Miz S

Rainbows and Swallows.

There was a beautiful rainbow on the ocean yesterday evening, so I dispatched one of my minions (Josh) to take a picture of it for me. It's very Hallmark-worthy. There is even a little speck of a seagull flying around. The seagull represents MY SOUL YEARNING TO BE FREE.

Then Josh noticed some birds sitting on the neighbor's clothesline.

These are baby swallows. They aren't really babies anymore, but their parents are still working their asses off to feed them. The parents were flying around in the air catching insects, and...

...swooping by the little ones to feed them on the fly.

HOW ADORABLE IS THAT?

And how patient was Josh to sit there waiting and waiting to get that picture?

Last, but not least...

 

...the intrepid Miz S in her sex-ay Bathing Costume sizes up the approaching wave.

 

She moves forward confidently, gracefully, rather like a mermaid...

 

...a really dorky mermaid who doesn't like to get her face wet and is a little bit afraid there might be a shark in the water. 

Okay, I don't really have a punchline for that series of pictures but I did think I looked hilarious and I wanted to share.

Thursday will be our last full day here in NC. On Friday we will have time for a morning swim and then be on our way.

There is still time for a big, huge FAMILY FIGHT so stay tuned!

At Least I Have Never Set The Dunes On Fire.

 

Sea oats on the dunes. Pretty, but pretty beach pictures just end up looking like cheesy Hallmark cards.

Can you believe I am still on vacation?

I know, RIGHT?

Last night Josh and I were hanging out in our beach living room with Josh's sister and her family. We could hear and see some fireworks outside on the beach. I don't really get fireworks, but a lot of people seem to enjoy them. For the past 23 years fireworks have always presented some sort of problem for me. Back in the day the whistles and explosions would wake up babies and toddlers, and in more recent times it freaks the dogs out.

Anyway, every summer at the beach there are some bozos out there playing with explosives.

So, anyway, last night Josh casually glanced out the window, did a double take,  and yelled, "Hey! The dunes are on fire!" The dunes here are covered with sea oats and apparently the sparks from one of the rockets had started a fire. Two fires, actually. Somewhat substantial fires. You wouldn't think spindly grass could fuel such a blaze.

We ran outside and flapped our arms helplessly, along with all the neighbors. Actually, everyone was very calm and smart. The firefighters in Southern Shores are all volunteer and it took them kind of a long time to get here. While we were waiting, one of the neighbors stretched a hose all the way up to the smaller fire and was able to put it out. The hose couldn't reach the other fire, which kept getting bigger and bigger. Josh and my brother-in-law and some other people on the beach found a big bucket and tried using sand to smother it, but they couldn't really make much of a dent. Fortunately, the wind was blowing towards the beach, not towards the houses.

Meanwhile, the perpetrators had taken off down the beach and were never seen again. Dumbasses.

A zillion fire and police and rescue vehicles came and it was all VERY exciting.

 

Those weird lights that look like question marks are because my camera can't take pictures in the dark. The houses are only about 60 feet to the right, and the ocean is to the left. You can see that the wind is blowing towards the ocean. 

 

Sorry the pictures are so crappy. I have no idea how to take pictures at night.

Ah, well. What are you going to do? People everywhere are prone to stupidity, lapses in judgement, and grave miscalculations. Meanwhile, I am busy feeling smug because, well, I may do stupid things sometimes but at least I have never set the dunes on fire.

Things We Have Been Doing At The Beach.

Getting up early to watch the sun rise. Okay, I did it ONE time. But you never know, I might do it again.

 

Celebrating Josh's birthday. The girls got him a personalized mug that says "Dick" on it. He can't wait to bring it to work and show all his friends. 

 

Cooking. Everyone takes a night. Here is Sasha making bruschetta. She served it alongside of pasta with a creamy herb sauce and a spinach and strawberry salad. It was gooooooood.

 

Jigsaw puzzling. Here is my mother-in-law, puzzled.

Beaching, of course. Pop-Pop is 88 but don't let his awkward stance fool you. He'll kick your ass.

 

Some of us are being EXTRA CAREFUL when it comes to sun protection. The surface of this planet is kinda dangerous, y'know.

 

Drinking beer. Pop-pop says that back in his day, girls who drank beer straight from the bottle were easy. That means easy to like, right?

 

Hiking at the Nags Head Nature Conservancy Preserve.

 

Stopping to rest when Evangeline's blood sugar PLUMMETED on aforementioned hike. She ate 6 rolls of Smarties and sat around looking wan waiting for them to kick in. Then, when Josh offered to carry her on his sweaty back she mustered up the energy to keep moving. Anything's better than being carried on a sweaty back.

Oh, there's more. MUCH more. But it's time to eat now. Mmmmmm. Food.

Yo! Beach Week!

Beach two weeks, actually. And we all know that is way too much vacation for Miz S. Although, I do feel as if I am recharging and relaxing and generally enjoying myself.

I will admit to a grumpy morning yesterday. Being with the extended in-law network is sometimes stressful for me. It's a lot of interaction for an introvert, you feel me? And there are some strong slash bossy personalities here. Several of them read this blog. (Telling your family you have a blog: big mistake or bad idea? You choose.)

Allow me to pause for a moment and praise my husband. He is always cheerful, seldom if ever gets in snit about anything, leaps up to take out the trash or set up the umbrellas or do anything at all to help out, uses humor to defuse tensions, and is sweet and solicitous to everyone. I adore him.

We are in a lovely house right behind the dune with a beautiful view of the ocean. We are privileged as hell. It's embarrassing, really. 

I love the beach sooooo much, but it does present some problems for me in terms of sun management. I can state with confidence that I am probably the most sun-sensitive person you will ever know. This year, though, I've got it licked. I look a little silly, perhaps, but I will NOT be getting a sunburn. I bought waist-to-ankle swimming tights and a long-sleeved, turtle-necked swimming shirt from this place. (One of you guys steered me to this website. MsCellania, maybe? I can't remember.) The fabric is rated SPF 50. It's stretchy and, y'know, a little CLINGY for a 51-year-old woman to be wearing. But what the hell. It beats a sunburn. And I get to skip the 15 minutes of sunscreen application that my kids and Josh are doing, plus the constant paranoid reapplication.

This is picture of the Coolibar model in the tights. I look a little more middle-aged than that.

Will I be posting a picture of myself in this outfit? I really should. We'll see if I can get Josh or someone to snap a picture that is not too horrifying.

More later.

Balloons! They're not just for parties anymore!

Thanks, everyone. I really appreciated all the comments, advice, and commiserations on my last post. My siblings and I are just beginning this journey with our parents, and it's very comforting to know how many people have been there, done that.

And although I have a long history of being easily distressed by my mother, I love both of my parents very much and consider it a privilege to be able to help them at this stage in their life. Privilege slash pain-in-the-ass.

KIDDING, I SWEAR. 

Hey, speaking of ass, my dad had to go have a test at the hospital today where they put balloons in his ass because of the, y'know, BM situation, and I am NOT kidding about that. And my mom sat in the waiting room and said things like, "WHAT ARE THEY DOING AND WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG?" 

My sister Julie said, "They're doing that test where they put balloons in his ass" and my mother said, "WHAT? THEY'RE DOING A TEST WHERE THEY PUT BALLOONS IN HIS ASS? I DIDN'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THIS!"

I may have paraphrased the dialogue a little bit.

This is funny to me because it was discussed ad nauseum AND my mom had to give him an enema last night to prepare for the test. 

But the point is, my sister was in the waiting room with my mother and I wasn't. 

'Cause I'm at the beach, relaxing, buying magazines, lolling around reading, and going out for long, sweaty walks. I haven't done a lot of beaching yet, but give me time. I'll get down there, I swear.

Oh my God, wait til you hear about my beach attire. It's atrocious, really.

More later.

 

The girls bought matchng bathing suits and matching beach cover-ups. When anyone asks why they are wearing matching outfits they get a distressed look on their faces and say, "Our parents make us dress this way."

"MOTHER. NO."

Oh God. My parents. Ever so tiny and frail and shuffle-y. But happy, for the most part, and seldom complaining about anything. If you are in the mood for clicking, I wrote this about them--God, almost two years ago--and I like it very much.

My 83-year-old mother is being evaluated for Alzheimer's, something that we have watched coming on for a looooooong time now. She was kind of a loon before dementia began to twine its way around her, and you will just have to accept my word about that.

My 80-year-old father has been having a problem with fecal incontinence (my mother refers to it as "the BM problem") for almost a year now, poor guy. What an assault on one's dignity, to never know when you are going to crap your pants. And he has lost many pounds, which he could ill afford to part with. Doctors have investigated, with greater or lesser (mostly lesser) degrees of interest in the project. The first theory was lactose intolerance, and the milk-free diet helped for awhile. But the problem has returned with a vengeance.

Today's project was a colonoscopy. No big deal, right? Just drive my dad to the clinic, sit in the waiting room for a couple of hours with a good book, then drive him back home. But then my father wanted my mom to come along, which is natural, I suppose. I think he was deathly afraid of crapping his pants on the way to or from, and he didn't want to burden his daughter with any sort of involvement.

Anyway, God should strike me dead for being such an intolerant daughter but godDAMNit you guys have no fucking idea how difficult she can be. Two-and-a-half hours in a small waiting room? It was like two-and-a-half YEARS.

My mom has absolutely no sense of...I don't know what exactly. Boundaries? Social norms? And don't tell me it's Alzheimers.  She's ALWAYS been like this. And it kills me to be out in public with her, because on the one hand, I am accustomed to laughing at her behind her back for all her oddities. And on the other hand, I love her and don't want anyone else to laugh at her. So, I am perpetually 13 with my mother.

You know how in a waiting room it is usually quiet? People are either there alone, or if they are with another person they chat quietly in lowered voices so as not to disturb others, right? My mom, who has a problem with incessant, I mean incessant, talking (I call it the "momologue") is just out of control in a waiting room. For one thing, she has a beautifully clear, carrying voice and no ability to modulate the volume. For another thing, she is perfectly comfortable saying things that normal people's brains would filter out.

Example: When we checked in at the office window, the young black woman behind the counter gave my father a form to fill out and some instructions about what to sign and what to initial, etc.

 As we walked, back to our seats my mother began to voice her confusion. I said, "Don't worry, Mom. Dad knows what to do."  And my mother opined, loudly, "That young lady doesn't speak clearly!" which is her way of saying, "That young lady is black! The rhythm of her speech is not what I am accustomed to hearing and I don't approve of it!"

I cut her off with a quiet, but firm, "Mom. Please. Don't." which just made her repeat it in a piercingly loud whisper.

Then followed at least one full hour of momologuing about God knows what.  Just a series of more or less connected anecdotes butwithouttakingabreathinbetween. Then, two black people came into the waiting room and sat down. Mom's eyes rested thoughtfully on them for a few minutes before she started in on the Florida anecdote.

The Florida anecdote is one where she tells the story about a trip we took to Florida in 1970 where we encountered lots of evidence that racism in the South was alive and well "...and you kids were so shocked because you had no idea, blah blah, prattle, prattle." 

I think she likes to tell this story because it fits in with her idea of herself as a progressive, liberal white person. FAIL.

I turned to her, desperately, and hissed. "Mother. No."

Amazingly, she obeyed me and stopped talking.

Then I gave her a copy of "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sedaris, who is only the funniest essayist in the history of mankind, I'm sure you agree with me. I thought this would keep her occupied and quiet. Instead, she chuckled and laughed and howled and giggled and said, "WOOOOO!"  I mean LOUDLY, people. LOUDLY.

Oh God, the violation of social norms is so painful for me.

When it was all over and done with and we were back in my parents' kitchen with my sister cooking lunch for us, I could see that it was funny, even hilarious.

But inside I am still cringing. You feel me?

SOOOOO MUCH PERSONAL GROWTH TODAY!

Thanks for all the suggestions and general supportiveness, you guys! You are seriously awesome. Hell, who needs therapy? Just start writing a blog and try and attract really smart, sensible readers. Then pour your guts out to them even if you kind of feel like an ass afterward.

Maddy left some particularly succinct suggestions in the comments section. Here's just ONE of the smart things she said:

"Also, if the others in the class are adults, and they choose not to have their ideas heard, it's their fault too. It's not necessarily up to you to "fix" things for everyone, unless that's something you feel the need to do."

WELL NOW, damn if she didn't just hit the ol' nail on the head there. I DO feel the need to fix things for everyone. It's one of my ISSUES. Is there anything you need fixed?  Because I will totally take on your problems and worry myself half to death.

So, I'm reflecting on that.

And Jane...dear sweet Jane texted me as I drove to school saying "I have advice for you." I texted her back (oh relax, I was stuck in a traffic jam, have you EVER driven in DC?) with a panicky, "omg can u call me kthx."

And she called me, because she's nice that way, even though I'm sure she was busy trying to get ready for work. So we talked, and she gave me some ideas for what to say, and I read her what I was GOING to say, which I had actually written down, and she said, "Umm. That makes my stomach hurt just hearing it."

Here's something else Jane said, which is, well, very perceptive.  In fact, she has said it to me on at least one other occasion but maybe I am ready to finally think about it. I'll paraphrase here.

"You know," she said, "you careen from one extreme to the other. You sit there being all passive and angry, then you go home and stew some more and get all worked up and now you're ready to directly confront this woman and make a stomach ache-inducing speech.  THERE'S MIDDLE GROUND HERE. FIND IT. Oh, and stop being so overly-empathetic."

And I was all, "Damn. You're right. God, I'm...an ass."

So, when I got to class and our group pulled chairs together to work on our project, instead of saying something all shaky and a-skeered-like and just making the whole situation WORSE by escalating it, I deftly took control of the group by offering to take notes, and then was all light and humorous when Mrs. Loudmouth Principal tried to dominate things. I raised my hand as if I was a little kid and said, "OH! I KNOW! CALL ON ME!"  (Jane's suggestion) I said stuff like, "Oh, you guys, I'm sorry, I can't take the notes properly when more than one person talks. Can we back up for a minute?"

And--this is my favorite, and it was Josh's idea--when Mrs. Loudmouth tried to hijack all the attention by going on and on about her own personal experiences, I leaned forward with an intent look on my face and said, "Wait. I'm confused. Which part of that should I write down in the notes? I'm not sure how it fits in."

I feel all proud of myself. But also sort of embarrassed for being, y'know, an ass. Which I may have mentioned a few times already. 

Yeah, I'm talking about YOU, Betty Ann and Lynn.

Thank you all for your suggestions about how to protect my garden from marauding deer. But I have already moved on. My attention span is short, have you ever noticed that?

Hey, guess what? I accidentally joined a fitness club the other day. I went to Hardware City to spend $20 on some mulch and I came back home with a paid-in-advance year-long membership in Anytime Fitness. Whoops! Impulsive, much?

Well, I DID get a free month for paying in advance. You gotta spend money to save money, right?

Josh just shook his head and looked at me with sad eyes. He was probably remembering two years ago when I paid for 10 yoga lessons in advance and only went once. Or perhaps he was thinking of when I joined the YMCA last year and only went once. That was not my fault! There were used bandaids on the floor and I felt like I caught a disease the one time I went.

My attention span is short AND I have a problem with follow-through.

But, I have gone to the fitness club 4 times already and I love it soooooo much. It just opened up so it is pristine. I have not seen one used bandaid on the floor! First, I do the treadmills with the cunning little attached flat-screen tv's, then I hop on over to the circuit weight training machines and do some, what, reps? Is that what we call them?

I would really like to lose 10 pounds and be all toned and shit.

I'm telling you all this because I am avoiding what I really wanted to write about which is what a fucking wuss I am and how much I hate being a wuss.

Sigh. I'm afraid it will be boring to read about.

I'm taking another teacher class. This one is called "Ensuring Success for the ADHD Student," and it's MUCH better than the Children's Literature class that I fussed about a couple of weeks ago. The teacher knows her stuff, the pace is appropriate, and I'm learning tons of stuff. So that's all good.

But twice today I was in a small group with other teacher-types, working on a group project. And on both occasions, there was one person in the group (a different person both times) who dominated, talked over people, wouldn't listen to others' ideas, or ramrodded her ideas down everyone else's throats. I don't think it was a coincidence that both these women were principals of schools. Apparently, they believe they are entitled to run any show in which they find themselves.

Twice I had the chance to speak up, and both times I sat there and didn't say anything. I knew what to say. I just couldn't make it come out of my mouth. Because I'm a fucking wuss.

Here's what I should have said to the first woman:

"Let's take a vote and find out what the group consensus is."

Here's what I should have said to the second woman:

"Listen, bitch,"  

No, wait. That's not it. What I meant was:

"You might not realize it, but twice now you have talked right on top of someone else's voice and completely ignored their contribution to the group. I would like to hear what this person has to say. So could you shut the fuck up?"

Is that last part too harsh?

So, yeah, I'm all mad at myself tonight. Why do I find it so hard to speak up? Why do I feel intimidated by people I don't even care about? Is it too late for me to change? Can I grow a set of balls at this stage of my life? 

Mmmmm. Daylilies.

I love how they look all spooky because of the camera flash. Vicious woodland ruminants!

Regular readers know that I live in a suburban area near Washington, D.C. Those of you who know the area can attest to the fact that we have a SHITload of deer around here (as do most suburban communities all over the US). The suburbs offer an ideal habitat for deer. Lots of parks and green space, tons of yummy gardens to nibble on, no hunting, and no real predators except for cars. It's like deer heaven!

My neighbor's backyard adjoins a small wooded area and is a favorite hangout for the local deer gangs. We see them at dusk or dawn, grazing peacefully in our neighbor's yard, then hopping the fence into our yard and munching on my garden. They are not particularly shy of humans. When we open the door and walk out into the yard, they stare at us and chew thoughtfully for a minute before effortlessly jumping the fence to melt away into the woods again.

I feel sorry for them when I see them dead by the side of the road, and I know they cause a lot of accidents, but I'm enough of a city girl to still be enthralled by the sight of woodland ruminants in my backyard.

But every year in July the deer love withers in my heart.  You see, I have these beautiful daylilies called Hyperion. I'm sure all you gardener types are familiar with them. I wait for them all year long.

The first bloom, a couple of days ago.

They are a beautiful pale yellow with a delicate scent that  reminds me of Lily of the Valley, except not so overpowering.  In my humble opinion, Hyperions are vastly superior to the ubiquitous Stella d'Oro daylilies, with which every gardener in town is enamored. The Stellas are a vulgar shade of bright yellow and they are RUFFLY. I don't like ruffles on my daylilies. (Ah...sorry if I have just insulted anyone. I'm sure your Stellas look lovely.)

I have explained to the deer over and over again that they are welcome to eat anything else in the yard. But not my Hyperion daylilies. Please?

 

I shrug my shoulders when they chow down on the hostas. I didn't like that hosta anyway.

Sure, it's unfortunate that they munch on the tomato plants that Josh so carefully tends, but we can always buy homegrown tomatoes at a farmstand. Ain't no thang.

But when they eat these...

 

...I almost cry. Their favorite trick, you see, is to wait until the plant is covered with buds (one plant alone has over 200 buds on it -- I counted!). That's when they delicately nibble off every single one. 

Each morning I go outside to check, and so far I have been lucky. It occurs to me that next year I should divide the daylilies and move some around to the front yard, because the deer don't go to the front. That way I will have consolation flowers in the front yard if they destroy the backyard plants.

Stupid deer. Can't they tell the difference between Hyperion and Stella d'Oro?