Months have passed since my last entry. To get you caught up, my bride and I are expecting a wee one next month. That's about all that's happened. I honestly haven't had a great deal to write about. Preparations for the arrival of our bundle of joy and poop are the subject matter for stultifying "Mommy blogs," not a blog about nothing, such as this one, and I try not to use this as a log of the mundane minutiae and inconsequential happenings of day-to-day life. Sure, I'm excited, but so is every father-to-be, and I see no point in blogging about it when there are millions of other I'm-gonna-be-a-daddy blogs out there waiting to turn your brain to sludge. If you want sentimental drivel about the excitement of becoming a dad, change your tampon and find another goddamned blog. We'll have none of that here.
The excitement I will share with you, however, is the excitement about my bride choosing to leave her job with a spoiled rich family and stay at home to care for our baby and manage the household. I am no longer troubled by financial worries, due to our disciplined efforts and success at eliminating all our debts and even saving up a bit as well. We will be in a position such that my bride can be a lazy housewife, just as I've wanted. And thanks to modern technology, she can enjoy far greater free time than the put-upon housewives of our parents' generation.
I look back on my mother's stint as a housewife with pity. She took me along to the food-jobber, where I would run amok and knock things off of shelves. She went through the bank drive-through at least once or twice a week, and picked up my father's stiffly starched shirts from a professional launderer once a week. Then there was always the occasional trip to the post office to procure stamps so that she could mail out bill payments. And now and then, she suffered through taking me shopping for clothes and shoes. While housewifery hasn't exactly become a carefree existence, today's housewife has technology on her side to eliminate the hassle of scurrying about town. My mother probably would have sold me to gypsies in exchange for the advantages we have today.
We have already relieved ourselves of our most-loathed chore: grocery shopping. Our supermarket offers a fee-based curbside pickup program, whereby a shopper may order groceries online and then park outside the store and summon an employee to bring the entire order to the vehicle and load everything. The shopper needn't set foot outside the comfort of her vehicle; she merely swipes her payment card on a mobile device. Hence, a precious hour of time is saved, and a mother needn't push a screaming infant around a store while contemplating dunking him in the live lobster tank.
The only time I set foot in a bank anymore is to convert rolled coins into paper bills, because I refuse to pay Coinstar's exorbitant 9% fee to count my coins for me. Any checks that come to me are deposited via my iPhone. Most of our household bills are paid through our bank's website, and the occasional bill that necessitates a check can be sent from my office mailroom. Checks, of course, are ordered online and delivered to me. Ditto for postage stamps if I don't want to abuse the mailroom.
Non-iron shirts have relegated the iron and ironing board to gather dust in the linen closet, and we make sure every article of clothing we buy that will be worn often is machine washable. No trips to a dry cleaner for us.
No longer must one pack up the rugrat and truck over to Target for diapers when Target offers free shipping on everything. Keep an eye on your supply, order in a timely manner, and you won't be caught with your diapers down.
Clothing and shoes of all colors and sizes can be viewed on an iPad while your child plays on the floor instead of shuffled through on a department store rack while your child kicks and screams on the floor. Generous free shipping policies enable a mother to buy different sizes, pick the one that fits, and send back the others. And for us, there's no need to truck them over to a UPS store; my office has its own UPS dropbox.
While she'll still have to venture out now and then for necessities, such as doctor visits and medicine for a sick child, I am excited that for the most part, my bride will have time to relax, read, take naps, watch movies, and take care of herself.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Stomping on sand castles
The beach house belonging to my bride's step-family has proven consistently popular for renters. It's so popular, in fact, that even if we were to offer to pay the full fee to stay there during peak season, we would already be too late to make a reservation for this summer, and it's only February. Upon finding no vacant dates on the rental schedule all summer long, I asked myself why this property brings renters back year after year, especially considering the competition.
The house is very modest compared to its neighbors; in fact, the houses on either side dwarf the humble cottage. Their massive, multi-tiered porches span the width of their ocean-facing facades and then continue around the corners to either side. Their decks pour out in cascades of lumber over the sand-swept grasses, providing an expanse of flat space on which sun-worshipping renters can set up chaises and catch rays without having to soil their feet on the sand beyond.
On the interior, enormous kitchens offer long swaths of polished granite and carved wooden cabinetry stocked with perfectly coordinated dishware and glassware, and expensive, nearly-new appliances clad in chic brushed steel. These spaces open into even larger living rooms boasting comfortable, overstuffed barcaloungers and sofas and 50-inch flatscreen televisions. The multiple bedrooms, sometimes numbering as many as eight, each have matching suites of furniture, and the bathrooms offer shining countertops, elegant light fixtures, and gleaming tile floors. I've come to refer to these oversized blights as "sand castles." These massive abodes are essentially McMansions that could have been uprooted from any nouveau-riche suburb in the country, transplanted to the Carolina seashore, dropped onto stilts and moorings, and fitted with a wraparound porch as an afterthought. Their mass appeal draws in vacationers who were brought up without any appreciation of nature or the pleasures of simple coastal living. There is no "getting away from it all" in these ludicrous structures, because "it all" is there to greet you at the door.
Then I realized that our step-family's humble cottage draws a different class of beach-lovers: preppies. People like us go to houses like this to escape the formalities, restraints, complications, and yes, even some of the creature comforts of city life and take in all the simple pleasures of bare feet, sunbathing, midday naps, salt air, light reading, crab boils, cocktails, peel-your-own shrimp, and the beauty of coastal landscapes. Clad in wooden shingles, faded to a medium gray from decades of exposure, the house has only a lower "utility" level, a main living level, and a small upstairs containing a master bedroom and bathroom. There is no imposing grand foyer to greet a vacationer upon entry from the street side, only a simple kitchen. There is no gleaming granite, just white laminate, where dribbles of cocktail sauce and spatters of Bloody Mary mix can easily be wiped away. The white, unadorned cabinets hold a hodgepodge of plates and glassware with beach-inspired decorations that someone found irresistible at a K-Mart 20 years ago, coffee mugs collected over the years, some bearing humorous inscriptions, others displaying corporate logos from long-forgotten professional conventions, and stainless flatware of various patterns. The appliances are white or off-white and were either bought used or on clearance. The microwave dates from the Reagan era. The one touch of luxury in the kitchen is the automatic ice maker built into the cabinet next to the sink, for no preppy beachgoer can survive long on tepid cocktails. The array of colorfully-designed Tervis lidded plastic tumblers keep tall drinks well-chilled and safely contained. Beyond the counter, which doubles as a bar, is the dining table, which is little more than a white slab of wood on legs with a backless bench on either side. No faux-Hepplewhite or Louis-the-Something frippery here. The living room, dining area, and kitchen occupy one great room, which is flooded with light from the large floor-to-ceiling windows and further brightened by pure white walls, decorated with framed poster prints of seashells and sailboats so severely sun-damaged that only the cyan and hints of magenta remain from their four-color printing process. This all-purpose space ensures that the pleasure of one another's company can go uninterrupted when getting up for a refill or a snack of tortilla chips with salsa & guacamole or cheese and Triscuits. The nubby, sand-colored carpet feels wonderful on bare feet, and disguises soil as well. The sofa and chairs are covered in sturdy fabric designed to stand up to years of sun exposure, damp swimwear, and clumsily handled beverages. There is no sweeping, columned porch, just an uncovered, faded wooden deck with a row of weathered rocking chairs, for preppy beachgoers who love to soak up the sunlight by day and gaze up at the stars at night while taking in the salty breeze. Should one crave shade during the hottest part of the day, the small deck below with a pair of rockers offers a cool refuge. No room for stretching out on chaises on the main deck; that's what the beach is for, just beyond the narrow walkway leading over the grassy dunes.
The wood-paneled walls of the bedrooms create a cozy, private, below decks-style feeling. There are no perfectly matched bedspreads and curtains, just whatever the owners decided looked good and wasn't too expensive. Furniture is limited to what's necessary for sleeping and changing clothes: a dresser, a mirror, beds, and nightstands, and of course every bedroom has a ceiling fan for stuffy August nights. The bathroom is just a bathroom, with only the bare necessities: a wall-mounted sink, plain medicine cabinet, toilet that sometimes has to have its handle jiggled to stop running, and tub-shower with white plastic walls, all on a linoleum-covered floor that mops easily. In the hallways are bookcases loaded with dogeared, tattered paperback novels, their spines cracked and faded, oily stains on the edges from fingers greased up with Banana Boat, and a few jigsaw puzzles and decks of cards for rainy days. There is a modest television set, a far cry from the 50-inch behemoth that dominates the living room next door, but good enough for when someone feels compelled to catch up on the news or can't wait to watch a new episode of a summer series.
There is, therefore, no great mystery as to why such a modest house is so beloved by so many vacationers. The simple, no-frills, easy-going atmosphere is exactly what people of quality and good breeding look for in a beach vacation. We'll leave the sand castles for the tourists.
The house is very modest compared to its neighbors; in fact, the houses on either side dwarf the humble cottage. Their massive, multi-tiered porches span the width of their ocean-facing facades and then continue around the corners to either side. Their decks pour out in cascades of lumber over the sand-swept grasses, providing an expanse of flat space on which sun-worshipping renters can set up chaises and catch rays without having to soil their feet on the sand beyond.
On the interior, enormous kitchens offer long swaths of polished granite and carved wooden cabinetry stocked with perfectly coordinated dishware and glassware, and expensive, nearly-new appliances clad in chic brushed steel. These spaces open into even larger living rooms boasting comfortable, overstuffed barcaloungers and sofas and 50-inch flatscreen televisions. The multiple bedrooms, sometimes numbering as many as eight, each have matching suites of furniture, and the bathrooms offer shining countertops, elegant light fixtures, and gleaming tile floors. I've come to refer to these oversized blights as "sand castles." These massive abodes are essentially McMansions that could have been uprooted from any nouveau-riche suburb in the country, transplanted to the Carolina seashore, dropped onto stilts and moorings, and fitted with a wraparound porch as an afterthought. Their mass appeal draws in vacationers who were brought up without any appreciation of nature or the pleasures of simple coastal living. There is no "getting away from it all" in these ludicrous structures, because "it all" is there to greet you at the door.
Then I realized that our step-family's humble cottage draws a different class of beach-lovers: preppies. People like us go to houses like this to escape the formalities, restraints, complications, and yes, even some of the creature comforts of city life and take in all the simple pleasures of bare feet, sunbathing, midday naps, salt air, light reading, crab boils, cocktails, peel-your-own shrimp, and the beauty of coastal landscapes. Clad in wooden shingles, faded to a medium gray from decades of exposure, the house has only a lower "utility" level, a main living level, and a small upstairs containing a master bedroom and bathroom. There is no imposing grand foyer to greet a vacationer upon entry from the street side, only a simple kitchen. There is no gleaming granite, just white laminate, where dribbles of cocktail sauce and spatters of Bloody Mary mix can easily be wiped away. The white, unadorned cabinets hold a hodgepodge of plates and glassware with beach-inspired decorations that someone found irresistible at a K-Mart 20 years ago, coffee mugs collected over the years, some bearing humorous inscriptions, others displaying corporate logos from long-forgotten professional conventions, and stainless flatware of various patterns. The appliances are white or off-white and were either bought used or on clearance. The microwave dates from the Reagan era. The one touch of luxury in the kitchen is the automatic ice maker built into the cabinet next to the sink, for no preppy beachgoer can survive long on tepid cocktails. The array of colorfully-designed Tervis lidded plastic tumblers keep tall drinks well-chilled and safely contained. Beyond the counter, which doubles as a bar, is the dining table, which is little more than a white slab of wood on legs with a backless bench on either side. No faux-Hepplewhite or Louis-the-Something frippery here. The living room, dining area, and kitchen occupy one great room, which is flooded with light from the large floor-to-ceiling windows and further brightened by pure white walls, decorated with framed poster prints of seashells and sailboats so severely sun-damaged that only the cyan and hints of magenta remain from their four-color printing process. This all-purpose space ensures that the pleasure of one another's company can go uninterrupted when getting up for a refill or a snack of tortilla chips with salsa & guacamole or cheese and Triscuits. The nubby, sand-colored carpet feels wonderful on bare feet, and disguises soil as well. The sofa and chairs are covered in sturdy fabric designed to stand up to years of sun exposure, damp swimwear, and clumsily handled beverages. There is no sweeping, columned porch, just an uncovered, faded wooden deck with a row of weathered rocking chairs, for preppy beachgoers who love to soak up the sunlight by day and gaze up at the stars at night while taking in the salty breeze. Should one crave shade during the hottest part of the day, the small deck below with a pair of rockers offers a cool refuge. No room for stretching out on chaises on the main deck; that's what the beach is for, just beyond the narrow walkway leading over the grassy dunes.
The wood-paneled walls of the bedrooms create a cozy, private, below decks-style feeling. There are no perfectly matched bedspreads and curtains, just whatever the owners decided looked good and wasn't too expensive. Furniture is limited to what's necessary for sleeping and changing clothes: a dresser, a mirror, beds, and nightstands, and of course every bedroom has a ceiling fan for stuffy August nights. The bathroom is just a bathroom, with only the bare necessities: a wall-mounted sink, plain medicine cabinet, toilet that sometimes has to have its handle jiggled to stop running, and tub-shower with white plastic walls, all on a linoleum-covered floor that mops easily. In the hallways are bookcases loaded with dogeared, tattered paperback novels, their spines cracked and faded, oily stains on the edges from fingers greased up with Banana Boat, and a few jigsaw puzzles and decks of cards for rainy days. There is a modest television set, a far cry from the 50-inch behemoth that dominates the living room next door, but good enough for when someone feels compelled to catch up on the news or can't wait to watch a new episode of a summer series.
There is, therefore, no great mystery as to why such a modest house is so beloved by so many vacationers. The simple, no-frills, easy-going atmosphere is exactly what people of quality and good breeding look for in a beach vacation. We'll leave the sand castles for the tourists.
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