In Search of The Perfect Tan

Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed, and I was a kid, there was no such thing as sunscreen. Our mothers would slather us up with baby oil containing a healthy measure of Mercurochrome, and we would head off to the beach.  After an hour , we would be cautioned to sit under the umbrella, or put on the rash guard of the times; a white cotton undershirt. Needless to say the first night, our little rented bungalow reeked of Noxzema, and was filled with the whimpering of children in pain.  Laying on hot sandy sheets, with a ferocious case of the chills, a great start to summer.

Still the lesson wasn't learned. As a teenager my friends and I would wrap our bi-fold album covers in aluminum foil, and make sun reflectors for our faces. When the "Who" introduced  the album "Tommy", we eagerly moved up to the tri-fold reflector arena.  As soon as we were able to lay out at the beach without being frostbitten, our sun worship would continue. We worked on our tans religiously, flipping every half hour for even coverage, and continual basting with baby oil.  We even toyed with the idea of using motor oil, as one girl had read this was a popular option with southern gals. Now I don't know if this was a myth perpetrated by NASCAR, or the good people of Pennzoil, but we decided to stay with our Johnsons & Johnsons, and leave that other oil in the car. Our motto was "Burn, Peel, and Repeat."

Then  there was the advent of the "self tanning" lotions.  They sounded great on paper, but unless you wanted to look like an Umpa Loompa, and have your palms stay an unnatural color for two weeks, they did not deliver the even golden tan we hankered for. We stuck with the tried and true. Burn, peel, and repeat.

Lets' face it, we lay in the sun every chance we got.  This continued well into our young adulthood. No one wanted to come back from a mid-winter get away without a little color.

Then one morning, it was time to pay the piper. Those creases on our face were not just from sleeping on scrunched up sheets.  They were permanent.  Our payment had come due! The sun had prematurely wrinkled our skin into alligator hide.  Spackling compound became the first item applied, when one was doing their makeup. Our moisturizing cream expenditures rivaled the National Debt.  I had my dermatologist on speed dial. Welcome to SPF 150, and floppy hats!

 I had finally learned my lesson.  It was too late for me, but I would be a watchdog for my children. Before I would head to the beach with my offspring they would be generously covered  in waterproof SPF 50 cream.  Their lips would be coated with specially formulated sun block. They wore long sleeved rash guards, hats, and water shoes.  The lotions and potions would be reapplied every hour on the hour. If they developed wrinkles, alligator skin, or worse, it could not be laid at my feet.

My children returned home at the end of the summer, the same shade of pale they were sporting when they arrived. My possibly over zealousness became abundantly clear at the close of one summer. An end of season photo was taken of their swim team.  All the children were photographed in their swim suits, sans rash guards.  You could be in a darkened room, and still be able to pick out my children.  They were so white that they actually glowed in the dark. The older they got, the more they bucked my sun paranoia.  Rash guards were being stowed away in back packs, hats were mysteriously lost, and I started seeing...TAN LINES!

 Whats' a mom to do? I had protected their skin for 12 years, and now I must trust them to use the quarts of sun screen and tubes of zinc oxide  lovingly tucked  in their back packs. I can only pray that they are quicker learners than I, and hope that their future doesn't contain a face full of Naugahyde. I am  fairly sure that they can't rig their I-pods into sun reflectors, to my knowledge  there's no app for that!

Sherpa Training

Every Friday evening during the summer, my husband makes the trek from up north , to join us on the Island. Every Friday evening, we get a call from our driveway, when he arrives. His message never varies, "send the boys down." My three sons hurry down the steps to help him carry in his things. One son lugs in his suitcase, which I have a feeling he lives out of all summer. Another brings in the leftover tomatoes, lettuce and bread, from his go to dinner meals of BLT's. The last one brings in the mail from up north and any other odds and ends .   My husband brings in himself. He would never make it as a Sherpa, but I think many of us moms would, we are the "Sherpettes."

Many of us have homes that employ the "reverse" living configuration. Kitchens being located on the uppermost floor. These are excellent training grounds for our Sherpette lessons.  You know who we are; the ladies pushing the overloaded shopping carts through the local grocery store. We are the hunters/gatherers for our families.  We load up on milk and orange juice, bread and cereal. Sacks of fruit, and packages of snacks. Barbeque fixings, and a variety of dinner ingredients. I can't vouch for anyone else, but I'd say easily 20 plastic bags of groceries enter my home weekly. This is not counting the cases of water that disappear like hot cakes.

How do you transport those overwhelming loads up to the third floor? You might ask. In the least amount of trips possible! The children always seem to be curiously absent when I return from a food run. So it's' up to mom to put on the Sherpette hat and get to it. I drape as many bags as possible down the lengths of my arms, while carrying a case or two. I have been known to toss dry cleaning over my shoulder, and carry my purse with my teeth. I slowly make my way up three flights, precariously balancing my load. Occasionally I run into an avalanche, when a bag or two breaks, and scatters the contents. This is when I get to practice uneven terrain maneuvers while  dodging rolling cans and apples. I am a Chiropractor's dream!

Once the supplies make it to the top floor, I set up base camp. Frozen food gets stowed, fruit gets washed, and the cartons with one millimeter of fluid taking up the shelf space in the fridge, get tossed and replaced with full containers. Apparently the mountaineering folk I live with, are emotionally attached to empty food containers, as that is the only plausible excuse I can think of for returning empties to fridge and pantry.

Mission accomplished, I sit back, and catch my breath. Miraculously my children reappear, and my newly purchased stores disappear.  I know tomorrow I will embark on yet another supply run.  I am  queen of the food aisles, master pack mule extraordinaire ! Happy shopping to all my fellow Sherpettes, see you at the grocery store.

First Summer Job

I remember back to my 16th summer, and my first summer job. I had officially joined the work force. I, like most of my friends , was thrilled to have been hired  to work full time for the summer.  dreams of a car, new clothes, and the latest in rock albums danced in my head.  Of course I was making the grand sum of $1.60 an hour, but that was a buck sixty more then I would have had otherwise.

 My grand entrance into the world of the employed took place at our local Woolworth's 5 &10. We had a dress code that consisted of either a dress or skirt, and an aqua colored smock/jacket, complete with name tag.  Jeans were strictly verboten!  My first day on the job, I learned how to make keys and cut shades to order.  Life skills! The old cash registers were nothing more than glorified adding machines, so any sales tax (5% back then) had to be calculated in your head, and added to the total. Once the total was figured, you would mentally "count up" the change due back to your customer. Mental math gymnastics.

A few weeks into my "career", the older lady who ran the pet department was taking her vacation, and I was transferred to that department for the week. I lasted one day, and it is a day that will go down in infamy. The pet department didn't carry dogs or cats, however they did a thriving trade in the birds, fish, and hamster  department. My first morning on the job, I was informed by my boss, mean old Mr. D., that  all the cages needed to be cleaned out.  One glance was enough to convince me that this was obviously an annual event , and would take place the one day a year, when the "new Kid" filled in for summer vacations. I was looking at 5 cages of year old bird poop! 

Well a job is a job, and I got to it.  Unfortunately one bird, a blue parakeet, made a break for the border and escaped. Oops! There wasn't much I could do, as the ceilings in the store were easily over 25 feet high, and my personal ability to fly was non-existent. Oh well, I thought and continued on scrubbing cages. Shortly thereafter, there seemed to be quite the commotion coming from the front of the store.  The snack counter to be exact. Apparently, as was related to me by mean ole Mr. D.  (who was now sporting a pulsing blood vessel on his forehead) my "Free" bird, had decided to try log walking on the hot dogs that were spinning on the hot rollers. Needless to say the patrons and waitresses were not impressed. I mean lighten up, this was decades before we even heard of bird flu! I was told in no uncertain terms, that I had to recapture that bird before the close of business.  I was armed with a 5 inch net used for scooping  fish, and as I mentioned earlier, the ceilings were at least 25 feet high.  In other words, Mission Impossible.

As I was pondering my predicament, we received a fish delivery. When the fish guy comes, he tosses plastic bags containing water and fish, into the large aquariums. I finished up cage detail, and started dumping the fish out of their bags into their respective tanks. I was almost finished, when a blood curdling shriek erupted at the Hamster pen. It seems that one of the hamsters had given birth, and her cell mates were engaging in baby hamstercide in full view of customers. People came running, as I bravely scooped the new mother and children to safety in a separate pen. Mean ole Mr. D. was not impressed.

After all the hoopla died down, I returned to my fish duties, when uh-oh.....all the fish I had previously dumped into their new home, were doing a particularly gruesome back float.  I learned later, that the fish delivery guy was not being lazy when he didn't dump the fish into the aquariums, rather he was letting the water in the bags acclimate to the water in the tanks. In this way the fish would not be shocked to death when undergoing a significant temperature change. Mean ole Mr. D. explained this to me, as I watched not only his pulsing blood vessel, but his face turn a bright magenta.

Well the cages were clean, the fish (or what was left of them) were fed, and the Hamster situation resolved. My only problem was my run away bird. I came up with, what I thought was a very crafty solution.  Back then, some birds had clipped wings.  They were kept in a chicken wire enclosure, with a screen window placed on top. Luckily the pen was deep enough, that none of the "clippies" could hop out. I removed the top screen, and walked to the back of the department.  Sure enough my little runaway came sailing in for a quick snack.  It seems that hot dogs weren't cutting it. I quickly replaced the top.  Victory was mine! I thought Mean ole Mr. D. would be happy, but all he could sputter in my direction, was "that bird is a $5.00 bird, and you have him in the $1.00 pen!" " Get him where he belongs, before someone tries to buy him for a buck!"

Finally my day in the pet department came to a close.  Mean ole Mr. D. transferred me back to house wares where I spent the remainder of my summer making keys and cutting shades, grateful I didn't lose my job after "Nightmare in Petville."  You know, maybe he wasn't that mean after all.

A Chicken Returns to the Roost

We're back!  And we are not alone!  Junior is home after that first year at college, and we all have some adjusting to do. He departed straight from the island to his in-state school last August. We assumed we would see him occasionally, as he was only about 45 minutes away, but you know what happens when one assumes. That first semester he graced us with his presence once, over Thanksgiving break. We have a sneaking suspicion they closed the dorms that weekend, and since we were the only game in town he stopped by. Saying he came home to see us, would be exaggerating that weekend.  We were treated like timeshare pitchmen. He would stop in for the obligatory family meal on Thanksgiving, and then be free to come and go, mostly go, with friends, while having a nice clean bed, and fully stocked refrigerator at his disposal. Did I mention we were also his personal ATM?

Now he is home for the summer, and I have to say the bloom is fading off that rose. Apparently he is under the impression that we have converted our LBI home into a Motel 6, complete with maid service and an in house restaurant. We can track his movements through our house by the trail of empty water bottles, discarded socks, and empty food wrappers. Did I mention curfews? Apparently,  unbeknown to us, he has out grown them.

Now I realize that he did not have to adhere to any of these silly rules while at college, but as most parents will tell you, ignorance is bliss. I am a strong believer in adhering to the local social mores and customs, when visiting a foreign country. I don't think it has dawned on him that he is no longer living in the land of the free (read dorms), and the home of the non-existent curfew. I suspect there was more than a few nights this past year, when he arrived home the same time dawn was breaking, and as hard as this is to believe, I was young once too. The problem is I cannot fall asleep till I hear that bike rolling over the stones in our front yard, and the subsequent mid-night (or later) raid on my refrigerator. Only then, am I free to roll over and drift off, knowing all my chicks are accounted for. Welcome to the Parent Hood!

To be fair, there were also some great things I have witnessed. I have seen some signs of maturity.  He actually talks, and LISTENS to his younger siblings. He thanks me for making dinner.  We can engage in conversation, and miracle of miracles, he has admitted, in front of witnesses, that maybe his parents were right about a few things! Be still my heart.

I can't say I wasn't warned about this phenomena, by friends and family. How you gonna keep them down on the farm, once they've seen and tasted freedom? So this summer will be a delicate dance, one in which I slowly retreat with trepidation, and he goes fearlessly forward into adulthood. Now if I can just manage to keep my fridge and pantry stocked, I'm sure we'll make it through.

Vindication

I haven’t written much lately, and I want to explain why.  I have been recovering from a shock, which shook me to my very core. Not a bad thing, but rather a wondrous event.  My eldest admitted to me that I might have been right.  I know, I know, I am still reeling myself! Friends and acquaintances with older offspring told me this day would come, but I believed my child would defy those optimists, and continue to roll his eyes at me till he was well into middle age.

So on what issue did this miraculous reversal take place, you might ask.  Wardrobe choices! For years I had pointed out various outfits that I felt would look complimentary.  I wanted him to take advantage of the physique he so nonchalantly ignored, tall and lean.  Like most in his peer group, he believed his body would stay like this forever.  I tried to warn him that a beer belly waited for him after a college kegger or two, that the freshman 15 turned into the young adult 30 in the blink of an eye.  Make hay while the sun shines, dress well while clothes still look good on you, I counseled. Trust me, you will look back from middle age at the photos from college, and be mortified at your wardrobe choices. Extra long gym shorts slung way too low, with a wide swatch of boxer shorts on display doesn’t do anything for anybody.  Not even if you are a hip-hop rapper, which by the way, you are not.  The ratty t-shirts sporting grease stains from the last few pizzas you scarfed down coupled with a beat up pair of board shoes, will never get you on the cover of GQ! It was a battle that could not be won.  Peer pressure one, Mom zero.

I was looking over the latest catalogue from Land’s End on a recent afternoon, admiring the clean classic looks sported by the young men, when a miracle occurred.  He leaned over, paged through and said to me, “You know, I wouldn’t mind getting some of these clothes, they look really good.” WHAT!!!!!  Are you being sarcastic, was the first thought that ran through my mind.  I looked around to see if there were any video cameras filming this. Had I had just been a victim of a cruel joke, for the viewing pleasure of u-tube aficionados?  “Are you serious”, I asked? “Yeah, I think it’s’ time to start cleaning up my act in the clothes department.” He replied. Be still my heart, he was agreeing with me!

In the blink of an eye, I had him in the car, racing to the mall.  I figured strike while the iron is hot, this change in attitude was very fragile, and could reverse at any moment. He hasn’t allowed me to help with garment choices since he grew out of his Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls. At the mall, we zeroed in on the young clean looks shown in the catalogue.  He headed off to the dressing room, arms laden with classic Bermuda shorts, cotton button down shirts, and a pair of docksiders. He emerged dressed how I always hoped and prayed he would.  I think I actually brushed a tear or two away. Major damage was done to my American Express card that day, but they were joyous purchases. I felt like a kid at Christmas.

Later that evening he showed his dad the new duds. My husband smiled fondly, and reminisced that these were the same classic looks that he wore in college.  However that was not the same story my mother in law had related.  She had shared with me her battles with children versus clothes. She used to insist that her sons wear the classic khakis, Izod shirts, and boat shoes for major holidays, family events, and any picture taking opportunities.  This was done under protest.  “If left to their own devices, you would have seen a lot more Nehru Jackets and Leisure Suits” she said.  “Trust me, they grow up, and start making some smarter wardrobe decisions” she counseled.

I began to reflect on my own outfit choices, back when I was a teen. Low slung “elephant” bell bottom jeans, with beaded head bands tied Indian style across one’s forehead was not a good look for anyone.  Ditto on the hot pants, 5 inch platform shoes, and the de rigueur tie dyed anything. I must admit I ignored my own mother’s requests to just “take a look” at matching twin sets, and shorts not sporting frayed hems. So I too must admit “sorry Mom, you were right.” Mea culpa.

I overheard my eldest talking to his younger brothers, he was telling them, that maybe Mom wasn’t totally off the mark with her clothing selections.  He actually said, “You know, I have to admit, I should have listened to her sooner.” Ahh music to my ears.  They rolled their eyes and wandered off, one sporting a t-shirt with a picture of a Sumo wrestler, which said “I’m Big in Japan”, the other with a shark tee, sporting the old “Bite Me” logo. I just have to remember they are still in the larva stages of wardrobe development.  One day, in the not so distant future, they too may gladden my heart and ask for button down shirts and argyle socks! 

Searching for Diamonds

They say that diamonds are formed as a result of intense downward pressure, for a long period of time.  If in fact this is true, I probably have a tennis bracelet or two waiting for me at the bottom of my family’s dresser drawers. It appears that my husband and sons are incapable of tossing out any clothes, no matter the state of un-wearability.  I put away my husband’s freshly laundered, neatly folded clothes, and quite frankly there is no room left at the inn. He still has underwear crushed at the bottom of the drawer, which in my humble opinion, pre-dates his college years.  This occurs when he buys new items, and then proceeds to ignore the layers of clothes underneath them.  The new stuff gets into the laundry cycle and overlays the former like a sedimentary crust. You can probably figure out his age, by counting the layers, much like you would count the rings on a tree.

Woe to the wife who cleans out the drawer and disposes of any artifacts! Apparently there is some special sentiment attached to each and every t-shirt he owns. If one does make it to the garbage, chances are it will be rescued, with baleful looks cast in my direction.  My husband tells me that he is “saving” all these old clothes, to use as his “fishing outfits.” According to my calculations, unless he plans to fish every day for the next 50 years, he’s’ got it covered.

My son’s have inherited this paternal trait, and can never seem to part with anything. There have been days when I tackled their clothes drawers, and ruthlessly tossed items in the goodwill bag. As it turns out, I usually end up accidentally tossing out a t-shirt or two, which was needed for some special event at school.  They assure me that everything in their clothes drawer is of vital importance, and to please leave the clothes alone.  Hmmm, wonder when you last wore that Carter’s onesie, in size 18 months?  

The other thing that is so annoying about this problem is the wrinkles.  I neatly fold each garment that makes its way through my laundry room.  After repeated requests of “take your clean clothes to your room, and put them away” the clothes make up to the bedroom.  There they are ruthlessly stuffed into overflowing drawers and turned into what looks like crepe paper.  I feel like attaching a disclaimer to the backs of their shirts stating “Condition of Clothes is not Due to Management Inefficiency, But Rather the Fault of the Wearer.”

Faulty diet and lack of exercise lead to high blood pressure, according to the experts.  I am going to go out on a limb here and state that overflowing dresser drawers are a significant contributing factor as well.  I know it is in my case.

I have to go and take some clean clothes to put away now, maybe I’ll find a newly formed pair of diamond studs waiting for me as well!

Final Exam Frenzy

My oldest child is finishing up his first year at college, and will be home soon. It seems like it was just yesterday, that he left. Many of my friends, who were going through the same rite of passage, would say to me, “at least he is staying in state; you’ll get to see him pretty often.”  My neighbor’s child was heading over 600 miles away, and she was saddened at the thought of not seeing her very often. She ended up seeing her daughter at least 3 times as many days as I did sonny boy.  Her daughter did not come running home, she only returned at the major Holidays, Spring break, and one weekend.  My son stayed on campus until they locked the dorms, and he had no other option. Don’t get me wrong, he came home for Thanksgiving, and was present for the dinner, but then he immediately went off to “hang” with friends. Over The winter break, he went away with his team for a training trip.  When Spring break came, he had some surgery done, and was zonked out most of his time home. I think all told we spent maybe 48 hours with him, over the past 9 months.

This semester he was taking Accounting 101.  In my former life, I was an accountant; in fact I have the Bachelors Degree to prove it.  Great!  I thought. This I can help him with.  Visions of us bonding over debits and credits, or having lively debates on the FIFO versus LIFO inventory valuation, danced in my head.  I don’t know what planet I thought I was living on. He called me for help on one problem. The conversation lasted 3 minutes.

Every time we spoke, I reminded him that I was here to help and guide him through this subject. In fact I not only promised help with the school work, but I was willing to toss in his favorite dinner to boot.  Nothing.  I think he started to feel sorry for me, so he said he would come home for 3 and a half days prior to his final, and let me help him review.

I was so excited!  I broke out my own (30 year old) Accounting 101 text, sharpened up a slew of pencils, and set up a study station on my dining room table.  He needed me! He brought home a practice exam with answer key which his professor had distributed.  We sat down at the table Monday morning and jumped in.  Let the arguing begin!

The first problem we had was with question number one.  I disagreed with the professor’s answer. I told him to e-mail the teacher immediately, to inform of his error. He told me to get lost; I probably had forgotten a thing or two over the years.  This of course led to the discussion of how I had given up a promising career in the stimulating world of accounting, to stay home and raise his ungrateful butt. We decided to agree to disagree on this problem and head to number two. We fared better, but there were still some raised voices, and accusations of “No, you are doing it wrong!” flung back and forth, ultimately we both ended up with the correct answer according to the solution key. We painfully made our way through the practice exam, with differences of opinion at every turn. After about 4 hours of study, we decided to call it a day. Later that night, I overheard him telling his father that we had spent over 6 hours studying.  I guess he was on the same planet that I was, when I thought we would bond over accounting.

Tuesday morning we headed back to the torture chamber. I had lovingly googled a slew of exams from the internet.  He was surprisingly unappreciative. We started tackling a few problems, when he noticed my old text book on the table.  On the side of the book in black ink was written    F**K this S**T (substitute some letters for the asterisks). Imagine my surprise, not to mention horror!  How had this happened?  I was a very diligent student.  I worked hard, and sometimes even did extra problems to make sure I understood the concepts. (Well at least this was the party line I had been spouting the last couple of years.) I was stone cold, busted. I had been found out! I bought used books from profane accounting students.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

We didn’t last too long that morning, and by noon, he requested to be returned to school. He assured me it was no reflection on my tutoring abilities, (or inabilities) but rather some study groups were getting together later that afternoon.  Whatever, he wanted outta Dodge.

His last exam, accounting, is on Friday. Then freshman year will be officially over. I will be picking him up, plus the contents of his dorm room, and bringing my boy back home.  I am looking forward to it. He called this morning to tell me that his professor had e-mailed the class to inform them that the answer to question number one was incorrect. “You were right mom.” Yes, my boy is growing up!