The Sports Parents Awards!

SPA's

Last week I attended the Shelter Island Varsity and Junior Varsity Sports Awards. The coaches were terrific and they were careful to say something good about each child. They even gave out MVP and special Coaches Awards. The kids were all acting extremely cool and detached on stage, like they were there just to shut their parents up. I noticed just how frivolous they thought these awards were as they all fell over themselves running up to the podium whenever their names were called...

It occured to me watching these proceedings that we really need to also acknowledge sports parents. So I have invented the SPA. The Sports Parents Award

There should be a "Mileage SPA". This SPA goes to the parent who put the most miles on their vehicle driving any number of children to sports events and practices.

The "All Practices SPA". This SPA is to be awarded to the parent(s) who watched every practice and made every game.

The "Best Face SPA". This SPA goes to the parent who was most able to look totally engrossed in any games they attended.

The "Kudo's SPA". For parents who can create a recording loop in their brains that repeats for the child over and over how great they looked out there and every minute details of every play they were involved in.

The "Grand SPA". This SPA goes to every single grandparent who attended the games of grandchildren and sat on hard benches with arthritic hips and never complained once.

The "Thankless Schlepping SPA". This SPA goes to every parent who schlepped sports equipment anywhere for the team. Often working alone and in the rain, these hearty souls truly warrant our gratitude.

The "Treats SPA". Given to the parent who brought the most treats to share to any event.

The "Cuckoo's Nest SPA". For any parent who, without a gun being held to their head, got on the bus with any team and endured teen and pre-teen stream of consciousness drivel, goofy behavior, horseplay and inane songs sung in four keys simultaneously.

The "Altruistic SPA". For parents who applauded for the other teams kids too.

The "Get a Grip SPA". For parents who actually got upset at referee calls. Not being a sports person myself, I am always amazed at how seriously some people take sports. It's not like the kids are doing cancer research, they're just playing a game, and I hope having fun.

The "Clutch SPA". For any parent who came through in a clutch. Washed a jersey just in time for the game or raced to the store to get shoelaces minutes before they closed, or ran to the store during the game and brought back water for the team. These unsung heroes deserve a SPA too.

The "Graveyard SPA". Awarded to any parent who works night shift and A) made it to any game B) remained conscious through the game.

The "Somebody Stop Me SPA". This award is given exclusively to coaches. These people have families and lives of their own and yet, they volunteer to coach our kids. Why? What drives them to do this? No one knows. Genetic researchers are speculating that they have a defectic self-preservation gene.

A special thank you to all those who coach and help the coach. A good coach should make sure every player has a turn in every game. It sounds small, but it isn't. Kids need acknowledgement and need to know that their contribution, however modest, is wanted. I have clear painful memories of being the last name called when choosing teams for any sport. Only those of us who have had the experience, know how differently our self-esteem may have developed if someone, seeing our lack of confidence, gave us some of theirs.

Playing sports in school is not about winning. It's about building character. Kids learn to be on time, they learn the value of practice. They learn patience. They learn how to help each other. They learn to handle disappointments with grace and victory with modesty. This is the value of sports in school, not the trophy on the mantle, but the trophy of accomplishment in the heart.

Turn ON the !@#%&! AIR CONDITIONER!!!

Ways to Tell It’s Time to Turn on the Air Conditioner

Everyone tries to wait till the last minute to turn on the A/C because it’s more expensive to run than the heater. We struggle to find ways to stay cool till we reach the absolute deadline, which is when homicide is imminent somewhere in the house. So I thought I’d provide a few early warning signs at the beginning of the summer, just so everyone has a clue.

While having breakfast, you notice the icing has slid off your cross bun.

When you cracked the eggs on the side of the frying pan, they dropped in hard boiled.

Your animals have passed out by their water dish.

The water in the goldfish bowl is bubbling, but you don’t have a water filter.

Your normally rambunctious children lie languid on the couch and you can easily roll them out the door.

Your normally languid husband lies comatose on the couch and you can easily remove the remote from his hand.

The rinsed clams on the counter have steamed themselves open.

You can pour the peanut butter out on the bread.

You leave spatula’s on the end tables flanking the couch to help people break the seal that leather makes when it bonds to human flesh.

You help whimpering family members peel their thighs off the leather couch cushions.

You cover your leather couches and chair with bed sheets.

If you run out of bed sheets, you rub cooking oil on your leather furniture so people at least have a chance to slide free.

You watch Christmas movies, or any move that has a lot of snow in it.

It’s 10 AM and all your makeup has slid off your face.

You’ve filled the baby bath with baby powder and you’re just rolling the whole baby through it.

The ice cube you tried to rub across your forehead melted on contact.

You are rationing ice cubes to family members and accepting bribes.

There is a frozen baby’s teething ring in your bra because it cools you down without dripping.

You keep rearranging food in the freezer just for the exposure to cold air.

You husband agrees to telepathic sex.

While talking on the phone, your ear forms a watery suction seal.

Paper money feels damp.

If feeding your family means you have to get near a stove, then they can just starve or forage on their own.

Cigarettes ignite as they are pulled out of the pack.

The personal space between family members has increased to a six foot perimeter so nobodies body heat touches anyone else’s.

You know that turning on the A/C uses energy that increases global warming and you really don’t want to do that, but the globe is so warm in your house right now that unless one of those break away icebergs shows up on your street so you can chip out an ice cave to live in, you are just going to have to turn on the A/C at some point.

Someone in the house finally breaks from the pressure and yells out, “Can we PLEASE turn on the A/C!”, followed by a chorus of agreement, ended when Dad yells, “It’s not that hot, go run some cold water on your face.”

Beer. Beer will save the family. Someone gets Dad a cold brewski, then a second. In that moment after Dad takes the first sip from the second beer, then pauses to look at the bottle - in that second when man and beer regard each other, Mom turns on the A/C. And before you know it, all is right with the world.

Father's Day Gifts

(painting by Sue McDonagh)

Father’s Day

We hear so much about mothers and their importance in our lives, we tend to dismiss the incredible positive influence that a good father or father figure plays in our lives. My stern Irish grandfather was my father figure, along with four uncles, and in spite of the scandals that have come up lately, our parish priest, was a father figure to us too. We attended St Lawrence in Sayville - the old church that burned down. Father Daum was well known to all of us and a visitor in our clan’s homes. I recall with perfect clarity being nine years old, standing in the living room, after a very traumatic event. Father Nuss was there. He gave my mother an envelope from the church and took an additional $20 from his own wallet - that was a lot of money then. He called my grandfather, because my mother was too upset. Grandpop came over and together these two fathers sat in the kitchen and made a plan for us that made all our lives better from that day forward.

Yes, fathers don’t always ask your opinion, they don’t always take your feelings into account, they just won’t allow you to get too far from the well - and would you have it any other way, really? Because when you’re stuck in the muck, Mom will bring you tea and sympathy, but Dad will bring a truck with a winch.

Here’s a list of gifts kids can give Dads everywhere...

A day with no arguing. No voices raised. Play HIS music loud and admit it is better than your (c)rappy music!

A day where you get up and mow the lawn and even do the edging, without being asked, cajoled, or threatened.

A day where the garage gets cleaned and everything gets labeled and put in it’s place.

A day without sarcastic comebacks or profanity. A day of normal, pleasant conversation. I know it will kill you, but he’ll never forget it... Twenty years from now, he’ll be saying, “Remember that day when Johnny talked nice the whole day? Who’d have known he had it in him?”

A day when his vehicle gets cleaned out, washed, hand waxed and detailed.

A day when you don’t do anything to upset your mother.

A day where you barbecue for the family according to HIS standards. Might as well get used to them now, because his standards will be yours sooner than you know....

A day of boating, fishing, or clamming, with the old man. With no arguing and no catching more than he does.

A day where you let him teach you something, without claiming you already know how to do it perfectly - you don’t! It’s hard to comprehend that now, because by age 18 you know more than you will ever know again in your life. As time goes on, you’ll see an alarming increase in the number of things you know nothing about.

A day when the phrases, “That was my fault, I’m sorry” and “Thank you” are spoken spontaneously to all members of the family!

A day where you talk to your paternal grandparents on the phone for as long as they want to talk to you without signaling to other family members to scream, “FIRE!” so you have an excuse to get off the phone.

If your Dad’s religious, go to services with him and don’t look bored. If he plays golf, play with him and believe everything he says. If your eyes see a slice and his eyes do not, believe his eyes. If he sails, go sailing, but don’t tell him what canvas to put up, and after the sail, coil all the ropes without complaint.

You abuse him for 364 days a year and he takes it on the chin. On Father’s Day, just let him have one day where he’s right the whole day! Don’t worry about sacrifing your standards, you can aggravate him twice as much the next day to get caught up.

Raccoon Recon...

Raccoons... what’s next?

Laying in bed being brought into a level of consciousness I don’t usually have to deal with till 7 AM, I opened one eye enough to see that the clock read 1 AM. I could hear the sound of plastic bakery containers being opened in the kitchen. My son was in bed, it wasn’t him. I was in bed, it wasn’t me. The cats can’t open plastic bakery containers because they don’t have opposable claws, so it wasn’t them.

I had no choice, I was going to have to get up and find out who was after my blueberry muffins.

She was small with a gray brindle coat, a lovely ringed tail, and black outlined eyes filled with a pititful expression. I reached for a broom to swish the raccoon out of my kitchen, only to realize, I have an electric broom now and they’re no good for raccoon swishing. I grabbed a spatula and chased her, but she didn’t run. She ambulated slowly to the cat door and left. My two cats only looked up as she passed within inches of them. They didn’t even try to protect me, me the provider of food, treats, toys, gee thanks guys....I locked the cat door so she couldn’t get in again.

I realized she was kinda thin for a raccoon and then it hit me. She was probably a nursing mother who had just gotten the pups to sleep long enough to get out of the den for awhile. I wondered if she used Tylenol to knock them out like I used to do with my pups.

I returned to bed and fell asleep until about an hour later when the sound of cabinets being opened in the kitchen woke me up. Yes, she was back. My muffins weren’t enough I guess.... She tore the window screen to get in. This time I was doing that thing where you’re trying to yell at someone without waking up the rest of the house, that super charged whisper. I told her, “Listen, you, you can’t come in my house and shop! You have to find food outside!” I shushed her out my front door and swatted her bottom with the spatula. I was sure I had handled that dinfinitively.

4 AM......only our children, when they are babies and can’t understand threats, are allowed to wake us up multiple times in the night and still be alive in the morning. I knew it was her moving dishes on the counter.....I went to the kitchen, she stayed on the counter, eating tidbits and just looked up at me. I thought raccoons were supposed to be shy and timid. She was neither. I wasn’t sure if she was brave, too tired to run, or learning disabled. This time I used a spatula and a hand towel to shush her out, like a lion tamer with a whip and chair, I shushed her toward the door and she kept turning around looking at me like, “What? What did I do?”

This time I was going to beat her. I got my pillow, blankie, and water and set up camp in my recliner. I turned on the TV to create light and sound to keep her out. I had the spatula at the ready. My plan worked. She did not return that night....

But after three breaks in my sleep, I was up for the rest of the night. My conscious began to work on me. I started to feel guilty, what if she was starving, what if she didn’t have enough milk, what if this was the only time she was going to get out this week? What if I hurt her when I swatted her? As the time wore on, I felt terrible, exhausted, but terrible.

The next night she was back. At 11 PM I saw her face peering in through the cat door. I took her a bowl of Friskies Seafood Mix dry food. I thought she could carry pieces in her cheeks back to the kids. I soon realized that wasn’t necessary... because she had no trouble dragging the whole bowl in the woods. The kids must have been thrilled, Mom brought home 'take out' !

We’ve named her Rachel. So now I feed three indoor cats, two feral cats, seed for the birds, nuts for 'Al Byneau', our white squirrel, green scraps for the deer and now extra kibble for Rachel.

40% of the grocery budget goes to animal food now. It’s not so bad I guess, unless I have company and they ask for something to eat.

“Sure! What would you like? I have Kal Kan, Friskies -wet or dry, Song Bird Mix, walnuts, squash scraps....what would you like?”

Getting Your Madonna to Lighten Up!

“There’s a million stories in the naked city....”

I went to The Dory, a local bar on Shelter Island, to celebrate my 400th column last week. I had their incredible stuffed clams. Jack Keiffer, the owner, always makes them with clam pieces big enough to actually see. I was knockin’ back Shirley Temples with three cherries like there was no tomorrow - because danger is my middle name....

I love meeting new people. Ed and Dave, were the two new people I met at The Dory that night. They were both very handsome and both too sober to go home with me of their own free will....damn! They are contractors, and as I do with nearly every one I meet, I asked them to tell me a funny story.

Ed related how he had this guy that worked for him once upon a time. I don’t recall the guy’s name so I’ll call him James because I hate the name James, it’s a bad luck name for me. All the James’ I have ever met have been bad luck for me and created havoc in my life. I finally decided a few years ago that God created the name James just for me, as a way to tag and identify men I should avoid. When I meet men named James, I picture them surrounded with orange caution cones, then I get away from them as fast as I can. I don’t know if Ed’s worker was named James, but he might as well have been because he was bad news.

So back to the story. Hard worker, reliable, all was well with James it seemed, until one day. One day James had a minor electrical problem so he called Ed on the chance that Ed had enough electrical knowledge to solve the problem, which it happened he did. James was so thrilled that he made Ed his expert for everything. He called Ed for every problem he had, great and small; electrical, plumbing, computer, women, choosing lotto numbers, everything.

We’ve all known someone like that at least once. Someone who has made us their expert and annoyed us to death with the minutiae of their lives. Killing them is out of the question because they are usually pretty social and someone would actually miss them. It’s impossible to hand them off to anyone else once they’ve latched onto you like a lemora, so that's out. You don’t want to hurt their feelings, but in the end you have to tell them that you have a brain tumor that grows from the sound of their voice, or move out of state in the middle of the night.

Yes, James drove Ed to distraction. But one night was the coup de gras. James had purchased a statue of the Madonna for his mother. The statue was in the yard and James was having trouble getting the Holy Mother to light up, so who did he call? Ed. Ed the all knowing.

“Did you check the wiring, James? Is it frayed anywhere?”

“No, wiring’s good.”

“Are the connections wet? Are the plugs laying in damp grass?”

“Nope. Plugs are above ground. Everything’s dry but she’s still not lighting up.”

“Okay, did you check your fuse box?”

“No.”

“Alright. Go to the fuse box and just to be sure, slowly flip each switch back and forth.”

“Okay, but hang on, I gotta put new batteries in my flashlight.”

“Is the fuse box is in a dark location?”

“No, all the lights are off.”

“All the lights in your house?”

“No, all the lights on the block. I called the power company a little while ago, power should be back on in a few hours.”

I can’t relate the words Ed spoke to James next. But it was a string of profanities that melted the wires. The diatribe ended with Ed telling James never to call him again. Then, right at the end of Ed’s yelling - the Madonna lit up in the yard! Ed told me, “I couldn’t believe it! The guy took it as some kinda sign that I was his mentor for life!”

Never mind the naked city. There’s a million stories right here on the naked island...