Here's my take on parenthood for when the babies start arriving.
RAISING CAIN
I was thirty-three when I realized that my mother didn’t have all the answers. Up until then she was Einstein, Glenda the Good Witch and a warm puppy all rolled into one. The event that precipitated this sudden revelation was the delivery of my first child. I had just assumed that with her birth would also come wisdom. Boy, was I wrong. In fact the only wisdom that came my way was the certainty that I didn’t know a thing; and my mother wasn’t far behind. We were both clueless. Oh, she learned a lot raising my brother and me, but we weren’t exactly the perfect children. Besides, that was before Penicillin. Times had changed. This baby had potential, if her father and I didn’t screw it up.
Unfortunately, parenting is a learning curve that doesn’t benefit the first born. There are books out there, Dr. Spock and all, that claim to help, but who has time to read while nursing on demand and doing endless loads of baby laundry? I read the LaMaze book on the way to the hospital--in labor. So, for better or worse this little bundle of joy, this blob of human skin and bones, this tiny human being, would be raised just like all the other first children in the world. By trial and error.
Parenting skills are safe from scrutiny while the children are toddlers, but Oz’s omnipotence slips a notch when they go to school and start trading information with the other kids. That’s when ‘because I said so’ starts to lose its muscle. They start comparing you with their teacher, the only other adult that has direct power over them. “Miss Smith says you should give me more green vegetables.” Even though the kid makes a gagging sound if you put more than six peas on her plate. “Miss Smith says you should read to me for at least a half hour every night.” Even though the kid always falls asleep after five minutes. By the way, the only thing Miss Smith knows about children is what she learned in college. No trial and error here. The only way to maintain an appearance of wisdom is to enter into a conspiracy with Miss Smith and the other parents. As they say, knowledge is power. This will keep you at least half a step ahead of the children.
It’s surprising more children don’t walk around in a state of perpetual confusion. They must wonder why they get yelled at, not the first time they do something, or even the second or third, but somewhere around the twelfth or fourteenth time. They don’t realize that it’s not the activity but the repetition of the activity that eventually gets your attention. I have yet to meet a child who has any idea that bouncing a basketball against a wall five thousand two hundred and six times could be even slightly irritating to an adult trying to pay bills or concentrate on taxes. Believe me–if they understand this and do it anyway, God help us when they choose our nursing home!
My daughter learned a neat trick when she was around seven, the so called ‘age of reason’. Any time her father or I started to scold her for an infraction she would pipe up with, “You never told me not to do that. You can’t punish me for doing something I didn’t know was wrong!” Then she’d slip away leaving us standing, speechless, in a puddle of logic. Needless to say, she avoided a lot of lectures. This continued until she was old enough for the ‘common sense’ rebuttal. Believe it or not children do eventually hit an age when they can figure a lot of things out for themselves. Then they hit an age when they know more than their parents. Then they hit an age when they realize, as I did, that they don’t know anything.
Thank God for the pediatrician. A light in the darkness. In 1980 when my daughter was born, there was a big controversy about how babies should sleep. Back? Front? Side? My husband and I, being medical professionals, should have known the answer to this one but it wasn’t a simple question anymore. For lack of an answer we put her down on her side, wrapped like a papoose, propped from behind, just as she had arrived by my hospital bed from the nursery. That worked for a while until several women who had much more experience than I (their babies were a few days older than mine) needed to disseminate advice. “Her head will get flat. Put her on her back!” I have to admit being a nurse can be a disadvantage here. I saw my little darling spitting up (which is a euphemism for vomiting) and choking to death. Ergo my first call to the doctor, who remembers his patients by name but calls their female parent ‘mommy’. “Put her on her back, mommy,” was his sage response. Oh well, if something terrible happened I would have someone to blame.
And so it goes–mountains of incoming data from people who don’t have credentials any better than your own. Plenty of old wive’s tales from my mother, who was, after all an old wife; and advice shouting at me from every TV, radio and newsstand I passed.
Now that my daughter is on her own I can heave a temporary sigh of relief. She doesn’t have a husband and won’t be a parent any time soon, one hopes. It will be a while before she learns the sad truth. The function of a parent is to keep kids from poking their eyes out, playing in traffic and running with scissors until they can take care of themselves.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
BABY BUMPS
My daughter's friends are all getting married. She was in two weddings in two months this summer. I figure it's only a matter of time before the babies start arriving. Here's some information and advice, for what it's worth. It's been almost thirty years for me.
BABY BUMPS
Women who want to be grandmothers lie to their daughters. It may be a lie of omission but it is a lie none the less. They coo over babies. They tell you how wonderful being a mother is--the remarkable rewards. They make it seem like nirvana. What they don’t tell you is what will happen to your formerly pristine body and sanity.
The woes of pregnancy are legion. Nausea, unquenchable thirst, constipation, varicose veins, backaches, swollen ankles. Fertility means you grow things. Not just a baby but skin tags, hair in undesirable places, fingernails and toenails that will rival an eagle’s talons. Which, unless you keep trimmed, will shred your sheets. Oh, wait. That assumes you will get any sleep, which you won’t because you will be spending the night traveling back and forth to the bathroom. And forget sleeping on you stomach ever again.
There are only two positive results to pregnancy as far as I can tell. Besides the wonderful child you will produce, and believe me--yours will be the greatest thing since the flush toilet--the porn star boobs will amaze you and the great thing is that as long as you nurse you will keep them. I imagine this is why some women don’t give it up until their kids are ready for kindergarten.
Pregnancy itself has evolved over the ages from a natural event to a disability and back to a natural event. This is why men invented birth control. So pregnancy could be planned and thus not interfere with their lives. When my husband was born, towards the end of the great depression, his mother, a school teacher, was forced to take a five year unpaid leave. Presumably from the first visible signs of a pregnancy bump, so as not to give ideas to her teen-age students, through the stages of weaning and teething, until the kid itself went to school. I suppose they felt parental bonding was important. Pregnancy was viewed as a little shameful, even if you were married, which is what kept the teens scared to death to have sex.
This was around the time that pregnancy went from being a natural event to a disability. When employers had to start paying for disabilities it went back to being a natural event. Go figure.
The actual process of pregnancy has also changed over the years. No, I don’t mean how you get pregnant or the mechanics of growing a fetus. I mean the advice you get. Everyone from your doctor to the grocery store check out clerk will have something to say to you. An entire library of books to tell you what to do. Old wives tales, fond memories, horror stories--you’ll hear them all. Just smile and glow. You can’t avoid it. My suggestion would be to listen to the doctor and let the rest roll off your back. Of course a little good sense doesn’t hurt, and keep in mind that even medical advice goes in and out of fashion.
When I was pregnant thirty years ago the rule of thumb was three alcoholic drinks a day. That may explain why my daughter has such tiny ears. Now the trend is to treat your body like a temple and only eat and drink pure, organic, chemical free food, and if your child doesn’t get accepted to Harvard you have a good shot at a malpractice suit. My mother drank, smoked and whooped it up. She took no prenatal classes, went to a general practitioner rather than an OB specialist, and almost delivered me in a taxi, yet my IQ is 140. Explain that.
The farther away from old wives you can get the better. Especially if they are strongly ethnic. They suggest things like drinking beef blood if you are anemic, and they’ll dangle needles over your swollen abdomen to predict the sex of your baby. Even though these things have been made obsolete by vitamins and ultrasounds, old wives will insist their treatments are safer and you really can’t argue with them. Even coffee and regular tea have been implicated in fetal damage. Tea. Can you imagine? Must be why the Brits lost the Empire.
Which brings us to what a pregnancy can do to your mind and emotions. When your husband tries to get you a prescription for lithium because your mood swings are scaring him, quietly and patiently explain to him that your behavior is normal. Or you could scream it at him...your choice. These mood swings will include a lot of yelling, throwing things, and weeping. Try to confine this behavior to your home. If done on the street people will assume your husband just told you he wants a divorce.
Just keep in mind that pregnancy is nature’s joke on woman, woman is nature’s joke on man, and children are nature's joke on everyone.
BABY BUMPS
Women who want to be grandmothers lie to their daughters. It may be a lie of omission but it is a lie none the less. They coo over babies. They tell you how wonderful being a mother is--the remarkable rewards. They make it seem like nirvana. What they don’t tell you is what will happen to your formerly pristine body and sanity.
The woes of pregnancy are legion. Nausea, unquenchable thirst, constipation, varicose veins, backaches, swollen ankles. Fertility means you grow things. Not just a baby but skin tags, hair in undesirable places, fingernails and toenails that will rival an eagle’s talons. Which, unless you keep trimmed, will shred your sheets. Oh, wait. That assumes you will get any sleep, which you won’t because you will be spending the night traveling back and forth to the bathroom. And forget sleeping on you stomach ever again.
There are only two positive results to pregnancy as far as I can tell. Besides the wonderful child you will produce, and believe me--yours will be the greatest thing since the flush toilet--the porn star boobs will amaze you and the great thing is that as long as you nurse you will keep them. I imagine this is why some women don’t give it up until their kids are ready for kindergarten.
Pregnancy itself has evolved over the ages from a natural event to a disability and back to a natural event. This is why men invented birth control. So pregnancy could be planned and thus not interfere with their lives. When my husband was born, towards the end of the great depression, his mother, a school teacher, was forced to take a five year unpaid leave. Presumably from the first visible signs of a pregnancy bump, so as not to give ideas to her teen-age students, through the stages of weaning and teething, until the kid itself went to school. I suppose they felt parental bonding was important. Pregnancy was viewed as a little shameful, even if you were married, which is what kept the teens scared to death to have sex.
This was around the time that pregnancy went from being a natural event to a disability. When employers had to start paying for disabilities it went back to being a natural event. Go figure.
The actual process of pregnancy has also changed over the years. No, I don’t mean how you get pregnant or the mechanics of growing a fetus. I mean the advice you get. Everyone from your doctor to the grocery store check out clerk will have something to say to you. An entire library of books to tell you what to do. Old wives tales, fond memories, horror stories--you’ll hear them all. Just smile and glow. You can’t avoid it. My suggestion would be to listen to the doctor and let the rest roll off your back. Of course a little good sense doesn’t hurt, and keep in mind that even medical advice goes in and out of fashion.
When I was pregnant thirty years ago the rule of thumb was three alcoholic drinks a day. That may explain why my daughter has such tiny ears. Now the trend is to treat your body like a temple and only eat and drink pure, organic, chemical free food, and if your child doesn’t get accepted to Harvard you have a good shot at a malpractice suit. My mother drank, smoked and whooped it up. She took no prenatal classes, went to a general practitioner rather than an OB specialist, and almost delivered me in a taxi, yet my IQ is 140. Explain that.
The farther away from old wives you can get the better. Especially if they are strongly ethnic. They suggest things like drinking beef blood if you are anemic, and they’ll dangle needles over your swollen abdomen to predict the sex of your baby. Even though these things have been made obsolete by vitamins and ultrasounds, old wives will insist their treatments are safer and you really can’t argue with them. Even coffee and regular tea have been implicated in fetal damage. Tea. Can you imagine? Must be why the Brits lost the Empire.
Which brings us to what a pregnancy can do to your mind and emotions. When your husband tries to get you a prescription for lithium because your mood swings are scaring him, quietly and patiently explain to him that your behavior is normal. Or you could scream it at him...your choice. These mood swings will include a lot of yelling, throwing things, and weeping. Try to confine this behavior to your home. If done on the street people will assume your husband just told you he wants a divorce.
Just keep in mind that pregnancy is nature’s joke on woman, woman is nature’s joke on man, and children are nature's joke on everyone.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
TAKE A HIKE
Boat's gone for the winter. Beach is windy. Hiking is the preferred outdoor activity this time of the year.
TAKE A HIKE
I’m not what you call the outdoorsy type. Oh I don’t mind a couple of hours on the beach, as long as I have a comfortable chair, umbrella, good read, and a beer. Don’t tell anyone about the beer. I don’t even bring food because I don’t like to eat sand and frankly I really don’t want to stay long enough to need nourishment. And swim? Forget it. It’s the North Atlantic, for Pete’s sake. Unfortunately this does not make my husband happy. He accepts it because I have other attributes that are best not mentioned in a family publication.
This Island was made for him. Any place that has organized walks twelve months a year is his kind of place. It’s not so much the walk per se, but the camaraderie of like minded individuals that pleases him. The information disseminated on these ‘winter walks’ is not of paramount interest to him. He really doesn’t care how much erosion has taken place in the last hundred years on the bluffs at Lucy Vincent. What he enjoys is the company of people who go out in all kinds of weather with walking sticks and hiking boots. However, even he is suspicious of people who wear shorts and sandals in March. He loves to hike, swim and do all those things I wasn’t born with the genes for. But--marriage, thy name is compromise, so I go along occasionally just so he’ll owe me one.
He bought a couple of those “Hiking the Vineyard” books hoping to get me interested. “Look honey, they put in more trails at Brine’s Pond.” Or “Here’s a walk that’s only 3.5 miles and promises a view of Vineyard Sound that can’t be seen from anywhere else on the Island.” Big deal. The Island is covered with gorgeous, unique views. I can see most of them from the front seat of the car, which is where I prefer to do my sight seeing. There seems to be a conspiracy against me in the Vineyard Gazette’s calendar. “There’s a walk to the brickyard. They only do that once a year.” Or “Seven Gates. They haven’t done that for a couple of years.” Not only does the Conservation Society take you places that aren’t open to the public but they reward you with cider and cookies! I can’t win.
We were the only ones who showed up for a walk in the state forest once and I thought for sure it would be canceled. No such luck. These people are real tree huggers. They love their job. If it were the stone age they’d be sporting ‘Save T-Rex’ buttons. Another thing. Can’t these walkers keep their mouths shut and just walk? Why do they have to ask all those questions? “What’s a terminal moraine?” “Could you show us an erratic?” And do they have to point out owl pellets and other disgusting natural phenomena? Jeez. It’s like a sixth grade science class. I do enjoy the vernal pools, though. I think the fairy shrimp have the right idea. Hibernate when the weather isn’t to your liking and come out to play when it gets nice.
May, June, September and October are the ideal hiking months on Martha’s Vineyard. Nice weather, not too many tourists, and you can find a place to park. The other day we went to the Fulling Mill Brook Preserve. There was one other car parked in the lot, which isn’t unusual off season. We walked the entire trail and didn’t see another soul. When we got back to the parking lot the car was still there. I have one question. Where were these people? The walk wasn’t enough? They had to climb a tree maybe?
Waskosim’s Rock Reservation is one of my husband’s favorites. We frequently get lost there. Usually, just about the time we feel we’ve had enough and turn back, we lose track of the trail and go in a huge circle. The trails are marked about as well as the Island roads were prior to the 911 system. Which may be why he likes this particular preserve so much. He can get a couple of extra miles out of me.
My favorite is Long Point. The ride from the winter entrance is longer than the actual walk. I also like the Caroline Tuthill Preserve. There are maps with little tidbits of information about points of interest on the trail. In June (so it says) there is a large stand of Lady Slippers. These indigenous orchids are protected by law because they are very fussy about where they like to grow and are untransplantable, though God knows many have tried. I finally saw them last year and was so excited I sent an item to the Edgartown gossip column in the Gazette.
I guess it’s not the walking I dislike so much as where we do it. I much prefer malls, where I can indulge in my favorite exercise. Shopping.
TAKE A HIKE
I’m not what you call the outdoorsy type. Oh I don’t mind a couple of hours on the beach, as long as I have a comfortable chair, umbrella, good read, and a beer. Don’t tell anyone about the beer. I don’t even bring food because I don’t like to eat sand and frankly I really don’t want to stay long enough to need nourishment. And swim? Forget it. It’s the North Atlantic, for Pete’s sake. Unfortunately this does not make my husband happy. He accepts it because I have other attributes that are best not mentioned in a family publication.
This Island was made for him. Any place that has organized walks twelve months a year is his kind of place. It’s not so much the walk per se, but the camaraderie of like minded individuals that pleases him. The information disseminated on these ‘winter walks’ is not of paramount interest to him. He really doesn’t care how much erosion has taken place in the last hundred years on the bluffs at Lucy Vincent. What he enjoys is the company of people who go out in all kinds of weather with walking sticks and hiking boots. However, even he is suspicious of people who wear shorts and sandals in March. He loves to hike, swim and do all those things I wasn’t born with the genes for. But--marriage, thy name is compromise, so I go along occasionally just so he’ll owe me one.
He bought a couple of those “Hiking the Vineyard” books hoping to get me interested. “Look honey, they put in more trails at Brine’s Pond.” Or “Here’s a walk that’s only 3.5 miles and promises a view of Vineyard Sound that can’t be seen from anywhere else on the Island.” Big deal. The Island is covered with gorgeous, unique views. I can see most of them from the front seat of the car, which is where I prefer to do my sight seeing. There seems to be a conspiracy against me in the Vineyard Gazette’s calendar. “There’s a walk to the brickyard. They only do that once a year.” Or “Seven Gates. They haven’t done that for a couple of years.” Not only does the Conservation Society take you places that aren’t open to the public but they reward you with cider and cookies! I can’t win.
We were the only ones who showed up for a walk in the state forest once and I thought for sure it would be canceled. No such luck. These people are real tree huggers. They love their job. If it were the stone age they’d be sporting ‘Save T-Rex’ buttons. Another thing. Can’t these walkers keep their mouths shut and just walk? Why do they have to ask all those questions? “What’s a terminal moraine?” “Could you show us an erratic?” And do they have to point out owl pellets and other disgusting natural phenomena? Jeez. It’s like a sixth grade science class. I do enjoy the vernal pools, though. I think the fairy shrimp have the right idea. Hibernate when the weather isn’t to your liking and come out to play when it gets nice.
May, June, September and October are the ideal hiking months on Martha’s Vineyard. Nice weather, not too many tourists, and you can find a place to park. The other day we went to the Fulling Mill Brook Preserve. There was one other car parked in the lot, which isn’t unusual off season. We walked the entire trail and didn’t see another soul. When we got back to the parking lot the car was still there. I have one question. Where were these people? The walk wasn’t enough? They had to climb a tree maybe?
Waskosim’s Rock Reservation is one of my husband’s favorites. We frequently get lost there. Usually, just about the time we feel we’ve had enough and turn back, we lose track of the trail and go in a huge circle. The trails are marked about as well as the Island roads were prior to the 911 system. Which may be why he likes this particular preserve so much. He can get a couple of extra miles out of me.
My favorite is Long Point. The ride from the winter entrance is longer than the actual walk. I also like the Caroline Tuthill Preserve. There are maps with little tidbits of information about points of interest on the trail. In June (so it says) there is a large stand of Lady Slippers. These indigenous orchids are protected by law because they are very fussy about where they like to grow and are untransplantable, though God knows many have tried. I finally saw them last year and was so excited I sent an item to the Edgartown gossip column in the Gazette.
I guess it’s not the walking I dislike so much as where we do it. I much prefer malls, where I can indulge in my favorite exercise. Shopping.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
LET'S STEAL FROM THE RICH
The fund raising season is over. For now. Many people ask me what we do here in the winter. Well, we think up ways to part the tourists from their cash during the following season.
LET’S STEAL FROM THE RICH
Islanders are ingenious at finding ways to separate the summer people from their money. Auctions seem to have become the method of choice these days, silent or otherwise. I attended one for the Boys’ and Girls’ Club about thirty years ago. There was no admission fee and they served free punch with crackers and cheese. I got a gold charm for $45. That’s about what they were going for in the stores, so I got something of value, felt good about helping a worthy cause and everyone was happy. Unfortunately, auctions for charity no longer offer such a big bang for your buck.
Take the Possible Dreams auction. Admittedly the biggest event of the summer, but not so different from the rest. You have to cough up $25 and this doesn’t even get you a seat. Bring your own or they’ll be glad to rent you one. Now this wouldn’t be such a bad deal if you got to eyeball all the celebrities that attend, but noooo, they are all sequestered up front so unless you have a special talent for recognizing people by the back of their heads it’s just like waiting in line at the post office (but wait--that’s free). I don’t mean to sound snarky and I know that the money raised is a godsend to us year rounders but come on--nothing like feeling left out at your own party.
It wasn’t always so, I’m told. My friend Janice likes to talk about the old days. Now, don’t get me wrong, she still loves the Island dearly and hates to leave for any reason including fabulous vacations but she likes to tell me how much fun it used to be. The incredible things they did in the off season for entertainment, wait, no, I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about that.
Fund raisers in the old days before the rich and famous found Martha’s Vineyard were for the people and by the people. The things you would find on the auction table were lube jobs at a local garage, a day on a working fishing boat (including a fish for supper), breakfast or lunch at a fancy restaurant (including the recipe for the main dish) and maybe a private concert by a local musical group. These items were frequently bid on by a consortium of people to keep the cost down. Breakfast for four, for instance, would be bid on by a group of four friends who would each kick in a quarter of the price. This allowed for a nice donation without costing any one person their kid’s tuition money. Since the items to be auctioned were listed in the paper, these arrangements were all made ahead of time so no one got too carried away during bidding.
After the rich and famous arrived the auction became a war between people who had much more money than the local dry cleaner or plumber, essentially cutting us out of the fun. But, hey, we’re not complaining. We get to keep the money.
Then there’s the Woman’s Club of Martha’s Vineyard. When I joined they informed me that they no longer did any active fundraising. This puzzled me since the General Federation of Woman’s Clubs is known as a philanthropic organization. It seems that one year after a bake sale a member complained bitterly that a cake that had cost her ten dollars to make had been sold for five. “In the future,” she announced, “just ask me for a check.” Which is what they have been doing ever since. It sure beats those five mile ‘walks’ that have become popular on the mainland.
It’s amazing how much money we collect just by setting out a little basket on the dessert table at every meeting.
LET’S STEAL FROM THE RICH
Islanders are ingenious at finding ways to separate the summer people from their money. Auctions seem to have become the method of choice these days, silent or otherwise. I attended one for the Boys’ and Girls’ Club about thirty years ago. There was no admission fee and they served free punch with crackers and cheese. I got a gold charm for $45. That’s about what they were going for in the stores, so I got something of value, felt good about helping a worthy cause and everyone was happy. Unfortunately, auctions for charity no longer offer such a big bang for your buck.
Take the Possible Dreams auction. Admittedly the biggest event of the summer, but not so different from the rest. You have to cough up $25 and this doesn’t even get you a seat. Bring your own or they’ll be glad to rent you one. Now this wouldn’t be such a bad deal if you got to eyeball all the celebrities that attend, but noooo, they are all sequestered up front so unless you have a special talent for recognizing people by the back of their heads it’s just like waiting in line at the post office (but wait--that’s free). I don’t mean to sound snarky and I know that the money raised is a godsend to us year rounders but come on--nothing like feeling left out at your own party.
It wasn’t always so, I’m told. My friend Janice likes to talk about the old days. Now, don’t get me wrong, she still loves the Island dearly and hates to leave for any reason including fabulous vacations but she likes to tell me how much fun it used to be. The incredible things they did in the off season for entertainment, wait, no, I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about that.
Fund raisers in the old days before the rich and famous found Martha’s Vineyard were for the people and by the people. The things you would find on the auction table were lube jobs at a local garage, a day on a working fishing boat (including a fish for supper), breakfast or lunch at a fancy restaurant (including the recipe for the main dish) and maybe a private concert by a local musical group. These items were frequently bid on by a consortium of people to keep the cost down. Breakfast for four, for instance, would be bid on by a group of four friends who would each kick in a quarter of the price. This allowed for a nice donation without costing any one person their kid’s tuition money. Since the items to be auctioned were listed in the paper, these arrangements were all made ahead of time so no one got too carried away during bidding.
After the rich and famous arrived the auction became a war between people who had much more money than the local dry cleaner or plumber, essentially cutting us out of the fun. But, hey, we’re not complaining. We get to keep the money.
Then there’s the Woman’s Club of Martha’s Vineyard. When I joined they informed me that they no longer did any active fundraising. This puzzled me since the General Federation of Woman’s Clubs is known as a philanthropic organization. It seems that one year after a bake sale a member complained bitterly that a cake that had cost her ten dollars to make had been sold for five. “In the future,” she announced, “just ask me for a check.” Which is what they have been doing ever since. It sure beats those five mile ‘walks’ that have become popular on the mainland.
It’s amazing how much money we collect just by setting out a little basket on the dessert table at every meeting.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
A FOUR WAY STOP IS NOT A STATIONARY CLOVERLEAF!
I'm going off Island for a shopping spree tomorrow. I will have to refamiliarize (is that a word?) myself with the way the rest of America drives. Stop lights--oh my.
A FOUR WAY STOP IS NOT A STATIONARY CLOVERLEAF!
I realize that Island drivers are familiar with four way stops. I conducted some research asking my brother, cousin, daughter-in-law and three people from a soap opera chat room, and have learned that people from New York and New Jersey have probably never seen one before. They’ve put up ‘signage’ and turned what used to be the blinker light intersection into a four way stop. There were lots of complaints and debate, but let’s face it, everything causes complaints and debate around here. So in addition to the signs they left the blinker light but put red bulbs in both directions.
After living in Edgartown for several years I have gotten used to and even become fond of four way stops. I have to go through four of them just to get to the store to buy a quart of milk and a newspaper. I believe they are a very civilized traffic option as long as everyone follows the rules. Yes. There are rules. There are things you always, always do, things you never, never do and some things that are a good idea and some things that are a bad idea. I offer them up for our ‘guests’ from off Island, and those from up-Island who rarely venture down.
For instance, it is a bad idea to try to make your way through a busy four way intersection while chatting on a cell phone. It’s a good idea to keep track of all four cars stopped so you’ll know when it’s your turn to go. Never, never try to cross the intersection if it isn’t your turn. Always, always cross when it is your turn or you’ll create confusion and the driver behind you will start beeping. If you’ve lost track, the polite thing to do is wave the opposing cars through then go forth. This will teach you to stop chatting on that damn cell phone and pay attention.
Now it’s very important to remember that no matter how long you’ve been stopped, it doesn’t count unless you’re first in line. It’s not like a red light where everyone stops then everyone goes. And don’t try to sneak through if you are making a right turn. I repeat--it is not a red light. It’s also important to remember that occasionally you will come across drivers who have never encountered a four way stop or are daydreaming or yelling at their kids and will not follow the rules. So keep an eye out.
In order to successfully negotiate a four way stop you need to become familiar with the local use of hand signals. Everyone knows that a smile and Queen Elizabeth sideways wave means either, “It’s your turn” or “Please, be my guest.” A peace sign means, “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention--go ahead.” A frown accompanied with a shaking fist means, “It wasn’t your turn, damn it!” And the universal clenched fist with middle finger pointing skyward means, “You are a jerk. If you can’t figure this out go back where you came from.”
Now that you know all the rules and regulations for navigating a four way stop I have one more heads up for you. There are certain individuals who do not believe the rules of the road apply to them since their vehicle has only two wheels. Nothing will foul up a four way stop faster than a string of bicyclists who blithely sail past the stop sign looking like a family of ducks headed to the nearest pond. These people think they are pedestrians and have the right of way. They aren’t, yet they go anyway. Look out for them unless you want to end up in traffic court charged with vehicular homicide.
The Barnes Road intersection has become as safe as the Cook Street crossing. Remember when everyone had a bumper sticker that said, “This car made it through the Cooke Street intersection”? Maybe the powers that be should consider a five way stop for you know where.
A FOUR WAY STOP IS NOT A STATIONARY CLOVERLEAF!
I realize that Island drivers are familiar with four way stops. I conducted some research asking my brother, cousin, daughter-in-law and three people from a soap opera chat room, and have learned that people from New York and New Jersey have probably never seen one before. They’ve put up ‘signage’ and turned what used to be the blinker light intersection into a four way stop. There were lots of complaints and debate, but let’s face it, everything causes complaints and debate around here. So in addition to the signs they left the blinker light but put red bulbs in both directions.
After living in Edgartown for several years I have gotten used to and even become fond of four way stops. I have to go through four of them just to get to the store to buy a quart of milk and a newspaper. I believe they are a very civilized traffic option as long as everyone follows the rules. Yes. There are rules. There are things you always, always do, things you never, never do and some things that are a good idea and some things that are a bad idea. I offer them up for our ‘guests’ from off Island, and those from up-Island who rarely venture down.
For instance, it is a bad idea to try to make your way through a busy four way intersection while chatting on a cell phone. It’s a good idea to keep track of all four cars stopped so you’ll know when it’s your turn to go. Never, never try to cross the intersection if it isn’t your turn. Always, always cross when it is your turn or you’ll create confusion and the driver behind you will start beeping. If you’ve lost track, the polite thing to do is wave the opposing cars through then go forth. This will teach you to stop chatting on that damn cell phone and pay attention.
Now it’s very important to remember that no matter how long you’ve been stopped, it doesn’t count unless you’re first in line. It’s not like a red light where everyone stops then everyone goes. And don’t try to sneak through if you are making a right turn. I repeat--it is not a red light. It’s also important to remember that occasionally you will come across drivers who have never encountered a four way stop or are daydreaming or yelling at their kids and will not follow the rules. So keep an eye out.
In order to successfully negotiate a four way stop you need to become familiar with the local use of hand signals. Everyone knows that a smile and Queen Elizabeth sideways wave means either, “It’s your turn” or “Please, be my guest.” A peace sign means, “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention--go ahead.” A frown accompanied with a shaking fist means, “It wasn’t your turn, damn it!” And the universal clenched fist with middle finger pointing skyward means, “You are a jerk. If you can’t figure this out go back where you came from.”
Now that you know all the rules and regulations for navigating a four way stop I have one more heads up for you. There are certain individuals who do not believe the rules of the road apply to them since their vehicle has only two wheels. Nothing will foul up a four way stop faster than a string of bicyclists who blithely sail past the stop sign looking like a family of ducks headed to the nearest pond. These people think they are pedestrians and have the right of way. They aren’t, yet they go anyway. Look out for them unless you want to end up in traffic court charged with vehicular homicide.
The Barnes Road intersection has become as safe as the Cook Street crossing. Remember when everyone had a bumper sticker that said, “This car made it through the Cooke Street intersection”? Maybe the powers that be should consider a five way stop for you know where.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS
The hurricane was a big fizzle but it successfully ended the season. Almost everyone had their boat hauled out of the harbor and the exodus seems to have been permanent. Streets are lonely again except for the senior bus trips. And everyone is complaining about business. This isn't new, however, there is never enough business for the entire summer for everybody.
TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS
Business is down. Everyone’s complaining. It happens every year. The MVJCCC (Martha’s Vineyard Joint Chamber of Commerce Commission) is burning their midnight oil looking for solutions. They’ve put suggestion boxes in all the town halls and are doing surveys on the ferries. The number one thing the tourists want is - Ta Da! Who would have guessed it? - sunshine! We used to get a lot more tourists before everyone started watching the weather channel. Maybe we could hack into their computer....
The problem is, word got out that the Vineyard isn’t as exclusive as it used to be. That there are actually vacancy signs at some inns; even in August. This is not good for business. So suggestion number one is to take down those signs and burn them. Do not rent rooms after March 15. And make sure they pay up front, have a three night minimum and a no refund policy. There may be a drought next year but after that our reputation will be restored. That should pretty much take care of rentals.
The restaurants are complaining too. One of them has even stopped serving bread to cut costs. They’ve gotten so upscale that you practically need a microscope to see your portion of fresh Island sea bass with pesto-orange cream sauce and asparagus risotto. This has something to do with not being too rich or too thin, but I’m not sure what. Word’s out that you can get into some of these establishments without a - gasp - reservation. Suggestion number two has the MVJCCC speaking to the boat czar about playing music on the ferry with subliminal messages to make the tourists hungry for veal cheeks with poached ramps. Just don’t stand in their way as they stampede off the boat in search of a meal they will have to take out a second mortgage to pay for. This should help the food industry.
The souvenir industry tries very hard. Every year there are new T-shirts with new slogans. Unfortunately the only way to sell them is to get the celebrities to wear them (or take them back as souvenirs for their interns). Now there isn’t a self respecting celebrity who will wear a T-shirt that costs less than oh say $300. This is not good because your average day tripper will not spend more than $25 for a shirt unless the slogan is really hysterical or really dirty. The suggestion box, however, came up with a gem. The MVJCCC has made a deal with a few of our Island celebrities (you know who you are) to wear some of this year’s selections when they are out and about. That should help the economy. I can’t wait to see Spike Lee in a bad dog tee. Or maybe Diane Sawyer sporting one from the Monster Shark Tournament. When we start seeing Ag Fair shirts on the national news we’ll know business is back.
Now if they could only do something about the temperature of the ocean.
TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS
Business is down. Everyone’s complaining. It happens every year. The MVJCCC (Martha’s Vineyard Joint Chamber of Commerce Commission) is burning their midnight oil looking for solutions. They’ve put suggestion boxes in all the town halls and are doing surveys on the ferries. The number one thing the tourists want is - Ta Da! Who would have guessed it? - sunshine! We used to get a lot more tourists before everyone started watching the weather channel. Maybe we could hack into their computer....
The problem is, word got out that the Vineyard isn’t as exclusive as it used to be. That there are actually vacancy signs at some inns; even in August. This is not good for business. So suggestion number one is to take down those signs and burn them. Do not rent rooms after March 15. And make sure they pay up front, have a three night minimum and a no refund policy. There may be a drought next year but after that our reputation will be restored. That should pretty much take care of rentals.
The restaurants are complaining too. One of them has even stopped serving bread to cut costs. They’ve gotten so upscale that you practically need a microscope to see your portion of fresh Island sea bass with pesto-orange cream sauce and asparagus risotto. This has something to do with not being too rich or too thin, but I’m not sure what. Word’s out that you can get into some of these establishments without a - gasp - reservation. Suggestion number two has the MVJCCC speaking to the boat czar about playing music on the ferry with subliminal messages to make the tourists hungry for veal cheeks with poached ramps. Just don’t stand in their way as they stampede off the boat in search of a meal they will have to take out a second mortgage to pay for. This should help the food industry.
The souvenir industry tries very hard. Every year there are new T-shirts with new slogans. Unfortunately the only way to sell them is to get the celebrities to wear them (or take them back as souvenirs for their interns). Now there isn’t a self respecting celebrity who will wear a T-shirt that costs less than oh say $300. This is not good because your average day tripper will not spend more than $25 for a shirt unless the slogan is really hysterical or really dirty. The suggestion box, however, came up with a gem. The MVJCCC has made a deal with a few of our Island celebrities (you know who you are) to wear some of this year’s selections when they are out and about. That should help the economy. I can’t wait to see Spike Lee in a bad dog tee. Or maybe Diane Sawyer sporting one from the Monster Shark Tournament. When we start seeing Ag Fair shirts on the national news we’ll know business is back.
Now if they could only do something about the temperature of the ocean.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
GREETINGS!
Sometimes I think if it weren't for those vitriolic political, religious, and cheap viagra emails I wouldn't get any emails at all. I can't help wondering if instead of spending all our time on Face Book or porn sights and we were more productive maybe the economy would be better. I think I'll sit down and write a letter to someone.
GREETINGS!
Technology has taken the pleasure out of collecting the mail. Once I received chatty letters from friends and relatives. Now my mailbox is a repository for bills, catalogs and typewritten letters from people who want to sell my house. The only fun is an occasional Hallmark card with a hastily scribbled signature. At least I know someone is thinking of me.
My computer's mailbox, however, is bombarded on a daily basis with notes and jokes from friends and strangers written in espeak which, apparently, does not include capitol letters or punctuation. The spelling, except for certain homophones, is usually correct thanks to spell check. When did you turn into u and are turn into r?
I can't remember the last time I received a personal letter. Oh, you'll say, the telephone took the place of letters, but those of us who dislike talking on the phone--and there are plenty of us--continued to write letters right up until we got a computer. Now everything is e-this and e-that. Between keyboards and text messaging it's a miracle anyone uses pen and paper for anything other than a grocery list and I'm betting some people even use their laptops or Blackberries for that.
I had to pick up a birthday card the other day. As I wandered past the racks I was amazed at the number of occasions they have cards for. Besides the usual things, birthdays, anniversaries, births, deaths and holidays I found some truly unusual cards. For example there was one for someone who just bought a new car. Seems to me that one isn't worth a five cent stamp much less half a buck. Instead of congratulating someone who just got their license, a card should be sent to warn other drivers that there's a new, inexperienced driver out there on the road. There was a card for the anniversary of a bad time. I'm sure your out of work cousin really wants to be reminded that he lost his job a year ago.
The cards that really amuse me are the ones designed for relatives. The modern family has become so twisted they actually have cards for step children and other people you are related to by that tenuous thread called marriage. Step aunts, step uncles, in-laws and pseudo grandparents abound. A card commemorating a divorce will come in handy here.
I like the cards that are from the dog, or cat. I wonder if the people who send them put a pen in their little paws and trace their name like I did with my daughter before she learned how to print.
There was a card congratulating a new citizen. Unfortunately it was in English. One regarding weight loss might not be appreciated by someone who never thought of herself as fat. It's nice when someone sends you a card congratulating you on a new apartment, house or promotion. But I think sending one mentioning your vacation is going a little too far. After all, you're getting a vacation--what more do you want?
I read somewhere that Emily Post felt that sympathy cards from Hallmark were the height of crassness. She says, " A sympathy card with no personal note need not be acknowledged." We all know how Emily felt about acknowledging communications. Although I don't think she commented on the one noting the loss of your pet.
The day of the personal note is over. We don't communicate face to face any more due to technology, and the postal service is going broke because no one sends letters. Some day there will be a mass computer crash and they'll have to start up the Pony Express again.
GREETINGS!
Technology has taken the pleasure out of collecting the mail. Once I received chatty letters from friends and relatives. Now my mailbox is a repository for bills, catalogs and typewritten letters from people who want to sell my house. The only fun is an occasional Hallmark card with a hastily scribbled signature. At least I know someone is thinking of me.
My computer's mailbox, however, is bombarded on a daily basis with notes and jokes from friends and strangers written in espeak which, apparently, does not include capitol letters or punctuation. The spelling, except for certain homophones, is usually correct thanks to spell check. When did you turn into u and are turn into r?
I can't remember the last time I received a personal letter. Oh, you'll say, the telephone took the place of letters, but those of us who dislike talking on the phone--and there are plenty of us--continued to write letters right up until we got a computer. Now everything is e-this and e-that. Between keyboards and text messaging it's a miracle anyone uses pen and paper for anything other than a grocery list and I'm betting some people even use their laptops or Blackberries for that.
I had to pick up a birthday card the other day. As I wandered past the racks I was amazed at the number of occasions they have cards for. Besides the usual things, birthdays, anniversaries, births, deaths and holidays I found some truly unusual cards. For example there was one for someone who just bought a new car. Seems to me that one isn't worth a five cent stamp much less half a buck. Instead of congratulating someone who just got their license, a card should be sent to warn other drivers that there's a new, inexperienced driver out there on the road. There was a card for the anniversary of a bad time. I'm sure your out of work cousin really wants to be reminded that he lost his job a year ago.
The cards that really amuse me are the ones designed for relatives. The modern family has become so twisted they actually have cards for step children and other people you are related to by that tenuous thread called marriage. Step aunts, step uncles, in-laws and pseudo grandparents abound. A card commemorating a divorce will come in handy here.
I like the cards that are from the dog, or cat. I wonder if the people who send them put a pen in their little paws and trace their name like I did with my daughter before she learned how to print.
There was a card congratulating a new citizen. Unfortunately it was in English. One regarding weight loss might not be appreciated by someone who never thought of herself as fat. It's nice when someone sends you a card congratulating you on a new apartment, house or promotion. But I think sending one mentioning your vacation is going a little too far. After all, you're getting a vacation--what more do you want?
I read somewhere that Emily Post felt that sympathy cards from Hallmark were the height of crassness. She says, " A sympathy card with no personal note need not be acknowledged." We all know how Emily felt about acknowledging communications. Although I don't think she commented on the one noting the loss of your pet.
The day of the personal note is over. We don't communicate face to face any more due to technology, and the postal service is going broke because no one sends letters. Some day there will be a mass computer crash and they'll have to start up the Pony Express again.
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