My evil side glance is practiced perfection.

I know I complained a lot about the end of the school year not coming fast enough. Well now I'm complaining about the beginning. So many other districts have started and my children are home watching really bad TV to pass the hours. Lu is now a big fan of the "Turtle Man." 

This should have been avoided.

The way I see it, we get screwed on both ends of summer. Last to finish. Last to start. We're always waiting. Impatiently.

What are your back-to-school memories and how do you feel about this time of year?

I don't have any meaty back-to-school memories to share. I will tell you that the buying of supplies and clothes was always fun because we didn't shop that often. A new Trapper Keeper or Michael Jackson portfolio was seriously awesome. As for clothes, we made our annual trek to the outlets in Reading (before there were outlets everywhere) and stocked up on socks and a few crisp pairs of Lee jeans. And that was that. Get on the bus!

I never like the end of any season. It feels old and used up. Tired and worn out. I took the girls to the deserted pool yesterday and felt kind of sorry for summer. It's hanging on, barely. The lifeguards checked out weeks ago, dreaming of football games, sweater sets and cute boys in calculus. (If this were 1957.)

Five things I like about the August/September transition:

1) Sales on clothes and fall fashion. I kid you not, Old Navy and GAP are paying you to take home t-shirts. If I had any kind of foresight, I would stock up. But I don't, so I don't. I buy toddler bathing suits in May for $50. Fall fashion is exciting, too, until I realize that high-heeled hiking boots and plaid micro-minis are not for me. Still, the idea is fun.

2) The fall weather tease. Those first few gloriously cool and breezy days after a long, hot stretch. Ahhhh!

3) It stays dark later in the AM. Many would see this as a negative, but not me. I hate getting up to run at 5:15, but I hate it more when it's light out. Doesn't seem so early even though it feels early. Darkness matches my fatigue better and makes me seem like a bad ass for rising before the sun.

4) The fall TV line-up hype. It always, always gets me pumped, even if it never, ever delivers. Love the happy songs they pick to accompany each well-edited video montage. Yippee, Matthew Perry's back!

5) "September" is much catchier than Earth, Wind and Fire's lesser known song "August" which warns of potato salad spoilage at your picnic.

Five things I loathe about this time of year:

1) School supply shopping. Edy needs six two pocket folders in six different colors and Lu needs ten two pocket, three fastener folders in five different colors. And so many tissues!! It's like a puzzle. I went to Staples the other night at 8:45 knowing they close at 9. A man sitting by the door informed me that I only had 15 minutes to shop. I almost took him down verbally. Almost. Do you really think I'd be visiting Staples this late if I had any real choice?? I was in and out in ten minutes and gave the man my best evil side glance while exiting. It's a good evil side glance. I hope he had nightmares.

2) The inevitable heat wave that follows the fall tease. I think I sweat more because it's all so unexpected. Even though I totally expect it.

3) It gets dark earlier in the PM. Simply put – depressing.

4) Busy streets. For a few weeks in August, Wayne is very quiet. Most neighbors are at the beach and the college kids have yet to return. Then they all come back like Capistrano swallows and Lancaster Avenue becomes a perpetual traffic jam once again.

5) Saying goodbye. Summer is the only season to which we bid an official "goodbye." I don't like it. Seems so dramatic. Goodbye fireflies. Goodbye musty bathing suit smell. Goodbye Turtle Man.

Hello school. Four more days.

All about hair. And why you shouldn't let your children vote.

Jon tells me I need to reiterate the purpose of this blog. It's confusing.

If you have the time or inclination, please read my first post. It explains the concept. If you're short on time, like taking a quick coffee break from your IT job or if the oven is finally preheated, here's a brief explanation:

I post a single question every week (in purple italics) for you to ponder and answer (if you're super motivated) with real words on real paper for posterity's sake. Because I would never expect you to do something I don't also complete, I then write my own answer. Truth is, for someone who tries to convince everyone to "put it down before it leaves," I had a lot of untold stories and opinions. Now after nearly a year of this exercise, I've shared plenty. Sometimes I think I've shared too much. But then I imagine what it would feel like to stumble upon a book of my mom's answers.

And I quickly change my mind.

This week features question #50. Holy Lord! I have decided to follow this question quest for two more weeks to make it a full year. Then I will continue to blog (because it's fun, yo) but will write about whatever, not just me. Hallelujah!

How do you feel about your hair? Through the years, what were some of your hair highlights and lowlights (ha!)?

My hair is very short right now. Short and easy. I tend to grow it, cut it, grow it, cut it. Short, bob, short, longish, short, bob, longer bob, short.

My hair is not great or I would totally grow it and keep it long. I remember someone on Oprah (love to quote me some Oprah!) referring to her hair as "seaweed on a rock." Mine doesn't lay quite so limp, but it is lacking lots of swingy volume.

Here is an early photo of my hair. I have analyzed it for hours. Gwyn will not appreciate this picture because she is chubby and wearing a prairie dress in summer.* (Don't worry, Gwyn, there is payback below.) Why are my sisters so well-attired and I am naked? And yes, I appear to be sporting a baby mullet. That is not Gwyn's puffy sleeve! No shirt and a mullet. Is there beer in that sippy cup? A Nascar logo on my rump?

After the baby mullet grew in, I had cute long hair with bangs in kindergarten followed by this strikingly bad mutation of the Dorothy Hamill wedge and another mullet. Combined with my copper penny earrings and lambskin vest, I am clearly pleased with myself and my chipmunk cheeks. (Let's call it even, Gwyn.)

I think the official name is a "mullette."
I love my mullette, and you do, too!

I went through a ton of pictures and there are too many embarrassing hair styles to adequately review. I'd be scanning all day. Critiquing all night. Going to very dark places. So let me sum it up instead.

In middle school, I wore a barrette on just one side a lot and had a frizzy home perm. According to Joby, Jon broke up with her in 7th grade when she got a perm and I'm sure her perm was far bouncier than mine. The salon kind versus an Ogilvy in the kitchen. This is worrisome. Note to self: Never get another perm! I prefer Jon to stick around with all these kids and bills.

In 8th grade, I needed to grow it long for the school play. Once the show wrapped, I cut it really short for the first time. It was a little longer in the front so I swept it over one eye and wore dark eyeliner. That's as goth as I ever got.

High school was one giant failed attempt to create hair height. I was so jealous of girls with wild, unruly locks, who could wake up, scrunch, spray and go. I needed a curling iron and at least twenty minutes parked at the mirror. Despite the effort, I was never able to get it all that high. The good news is, I don't have any of those ridiculous big hair pictures that are hard to believe. Just some mildly upsetting ones. Even my senior portrait is sort of nice. A little swoopy and over processed (Sun In + peroxide + lemon + hairdryer on HOT), but nice.

College featured varying bob lengths with drastic "ledges" in the back. I even had it shaved below the ledge once which proved an impressive level of commitment to the trend.

The post-college years brought more boring bobs with fewer drastic ledges until I went short again. Jon prefers short. Perms = bad. Short = sporty! (He is a man who knows what he likes.) I have a good neck for short hair, for now. Once the sagging begins (tomorrow?), I will be forced to wear lots of scarves pulled up to my chin, which will seem inappropriate in August – not unlike Gwyn's prairie dress.

When I'm a few decades older, maybe I'll do what my Nanny did – go to the salon once every week, have my hair styled and sprayed in place with a can of Aquanet, then not touch or wash my head until my next appointment. It's easy all right, but entirely dependent on a shower cap and I don't currently own a shower cap.

I predict for my 60th birthday, I will be getting lots of scarves and shower caps. Thank you in advance.

My sweet Bea with her red wispy hair will hopefully have a happy hair history. She's not off to a great start, however, with – you guessed it – her very own baby mullet. I desperately want to cut it, but the family has voted and the mullet stays. Damn those lessons on democracy.

* After reading this post, Gwyn informed me that her prairie dress was, in fact, a prairie pantsuit. I apologize for the mistake. I aim for complete accuracy!

Steering strollers in sand.

I was thinking of another summer story I could document and I keep coming back to Gail and the beach. Maybe because this blog was inspired by Gail and probably because I'm at the beach. Not much of a creative stretch.

Write down a beach memory. Any beach memory.

Here's mine, but I need to build to it.

The summer after we graduated from high school, Jon and his friends shared a house in Avalon, New Jersey, a quaint shore town that has become crazy expensive. At the time, however, a group of guys could afford to rent four walls of stinky nastiness.

At 18, I was not allowed to live with a group of friends at the beach. My parents were stricter -- much. However, I was allowed to live with my friend Betsy in her family's beautiful and historic Cape May Victorian which was more than I ever thought they'd permit. (There must be a catch.) 

I am forever grateful to Betsy's family for taking me in, with their tasteful decor and sporadic parental supervision. Betsy and I worked obscenely early hours at Bodacious Bagels, drove to Avalon most nights (we didn't miss the fun), then always had a nice, clean place to sleep. Call me crazy, but I prefer my resting environment to be nice and clean, not a damp, sheet-less mattress.

All the while, my mom was home, proud and dying. This was her plan. Keep me at a distance as she declined. (The catch.)

By September my mom was very sick. To add a twist to the tragedy, Gail announced that she was pregnant with my parents' first grandchild, which turned out to be grandchildren – twins! – though my mom never knew there were two.

It was hard on Gail. She was young. Just 24. Pregnant with twins. Mourning our mother. But staying sad was impossible. As Gail grew, so did the excitement. I loved her pregnancy. It was entirely new, completely novel. Babies! In our family! I remember Gail visiting me at college in an over-sized Bud Light rain slicker. All big and slippery and slightly inappropriate. I remember her burgeoning belly. Her happiness. She was adorable and healthy and expecting identical boys, or so we thought.

Apparently in 1990, they didn't do many (quality) ultrasounds because their predictions were completely wrong. Gail thought she was due in early May so we planned for babies in April. By April's end, no babies. By mid-May, no babies. Perhaps their calculations were off? Uh, clearly.

I started to panic. This summer, the summer after my first year of college, I was allowed to live in Avalon with a group of friends because no one says "no" to a girl who's mother just died. (Gone were the strict parents replaced by a father who was now dating and detached.) I was lucky enough to land a coveted job as a waitress and was expected to start before Memorial Day. I had no choice but to leave and there were still no babies.

A few days later, I called from a pay phone outside of Circle Pizza. There was news! Staticy, incredible news on a dirty, hard plastic receiver. A boy and a girl! Scott and Nicole. I loved them immediately.

A few weeks later, Gail came to Avalon for a visit. Recovering from a c-section, most likely sleep deprived, she buckled her twins in their car seats and drove to South Jersey. She wanted to go for a swim so we went straight to the beach, rolled the stroller across the sand (which is terribly difficult) and parked the sleeping twins next to the lifeguard, who I knew casually. We asked if he could kindly watch the babies while we took a quick dip. Sure.

Meanwhile, dark clouds began to gather. We dipped and dashed and then rolled the stroller off the beach as fast as we could (which was not fast at all) as the rain came. Laughing.

Once again, the reason I love this story is because it's so Gail. Who would take newborns to the beach and ask a shirtless stranger to babysit with a storm on the way? Gail would, a motherless mother who didn't know any better, who just wanted a brief float in the cool ocean while reality slept in the shadow of a lifeguard stand. 

Just a few days ago, during her nursing school break, Nicole came to stay with us in (when did it get so damn expensive!) Avalon. I thought of the 22 year-old story for the first time in a long time. And I smiled. And I went for a dip in the cool ocean while Nicole played with Beazy in the sand. Time flies forward in a flash and what goes around tends to come around in strange and wonderful ways.

The Circle (Pizza?) of Life.

Cousin Coley and Bea. Weeee!

Walking towards Wonderland

I only partially remember a sweet, funny and also terrifying story from my childhood. I always think about it this time of year and it bugs me that I don't know all the details.

Unfortunately, when people die, so do their memories. Truly, if stories aren't told and WRITTEN DOWN folks, then stories disappear. Forever and for always.

It doesn't help that a succession of women died in my family and women tend to be better memory keepers. Traditionally and more often, men are pulled away from the home. I always joke (ha!) that I'm tethered to it. Like with boy scout knots and heavy iron chains. Stuck behind fortress walls made of laundry.

So without a mother and down a sister, I needed to call my dad to complete my partial memory. He said he remembered the event vividly. Yes! But then was sort of spotty. Oh well. I forgive him. It happened a long time ago. At least he knew more than me.

First some background. My family spent one week of every summer at the Jersey shore. Every summer. One week. Usually Ocean City. We would load up the wood-panelled station wagon and still somehow cram in a family of six. Then we would leave at the crack of dawn to avoid traffic, drive straight to the Point Diner in Somer's Point to eat breakfast, and then go immediately to the beach because it was still super early and you can't get your rental keys until afternoon. My head spins when I contemplate the logistics. Getting all those kids changed. Maneuvering around a packed car. At least we didn't bother with sunblock application in the 70s. Present day, that takes up a ridiculous amount of my life.

Once we were in the house and our vacation was underway, we followed a predictable pattern. We always ate crumb cake from Dot's Bakery in the morning and Campbell's for takeout seafood at least once during the week. Every day we went to the beach from morning 'til dusk. You rarely went back to the house. We came for the crashing waves and foamy trails that sparkle in the sun, for the warm salty breezes and leisurely pace. So suck it up and eat your sandy sandwich! First to stake our umbrella. Last to fold up our chairs and leave. It was hardcore.

Now for the story.

One summer when I was about four and Gail was ten, we went outside to play after returning from another marathon day by the ocean. When we didn't come back inside, my parents called for us. When we didn't respond, they went searching the neighborhood and then the beach. Nothing. We were gone.

According to my dad, they ran around the neighborhood and to the house of friends a few blocks over. The friends then recruited more people and soon a giant search party was yelling our names. My dad doesn't remember calling the police, but I thought they did. We were missing for more than an hour. I can't imagine the fear.

Meanwhile, up the beach about a mile, Gail and I strolled happily. When we were playing earlier, she pointed out lights in the distance. The way the coastline curves, we could see the boardwalk all bright and glowing. It didn't seem far. Gail decided we could walk to the rides at Gillian's Wonderland Pier and be back in no time. I grabbed her hand and off we went.

An hour into our hike, a woman walking her dog on the beach approached us and explained that our parents were frantic. She helped us back to the house. There was a joyful reunion. My dad says we didn't get in trouble. End of story.

Here are a few things I take away from my now less partial but still not completely complete memory. (I wish I could ask Gail what she recalls or get my mom's perspective.)

#1 How scary for my parents! We lost Edy for roughly five minutes on the beach a few years back and I nearly fainted from worry. Got seriously dizzy until the lifeguard said, in a calming voice, "They always turn up."

#2 Taking me without parental permission was typical Gail and that's why I'm particularly fond of this memory and think about it a lot. She was idealistic, impulsive, hopeful and fun. She saw nothing wrong with promising her little sister a trip to the boardwalk. Alone. In the dark. Who can be reasonable when a ferris wheel beckons?!

#3 Being the youngest is great! You're not just surrounded by uptight adults analyzing your every move, you also have crazy siblings adding moments of levity. Even if you never make it to the ferris wheel. It's about the journey, right?

I was updating Lu's iPod yesterday and found this video she shot of Bea exactly 18 months ago. I can't believe what a tiny baby my baby was... and how much she drooled. Ewww. Yes, older siblings can be quite entertaining. "Thank you very much, San Diego!"

Pick a memory that is missing details and ask someone to fill in the blanks. Then write it down!!! Please. Don't make me cyber beg.

Fun with aluminum foil hats.

This time of year, I find myself wistfully remembering my first jobs. When earning money was novel. When saving for something was a thrill. They typically took place poolside during summers that lingered and stretched, like a temporary trip to another world.


What were your first summer jobs?


My very first paying gig of any kind was being a mother's helper at the swim club. I couldn't comprehend it. Why someone would hand over a dollar or two to play with their kids and then not take off. I get it now. Having a toddler underfoot means you are constantly engaged. Predicting her next move, providing entertainment, warding off meltdowns that always loom. Taking a tiny break to maybe read that article about Kristin Stewart groping her director or just breathe and look up for a minute - the sky is still blue and hey, there's a plane heading somewhere more fabulous than here - recharges the soul.


One step above mother's helper was babysitting with a friend. Because two twelve year-olds are better than one?? Depends on the twelve year-olds. My friend Joby and I would put the kids to bed and then play hours and hours of Hunt the Wumpus, a very early computer game, like Stone Age early. Kids, what kids? Must. Find. Wumpus. And talk about cute boys in our class. And the adorably adorable Chad Lowe, Rob's less famous brother who was on a short-lived sitcom called "Spencer." We obsessed over it. We obsessed over him. I can't explain it.

When I could finally be trusted to babysit on my own, I watched a family's kids for like 1,000 hours to save up for a pair of Guess jeans. My mom wouldn't pay $60 for a trend. Ha! I bought them myself. And then wore them through college. Take that, practical mother!


I had my first real job back at the swim club in the snack bar. Finally, I was an official part of "the staff." But we were inside, which sort of stank, because tan bodies were all the rage. I worked with my friend Betsy. When not "slammed" with hungry, drenched children and families who never seemed to ever leave the premises, we would be silly. Very silly. To pass the hours, we fashioned shoes out of novelty ice cream boxes and attempted to read each other's minds by making aluminum foil hats. We also ate a lot of french fries and wore men's boxer underwear as real shorts. Even with the pee hole! Seriously, so did a lot of teen girls. Again, I can't explain this. Just documenting a fact.


The next summer, when I was 15, Betsy and I worked in the snack bar again, but also took a life saving course with Gail as the instructor. We learned to save lives (I think?) as we continued our silly streak. During one drill, we had to swim out to our "victims" and ask if they were "tired swimmers." This would make me laugh and laugh and choke on water and laugh. Something about all the pretend scenarios like the pretend bonfire we would pretend to have on the pretend beach before someone from our pretend party went missing in the pretend ocean, made me giggle my way through every class. But I was certified nonetheless. Thanks, Gail. I still remember the definition of panic, in case you're interested.


A sudden unreasoning and overwhelming terror that destroys a person's capacity for self help.


So all was not lost. I think when I'm 101 and on my death bed, foggy and frail, I'll be able to recite the definition of panic. Then giggle, which I'm sure will upset my distraught family.


Life guarding certification was the golden ticket to a golden tan. And the respect and adoration of every kid aged 5-11. Truly, it felt like we ruled the pool even while hosing down the locker room toilet stalls, tossing giant bags of hot trash over the barbed wire fence or emptying "butt cans" filled with still smoldering cigarette ashes. (There was one conveniently placed under every umbrella at the pool. Smoke up, sunbathers!)


I think the cool factor had a lot to do with the whistle twirl and the deep talks we shared while on office duty, which officially required guards to sign in members and guests, check out sports equipment and make announcements over the loud speaker. "Mrs. Smith, please come to the office. Mrs. Smith to the office." The key was to be clear and confident. If done right, Mrs. Smith was extinguishing her cigarette before the announcement was complete.


The deep talks almost always had to do with music. Analyzing the politically powerful statements of U2 or the impressive harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash. Or how to create a smoother song-to-song transition on your latest mellow mix tape. I vividly remember telling another guard that I would marry a man who wrote a song for me just like Gerry Rafferty's "Right Down the Line" and settle for nothing less. 


Well, Jon isn't much for music composition, despite playing the sax until 8th grade. In retrospect, I think an accountant for a partner suits me better. I could never live on a musician's tour bus. Not even for a day.


Besides, I'm over the romantic idea of inspiring lyrics. Sigh.