Swooning

Fire Island Uncles

Fire Island Uncles: Swoon 58

Summer (weekend) days as a kid on Fire Island went kind of like this… wake up, inspect bug bites received during the night, walk past dad sipping coffee and smoking (covered in paint or dirt from morning chores), find mom in the kitchen cutting fresh fruit or making pancakes, get ready for the beach (redoing ones pigtails using fingers as a comb and grabbing a towel that did not smell). Sunscreen, HA! Bathing suits were either already on (having slept in them) or damp (having left them in the outdoor shower). Getting it on meant squeezing into a moist, tight, sausage casing…so gross. Then off to the beach to build stuff, swim, watch dad play volleyball, play backgammon, listen to the ladies gossip, and collect shells and rocks.

Watching volleyball was a learning experience. Only men were allowed to play until the 80s. Some wore speedos, little ones with curly hair coming out the top. Others wore old man bathing suits (speedo material but they came up to their belly buttons and went below their butts, think Johnny Weissmuller in Tarzan). Then there were the cool players, they wore denim or corduroy cutoffs, my dad was one of them, that made me proud. These volleyball games were super competitive. You had to commit, Saturday and Sunday, 10am to 3pm…all summer. There were A players and B players. There was an end of summer tournament with trophies (awards like “The Mouth” and “Best Spiker”). My dad once received “The Mouth” award (for most foul language on the court). Swoon. There were fights, grown men screaming obscenities, pointing fingers, and when it got really bad… there was quiet. Quiet was the scariest reaction to a bad call. My dad was a super hothead. He was an amazing athlete, but kinda little. When he fought with someone he would walk UNDER the net and point his index finger in the face of a 6 foot 4 giant (in a grandpa bathing suit) and get all in their business. It was awesome. I learned every single curse word by the time I was 10. I also learned how to mix Gatorade from a powder with hose water from a house on the dunes…which I then served like a little beach stewardess to players during breaks. It was the 70s, women still had their place.

My Uncle Jack was not my uncle, but he was part of my life from the moment I showed up at Fire Island, days after being born. He was handsome, and hip…he had white denim cutoffs too. Uncle Jack played volleyball but also liked to hang out with us kids. He would check in between games, seeing what we had built or buying us an ice cream from the snack bar (fun fact: Ocean Bay Park once had a snack bar up on the dunes, super fun fact: Ocean Bay Park once had dunes). He would offer us compensation for finding completely white rocks for his garden. When not at the beach he was always holding a can of Budweizer, always, he had a brilliant smile, and he giggled when he spoke…like everything made him happy.

At FI we had many men in our lives like Uncle Jack but for some reason he was the only one we called uncle. We had Russ, Charlie, Herman, Bill, Nick, Gene…men that we spent crazy amounts of time with because that was how it was back then. Life did not revolve around the kids, the kids were just along for the life. When dad played volleyball we were at the beach. When couples came over for cocktails, we all hung out on the deck. When there was a party, we went too…watching Mary Tyler Moore, Rhoda, Bob Newhart, and Carol Burnett and playing Spit in the host’s guest room. My favorite house had Marimekko curtains and a big tv with actual reception.

I learned a lot being around adults. I knew who was cheating on who, I knew who could not have kids, who had cancer, who lost their job, who liked scotch, who served cheap alcohol. Adults would talk about everything, right in front of us, like we did not understand what language they were speaking. I loved it. There was a CIA agent (or so the rumor was), a police detective (a stereotypical achtung kind of gentleman), a mafia guy (or so the rumor was, he did come after my dad with a baseball bat once…my guess is the rumor was a truth), a teacher (who never gave the time of day to us), and a former Olympic wrestling coach (with a cauliflower ear). Side swoon: In my differential dressing phase he gave me a pair of wrestling boots which I wore with ripped tights, a dyed men’s Oxford shirt, and a beret). There was the couple who always made sure they were invited to dinner somewhere so they didn’t need to cook and another couple made up of a guy and his mistress of 30 years (he had a very understanding wife). One couple had a pool and an air hockey table, they let us swim at their house any time we wanted…she had frosted hair and was mighty glamorous. She was always holding a cocktail in one hand and had a cigarette in the other, wearing patterned maxi dress with a plunging neckline. She had perfect boobs which I assumed were hers until the time Mom and I were making her a homemade Wonder Woman costume (a necessity at the beach). She was in a red Danskin leotard lying on our kitchen floor, as we glued designs and applied the glitter, I noticed that her boobs were both extremely hard and continued to point straight up, like Barbie. Like I said, I learned a lot by being around adults. We lived a movie.

I was thinking about Uncle Jack this morning… thus this random view into my childhood. I paid for white rocks, so I can paint them. I paid for the same kind of rocks someone used to pay me to collect as a little girl. Life is crazy. Life is insane. Life is what it is… and I am very grateful this tedious life is sparking memories of people like my Uncle Jack, and the rest of the Fire Island crew. What an amazing time to grow up. Swoon.

My dad… in cool cutoffs… in the air for an unnecessary block. Note orange Gatorade cooler in the back.

Cha cha changes

Cha cha changes: Swoon 57

Before March 2020, did you know that it was impossible to work from home? It could not be done. Kids interrupting, dogs barking, the sound of a dishwasher in the background…these atrocities were hard proof to in-office colleagues that you were clearly NOT working. Have you noticed lately that on late night tv shows we often see the host’s precocious kids (with the blondest hair and crazy amounts of confidence) exploding into the room. It is just adorable. One brilliant parental unit I know has a “good behavior contest” for their kids, the winner gets to dress dad for work…any way they wish. It is beyond anything you can imagine, he once was Harry Potter with a cape, wand, and glasses (stuffed owl perched on shoulder). Another time he was all glammed up, channeling his inner Hedwig, no glitter was spared in the makeup. I have no idea what this man does (besides being an awesome dad) but he is showing up to work dressed like a drag queen, and clearly it is not a problem. Currently having your kid on your lap at a Zoom meeting (in their cute pjs with clementine juice dripping down their chin) is almost a prerequisite, and what would conference calls be without numerous dogs barking in the background. Twitter has decided that working from home is now a permanent option. Cha cha changes.

Before March 2020 I did this crazy thing called shopping. Alone time in the car, listening to some good music, drinking coffee. Knowing my stores like the back of my hand I could be in and out in 5 minutes or take my time picking out every apple with care. Remember the calm of purchasing food that just looked good…a nice little treat…sliced watermelon or raspberries on a whim. Remember smiling at fellow shoppers and giving cooking advice…instead of the evil eye to anyone within 6 feet. Sigh. I loved nothing more than chatting with the checkout people while packing my bags. I really really loved packing grocery bags. Square heavy boxes at the bottom, lighter stuff on top. Hearing my mom’s voice in my head…don’t squish the bread, don’t scoonch the lettuce, don’t mush the grapes, ahhh old times. Organization and problem solving, a joy. These days we are ordering from a restaurant distributor, the problem solving skills used a little differently…figuring out how long dairy will last, will we be able to finish an entire case of baby lettuce (stupid question, we are Armenian, we eat salads like rabbits), will someone want to share these strawberries before they go bad (problem solved with the purchase of an ice cream maker). The truck arrives and we social distance as he unloads, a little friendly banter through our masks. It is not the same. We will be set for two weeks. So much less interaction, so much less connection…but to be honest, such better food, at such better prices. Will we ever go back to the way it was, at least not fully. Cha cha changes.

Before March 2020 I had absolutely no problem with my kid living across the country. I actually drove him there. No big deal… I can fly there in eight hours. Any. Time. I. Want. Ugg. Currently I am in a bit of a state because that is clearly no longer possible. He doesn’t mind California anymore (native New Yorkers have an 18 month warm up or return home to NY thing with Los Angeles). He loves his girlfriend, she loves her mom, her mom lives in Los Angeles…I am not stupid, we all know guys tend to go where their girls are. I cannot complain, mine ended up in NY with me. Sigh. Cha cha changes.

Weddings, vacations, graduations, celebrations, memorials, camp, school, college, travel, reunions… huge reasons to gather. Nope. Cha cha changes.

I recently saw a FB post of manipulated photographs…Hitler in front of the Eiffel Tower with a superimposed modern picture of a couple on vacation taken in exactly the same place. Another of Normandy during the war, with a superimposed modern image of people playing on the beach. It was eye opening to be reminded what hardships others have lived. Even with next to no work for the past two months, no government help (I have no employees), and not much work in the near future…thanks to my teacher husband who is working 12 hour days creating and teaching online content… we have the ability to get food safely and to pay our bills. We are fortunate and I am humbled.

I would like to think that the changes and hardships we are going through might better us…and if they don’t, that we will learn to adapt, and mourn, and grow. Stagnation kills. I look forward to goodness ahead.

Thank you to the person who did this photo collage art and the HUFFPOSTUK

“The Feels”

The Feels: Swoon 56

I have been called a witch many times…witch as in someone who knows what might happen next…not as in b*tch. I have probably been called that many times too, just not to my face.

I will be sitting at a show, grab on to a friend’s hand, and whisper “Are you feeling ok?” and they will respond “Oh my god, how did you know, I just got a headache.” Or listening to the radio and hear an obscure song, then mention it to a friend, who will tell me it’s their favorite musician of the moment. I will wake up in the middle of the night, feeling something is up, and the next day find out that someone important to me died at the exact time I woke up. I will text a friend out of the blue, to check in on them, and as we are discussing their family, one of their parents will pass away, mid-text… that kind of witch.

Last year I was gardening with my brother and mom at Fire Island. Mom has been doing this for around 58 years; it takes a seasoned gardener to grow things on purpose out there. The island is a sandbar, the water table is like 18 inches deep… meaning you dig down and hit wet sand, very quickly. Oh, yeah, key point, it is sand, not soil, growing stuff is a hurdle. Mom’s tricks: use seaweed from the bay as fertilizer (extra perk, it’s free—well actually 50 cents a wagon full, my brother and I earned money this way as kids); dig way down and put broken up old plates way below roots, it keeps the water in; you name it, she has a solution for it. Over the winter there is a ton of growth, and everything needs major cutting back. Ticks love piles of yard waste, we hate ticks. A tick almost killed my dad in 1984, that is a different story. Stories overwhelm my brain.

Last year, witchy feel moment… moving on.

So, last spring mom, my brother, and I were cutting back the garden. Mom was bundling up branches, tying them with strips of old sheets (you do not throw away anything at FI, there is always another use for it). We do this to make the yard waste compact, which is easier to get off the island. She looked completely adorable in her huge pink hat, big sunglasses, black leggings tucked into white knee socks, sneakers, and a t-shirt three sizes too big with Greg’s artwork from some festival on the front. Her uniform. Her bundles of sticks looked like little gifts with bows of all colors. Groups of branches, zip ties, and paint stirrers, all get wrapped like little presents, waiting for the next person who will use them. This little bit of quirk usually irked me for some reason (hmmm, maybe I am a b*tch)…but during this one witchy moment, it was the most touching thing in the world. Watching her “gift wrap” the branches was precious. I had a moment of man oh man, I am so going to miss this. I pointed it out to my brother, I was a bit weepy. He laughed at me (making it clear he thought I was insane) and said, Kat, she isn’t going anywhere, relax. She will be doing the same thing next year. She is in better shape than ALL of us.

Except, she probably will not be doing that this year. The likelihood of being able to go to FI safely is slim… not over and done with… but slim. My witchy feels last year were a huge blessing, I got to notice some major goodness…and enjoy it. A mental snapshot that I will have forever. I love my feels. Swoon.

Opening Fire Island

Opening Fire Island: Swoon 55

I was born on July 1st 1966 during a heatwave in New York City. As the story goes there was a blackout because it was super crazy hot. After welcoming me, my mom was eager to bond in the air conditioned hospital. My dad was eager to… get to Fire Island. I mean really, what good did it do for him to be in a hot city in the dark. He had a point, so mom and I joined him a week later, mom already back in her white bikini (having dropped the 15 pounds she was allowed to gain, 5 of which were me). My first trip to Fire Island…cool sea air flowing through the house, the sound of waves crashing a block away, happy baby in the crib (made from an old dresser drawer). Life was good.

These days, the first trip “to open” in the spring tends to go like this… weeks before, get the water, gas, electric, and wifi turned on; shop based on the list you made at the end of the fall, buy extra toilet paper and paper towels (ha, this is why we still have not run out of paper products during the pandemic: FI training!); get cleaning products (natural for all under 55, chemicals and bleach for those over 80), check ferry schedule; buy groceries for 9 people, buy oversized wheelie luggage at the rummage sale, get tick repellent oils to create natural tick repellent (that you will then question and revert back to Deet); get new sunscreen and drug store items; load up on beverages and gin & tonic makings; check ferry schedule; pack up wheelie luggage with food, supplies, and liquor (while not squishing the bread or tomatoes). No need for clothing, you must have something out there…throw some panties and a sweatshirt in with the groceries, ya neva know. Notice that piece of luggage is at least 3 feet tall (like the ones commonly sold on 14th street for those traveling back to Europe and South America) and weighs 946 pounds. Perfect, we won’t need to pay extra cargo fees on the boat… we just have heavy “luggage”.

Get all the luggage in the car, a game of Tetris. Hoisting bags that weigh as much as a baby elephant and are two thirds your height is a trick, smile cause you are almost ready to go. Retrace steps to make sure nothing important is left inside, note that the dining room seems so much bigger with out all the FI stoof in it. Then wait, and wait. Wait for the other people in the house (who have just figured out we are leaving, despite the fact that we have been living amongst a warehouse of goods being accumulated for weeks), to get in the car. Now, we are leaving now?…Mom, have you seen my…Kat, do you know where my…Kit Kat, honey, don’t get annoyed, but did you call to turn on the water?…Mom, did you pack the…Kat, do we have enough..? Yes, yes, yes… GET IN THE CAR, we have two hours to get to the boat.

Sunglasses on. Lipstick on. Classic rock station on. Go.

Saw Mill to Sprain to Cross Bronx to Throgs (aka Frogs) Neck Bridge to Clearview to Grand Central to Northern State to Sagtikos to Southern State to Bay Shore to FERRY… boom. Once we exit in Bay Shore it goes like this… hello back there, put your shoes on, clean up the back seat, get all your stuff together, clap clap clap, let’s go, we have 15 minutes to make the boat, we still need to buy tickets, come on people, Jacob, move. Olivia I have no clue where your book is, it was in the back seat 2 minutes ago, Jacob, Jacob, Jacob, move. Jacob stop making Olivia nuts. Olivia your book is right there. Please note my “kids” are 22 and 24, the above description would only be different these days because Ella…Jacob’s girlfriend… would be in the back seat between them…giggling) sigh, we all revert when with parents.

We do the sharp right turning into the parking lot, gravel under the wheels, the most welcoming sound ever. The Zee Lion, or Zee Wiz, or Zee Something sits at the dock, waiting to take us from the chaos of mainland life to the chaotic bliss of island life. We scramble, yelling at each other, giving orders, counting luggage, running to the bathroom, making sure everyone has tickets, risking getting a coffee and donut for the ride, getting into each other’s business, trips back and forth to load the luggage on the boat while someone runs up to get the “good seats”, and smiling at other islanders I have known forever but don’t really know at all. Getting a nod from Luke (the boat captain), I will always be 11 and he will always be 17 and growing his first beard. His calves are the size of a teenage girl’s waist, 40 years of working on boats will do that. Count luggage again and walk up the steps, to “up top” we wipe off any sea spray from the seats, we smile. We cuddle. We forget all the hard work it took to get here, we ignore that there will be much more work once we are on the island. The motor revs, we watch the sad souls screeching into the parking lot just in time to see the ferry leave without them. Heading out of the marina we wave to the fishermen on the pier as we enter the Great South Bay. Speeding up, hair getting bigger by the second, sea air facial, life is so very good.

Thankful for memories, thankful for 53 straight years of this experience.
Fire Island, I hope we get to see you again soon, stay safe.

Swoon.

Cootie Catchers

Cootie Catchers: Swoon 55

Do you remember Cootie Catchers, those little folded fortune tellers…pick a color or animal, then a number and poof…your future would be blurted out for all to hear. Who are you going to marry…a short rich man or a handsome cowboy, or Tommy (standing right next to you turning more purple by the moment)? They might predict what horrific thing would happen to you (you will eat 9 spiders today), or just something cruel (you are as ugly as a frog). So random but somehow it all meant so much.

Today I made some Cootie Catchers for the little girls next door. Their morning treats are getting more random as this pandemic goes on (and on). I am running low on crafting supplies, my in house puzzle maker is creating lesson plans and teaching. One can only drop off so many strawberries and balloons, I am grasping at straws. How I remembered Cootie Catchers I do not know, but once I did I was back on that elementary school playground reliving their meaning.

Fold the corner of an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper down to create a square; then fold the left over flap back and forth and tear off; then fold the other corner down to create an x of fold lines, unfold so you have the open square; then fold each corner down to the center, creating a smaller square (do not overlap points); then turn over and repeat, folding corners to the center; then fold up to create a rectangle (so that the openings for the fingers are on the outside); put your thumb and pointer fingers in the pockets and shift it open and closed. Label the outside points with 4 (less options, so boring) or 8 colors or animals. Remember how to spell orange and that pig is WAY too short a word. Label the inside points with 8 numbers. Put fortunes or punishments under the flaps. Watch out for friends who only pick the “good” numbers, and never the funny ones, people like that are SO annoying. Remember, you are queen for the day if your fortunes are good… think about them long and hard.

Such fun, kind of…also a bit torturous. There were the kids who wrote numbers like 26. An endless back and forth, waiting to find out what glorious thing was written, hoping it was worth the wait as they counted aloud and rolled their eyes… bored with the situation they created and clearly loving the attention…so annoying. Other kids you would just avoid, they constantly had you eating dog poop or marrying the kid who picked his nose and put it under his desk. There were the super funny creators, aspiring SNL writers, they would announce a new catcher and everyone would gather around to watch the show. Those willing to be the first in line for their hijinks were so very brave.

These fortune tellers were also windows into intellectual and social standings… who had the best fine motor skills (folding crisp right angles), who had the best handwriting, who could spell, who knew obscure colors and animals like chartreuse or platypus. Who had so much disposable paper at home that they had endless catchers. Who was funny… who was mean… who was all things sweet. You can learn a lot from a person by studying their Cootie Catcher making.

I hope the little bits next door enjoy their fortune tellers, they are much less fun when done with family, especially the family you have been locked up with for months. I remember my dad placating me at Fire Island. He would be watching the football game, doing a crossword puzzle, drinking coffee and picking at his lip “thinking”… it would go something like this…
Dad, pick a color.
What? Oh, red (red was a fine length… it allowed me to avoid spelling orange)
Dad, pick a number.
Ok, 15
No, Dad, you’re not doing it right, you need to pick a number on the Cootie Catcher
Oh, 4
You will have a great day!
If that means the Giants will win, ok.

A glorious father daughter bonding moment a la 1976.

Cootie Catcher and blanks for the little bits next door.

Hair

Hair: Swoon 54

I am half Armenian. I was born bald with a full set of thick arched eyebrows. It took me a while to grow hair on my head, but once I did…impressive. By nineteen I could grow a mustache faster than my boyfriend, like I said, I am half Armenian. I was also a teenager in the 80s. As we are all noticing from the flurry of yearbook pictures being posted on FB… it was the era of hair, big hair. There was no need for me to blow dry my hair taller… by puberty it managed to be huge on its own.

In ninth grade my Social Studies teacher scared the hell out of me. Mrs. Thompson. She would sit on her desk, and talk at us, and grill us, and talk some more. She would call on us with no warning. Her deep exaggerated voice, we bored her and entertained her all at the same time. She had kids in their twenties and she used to tell us stories about how crazy they were, they were scary too. She was old, like 50. She did not understand our music but said at least it wasn’t “Bob Dylan, the moron who should have stayed a poet because he sang like a locked up animal”. She was terrifying.

One school night I randomly decided I needed a haircut. I was 15, had a step by step guide from Seventeen and mom’s “good haircutting scissors”…it seemed like a solid plan. I washed and conditioned. I bent over. I twisted and twisted until I had a cyclone of twirled hair and I cut off a few inches…one two three…the perfect layered look done right at home, thank you Seventeen Magazine for that budget beauty trick. I then wrapped my hair in a towel and went to bed.

I woke up to a head of hair so big, so curly, so very tall…80s hair before we were even in the 80s (it was 1979)… it was beyond. Too clueless to think anyone else might notice (!) I got dressed and went to school. I don’t remember anyone saying anything, until I walked into Social Studies. Entering a bit late and BOOM… that voice…think Kathleen Turner. Kathleen Turner, sitting on her desk, crossed legs hanging off the front corner…and as I walked into her quiet classroom… her eyes popping out of her head and she belted out “What. Did. You. DO. To YOUR HAIR?” I ran to my seat. The classroom was hysterical. I said nothing, I admit, I thought it was kind of awesome. Not one to get much attention (this was pre massive amounts of earrings and bracelets, black lipstick, and ripped clothing), it was pretty nice to be noticed by a woman who seemed to hate everything. That quote followed me for years, I walked into my high school reunion and someone I had not seen for 20 years did not say hi, they said, “What. Did. You. DO. To YOUR HAIR?” Some things are hard to forget.

Yesterday my mom asked me to cut her hair. That my friends can be a recipe for disaster, but a daughter’s gotta do what a daughter’s gotta do. Guess what happened? My mom pulled out the very same “good haircutting scissors” that I used at 15…because of course she still has them…and of course after 40 years, they must still be good. We made a deal that she would not art direct (well it went more like “mom, you are driving me crazy, let me just do it”,) she agreed (with an eye roll) and we moved on. I am not planning on changing careers, but I give myself a solid B. She looks adorable, completely adorable. One of the highlights of this quarantine will definitely be cutting Mom’s hair on the lawn while blasting We are the Champions. A classic moment.

Given my success, I decided to cut my own hair, why not, curly hair is harder to mess up. I twisted and cut…different results than 38 years ago for sure. I have half the amount of hair than I did back then and will not be stoping anyone in their tracks. Hormones are a bitch, but all in all, I get another solid B. Now I just need to find all my bracelets…I have them somewhere.

Not my baby… it seems the bracelet trend had started.

You Never Know

You Never Know: Swoon 53

As a planner, a lister, a figure-it-out-before-it-happens-er, it is puzzling that I also say “you never know” as much as I do. In my head it sounds more like “ya neva no” (my head still has a Queens accent). It’s a powerful tool to move forward or stay safe. Should I try this…well you never know, so why not. Should I be more careful…well you never know, so maybe you should. It kinda works for everything. Maybe it leads us into the right direction, towards what we really want but are too afraid to admit.

Quarantine can be a bit trying, stuff that just doesn’t really matter, does. People notice that others chew louder, leave socks around more, always pick stupid things to watch…life changing horrific things…for those not really experiencing any life changing or horrific things. During this home lock down our family has been exceptionally good at breaking glasses and dishes. I almost did it again this morning, almost wiping out an entire drying rack. I have no clue if we are doing it more than normal, probably not, but since we are always together, we all notice when it happens.

My dad is no longer a living human, he now comes and visit us as a cardinal…and therefor I adore all things cardinal. Well that is a lie. I like all things cardinal that are drawn well. Charley Harper (no, not from Two and a Half Men) is one of my favorite artists. Bright colorful animals, fish, birds, he is joyous. Mid-century modern genius, Golden Book goodness, swoon. Fishs Eddy is one of my favorite stores, quirky and eclectic, one can find the best gifts and home goods, that never feel common. My two favorites got together and there is a whole collection of bird, fish, and animal glassware, dishes, towels…perfection. I purchased cardinal tumbler glasses a few years ago, I sit with my dad and sip bourbon, enjoying our together time. Since our family togetherness sentencing we started using the cardinal glasses each night with dinner, so dad could be with us. Cute right? No… stupid. Glass after glass broke. Nobody’s fault. No big deal. But somehow it was a bit heartbreaking. No worries. we can replace them.

Nope.

Store closed and website down, big giant online demon… (that delivers me stuff daily and I should not judge) none, eBay…none. None. None. None. There were none left. I have not cried much during this global pandemic (lucky not to have lost anyone or have any loved ones too sick). I have contained my tears, well, other than when singing an Easter morning sing-a-long, I totally lost my sh*t during that. Sigh. But this, no more Charley Parker cardinal tumblers to be found. That was so not ok. Not ok.

I was defeated.

Until I wasn’t. Since you never know. I decided I was going to reach out to Fishs Eddy. Maybe if there was someone reading “contact us” emails during the closure, maybe I could just put it in their minds that I needed these glasses. I wrote a typical business like letter to a website contact form… explaining my deep emotional loss and my need for cardinal glasses because they were how I spent time with my dad, my dad the cardinal. Holding no wackiness back, I sent the email and felt better. I had searched high and low, and written to the powers that be. I did what I could, and hey… ya neva no.

Well… you know what is coming because my crazy gets repeated on a daily basis. My dear friend at Fishs Eddy wrote back. The email started like this…

Hi Kat – I am a believer too in reincarnated birds, my mom is a mourning dove.

Birds of a feather… their mom is a mourning dove. Go figure. Life is spectacular. Fishs Eddy Support will look to see if they have glasses when they reopen. They totally got it and they responded so nicely, so quickly, with so much heart. If they have the glasses great, if not I tried. I tried, because, ya neva no…

Swoon.

Full Circle

Full Circle: Swoon 52

We lived in Manhattan, worked full time, had two kids and knew they were not going to thrive in large classrooms…we could not afford private schools… so we started to get used to the idea that we would leave our city and look for a house. Moving in time for Kindergarten, we had two years to get it right, it would all work out.

Agreeing on Pleasantville (where my business partner already lived) we could move the business up and avoid commuting, it all made sense. I wanted sidewalks, a backyard, and the ability to get anywhere I needed to go… on foot. I circled the area I was willing to live on a map and we waited, savoring our city living.

One weekend our real estate agent asked us to come up and look at houses, she wanted to know what we found important. Conversations went like this…
Agent: You will need to redo the kitchen. Me: I love that 50s formica, this is adorable!
Agent: Ignore the bathrooms, they are pink and black tile. Me: They. Are. Perfect.

She quickly got our number… and one day she called my office and said, drop everything, I have your house. It turned out to be right across the street from my business partner’s home, a bit odd, but they thought it was fine, so up to Pleasantville we drove. I had hives the whole way…a sign. We arrived to an adorable stucco home, surrounded by trees, simple and understated. Pulling up in our little Saturn and parking behind the BMW SUV, we knew we did not have a chance at getting this house. We put our name on the sign in sheet, and as city folk do, we waited for our tour… in the grass. I plopped down in the backyard and stared up at the tree canopy. Gorgeous. It was so quiet. Holy smokes, I almost fell asleep. An older woman (who we later learned was the owner) appeared over me, “What are you doing?” I sat up, “Ohhhh, I am just admiring the trees, these are such amazing trees.”

We saw the house, we loved the house. It was gracious, it had room for huge holidays yet it was cozy. I wanted that house. 13 sealed bids, one overbidding by 100K (yup) later…we did not get the house. We could not compete with people with that kind of money, that kind of money was comical. The thing is, people who can overbid by 100K are usually not the type who want a house with only one full bath (from 1945) and an 8×8 kitchen. They took back their offer and we were asked if we wanted to rebid. Sure, why not. We gave the same bid, cause you know, we were really stupid. Again, the house went to someone else. My house. My house went to someone else AGAIN. Ugg. I was heartbroken, I would not bid on this house again, I was done.

After the house was long forgotten we arrived home from Fire Island and as people used to do…went right to the answering machine. The normal routine, walk in the apartment, put down the children, and push that flashing button, noting the number of calls missed. Back then calls could wait… received while you were having fun, connecting untethered with other humans…it was a beautiful thing. Flashing message number 1, “Hi Nemecs, this is Judy Jones (is that the best real estate agent name EVER?), Welcome to Pleasantville, the house is yours, at your price, call me!” We were floored. What. The. Hell?

We have no idea if this is true, but the story we heard is that the home inspection was a very long process…and the buyers kept mentioning how dark the interior was. Not realizing the owner was in the den, they talked about taking down all of the trees. Unfortunately for them, they failed to realize that there were three thousand, four hundred and fifty six window treatments on each and every window… and just removing the curtains, shades, and swags would bring in more light than anyone might need. Unfortunate for them, very fortunate for us. The owner was so disgusted to hear they would even consider killing healthy trees she went right to her husband…who went right to Judy Jones, who was told to… “Find the kids who love the trees.”

We got our house because we loved the trees… SWOON.

Today we put in a vegetable garden at the far end of the back yard. There was a gorgeous flower garden there when we moved in. The previous owners spent all day, every day, gardening and keeping up the yard. Long ago, I saw the previous owner walking by our house, I apologized to her. We had not kept up their beautiful gardens. She responded “My dear, we did not have those gardens when our children were young either, the backyard was a baseball field. If you kept that garden going as it was, I would question your parenting.” Wow.

Our backyard had the mandatory jungle gym and rubber pool, there were nights of firefly catching and lightsaber battles. There were birthday celebrations, egg hunts, kickball games, dance parties, and Girl Scout events…we had such fun. Now, the kids are grown, and today a garden has been returned, just where it was. Full circle.

Veggie gardens on the way, tomato, tomato, lettuces, and other… fingers crossed.

Driving

Driving: Swoon 51

I miss driving. Give me a traffic jam over public transportation any day. Driving across the country, no problem. Straight to Florida from Queens NY, bring it on. I love the little cocoon of goodness…family, music, games, coffee, treats, the adventure ahead. Just us. One of my mom’s favorite childhood memories was taking “the Sunday drive”…Yonkers to the airport “up north” in Armonk, watching the planes take off and land while eating a “double scoop”. Driving, man, I miss it.

I was around 8 when we did our first straight through to Florida, we all piled in the car, my little brother and I in the “way back” with the luggage, my older sister in the middle, parents up front. Mom embroidering rainbows on the handbag she made from a pair of jeans (it was the 70s). Some treats, a thermos, and cigarettes for 24 hours of smoking…windows rolled up…did I mention this was the 70s? No Walkman or iThings…the windows, radio, and playing the ABC game were our entertainment. My memories: 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover on the radio, waving out the back window at the people driving behind us, and picking Jujubes as my treat…wishing I had picked Milk Duds because Jujubes tasted like soap and Milk Duds were all kinds of creamy perfection. I do not remember my parents leaving me at a rest stop in Georgia, luckily my mom saw me running to them in her side mirror. Like I keep saying, it was the 70s.

In 1989 we had discount airline tickets to Key West, the morning of the flight the airline went bankrupt. Not willing to miss a vacation…we piled games, skateboards, extra clothing (no longer needing to fit in a carry on bag), and for some unknown reason the Betamax (!)…into the car and headed South. Now 14, 19, and 24, none of us sat in the way back, and there was much less smoking (thanks to my sister). We “kids” each had our own Walkman, and piles of cassette mix tapes littered the seat wells. I drove the state of Georgia, dark rainy night, David Bowie at full blast, transporting my sleeping family, feeling mature…a much better Georgia experience than I had in 1976. Swoon.

Greg and I have driven down to Florida with our kids more times than I can count. Never stopping to sleep (why waste time), leaving at 10pm and arriving for dinner at my parents by 7pm the next day. Magic. Kids sleep and we drive, together in our pod, what could be better? One year our planned Universal trip with the cousins was upended by Greg getting an amazing new job. We decided the kids and I would drive with one overnight stop and he would fly down to meet us. It would all work out. We started driving at 4 am…listening to Broadway musicals, singing, stopping only for snacks, gas for the car, and Red Bull for Kat…we pulled up to Universal Studios,Florida 18 hours later…cheering. One of my best mommy moments EVER, we would not miss a day with the cousins. I will never forget the look on my brother’s face as we walked into that hotel lobby. Always one of my biggest cheerleaders, and one of the people who takes up a huge part of my heart, his eyes sparkled as he said I knew you would drive straight through. It is comforting to have people in your life who know your hidden super powers.

The delayed “maternity leave” trip across the country with my Jacob will wait for a different (or many different) swoons. I am pretty confident that with out our many drives to Florida we never would have even considered that epic adventure. Each little trip gives confidence for the next bigger one. In these days of being afraid to travel in flying petri dishes of virus goo…maybe being lovers of the drive is a good thing. Sigh.

Cars are where my family is at their best. Where my relationship with my husband is beyond lovely. Where we can just be. Together. Cozy. Safe… until we hit that buck, but that is a different swoon too.

My passenger seat position… always. A perk of being 5 feet.

Living Like Spiro

Living Like Spiro: Swoon 50 (woot woot)

Growing up we had a cat named Spiro (after Spiro Agnew, he meowed a lot). Spiro liked being outside, and my sister…and that was it. Crossing paths you might try and pet him or say hi, he would respond with an eye roll, because he was a cat.

Spiro started his stay with us by getting stuck on the roof of our house. MacGyvering before MacGyver, we connected a long rod and a huge box creating a kitten catcher. Extending it out a window hoping to coax the cat into the box. When that didn’t work (shocking), we reached out and were refused by the fire department (I guess they only rescue cats on tv). Finally mom called the tv antenna man (ha, there was a tv antenna man) and in a classic bait-and-switch convinced him to go up and get the kitten. The poor guy had no luck so he finally resorted to scaring the kitten into JUMPING off our house, our three story house.

Spiro survived and went on to live a very cat-like cat life.

15 or so years later, Greg was at our home for our first Thanksgiving together. He was a bit shocked after meeting Spiro. Forget the fact that there would be a sit down dinner for 30. Or that my mom ordered a last minute extra turkey (in addition to the turkey, ham, and roast) “to be safe”. Forget that traditional Thanksgiving foods in my house were stuffed grape leaves, pilaf, and bourma…and there would be no moulded salads made from Jello. Forget all that, the thing that shocked him was Spiro. “Does anyone even notice what this cat looks like?”

We did but we didn’t care, by then Spiro was an old old cat. He was totally disgusting…matted molting fur, toothless and drooling, a perpetually dripping snotty nose, he was gross. You could hear him approaching from a mile away and if you were smart you ran, because this is when Spiro decided that he wanted constant loving. Kind of like Scrooge, he had distanced everyone with his aloof attitude, but decided to turn that all around at the end of his life. I admit, it was most unpleasant, but one must give love to those looking for love, so we would strategically pet him hoping he would not slime us in the process.

Spiro lived a good life, the life he wanted, on his terms. The icing on the cake was his final act, taken straight from the Aloof and Wiseass Cat Manual. Spiro walked over to the country club and died…on an outdoor dining table…while the ladies played tennis on the court overlooking the patio. Class.

May we live our days the way we want, may we get the love we want no matter how disgusting we may look, may we die on our own terms…with class.

Cheers to you Spiro. Swoon.