Next to Lovin', I Like Fightin'

Last week in Dan's Papers, in his article, Temper’s Flare, Dan Rattiner wrote, “three fights that broke out in the Hamptons last week requiring police intervention. They seem to have involved the well-to-do as well as the not so well-to-do, and they seem to have taken place at all sorts of locations in the Hamptons-in Westhampton Beach, in East Hampton and on the Sunrise Highway at the East Quogue Exit. No place is safe. This has been an extraordinary week.”

The Hamptons had three fights in a week? If that’s too much for you, you’d better not come to Shelter Island, we can do three fights before noon.

We have fights organized into the following categories:

Work Fights: Almost always over money or timelines. These fights can be quite entertaining here where we have construction going on everywhere all the time. If you drive by and notice a room sawed away from the main house, as evidenced by the fact that you can see the wallpaper inside, there was a fight there, and the workman had the last word. If you drive by and see carpentry tools on the lawn beneath a broken window, the homeowner had the last word. If you see tools in the driveway that have obviously been run over, the homeowner not only had the last word, he literally drove it home.

Follow-Up Fights: For unfinished business of all sorts. For instance, the carpenter whose tools got run over in the previous paragraph will be at The Dory that evening plotting his revenge. If the homeowner leaves him alone, he’ll just get drunk and sleep it off. But if the homeowner stops at The Dory ostensibly for a drink, but in fact, to add insult to injury if he can, count on a follow-up fight.

Passive Aggressive Fights: I hate these types, but people engage in them all the time. If a woman is mad at a man, she should have the courage to take a hammer and beat the remote in front of him, rather than hide it so deep in the couch it would take an MRI Scan to find it, like I do. And if a man is angry with a woman, he should have the courage to leave a polite note on the table and stay at a motel off-island for 24 hours, rather than let the air out of her tires. Now that might appear imbalanced to the reader, but women are much better at passive aggressive anger than men. It’s really best for men to capitulate than fight back directly. We are born knowing ways to make you suffer that are so exquisitely devious they nearly qualify as an art form.

Fights at Family Gatherings: I don’t know much about these, they are normal interactions to me, we still call fights donnybrooks in my group. The family comes, we drink, we fight, we sing, the police come, we fight over who could have called them, then we drink and go home. Given a choice, Irish Americans will live close to each other, that way we never have to worry about normal neighbors calling the police, we just have to worry about how many neighbors will be crashing the hooley (party). Italian American party’s I’ve been to have some good fighting. But they seldom break any tables or chairs like we do. Plus their food is the best. I highly recommend living next to Italian Americans because you’ll never be fed better than at an Italian gathering.

Lover’s Quarrels: On Shelter Island, these can be a lot of fun because there’s no where to run to and any one can find where you hide. And most people on SI have been with other Islanders before the one they are with now, so when you listen to the really good fights on the front lawns, you can glean all kinds of fascinating secrets of the Island. If there’s a Lovers Quarrel on, be polite and just park your car close enough to hear, but not be seen, you don’t want to interrupt them. And NEVER shout your opinion from your car. If you have to give your opinion, get out of the car, walk over and join the fight. Protocol should be observed at all times. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you were uncivilized, or worse, un-Islandized.

To Tree, Or Not To Tree...

There are fluctuations in the space-time continuum all around us, but we never really notice. Here it is, the last week of August, to adults, just an ordinary set of seven days, but to anyone still attending school, the last week of August gets compressed into what feels like two days, and like the last of the summer wine, gets sucked into the vortex of Labor Day and school begins ten minutes after Labor Day.

Adults love Autumn because the cool weather is coming and the wonderful smells of crisp air with a hint of winter. The Maple trees on Shelter Island get the memo from the off island trees on when to start turning their colors. All except for this one Maple way up on Manhasset Road.

Every year, this one Maple, I think he’s a ‘special’ deciduous Maple, seems to jump the gun and starts a little sooner than the rest. It’s probably some kind of Maple anxiety disorder, it can’t be that easy to know you’ll be losing all your leaves and spending the winter naked. Maybe he gets worried he’s fall behind the official fall schedule so he start a little early. I feel bad for him. Right now, he’s got two leaves turning red. He’s off the road a bit and I think is trying to hide his premature coloration by shifting some of his green leaves over the top of the red ones, but it’s clear he has flicked his Auto-Autumn switch on and will be ahead of the others from now on. Of course, it could just be my imagination.

“Look Pete, Edgar’s doing it again this year! I thought you talked to him.”
“Geez, Frank, I can’t believe him! He knows he didn’t win the First Colors pool this year, he doesn’t get to show the first colors on the Island! Sammy won the pool. He bought sixteen of the Monty the Big Oak’s branches and the first bird’s nest to fall out of the tree was on the first branch he bought, he didn’t even need to bet on the other fifteen. He is going to be so pissed.”
“Well, maybe he doesn’t know yet. We’ll just keep our conversations light and breezy and maybe Sammy won’t find out. Poor schmo, he’s been playing the pool for years, this was the first time he won and now that arrogant ...”
“No chance of him not finding out, Frank. You know who’s behind you - that big Poplar, Peggy - once she gets wind of this, it’ll be all over the Island in no time. I don’t think the Poplars around here have anything better to do than gossip. There are no secrets on Shelter Island.”
“Why did he do it? It’s Maple suicide. Wait till the first big storm hits, I’m hurling my second biggest branch right his way.”
“You and me both, Frank. Joe and Tommy are on the other side of him and I know Tommy, believe me, he’s got Edgar in his sites. You know about Tommy, right? Tommy the Biker Beater?”
“Oh yeah, I think I heard something about that...is it true?”
“Yep. Some biker in a full leathers pulled over to relieve himself on Tommy and Tommy cracked off a branch right over his head, I could hear it crack from my spot.”
“Did he hit the guy?”
“No, the guy jumped out of the way, but Tommy got his bike. He had to push his Harley along the side of the road. It was sweet. I never heard Oaks laugh before, they don’t talk much, really keep to themselves, but they have a wicked sense of humor. They kept shooting little twigs in the guys face the whole way down the road.”
“Guess the Oak was on him....”
“Ouch! Oh, man, that’s sad....”
“Well, at least, after we wipe out Edgar this year, he won’t be around to flirt with Julie in the Spring.”
“Julie? He flirts with Julie? My Mimosa?”
“Oh, hey, Frank, man, I didn’t know. It’s just what I heard.”
“Edgar will be roots up by December.....”

I Love My Grandkid, but Hate Babysitting!

Reason #47 Why Tigers Eat Their Young

Now that I am watching a toddler on a regular basis, I have spotted a missed opportunity for The Dory, our local watering hole. The Dory has a pond in back of it and in the winter they float a little raft with a Christmas Tree out on the pond to everyone’s delight. Eating lunch at The Dory with a toddler is impossible unless you have duct taped the little darling to the chair. I began to wonder, what if The Dory furnished floating playpens? You could have lunch with another adult, anchor the kid out about thirty feet; close enough to monitor them, but not so close that they could swim in. Yep, an opportunity missed.

“Mom, how come you bought Daiquiri Mix and liquor? You don’t drink,” asked my daughter.
“I thought it might be better than using Xanex.”
“But you’re over fif.......”
“DON’T SAY IT! Don’t you dare say that “f” word!”
“Is it the baby? Is she too much for you?”
“What? That precious child?”
“Yes, Mom, that precious child. The one who throws your shoes in the toilet, snaps your glasses apart, crayons your TV screen, throws raw eggs on the floor, constantly strips off her clothes and diaper, runs from you and fights you when you try to catch her and get a diaper on her, pulls down curtains, throws the remote across the room, shoves jelly toast in the VCR slot, empties your handbag, plays with your car keys and loses them, insists on answering the phone and won’t let you have a turn to talk, pours cups of water on you when you bathe her, sticks her fingers in your lipstick, won’t eat anything you fix her, unless it’s on your plate, then she wants it all, yells in the background whenever I call you to see how things are, figures out cabinet locks and empties cabinets, colors your walls, floors, and windows with her Crayola’s, tears pages out of your books, colors in your magazines, screams on the other side of the bathroom door the whole time you’re in the can, flips the outdoor light switch on and off whenever its not blocked by an object she can’t move or pull down. Is it the hours of watching Sesame Street reruns on TiVO, or the way she uses all furniture as a jungle gym and insists on climbing up over the arms of everything instead of just sitting down normally, or the hours of watching The Princess and the Frog movie, or the hours of coloring on paper with her, or worrying that when she sticks the crayons in her ears that you won’t be able to get them out, is it the way she can tantrum for twenty minutes straight without drawing a breath, or the way she empties the dryer when you’re in the bathroom and throws the clothes all over, or the way she grabs for your coffee cup and fights you for it and the hot coffee spills all over you, or the way she kicks the wall for nearly an hourly when you put her to bed? Am I getting close?”
“She’s just an active, normal two year old. I can handle her.”
“Not if you’re downing dacqueri’s, Mom.”
“Sweetheart, you misunderstand. The dacqueri’s are for her..... the spawn of Satan.”
“You can’t give a baby liquor!”
“Not more than three drinks a day, I promise.”
“I know you’re just joking, Mom. You’re not going to turn yourself or her into a drunk.”
“I’m just thinking that the whole babysitting thing would be easier for both of us if one of us was plastered...just until she’s five and start’s school....what are you doing?”
“I think I need a drink now...”

Son of a Beach...

The recent reports in my local paper about hiring private security guards to limit access to the public areas of beaches near their homes has really alarmed me. If something like this catches on here, I’m in for it.

“What do you mean, “Wades Beach has a checkpoint?” I asked the security guard at the entrance to the parking lot. “I’ve got my beach sticker.”
“Well, we’re trying to manage the crowds better and spread people out so everyone can enjoy the beach more,” he replied.
“I’m looking at the beach now! There’s only twenty people there at best.”
“Yes, but that’s Section One, the Beach Fit section, note the svelte icon on the sign. Section Two, the Nearly Fit section, note the beer keg icon on the sign, is farther down, there’s about forty people there now.”
“So, I have to go to an assigned section now? The one with the beer keg icon?”
“No, Ms. Flynn, you are assigned to Section Three, the Won’t Fit section, see...way down there?”
“I see a sign, I can’t read the words, but I can see a walrus icon on the sign.....hey, wait a minute....”
“That’s your assigned section. Drive to the far edge of the parking lot and if you can’t walk in, we have two attendants who will roll you in.”
“But the ice cream truck stops in front of the Beach Fit section. I can’t make it that far from the time the bells sound till I get to the truck, it will be gone by then.”
“Yes, it will, won’t it,” he replied flatly with a smirk on his face.
“Have you talked to the ice cream guy about this? That’s restriction of trade. No one in Section One is going to buy anything. They’re rather die than eat, and certainly not in public!”
“The Section Two people will make it in time. The ice man will survive.”
”That’s not fair. I always get a cream sickle. It’s part of my beach day.”
“It shouldn’t be. Why don’t you just bring a bag of lettuce and carrots sticks with you from now on until you can qualify for Section Two.”

Reluctantly I drove to the end of the parking lot and was surprised when I was met by someone from Section Two, the beer keg section.
“I can make it to the ice cream truck when it comes and get you anything you want for cost plus a buck,” he said as he leaned in my window.
“Oh, that’s so nice of you. I just want a cream sickle.”
“Why not a Toasted Almond, or Chocolate Eclair?” he asked in a low, slow voice that told me some kind of negotiation was about to begin.
“Thanks, but I have my Weight Watcher points all figured out for the day. Three points for a cream sickle, that’s all I got and still have five points left for an egg whites only Denver omelet for dinner.
“If it’s points you need, it’s points I got. I’ll sell you three of my Weight Watcher points for a fiver. Then you could have a Toasted Almond and still have your omelet tonight.”
“You’d sell your Weight Watcher points?”
“Lots of us do in Section Two. Tell your walrus friends. We want everyone to get what they want.”
“You know,” I said, “Section Three is near a clam bed. I could tread a few dozen clams for you. How’d you like a peck of clams for say, a dozen points?”
“Twelve points, that’s a lot of points. You could get a delicious reuben sandwich with ten points...”
“I think I could live with that. Ten Weight Watcher points for a peck of clams? Is it a deal?”
“Done and done,” he responded.

I got out in the water fast to tread and found a friend, a fellow walrus, out there too.
“Margaret! I never saw you tread before. Did you make a deal with that guy too?”
“Yeah. I’m getting four points and six cigarettes for a half peck of clams. What are you getting?”
“Ten points for a peck. I’m gonna give four points to Joanie for helping me with a project last week.”
“That’s nice, she’s always struggling with her points.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“You’re so lucky you aren’t trying to quit smoking. I’m just glad I found a source that Joe can’t trace. He limits me to three cigarettes a day, one after each meal, you know.”
“I feel so humiliated....Section Three, a walrus woman...”
“It’s better than Section Four. There’s only two people there. The guards feed them a bucket of dead herring each and tow them off the beach at the end of the day.”

Outing Nana

My name is “Sephira-get-down!” I will be two in October. My grandmother, and yes, I said grandmother, has been hiding me away from the world, claiming she found me on her steps rather than have the world know she is a grandmother. She whines that I’ll ruin her reputation as a hot cougar. I love her, but she is so delusional. So, for her own good, I am outing her.

She takes care of me while my mother works and we have fun all day. This morning around 8 AM, while she was getting out a gallon of milk to make me a bottle, I grabbed an egg from the fridge door without her knowledge, and let to fall to the floor. A second later, she slipped in the raw egg and landed on the kitchen floor with a big flop. She made a lot of different sounds from bad words to ouchy words. The milk was doing all right spreading on the floor, but I thought it could use some help, so I swished it all around with my hands.

Nana hurt her shoulder in the fall and had to crawl through the milk to the living room to pull herself up on the couch. I hopped on her back and rode her as she crawled into the living room. She got up on the couch all right, but then we both realized that the refrigerator was still open. It was a race to get back to the kitchen, but I won, and got to hurl out a few more eggs before my Nana got back to the kitchen and closed the door. Then she decided to mop the kitchen floor. She strapped me in my highchair which is inescapable because Nana bought the special Torquemada Designs for Toddlers highchair. I had to watch her ruin all my work. By 9 AM, we were beginning over and she made me some nice scrambled eggs for me to refuse to eat and fling over the side as I laughed in her face. Finally, she freed me from the highchair.

Nana likes to color, so around 10 AM I appease her and we color. She is old and coloring appears to be at the limit of her technological skills. She makes flowers and I overlay them with an abstract interpretation of her primitive art work. She tapes our pictures to her refrigerator so she can tell my mother that we made pictures today. Both of them really overreact to this “art” because they think they’re creating self-esteem for me. Neither of them seem to comprehend that I can manipulate both of them with ease because I already have a lock of my self esteem.

As I mentioned, I’ll be two in October, and I have already mastered the art of saying ”NO!” which helps me to create healthy boundaries. I know that what is mine is mine, what is theirs is mine, if I gave it to them but want it back it’s mine, if I even think it’s mine, it’s mine. Nana is having a little trouble with observing the “No!” boundaries I’m setting with her, but her low energy doesn’t allow her to fight me for too long and I’ve already hidden her pepper spray under the couch, so she usually capitulates in a matter of minutes.

After I refuse whatever she makes me for lunch, we go to the park. It’s fenced in so she can’t get away. I try to play nice with the other children, but they really get on my nerves, trying to keep all their toys instead of handing them over without a fight. We usually leave after I’ve inflicted my second injury on someone. The 18 month old kids are such easy marks. One good shove, and just like that, you have their toy.

We get home around 3 PM and by then, I’m ready to help Nana redecorate. I like to pull all the cushions off the chairs, clear her counters, and one good yank can take down any curtain. I take my crayons, snap a few carefully chosen colors in half and grind them into the carpet. I think it’s bold and the splash of color here and there updates Nana’s house. I try to coordinate the crushed colors in the carpet with colors that will go well on the wall. I can crush six crayons and draw on two walls in the time it takes Nana to cut up an apple for me.

Around 4 PM, Nana always seems to experience depression. She sits on her couch, not even trying to clean up after me. She mumbles to herself and shakes her head. I like it when she’s nice and sedate like this, it’s the best time for me to put Playdough in her hair or hide her glasses.

At 5 PM, my mother comes to get me. I will miss Nana, just when I’ve got her beaten to a standstill, I have to go and then start all over in the morning. On the other hand, my mother feels guilty that she has to work all day and, man, can I work that. Phase two of toddler domination begins....