(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?