'TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

I saved this one for today. I am industriously writing new essays for the new year. If you have any suggestions let me know. In the mean time you can view me on demand reading from my blog at www.MVTV.org Go to on demand and look for Pretty Funny.


‘TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

‘Twas the night after Christmas
Not a creature astir
(Even the escaped gerbil was nesting in the fireside chair)
The stockings were empty
The games were all played
Ma in her new nightgown (two sizes too small)
And I in my new pjs (two sizes too big)
Settled in to sleep off
All the stuff we did swig.
My eyes barely shut
There arose such a noise-
The damn kids were playing
With all their new toys
My eyes popped open
My face held a frown
I jumped out of bed
And hollered “Pipe down!”
The stairs were all littered
With torn paper and bows
I was tripping and cursing
And stubbing my toes
The boys how they fought
Over Playstation Two
The girls were both whining
Their gifts were too few
Why those miserable ingrates
Their behavior was shocking
What they really deserved
Was coal in their stocking
“Quit complaining,” I said
“Push those thoughts from your heads-
Dash away, dash away
Up to your beds!”
St. Nick was gone
Christmas was not without stresses
I heard a kid exclaim
As he disappeared from view
“Next year my list will have web site addresses.”

FOOD POLICE

This will be my last formal essay for a while. I'll be taking a rest but you can drop in occasionally to read more deep thoughts from a shallow mind.

FOOD POLICE

Is it just me, or are people I don’t even know trying to control my diet? I am being inundated by rules and regulations about what I can or rather should be eating and drinking. It’s not my fault that the Industrial Revolution and modern technology has turned us into a country of hippos. I find it incredibly unfair that the French continue to eat butter, cream and croissants and drink gallons of wine and their average weight doesn’t seem to change. They call it the ‘French gene’. It certainly insures that genetic engineering will get my vote.
I also feel that the ‘fattening’ of America is caused by an improvement in the taste of food. I don’t remember, as a child, food being so good that you didn’t stop eating it until it was gone. Don’t get me wrong. My mom was a pretty good cook but she was a non-working housewife, one of my favorite oxymorons, and in those days that meant you were lauded for taking the cheapest cut of meat you could find and making it edible. Only Italians had herb gardens, and you could only get vegetables in season, so even in New Jersey--The Garden State--that was pretty much June through September. The rest of the year we ate frozen or canned. My mother’s favorite flavor was butter. Everything I ate was drenched in it. So why was I such a skinny kid? She also liked to use sugar on fresh tomatoes and grapefruit and salt on green apples and melons. She baked every day. A meal on our table consisted of a relish tray (you remember--carrots, celery, olives and sometimes radishes or cottage cheese) or salad, meat, potatoes and gravy, at least two vegetables, bread and dessert. Dessert was usually pie or cake. We didn’t consider fresh fruit dessert like they do now. Unless it was in ice cream, of course. So how come we weren’t whales? I’ll tell you why. We ate a little bit of everything and let it go at that. We weren’t required to belong to the ‘clean plate club’, weren’t made to feel guilty because there were children that went to bed hungry, and weren’t interested in sitting in front of the TV all the time because we only had one and you can imagine the type of shows my father, who controlled the dial, liked to watch. (That was in the days when we children took the place of a remote. "Susie, put on channel 4.")
Another thing that the Food Police have become irate about is how much liquor we consume. In my parent’s day a cocktail or two or three a day was the norm. It gave dad a chance to unwind before dinner and mom a chance to tell him which child needed a talking to. Now it’s one glass of red wine a day for your heart, that’s it. Ha, Ha. I don’t know anyone who follows this rule. (It irks me that now that wine is good for your heart it gives me terminal GERD.)
I understand the concept of a ‘dry town’. I can appreciate that some people don’t want noisy bars in their neighborhood. What I don’t understand is the BYOB concept. These people want to control what is being drunk next door so they don’t allow liquor to be sold, but they okay the option of diners bringing coolers full of beer, wine and other potent potables to the local restaurants and for a few dollars corkage they can drink any or all of it. It seems to me that this takes all control of who drinks what out of the hands of the establishment. When selling liquor you can cut someone off when you perceive he or she has had too much to drink. If it’s the customer’s own liquor, bought and paid for, what can you do?
When did carbohydrates become the Pariahs of the food world? When I took health in school they were an important part of the food pyramid. I don’t think it’s fair that they bleached all the nutrients out of an entire genre of food to make it taste good then turn around and tell you it’s bad for you. I’m talking about white bread and pasta. The greatest comfort foods ever invented. They also turned the pyramid upside down and made the biggest part the broccoli and salad section. What’s with that?
As I was saying bread and pasta have become the wicked step sisters of eating. Now I can live without pasta (when did we stop calling it macaroni and spaghetti?) maybe six days a week but not bread. Bread, as you can tell from the description of what was on my family table, is a once per meal item. Toast for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch and a roll or two with dinner. I don’t care if it’s made out of that hideous white flour, wheat flour or corn meal. As long as I can spread butter on it (of course we use unsalted for our health), I’m good to go.
My friend Jules and I went to a pretty fancy restaurant the other day. You know, ten dollar martinis and thirty to forty dollar entrees. After we ordered and got our cocktails Jules said, “I’m hungry. She must have forgotten to bring our bread.” The next time the waitress sailed by we caught her eye and asked about bread. “I’m sorry but it’s not our policy to serve bread.” Can you imagine? The chef must be an Atkins convert.
After cursing the person who recommended this place we enjoyed our entree and left. I said to Jules, “I guess this is a BYOB joint.”
“No,” he replied, “They serve liquor.”
“Yeah, I know. I meant Bring Your Own Bread.”

DUST TO DUST

I just finished cleaning for Thanksgiving now Christmas is coming up. Does it never end???


DUST TO DUST


I like to get a bang for my buck with housecleaning. That's why I don't do it until the TV is so dusty I can no longer see the face of the anchor on the six o'clock news. Sometimes I have to invite people to dinner in order to have a reason to clean. Being a child of the sixties I've never really been into housework, which is, when you think of it, a misnomer since it isn't the house that works. It just lays around and gets dirty. I worked outside the home and so felt justified in hiring a cleaning woman. Now that I am retired I no longer feel justified. Ergo my dirty house. I must say I am very jealous of women who don't work but have a cleaning lady anyway. No, I guess jealous isn't the right word. Envious? No. Pissed? Yeah…pissed.
The Oxford Unabridged Dictionary defines housework as "the work of cleaning, cooking, etc. to be done in housekeeping." Even though this is a very large book I guess they didn't have enough room for all that needs to be done, hence the etc. It defines a housewife as "a married woman who manages her own household." I guess they figure when your husband dies you stop cooking and cleaning and doing all that other endless etc. It goes on to state that housewife has become a somewhat derogatory term in some circles so suggests houseperson since we now also have househusbands. I prefer houseperson since wife implies a marriage and I don't have that close a relationship with my house. Especially the parts that need to be cleaned.
Everyone's standard of cleanliness is different. I guess it's partially due to how we are raised. My mom stayed at home and had a distinct schedule of chores scattered throughout the week. A day for grocery shopping (payday of course), a day for laundry (which included ironing, bed linen change and sewing buttons back on), kitchen and bathroom cleaning (of which we only had one--can you imaging--a family of four with only one bathroom??) and all the other responsibilities of a housewife. Of course there was always time in her day for her soaps and a chat over the backyard fence with her neighbor. One of the biggest chores was ferrying the kids (both of us) around town to various activities and play dates. When we grew up and were no longer a factor she started celebrating cocktail hour with a neighbor lady since she had all that free time. That, needless to say, ended badly when, one night, she completely forgot to make supper and my father, figuring she needed something to keep her busier, got rid of all the formica and polyurethane covered furniture and replaced it with real wood which needed to be polished on a regular basis. But, as usual, I digress.
As I said, standards of cleanliness are different. Your standards even change as you grow older. Most people go through phases--sloppy youth, neat middle age and then when you age you return to your youth. I always thought that the homes of elders were not as clean as they could be because their eyesight was failing. Now that I'm older myself I realize it's just because we are tired and lazy, and our philosophy is 'it's good enough'.
I imagine for a young bride it must be a daunting task to shop for cleaning supplies. When I was starting out there were only a few choices. Now-a-days, unless you stick to the brands your mother used, it could take an indecisive person a week to choose her products, three quarters of which she doesn't really need. Dishwasher cleaner for instance. How dirty can the inside of a dishwasher get? I notice no one has imagined that the American houseperson is stupid enough to buy a cleaner for the inside of a washing machine, otherwise it would be there on the shelf next to the other unnecessary items.
Some things have to get done like laundry and food shopping but most of the other chores in my house get done on a need to do basis. Take ironing for instance. It is such an odious job that I only do it twice a year, spring for summer clothes and fall for winter clothes. In fact, I frequently shop for new rather than iron. My laundry room looks like the inside of a Salvation Army bin. My sister-in-law has never ironed. She informed my brother while they were still on their honeymoon that her wrists were too weak to iron.
I still can't decide whether she is a genius or my brother is a moron.

GLOBAL WARMING

One of my faithful readers (probably the only one) asked for more poetry so here goes.

GLOBAL WARMING



My bed is cold
Colder with you than without you.
Cold because of anger
You turn your back
Refuse to touch me
The cold is palpable.
All because we don’t agree
Clipped verbal responses
Make me feel
Small
Unwanted
Useless
I feel bad; then bristle; then cajole
It doesn’t work
I wait for the thaw
Which always comes
Making me feel warm again.

WOMAN'S CLUB OF MARTHA'S VINEYARD

I missed the first two meeting this year and so was very happy to attend the November meeting on Monday. It was a fund raiser for the Red Stocking and as we have done for the last three years or so Janice Belisle was auctioneer to a bunch of 'treasures' the members brought in. It's a fun way to raise money without just writing a check. Just like yard sales, eventually you start to recognize the items that are on sale!

THE WOMAN’S CLUB

I had been living on the Vineyard just short of three months when I met the president of the Edgartown Woman’s Club. Entering the third year of a two year term she was quite passionate about my joining the club. She introduced me to two other members and they were equally passionate. The Woman’s Club, she carefully explained, is probably the oldest service organization on the Island. It was founded in 1898, joined the State Federation in 1924 and the General Federation in 1926. In fact, she went on, the list of past presidents and members reads like a who’s who of Island history. I assured her that I was grateful for the invitation but I really wasn’t into selling wrapping paper or baked goods. I had done enough of that when my daughter was in school.
Oh no, she assured me, the ladies don’t actually fund raise. They prefer to write checks. (They used to fund raise but when one member complained that the cake that cost her ten dollars to make had been sold for five dollars...) Three times a year collections are taken for Island charities; October for veterans, November for Red Stocking and April for the high school scholarship. Any leftovers go to Hospice, the Historical Society, Community Services and other assorted deserving causes.
This seemed a somewhat novel approach for a service organization so I agreed to go to their next gathering to see what it was all about. The next meeting was in September (the group only meets September through June excepting February when all the snowbirds are in Florida and it might snow and there is no place to park in July and August) and wasn’t a meeting at all but the annual fall luncheon. It was in what used to be the Dunes Restaurant out by South Beach in Katama. Approximately twenty five members (one of whom was a man--I must say that threw me) attended. When I was introduced as a potential new member I was met with hugh smiles and open arms. Every woman there spoke glowingly of the club, welcomed me and seemed genuinely thrilled that I wanted to join. (Later I found this was a far cry from the old days when they actually used white and black balls to vote on new prospects. These items were donated to the Historical Society back in the mid seventies, by President Norma Bridwell.) I must say I was hooked by the warmth, especially since I was such a recent washashore.
Over the course of the next year I met some fascinating women and made some good friends. I became so impressed with these women and their charitable works I didn’t think twice when asked to be Vice President (after I was assured that I wouldn’t have to be president if I didn’t want to-hah!) Of course once I was in office it was obvious to everyone but me that I was being groomed to take over. In my naivety it never occurred to me that the vast majority of members had already been there done that, some more than once. No wonder they had been so anxious to welcome me! In May of 2002 I cheerfully started my two year term. The main thrust of my presidency was to enroll new members. It would be a terrible sin if this Island institution didn’t survive. Maybe you’d like to join. I promise you won’t have to be president!

KATAMA WIND

The wind is howling. For those of you who only visit the Island in the summer you should know that if Martha's Vineyard wasn't heaven sometimes I'd think it was hell.

Katama Wind


The wind lives in Katama
Challenging trees and birds.
Trees bend like crippled old men,
Birds struggle to stay in place.

No gentle Trade
The Katama wind is a stern parent
Keeping dunes in place
Pruning plants, rolling the fog.

Sometimes it roams the Island
Stirring up ponds, piling leaves,
Disrupting power;
Stopping the ferry.

But it always comes home.
Home to Katama.

PHONE-Y BUSINESS

Did they really have to pass a law forbidding texting while you are driving? Duh. I feel sorry for people who can't spend one moment alone with their own thoughts.


PHONE-Y BUSINESS

My friend Jules has finally accepted cell phones as a fact of life. This is no small accomplishment since he is America’s anti-techie. He was the last person on this continent to purchase a telephone answering machine, and although he does use a computer, he is still clueless about sending e-mail. Cell phones were the last novelty of the information age to win him over. How you might ask? Well, he was on his way off Island for his annual month in Mexico and like most Islanders asked a friend for a ride to the ferry. When they arrived he unloaded his baggage, said good-bye, and started walking to the boat. Jules suddenly realized he had left his carry-on bag with all his cash in the car. Needless to say Alice was long gone.
He ran into the terminal, called her husband and got her cell number. Thankfully she had her phone with her and returned with Jules’s bag in time for him to catch the ferry. This experience forced Jules to accept the fact that cell phones can be helpful.
He still complains about their use by people driving cars, when they ring in movie theaters or if people use them in restaurants. He’s always happy to go somewhere that has a ‘no cell phones’ sign, and yearns for the days of old fashioned telephone booths where you could shut the door and have a private conversation without disturbing everyone around.
Of course Jules used to think that cell phones were a phenomenon of women. One day he set out to prove it to me and did an informal survey throughout the day. He had to admit that usage was pretty much fifty-fifty, but he still feels that men use them for business and women primarily to chat. This has been confirmed over and over again since one cannot help but overhear one end of all cell phone conversations in one’s immediate area.
My introduction to cell phones was many years ago when they were still rare. I went into the ladies room in a restaurant and there was a conversation going on in the lone stall. I of course figured it was a mother and child but as time passed I realized that this woman was speaking to another adult. This, I must say, had me not only confused but intensely curious. Finally out of the stall came a well dressed woman draped in gold jewelry, a cell phone glued to her ear. I wonder to this day if the party on the other end heard the flush.
We were in the grocery one day waiting to place a deli order when a woman, who was obviously a summer visitor since she was clad from head to toe in designer duds, grabbed a number and proceeded to make a phone call. When her number came up she was deep in conversation and so was passed by. When she finished her call and noticed the current number she started waving her ticket and yelled at the clerk. “They passed my number,” she said to everyone around her. I informed her that they did call her number but she didn’t respond. “But I was on the phone!” she replied.
Cell phones make it impossible to be incognito. If you don’t turn them on and someone wants to reach you they get highly irate and leave nasty voice mails encouraging you to join the twenty first century. My daughter always says the same thing. “Mommmm. Why do you have a cell phone if you don’t use it?” I guess it hasn’t occurred to her that I have a life and I might be doing something I don’t want disturbed by a phone call. I always feel embarrassed if I get a call when I’m out in public. I don’t know why. Nobody else seems to. Riding on the T in Boston it always amuses me when all the college kids with phones stuck to their ears announce in unison, “I’m gonna lose you, we’re going underground.” At least the disconnection is complete. I hate it when the service is intermittent. It’s bad enough you have to listen to half a conversation but when they yell and repeat themselves I want to scream.
Walking down the street surrounded by people on cell phones can be disconcerting. A friendly, chatty, woman I know always assumes people are talking to her until she turns around and looks at them. And those little technological wonders people leave sticking in their ears really creep me out. How important are these people?
My friend Jonathan shops in Cronig’s. One day he was in the soup aisle and a gentleman was holding a cell phone to his ear. By the look on his face he was apparently listening to a diatribe. When he hung up, which you can’t really do with a cell phone, my friend asked if he could help in any way. “I don’t think so,” the gent said. “My wife wants ten bean soup mix. All they have is five and fifteen.” Jonathan suggested he buy the fifteen and let her pick out the ones she didn’t like. Of course if the shopper hadn’t had a cell phone, he wouldn’t have been in this quandary. He would have had to make a decision and live with it. Still, it’s not unusual to see and hear husbands who have been sent to the store, checking in with the little woman to clarify the list.
I guess the place that annoys Jules the most, where cell phones are concerned, is the beach. Going to the beach is sacred to him and he feels everyone else should treat it with the reverence it deserves. Unfortunately others do not feel the same. His new beach chair has a cell phone pocket attached to the arm.