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.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
The Great Re-Labeling
In times long-gone, consumer packaging was comprised of text and illustration. Type was often hand-drawn by skilled artists, and the images of fruit, vegetables, people, and places that graced the labels were beautiful miniature works of lithographic art, some nearly worthy of botany guidebooks. After the 1950s or so, with color photographic reproduction becoming more cost-effective, labels began to bear photos of the contents of the packaging. As a result, the modern shopper finds himself eye-raped by a dizzying array of computer-manipulated photographs and typography. The past decade or so has seen a rekindled interest in type-driven package design. Visit any Williams-Sonoma or an upscale grocery store, and you'll find meritorious efforts at reviving the old ways, but as attractive as these "retro-style" labels are, most of them break the illusion of having been teleported from another era with too many clean, sharp edges and perfectly kerned typography.
I've always wanted a convincing retro-style kitchen, but it would be both impractical and very expensive to have vintage appliances. As a compromise, I've been in the process re-labeling all of my canned goods and other packaged goods with replicas of labels from the 1920s. I scoured the inter-webs for hours looking for high-quality scanned images of labels matching the products I ordinarily keep in my pantry. In a few cases, I had to alter real labels for products not commonly sold in the '20s, such as black beans and enchilada sauce. I printed the labels on plain paper using a good laser printer to yield a semi-gloss effect, carefully cut them out, and wrapped them around the existing labels on my canned goods (in case I needed to view cooking directions or nutrition information). Now that practically every canned item has been re-labeled, one almost feels transported back through time upon opening the cabinet and finding neat rows and columns of lithographed tomatoes, beans, corn, peaches, and pears.
I didn't stop with canned goods, though. I also came across scanned labels of Quaker rolled oats canisters and coffee can labels, which I manipulated in Photoshop to fit modern-sized containers. I want a 1920s style cereal box as well for my store-brand Cheerios (which didn't exist until the '40s, but who cares), but printing an actual cereal box is beyond my resources. I'll settle for turning a cereal box inside-out to expose the plain brown cardboard, then gluing printed labels to each side of the box. I managed to create a label in the style of Kellogg's cereal boxes from the '20s, so I think that should do nicely.
I have modern appliances, but they are all white, a very timeless color. I may replace the white knobs on my stove with black ones for a little retro appeal. Other vintage touches include a replica of an ice delivery card, a 1920s "cathedral" style radio, and a wall-mounted bottle opener. I hope to get a set of glass spice jars, to which I will affix labels derived from 1920s spice tins.
I've always wanted a convincing retro-style kitchen, but it would be both impractical and very expensive to have vintage appliances. As a compromise, I've been in the process re-labeling all of my canned goods and other packaged goods with replicas of labels from the 1920s. I scoured the inter-webs for hours looking for high-quality scanned images of labels matching the products I ordinarily keep in my pantry. In a few cases, I had to alter real labels for products not commonly sold in the '20s, such as black beans and enchilada sauce. I printed the labels on plain paper using a good laser printer to yield a semi-gloss effect, carefully cut them out, and wrapped them around the existing labels on my canned goods (in case I needed to view cooking directions or nutrition information). Now that practically every canned item has been re-labeled, one almost feels transported back through time upon opening the cabinet and finding neat rows and columns of lithographed tomatoes, beans, corn, peaches, and pears.
I didn't stop with canned goods, though. I also came across scanned labels of Quaker rolled oats canisters and coffee can labels, which I manipulated in Photoshop to fit modern-sized containers. I want a 1920s style cereal box as well for my store-brand Cheerios (which didn't exist until the '40s, but who cares), but printing an actual cereal box is beyond my resources. I'll settle for turning a cereal box inside-out to expose the plain brown cardboard, then gluing printed labels to each side of the box. I managed to create a label in the style of Kellogg's cereal boxes from the '20s, so I think that should do nicely.
I have modern appliances, but they are all white, a very timeless color. I may replace the white knobs on my stove with black ones for a little retro appeal. Other vintage touches include a replica of an ice delivery card, a 1920s "cathedral" style radio, and a wall-mounted bottle opener. I hope to get a set of glass spice jars, to which I will affix labels derived from 1920s spice tins.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
The Walmartization of Target
A nearly senile woman of at least threescore and ten greets me with a toothless smile and sad eyes. The displays of merchandise are in shambles; goods are strewn haphazardly on dirty shelves, tumbling onto the floor; passageways are crowded with heavy, slow-moving
mammals. As I venture deeper, I find myself surrounded by sour-smelling indigents dressed in slothful rags and
undisciplined children scurrying around, while at least a dozen different languages are clucking in my ears all at once. All the while, beady eyes stare at me
menacingly, filling me with a constant fear that I might be
pickpocketed, assaulted, robbed, or whisked away into some sort of
criminal underworld or white slave trade, my loved ones never to hear
from me again.
This harrowing description is not of a visit to a Moroccan bazaar, or even to a faraway planet. This is how I feel every time I set foot in a Wal-Mart.
Preppy folk of good breeding, such as myself, have a great appreciation for the finer things in life, i.e. well-made, long-lasting garments, antique furniture, fine silverware, Triscuits, and relaxing trips and getaways. The finer things do cost money, but we can afford them by squeezing our dollars on groceries and household necessities at low-price retailers. Most of these establishments have always attracted a lower-class clientele, whose disheveled appearance and inability to converse in proper English, or any English at all, make bargain shopping a distressing, sometimes even frightening experience for our sort.
Preppies know that many things don't have to cost a lot to do what they need them to do, and know where to find them at a more attractive price. Things like utilitarian glassware, kitchen utensils, placemats, party decorations, giftwrap, and storage containers can be found for cheap at discount stores such as Marshall's, T.J. Maxx, Ross, and even dollar stores. Low prices can be found on attractive clothing as well at many of these discounters (except dollar stores). Still, in order to get their bargains, preppies must conquer their fears of the lower classes and make their way through the writhing masses of mouth-breathers to claim their treasures. Sometimes, one just can't take the adrenaline rush, and just wants to get something at a fair price without offending his delicate sensibilities with the sights, sounds, and smells of trashy people. There was a time, not very long ago at all — not even two years ago — when there was a retailer where we could have our cake and eat it too. It was called Target.
Target offered kitchen wares, electronics, cleaning supplies, health, beauty, and hygiene products, and school and office supplies at prices significantly lower than supermarkets, drugstores, and department stores. Their prices were typically ever so slightly higher than their chief competitor, Wal-Mart, but they offered one very valuable feature that Wal-Mart did not: a sleaze-free shopping experience. The difference at the register added up to pocket change, well worth the privilege of shopping in a clean, quiet, orderly store patronized chiefly by well-bred customers. Target was something of a well-kept secret among tasteful folk for a very long time, and I enjoyed it. The rare expeditions I would make to Wal-Mart felt just like this entry's opening narrative. A subsequent visit to Target was like a gasp of fresh air by comparison, where anxieties melted away at the sight of shoppers to manor born and manners bred.
The walls separating the aristocrats from the unwashed masses began to crumble when Target introduced large grocery sections in its stores. Though offering a smaller selection of brands and varieties than supermarkets, their prices were very competitive, even with Wal-Mart stores, which had already had grocery departments for many years. With cheap groceries as well as cheap household goods and affordable, albeit shoddily made, clothing, Target suddenly became very attractive to Wal-Mart's clientele, and the vermin crept in, little by little, until a full-fledged infestation was irreversibly in place.
Just yesterday I stopped by Target on my way home from the cubicle for some moisturizer, face scrub, and a few groceries. My eyes were soiled at the sight of obese negresses wearing all-too-revealing rompers, a blubbery mother sporting a mullet with her pudgy urchins swinging from the shopping cart, wiry goons with cornrows in their hair and wifebeaters on their slouching backs, and an obese interracial couple to whom I was hesitant to get too close lest I slip in the amniotic fluid that was sure to erupt at any moment from the female's super-sized womb, though in retrospect, her oversized sweatpants probably would have absorbed most of it. Then I caught sight of a sure sign of Target's decline into disrepute: the Shaun White collection. It seems Target has partnered with skateboarder Shaun White to sell garish "skater" clothing inspired by urban street urchins to impressionable preteen boys during that delicate phase of development in which they are striving to develop a sense of identity. The identity of a directionless street-rat loitering in a public park is among the last I would want any son of mine to assume. The Walmartization of Target is happening now, reader, and cannot be stopped. Fellow preppies will soon face a choice of whether to brave the fray and benefit from their low prices on sunscreen and paper towels, freeing up funds for 1.5-liter bottles of Old Crow (which also must be purchased alongside the lowest of society, thanks to the state government's statutorily sanctioned monopoly on liquor sales), or pay premium prices at smaller stores in order to avoid the Target-Mart ordeal.
Those who choose the easy way out have many options, which I had long counted out but may soon reexamine. The inter-web is the most obvious solution, for it offers practically everything a gentle-man could want without the need to enter a store, but for a mostly trash-free shopping experience, they have the outdoor shopping complex. Outdoor shopping complexes were created to deter loitering gangs of surly teenagers by removing climate control from the equation and of course prohibiting skateboarding, and also to turn off the grubby riffraff who opt to stretch their greasy dollars elsewhere by filling their spaces with higher-priced merchants in architecturally pleasing buildings among well-manicured grounds with plenty of sunlight and pruned shade trees, all carefully laid out according to years of urban planning research to make shoppers feel at ease. Ideally, the relatively lower-priced stores, like Old Navy and Rite-Aid, are close to the boundaries of the complex, keeping less savory folk from wandering too far into the areas where their social betters are shopping. The whole complex is dotted with eateries offering such cuisine as sushi, baked goods, gyros, sandwiches, and gourmet dishes, all in an effort to keep away the chicken-n-waffles crowd.
How grand would it be to construct a private, members-only shopping center, admission to which was governed by a membership committee? The pipe dream is for a shopping center to be run like a country club, where only members and guests can come to shop, and everyone is subject to a dress code. Membership would be free of charge, and the shopping club would be run for profit like any other shopping center, but the membership committee would be elected by members. Also, a process would be available to petition rescission of membership if a member's conduct or appearance became problematic for a large enough majority of other members. It will never happen because retailers won't want to set up shop where a limited number of consumers can come, but still, a gentle-man can dream. For the time being, I'll have to reevaluate just how much the dollars I save at Target are really worth.
This harrowing description is not of a visit to a Moroccan bazaar, or even to a faraway planet. This is how I feel every time I set foot in a Wal-Mart.
Preppy folk of good breeding, such as myself, have a great appreciation for the finer things in life, i.e. well-made, long-lasting garments, antique furniture, fine silverware, Triscuits, and relaxing trips and getaways. The finer things do cost money, but we can afford them by squeezing our dollars on groceries and household necessities at low-price retailers. Most of these establishments have always attracted a lower-class clientele, whose disheveled appearance and inability to converse in proper English, or any English at all, make bargain shopping a distressing, sometimes even frightening experience for our sort.
Preppies know that many things don't have to cost a lot to do what they need them to do, and know where to find them at a more attractive price. Things like utilitarian glassware, kitchen utensils, placemats, party decorations, giftwrap, and storage containers can be found for cheap at discount stores such as Marshall's, T.J. Maxx, Ross, and even dollar stores. Low prices can be found on attractive clothing as well at many of these discounters (except dollar stores). Still, in order to get their bargains, preppies must conquer their fears of the lower classes and make their way through the writhing masses of mouth-breathers to claim their treasures. Sometimes, one just can't take the adrenaline rush, and just wants to get something at a fair price without offending his delicate sensibilities with the sights, sounds, and smells of trashy people. There was a time, not very long ago at all — not even two years ago — when there was a retailer where we could have our cake and eat it too. It was called Target.
Target offered kitchen wares, electronics, cleaning supplies, health, beauty, and hygiene products, and school and office supplies at prices significantly lower than supermarkets, drugstores, and department stores. Their prices were typically ever so slightly higher than their chief competitor, Wal-Mart, but they offered one very valuable feature that Wal-Mart did not: a sleaze-free shopping experience. The difference at the register added up to pocket change, well worth the privilege of shopping in a clean, quiet, orderly store patronized chiefly by well-bred customers. Target was something of a well-kept secret among tasteful folk for a very long time, and I enjoyed it. The rare expeditions I would make to Wal-Mart felt just like this entry's opening narrative. A subsequent visit to Target was like a gasp of fresh air by comparison, where anxieties melted away at the sight of shoppers to manor born and manners bred.
The walls separating the aristocrats from the unwashed masses began to crumble when Target introduced large grocery sections in its stores. Though offering a smaller selection of brands and varieties than supermarkets, their prices were very competitive, even with Wal-Mart stores, which had already had grocery departments for many years. With cheap groceries as well as cheap household goods and affordable, albeit shoddily made, clothing, Target suddenly became very attractive to Wal-Mart's clientele, and the vermin crept in, little by little, until a full-fledged infestation was irreversibly in place.
Just yesterday I stopped by Target on my way home from the cubicle for some moisturizer, face scrub, and a few groceries. My eyes were soiled at the sight of obese negresses wearing all-too-revealing rompers, a blubbery mother sporting a mullet with her pudgy urchins swinging from the shopping cart, wiry goons with cornrows in their hair and wifebeaters on their slouching backs, and an obese interracial couple to whom I was hesitant to get too close lest I slip in the amniotic fluid that was sure to erupt at any moment from the female's super-sized womb, though in retrospect, her oversized sweatpants probably would have absorbed most of it. Then I caught sight of a sure sign of Target's decline into disrepute: the Shaun White collection. It seems Target has partnered with skateboarder Shaun White to sell garish "skater" clothing inspired by urban street urchins to impressionable preteen boys during that delicate phase of development in which they are striving to develop a sense of identity. The identity of a directionless street-rat loitering in a public park is among the last I would want any son of mine to assume. The Walmartization of Target is happening now, reader, and cannot be stopped. Fellow preppies will soon face a choice of whether to brave the fray and benefit from their low prices on sunscreen and paper towels, freeing up funds for 1.5-liter bottles of Old Crow (which also must be purchased alongside the lowest of society, thanks to the state government's statutorily sanctioned monopoly on liquor sales), or pay premium prices at smaller stores in order to avoid the Target-Mart ordeal.
Those who choose the easy way out have many options, which I had long counted out but may soon reexamine. The inter-web is the most obvious solution, for it offers practically everything a gentle-man could want without the need to enter a store, but for a mostly trash-free shopping experience, they have the outdoor shopping complex. Outdoor shopping complexes were created to deter loitering gangs of surly teenagers by removing climate control from the equation and of course prohibiting skateboarding, and also to turn off the grubby riffraff who opt to stretch their greasy dollars elsewhere by filling their spaces with higher-priced merchants in architecturally pleasing buildings among well-manicured grounds with plenty of sunlight and pruned shade trees, all carefully laid out according to years of urban planning research to make shoppers feel at ease. Ideally, the relatively lower-priced stores, like Old Navy and Rite-Aid, are close to the boundaries of the complex, keeping less savory folk from wandering too far into the areas where their social betters are shopping. The whole complex is dotted with eateries offering such cuisine as sushi, baked goods, gyros, sandwiches, and gourmet dishes, all in an effort to keep away the chicken-n-waffles crowd.
How grand would it be to construct a private, members-only shopping center, admission to which was governed by a membership committee? The pipe dream is for a shopping center to be run like a country club, where only members and guests can come to shop, and everyone is subject to a dress code. Membership would be free of charge, and the shopping club would be run for profit like any other shopping center, but the membership committee would be elected by members. Also, a process would be available to petition rescission of membership if a member's conduct or appearance became problematic for a large enough majority of other members. It will never happen because retailers won't want to set up shop where a limited number of consumers can come, but still, a gentle-man can dream. For the time being, I'll have to reevaluate just how much the dollars I save at Target are really worth.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Farewell, Sweet Summer!
While our Northern neighbors mark the official end of summer with the first Monday in September, the changing of seasons could be hardly less noticeable down here in the Dirty South. The day after Labor Day may as well be another hot, stuffy summer's day, making the mothballing of summer's sartorial trappings seem as pointless as a changing-of-the-guard ceremony and as premature as a ninth-grader fondling his first boob. The entire week of Labor Day is an awkward time, when we of good breeding feel compelled to stash away our whites, pastels, and seersuckers, put our socks back on, and keep right on sweltering under the Carolina sun. However, I discovered a way to take some of the awkwardness out of the preppy wardrobe transition: a week at the beach.
The week of Labor Day, my bride and I took off for Long Beach, as the locals have called it since before it was absorbed into the municipality of Oak Island in 1999, per the Southern tradition of clinging to obsolete geographical appellations. Her step-sibs were generous enough to let us stay in their unoccupied rental house for the week. While I thought it appropriate to leave my seersucker shirts at home, I continued to loaf about in lightly-colored polo shirts, khaki shorts, and bare feet while the days gradually grew slightly cooler. By the last evening of our stay, the cool-down after sunset drove me to change into chinos before sitting on the porch for one last session of stargazing. On the drive home, I wore a dark blue polo shirt, khaki chinos, and socks with my Sperrys. In such a casual environment, the wardrobe transition was much smoother and easier to cope with.
I certainly found Long Beach to be quite different from old familiar Wrightsville Beach. The drive down was complicated, involving multiple highways and traffic lights, and took 30 minutes longer than the drive to WB, the route to which I could drive blindfolded by now. The island itself, particularly our section, becomes ghostly quiet after sunset, and if you want exciting night life, you're shit out of luck. However, advantages abound. The house has far more convenient access to the beach than the condo at WB. No doors and gates to lock and unlock, no stumbling down a long, narrow, sandy pathway while dodging tourists lugging surfboards and giant coolers; all we had to do was walk down the stairs from the deck and down a wooden walkway, and we were there on the sand, which was wide-open and as uncrowded as a beach can get without being deserted. Back at WB, especially on Labor Day, we would have been squeezed in among gaggles of cackling high school girls constantly tweeting and hash-tagging, herds of guffawing frat boys chugging Natty Light, trailer-trash families with feral children screaming and running about, and the occasional ghetto-thugz out for a walk. While the people renting the house next door were on the trashy side (every adult male sported at least three tattoos apiece), at least there was plenty of open buffer space between us. No feeling the obligation to "go out" at night and blow money, because there's nowhere to go. The lack of premium cable left us with more time at night to read. And no fretting about keeping Granny's carpet white, white, white!
The best advantage of all, possibly scoring the winning point in the battle of Long Beach vs. Wrightsville Beach, was the absence of any prohibition of drinking alcohol on the beach. Yes, dear reader, after years of having to find increasingly devious means of disguising and concealing my hooch from the hawk-eyed lawmen of Wrightsville Beach who were born too late for the Prohibition Era, I was finally free to sit quietly on the beach and consume all the beer and liquor I wanted with utter impunity. Imagine the serene feeling of inner peace as I cracked open an ice-cold Yuengling and savored the smooth, medium-bodied taste of freedom, the only rumble being that of the surf and not the coppers' pickup truck.
This past week lived up to an ideal I had been missing out on: the classic preppy beach experience. I was free to drink myself stupid on the beach without fear of brushing with the law. I could get out to the beach itself in less than a minute and sit right in front of my private walkway instead of walking down an endless breezeway, taking an elevator, walking through a courtyard, unlocking a gate, and trying not to get knocked over by a surfboard on the long walk through the dunes, then having to walk another 50 feet or so before finding a bit of unoccupied sand among the throngs of tourists, and reversing the process every time nature called. Instead of going out on the town, I spent my days and nights reading, snacking, eating home-cooked meals, and staying up late talking and drinking, comforted by the fact that bedrooms and clean toilets were just steps away, instead of two or three blocks down the street. I made a day trip to the neighboring town of Southport for shopping and sightseeing, where I made the obligatory visit to the town's premier casual dining restaurant, Provisions, and purchased a souvenir t-shirt to add to my collection of souvenir t-shirts from preppy North Carolina coastal restaurants. The house itself was true to the preppy standard: vintage appliances still in working order; hodgepodge of flatware, dishes, and cookware; simple furniture covered with hard-wearing, easy-clean upholstery (in patterns to camouflage stains); color scheme of white, light blues, and pale greens; nubby, sand-colored carpets; the obligatory model tall ship; the collection of seashells gathered over many years straight from the beach (never purchased); shelves full of old puzzles, decks of cards, board games with pieces missing, and faded, dog-eared books; storage areas full of beat-up, half-rusted folding chairs, musty life vests, and children's beach toys; a musty, salty odor all over the house; and decades of family memories (for my bride, anyway). And of course I spent every day wearing the classics of casual preppy beach attire: chino shorts, polo shirts in light colors to reflect the sun's heat away; topsiders without socks; Leather Man Ltd. belts with nautical motifs; and my Tilley hat.
One day I hope to build my own classic beach house, in a 1920s or '30s style, the goal to be as architecturally correct as possible while taking advantage of the most modern materials for the sake of energy efficiency and easy maintenance. The house must appear as if a grandparent or great-grandparent bought the place new and the family has shared it ever since without changing the house's original design. The kitchen sink will be of white porcelain or enameled cast iron, countertops and backsplashes will be simple tile, and the floor will be linoleum, but the appliances will date from the '70s and '80s. Furniture will be plain and hail from various decades. The entertainment system will include a big clunker of a TV from the '80s hooked up to an antenna (no cable), separate VCR and DVD players, a collection of nautical and beach themed movies on DVD and VHS, a '90s CD & cassette boombox, and an even older turntable with big wood-enclosed speakers. Of course I'll have wi-fi. All walls will be white, and I'll probably carpet the whole house for sound dampening and for the comfort of bare feet. The bathroom fixtures will be replicas of those found in houses in the '30s, down to the exposed shower pipes. I'll keep lanterns, nonperishable foods, and a propane camp stove in a closet for stormy weather. It will be a fun project getting things to look faded and time-worn. Best of all, everything I need will already be there — clothes, hats, shoes, flip-flops, sweaters and jackets for off-season visits, a blazer if I go someplace fancy, beach chairs, beach bags, coolers, sunscreen, towels, sheets, toiletries, and even cooking spices — permitting me to hop in the car with just some groceries and booze and take off for the whole summer.
The week of Labor Day, my bride and I took off for Long Beach, as the locals have called it since before it was absorbed into the municipality of Oak Island in 1999, per the Southern tradition of clinging to obsolete geographical appellations. Her step-sibs were generous enough to let us stay in their unoccupied rental house for the week. While I thought it appropriate to leave my seersucker shirts at home, I continued to loaf about in lightly-colored polo shirts, khaki shorts, and bare feet while the days gradually grew slightly cooler. By the last evening of our stay, the cool-down after sunset drove me to change into chinos before sitting on the porch for one last session of stargazing. On the drive home, I wore a dark blue polo shirt, khaki chinos, and socks with my Sperrys. In such a casual environment, the wardrobe transition was much smoother and easier to cope with.
I certainly found Long Beach to be quite different from old familiar Wrightsville Beach. The drive down was complicated, involving multiple highways and traffic lights, and took 30 minutes longer than the drive to WB, the route to which I could drive blindfolded by now. The island itself, particularly our section, becomes ghostly quiet after sunset, and if you want exciting night life, you're shit out of luck. However, advantages abound. The house has far more convenient access to the beach than the condo at WB. No doors and gates to lock and unlock, no stumbling down a long, narrow, sandy pathway while dodging tourists lugging surfboards and giant coolers; all we had to do was walk down the stairs from the deck and down a wooden walkway, and we were there on the sand, which was wide-open and as uncrowded as a beach can get without being deserted. Back at WB, especially on Labor Day, we would have been squeezed in among gaggles of cackling high school girls constantly tweeting and hash-tagging, herds of guffawing frat boys chugging Natty Light, trailer-trash families with feral children screaming and running about, and the occasional ghetto-thugz out for a walk. While the people renting the house next door were on the trashy side (every adult male sported at least three tattoos apiece), at least there was plenty of open buffer space between us. No feeling the obligation to "go out" at night and blow money, because there's nowhere to go. The lack of premium cable left us with more time at night to read. And no fretting about keeping Granny's carpet white, white, white!
The best advantage of all, possibly scoring the winning point in the battle of Long Beach vs. Wrightsville Beach, was the absence of any prohibition of drinking alcohol on the beach. Yes, dear reader, after years of having to find increasingly devious means of disguising and concealing my hooch from the hawk-eyed lawmen of Wrightsville Beach who were born too late for the Prohibition Era, I was finally free to sit quietly on the beach and consume all the beer and liquor I wanted with utter impunity. Imagine the serene feeling of inner peace as I cracked open an ice-cold Yuengling and savored the smooth, medium-bodied taste of freedom, the only rumble being that of the surf and not the coppers' pickup truck.
This past week lived up to an ideal I had been missing out on: the classic preppy beach experience. I was free to drink myself stupid on the beach without fear of brushing with the law. I could get out to the beach itself in less than a minute and sit right in front of my private walkway instead of walking down an endless breezeway, taking an elevator, walking through a courtyard, unlocking a gate, and trying not to get knocked over by a surfboard on the long walk through the dunes, then having to walk another 50 feet or so before finding a bit of unoccupied sand among the throngs of tourists, and reversing the process every time nature called. Instead of going out on the town, I spent my days and nights reading, snacking, eating home-cooked meals, and staying up late talking and drinking, comforted by the fact that bedrooms and clean toilets were just steps away, instead of two or three blocks down the street. I made a day trip to the neighboring town of Southport for shopping and sightseeing, where I made the obligatory visit to the town's premier casual dining restaurant, Provisions, and purchased a souvenir t-shirt to add to my collection of souvenir t-shirts from preppy North Carolina coastal restaurants. The house itself was true to the preppy standard: vintage appliances still in working order; hodgepodge of flatware, dishes, and cookware; simple furniture covered with hard-wearing, easy-clean upholstery (in patterns to camouflage stains); color scheme of white, light blues, and pale greens; nubby, sand-colored carpets; the obligatory model tall ship; the collection of seashells gathered over many years straight from the beach (never purchased); shelves full of old puzzles, decks of cards, board games with pieces missing, and faded, dog-eared books; storage areas full of beat-up, half-rusted folding chairs, musty life vests, and children's beach toys; a musty, salty odor all over the house; and decades of family memories (for my bride, anyway). And of course I spent every day wearing the classics of casual preppy beach attire: chino shorts, polo shirts in light colors to reflect the sun's heat away; topsiders without socks; Leather Man Ltd. belts with nautical motifs; and my Tilley hat.
One day I hope to build my own classic beach house, in a 1920s or '30s style, the goal to be as architecturally correct as possible while taking advantage of the most modern materials for the sake of energy efficiency and easy maintenance. The house must appear as if a grandparent or great-grandparent bought the place new and the family has shared it ever since without changing the house's original design. The kitchen sink will be of white porcelain or enameled cast iron, countertops and backsplashes will be simple tile, and the floor will be linoleum, but the appliances will date from the '70s and '80s. Furniture will be plain and hail from various decades. The entertainment system will include a big clunker of a TV from the '80s hooked up to an antenna (no cable), separate VCR and DVD players, a collection of nautical and beach themed movies on DVD and VHS, a '90s CD & cassette boombox, and an even older turntable with big wood-enclosed speakers. Of course I'll have wi-fi. All walls will be white, and I'll probably carpet the whole house for sound dampening and for the comfort of bare feet. The bathroom fixtures will be replicas of those found in houses in the '30s, down to the exposed shower pipes. I'll keep lanterns, nonperishable foods, and a propane camp stove in a closet for stormy weather. It will be a fun project getting things to look faded and time-worn. Best of all, everything I need will already be there — clothes, hats, shoes, flip-flops, sweaters and jackets for off-season visits, a blazer if I go someplace fancy, beach chairs, beach bags, coolers, sunscreen, towels, sheets, toiletries, and even cooking spices — permitting me to hop in the car with just some groceries and booze and take off for the whole summer.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Time Trippin': Nostalgiathons can mess with your head
It's been quite a while since my last entry. After the loss of our beloved condo at the beach, I haven't had a great deal to blog about this summer. We've spent our weekends mostly at home or visiting family, helping the grandparents-in-law move into a senior living facility, and, in turn, stuffing a 10x20 storage unit with whatever furniture they couldn't cram into their two-bedroom apartment, which we hope someday soon will grace a larger, more stately home befitting titled nobility such as ourselves. Yes, reader, on my natal day, my bride bestowed me with documentation of my new title of Duke of Pomerania and Livonia, along with a handsome medal signifying my membership in the Pomeranian order of Pour Le Mérite, and, as a bonus, certification of my knighthood in the Livonian Templars. I acquired an additional badge in the form of a red Maltese cross with a griffin to signify my knighthood, and look forward to displaying both medals with my formal highland regalia at next year's highland games. Earlier this year, I acquired for my bride the title of Countess of Bohemia, so we are each noble in our own right.
As previously stated, we hope to move up to ritzier digs within the next year or two. Once her grandparents sell their house, they plan to buy one for us outright, likely in a neighborhood similar to where I grew up, with attractive homes, well-manicured lawns, quiet neighbors of good breeding, and no homeowners' associations. I am hoping for something stately-looking, perhaps with a large portico where I can take tea on rainy afternoons, and a lawn suitable for croquet games.
Although we no longer have our usual beach destination, all is not lost; we still have access to my bride's step-siblings' house down the coast, where we look forward to spending a week in September to mark the end of the summer season, loafing on the sand all day and cooking seafood dishes every night. The little town is much quieter and more isolated than rollicking Wrightsville, but at least on this beach, we can consume alcohol openly with impunity, rather than have to outwit roving lawmen who rival Eliot Ness in their zeal for eradicating suds from the shore. I have been grappling with the temptation to acquire more preppy accessories such as Nantucket Reds, nautical motif belts, and more seersucker shirts. I did manage to get my hands on a Tilley hat, the hat of choice for sailors.
This past weekend, my bride took off for a girlfriends getaway, leaving me to my own devices -- a potentially dangerous thing for a man with an active imagination, reclusive tendencies, free time, and birthday money to burn. It was the perfect time to purchase a load of youth-oriented used DVDs from the glorious period of 1997-2001 and have a nostalgiathon all weekend. I found quite a few gems at the local used bookstore, including I Know What You Did Last Summer, Can't Hardly Wait, Dude, Where's My Car?, Drive Me Crazy, Go, Skulls, and Urban Legend. Oh, what an orgy of '90s bliss! Erstwhile youth icons such as Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Freddie Prinze Jr., Joshua Jackson, Melissa Joan Hart, and Katie Holmes graced my 47-inch screen all weekend, accompanied by soundtracks including artists such as Third Eye Blind, 311, Smash Mouth, Britney Spears, and Eve 6. There were even some music videos among the special features, including "Steal My Sunshine," "Can't Get Enough of You Baby," and "Drive Me Crazy." All the while, I was wearing the same kind of plaid Abercrombie & Fitch shirt I used to wear all the time in those days.
Holy crap, talk about nostalgia overdose. By Saturday night, I was experiencing some mildly mind-altering, Jack Finney-esque effects, experiencing fleeting moments in which I felt as though I had indeed slipped back in time, which is remarkable considering I was in a house that I had only occupied since 2007, I had watched all these movies on a flat-panel TV, and I had been using my iPhone throughout the day. Nevertheless, my brain was buzzing with '90s tunes and fleeting thoughts of '90s cultural memes. While delusions are all well and good when I'm in complete control of them, this time I actually had to remind myself that it was 2013, not 1999. Trippy, man. And I hadn't had any alcohol all day, which may have actually been a contributing factor, considering how I was in a perpetual state of total sobriety until 2005. Imagine how far down the rabbit hole I could have gone if I had done this in a '90s-themed room.
As previously stated, we hope to move up to ritzier digs within the next year or two. Once her grandparents sell their house, they plan to buy one for us outright, likely in a neighborhood similar to where I grew up, with attractive homes, well-manicured lawns, quiet neighbors of good breeding, and no homeowners' associations. I am hoping for something stately-looking, perhaps with a large portico where I can take tea on rainy afternoons, and a lawn suitable for croquet games.
Although we no longer have our usual beach destination, all is not lost; we still have access to my bride's step-siblings' house down the coast, where we look forward to spending a week in September to mark the end of the summer season, loafing on the sand all day and cooking seafood dishes every night. The little town is much quieter and more isolated than rollicking Wrightsville, but at least on this beach, we can consume alcohol openly with impunity, rather than have to outwit roving lawmen who rival Eliot Ness in their zeal for eradicating suds from the shore. I have been grappling with the temptation to acquire more preppy accessories such as Nantucket Reds, nautical motif belts, and more seersucker shirts. I did manage to get my hands on a Tilley hat, the hat of choice for sailors.
This past weekend, my bride took off for a girlfriends getaway, leaving me to my own devices -- a potentially dangerous thing for a man with an active imagination, reclusive tendencies, free time, and birthday money to burn. It was the perfect time to purchase a load of youth-oriented used DVDs from the glorious period of 1997-2001 and have a nostalgiathon all weekend. I found quite a few gems at the local used bookstore, including I Know What You Did Last Summer, Can't Hardly Wait, Dude, Where's My Car?, Drive Me Crazy, Go, Skulls, and Urban Legend. Oh, what an orgy of '90s bliss! Erstwhile youth icons such as Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Freddie Prinze Jr., Joshua Jackson, Melissa Joan Hart, and Katie Holmes graced my 47-inch screen all weekend, accompanied by soundtracks including artists such as Third Eye Blind, 311, Smash Mouth, Britney Spears, and Eve 6. There were even some music videos among the special features, including "Steal My Sunshine," "Can't Get Enough of You Baby," and "Drive Me Crazy." All the while, I was wearing the same kind of plaid Abercrombie & Fitch shirt I used to wear all the time in those days.
Holy crap, talk about nostalgia overdose. By Saturday night, I was experiencing some mildly mind-altering, Jack Finney-esque effects, experiencing fleeting moments in which I felt as though I had indeed slipped back in time, which is remarkable considering I was in a house that I had only occupied since 2007, I had watched all these movies on a flat-panel TV, and I had been using my iPhone throughout the day. Nevertheless, my brain was buzzing with '90s tunes and fleeting thoughts of '90s cultural memes. While delusions are all well and good when I'm in complete control of them, this time I actually had to remind myself that it was 2013, not 1999. Trippy, man. And I hadn't had any alcohol all day, which may have actually been a contributing factor, considering how I was in a perpetual state of total sobriety until 2005. Imagine how far down the rabbit hole I could have gone if I had done this in a '90s-themed room.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
From one room to the next
"Our lives are like rooms in a house. We stay in one room for a while, and shut the door behind us as we move into the next room."
On a visit to my wife's grandparents' house, her grandmother said these words that only a strong-willed woman with 80 years of memories could string together to express her philosophy on life. She said them in an effort to comfort us when we got emotional at the sight of their half-empty house, where they've lived for 30 years, hosting parties and entertaining grown children and grandchildren. Living by themselves in a two-story house has become too challenging, between her Parkinson's disease and his painful joints, so they have secured a place at a nearby rest home, where they plan to live out their days in greater comfort. While we know their quality of life will surely improve, we all nonetheless feel sad that they have to exit the biggest and brightest room in their metaphorical house and close the door behind them.
This transitional period has ramifications for my wife and me, as well, for they are no longer fit to travel long distances, forcing them to put their beloved beach house up for sale. Next week may very likely be the last time we visit the house. Needless to say, we're very sad to lose the place. I consider this one of the rooms in the metaphorical house Granny was talking about. My wife entered this "room" when she was about 15 years old, and spent countless blissful summer days there, forgetting her troubles and just enjoying herself or getting into teenage shenanigans at night with her girlfriends. I stepped into this room in 2007 when she shared her favorite place with me the first summer we were together, and came for numerous summer weekends and nearly every week's vacation we had. I also got to reconnect with my preppy roots by getting the preppy beach experience I had been denied in my childhood. It's been a wonderful six years for me, and 19 for my wife; we've had getaway weekends there for one-on-one time, spent countless lazy hours doing nothing, eaten countless delicious meals at our favorite restaurants, and hosted raucous, bacchanalian vacations with groups of friends, getting wasted at the bars one night and staying up into the wee hours playing drunken card games the next. On days when conditions weren't ideal for sitting outside, we would pass the afternoons reading, napping, or taking in the charms of the beautiful town while strolling about in our casual preppy attire. All the while, I got to revel in the condo's 1990s time capsule effect, its decor unchanged since the early '90s. Down there, I would get to pretend it was perpetually 1998 or so, and all was right with the world. We had the time of our lives in that room; now it appears the time is nigh to leave that room and quietly shut the door.
It seems we're moving to a different room now anyway, one in which we prefer to get wild on a smaller scale, opting for parties at home with a few like-minded friends. Lately when we've gone out at night at the beach, we've been ready to go back at about midnight instead of 1:30 or 2, and spend more evenings in the condo watching movies than out on the town. So it may be that the condo is gradually outliving its usefulness as a place where we can collapse after drinking all night at the bars without having to drive. The growing crowds and increasingly heavy-handed enforcement of open container laws at our beach have also made sunbathing less enjoyable. So once we have to bid goodbye to the beloved condo, my hope is that we can still get wild, on a smaller, more intimate scale, with groups of friends at our other family-owned beach houses, be it my family's house at Myrtle or her step-siblings' house at Long Beach, where we can sit on uncrowded sands, fix big shrimp dinners, and stay up late playing games and chugging cocktails. Failing that, we can sunbathe at our neighborhood pool or our back patio, and have friends come up to get wild at our townhouse, which we may end up doing this coming Memorial Day weekend. A small part of me actually looks forward to a reprieve from the long drives, the gasoline expenses, the dog boarding bills, and the stresses of packing everything we'll need.
There is hope that the room beyond this one will be just as big and bright, if not more so, for her grandparents have promised to buy a larger house for us with some of the proceeds from the sale of their current home. We hope for a quick sale, so that we can take advantage of depressed housing prices before the market recovers. A bigger house with a couple of guest rooms would be a great place for raucous house parties when we don't want to drive four hours to the beach. Perhaps there is a room in the house beyond this one where we'll have a beach cottage all to ourselves, where we can keep clothes, shoes, sheets, towels, swimsuits, chairs, sunscreen, toiletries, and liquor, leaving us to be able to hop in the car with nothing but groceries before heading down to the beach.
On a visit to my wife's grandparents' house, her grandmother said these words that only a strong-willed woman with 80 years of memories could string together to express her philosophy on life. She said them in an effort to comfort us when we got emotional at the sight of their half-empty house, where they've lived for 30 years, hosting parties and entertaining grown children and grandchildren. Living by themselves in a two-story house has become too challenging, between her Parkinson's disease and his painful joints, so they have secured a place at a nearby rest home, where they plan to live out their days in greater comfort. While we know their quality of life will surely improve, we all nonetheless feel sad that they have to exit the biggest and brightest room in their metaphorical house and close the door behind them.
This transitional period has ramifications for my wife and me, as well, for they are no longer fit to travel long distances, forcing them to put their beloved beach house up for sale. Next week may very likely be the last time we visit the house. Needless to say, we're very sad to lose the place. I consider this one of the rooms in the metaphorical house Granny was talking about. My wife entered this "room" when she was about 15 years old, and spent countless blissful summer days there, forgetting her troubles and just enjoying herself or getting into teenage shenanigans at night with her girlfriends. I stepped into this room in 2007 when she shared her favorite place with me the first summer we were together, and came for numerous summer weekends and nearly every week's vacation we had. I also got to reconnect with my preppy roots by getting the preppy beach experience I had been denied in my childhood. It's been a wonderful six years for me, and 19 for my wife; we've had getaway weekends there for one-on-one time, spent countless lazy hours doing nothing, eaten countless delicious meals at our favorite restaurants, and hosted raucous, bacchanalian vacations with groups of friends, getting wasted at the bars one night and staying up into the wee hours playing drunken card games the next. On days when conditions weren't ideal for sitting outside, we would pass the afternoons reading, napping, or taking in the charms of the beautiful town while strolling about in our casual preppy attire. All the while, I got to revel in the condo's 1990s time capsule effect, its decor unchanged since the early '90s. Down there, I would get to pretend it was perpetually 1998 or so, and all was right with the world. We had the time of our lives in that room; now it appears the time is nigh to leave that room and quietly shut the door.
It seems we're moving to a different room now anyway, one in which we prefer to get wild on a smaller scale, opting for parties at home with a few like-minded friends. Lately when we've gone out at night at the beach, we've been ready to go back at about midnight instead of 1:30 or 2, and spend more evenings in the condo watching movies than out on the town. So it may be that the condo is gradually outliving its usefulness as a place where we can collapse after drinking all night at the bars without having to drive. The growing crowds and increasingly heavy-handed enforcement of open container laws at our beach have also made sunbathing less enjoyable. So once we have to bid goodbye to the beloved condo, my hope is that we can still get wild, on a smaller, more intimate scale, with groups of friends at our other family-owned beach houses, be it my family's house at Myrtle or her step-siblings' house at Long Beach, where we can sit on uncrowded sands, fix big shrimp dinners, and stay up late playing games and chugging cocktails. Failing that, we can sunbathe at our neighborhood pool or our back patio, and have friends come up to get wild at our townhouse, which we may end up doing this coming Memorial Day weekend. A small part of me actually looks forward to a reprieve from the long drives, the gasoline expenses, the dog boarding bills, and the stresses of packing everything we'll need.
There is hope that the room beyond this one will be just as big and bright, if not more so, for her grandparents have promised to buy a larger house for us with some of the proceeds from the sale of their current home. We hope for a quick sale, so that we can take advantage of depressed housing prices before the market recovers. A bigger house with a couple of guest rooms would be a great place for raucous house parties when we don't want to drive four hours to the beach. Perhaps there is a room in the house beyond this one where we'll have a beach cottage all to ourselves, where we can keep clothes, shoes, sheets, towels, swimsuits, chairs, sunscreen, toiletries, and liquor, leaving us to be able to hop in the car with nothing but groceries before heading down to the beach.
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