A Game By Any Other Name... Petanque

On July 11th La Maison Blanche (The White House), will host their second annual Petanque Tournament. All proceeds will be donated to the Lions Club which benefits everybody. Call 749-1633 or email reservations@maisonblanchehotel for more information. I had to look up Petanque since I have never heard of it. It seems to be akin to the popular Italian game bocce ball, but with a French accent. First we have the British people here hosting a cricket match on August 18th ( see sicricket.com) and now this foreign import, Petanque. What is going on here? And if we have these two foreign games, since we have plenty of Italian Americans here - why don’t we have bocce ball? We have a lot of Irish Americans too, but it’s no longer politically correct to view drinking and story telling as legitimate sports. One nice thing about Petanque is that, like bocce ball, it seems to require more skill than strength, so women can easily participate also. But there is a very big hidden danger to this game. La Maison Blanche (which was voted Best East End Hotel and Best French Cuisine in Dan’s Papers), is serving a variety of french delicacies, like charcuterie and cheese plates, croque monsieur sandwiches and moules marinieres. I don’t know what any of those things are, but I gained five pounds just trying to spell them. La Maison is calling it their Bastille Day menu. Bastille Day is the French independence day on July 15th. I think they are calling it that as a reminder to the participants to not go anywhere near a scale for three days after the feast or you’ll want to chop off your own head! Of course, you could argue the opposite, that playing petanque allows you to burn off the calories, but whose going to exercise after eating all those delicious things? I don’t know what kind of equipment is needed to play petanque since you’re just tossing hollow metal balls, what danger could there be in that? I don’t think a helmet or shin guards would be needed, but is it a french game....I suggest a beret, a mustache and a cigarette. If you can cop an attitude, that would be helpful too. Since this is a french game, no doubt it has bonus points for looking cool while you’re petanqing. I have to say that I’m glad this game isn’t known to the Irish. You can’t trust us with anything we can throw. If we had access to metal balls, a head injury would be a right of passage. There is a game in Ireland called Gaelic Football, it’s a unique Irish version of soccer. I don’t know what makes it unique, probably no penalty for fighting. One suggestion I would make to La Maison is to award a trophy. Maybe a gold painted petanque ball with a croissant sitting on top. Who wouldn’t want to put that on their mantle? And they could “islandize” it further by having a crab holding the petanque ball. Or maybe a little Statue of Liberty with her arm around the Eiffel Tower, and a holding a petanque ball in her other hand. Oh, the possibilities are endless....

TAXI!

Taxi ! The Peconic Bay Water Jitney starts service on June 30th for a 100 day trial. It will carry 53 passengers (no cars) to and from Greenport and Sag Harbor. It will be very interesting to see how this works into East End life. On the good side, it will be incredibly convenient for a lot of people, not just shoppers, but residents too. It will be a blessing to many Islanders who have relatives - and I speak here from years of personal experience - on both forks who call you for a ride across the Island from one ferry to the other. It will be a nice 40 minute ride, and a peaceful one for those who can turn off their cell phones and iPads. Actually, I’d recommend that because salt spray can do terrible damage to electronics. It will be great for people who are really late with an assignment. You can say you left your iPad on the ferry, or dropped it in the water when somebody shoved you. It sure beats the heck out of “the dog ate my homework”, it’s a excellent low tech excuse for a high tech problem. The water taxi will also reduce schleppage. Schleppage is the amount of bags and bundles you have to schlep with you when going from one fork to another. With the water taxi, you schlep everything once when you get on the boat and once more when you get off the boat. No more dragging stuff on and off one ferry, finding a cross Island ride, and then schlepping everything on and off another ferry. One nice thing about it being an all passenger ferry is that if something happens to the motor, they can put 26 people on each side of the ferry with long oars to row her the rest of the way. And what about the extra person you ask? That’s the one who beats a barrel with his hands to pace the rowers, just like in Ben-Hur. I’m not sure about the name, Peconic Bay Water Jitney, it’s too long. It could be called the Sag Port Jitney. How about the East Ender Tender? Personally, I like the Saggy Green Express. On the bad side of this new taxi, it will cut into the ferries revenues and I hate for that to happen. But there might be a silver lining there for the crews. They work so hard in the hot summer sun and constantly have to remind tourists who stand in front of the big red lines near the gates that read “DO NOT STAND IN FRONT OF THIS LINE”, to not stand in front of that line. It’s also not okay to let the the kids stand by the gates so they can see the churning water. We lose five or six tourists kids a year that way and it’s such a nuisance when they go overboard. The ferry has to turn around and get them and that makes everybody else on the ferry late. I also feel bad for the shop owners who will lose some of that cross Island business. On the other hand, if the Saggy Green Express is a hit, maybe we could work a deal where they make one port of call somewhere on the Island so people could get off and shop or have lunch. After which, they might get back on the water taxi, or take one of the Island ferries. Our ferries could offer incentives, like letting people ride in tubes off the back of the boat - I always thought that would be fun.

Why did the turtle cross the road?

There was a nice letter in last week’s Shelter Island Reporter, reminding people to be on the lookout for turtles crossing the roads. I know to some people that seems like a silly thing to remind people of, but I love turtles and I too, want people to watch out for them. Spring is the time of year when animals get together and make more animals. If you pause to think about it, this must be much harder for turtles than other animals. First of all, they have to find another turtle. They don’t live in herds like deer, so I have no idea how they find each other. Do they cross the roads because they’re looking for love in all the wrong places? Why is it that turtles even bother to cross the roads? The grass isn’t greener on the other side, so why take the risk? I have a theory that since it’s usually the male of the species that try to attract the female, that it’s only male turtles that try to cross the roads. I think it’s their way of being macho and showing off their ability to cause gigantic metal machines to screech to a halt and cause giants to get out of the machines and carry them to the other side of the road. They probably carve a notch in their shell for each giant machine they stop. And if they get hit by one of the big machines, and have the luck not to die, they usually have a nice big scrape on them to show off to the females, a war wound they can get “street cred” for. When my son, Jacob, was younger, he would scan the road for turtles as I drove. If he spotted one, we would pull over and get the turtle. I carried red nail enamel in my van and Jacob would give the turtle a name and I’d paint it on his shell. This way, we were able to track turtle movements all over the Island and uncover who was crossing the road too much. His policy was, if we caught the same turtle crossing a road three times, he was eligible for Jacob’s relocation program to Mashomack Preserve. We actually caught two turtles twice who were crossing the road, but on the second offense, Jacob would relocate them further into the woods from the side of the road and let them off with a warning. That seemed to work since we never had to take anyone to the Preserve. Of course the most annoying thing is when you stop to help a turtle across the road, and as soon as you put them down, they head back into the road in the direction they just came from. Why do they do that? Is it that these are the criminal turtles who have been sentenced to cross a road, allowing the gods of Chevy and Ford to decide their fate? Are these the daredevil turtles who are addicted to the adrenaline rush of hearing tires roar past them? Have they had enough of turtle life and they’re just trying to end it all? Are they trying to run a turtle 20 foot across the road race to benefit a turtle charity? And because of the intrinsic danger, they only have one racer at a time? The turtle - a conundrum in a hard shell, but still an Island pal.

Memorial Day, Arlington Cemetery

  Growing Pains Memorial Day is loaded with wonderful childhood memories for me. Every Memorial Day my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Art Krsnak, who still live on Broadway Ave in Sayville, would host a big family party. My aunt and uncle and my grandparents would usually have done the upkeep on the family plots around Memorial Day and I remember hearing reports about trimming away the grass around all monuments and plaques. Memorial Day meant that the end of school wasn’t far behind. On the Island, it means, open the flood gates, the tourists are a’comin’! I also had the experience of observing Memorial Day in the Armed Forces cemetery known as the Punch Bowl in the crater of the volcano whose image you always see in the background of any picture of Honolulu. Standing at the edge of a sea of crosses and stars of David marking the sacred resting places for WWII soldiers and others. I never thought I’d see a more emotionally arresting place until I saw Arlington National Cemetery. Looking out over stark white crosses in all directions and to the horizon, filled with the fallen from the Civil War, you are so overwhelmed you have to remind yourself to breathe. I thought about Arlington recently, and what it must have been like for the Southerners to accept that black people must be granted the same civil rights as white people. And I remembered a story I read about an incident in a southern church some years after the war. The church was mostly white, and on this day, for the first time, a black parishoner came forth to receive bread and wine along with whites. The pastor stood still, not knowing what to do. Shortly, a small, thin man came forth and quietly knelt next to the black man at the railing. It was written that you could hear a pindrop as the congregation realized it was the now elderly, General Robert E. Lee. We’ll never know if he approved of recognizing black people as full citizens, but we do know that he accepted it. As I watch my country struggle with the idea of gay marriage, I think we’re having the same growing pains the southerners did. No one has to compromise their religious beliefs and grant approval to gay marriage, but we all need to accept their entitlement to the same life, liberty and pursuit of happiness that all Americans are promised. And pause to consider, how many of those stark white crosses lay over gay soldiers.

Rock On!

Mar 23, 2012

The big story on Shelter Island last week was about a Wallstreet couple who purchased a 60 ton rock from Wainscott Sand & Gravel in Bridgehampton and had it transported to their home on the Island where it will sit at the end of a concrete bridge. An employee of the quarry said the couple had shopped for a big rock for nearly three years. It’s now our Official Shelter Island Book of Island Records as the single heaviest item ever transported by ferry to the Island.

The rock, which I am naming the Wallstreet Walnut, was transported to the ferry using big time heavy equipment and had it’s very own police escort from the ferry to it’s new spot on the Island. I guess they were worried somebody would try to steal it on the way to the house. But I suppose I can’t blame them because they no doubt this is one expensive rock. They paid a great deal to have this rock dug up, lifted by crane onto a flatbed truck, hauled slowly to the ferry, I have no idea what the ferry charge is for boulders this year, and then a big truck and crane to transport and deliver it, the total for this rock purchase had to between $100,000 and $300,000 I bet.

I began thinking (never a good sign), I’m sure that the couple that bought the rock are lovely people, from good homes, worked hard all their lives, give to Greenpeace, support local causes, and probably are humble about their wealth because people with money here, never seem to flaunt it. I’ve eaten hot dogs next to millionaires and but for their L.L.Bean uniforms, you’d never guess their wealth.

But seriously, how shopped out are you when you begin to shop for rocks - and not the kind measured in karats? I am very worried about the lady in this couple because somehow this guy misled her when he said, “Baby, I love ya. I’m gonna buy you the biggest rock on this Island!” I’m thinking she wasn’t thinking one that needed a crane... Maybe he plans to spray paint it gold, or have a stone worker carve their names in a heart on the rock. We’ll have to wait and see what happens to the Wallstreet Walnut next.

But there’s another matter to be concerned about. Has anyone stopped to consider the feelings of the Painted Rock by the camp? Is the new rock bigger than our old one? The big rock that was here first, even before Mr Sylvestor got here. The painted rock that has proclaimed the love of so many couples, and ruined so many reputations. Layers of secret messages painted there over the years would tell the entire story of our Island nation. The Indians believed that all of nature had spirit and feelings. I’m a little worried about our Painted Rock’s feelings. It’s awfully close to the water, what if it overhears people comparing it to the new big rock, thinks it’s been abandon, and rolls into the water and drowns itself?

Then again, maybe there’s a silver lining here. Painted Rock has been alone all these years. I don’t know if Painted Rock is a he-rock or she-rock because it’s never been turned over and just from the face, it’s too hard to tell with boulders. Perhaps Painted Rock and the Wallstreet Walnut could be friends - or more. Paint could give Wally the scoop about Island life and Wally would have a friend to talk to, because really, I think only a rock can understand where another rock comes from. They could dish the dirt together. In this era of superior technology, I think we could find a couple of old cell phones to tape to the rocks and let them chat. If it turns out that they are boy-girl, who knows but we may see pebbles by summer?

When is a house, more than a house?

Mar 16, 2012
 
Dan’s Papers 

Dan’ s Papers has moved into its new home. But I have to confess, I will miss the rickety converted old house that served as the office and hub of the Hamptons, aka, Dan’s Papers, for so many years.

I will miss the way the huge poster of Dan’s face next to the commode, watched your every move. I’ll miss how the toilet paper supply was on open shelves across the bathroom - just close enough that every once in a while you’d check to see if you had developed the ability to move TP with your mind. The walls were paper thin and it amazed me how many people thought the nook by the bathroom was a secure place to chat.

I’ll miss looking into the rooms where the Ad people were chained to their desks by the ankles, not unlike the galley scenes in Ben Hur. It was safe to walk up to the edge of the room and throw food and canned goods in, but it was best to stay out of their reach, lest they grab your car keys and make a break for freedom.

I’ll miss the late night Tuesdays (when the paper was being assembled for printing) when the layout staff would put electrified razor wire up around their desks to discourage any last minute changes. Even so, late changes would get through and you’d hear the wails of the exhausted and frustrated staff. One of them would always come out to make coffee for the group. Whenever I was there, if I had the extra, I’d slip some Xanex into the coffee to help calm the group down.

Then there was the Senior Editor, the one on whose shoulders, all things fall. When I began writing for Dan’s, it was with Bill Scurry at the helm. Many have passed through that job since then, yes, they come and they go, but the aggravation reminds the same. Whenever I was in the office on Tuesdays, the Editors were alert, cogent, and highly intelligent. I never saw them the next day, but I’d bet a paycheck that on Wednesdays, they’d have to pull out their Driver’s License to remember their names.

I will really miss what I called Telegraph Hill. The old place, in addition to thin walls, had this steep, narrow, rickety, very squeaky staircase that led to Dan’s perch upstairs. Anything heavier than a cat would make these stairs creak. If wasn’t long before you could identify who was coming or going by the heaviness and speed of their footfalls. The really senior staff could tell you if it was Dan in a good or bad mood, if he was carrying anything, or how much he had for lunch. It was fun to be able to tell who forgot something based on the partial descent, then cursing, then ascent, then a complete fast descent with more cursing. This staircase was so fragile, it actually would shake the whole house depending on the forcefulness of the footfalls. Of course, I never went on it. I knew the steps would never handle the pressure, plus there wasn’t enough DW-40 in the building for me to adequately coat my hips. If I needed to see Dan, I could just take a position at the bottom of the steps and wait. I always admired the fact that even though he could have easily slung a fire ladder out the window and escaped to the parking lot unnoticed, he never did.

Yes, I’ll miss the old house and all the hiding places it had. But the new place will be even better for brilliant people to fester, I mean, foster their talents in this new millenia of Dan’s Papers. I have been a DanFan since he had a two page flyer when I was a teen growing up on the Island. It was Dan’s writing, and later that of Mary Lowry of the Pacific Sun in California, that gave me inspiration to write - but don’t let it get out, Dan doesn’t need any ego boosting.

St Patrick and ugly sheep

Mar 9, 2012

Being Irish is sort of like being Jewish I think. You feel a strong affinity to the homeland, even if you’ve never been there. It’s like you can feel it in your blood. I’ve been watching a terrific show called, “Who Do You Think You Are?” which traces people’s ancestry. What I find very intriguing is that every person so far, says that they always felt drawn to a certain place that turns out to be the country of their forefathers. It makes you wonder...

St Patrick did a lot for the Irish in the 900’s. He brought the country out of the mode of warring pagan tribes and into civilization. He established the first schools and even universities. Considering what a routy bunch the Irish still are, I can only imagine what St Patrick had to deal with... wouldn’t surprise me a bit if blarney waas invented by St Pat himself.

“Poreg, you can’t marry a sheep and that’s that!”
“But Father Patrick, Daisy’s good to me, and far more faithful than any woman has ever been! Why can’t I marry her? She loves me, and she’s four years old, that puts her well above the age of consent for sheep.”
“It’s not about age of consent or love - well it is - but not when it comes to sheep. You can keep her as a friend, a pet, like a cat.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Father, a man can’t have a loving relationship with a cat. Now, a sheep...”
“STOP! Poreg, people marry people and that’s the end of it.”
“Don’t make me choose between church and sheep, Father.”
“Poreg, if you choose the Church, we will have Whisky, invented by Irish Monks, in the eleventh century.”
“And how far away is this eleventh century now, Father?”
“Well, we’re in the ninth century now, tenth is next.... sure, the eleventh century will be here in just a few years. Just think of it, in a short time you’ll be drinking Whisky -the water of life- and isn’t that worth the havin?”
“You make a good argument, Father. Truth is, I was getting tired of Daisy anyway. She can’t cook and has terrible gas from eating all that grass, y’know.”
“There’s a good man, Poreg. Now, about the human sacrifices.....”
“Hold on, Father, I’m ahead of you there. You’ve gotten nearly all the tribes to stop it, and my tribe will be stopping it too.”
“I am relieved to hear it!”
“Just as soon as we get rid of Boobaa. He’s an idiot. We were going to trade him to another tribe, you know how we hate to sacrifice our own, we usually swap sacrificial victims, but we can’t find anyone to trade with no more because of you, so we’re toasting him at the next full moon. After that, we’re open for the new faith.”
“What if I take Boobaa off your hands, then you don’t have to sacrifice him.”
“That’s very nice of you, Father, I think the tribe would appreciate that. He’s such an moron. He’s the laughing stock of the tribe since he married Lola.”
“What’s wrong with Lola? She’s not a sheep too, is she?”
”Yes, but Father, she’s the ugly one.”

I Love Shelter Island

The Best Things in Life are Still Free

Last week, the Shelter Island Reporter ran a questionnaire: “What does Shelter Island lack that would make it a perfect place to live?” Great question, and the answers reveal more about the ‘ anweree’ than the actual subject.

“Im thinking a 7-Eleven,” a young man was quoted. I can certainly sympathize. I was once a teenager stranded on the rock, as were my two children many years later. I can see the logic in wanting a 7-Eleven, Greenport has one, so does Sag Harbor, and yet we are left bereft of Slurpees and cigarette butt strewn parking lots. As anyone who’s ever lived off Island can tell you, the parking lot of a 7-Eleven is a Mecca for tweens to gather. The essentials of their lives are compiled there; junk food, cell signal and peers with whom to ponder the night’s coming mischief. Shelter Island is the only place I know of where the kids hang out at school on the weekends, to the rest of America that constitutes an alternate dimension.

We have something better than 7-Eleven, we have Fedi’s. Fedi’s is quite possibly the best deli from here to Manhattan but sans that special blend of dodgy-dingy florescent lighting that makes a 7-Eleven so alluring. I challenge the youth to expect more from their weekend excursions. Think not what the rock can do for you, but what you can do for the rock. In other words, google a “living social” or “groupon”, tweet your fellow teens and tweens and take a charter bus to halfway decent destination. Your parents can satellite stalk you from a lounge chair at Sunset Beach and you can make your parental chaperone (or human sacrifice) walk ten steps behind you, and not talk to anyone, lest they embarass you.

Another suggestion was for more jobs. Shelter Island could use a small movie theater. Three screens is all it would take to appease three generations of bored “rockers”. While providing entertainment to the masses, it would provide job opportunities and a suitable parking lot paradise. Since Shelter Island doesn’t allow any chains, the theater would be our own. Impeccably decorated by local island women. We could venture beyond stale popcorn an have special concessions from Fedi’s and Primo Pizza. Evening shows could be dinner theater quality with clams and on the half and white wine for the adult sections. An acrylic walled smoking enclosure for the smokers. The chairs would be plush recliners, the carpet persian, and the parking valet. But the best of all would be a secret room the men could access from men’s lounge. Boys always love a secret hideout from the girls, no matter what their age. This way they can evade chic flix by excusing themselves to the men’s lounge and dipping into their secret hide out for the duration. Cognac, cigars and CNN Sports run while their wives and girlfriends watch the latest romantic comedy. I’m telling you, a theatre like this would so enrich the Island that we’d need to move the whole Island farther out to sea to discourage off-Islanders from coming just to be able to really enrich movie watching again.

High School Sucks

"I Learned the Truth at Seventeen..."

First off, congratulations to Kelsey McGayhey, whose basketball jersey is being retired, for her fantastic feat of scoring more than 1000 points in her high school basketball career. Kelsey’s mother, Patty is my best gal pal. Since I make Patty laugh, and that keeps her happy, which insures she makes meals and takes care of Kelsey, I figure I can take credit for at least five of those basketball points. I don’t want to make a big deal, I don’t expect a parade or anything, but without those five points, Kelsey would only have 995 points...no need to thank me Kelsey, it was my pleasure.

Of course, it’s easy for me to be happy about high school sports stars now, but when I was in high school, I hated them. They were so coordinated and moved so fast, they were always picked first. I was always picked last. Even when I was in shape, I wasn’t in shape. I never excelled, or even hit mediocre in any sport, unless you count dodgeball - I was good at dodging, but that was it. I was in the brainiac group. I couldn’t compete with my feet, but I could gain with my brain.

I think it was Eleanor Parker who said, “Live as long as you like, the first twenty years are the longest half of your life.” I find that to be so true. The most painful things ever said to us are said by other students in high school. Being branded a freak, or some other moniker that served to separate and alienate you from your peers is a painful memory your entire life. Time gives it perspective, but it only takes a moment of thought to remember the pain. I recall teachers always reminding us, as I’m sure they do today, that we shouldn’t give too much import to other people’s opinions, it’s our own opinions that count. But speaking as an ugly duckling, emotional bullying is a tough experience to survive with dignity and I doubt it has changed.

What we can’t know in high school is that, it really does all come to a sudden and abrupt end at graduation. As soon as we’re out of school, we could care less what some former popular girl said about us.

My sweetest high school revenge was about a year after graduation, I ran into her, “the most cool girl”, in the class. She was a terrible emotional bully and had done a real job on my selt esteem. I was home on leave from the Army. I had a job I loved. I was stationed in Denver and having the time of my life. She was working in a coffee shop and I was her customer. She was pregnant, not married- which was a big deal at the time - and looked exhausted. We recognized each other and even though I had sworn I’d beat her to a pulp if I ever saw her again, my anger turned to pity in flash. A look passed between us and I could tell she felt embarassed to be serving me when she knew what a monster she had been. My future was as bright as her future was dull and we both knew it. There was no shortage of boyfriends in the Army, even for an ugly duckling, I had money now, I was having fun and looking forward to the future.

My tab was about $3.57 for a coffee and bagel, I left her a five dollar tip, just to rub it in. I knew it would humiliate her to feel grateful for a generous tip from me. Now, as a mature adult, I realize how unkind that was. If I could go back in time today, I’d like to think that I would have said something nice to her and left an appropriate tip. Yes, I’d like to think that. But I know damn good and well that if I could do it all over, I’d have left that slut a ten dollar tip.

Nature or Nurture?

The debate has gone on for years and still continues. Are we more shaped by our DNA or our environment? I always believed it was most likely a 50-50 combination of both. But after yesterday, I’m not so sure. Yesterday, my daughter, Chenoa (Iroquois for White Dove), took her daughter, Audriana (Olde English synonym for Kali the Destroyer) to Wal-Mart. Among the purchases, Chenoa got Audriana a new backpack.

I affectionately call Audriana, the Thief of Bagdad, because she’s always grabbing something and running away with it like it’s a bag of money. If you’re in the bathroom, she runs off with the toilet paper. If you’re dressing, she grabs a shoe and bolts to the other end of the house. She’s been doing this snatch and grab thing since she discovered her hands at the ends of her arms. As an infant, you couldn’t wear any jewelry near her because she could yank off a necklace or rip out earrings faster than you could imagine.

It made me wonder; there’s developmental markers that science uses to measure whether or not a child is developing normally; first words by age 12 months, first steps by 14 months, et. al.. So, do you think there’s developmental markers for future lawbreakers? First snatch and grab; 6 months. First grab and crawl; 9 months. First break in to Grandmother’s jewelry box; 12 months. First undetected snatch and grab; 14 months.

Audri’s become particularly adept at the undetected snatch and grab. At first it bothered me a lot. But now I know, if something’s missing from a drawer, or a handbag, or locked safe, there’s a good chance I didn’t misplace it and lose it due to memory loss from advancing age. It’s just as likely that Light Fingered Louie got to it and I will eventually find it in her stash places behind the couch or under the TV, behind the VCR.

So, as I mentioned earlier, my daughter bought Audri a new backpack. Audri chose it herself by yanking it off the shelf and shrieking when her mother tried to take it from her. That’s how Audri makes a lot of her purchase selections. It’s a little primitive right now, but I anticipate that when she’s older, she’ll use the same technique with her boyfriends but the shrieking will be replaced with smoldering looks that promise and never deliver.

As I was admiring the new backpack, I unzipped it. There was a knit headband inside with the price tag still on it. I looked at my daughter and she said, “Oh my God, I didn’t buy that! She must have grabbed it and put it in there!”

Yes, she did. She did it five times. Five new, tags on, very nice knit headbands, all neatly secured in her new backpack. My daughter was horrified. “No sense in trying to return them,” I said, “who’s going to believe the old, my kid put it in her backpack unbeknown to me story?”

I say, let’s look at the bright side, in the predicted post apocolyptic world, she will be the girl to know...

Super Bowl - Clean out his crap....

Here it comes, the one weekend I looked forward to every year I was married. Stupor Bowl weekend, especially Stupor Bowl Sunday. Here is it, the one chance a woman truly has to eliminate undesirables in her environment. While your man is totally engrossed in a mindless ballgame featuring millionaires in spandex, here’s what you can accomplish...

First, make sure you pre-shop ahead of Super Bowl Sunday so you can quickly replace whatever you subtract. He won’t notice anything that is missing from the closet, but he will notice empty spaces where his ratty stuff used to be, so fill those holes as you go.

Dig out every ragged “but I still like it” shirt and jeans, bag ‘em, drag ‘em to the burn barrel or get them tucked in a yellow town bag. Rout out the sneakers, whose only remaining resemblance to sneakers is knotted laces and slim pieces of fabric that connect all the holes. Keep the beer flowing and while he’s yelling in the living room, get rid of everything he thinks he can still wear from high school.

Underwear. Why do men think that underwear can be worn from date of purchase till the wearer’s natural death? Men have underwear that is ten years old and more. Waistband’s all stretched out, tiny tips of elastic gasping for air popping out all over. No fruit left in the loom at all except for the nuts that occasionally visit. It doesn’t matter how big a man gets, if he can still squeeze into one of the old size 34 briefs he wore during his wrestling years in high school, that is his size forever. If he buys new underwear, it will be size 34, and you will see him use WD-40 on his rump and a shoehorn for the rest, to prove to you that his size 42 self can still fit in a 34. He will stretch and wring out the fruit of the loom so completely, he will smell like Sangria. It’s up to the gals, or guys, in his life, to sneak new underwear into his life. Sometimes you just have to save people from themselves.

Papers. Find all the paper; bank statements from before 2000, credit card offers from previous years that he insists on keeping, “Don’t throw anything out until I have time to look at it.” The Super Bowl is your only chance for his distraction level to be high enough to get all this useless paper out of the house. Never mind recycling it - he might spot it on his next trip - bag it and drag it with all the wet garbage. I know it’s against the rules, but live on the edge once in a while.

Just like the leg lamp in A Christmas Story, this is your opportunity to break any ugly cup of lamp that needs to leave. I was once able to dispose of a set of four cups with deer heads on them during the Super Bowl. I put new hefty mugs in their place, and he never noticed the switch.

They say honesty is important in a relationship. Don’t you believe it. Stealth and a poker face will do more for your relationship than you know. I learned that from my husband who could tell me he attended a fly fishing show and only spent $75 on new equipment with a straight face and direct eye contact so perfect, he could have won an Oscar. I learned I could pursue the much over rated truth, or simply estimate what he really spent and give myself permission to spend the same on my next shopping day, plus interest for him lying to me in the first place. It must have worked, because we never argued about money, or watching the Super Bowl.

We're in Hot Water Now!

Skool Boiler....Big News!

Recently there was some really big news on Shelter Island. An event of immense proportion with a potentially explosive outcome...the school boiler was on the fritz and the whole school had to be evacuated.

Imagine the shock and horror to students who were about to take a test. Or those just waiting to turn in their homework in the next class. I think of all those poor, innocent, impressionable young souls, just longing to spend hours and hours in class, looking pensively out of huge windows into the bleak January cold. Imagine the panic and sorrow they experienced when they heard the announcement that the school would be evacuated.

Many students were heard to shout , “Thank God!” “Hallelujah!” “Free at Last!”. I figure that those were the more sensitive and devout students. They probably formed prayer groups on the lawn of the school and prayed for the old boiler. They prayed a cure would be found soon so they could return to their classes.

Some, okay, many, other students were heard to whisper profanities - yes, right here on Shelter Island, there are young people who know profanities. I believe it most likely the shook of being torn from their concentrations that caused so many to curse. They were probably contemplating topics for their future doctoral thesis when the boiler event happened.

I think of all of them standing in the cold, wondering, will school be closed early? Will they be sent home? The thought of early release, being forced to raid their refrigerators at home ahead of schedule and play extra hours of video games....those poor darlings.

Years from now, they will all recall the event at high school reunions, and remember what they were doing the day the boiler broke. The big event my generation had was the middle aged teacher who married the eighteen year old student right after graduation. That was a huge scandal then. Of course, today, when students and teachers have affairs all the time, our scandal wouldn’t have even hit the radar. But it was a great scandal then, real Peyton Place stuff. Love conquered all, including age, common wisdom, and public opinion. It taught me to always remember; “Love is blind, but the neighbors ain’t.”

It all proves what I’ve always said, Shelter Island is an exciting place to live. It moves and changes with glacier speed through time. The unique Island, where generations of third cousins marry and as a result, all the men are handsome, all the women smart, and all the children are gifted.

My Redneck Hampton Vacation

I know it’s traditional at this time to write about all the New Year’s resolutions I won’t be keeping, but something else has come up that is really more important.

The CMT channel has a new “get rich hick” show that begins with a batch of very newly rich (the ink isn’t even dry on the money) hicks coming to, or rather invading, the Hamptons. The previews look like a bunch of unruly three year old's running NASA for a week. Their behavior is so crass, it makes me looks like a Duchess. I don’t know how they got passes to come the East End, but this has to be the one and only trip for the single toothed, two digit I.Q.ed people who still think flaming flatulence is funny.

I’m not, and never will be rich. I’m just a regular gal. Most people who are rich, got there via inheritance or their own hard work. And with a few exceptions, they appreciate their good fortune and are extremely nice and well mannered people. We have plenty of rich people on the Island and we sort of corral them into homes on Shelter Island Heights and on Ram Island. This is for their own protection. If something too shocking happens, we can block access to these areas easily. We need them for employment and their very generous support of the Island causes. Sometimes I get envious of how easy their lives look, but then I remember that money only creates options, not happiness. Rich people get lonely, depressed, and just as scared as the rest of us.

The thought of the Island being over run by rednecks from beyond the sticks is horrifying. We’d have to secure all the rich so they didn’t have seizures, while the rest of us held them off.

The regular guys on this Island could go toe to toe with anything that could be dredged up from any bayou. They wrestle alligators. Big deal, we catch Great Whites off of Montauk that eat alligators for chicken fingers. They like to show off their big biceps in ragged sleeveless shirts. We got guys who work jerk rakes all day in the bay, they crack walnuts in the crook of their elbows. The hicks love their banged up trucks. We live in salt air, our trucks aren’t just banged up, what ever rusts and falls off is replaced with plywood - which does not rust - and as long as it drives, it lives. The hicks think it’s a big deal to dip tobacco. They thrill to grossing people out when they spit the chew. Most of the people on this Island can eat clams and oysters on the half shell, so don't tell me who can put worse things in their mouths.

I feel bad for the nice Hamptonites who will be made to look like snobby fools on this upcoming show. I just want to tell all of them, it’s not you. You were probably doing your job and you couldn’t possibly be prepared for the invasion of the Cro-Magnon people. It’s all right. We all love you anyway. However, just to be safe, you might want to keep a crowbar handy in your desk from now on. This way, if they come again, you can hit them and drive them off, or hit yourself in the head so you can understand them.

Merry Christmas to All!

I’m a real night owl, I hate to get up in the morning. But at the same time, I love the very early morning. Once I get out of bed and get started, I love the quiet and serenity of it. Being the first one up, or living alone, either way every morning has a balance of mystery (What will happen TODAY?) and anxiety (What will HAPPEN today?) in it.

I loved my childhood mornings in summer, on the days when we were going out on my grandfather’s clamboat. Our big Buick would park by the mooring and so many people, babies, fishing gear, picnic baskets and towels would tumble out of the car that if we had been in an accident, the cops would be looking for the other car.

I’d lay my towel on the square bow of the boat and lay down as the boat slowly chugged out. My mother would put a towel over my legs and give me a warm, buttered Kaiser roll, fresh from Fritzi’s Bakery. A simple roll, the hot sun on my back, the smell and feel of cool salt spray on my face, the sound of the engine and water slapping the bow. I had not a care in the world beyond hoping I’d get one of the blow up rafts when we got to the big shallow spot. The problem with happiness is that you don’t know it when you’re in it, it’s something you remember.

I remember the hundreds of morning when my kids were small. I got up at six a.m. to insure I had some alone time to dress, make-up, and have coffee. I’d stand outside for a minute to check the weather. It was that wonderful hour when the birds were starting up, you could smell the last of the night air wafting up from the ground. After I ditched the kids at school, I’d grab a coffee from Pat & Steve’s and go down to Wades Beach. I’d just open my windows and let the ocean breeze blow through the car and my brain and cool off my coffee. I was always a tiny bit sad when it was time to leave and start the day.

Then there’s Christmas morning. We never get to put up all the decorations we wanted. We didn’t get all the gifts for everyone that we would have liked to get. We never seem to be ready for Christmas, but when it comes, the morning is always special. If other people are in the house, I get up early so I can have alone time while the Nutcracker Suite plays softly in the background as I sit by the tree. I feel happy just looking into the pretty lights.

I think the magic of Christmas is right there, in those quietest moments, hiding in the spaces between the lights and in the beats between the tip toes of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

The Twelve Movies of Christmas

As part of the holidays, I have a ritual of viewing all the classic Christmas films. I try to be open minded to new Christmas film in the hopes of adding to my holiday viewing list. So far my assessment is, although the newer movies have better production values and have cost small fortunes to make, apparently all the writers have been edited to death to produce the absolute blandest and broadest appeal movies to benefit the sponsors.

Here’s my viewing schedule: I always watch Miracle on 34th Street as my first Christmas movie.The movie starts with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, so I watch it after the live Thanksgiving Day Parade. You can watch it in black and white, or color. There are several updated versions of Miracle, but I find all the writing to be too schmaltzy and trite. I know its not the writers, because there can’t be that many lousy writers. I know their scripts have been hacked at to accommodate what the sponsors want; which is to include everyone, offend no one, and maintain political correctness at all times.

Next I watch the first filmed A Christmas Carol from 1938 starring Reginald Owen. Each Christmas Carol movie seems to differ slightly from the other. Next is the definitive Christmas Carol that we all love with Alistair Sims from 1951. This remains the best of the lot. It doesn’t matter if you see it in black and white or color, it looks the same either way. Industrial England in the winter didn’t have any colors. It was all black, white and grey. Color only shows up at the end on Bess’ dress.

Since 1951 there have been many versions of A Christmas Carol, but I can only recommend three. In 1970, Albert Finney did a musical version, which I rank right up there with the Alistair Sims classic, if you haven’t seen it, try it, it’s wonderful. George C. Scott did an excellent version. Patrick Stewart gave it a go, his Scrooge was fair, but I’d stick with Sims or Scott. Other than these few exceptions, none of the newer versions measure up. I think its just lame to try to interpret this story with a female Scrooge, or set it in a modern setting. Actors struggle with dialog that tries to be more profound than the original.

I have discussed the problem of the newer Christmas movies with some passionate movie lovers on the Island and the consensus is this: Hollywood often fails to realize that nothing can improve the original. You can’t remake Gone With the Wind, Casablanca, Wizard of Oz, or the Alistair Sims Christmas Carol, filmed in England in the winter. The Shelter Island Library shows films and I know they get a good turn out for classics. Great movies make you want to talk about them and keep enjoying them long after you see; The End.

There’s just one new movie I like seeing now. I can’t recall the title because these days I have to look at my driver’s license to be sure of my own name. It’s about a single mother returning home one winter to the small island she was raised on, where she finds that time has nearly stood still. She finds a job, falls in love, the kids are happy, and they all live happily ever after on the tiny island - I think it’s off the coast of Maine because I remember lobster signs in the background. Seems like such a typical story, I can’t imagine why I like it. Oh, wait - lobsters - they all got lobsters at cost from incoming boats, yup, that’s it, lobster. Never did meet a lobster I didn’t like.

Three Legged Squirrels

My mother is obsessing that Christmas has come too soon and there’s not enough money to get all the gifts and decorations she wants for the holiday. I’m trying to remind her, we never remember the gifts, we only remember the company; drinking eggnog, listening to the Bing Crosby records, and admiring our tree. We’re all flush or broke at Christmas time. We all want the Christmas’s we remember as children. It was all magical then. It’s the encroachment of age that steals it from us. But then we find the magic again through the children. You’re always as happy as you decide to be.

I had a really great Christmas several years ago. I was renting a house on Worthy Way that winter. It had a sliding glass door and the woods began just a few feet from the deck. I love birds and I always threw out generous handfuls of seed on the deck. I must have hit upon a Cardinal haven, because I never saw so many Cardinals. I counted thirteen pairs and four single males. I spent so much time watching them, I got so I could distinguish several individuals. They were surprisingly aggressive and if I didn’t have that seed out by 7:30AM, they started pecking at the glass door. I put out suet balls and lots of treats and they’d hang around on the railings of the deck talking to each other. They were so beautiful hopping around an occasional carpet of fresh snow. It made my Christmas and all it cost me was birdseed.

My most favorite Christmas was when I was six. We were living with my grandparents in Sayville at the time. I was the only grandchild, except for my little three year old brother, followed rapidly by three more brothers and twelve first cousins. But I was there first, green eyed, reddish haired and insufferably cute.

My grandfather was a carpenter in the winter and clammer in the summer. He had a true love of animals. He found an injured three legged squirrel and nursed him back to health in his cellar. He named him Petey and built him a sort of squirrel condo in the huge maple tree in the backyard. My grandfather built a bench all around the tree. He built Petey a tiny ladder. He made wooden toys for us, so he really knew how to build ladders for disabled squirrels. The rungs were tiny dowels perfectly fitted into slats and all varnished. It went from the bench to the first giant limb, about five feet up. I wasn’t allowed to touch the ladder or try to pet Petey. My grandfather painted red lines on either side of the ladder that I was to stay behind. However, I was allowed to put saltines with peanut butter in the forbidden zones and watch Petey climb down and eat. He was missing a back leg, so he sat funny. I thought he was just wonderful.

I didn’t see Petey in the winter, because cold makes him sleepy, however, my grandfather assured me he wouldn’t miss Christmas. Taking him to Mass with us in my grandmother’s purse on Christmas seemed to be out of the question, but I could make him a little tree and leave him some treats. I make a very extravagant noodle tree, painted gold and full of red glitter. It was a true work of art. My grandfather tacked it up high on the limb so Petey could see it from his nest. I left him a little plate of peanut butter cookies and some stuffed dates.

My grandparents assured me that, thanks to me, Petey was going to have a wonderful Christmas. It’s not like every squirrel on Long Island could see a genuine golden noodle tree from his nest. And so few squirrels got cookies and stuffed dates delivered to the door at that time. It’s not like today when they could just order from the internet.

That Christmas I got a card from Petey. It came in the mail, so it was official. He thanked me for the tree and all the treats. Furthermore, he planned to come out on St. Patrick’s Day, if there wasn’t any snow. I looked at that card for a long time. Finally, I asked my grandfather how Petey could have written that card. Nobody was going to fool me, I was sure Petey didn’t know any letters. My grandfather explained that Petey knew all his letters, he just had to ask my grandfather to make him a very small pencil...

Thanks for Grandchildren

Dear God,

As the holidays are upon us, I realize I have much to thank you for. Grandchildren are supposed to be a blessing and although they throw your “cool” factor right out the window, they teach us many things. I refer specifically to the grandchild you sent me three years ago. A lovely little girl, who is obviously influenced by one or more demons.

Thank you for her strawberry curls, cornflower blue eyes, and cherubic face, it has reminded me just how deceiving looks can be. Please do not make me do time in purgatory for when she drew all over the aforementioned cherubic face with permanent blue marker. I was on the phone at the time and didn’t know she had figured out the drawer locks - I can’t figure out the drawer locks.

Thank you for using her to teach how kind men can truly be. In particular the ferry man who looked into my car window, saw a child with a half blue face, probably assumed she was an extra for Braveheart Two, and accepted the ferry ticket with flowers drawn on it and waited until he was three cars back to start laughing at me.

Thank you for granting her the gift of artistry that runs in our family. Like my mother, my Uncle Bill, my brother, and my daughter, she lives to express herself with color. I now understand how the petroglyphs in France came to be. As I regard my crayola covered walls, I imagine that in pre-historic France some grandmother watched a grandchild destroying her freshly carved cave walls with ocher drawings, shrugged her shoulders and said, “If he starts painting in the dining hall, we’re eating him.”

Thank you for using her to reach me the how fleeting the joy of the holidays can me as she removes in seconds, decorations that took hours to put up.

Thank for using her to remind me to remove the locks from the inside of the bathroom doors. And how to stave off panic when I hear the toilet being flushed over and over on the other side of the locked door, followed by the music of her hysterical laughter.

Thank you for the little fenced playground by the school where she can run out her endless energy without running into the road and scaring people. Thank you for the company of the other grandmothers who sit on the bench and together we smile at the children as we curse under our breath. Thank you especially for the grandmother I met who was watching three of her seven grandchildren that day and shared her strawberry daiquiri mix with me and the other grandmother there. We took a slug from the Cinderella thermos and passed it down. It seemed a bit early in the day, but as she pointed out, it’s 10 A.M. somewhere.

I admit that before she was born, I was really having trouble with empty nest syndrome. Thank you for teaching me that the cure is often worse than the disease. And I know that it is said that God doesn’t send us more than we can handle, but I’d like to remind you that there are exceptions to every rule. And I’d also like help finding the rest of my great-grandmother's pearls so I can reassemble my only real pearl necklace, broken by either a small curly haired liar or the invisible man.

To close on a positive note, I do love her, which further confirms that love makes us mentally ill.

Thanksgiving - and Why Not?

Here is comes, my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. I love the sentiment of it, pausing to think and give thanks for all that we really do have. Enjoying all the delicious foods associated with the feast and asking ourselves, “How come we don’t have turkey more often?”

I think Thanksgiving is always a combination of trial, trauma and triumph.

There always seem to be situations that try our patience to it’s absolute limit.

“I told her not to bring him, but she did, so what can we do, Roger?.......No, if we reject him she’ll marry him for sure out of spite.....okay, you can drink scotch, but only if you lock the gun in the outside shed.”

“Bob, we’ve been married 36 years, you know my mother always brings turnips. I’ve told her you hate them, but she just can’t remember it. My Dad loved her turnips and that’s why she makes them for you. I’ll hand you a little dish under the table so you can sneak them away.....I know you’re a grown man and shouldn’t have to pretend in your own house, but I have to look at all the photo albums of your mother’s modeling career in the 50’s every time we go there - and it takes a lot more time to look at those albums than it does to slip turnips under the table.

There always seem to be situations that are traumatic.

“Now Joe, remember, Ronnie is my little brother and you can’t kill him about that car.....I know the engine blew up before the check even cleared.... it’s just one of those things, that’s why they say never sell a car to a relative.....yes, I know all about the $500 you loaned him in July, and you’re right, he’s not going to pay it back by Christmas....I don’t know what to do....it I don’t invite him, Mom gets really upset and if I do invite him, you get upset. Can’t we just suspend hostilities for eight hours?”

“I don’t care, Mark, Mary ran over my cat, your sister did it on purpose, I don’t want her in this house!....drunk is not an excuse, she squashed Miss Marmalade, and don’t say, “It’s just a cat”, a pet is more than an animal. She was my friend, until Bloody Mary tore out of the driveway last Thanksgiving in a big huff. Go ahead, let her in....no, I won’t make a scene. Like Dante’s Inferno, I have many levels of passive aggressive pain to inflict.

Fortunately, there are times of triumph at Thanksgiving too.

“Regardless of any petty things that happen, I want you all to know that I am so happy that we are all here and sharing this time together. I brought out Grandma’s dishes just for this occasion. We don’t have the whole service of course, but we won’t bring up what Karen did anymore. The important thing is that we all have at least a plate or cup that we can remember from Grandma’s table as part of our own place setting today. There was of course, a large turkey platter and gravy boat, I guess someone else has that at their house, but let’s not focus on petty details, guilt is it’s own punishment. Therefore , let’s lift a glass and Thank God, yes, God, for all the blessings we can see and especially for those we can’t. Amen”

Frankly, Scallop, I Don’t Give A Clam

The Shelter Island Reporter recently described a disappointing scallop harvest this year, as opposed to a huge harvest last year, the biggest since the brown tide hit the East End in the mid eighties. The truth is, it would have been another banner year I suppose, if I had known the Island was going to keep such close track of these things.

“Step out of the car, please, Ms. Flynn.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything.”
“Breath into this breathalyzer, please.”
“What? It’s 4 P.M. and I don’t drink anyway. What are you testing me for?”
“You blew a .24 for salt water Ms. Flynn. How many scallops have you eaten today?”
“What? I don’t know, breakfast, lunch, why are you asking?”
“We’re going to conduct a road side test for bi-valve consumption. Walk this line with your eyes closed while balancing this test scallop on your head.”
“This is stupid. Since when did scallop consumption become a problem?”
“Since you and a handful of other people decided that since we had such a good year last year, it was open season for scallops. It’s bad enough the way you single handedly decimate the clambeds here, Ms. Flynn, you don’t need to consume every available scallop we have. And that’s the third time you’ve dropped the scallop off your head. You’re listing to one side, your pitch and yar is clearly impaired. You’re being cited for being Shellfish Selfish. Please open your car.”
“Shellfish Selfish? That covers half the people on the Island!”
“Can you explain this? There’s a buschel of clams and a half buschel of scallops in your trunk, four packs of Nathan’s hotdogs, soft drinks and six bags of chips? What do you call this, Ms. Flynn?”
“I’m calling it a good time. I’m going to a barbecue at the McGayhey’s.”
“They eat a lost of shellfish, do they? The McGayhey’s? Are they bringing clams and scallops too?”
“Oh, ah.....no, they never touch the stuff. This is just my supply. I’ll be the only scallop trollop there.”
“This bumper sticker, “Will Trade Sex for Lobster”, doesn’t help you, Ms. Flynn, please have that removed before any other women get any ideas.”
“Hell, I know women that will trade sex for mussels.”
“Well, so do we and we know where that leads. Mussels are a gateway shellfish. A little butter, a little garlic and soon they’re craving clams, then scallops, and look where that has gotten you.”
“Please sign here, it is not an admission of guilt, just an admission that you were caught dead to rights and you are aware that we will be raking your over the clambeds of justice very soon.”

The Age of Never

The Aztec’s called it, “the age of never”. Reaching a time in life when everything seems to take more effort. That hill was never so high, the walk to town was never so long, the days were never so long, the years were never so short.

I figure for most of us, the age of never hits around 45. I recall in my early twenties when I stayed out till 4a.m., came home, napped, showered and was at the hospital by 7a.m. shift. I couldn’t do that today whether you offered me a million dollars or held a gun to my head. I have reached the age of never. Moreover I have reached an age the Aztecs never even thought of, I call it, the age of “are you outta your mind?”

You’re still in the age of never if you can be out till ten at night, get to bed by midnight, and still get up at six. You have crossed over into the age of Are you outta your mind? if you have to take a nap to be out till ten p.m., get in bed by midnight, but can’t get to sleep until three a.m. because you made the mistake of thinking about money when you went to bed.

Once you’ve reached the age of Are you outta your mind? you want to be home and in your jammies by six p.m., no matter what is offered. You’ve been to enough fun or boring parties in your life, you’ve had enough hangovers, you’ve awakened with enough strange people to know you’ve experinced all that the night life has to offer and you can now revisit memories and get the same emotional highs without the risk of spending the rent money, getting lost on the way home, or worrying about STD’s.

The biggest marker to tell you when you’ve reached the age of Are you outta your mind? is the realizing the danger of sitting down at the wrong time.

If you are planning to go out to an event one evening and you and your hubby nap in the afternoon to store up energy for the evening, you have the best chance of making it out the door if you remember the cardinal rule - once the ‘getting ready’ process has begun, do not sit down FOR ANY REASON!

If one of you is ready ahead of time, usually the man, remind him to stand by the door and nag you to hurry up, or get in the car and honk the horn, anything but sit down.

However, if you are one of those women who can easily commit to the event when first asked, but lose your momentum, and then you’d rather just send a check for the cause, or wait for the movie on dvd, then setting your husband up to sit down to wait for you is a perfect out. As soon as you hear him call out, “I’m just gonna check the scores,” and you hear SportsCenter come on, you are home free.

Walk into the living room in the middle of SportsCenter reviewing highlights of something. Sit down quietly next to him so that he knows that you are ready, but you will wait until he sees the highlights, and then, ever so slowly, tilt your head back, slowly close your eyes. He’ll glance over and think he can watch a little more sports while you rest your eyes. Now let your body relax and don’t notice he has put the couch throw over your legs and is trying to sneak a pillow behind your head. He never wanted to go anywhere in the first place. But you insisted, and you couldn’t change your mind after he gassed up and cleaned out the car. So all you had to do to get out of what would have been an exhausting night, is to have one of you sit down. Before you know it, you’re the best dressed couple on Shelter Island sleeping through CSI: Miami.