Sunbathing Season

Next weekend my pool opens, beginning the season of sunbathing, an activity I take quite seriously, and at which I am--quite frankly--well practiced. In fact, although I am not paid to do it, I would consider myself a professional sunbather, possessing the commitment, the skill and all the necessary equipment.

Daily sunbathing requires multiple swimsuits, matching cover-ups and towels (also matching), and chair (preferably with wooden arms and a recessed cup holder in one arm)--not too low, nor too high, and with multiple reclining positions. If possible, clashing patterns should be avoided and the canvas of the chair should be in the same color family as the suits, cover ups, towels, and matching bag.

In the matching nylon bag one would find:

• a matching Nalgene beverage bottle for ice water
• a spray bottle (for the first days of the season when the pool is still too cold for a dip)
• multiple suntan lotions, SPF 15 (minimum!) and higher
• a make up bag containing:

a comb

a brush

an elastic hair tie

a hair clip

a small mirror for checking raccoon eyes

make-up wipes for eliminating raccoon eyes

deodorant

• a book
• a journal
• a pen that will not be affected by heat
• a crossword puzzle book
• a Sudoku book
• a magazine

Aside from owning the necessary accoutrement, I am familiar with the pool code of ethics, the most important tenet being do not ever, under any circumstances, interfere with another person's sunbathing. (Hence the deodorant.) And so, even though I shift my chair angle as the sun moves through the sky, I would never infringe upon the space of, or cast a shadow upon, a fellow pool-goer.

At this point you may be thinking Freak! and have an image of the old woman in Something About Mary, or--worse--republican minority leader John Boehner. I do get a nice tan, over time, but I don't turn orange like the aforementioned or the dozen girls in my school who are currently paying to fake-and-bake for the prom. Ever. And while I admit that a nice tan is an important outcome for me (somehow my exposed ankles and arms seem much less offensive when they are tan than when they are pasty, winter white), it's not what sunbathing season is all about.

When I sit by the pool, or at the beach with said accoutrement, I can relax. For hours. No emails, no phone calls, no TV. No papers to correct, no bills to pay, no laundry to sort or fold, no projects to complete. I breathe deeper and think more about things that really matter.

Being a pool fashionista is not one of them.

Shoes as Toys

I remember when my sisters and I were kids, we could entertain ourselves with my father’s shoes. Seriously. My Baby Alive sat somewhere neglected while we would take turns putting on my father's shoes and walking around the house. While one of us would stomp around, the other two would laugh ourselves to tears—as if this were the cleverest thing we could ever have thought of, as if it were the first time we were engaging in these antics.

I thought of our shoe game last night on my way home from my parents’. My sister Liz took the hour drive north with my niece and nephew to visit and so we had an impromptu get together with my other sister, Mary, and her kids as well. After dinner, Liz took the opportunity to shop without kids while Mary went to the gym and I sat outside with my nieces and nephews who all played together and well, although their ages range from 16 to 12 to 10 and almost 4.

As I sat on the back kitchen steps and Jonathan, Amanda and Meredith (in chronological order) played Frisbee, my youngest nephew, Charlie, made a game of taking off my flip flops and running away with them. “Where are you going with my flip flops?!” I would play-yell and go chasing him across the lawn until he would drop them and keep running, out of breath from laughing and sprinting. At least a dozen times I let him take off my shoes as if I didn’t know he was doing it; every time he laughed from the tips of toes, as if it were the funniest game on Earth.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I suppose.

Lilacs and Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day, and lilacs are in season, so I got to bring some home with me from my mother's bushes, in one of her Mason jars, after a very nice dinner there. I'd call them my door prize, but I fear that might give the wrong impression.

Both of my sisters are mothers themselves, and I am not, so I was the daughter designee this year, as I have been in the past. My mother's old country frugality and sensibility always puts the kibosh on any requests to take her and my father out, and invariably my mother orchestrates and cooks her own dinner. In fact, it was somewhat of a triumph that I got her to agree to my bringing shrimp cocktail for an appetizer and ice cream for dessert. My father grilled the steaks she marinated, which we enjoyed with boiled new potatoes and tossed salad. After dinner we sat around and chatted for a bit before having dessert, then we chatted some more.

I left with a full belly, a full heart, and a renewed appreciation for two living and healthy parents. Oh, and a bunch of beautiful lilacs.

For the Love of Books

Every summer, at least once per summer, I devote an entire day to reading. I choose a book of reasonable length and watch the forecast for a sunny day and plan accordingly to read an entire book. At the end of such a day the book lover in me gets to add another title to my list of “Books Read Summer 200X” and my inner sunbather (as my sister Liz would say) is happy to have advanced another shade in the tan spectrum. For me, life doesn’t get much better than that—especially if adult beverages join the pool party midday.

Similarly, in the winter I might choose to spend an entire snow day with soup on the stove and a book in hand. We didn’t get many snow days this past winter, however, so I began my February vacation with a reading day. I don’t remember how the soup came out, but I remember that I devoured Lost and Found, by Carolyn Parkhurst and it was just delicious.

As the photos in my last post indicate, I spent April vacation in San Diego and had a wonderful time. (I promise, Jill, I will write about it…) In between mimosas and fish tacos and an afternoon in La Jolla and margaritas and belly laughs and a day in Manhattan Beach to visit with family I didn’t read a single word, because I’m sure browsing through the SkyMall catalog doesn’t count. Today, although not rainy as predicted, I intend to make up for it.

But honestly, if all I had done over vacation was read, I would still make today a reading day because Elinor Lipman’s new book was released yesterday. Oh, Happy Day! As I was leaving school I got an email reminder that The Family Man was available in bookstores so I drove directly from school to Barnes and Noble to pick up my copy. As I have mentioned in previous posts, she is my favorite author and was my writing teacher at “Writer’s Camp,” so even if it hadn't gotten a great review in Publisher’s Weekly, I would have purchased it on day one and planned to read it in a single sitting. And so I am off, for the tenth time in my adult life, to be delighted by her wit and fall in love with her cast of characters.

Only this time, after finishing and sighing a contented sigh when I put the book on my Ellie shelf, I hope to walk directly to my keyboard.

Sunny San Diego

Pictures from Paradise

Torrey Pines Beach

La Jolla, CA


Orfila Vineyards, Escondido, CA

The Usual

I love where I live. I love the complex, the layout of my loft, and the pool where I spend my summer vacation. I even love my parking spot. The one thing I wish I had was an outdoor grill. I'm allowed to have one, but because I have a second floor unit, it would be inconvenient, so I do without. Since I'm pretty good in the kitchen, for the most part it's easy to make due. But I don't like to do without steak. Despite my Calphalon grill pan and culinary prowess, I just can't make a steak work on my electric range.

I have never been squeamish about eating out by myself. Traveling on business before I was a teacher acclimated me to dining alone and being single for a good part of my adult life kept me in practice, so finding a good steak was as easy as choosing a restaurant. My once occasional red meat cravings led me to Outback, where I knew I could get a reasonable priced and consistently good steak. What came as a bonus was good service and good company. As a result I am a regular. Now when I go out for a steak, I get dinner and conversation, and a few good laughs--especially if Erika and Juli are working.

They are my favorite servers. They know I like the Little Boomey cab, and a little time between my salad and my steak. They know I like the green beans with my steak (sometimes 6 ounce, sometimes 9) and the most I will change up my order is to skip the salad and get garlic mashed potatoes with my sirloin (cooked medium) instead. Just as I can count on Juli asking, “the uzh?” (or however one would phonetically spell the first syllable of usual as it’s pronounced) I know that Erika will come over after my meal with a devilish grin to see if I’ll be tempted into a dessert martini that she is happy to shake up.

What I like more than their knowing what I like to eat and drink and at what pace is that they are friendly and fun and easy to talk to. They chat with me if they have time in between customers and we all know details of each other’s lives. They are good people. I like them. And they make me like being a regular.

Even if I got a grill, or for some unforeseen and godforsaken reason I gave up red meat, I’d still go Outback for what’s not offered on their menu, but is as comforting as a good meal. Friendship.

Connections

Several years ago I went to a writers' workshop--an adult writers' camp, if you will--for a week. I submitted a manuscript, one of the first iterations of the first chapter of my novel, and was assigned a teacher.

I became weightless for weeks, perhaps months. Not only was the writers' workshop held at Simmons College, my alma mater, where I was clearly comfortable, but also I would have an opportunity learn from Elinor Lipman, a sister Simmons alumna, who was my favorite author. Before I even packed my bag, I was sure I would have another reason to be grateful for Simmons College, something else to add to my list of How Simmons Changed My Life.

Indeed, "writers' camp" turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. Every evening we read fellow classmates' manuscripts and the next morning critiqued them. We participated in writing exercises and spent our afternoons rapt while editors and publishers spoke to us. And if this entry were about the New England Writers' Workshop, I could tell you how nervous I was when my classmates critiqued my work, how I felt when I left, but it is not.

Rather, it's about time and friendship.

While at camp, I became friends with another writer, close to my age. I must say that I have never had much trouble making friends, but Kim and I really clicked. Although I am older than Kim, both of us were younger than others in our class, so we pal-ed around all week and exchanged emails when we left and kept in touch. After camp we shared drafts of pieces we wrote and even got together in DC for lunch, where she lives, while I was visiting Deanna in Baltimore.

Then, as often happens, we lost touch.

Until today.

I do not share a hometown with Kim or a vomiting episode at a basketball game in high school; I share with her a passion. We became friends because we love writing, and because we were both brave enough to put our words on paper and let strangers read them. And even though it has been some time since we communicated, it made me smile to see her name in my email in-box today.

I'm not even mad that she mentioned it's actually been 13 years since our camp experience.