Maya Angelou said, “I’ve learned I can tell a lot about a person from how they handle these three things; a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights.”
How true. I’ve thought of a few other situations to add to her list. I can tell a lot about a person from how they handle:
Getting lost while driving to a timed event, like a baseball game or a play. You can really tell a lot about a person by how they handle getting lost on the way to the airport. And if you really, really want to see their coping skills, stick around and watch how they handle missing their flight. And if you really, really, really want to see their worst coping skills, stick around till the police come because they punched out the person at the ticket counter.
You can tell a lot about a person from how they handle being around other people’s rotten kids. We love our own offspring, but no one else seems to discipline their children right. I was fixing a friend’s sewing machine when her five year old squirted maple syrup into my sewing basket; my threads, bobbins, scissors, notions, everything.... If there hadn’t been witnesses present, that kid would have been launched out of that second story window like a surface to air missile .
When you run out of toilet paper at a family or friend’s house, you can call for help. You have to suffer through a short series of tired jokes, but you’ll get the roll pitched at you through the door after a minute. Ever have it happen in a strange place, like a job interview at someone’s home office?
If you live on Shelter Island, you’ve faced this situation many times: you’re in the ferry line and you or a child has to use the bathroom. You try to wait till your car is close enough to the restroom that you can make the run there and back before the boat gets back. Timing, speed and prayer and the three things needed to pull this off. If you don’t make it back in time and as cars go around yours, you get annoyed looks from tourists, but never from locals who just just smile and wave, unless it’s a friend - they point and laugh.
Every woman can relate to this: You’re all set to go, dressed to the nines, he’s waiting impatiently in the living room. You just need to check your hair, do a final spray, and put on your earrings. And one earring, of the two perfect earrings for this outfit, has apparently disappeared into the parallel universe of the lost socks....if you go berserk, he’ll get angry and say incredibly stupid things like, “What is the problem? Just put on another pair of earrings!” Like any old pair of earrings could replace the ones you searched for to perfectly compliment your eyes and the outfit at the same time!
One of the biggest shocks in my adult life was realizing that men don’t give a rat’s behind about the earrings we so carefully chose to attract them. They don’t care about necklaces, pins, bracelets or anything except whether or not the woman is wearing a wedding ring. Do you know how much money I’ve spent on jewelry? Neither do I.
Many Islanders like to watch how tourists handle having their car alarms go off on the ferry when someone else’s bumper touches theirs. It’s sort of a learning experience for the newbies. They get the idea that it isn’t really necessary to lock their cars on the ferry while they walk six feet TO THE RAILING!
Another fun coping situation for Islanders is how you handle being on the ferry and realizing you forgot your ticket and now you have to pay full fare...my mother taught me to beg for mercy and offer to bring them fast food. Shelter Island is one of the few places in America where McDonalds can be traded like coin of the realm.
One of the toughest things to handle is a beach or boat outing canceled due to weather. There’s wailing and whining, laying on the floor kicking feet, punching the couch, refusing any kind of compensatory activity - like going to the movies, cursing the weather and just hours of fruitless temper tantruming. And the kids act even worse than the adults...
I’d like to close with another quote, from my daughter when she was in fourth grade. When asked to finish this sentence, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and.....’ She wrote, “Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and somebody yells, “SHUT UP!” “
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Lock, Cock and Barrel...
I just want everyone to know that I tried desperately to completely ignore this story for fear of breaching good taste. But Jay Leno has brought it up four nights in a row and my resolve is gone....When I worked as a psych nurse, I roomed with a surgery nurse and an Emergency Room nurse. The ER stories were always the best.
"Portsmouth Herald News By Adam Dolge
BRENTWOOD, NH ...On Saturday, July 30, at about 3:40 a.m., Brentwood police assisted ambulance and rescue personnel with a 39-year-old man with a padlock on his testicles. According to police, the man, who police are not identifying, was intoxicated when they arrived on scene. The man reported that the padlock had been on his testicles for two weeks. ... the man reported that a friend put the lock on his testicles. He was allegedly severely intoxicated and passed out. He told police that when he woke up the padlock was placed around top his scrotum and his friend was gone....The man reported to police that he allegedly attempted to remove the padlock with a hacksaw after the key broke off inside the lock. He was taken to Exeter Hospital, where a locksmith was called to remove the lock.”
And whose job was it to call the locksmith?
“Hi, is this Exeter Locksmith? This is Judy Smith, I’m a nurse at Exeter Hospital. You guys are available 24 hours a day right?
No, we have keys for all our locks. The cleaning staff have masters, it’s not for the hospital itself. We have a patient who has a problem. He has a padlock... around his, um, his testicles.
No! This isn’t a crank call, I’m serious. I’m a nurse in the ER. I was elected to call and see if you could come as soon as possible.
I don’t know how he did it....... Was he drunk? Yeah, I’d say that was a safe bet...
No, he’s not a teen, he’s 39. Yeah, a 39 year old man. He says his friend did it while he was passed out.
Hey, I don’t know why, okay? I don’t know what kinda friend it is, or was. ........ You're right, maybe it’s a sex thing. Could you just come over here? Yes, that’s him screamin’ in the background. He’s pretty swollen, he’s experiencing some pain and discomfort....
No, he’s being seen by a female doc. Our male doc ran out of the room. He’s in the office with me right now, laughing and crying in the corner with his hands between his legs....completely useless.
When? It happened two weeks ago....I AM serious.....yeah two weeks, please stop laughing, you’ll make me laugh and I’ll get in trouble...... Yeah, about the size of a grapefruit.....now don’t YOU cry!
He’s got the key! He broke it off in the lock.....well, I don’t know how...... maybe he was drunk when he tried to unlock it and used too much pressure. I think it’s a moot point. We need to get this off of him and get the swelling down so we can stitch him up....
No, the lock didn’t cut him, the hacksaw did....... The hacksaw he tried to use when the key snapped off. Oh please sir, you gotta stop laughin’ and help me.
Well, maybe he should’ve asked the friend who did it in the first place, but the question, “Could you come over with a hacksaw and work on my testicles?” was probably a little awkward to slide into everyday conversation.
Yeah, we have little cranial saws, but they can’t saw through steel...... Nope, there’s no way to get a lock popper through the loop. We’re really stuck.
Bill it anyway you want to. If his insurance doesn’t pay you, we’ll take up a collection........sure, if you wanna keep the lock, keep it. Ah c’mon, who’d buy that on ebay?
No, that’s not the patient, that’s the doc throwing up in the waste basket. He didn’t know the part about the hacksaw....”
"Portsmouth Herald News By Adam Dolge
BRENTWOOD, NH ...On Saturday, July 30, at about 3:40 a.m., Brentwood police assisted ambulance and rescue personnel with a 39-year-old man with a padlock on his testicles. According to police, the man, who police are not identifying, was intoxicated when they arrived on scene. The man reported that the padlock had been on his testicles for two weeks. ... the man reported that a friend put the lock on his testicles. He was allegedly severely intoxicated and passed out. He told police that when he woke up the padlock was placed around top his scrotum and his friend was gone....The man reported to police that he allegedly attempted to remove the padlock with a hacksaw after the key broke off inside the lock. He was taken to Exeter Hospital, where a locksmith was called to remove the lock.”
And whose job was it to call the locksmith?
“Hi, is this Exeter Locksmith? This is Judy Smith, I’m a nurse at Exeter Hospital. You guys are available 24 hours a day right?
No, we have keys for all our locks. The cleaning staff have masters, it’s not for the hospital itself. We have a patient who has a problem. He has a padlock... around his, um, his testicles.
No! This isn’t a crank call, I’m serious. I’m a nurse in the ER. I was elected to call and see if you could come as soon as possible.
I don’t know how he did it....... Was he drunk? Yeah, I’d say that was a safe bet...
No, he’s not a teen, he’s 39. Yeah, a 39 year old man. He says his friend did it while he was passed out.
Hey, I don’t know why, okay? I don’t know what kinda friend it is, or was. ........ You're right, maybe it’s a sex thing. Could you just come over here? Yes, that’s him screamin’ in the background. He’s pretty swollen, he’s experiencing some pain and discomfort....
No, he’s being seen by a female doc. Our male doc ran out of the room. He’s in the office with me right now, laughing and crying in the corner with his hands between his legs....completely useless.
When? It happened two weeks ago....I AM serious.....yeah two weeks, please stop laughing, you’ll make me laugh and I’ll get in trouble...... Yeah, about the size of a grapefruit.....now don’t YOU cry!
He’s got the key! He broke it off in the lock.....well, I don’t know how...... maybe he was drunk when he tried to unlock it and used too much pressure. I think it’s a moot point. We need to get this off of him and get the swelling down so we can stitch him up....
No, the lock didn’t cut him, the hacksaw did....... The hacksaw he tried to use when the key snapped off. Oh please sir, you gotta stop laughin’ and help me.
Well, maybe he should’ve asked the friend who did it in the first place, but the question, “Could you come over with a hacksaw and work on my testicles?” was probably a little awkward to slide into everyday conversation.
Yeah, we have little cranial saws, but they can’t saw through steel...... Nope, there’s no way to get a lock popper through the loop. We’re really stuck.
Bill it anyway you want to. If his insurance doesn’t pay you, we’ll take up a collection........sure, if you wanna keep the lock, keep it. Ah c’mon, who’d buy that on ebay?
No, that’s not the patient, that’s the doc throwing up in the waste basket. He didn’t know the part about the hacksaw....”
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Ice Cream: It's What's for Dinner!
I figured out that there’s no holiday’s in August simply because it’s just too hot to do anything.
The August Excuse: This is the official excuse of August and it is acceptable in any situation: “I can’t. It’s just too hot.”
August Sex: “Fugettabowtit! We’re not having sex unless it’s in front of an air conditioner and neither of us has to move.”
The August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees, the humidity was 94 percent, I was up to my eyeballs in cramps, I had to go off island on a Friday to replace a dead hamster, we had to go to three places to find a girl hamster and when the kids and I got back at 8:30, he was in his chair askin’ me what’s for dinner. So, I grabbed the frying pan, intending to sauté a lovely vegetable medley and make a fritata with homemade salsa, sour cream and garnish with scallions, when suddenly his head ran into the pan. ..........Yes Your Honor, yes it did, he ran into the pan six times. I was right there, I saw the whole thing.”
The Hair of August: We wash our hair. We fix it nice. We reach up to scratch an itch and say, “Oh Gawd... I still have sand in my hair?”
The Cars of August: Having vacuumed our cars twice since summer began we are now resigned to let the sand stay there till autumn. Furthermore, you can identify those who will not be cleaning their cars till autumn by the new line up of shells along the dashboard. In addition to shells, I have a crab on my dashboard. With his multi directional eyes, he is my navi-crab. I think everyone on Shelter Island in August has some of a beach in a car...
August Shoes: All cute cheap shoes bought in July look like crap in August. But there’s no point in buying new sandals now, so we wear them no matter what they look like because it’s too hot to care. In July I bought cutsie thong sandals with big daisies and big sparkling stones in the center. One of my sparkly stones fell off, I glued it back on, but the heat took it off again, and half my pedals are missing, but enough about my mental health...
August Parenting: In July we tell our teens, “I’m serious. You can’t go off island without checking with me first. It’s not about control, it’s about safety. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care.” In August we tell our teens, “Listen smartass, depart from this island one more time without telling me and I’m gonna depart ya teeth from ya head!”
The Four Basic Food Groups of August: Ice Cream, Ice Tea, Barbecue, Ice Cream.
August Reading: It’s too hot to read.
August Housekeeping: Unless someone contracts tuberculosis or typhoid, the house is clean enough till September.
August Make-up: Someone needs to invent a make-up for August that will not melt off your face. Until then, it is acceptable to wear the largest wraparound sunglasses you can find, indoors and out, and lipstick.
The Dog Days of August: Clean up after your dog. Neighbors can handle your dog pooping in their yard in Winter, Spring, and Autumn, but not Summer and absolutely not August. August is hot and steamy enough without stepping in anything similar. If you fail to scoop the poop and someone beats you into a coma, you deserve it. And they won’t be punished because they’ll use the August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees and the humidity was 94 percent.....”
August clothes: A cotton gauze tent is the only intelligent attire for August, but in lieu of that, you may wear as little as possible as long as you are clothing/age/weight proportionate. Please remember that somethings don’t mix, for instance; stretch marks and a belly ring, saggy boobs and a tube top, viagra and a speedo.
Tribal Markings of August: It’s nice in August to see what new lawn chair patterns appear on the back of everyone’s legs. Makes for a nice conversation starter; “Oh, I see you’re wearing the Martha Stewart lawn collection, very nice.” For those of us with cellulite, it presses nicely into almost any pattern. I’ve been enjoying a lovely, deep relief, Waverly toile pattern all summer.
August Marriage: I believe marriages improve greatly in August. It’s just too hot to fight, too hot to pack and move out, too hot file for divorce. I know spousal homicides increase in August, but that’s not the same as divorce. Overall, you leave your spouse alone, unless they're acting like and idiot and it’s 94 degrees and the humidity is 94 percent.....
The August Excuse: This is the official excuse of August and it is acceptable in any situation: “I can’t. It’s just too hot.”
August Sex: “Fugettabowtit! We’re not having sex unless it’s in front of an air conditioner and neither of us has to move.”
The August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees, the humidity was 94 percent, I was up to my eyeballs in cramps, I had to go off island on a Friday to replace a dead hamster, we had to go to three places to find a girl hamster and when the kids and I got back at 8:30, he was in his chair askin’ me what’s for dinner. So, I grabbed the frying pan, intending to sauté a lovely vegetable medley and make a fritata with homemade salsa, sour cream and garnish with scallions, when suddenly his head ran into the pan. ..........Yes Your Honor, yes it did, he ran into the pan six times. I was right there, I saw the whole thing.”
The Hair of August: We wash our hair. We fix it nice. We reach up to scratch an itch and say, “Oh Gawd... I still have sand in my hair?”
The Cars of August: Having vacuumed our cars twice since summer began we are now resigned to let the sand stay there till autumn. Furthermore, you can identify those who will not be cleaning their cars till autumn by the new line up of shells along the dashboard. In addition to shells, I have a crab on my dashboard. With his multi directional eyes, he is my navi-crab. I think everyone on Shelter Island in August has some of a beach in a car...
August Shoes: All cute cheap shoes bought in July look like crap in August. But there’s no point in buying new sandals now, so we wear them no matter what they look like because it’s too hot to care. In July I bought cutsie thong sandals with big daisies and big sparkling stones in the center. One of my sparkly stones fell off, I glued it back on, but the heat took it off again, and half my pedals are missing, but enough about my mental health...
August Parenting: In July we tell our teens, “I’m serious. You can’t go off island without checking with me first. It’s not about control, it’s about safety. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care.” In August we tell our teens, “Listen smartass, depart from this island one more time without telling me and I’m gonna depart ya teeth from ya head!”
The Four Basic Food Groups of August: Ice Cream, Ice Tea, Barbecue, Ice Cream.
August Reading: It’s too hot to read.
August Housekeeping: Unless someone contracts tuberculosis or typhoid, the house is clean enough till September.
August Make-up: Someone needs to invent a make-up for August that will not melt off your face. Until then, it is acceptable to wear the largest wraparound sunglasses you can find, indoors and out, and lipstick.
The Dog Days of August: Clean up after your dog. Neighbors can handle your dog pooping in their yard in Winter, Spring, and Autumn, but not Summer and absolutely not August. August is hot and steamy enough without stepping in anything similar. If you fail to scoop the poop and someone beats you into a coma, you deserve it. And they won’t be punished because they’ll use the August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees and the humidity was 94 percent.....”
August clothes: A cotton gauze tent is the only intelligent attire for August, but in lieu of that, you may wear as little as possible as long as you are clothing/age/weight proportionate. Please remember that somethings don’t mix, for instance; stretch marks and a belly ring, saggy boobs and a tube top, viagra and a speedo.
Tribal Markings of August: It’s nice in August to see what new lawn chair patterns appear on the back of everyone’s legs. Makes for a nice conversation starter; “Oh, I see you’re wearing the Martha Stewart lawn collection, very nice.” For those of us with cellulite, it presses nicely into almost any pattern. I’ve been enjoying a lovely, deep relief, Waverly toile pattern all summer.
August Marriage: I believe marriages improve greatly in August. It’s just too hot to fight, too hot to pack and move out, too hot file for divorce. I know spousal homicides increase in August, but that’s not the same as divorce. Overall, you leave your spouse alone, unless they're acting like and idiot and it’s 94 degrees and the humidity is 94 percent.....
Monday, August 08, 2005
Catch and Filet Fishing
One Saturday a few summer back, my brother David, took me and my two perfect children fishing under a bridge on Shelter Island. David is one of those rare men who actually likes children - he really thinks they're fun. Just as our familes taught us to fish, we now pass this important knowledge down to the next generation. As I told my daughter, "Feed a man a fish and he'll come around everyday. Teach a man to fish and you can get rid of him when your friends visit."
Within five minutes of arriving at the fishing spot, we had the soda and beer in the water, poles baited, and I was dragging my lawn chair into knee deep water. The bait in my pocket would wiggle a little and give me a cheap thrill. I unfolded my chair, sat down and commensed "serious fishing".
My exhusband was a "Catch and Release" Fly Fisherman. He spent more time fiddling with his fly (and that's whole other column) than he ever spent fishing. More over the concept of catching fish and letting it go is as foreign to my family as a liberal thought to Sen. Jesse Helms.
My family are Catch and Filet Fisherman. Under the docks all over Shelter Island, the fish have put up posters of my family's legs at local Sand Bars with the caption, "Warning from the Sturgeon General; Clams scram when you see these legs. Don't let your Flounder founder. Make your Scallop gallup. Get your Striper hyper. Make your Mussel hussle. Otherwise your Bass is grass, you'll be Crab on a slab, Snail in a pail, a Snapper in the crapper, Eel on a reel, Pike on a spike, a dorsal morsal, in other woirds, You're splatter on a platter.....".
My son, Jacob, has autism. He was eight at the time and this was his first time fishing so we were all prepared for anything. His auditory comprehension was very poor, but his visual comprehension was and is, amazing. We call him, "One Take Jake". After ten minutes of fruitless verbal instruction on casting, Uncle David just showed him just once. Jake took the pole and cast a perfect line up and over in a beautiful arc and did it over and over. Yup, over and over. Obviously the lesson about leaving the line in the water until a fish bites is for another day.....
My then eleven year old daughter sunned herself and together we gave directions to tourists who stopped on the bridge and called down to us. Now, I get lost when I turn around in a phone booth. Asking me for directions is like asking Stevie Wonder to drive...... the people we directed are probably still lost.
When my son was through casting, he went to the bottom of the bridge to talk to the hermit crabs. He was reciting word for word the lecture on the 'Life of Crustaceans' he had memorized from a CD-ROM. We all listened because we know from experience that if you interrupt him, he'll start over and over until he completes the sequence. There is a way to stop him, but we left the duct tape in the car.
Suddenly the lecture stopped, there was a splash and then the words, "I got ya". I looked over to find my son and brother gone. As fast as a beached orca can move, I made my way to the base of the bridge just as David was emerging from the swift moving current with a boney eight year old wrapped around his head. He lost his thongs in the process of swimming to get Jake. We gave Jake a new nickname, "Swifty", 'cause now you see him, now you don't...
We left shortly after that heart stopping experience. I gave David my new orange thongs that I had just gotten from K-Mart for four dollars. I know I was going overboard with my generousity. But what the hell, he saved my son's life. I always tell my son he's my "special boy". Once he told my friend , "My mother got me from the hostipul because I was on special." .
Within five minutes of arriving at the fishing spot, we had the soda and beer in the water, poles baited, and I was dragging my lawn chair into knee deep water. The bait in my pocket would wiggle a little and give me a cheap thrill. I unfolded my chair, sat down and commensed "serious fishing".
My exhusband was a "Catch and Release" Fly Fisherman. He spent more time fiddling with his fly (and that's whole other column) than he ever spent fishing. More over the concept of catching fish and letting it go is as foreign to my family as a liberal thought to Sen. Jesse Helms.
My family are Catch and Filet Fisherman. Under the docks all over Shelter Island, the fish have put up posters of my family's legs at local Sand Bars with the caption, "Warning from the Sturgeon General; Clams scram when you see these legs. Don't let your Flounder founder. Make your Scallop gallup. Get your Striper hyper. Make your Mussel hussle. Otherwise your Bass is grass, you'll be Crab on a slab, Snail in a pail, a Snapper in the crapper, Eel on a reel, Pike on a spike, a dorsal morsal, in other woirds, You're splatter on a platter.....".
My son, Jacob, has autism. He was eight at the time and this was his first time fishing so we were all prepared for anything. His auditory comprehension was very poor, but his visual comprehension was and is, amazing. We call him, "One Take Jake". After ten minutes of fruitless verbal instruction on casting, Uncle David just showed him just once. Jake took the pole and cast a perfect line up and over in a beautiful arc and did it over and over. Yup, over and over. Obviously the lesson about leaving the line in the water until a fish bites is for another day.....
My then eleven year old daughter sunned herself and together we gave directions to tourists who stopped on the bridge and called down to us. Now, I get lost when I turn around in a phone booth. Asking me for directions is like asking Stevie Wonder to drive...... the people we directed are probably still lost.
When my son was through casting, he went to the bottom of the bridge to talk to the hermit crabs. He was reciting word for word the lecture on the 'Life of Crustaceans' he had memorized from a CD-ROM. We all listened because we know from experience that if you interrupt him, he'll start over and over until he completes the sequence. There is a way to stop him, but we left the duct tape in the car.
Suddenly the lecture stopped, there was a splash and then the words, "I got ya". I looked over to find my son and brother gone. As fast as a beached orca can move, I made my way to the base of the bridge just as David was emerging from the swift moving current with a boney eight year old wrapped around his head. He lost his thongs in the process of swimming to get Jake. We gave Jake a new nickname, "Swifty", 'cause now you see him, now you don't...
We left shortly after that heart stopping experience. I gave David my new orange thongs that I had just gotten from K-Mart for four dollars. I know I was going overboard with my generousity. But what the hell, he saved my son's life. I always tell my son he's my "special boy". Once he told my friend , "My mother got me from the hostipul because I was on special." .
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Erection? Don't leave home without it....
There's a link on my blog to my blog about parenting an autistic child. Most of it is serious, but I decided to add some of the funny stories too. Here's one of my classics.
Autistic child are forever innocent. They see the world without prejudice, without assumptions, without malice. They get into situations that can make you can laugh or cry, so you might as well laugh.
One day Jake and I were grocery shopping. He was about ten. I was choosing coffee and he was a little further down choosing which hot chocolate with mini-marshmellows he was willing to try. Suddenly a woman brushed past me and shot me a look. The look was one I have become very familiar with, it said, "Is that your son? Do you know what he's doing?"
Turning to face Jake I saw that he was standing in the aisle with his sweat pants and briefs fully extended at the waist band. He was staring down into his pants totally fascinated with something.....
"Mom, look at this," He said in his characteristic monotone.
Fearing the worst, but being a dutiful mother, I peered in. Of course, he had an erection. Then he said, "Watch this." And he made it bounce....
"That's very nice Jake," I said, "but you know what... that's kind of a private activity for a boy. It's okay to play with your peety in private, but not in a store. Okay?"
Being ever obediant he responded, "Okay Mom. But you don't understand because you don't have a peety, all you have is a fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks...."
I laughed so hard, I thought my pants would never dry....if he only knew the all tricks this fluffy has done!
So, there you have it folks, my existentialist angst has been solved ... I don't have a peety, I just have this big fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks. The mystery of life has been solved, even in the autistic world, it all comes down to peety's and fluffy's... and just for the record, Fluffy's Rule!
Autistic child are forever innocent. They see the world without prejudice, without assumptions, without malice. They get into situations that can make you can laugh or cry, so you might as well laugh.
One day Jake and I were grocery shopping. He was about ten. I was choosing coffee and he was a little further down choosing which hot chocolate with mini-marshmellows he was willing to try. Suddenly a woman brushed past me and shot me a look. The look was one I have become very familiar with, it said, "Is that your son? Do you know what he's doing?"
Turning to face Jake I saw that he was standing in the aisle with his sweat pants and briefs fully extended at the waist band. He was staring down into his pants totally fascinated with something.....
"Mom, look at this," He said in his characteristic monotone.
Fearing the worst, but being a dutiful mother, I peered in. Of course, he had an erection. Then he said, "Watch this." And he made it bounce....
"That's very nice Jake," I said, "but you know what... that's kind of a private activity for a boy. It's okay to play with your peety in private, but not in a store. Okay?"
Being ever obediant he responded, "Okay Mom. But you don't understand because you don't have a peety, all you have is a fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks...."
I laughed so hard, I thought my pants would never dry....if he only knew the all tricks this fluffy has done!
So, there you have it folks, my existentialist angst has been solved ... I don't have a peety, I just have this big fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks. The mystery of life has been solved, even in the autistic world, it all comes down to peety's and fluffy's... and just for the record, Fluffy's Rule!
Monday, August 01, 2005
Beach Blanket Bingo!
The Art of the Beach Blanket
It’s the middle of summer and the stores are already rushing us to buy ‘back to school’ stuff. I think retailers hate August because there’s not a single holiday in it, that’s why they have to push Back to School stuff. How about a bill that says retailers can’t push holiday or season related items till three weeks before the event? That way we could all slow down and breathe and not feel so rushed. How ironic, that the more technology we create to save time, the more time we lose. I want to enjoy summer without having to crowd my mind with getting ready for school!
I went to the beach recently and enjoyed practicing a fine art that technology can’t teach you and can’t improve upon. It requires patience, skill, control and grace. It is an Island skill, a coastal skill. The Art of the Beach Blanket.
Beach blankets stake out your turf by the surf. Like an Indian graveyard, everyone knows you never walk across someone else’s beach blanket. When you arrive at a beach, you must select an area that is roughly equidistant from all others there. Unless you are one of the first two arrivals in which case you can put your blankets anywhere and all others have to orient according to your blankets.
Laying down and gathering up your beach blanket takes years of practice to do well. You have to bring a blanket big enough for your whole party, but not so bulky that you can’t spread it out by yourself. You find that certain spot. You gauge where the edge of the blanket should be, and standing with your back to the wind, you unfurl your old bedspread in it’s final incarnation as an island in the sun. Sometimes the wind shifts and your blanket cigarette rolls. But experts wait for the updraft and in one gesture, unfurl and loft the blanket, lowering it slowly with the dying breeze into a perfect square shape. You enjoy that moment of accomplishment as you go around and secure all four corners with sand. You then add all the beach accouterments you schlepped. Next you cover all the kids with tee shirts or sunscreen, you give instructions on free range limits, and finally sit in your chair. With your hand you punch a cup holder pocket into the blanket that is half the height of a coke can, anything less and I can guarantee, somebody will tip over that drink.
No matter how crowded the beach, you must keep a walkway of sand between blankets. No matter how crowded, you must pretend that you cannot see or hear anything that is going on on any other blanket. Even though it may be possible to grab your little cooler with one hand and bash the head of the young man next to you, who is blasting obscene rap music, it is frowned upon. The rules are, if it bothers you, you have to get up and move or leave. However, there is nothing in the rules that says you can’t crack his windshield with your little cooler on the way to your car.
Sometimes young couples get a little too amorous on their beach blanket and you’re supposed to look away. But lately I decided, if they didn’t bring enough for the whole class, then they have to stop. So if things get a little too steamy, I look right at them. This tends to cool their ardor and often elicits their question, “What are you lookin’ at?” My response, “You’re the ones puttin’ on the show... why don’t you get a car?”
At the end of your stay comes the true test of your beach blanket expertise... the lifting of the blanket. By now your blanket has acquired a layer of sand from kids running on and off, sand kicked up by passing feet and fine sand that came in on the breeze. The rules are, you have to get this blanket up without redistributing your sand onto other blankets. Some people start at one edge and gently shake the sand down as they go. The sand still flies onto other people, but they can see that you are trying, so you don’t have to apologize. But almost always a gust of wind comes up and somebody get a face full of your sand, then you have to apologize and they have to say, “It’s alright.”. Novices just get up and shake their blanket, coating everyone around them and we all say, “Thanx....” with our distinctive New York intonation that let’s them know that we know how to wrap a body in a beach blanket and position it for the outgoing tide...
Sitting on a beach blanket, listening to seagulls, hearing the rush of wind and waves, is as close to heaven as I need to be in this life. I always say the salt air blows goes in one ear and out the other clearing out all the chafe. Within the imaginary boundaries of my beach blanket I can focus on what’s important, like making a list of back to school things my son needs and looking at my calendar and figuring out that there’s only nine paychecks till Christmas...
It’s the middle of summer and the stores are already rushing us to buy ‘back to school’ stuff. I think retailers hate August because there’s not a single holiday in it, that’s why they have to push Back to School stuff. How about a bill that says retailers can’t push holiday or season related items till three weeks before the event? That way we could all slow down and breathe and not feel so rushed. How ironic, that the more technology we create to save time, the more time we lose. I want to enjoy summer without having to crowd my mind with getting ready for school!
I went to the beach recently and enjoyed practicing a fine art that technology can’t teach you and can’t improve upon. It requires patience, skill, control and grace. It is an Island skill, a coastal skill. The Art of the Beach Blanket.
Beach blankets stake out your turf by the surf. Like an Indian graveyard, everyone knows you never walk across someone else’s beach blanket. When you arrive at a beach, you must select an area that is roughly equidistant from all others there. Unless you are one of the first two arrivals in which case you can put your blankets anywhere and all others have to orient according to your blankets.
Laying down and gathering up your beach blanket takes years of practice to do well. You have to bring a blanket big enough for your whole party, but not so bulky that you can’t spread it out by yourself. You find that certain spot. You gauge where the edge of the blanket should be, and standing with your back to the wind, you unfurl your old bedspread in it’s final incarnation as an island in the sun. Sometimes the wind shifts and your blanket cigarette rolls. But experts wait for the updraft and in one gesture, unfurl and loft the blanket, lowering it slowly with the dying breeze into a perfect square shape. You enjoy that moment of accomplishment as you go around and secure all four corners with sand. You then add all the beach accouterments you schlepped. Next you cover all the kids with tee shirts or sunscreen, you give instructions on free range limits, and finally sit in your chair. With your hand you punch a cup holder pocket into the blanket that is half the height of a coke can, anything less and I can guarantee, somebody will tip over that drink.
No matter how crowded the beach, you must keep a walkway of sand between blankets. No matter how crowded, you must pretend that you cannot see or hear anything that is going on on any other blanket. Even though it may be possible to grab your little cooler with one hand and bash the head of the young man next to you, who is blasting obscene rap music, it is frowned upon. The rules are, if it bothers you, you have to get up and move or leave. However, there is nothing in the rules that says you can’t crack his windshield with your little cooler on the way to your car.
Sometimes young couples get a little too amorous on their beach blanket and you’re supposed to look away. But lately I decided, if they didn’t bring enough for the whole class, then they have to stop. So if things get a little too steamy, I look right at them. This tends to cool their ardor and often elicits their question, “What are you lookin’ at?” My response, “You’re the ones puttin’ on the show... why don’t you get a car?”
At the end of your stay comes the true test of your beach blanket expertise... the lifting of the blanket. By now your blanket has acquired a layer of sand from kids running on and off, sand kicked up by passing feet and fine sand that came in on the breeze. The rules are, you have to get this blanket up without redistributing your sand onto other blankets. Some people start at one edge and gently shake the sand down as they go. The sand still flies onto other people, but they can see that you are trying, so you don’t have to apologize. But almost always a gust of wind comes up and somebody get a face full of your sand, then you have to apologize and they have to say, “It’s alright.”. Novices just get up and shake their blanket, coating everyone around them and we all say, “Thanx....” with our distinctive New York intonation that let’s them know that we know how to wrap a body in a beach blanket and position it for the outgoing tide...
Sitting on a beach blanket, listening to seagulls, hearing the rush of wind and waves, is as close to heaven as I need to be in this life. I always say the salt air blows goes in one ear and out the other clearing out all the chafe. Within the imaginary boundaries of my beach blanket I can focus on what’s important, like making a list of back to school things my son needs and looking at my calendar and figuring out that there’s only nine paychecks till Christmas...
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