name?

Man: It was a dare to name him after the last thing I ate.

Oves (to herself): Dear God.

Man and hamster walk into the security booth.

Different TSA guy (sounds aggravated): Raise your arms please.

Man: I can’t, I have my dog.

TSA: He’ll have to go through alone. You can’t hold him in the booth.

Man: That’s not what the other guy said.

TSA: Well, it’s what I’m saying. You need to go in and come out alone.

Man: Who will hold my dog? My wife already went through.

TSA: Someone will have to hold him and send him through alone.

Man: This is bullshit. Who will do that?

(On cue, heads swivel to look at Oves. Oves looks behind her to see who they’re looking for).

TSA: Ma’am, would you mind holding this man’s dog while he goes through, and then sending him through alone?

Oves: Seriously?

Man: Do you like dogs?

Oves: I love dogs.

Man: He’s super friendly.

Oves: I’m sure he is. But I’m not.

Man: C’mon, do me a solid.

Oves: A solid? I’ve been standing behind you for ten minutes now, that’s pretty solid.

Man: Please? (Extends guinea pig to Oves).

Oves: (sighs and takes dog). Fine. Corn Nut you said, right?

Man: Yeah.

Oves: (Looks at Corn Nut and can’t help but think how endearing his cute little pink tongue is. He can’t seem to pull it in, it hangs out of its own volition. Corn Nut stares into her soul).

Man: (Walks through, security beeps).

TSA: Did you empty your pockets, sir?

Man: Yeah. Could be my hip replacement.

(This goes on for another five minutes, as man goes in and out of security booth, finally with success).

Cranky TSA guy: Time for the dog. Ma’am, please hold onto your dog’s leash while your husband collects his personal items.

Oves: This is not my dog. And he’s not my husband. I mean, who eats corn nuts?

TSA: Whoever you are and whoever he is, send the dog through without a leash, please.

Oves: (puts Corn Nut on the ground). Ok, Corn Nut, get lost. I mean, go through.

Man and Woman (using baby voices): Come on angel, come to mommy and daddy.

Corn Nut stares at Oves dolefully.

Oves: Corn Nut. Go.

Corn Nut does nothing.

Man and Woman: Baby! Angel! Sweetums! Banana Custard Pie! Come!

Corn Nut scratches his ears, the size of two Frosted Flakes, stares back at Oves. There is no one in back of Oves, because everyone who approaches security avoids the shit show like it’s a plague.

Oves: Corn Nut. Go. Fuck off.

Corn Nut sits politely as mommy and daddy frantically search for treats to entice him through. He seems to be enjoying the debacle and appears to have absolutely no intention of listening to their endearments.

(Oves sees her pre-flight drinks disappearing, as her boarding time approaches. She must act).

Oves: (bends down and looks deep into Corn Nuts eyes): Corn Nut. I understand your reticence. I wouldn’t want to go with them either, especially if they called me Banana Custard Pie. Our time together has been wonderful, significant even, but it’s at an end. You don’t understand. If you don’t go through, I can’t have a drink before I board. And that’s unacceptable. You must go with those miscreants to whom you belong. Now, shoo.

Man and Woman: Ooooh, Corn Nut, look what we have. Coooooookies!

Corn Nut finally goes through and does not set off the security beeper, most likely due to the fact that he does NOT have a hip replacement.

TSA (goes through Oves bag): Any laptops, cigarette lighters, e-cigarettes?

Oves: Just fucking let me through.

Learn to Fly

I dress to fly.

When I fly, I like to look sophisticated, clean and sexy, and at the absolute least, neat and pretty. I meet a lot of people when I travel, so first impressions are crucial. I’ll wear maybe a sleek black skirt with a black tank top. Maybe a black loose sheath dress, or a white dress shirt with a pencil skirt. If it’s very hot, maybe a sundress, and if it’s cold, cashmere. Always cashmere. I’ll wear a small heel that I can slip off in the security line, so usually a kitten heel or a leather mule. Diamond studs, clean minimal makeup, maybe a hooded cardigan to slip over my tank top in case the plane is chilly.

I don’t dress for where I am going, I dress for where I am. I don’t wear a floppy muumuu just because I’m going to Hawaii. You won’t catch me in clunky boots and a ski parka just because I’m landing in Alaska. If the weather of my destination is substantially different than from the airport I fly out of, I will pack the correct clothes in my overhead. When I landed in Iceland, I was wearing Nicole Miller. Within five minutes, I had changed and looked like a local in black tights, black boots and a 66º North jacket.

It may sound pretentious, but since traveling is a privilege, I dress for that privilege.

Oh, so you say you like to wear pajama pants? Natty worn yoga tights with an oversized t-shirt? A faded jean jacket with jeans? Even worse, you don’t put one single thought into it, and just wear whatever? What a tragedy, because you are missing out on one of the easiest opportunities to bring joy and significance into your life.

“I want to be comfortable,” is the most often-repeated excuse for looking like a slob on an airplane, especially for a trip, say, to Australia, a brutal flight that takes 24 hours. But what’s more comfortable than a cool cotton skirt and tank top from Prana, with a warm cardigan and a pair of low sling-backs? Or a pair of sleek black tights, an oversized slouchy cashmere sweater and a pair of leather ankle boots?

“Who cares?” others say.

I care. I care how I present. I can’t babble nonsense about the attractiveness of trash cans and then look shoddy and cheap on a flight to Boston.

Here is a small list of other things I find important to have stocked away in my leather tote bag when I fly:

  1. *No smelly food onto the plane.
  2. Noise-cancelling headphones
  3. Burts Bees tinted lip balm
  4. Tin of Altoids
  5. A small Moleskin notebook and a Pilot pen
  6. A small novel and one interesting magazine
  7. Squares of dark chocolate
  8. Small bottle of Fiji water
  9. Sunglasses
  10. Breathe spray
  11. Visine Allergy drops
  12. Portable back-up phone charger

*Please try to get to the airport early enough to eat in the airport, so you don’t have to haul chicken fingers, garlic bread knots, greasy pizza, tuna-fish sandwiches or meat-stuffed burritos into such a close space as an airplane. Have some consideration, and realize the smell is unbearable to others, no matter how hungry you are or how good it smells to you. Or bring something that has no odor, like vegetable sticks, a muffin or plain bagel.

Notice the lack of electronics on the list. I don’t worry myself with electronics. I know, I know, I’ve seen the people with their iPhones, iPads, laptops, etc. That stuff definitely helps pass the time. But when I fly, I like to enjoy the experience, and watching five movies on a laptop doesn’t do it for me. I like to listen to beautiful music, read beautiful literary passages or maybe some poetry. I’ll shut my eyes and think about good sex, I’ll listen to Handels’ Water Music, or Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Since I usually fly first-class (more on that later), I am afforded the space I need to relax and zone out, mind-boggled at the thing that is air travel.

There is not one thing in your life, trash cans included, that you cannot devote yourself wholeheartedly into making it a beautiful experience. Use cute bags to pick up your dog’s poo. Buy the patterned paper towels that are fifty cents more expensive than your usual cheap brand. Wear kitschy socks under your boots, even if no one knows they are there (that goes for beautiful sexy lingerie as well- MUCH MORE on that another time). My favorite pair right now are a recent gift from a friend, and depict a woman with a book and the caption, “Fuck off, I’m reading.”

Be grateful for the fact that you can board an airplane and land in a different place that will, no matter how insignificant it may seem, change you. And let your dress reflect that.

Bright Copper Kettles

I read my favorite blog a few times a week, a blog that shall remain nameless here because it’s so good, so polished and so popular that I am jealous and don’t want to give the few readers I have to HER. I hate to be like that, but one day, when I attend a blogging conference for only the most famous bloggers in the world, I will apologize to her personally. Unless I’m more famous than her by then, which in that case I won’t talk to her because she will be beneath me.

Moving on.

On her blog, she is currently selling the “reading sweater.” The concept is that when you wake up, you don’t have to think, you just throw on your slouchy reading sweater and you’re ready for the morning. It has big pockets that hold your books and other assorted thingies and comes in a variety of bright or neutral colors, depending on your taste.

I like the concept. But if I was wearing it and suddenly decided I didn’t feel like reading, would I feel compelled to change? If I buy it primarily to read, I feel like I should follow the rules. I don’t think it would be ethical to wear it while walking the dog, or doing laundry. Also, the fact that it is a sweater assumes that reading is only done in sweater weather. Some of us read in the hot weather, so what do I do then? Will she sell a reading tank top? A reading sundress?

I think I’m owed some guidance on this discrepancy.

Regardless, I am considering the investment. I like the idea of having one beautiful thing that you utilize for one beautiful (or even dreaded) task. A thing you put on or use without having to think, because that is the thing you use for the task you are doing. I am going to share just a few of my favorite things on my post today. Please read to the end, or tomorrow’s post will confuse you. I fly home tomorrow, and I won’t have time for your nonsense.

  1. Pilot Precise Ultra-Fine pens. I stock these in my purse, my travel bags, in my home office, my workout bag. The only pen I use.
  2. Moleskin journals. If you journal or write or take notes, you probably already know about these buttery-paged notebooks that come in a variety of sizes and colors.
  3. Birkenstocks. I have fluffy Birks, green suede Birks, navy blue Birks. I use them on cold mornings, I use them to transport my tired feet from climb to climb to give my piggies a break from hiking boots, and I use them even with dressy outfits. A good pair of Birkenstocks can look amazing with a sharp linen dress in the summer. Insanely comfortable and well-worth the expense.
  4. Tumi luggage. It’s expensive. But if you travel a lot, getting a sharp set of luggage is a good investment. I get compliments on my light gray leather bags with black piping every time I travel. It makes me happy just to touch the buttery leather.
  5. LL Bean Daypack. This thing has seen me everywhere, to so many countries and mountains and beaches and deserts that I’ve lost count. I never unpack it, I just leave it in my closet packed with my hiking boots and my Hydroflask, so when it’s time to go, it’s less I have to think of. It has pockets for my Burts Bees lip balm, my phone and my neck buff, and plenty of interior room for my travel journal, layers, snacks, hats, you name it. Unrivaled.
  6. Burts Bees lip balm. Yep. Again. I buy them in bulk. A tube of Burts Bees is never more than a few inches away from me at any time. There is one on my nightstand right now. I buy a big variety pack of Burts Bees tinted balm for myself every Christmas and put it in my stocking. I live in fear of running out of it.
  7. Frye boots. Love mountain towns and want to look like a local? Frye boots. Not to sound repetitive, I KNOW they’re expensive, but They. Will. Last. Forever. Hey, I buy shoes from Target too, but a good pair of Frye boots has no equal.
  8. Ray Bans. Mine are prescription. I have Clubmasters, Aviators, and Wayfarers, and they all have a different purpose- to cut down on glare on the water, to stay close on my head during heavy activity, or just to be comfortable and sophisticated when I’m driving.
  9. Boll and Branch flannel sheets. There’s no way to expound on the wonderfulness of these soft sheets that get softer with every wash. Always have a spare ready.
  10. Lonely Planet travel books. I have more than I care to admit. It’s an obsession. No better source of information to really get into a place you visit.

So those are just a few of my favorite things. But what I would really like is one perfect travel dress. I dress to travel, and that is a post for another time. I am currently in talks with a close friend who is a talented kick-ass sewer, and we are designing a few travel pieces for the sophisticated traveler. Well into the future, but I’ll let you know.