My sons are playing pirate this weekend. The three of them left on our sailboat this morning with food and drink for two days. While loading the boat, one of them asked if the pillows were on board yet and the other two laughed at him.
“We’re not bringing pillows on this trip. We’re roughing it,” said my oldest boy. But when the youngest one came out with his fluffy pillow under his arm, the other two reluctantly called out, “Oh, alright; get ours too!”
I stood on the dock going through a mental checklist asking, “Do you have the bug spray?- yes - Do you have the sunblock? -yes - Water? -yes - Matches?”
“Mom, we know what we’re doing. You don’t have to ask us if we packed everything.”
It’s true. I don’t have to do that every time my boys go off somewhere, but I can’t help myself. Besides, I can’t tell you how many times I asked an obvious question like, “Do you have your dorm room key? your wallet? your license?" and got a blank stare as an answer, followed by the boy running off to his room for the missing object.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, I cupped my hands around my mouth to make a bullhorn and yelled, “Where are your hats and sunglasses?!”
They looked at each other with that blank stare and turned the boat around. My husband ran inside to get three baseball caps, and as I threw a line out for them to grab, I asked, again, “Are you sure you have the sunblock?”
“Yes, mom!” my son said, rolling his eyes, “it’s on the boat already.”
“You really have to stop doing that,” my husband told me as we watched the boat take off again. “They are grown men.”
“Grown men who forget their hats,” I replied.
As the temperature reached into the 90's, I found myself wondering if they were applying sunblock regularly, or if they remembered to put it on at all. I knew they wouldn’t be spreading sunblock on each other’s backs. Pirates don’t do those things.
One of my sons was on a medication this week that required him to remain out of the sun. How would that be possible on a bright hot summer’s day at the beach? Was he going to stay down in the cabin all day? They forgot to pack an umbrella. But then, again, pirates don’t pack umbrellas.
I worried about the rip tides we were having this weekend. I warned them to beware, but would that be enough? Pirates don’t listen to their mothers. They swig rum and dare each other to walk the plank, or some such thing.
At 3:00 PM the phone rang. It was my youngest son calling to see if we would be coming down to the beach to join them. Odd, I thought. Pirates calling for parental companionship? I was perfectly content under our shady tree, reading a book, so I told my husband to go ahead without me.
“I’ll just be there a little while,” he told me. “I have to bring them some things.”
“Oh? What things?”
“They forgot the wood for the fire, and I’ll bring an umbrella so Paul can get out of the sun… And the sunblock," he mumbled. "They forgot the sunblock.”
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Lawnmower
I went for a walk this morning at the John Burns Park in Massapequa. That's where I saw five men - employees of the park - hovering over a lawn mower. One was poking it, touching and prodding like a doctor would do to a patient on his examining table. One was kneeling next to the lawn mower, hand on the base. And the other three were standing in a circle around the lawnmower, just observing.
A walk around the park is marked in tenths of a mile, for a total of one half mile total. It takes me about ten minutes to walk a complete round. My first round brought me back to the starting point and the five men, still hovering over the lawnmower...ten minutes.
As I approached the completion of my second round, there were now four men standing around the machine, arms crossed, as the fifth man hopped into a golf cart type vehicle to fly off somewhere. Was he going for help? One guy shuffled around and kicked some stones into the path. They were obviously very concerned about the lawnmower. No one wanted to leave it alone for a moment. One man kept his hand firmly on the handle offering comfort to the ailing mower.
I was listening to a great song on my iphone so I contemplated another walk around, another ten minutes. Nah, I thought, better get home and get ready for work. Besides, my legs were starting to get tired and I was starting to sweat. I hate sweat.
I did some stretches to stall for a few moments so I could finish the song. The guy on the golf cart cruised back weaving the cart in a playful pattern over the roadway, then parked up on the sidewalk next to the lawnmower. He remained seated under the cart's awning, out of the sun, observing the other four meandering listlessly around the lawnmower.
I couldn't wait any longer. I had to leave. But I'm wondering how the lawnmower is doing. It must be pretty serious - to have five grown men so concerned. I wonder if they are all still standing there trying to figure out what to do.
A walk around the park is marked in tenths of a mile, for a total of one half mile total. It takes me about ten minutes to walk a complete round. My first round brought me back to the starting point and the five men, still hovering over the lawnmower...ten minutes.
As I approached the completion of my second round, there were now four men standing around the machine, arms crossed, as the fifth man hopped into a golf cart type vehicle to fly off somewhere. Was he going for help? One guy shuffled around and kicked some stones into the path. They were obviously very concerned about the lawnmower. No one wanted to leave it alone for a moment. One man kept his hand firmly on the handle offering comfort to the ailing mower.
I was listening to a great song on my iphone so I contemplated another walk around, another ten minutes. Nah, I thought, better get home and get ready for work. Besides, my legs were starting to get tired and I was starting to sweat. I hate sweat.
I did some stretches to stall for a few moments so I could finish the song. The guy on the golf cart cruised back weaving the cart in a playful pattern over the roadway, then parked up on the sidewalk next to the lawnmower. He remained seated under the cart's awning, out of the sun, observing the other four meandering listlessly around the lawnmower.
I couldn't wait any longer. I had to leave. But I'm wondering how the lawnmower is doing. It must be pretty serious - to have five grown men so concerned. I wonder if they are all still standing there trying to figure out what to do.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Giving Up Coffee - The End?
It has been a difficult journey. Coffee is everywhere. People are either drinking coffee or offering you a cup of coffee. It is the social drink of choice and to refuse a friendly offer of a cup of coffee seems to suggest that one's social skills need polishing. "I would love a glass of ice water," just doesn't cut it.
I remember a Valentine card I once bought for my husband. The illustration on the card was of two steaming cups of coffee on a cozy kitchen table. I can't imagine the same illustration with one steaming cup of coffee and a tall glass of ice water. What would the message say inside? "You're hot; I'm cold. Be my valentine" I don't think so.
It's funny how we link associations to a cup of coffee. Coffee is a friendly drink. It bonds people. It makes us warm and cozy. Just the smell of coffee makes people perk up and smile with anticipated pleasure. How many times, I remember, enduring a bad cup of coffee, and when I was done saying something like, "Ah! That hit the spot." I believed that, even if it tasted like tar infused engine oil, coffee just made me feel better. It's what I went for when I was tired, depressed, bored, relaxing, or making a pit stop on a long road trip. I drank it to wake up, wind down, warm up or calm down.
I just finished reading the three books by Stieg Larsson: The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest. What amazed me, while reading those books, was how often the characters were drinking coffee. In almost every scene - except the ones where someone was being chased on foot - someone was either offering coffee, brewing a pot of coffee, or sitting in a cafe drinking coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee! I think that's what helped me commit to giving up the stuff. I would find myself sighing with impatience every time a character would start brewing another pot of coffee. Why were they sitting around drinking coffee when they should have been chasing the bad guys? Why, he probably could have condensed all three books into one if there weren't so many coffee breaks in between the action.
So how do I go from the person I was when I wrote my blog, The Coffee Party on March 29th of this year to the decaffeinated dud that I am now? Not by choice, I can tell you that. I loved coffee. Coffee was my friend. But like anything that doesn't agree with you anymore, or a friend that turns out to be a jerk, you have to painfully admit that it is time to end the relationship.
Sure, I still have fond memories and I still have weak moments when I think about my old friend and contemplate a brief encounter. Who would know? I could sneak into any one of the thousand Starbucks on every street corner. I would blend in with the crowd and no one would know that I was cheating. I could make a 12-cup pot at home, when I'm alone, and spend the afternoon dancing on the tables and singing opera at the top of my lungs (with the windows shut, of course). Who would know?
Who would know?
I remember a Valentine card I once bought for my husband. The illustration on the card was of two steaming cups of coffee on a cozy kitchen table. I can't imagine the same illustration with one steaming cup of coffee and a tall glass of ice water. What would the message say inside? "You're hot; I'm cold. Be my valentine" I don't think so.
It's funny how we link associations to a cup of coffee. Coffee is a friendly drink. It bonds people. It makes us warm and cozy. Just the smell of coffee makes people perk up and smile with anticipated pleasure. How many times, I remember, enduring a bad cup of coffee, and when I was done saying something like, "Ah! That hit the spot." I believed that, even if it tasted like tar infused engine oil, coffee just made me feel better. It's what I went for when I was tired, depressed, bored, relaxing, or making a pit stop on a long road trip. I drank it to wake up, wind down, warm up or calm down.
I just finished reading the three books by Stieg Larsson: The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest. What amazed me, while reading those books, was how often the characters were drinking coffee. In almost every scene - except the ones where someone was being chased on foot - someone was either offering coffee, brewing a pot of coffee, or sitting in a cafe drinking coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee! I think that's what helped me commit to giving up the stuff. I would find myself sighing with impatience every time a character would start brewing another pot of coffee. Why were they sitting around drinking coffee when they should have been chasing the bad guys? Why, he probably could have condensed all three books into one if there weren't so many coffee breaks in between the action.
So how do I go from the person I was when I wrote my blog, The Coffee Party on March 29th of this year to the decaffeinated dud that I am now? Not by choice, I can tell you that. I loved coffee. Coffee was my friend. But like anything that doesn't agree with you anymore, or a friend that turns out to be a jerk, you have to painfully admit that it is time to end the relationship.
Sure, I still have fond memories and I still have weak moments when I think about my old friend and contemplate a brief encounter. Who would know? I could sneak into any one of the thousand Starbucks on every street corner. I would blend in with the crowd and no one would know that I was cheating. I could make a 12-cup pot at home, when I'm alone, and spend the afternoon dancing on the tables and singing opera at the top of my lungs (with the windows shut, of course). Who would know?
Who would know?
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