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.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Edwardian dinner trial run
The day after Valentine's day, I finally got some hands-on practice for what it would be like to host a sumptuous Edwardian dinner. The food itself wasn't so sumptuous, but the surroundings were pretty damned elegant for a couple in their early 30s.
Not having seen my mother-in-law (MIL) since that last fine dinner which I recounted in my last entry, we decided it was high time we return the favor and host her at our house. A friend of ours, having nothing else to do that Friday night, joined us, which was fine with me because it made the table setting symmetrical. We hurried home and got as much ready as we could before MIL arrived promptly at 6:30, having already set the dining table the night before with a plain white cloth, our Strasbourg sterling flatware, a mix of our finest china (all pieces for each service matched, of course), and one of my latest acquisitions: stemware by Waterford! OK, so it's the Marquis line by Waterford -- their machine-cut econo-crystal -- but it's still quite pretty and sparkles in candlelight just like high-end Waterford. We planned a modest three-course repast of salad, baked mahi-mahi with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, and a fruit tart for dessert. While waiting for the fish to bake, we had some pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room. Once it was ready, we gathered around the dinner table, lit with a pair of beautiful English silver candelabra, and I poured everyone's wine from a cut glass decanter. After the salad course, I turned on the coffee maker so that it would be ready for dessert, laid out the fish on a silver platter, and put the mashed potatoes and broccoli into silver serving bowls. I played footman for a bit, serving the wine from another decanter and taking the fish platter to each person, and then we passed around the side items and rolls. We presented the fruit tart on a round silver salver, and served the coffee in my other recent acquisition, a stunning silver-plated coffee/tea service given to us by my wife's grandmother. Made by Goldfeder in the 1930s, the service includes a kettle-on-stand, teapot, coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and waste bowl, on an enormous, heavy, footed tray. As we were only serving coffee, I put the coffee pot, sugar & creamer on a smaller silver tray. Ordinarily I would have served an appropriate port wine with dessert and coffee afterward, but I knew MIL was getting tired, so I omitted the dessert wine. Cleanup took about an hour, as the dishes and serving pieces had to be hand-washed.
It was a lovely experience, and a great way, I think, to practice serving a grand, multiple-course dinner in the spirit of the evening meals at Downton Abbey. I learned a few lessons from this scaled-down trial-run. First and foremost, I'm never doing this again on a Friday night right after work! I would rather have begun preparations about 2 hours before the scheduled start time. Also, I made the blunder of removing the dinner plates before removing the chargers, instead of both at once. I also lack proper fish forks, but considering the cost of silver these days, little can be done about that. I really should get a pierced serving spoon in my Strasbourg pattern in case I serve very moist vegetables, and a salad set as well; this time around, we made do with a Wilton Armetale salad set.
Someday, though, I hope to host a truly grand Edwardian dinner, with guests arriving in evening dress and gathering around a most elegant table to dine on courses such as hors d'oeuvres, consomme, salmon, filet mignon, some sort of palate cleanser, and dessert. I may even go so far as to hire serving staff for the evening. I've been hard at work making my dining room more and more elegant. After that dinner, I added a leaf to the table and swapped in my nicer-looking damask cloth. I recently purchased a pair of marble-topped plant stands, on which I placed a pair of artificial palms, that really make the room feel lush. Later today I'm finally going to see about getting a gilt frame for my self-portrait, and sometime soon I hope to install a chair rail and crown molding. Later on, as funds become available, I'll get an Oriental-style area rug. For now, though, it's a wonderful experience to be able to sit down in the mornings before work at a beautifully-appointed table, amongst our shining silver and sparkling crystal, and soak in the splendor of another era as we ingest our cold cereal before heading out for another 8 hours of drudgery.
Not having seen my mother-in-law (MIL) since that last fine dinner which I recounted in my last entry, we decided it was high time we return the favor and host her at our house. A friend of ours, having nothing else to do that Friday night, joined us, which was fine with me because it made the table setting symmetrical. We hurried home and got as much ready as we could before MIL arrived promptly at 6:30, having already set the dining table the night before with a plain white cloth, our Strasbourg sterling flatware, a mix of our finest china (all pieces for each service matched, of course), and one of my latest acquisitions: stemware by Waterford! OK, so it's the Marquis line by Waterford -- their machine-cut econo-crystal -- but it's still quite pretty and sparkles in candlelight just like high-end Waterford. We planned a modest three-course repast of salad, baked mahi-mahi with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, and a fruit tart for dessert. While waiting for the fish to bake, we had some pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room. Once it was ready, we gathered around the dinner table, lit with a pair of beautiful English silver candelabra, and I poured everyone's wine from a cut glass decanter. After the salad course, I turned on the coffee maker so that it would be ready for dessert, laid out the fish on a silver platter, and put the mashed potatoes and broccoli into silver serving bowls. I played footman for a bit, serving the wine from another decanter and taking the fish platter to each person, and then we passed around the side items and rolls. We presented the fruit tart on a round silver salver, and served the coffee in my other recent acquisition, a stunning silver-plated coffee/tea service given to us by my wife's grandmother. Made by Goldfeder in the 1930s, the service includes a kettle-on-stand, teapot, coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and waste bowl, on an enormous, heavy, footed tray. As we were only serving coffee, I put the coffee pot, sugar & creamer on a smaller silver tray. Ordinarily I would have served an appropriate port wine with dessert and coffee afterward, but I knew MIL was getting tired, so I omitted the dessert wine. Cleanup took about an hour, as the dishes and serving pieces had to be hand-washed.
It was a lovely experience, and a great way, I think, to practice serving a grand, multiple-course dinner in the spirit of the evening meals at Downton Abbey. I learned a few lessons from this scaled-down trial-run. First and foremost, I'm never doing this again on a Friday night right after work! I would rather have begun preparations about 2 hours before the scheduled start time. Also, I made the blunder of removing the dinner plates before removing the chargers, instead of both at once. I also lack proper fish forks, but considering the cost of silver these days, little can be done about that. I really should get a pierced serving spoon in my Strasbourg pattern in case I serve very moist vegetables, and a salad set as well; this time around, we made do with a Wilton Armetale salad set.
Someday, though, I hope to host a truly grand Edwardian dinner, with guests arriving in evening dress and gathering around a most elegant table to dine on courses such as hors d'oeuvres, consomme, salmon, filet mignon, some sort of palate cleanser, and dessert. I may even go so far as to hire serving staff for the evening. I've been hard at work making my dining room more and more elegant. After that dinner, I added a leaf to the table and swapped in my nicer-looking damask cloth. I recently purchased a pair of marble-topped plant stands, on which I placed a pair of artificial palms, that really make the room feel lush. Later today I'm finally going to see about getting a gilt frame for my self-portrait, and sometime soon I hope to install a chair rail and crown molding. Later on, as funds become available, I'll get an Oriental-style area rug. For now, though, it's a wonderful experience to be able to sit down in the mornings before work at a beautifully-appointed table, amongst our shining silver and sparkling crystal, and soak in the splendor of another era as we ingest our cold cereal before heading out for another 8 hours of drudgery.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
We like the way they live
"We like Downton Abbey because we like the way they live." With those words, my mother-in-law (hereafter referred to as MIL) not only gave a good explanation for why the popular British series captivates so many viewers on this side of the pond, but also drew an apt parallel from the world of fiction that illustrates how our sort, who were raised to appreciate gracious living and the finer things, just like the fictional residents of Downton Abbey, prefer, or at least aspire, to live.
On Christmas Eve, my bride and I made the short trip to her mother's house for dinner and pleasant company. At dinner, conversation got around to how much we all enjoy Downton Abbey. An account of the evening's activities and a description of the setting in which this conversation transpired will show why MIL's acute explanation of the series's appeal resonates so with our sort.
We began the evening in the drawing room with glasses of fine champagne, celebrating the holiday and decompressing from its related stress and fatigue. From there, we moseyed into the family room to be able to continue interacting while MIL finished preparing dinner in the adjoining kitchen. After exchanging gifts, we made our way to MIL's small, but elegant, dining room. Her table is an early 19th century drop-leaf. To the side is a lovely inlaid sideboard, and to the other side is her china hutch, where she displays the china handed down to her from her grandmother and great-grandmother. The table was set with sterling flatware, gold-rimmed crystal, silver candelabra, and damask napkins. This is the way our sort have always done things.
As landed gentry, Lord Grantham and his family are free from the demands of regular jobs; they fill their days with leisure activities, charitable projects, and entertaining guests. They wear just the right clothing for every occasion, and take their meals in a splendid dining room with the finest china, crystal, and silverware, pairing each course with an appropriate wine. Sometimes, after dinner, the gentlemen adjourn to take a nip of brandy or cognac with a cigar before rejoining the ladies.
Although descended from landed gentry, our sort did not inherit the means to operate large manor-houses with a full staff, but they have managed to inherit, and bequeath, their aristocratic ancestors' legacy of gracious living, albeit on a smaller, more practical scale. We buy as much house as we can afford within our means, then furnish them with well-designed pieces that serve their purpose while making life more pleasant and enjoyable. My whole house could fit in the saloon at Downton Abbey, but I have furnished it with elegant, yet practical, antique or second-hand furniture. You would be hard-pressed to find a house among our sort with a matching suite of furniture, but somehow all the pieces magically work together to create a feeling of both sophistication and comfort. Like at Downton Abbey, most of the furniture was handed down through the family, the remainder bought at auctions or second-hand stores for less than a comparable new piece would cost. Our sort also take on do-it-yourself home improvement projects that make our homes more elegant while saving funds for other nice things. I have already installed an attractive faucet in my downstairs powder room (purchased on clearance) and have grand plans to install crown molding in every room. I have just acquired a three-dimensional brass coat of arms cheaply on eBay, to which I will affix my own armorial and display in my foyer.
A couple of generations ago, even middle-class people had at least a cook/maid; sadly, with the advent of minimum wages, 99% of Americans settle for a weekly visit from a cleaning lady or, more likely, no one at all, and manage everything themselves. Within that 99%, there are key differences in how our sort conduct an evening at home, and how the rest of the slovenly masses do so.
Picture, if you will, Mr. & Mrs. McTacky. Before leaving for work, they either cram down a bagel or Pop-Tart while rushing out the back door, or crouch at the kitchen table over a melamine bowl of cereal and take their coffee to the car in a "to-go" mug. In the evening, arriving home from their McJobs, they enter through the back door as if they were servants or deliverymen, and the first room they see is either the kitchen or an unsightly utility room. They head to the fridge and grab a can of soda or domestic beer and plop down on their La-Z-Boys for a bit before it's time to make dinner. While Mrs. McTacky cooks, Mr. McTacky gets to see, smell, and hear all the food preparation from his barcalounger in the "living area" thanks to the fact that the rooms in their modern home "flow" into each other and therefore lack any barriers between where they relax and where food is prepared and consumed. If the couple have children, they huddle around the kitchen table, possibly with a pile of mail and other junk shoved off to one side, with an unobstructed view of dirty cooking pans and the kids' hideous "artwork" displayed on the refrigerator door, and consume their repast off of ugly plates from Wal-Mart, either of melamine or heavy stoneware, with stainless steel forks, guzzling water from plastic tumblers. If there's dessert, it comes on either a disposable paper plate or worse, a paper napkin. It's likely that they own moderately priced fine china and stemware, received as wedding gifts, but keep them locked away in a cabinet to be used only for "special occasions," staying out of sight the other 360 or so days of the year. They may even have a fully-furnished dining room, but it, too, is only used for its intended purpose about 5 times a year, serving as a depository for mail or a place to sit and pay bills the rest of the year.
By contrast, Mr. & Mrs. Grace across town try to live up to the Crawleys' standards the best they can while making some concessions to practicality. They have a simple breakfast in the dining room using their Wedgwood china and sterling silver, having filled their Wedgwood cups in the kitchen instead of fussing with the Wedgwood coffee pot. After a relaxing breakfast, they leave for work through the front door. After work, they come home through the front door, process the day's mail, prepare cocktails in real glasses, and catch the news or quietly read for a bit. Mr. Grace can enjoy a little peace and quiet while Mrs. Grace makes dinner out of sight. When dinner is ready, they and their children serve themselves off the stove, take their dinner on fine china to the dining room table, which the youngest would have already set with sterling flatware and cloth napkins, and sit down for a quiet, relaxing meal together, out of sight of the messy kitchen. Down the street, their child-free friends, who find it boring to sit at the table when it's just the two of them, take dinner in the den on their Royal Doulton with glasses of wine, setting up their wooden tray tables with place mats and sterling. They may have a little port or sherry with dessert, poured from crystal decanters kept on a silver tray, or maybe some decaf coffee. Later in the evening Mr. Grace might have a dram of cognac or brandy.
When it comes to hosting guests, without butlers, cooks, maids, and footmen, we can't serve the seven-course dinners that Lord and Lady Grantham host all the time, but in order to preserve the richness of those spectacular multi-course feasts of old, our sort use exquisite dinnerware to serve a soup or salad course, an entree with side items, and dessert, all paired with an appropriate wine. Entrees and side items are passed around in serving bowls in the same china pattern, and crystal water goblets are filled from a silver pitcher. After dinner, coffee is served from an heirloom silver coffee service that belonged to someone's great-grandmother. For lack of a butler, a coffee maker with a timer makes sure that a fresh batch is ready, when dinner is finished, to be poured into the silver pot, which stands on a tray on the kitchen counter with a full sugar bowl while the creamer sits in the fridge, and the coffee cups and spoons wait on the sideboard. Because we keep entertaining in mind while shopping for houses, and avoid houses whose rooms "flow" into each other, our guests won't have to watch the hostess dump coffee from the Krupps into the antique silver pot or see a stack of dirty plates festering in the sink while trying to enjoy dessert; nor will we adjourn to a "living area" while a table littered with used coffee cups and soiled napkins stands in full view. Cleanup happens after the guests have left or gone to bed.
As far as aspects of life not related to dining and entertaining, I make every effort up a gracious standard of living. I will not wear jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, or athletic shoes to work. My bride's childcare job calls for sturdy clothes, but she makes every effort to pick natural fiber articles that fit well, coordinate, and flatter her figure, and keeps herself well-groomed. We make sure to dress appropriately for all occasions such as shopping, dining out, and meeting friends or relatives. I keep our calling cards on my person when we're out and about, and use them as gift enclosures or for brief correspondence. This past New Year's Eve, we set out champagne for our friends in a silver chiller on a silver tray with four crystal champagne flutes. Lately, I've taken to enjoying an electronic cigar (which doesn't leave an odor) after dinner with a snifter of cognac or brandy. I think the Crawleys would nod with approval.
On Christmas Eve, my bride and I made the short trip to her mother's house for dinner and pleasant company. At dinner, conversation got around to how much we all enjoy Downton Abbey. An account of the evening's activities and a description of the setting in which this conversation transpired will show why MIL's acute explanation of the series's appeal resonates so with our sort.
We began the evening in the drawing room with glasses of fine champagne, celebrating the holiday and decompressing from its related stress and fatigue. From there, we moseyed into the family room to be able to continue interacting while MIL finished preparing dinner in the adjoining kitchen. After exchanging gifts, we made our way to MIL's small, but elegant, dining room. Her table is an early 19th century drop-leaf. To the side is a lovely inlaid sideboard, and to the other side is her china hutch, where she displays the china handed down to her from her grandmother and great-grandmother. The table was set with sterling flatware, gold-rimmed crystal, silver candelabra, and damask napkins. This is the way our sort have always done things.
As landed gentry, Lord Grantham and his family are free from the demands of regular jobs; they fill their days with leisure activities, charitable projects, and entertaining guests. They wear just the right clothing for every occasion, and take their meals in a splendid dining room with the finest china, crystal, and silverware, pairing each course with an appropriate wine. Sometimes, after dinner, the gentlemen adjourn to take a nip of brandy or cognac with a cigar before rejoining the ladies.
Although descended from landed gentry, our sort did not inherit the means to operate large manor-houses with a full staff, but they have managed to inherit, and bequeath, their aristocratic ancestors' legacy of gracious living, albeit on a smaller, more practical scale. We buy as much house as we can afford within our means, then furnish them with well-designed pieces that serve their purpose while making life more pleasant and enjoyable. My whole house could fit in the saloon at Downton Abbey, but I have furnished it with elegant, yet practical, antique or second-hand furniture. You would be hard-pressed to find a house among our sort with a matching suite of furniture, but somehow all the pieces magically work together to create a feeling of both sophistication and comfort. Like at Downton Abbey, most of the furniture was handed down through the family, the remainder bought at auctions or second-hand stores for less than a comparable new piece would cost. Our sort also take on do-it-yourself home improvement projects that make our homes more elegant while saving funds for other nice things. I have already installed an attractive faucet in my downstairs powder room (purchased on clearance) and have grand plans to install crown molding in every room. I have just acquired a three-dimensional brass coat of arms cheaply on eBay, to which I will affix my own armorial and display in my foyer.
A couple of generations ago, even middle-class people had at least a cook/maid; sadly, with the advent of minimum wages, 99% of Americans settle for a weekly visit from a cleaning lady or, more likely, no one at all, and manage everything themselves. Within that 99%, there are key differences in how our sort conduct an evening at home, and how the rest of the slovenly masses do so.
Picture, if you will, Mr. & Mrs. McTacky. Before leaving for work, they either cram down a bagel or Pop-Tart while rushing out the back door, or crouch at the kitchen table over a melamine bowl of cereal and take their coffee to the car in a "to-go" mug. In the evening, arriving home from their McJobs, they enter through the back door as if they were servants or deliverymen, and the first room they see is either the kitchen or an unsightly utility room. They head to the fridge and grab a can of soda or domestic beer and plop down on their La-Z-Boys for a bit before it's time to make dinner. While Mrs. McTacky cooks, Mr. McTacky gets to see, smell, and hear all the food preparation from his barcalounger in the "living area" thanks to the fact that the rooms in their modern home "flow" into each other and therefore lack any barriers between where they relax and where food is prepared and consumed. If the couple have children, they huddle around the kitchen table, possibly with a pile of mail and other junk shoved off to one side, with an unobstructed view of dirty cooking pans and the kids' hideous "artwork" displayed on the refrigerator door, and consume their repast off of ugly plates from Wal-Mart, either of melamine or heavy stoneware, with stainless steel forks, guzzling water from plastic tumblers. If there's dessert, it comes on either a disposable paper plate or worse, a paper napkin. It's likely that they own moderately priced fine china and stemware, received as wedding gifts, but keep them locked away in a cabinet to be used only for "special occasions," staying out of sight the other 360 or so days of the year. They may even have a fully-furnished dining room, but it, too, is only used for its intended purpose about 5 times a year, serving as a depository for mail or a place to sit and pay bills the rest of the year.
By contrast, Mr. & Mrs. Grace across town try to live up to the Crawleys' standards the best they can while making some concessions to practicality. They have a simple breakfast in the dining room using their Wedgwood china and sterling silver, having filled their Wedgwood cups in the kitchen instead of fussing with the Wedgwood coffee pot. After a relaxing breakfast, they leave for work through the front door. After work, they come home through the front door, process the day's mail, prepare cocktails in real glasses, and catch the news or quietly read for a bit. Mr. Grace can enjoy a little peace and quiet while Mrs. Grace makes dinner out of sight. When dinner is ready, they and their children serve themselves off the stove, take their dinner on fine china to the dining room table, which the youngest would have already set with sterling flatware and cloth napkins, and sit down for a quiet, relaxing meal together, out of sight of the messy kitchen. Down the street, their child-free friends, who find it boring to sit at the table when it's just the two of them, take dinner in the den on their Royal Doulton with glasses of wine, setting up their wooden tray tables with place mats and sterling. They may have a little port or sherry with dessert, poured from crystal decanters kept on a silver tray, or maybe some decaf coffee. Later in the evening Mr. Grace might have a dram of cognac or brandy.
When it comes to hosting guests, without butlers, cooks, maids, and footmen, we can't serve the seven-course dinners that Lord and Lady Grantham host all the time, but in order to preserve the richness of those spectacular multi-course feasts of old, our sort use exquisite dinnerware to serve a soup or salad course, an entree with side items, and dessert, all paired with an appropriate wine. Entrees and side items are passed around in serving bowls in the same china pattern, and crystal water goblets are filled from a silver pitcher. After dinner, coffee is served from an heirloom silver coffee service that belonged to someone's great-grandmother. For lack of a butler, a coffee maker with a timer makes sure that a fresh batch is ready, when dinner is finished, to be poured into the silver pot, which stands on a tray on the kitchen counter with a full sugar bowl while the creamer sits in the fridge, and the coffee cups and spoons wait on the sideboard. Because we keep entertaining in mind while shopping for houses, and avoid houses whose rooms "flow" into each other, our guests won't have to watch the hostess dump coffee from the Krupps into the antique silver pot or see a stack of dirty plates festering in the sink while trying to enjoy dessert; nor will we adjourn to a "living area" while a table littered with used coffee cups and soiled napkins stands in full view. Cleanup happens after the guests have left or gone to bed.
As far as aspects of life not related to dining and entertaining, I make every effort up a gracious standard of living. I will not wear jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, or athletic shoes to work. My bride's childcare job calls for sturdy clothes, but she makes every effort to pick natural fiber articles that fit well, coordinate, and flatter her figure, and keeps herself well-groomed. We make sure to dress appropriately for all occasions such as shopping, dining out, and meeting friends or relatives. I keep our calling cards on my person when we're out and about, and use them as gift enclosures or for brief correspondence. This past New Year's Eve, we set out champagne for our friends in a silver chiller on a silver tray with four crystal champagne flutes. Lately, I've taken to enjoying an electronic cigar (which doesn't leave an odor) after dinner with a snifter of cognac or brandy. I think the Crawleys would nod with approval.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
A Preppy Thanksgiving
When the chill of November has set in, on the fourth Thursday of the month, the great unwashed put on their Faded Glory sweatshirts, travel to one another's hovels, quaff aperitifs of Natural Light, gather around a "natural oak" laminated particle board table with drunk and/or judgmental relatives while their ill-behaved children sit around a wobbly card table, and consume a large meal of overdone turkey, gravy from a jar, jellied cranberry-flavored goop still in the shape of the tin can from whence it came, instant mashed potatoes, Kraft Easy Mac, and bread-like products that had just that morning been nothing more than cardboard tubes of bleached glop. Perhaps one member of the fambuhly is spending the evening in the emergency room after a disaster involving a turkey fryer or attempting to ignite his own flatulence.
My Thanksgiving holiday, however, was spent the way every preppy person would dream of. This year, my bride and I shunned the usual exhausting rounds of visits with relatives near and far, and instead high-tailed it to our beloved Wrightsville Beach, where my mother-in-law would join us. Our sensible SUV, with its Wrightsville Beach plate and my bride's initials in nautical semaphore, was loaded down with luggage, groceries in canvas tote bags, and about 10 bottles of various wines (her mother would be supplying the liquor). Traffic was heavy but we were only delayed about 15 minutes. We slowed down as we crossed the causeway to admire the boats gathered on the channel at sunset. After unloading all of our crap and the obscene amount of food her mother brought, we had some cocktails and then went to 22 North for a late supper. On Thanksgiving day, her mother rose at 7AM to prepare the turkey, which had spent the previous day and night in a cooler of brine, and then went on to slice squash and cook sweet potatoes for casseroles. Meanwhile I stayed out of the way and enjoyed some Bloodies while watching the Macy's parade on the circa 1991 Magnavox. With the condo being such a '90s time capsule, I found myself in a '90s mood that day, so I put on my faded jeans, t-shirt, and 1997 vintage Abercrombie & Fitch plaid shirt while watching a marathon of Thanksgiving-themed episodes of Friends on TBS, getting up now and then to help a bit or go enjoy the view of the ocean from the balcony. Thanksgiving dinner was a feast of roasted turkey, squash casserole, sweet potato casserole loaded with whiskey, cornbread dressing, homemade giblet gravy, spiced green beans with dried cranberries and slivered almonds, and a homemade cranberry & orange sauce, all of course served on heirloom china with sterling flatware, paired with a lovely Beaujolais. Our attempt at a homemade pie yielded less-than-pleasing results, so we finished with a storebought sweet potato pie and whiskey-spiked eggnog. As any proper preppy would do, I changed out of my casual knocking-around clothes into something more suitable for dinner. Ordinarily I would wear a blazer, but being at the beach, I opted for a smart blue checked shirt, khaki chinos, and my sailboat motif belt.
The next day was a day of leisure; my mother-in-law went out for a long walk while we sat around relaxing. The weather was chilly but we nonetheless enjoyed the fresh air on the balcony, wrapped up in our L.L. Bean fleece jackets and 20-year-old cotton blankets. I finished the volume about clipper ships from the Time-Life series The Seafarers. That evening I put on my wool duffel coat, striped rugby shirt, canvas chinos, and canvas deck shoes, and we three walked nearly a mile to the public park for the lighting of the town's Christmas tree. We dined at King Neptune's, which continues to delight us with its reasonably priced menu, and my bride and I stayed for drinks at the adjoining pirate bar and then made our way across the street at 22 North.
On Saturday we made the walk again to the park for a craft fair. I dressed in canvas chinos and a rugby shirt again, with my lighter-weight Wind Challenger fleece jacket from Bean's. While perusing the various booths, I came across a brand-spankin'-new line of clothing for the preppy beach enthusiast called Coastal Pride. Until now, I hadn't come across a line of beachy preppy gear that really suits me, but I think this one is just what I've been looking for. Southern Tide, Vineyard Vines, Southern Proper, Southern Marsh, and High Cotton are all well and good, but Coastal Pride stands apart due to its being headquartered in North Carolina, and unlike the other brands, focuses solely on the preppy beach lifestyle. I purchased a khaki hat bearing the brand's simple, understated anchor logo, and plan to order a few more things soon. Right now they only have hats, t-shirts, sunglasses straps, and car decals, but I look forward to the brand's expansion into polo shirts next year.
That evening came the highlight of the weekend: the annual flotilla! We had a round of drinks in the condo and hors d'oeuvres such as Alouette spread with baguette slices and cold oysters with saltines before heading up to the top floor with a bottle of George Martel and three Solo cups (preppies appreciate irony, too) to brave the 40-degree nighttime chill and watch the 20-odd boats make their way up and down the channel, showing off their spectacular lighting decorations. The finale was the fireworks extravaganza, which rivaled the 4th of July display at the nation's capitol.
Sunday was another day of leisure, capped off with a lovely steak dinner at the condo. After my mother-in-law's departure on Monday, we caught a matinee of Skyfall and then stopped by Redix on the way back. My mission at Redix was to procure a nautical flag motif belt for my father-in-law (by Leather Man of Essex, Connecticut, of course). I found just the one, but I could not resist purchasing for myself a belt bearing a repeating Wrightsville Beach logo, made exclusively by Leather Man for the Redix store. Even as I type, I am wearing it with pride. In the future I plan to expand my collection of motif belts.
I'm the kind of person who appreciates the occasional chilly, overcast day at the beach, so on such a Tuesday, I took a nice walk by myself down the beach all the way to Mercer's Pier, wearing my navy fleece jacket over a chunky off-white cotton sweater with my new Coastal Pride hat and my Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Under the pier, I just stood quietly, watching the tide roll in and break against the concrete supports, breathing in the cold salt air, releasing what little stress I may have still had. There were no throngs of tourists or screaming children splashing around, or police vehicles rumbling by; in fact, I saw barely a dozen people the whole time I was outside. Standing there under the pier, the sun hidden behind a pale gray blanket of clouds, the only sounds being the crashing waves, the wind, the gulls, and the seawater rushing in and out between the pylons, I found the most unexpected little slice of serenity. It was so heartbreaking to have to pack up and leave Wednesday, returning today to my cubicle and business as usual.
O, what a marvelous week in preppy heaven! Flotillas and sunsets, cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, silver and china, dressing for dinner, champagne, oysters, craft fairs, and shopping! Deck shoes and duffel coats, chunky sweaters and motif belts, Wayfarers and Topsiders! I am near tears as I write this, for I have just learned the sad news that my bride's grandparents, with their health declining, plan to put the condo up for sale in an effort to leave a mostly liquid estate. This news saddens me, for I had hoped that we would somehow be able to keep it in the family, but short of winning the lottery and buying it from them, that may not happen. Perhaps we could convince them at least to put the furnishings in storage until such time that we could procure our own beach house. The dream is to be able to purchase an identical unit in the same building on another floor and recreate the old unit precisely, going so far as to have the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathrooms replicated, rendering a close duplicate of the original, maintaining it as a monument to the bygone days of the 1990s and as a sort of memorial to her grandparents. If we return for Christmas, I must make an effort to document the placement of every last thing. Should the Fates dash that dream, Plan B would be to purchase a modest beach house elsewhere at WB and fill it with the old condo's furnishings.
My Thanksgiving holiday, however, was spent the way every preppy person would dream of. This year, my bride and I shunned the usual exhausting rounds of visits with relatives near and far, and instead high-tailed it to our beloved Wrightsville Beach, where my mother-in-law would join us. Our sensible SUV, with its Wrightsville Beach plate and my bride's initials in nautical semaphore, was loaded down with luggage, groceries in canvas tote bags, and about 10 bottles of various wines (her mother would be supplying the liquor). Traffic was heavy but we were only delayed about 15 minutes. We slowed down as we crossed the causeway to admire the boats gathered on the channel at sunset. After unloading all of our crap and the obscene amount of food her mother brought, we had some cocktails and then went to 22 North for a late supper. On Thanksgiving day, her mother rose at 7AM to prepare the turkey, which had spent the previous day and night in a cooler of brine, and then went on to slice squash and cook sweet potatoes for casseroles. Meanwhile I stayed out of the way and enjoyed some Bloodies while watching the Macy's parade on the circa 1991 Magnavox. With the condo being such a '90s time capsule, I found myself in a '90s mood that day, so I put on my faded jeans, t-shirt, and 1997 vintage Abercrombie & Fitch plaid shirt while watching a marathon of Thanksgiving-themed episodes of Friends on TBS, getting up now and then to help a bit or go enjoy the view of the ocean from the balcony. Thanksgiving dinner was a feast of roasted turkey, squash casserole, sweet potato casserole loaded with whiskey, cornbread dressing, homemade giblet gravy, spiced green beans with dried cranberries and slivered almonds, and a homemade cranberry & orange sauce, all of course served on heirloom china with sterling flatware, paired with a lovely Beaujolais. Our attempt at a homemade pie yielded less-than-pleasing results, so we finished with a storebought sweet potato pie and whiskey-spiked eggnog. As any proper preppy would do, I changed out of my casual knocking-around clothes into something more suitable for dinner. Ordinarily I would wear a blazer, but being at the beach, I opted for a smart blue checked shirt, khaki chinos, and my sailboat motif belt.
The next day was a day of leisure; my mother-in-law went out for a long walk while we sat around relaxing. The weather was chilly but we nonetheless enjoyed the fresh air on the balcony, wrapped up in our L.L. Bean fleece jackets and 20-year-old cotton blankets. I finished the volume about clipper ships from the Time-Life series The Seafarers. That evening I put on my wool duffel coat, striped rugby shirt, canvas chinos, and canvas deck shoes, and we three walked nearly a mile to the public park for the lighting of the town's Christmas tree. We dined at King Neptune's, which continues to delight us with its reasonably priced menu, and my bride and I stayed for drinks at the adjoining pirate bar and then made our way across the street at 22 North.
On Saturday we made the walk again to the park for a craft fair. I dressed in canvas chinos and a rugby shirt again, with my lighter-weight Wind Challenger fleece jacket from Bean's. While perusing the various booths, I came across a brand-spankin'-new line of clothing for the preppy beach enthusiast called Coastal Pride. Until now, I hadn't come across a line of beachy preppy gear that really suits me, but I think this one is just what I've been looking for. Southern Tide, Vineyard Vines, Southern Proper, Southern Marsh, and High Cotton are all well and good, but Coastal Pride stands apart due to its being headquartered in North Carolina, and unlike the other brands, focuses solely on the preppy beach lifestyle. I purchased a khaki hat bearing the brand's simple, understated anchor logo, and plan to order a few more things soon. Right now they only have hats, t-shirts, sunglasses straps, and car decals, but I look forward to the brand's expansion into polo shirts next year.
That evening came the highlight of the weekend: the annual flotilla! We had a round of drinks in the condo and hors d'oeuvres such as Alouette spread with baguette slices and cold oysters with saltines before heading up to the top floor with a bottle of George Martel and three Solo cups (preppies appreciate irony, too) to brave the 40-degree nighttime chill and watch the 20-odd boats make their way up and down the channel, showing off their spectacular lighting decorations. The finale was the fireworks extravaganza, which rivaled the 4th of July display at the nation's capitol.
Sunday was another day of leisure, capped off with a lovely steak dinner at the condo. After my mother-in-law's departure on Monday, we caught a matinee of Skyfall and then stopped by Redix on the way back. My mission at Redix was to procure a nautical flag motif belt for my father-in-law (by Leather Man of Essex, Connecticut, of course). I found just the one, but I could not resist purchasing for myself a belt bearing a repeating Wrightsville Beach logo, made exclusively by Leather Man for the Redix store. Even as I type, I am wearing it with pride. In the future I plan to expand my collection of motif belts.
I'm the kind of person who appreciates the occasional chilly, overcast day at the beach, so on such a Tuesday, I took a nice walk by myself down the beach all the way to Mercer's Pier, wearing my navy fleece jacket over a chunky off-white cotton sweater with my new Coastal Pride hat and my Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Under the pier, I just stood quietly, watching the tide roll in and break against the concrete supports, breathing in the cold salt air, releasing what little stress I may have still had. There were no throngs of tourists or screaming children splashing around, or police vehicles rumbling by; in fact, I saw barely a dozen people the whole time I was outside. Standing there under the pier, the sun hidden behind a pale gray blanket of clouds, the only sounds being the crashing waves, the wind, the gulls, and the seawater rushing in and out between the pylons, I found the most unexpected little slice of serenity. It was so heartbreaking to have to pack up and leave Wednesday, returning today to my cubicle and business as usual.
O, what a marvelous week in preppy heaven! Flotillas and sunsets, cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, silver and china, dressing for dinner, champagne, oysters, craft fairs, and shopping! Deck shoes and duffel coats, chunky sweaters and motif belts, Wayfarers and Topsiders! I am near tears as I write this, for I have just learned the sad news that my bride's grandparents, with their health declining, plan to put the condo up for sale in an effort to leave a mostly liquid estate. This news saddens me, for I had hoped that we would somehow be able to keep it in the family, but short of winning the lottery and buying it from them, that may not happen. Perhaps we could convince them at least to put the furnishings in storage until such time that we could procure our own beach house. The dream is to be able to purchase an identical unit in the same building on another floor and recreate the old unit precisely, going so far as to have the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathrooms replicated, rendering a close duplicate of the original, maintaining it as a monument to the bygone days of the 1990s and as a sort of memorial to her grandparents. If we return for Christmas, I must make an effort to document the placement of every last thing. Should the Fates dash that dream, Plan B would be to purchase a modest beach house elsewhere at WB and fill it with the old condo's furnishings.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Fall is here! Why am I so sweaty?
Ah, autumn. The time of year when we venture out in our jackets and sweaters to take in the cool, crisp air as the leaves in colors as bright as the sun crunch under our every step.
Ah, autumn in North Carolina, where we venture out in polo shirts and still break a sweat in the middle of the afternoon in late September.
Remember my wistful, rose-colored post about transitioning to the fall wardrobe? The official start of autumn came to pass this past Saturday, and yet I'm sitting here wearing a polo shirt with slightly damp armpits. Autumn weather in the Piedmont is as unpredictable as Blair Warner's waistline. On Monday morning I came to work wearing a polar fleece jacket, and today I'm sweating in a polo shirt. I had to make some adjustments to the strict wardrobe transition strategy I mapped out in my last post to accommodate my native state's relatively warm, sticky Septembers. The seersucker shirts are off-limits, but the polo shirts turned out to be necessary; I compromised by putting away the lighter, brighter shirts and kept the warmer-toned shirts out for autumn. While the nautical motif belts went away for the season, I decided that the striped web belts are acceptable for year-round use, particularly if one is spending time at the beach in the off-season. My leather flip-flops will remain in storage until the next time I stay in a hotel with a pool, but I'm wearing my canvas boat shoes as I type; I determined these to be a year-round item, as well, as long as they're not summer white. I can imagine myself looking quite handsome this winter wearing wool socks with the blue canvas shoes and my navy wool duffel coat; should I spend some time at my beloved Wrightsville in the winter months, I shall wear just that, along with a heavy cotton or ragg wool sweater.
I've at least had a tantalizing taste of autumn weather here and there. As I said, we've had a few chilly mornings here, calling for the Barbour jacket to come back into service after languishing for 4 or 5 months on a hanger. My wool fedoras have seen daylight again, as well. This past weekend I visited family and in-laws, resplendent in one of my new checked shirts from my preferred clothier and outfitter, L.L. Bean. Made of soft twill, it looks relaxed but still polished, perfect for weekends in the city as well as visits to country houses, pairing just as smartly with a tweed sportcoat as with a navy blazer. Upon my return home that evening, it was cool enough that I could layer my soft flannel tartan shirt over a waffle knit shirt before settling in to catch up with the DVR. I am excited to try out my newly-acquired pair of 16" Maine Hunting Shoes from L.L. Bean next time I take the dog for a stroll in my town's big wooded park, but first I really should procure some sort of canvas or twill trousers suitable for knocking around outdoors. Cotton chinos won't do, and denim dungarees are reserved for wear around the house (when not entertaining guests) and potentially dirty or dusty manual labor. I have had a few opportunities to show off my rugby shirts on informal occasions such as afternoons at the cinema or grocery runs, as well as around the office as a more relaxed alternative to my oxford cloth shirts. I'm anxious for it to get chilly enough to use my chunky cotton sweaters and even my wool duffel coat. As soon as I get paid this week, I'm going on yet another little L.L. Bean shopping spree, this time for more shoes and some proper pants for those walks at the country park.
I am, for the first time in years, looking forward to fall. In years past I would dread the waning daylight and the cold mornings, but this year my overall attitude is much more positive. I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that I'll be driving home every day at dusk in my dear old 4runner instead of that damned sedan I had for 3 years, plus I'm sticking with my daily fish oil supplement, which has done wonders for my mood and outlook. I also take a slower route home through a charming neighborhood similar to the one where I spent my childhood, instead of zipping through the hurly-burly of the main drag. Upon my arrival at home after work, unless I plan on lifting weights, I prepare a cocktail at the bookcase bar and change into a pair of comfy jeans and a soft waffle-knit shirt to keep out the evening chill. I'm so ready for those long evenings nestled in my cozy living room, from which I'll briefly emerge now and then just to fill my lungs with cool air and take in the aroma of dry leaves and wood smoke wafting on the night breeze.
Ah, autumn in North Carolina, where we venture out in polo shirts and still break a sweat in the middle of the afternoon in late September.
Remember my wistful, rose-colored post about transitioning to the fall wardrobe? The official start of autumn came to pass this past Saturday, and yet I'm sitting here wearing a polo shirt with slightly damp armpits. Autumn weather in the Piedmont is as unpredictable as Blair Warner's waistline. On Monday morning I came to work wearing a polar fleece jacket, and today I'm sweating in a polo shirt. I had to make some adjustments to the strict wardrobe transition strategy I mapped out in my last post to accommodate my native state's relatively warm, sticky Septembers. The seersucker shirts are off-limits, but the polo shirts turned out to be necessary; I compromised by putting away the lighter, brighter shirts and kept the warmer-toned shirts out for autumn. While the nautical motif belts went away for the season, I decided that the striped web belts are acceptable for year-round use, particularly if one is spending time at the beach in the off-season. My leather flip-flops will remain in storage until the next time I stay in a hotel with a pool, but I'm wearing my canvas boat shoes as I type; I determined these to be a year-round item, as well, as long as they're not summer white. I can imagine myself looking quite handsome this winter wearing wool socks with the blue canvas shoes and my navy wool duffel coat; should I spend some time at my beloved Wrightsville in the winter months, I shall wear just that, along with a heavy cotton or ragg wool sweater.
I've at least had a tantalizing taste of autumn weather here and there. As I said, we've had a few chilly mornings here, calling for the Barbour jacket to come back into service after languishing for 4 or 5 months on a hanger. My wool fedoras have seen daylight again, as well. This past weekend I visited family and in-laws, resplendent in one of my new checked shirts from my preferred clothier and outfitter, L.L. Bean. Made of soft twill, it looks relaxed but still polished, perfect for weekends in the city as well as visits to country houses, pairing just as smartly with a tweed sportcoat as with a navy blazer. Upon my return home that evening, it was cool enough that I could layer my soft flannel tartan shirt over a waffle knit shirt before settling in to catch up with the DVR. I am excited to try out my newly-acquired pair of 16" Maine Hunting Shoes from L.L. Bean next time I take the dog for a stroll in my town's big wooded park, but first I really should procure some sort of canvas or twill trousers suitable for knocking around outdoors. Cotton chinos won't do, and denim dungarees are reserved for wear around the house (when not entertaining guests) and potentially dirty or dusty manual labor. I have had a few opportunities to show off my rugby shirts on informal occasions such as afternoons at the cinema or grocery runs, as well as around the office as a more relaxed alternative to my oxford cloth shirts. I'm anxious for it to get chilly enough to use my chunky cotton sweaters and even my wool duffel coat. As soon as I get paid this week, I'm going on yet another little L.L. Bean shopping spree, this time for more shoes and some proper pants for those walks at the country park.
I am, for the first time in years, looking forward to fall. In years past I would dread the waning daylight and the cold mornings, but this year my overall attitude is much more positive. I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that I'll be driving home every day at dusk in my dear old 4runner instead of that damned sedan I had for 3 years, plus I'm sticking with my daily fish oil supplement, which has done wonders for my mood and outlook. I also take a slower route home through a charming neighborhood similar to the one where I spent my childhood, instead of zipping through the hurly-burly of the main drag. Upon my arrival at home after work, unless I plan on lifting weights, I prepare a cocktail at the bookcase bar and change into a pair of comfy jeans and a soft waffle-knit shirt to keep out the evening chill. I'm so ready for those long evenings nestled in my cozy living room, from which I'll briefly emerge now and then just to fill my lungs with cool air and take in the aroma of dry leaves and wood smoke wafting on the night breeze.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
The seasonal preppy transition
"For it's a long, long while
From May to December;
And the days grow short
When you reach September..."
—from September Song by Maxwell Anderson
I play Sarah Vaughan's recording of this song every year right after Labor Day, as I lament the passing of another summer. I spent this past holiday weekend at my beloved Wrightsville for one last summer weekend of revelry, drinking copious amounts of spirituous beverages and staying up into the wee hours dancing the night away or watching mindless movies and TV shows.
The play-by-play: On Friday night, after a long drive through stop-and-go RTP traffic, we hit 22 North for a few rounds, always our first stop, and then pounded a few more at King Neptune's pirate bar across the street. We capped off the evening with a Vito's pizza in front of the TV. After a Saturday afternoon of getting hammered on the beach (with lunch from Trolley Stop, of course), we dined at 22 North, hung out at the pirate bar again, and then got snockered on fish bowls at Red Dogs, dancing and drinking until they shut down at 2AM, and bucked the drunken throngs to grab another pizza, which we scarfed down drunk while watching Puss in Boots. Due to scattered storms we didn't get on the beach on Sunday, but we did wander down to Robert's Market to grab their awesome chicken salad and pimento cheese for sandwiches, stopping for Kohl's frozen custard on the way back. On Sunday night we grilled a steak and stayed up until 3AM chugging cocktails and watching Cherry Falls, then a TV show about doomsday preppers, and then Fright Night after that. We slept late Monday, got more custard at Kohl's, and only got an hour on the beach before driving home in torrential rain storms and heavy traffic.
It's always a mildly melancholy time when we depart the family beach house on the afternoon of the first Monday in September and bid good-bye to lazy days on the beach, late evening sunsets, traipsing about in shorts and bare feet in the beach house, and Bloody Marys on the deck at Dockside. Though we plan on returning in October, now is the time of year I dolefully put away the trappings and accoutrements of summer: the canvas beach bag, stuffed with gaily-colored towels, visors, flip-flops, cheap spare sunglasses, and miscellaneous bottles of sunscreen; my swim trunks (to be taken out again the next time I stay in a hotel); my khaki shorts that I wear everywhere; and my cherished preppy regalia, such as my cheerful belts with stripes and nautical motifs, my airy seersucker shirts, and my faded canvas deck shoes. These shall rest in my closet until next May, where, whenever I reach for a flannel shirt or a tweed jacket, they'll remind me of the carefree gaiety of summer weekends at the beach while I'm freezing my nards off in February.
The mood isn't entirely mournful. This is, after all, a time of transition. I have much to look forward to in the coming months: two friends' weddings, where I will no doubt steal the spotlight in my Scottish evening dress; the annual Renaissance Festival; possibly hosting a Thanksgiving meal once again in my city house; and of course breaking out my fall and winter wardrobe. Time once again for Oxford cloth shirts at the office, rugby shirts for knocking around the house or casual weekend activities, canvas shirts and Bean Boots for visits to the dog park, and checked twill shirts for those weekend engagements that call for a neater appearance, such as visiting relatives or a fine dinner out. The time is nigh for my treasured Barbour jacket to reappear. The Clark's brown leather ankle boots will see regular use, as will my new pair of brown loafers (which I consider a year-round shoe, anyway). Sometime soon I also hope to acquire a pair of Blucher moccasins, which strike a perfect balance between carefree boat shoes and somber Blucher shoes. As the temperatures drop, I'll dig out my chunky cotton sweaters, my soft chamois shirts (on weekends), and hope to get an opportunity to wear my recently-purchased vintage L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater, the hallmark of preppies all over the east coast from the late '60s to the early '90s. It's been recently resurrected from the L.L. Bean archives and retails for about $130, but I snagged my barely-used vintage model on eBay for 28 bucks. Believe me, I am very tempted to put together a real-life version of "Prep Persona #3" from The Official Preppy Handbook (1980), which involved the aforementioned sweater layered over an Oxford cloth shirt and a popped-collar polo shirt, topped with a puffy vest, paired with wide-wale corduroy trousers, and finished with a pair of Bean's rubber moccasins (no socks, of course).
Although I am excited about unearthing my fall wardrobe, I will nonetheless miss my preppy summer wardrobe and accessories. Preppiness and summer go hand-in-hand; all summer long, I went about town looking as if I had just stepped off a boat. My most recent acquisition, L.L. Bean's Boat & Tote bag, made in Maine of thick, sturdy canvas, is a badge of membership in Club Prep, and for use on the beach, it must have blue trim, whereas trips to "the countr y" call for bags with green or other earth-colored trim. For that extra preppy touch, it ought to be monogrammed in threads that match the colored trim. However, for women, something bright and fun by Vera Bradley or possibly Lily Pulitzer is an alternative worthy of consideration. I noticed micro-expressions of approval from other people of quality in the courtyard at the condo as they recognized my bag, which coordinated perfectly with my blue soft-sided cooler, royal blue swim trunks, and pale blue polo shirt. Various shades of blue and white are the de rigeur colors for seaside accessories, though pale pinks and pale greens are a fun way to mix it up. Yellow and orange can be hard to pull off tastefully, and red just looks plain wrong. One must use good taste when selecting towels. Classic cabana stripe towels (wide alternating stripes of a single color and white) are the timeless choice. Other preppy beach-goers prefer more whimsical towels depicting artistic illustrations of sea creatures such as lobsters or nautiluses, and also simple patterns of checks, stripes, or polka dots, as long as their designs use a limited color palette and avoid gaudy gradients or airbrush effects. Preppies do not use towels depicting flags, Bob Marley, peace signs, giant hundred-dollar bills, or Betty Boop. Basically anything sold at the local beachwear store is off-limits, just take my word for it. I prefer wearing polo shirts on the beach because they make me look more respectable, which serves to defend Wrightsville's tradition as a vacation ground for people of quality against the onslaught of trashy people in wifebeaters, jeans shorts ("jorts"), and basketball shoes with black socks who would fit in better at Carolina Beach. In fact, at a particular private beach club up the coast, t-shirts are forbidden in the clubhouse except for in the poolside restaurant and locker rooms. T-shirts can still be respectable on the beach if they bear logos or decorations related to other preppy vacation spots, but anyone wearing a t-shirt celebrating the present location is worthy of ridicule. I also find it silly and pretentious when I see people down south wearing t-shirts and hats from The Black Dog Tavern. This is North Carolina, people, not Nantucket. T-shirts from traditionally preppy local colleges and universities are also acceptable, provided the wearer actually attended, plans to attend, or is the child, parent, or grandparent of an alumnus and didn't attend a rival school himself. T-shirts celebrating participation in specific athletic tournaments of a preppy nature, such as soccer, lacrosse, or tennis championships, regardless of how long ago, are a third option. Off the beach, in town, the options are numerous, though there are still protocols to observe. During the daytime, it's perfectly fine for a man to walk around within reasonable walking distance of the beach in damp swim trunks, provided he wears a shirt and footwear and doesn't intend on eating in a restaurant. Preppy women always wear cover-ups or shorts and tops over their swimwear when not on the beach or at the pool. Cotton or linen shorts in various solid colors, seersucker stripes, Madras, or embroidered with patterns of nautical motifs are perfectly acceptable for men of all ages almost everywhere except fine dining establishments, even at bars and night clubs, but cargo shorts really aren't preppy, with their saggy pockets and bulging rear pocket flaps, and denim shorts are absolutely horrid. Shorts should fit well and not fall below the knee when standing. Chino trousers and canvas pants are safe choices for fine restaurants. Grown men should avoid t-shirts even at casual restaurants at dinner. Other shirting options include polo shirts and button-front shirts of seersucker or other lightweight natural fabrics, but garish Polynesian patterns aren't preppy. To be truly preppy, button-front shirts, unless they are constructed with a convertible collar and straight hem, should be long-sleeved and worn with the sleeves rolled up to suit the temperature. The exception to this rule is shirts in tartan patterns, the reason being if they were long-sleeved, they would look like checked shirts from the wearer's fall wardrobe. Shirttails can be worn tucked or untucked; if tucked, colorful belts with stripes or nautical decorations help to lessen the sense of formality. Shirttails should always be tucked at a fine restaurant or clubhouse. Preppy beach footwear includes flip-flops, be they expensive leather or cheap plastic, sandals, boat shoes of leather or canvas, loafers, and Blucher moccasins. All must be worn without socks when paired with shorts, but socks are optional when closed-toe shoes are worn with long pants. Athletic shoes can be worn in the daytime, with or without short white socks.
I did get a taste of preppy beach paradise one weekend this summer, when my wife and I joined her parents at their waterfront home in another coastal North Carolina locale. They enjoy private beach access as members of a beach club, which owns a strip of sand where only members are permitted to sit, and better still, alcohol is freely consumed without fear of legal action by zealous patrolmen. An attendant prepared a spot for us with comfortable chaises and large umbrellas, and a waitress brought us Bloody Marys, margaritas, and Coronas. All around me at all times were fine people of good breeding with well-mannered children. No one was loud or boisterous, nor did I spot any repulsive tattoos. Children knew not to tear around knocking people over. Jorts and wifebeaters were nowhere to be seen. It was everything Wrightsville used to be in the glorious '90s, before unwashed hoi polloi began creeping in from underneath their slimy rocks.
So, while I bid an emotional farewell to another glorious summer season, I turn my attention to the coming autumn and all it holds in store — winery tours, visits to the dog park, bowls of hot soup or chili on gray afternoons — and, while I love our exciting travels, I nevertheless look forward to lazy weekends at home, nestled in my living room with good books and hot drinks, wearing my cozy rugby shirts.
From May to December;
And the days grow short
When you reach September..."
—from September Song by Maxwell Anderson
I play Sarah Vaughan's recording of this song every year right after Labor Day, as I lament the passing of another summer. I spent this past holiday weekend at my beloved Wrightsville for one last summer weekend of revelry, drinking copious amounts of spirituous beverages and staying up into the wee hours dancing the night away or watching mindless movies and TV shows.
The play-by-play: On Friday night, after a long drive through stop-and-go RTP traffic, we hit 22 North for a few rounds, always our first stop, and then pounded a few more at King Neptune's pirate bar across the street. We capped off the evening with a Vito's pizza in front of the TV. After a Saturday afternoon of getting hammered on the beach (with lunch from Trolley Stop, of course), we dined at 22 North, hung out at the pirate bar again, and then got snockered on fish bowls at Red Dogs, dancing and drinking until they shut down at 2AM, and bucked the drunken throngs to grab another pizza, which we scarfed down drunk while watching Puss in Boots. Due to scattered storms we didn't get on the beach on Sunday, but we did wander down to Robert's Market to grab their awesome chicken salad and pimento cheese for sandwiches, stopping for Kohl's frozen custard on the way back. On Sunday night we grilled a steak and stayed up until 3AM chugging cocktails and watching Cherry Falls, then a TV show about doomsday preppers, and then Fright Night after that. We slept late Monday, got more custard at Kohl's, and only got an hour on the beach before driving home in torrential rain storms and heavy traffic.
It's always a mildly melancholy time when we depart the family beach house on the afternoon of the first Monday in September and bid good-bye to lazy days on the beach, late evening sunsets, traipsing about in shorts and bare feet in the beach house, and Bloody Marys on the deck at Dockside. Though we plan on returning in October, now is the time of year I dolefully put away the trappings and accoutrements of summer: the canvas beach bag, stuffed with gaily-colored towels, visors, flip-flops, cheap spare sunglasses, and miscellaneous bottles of sunscreen; my swim trunks (to be taken out again the next time I stay in a hotel); my khaki shorts that I wear everywhere; and my cherished preppy regalia, such as my cheerful belts with stripes and nautical motifs, my airy seersucker shirts, and my faded canvas deck shoes. These shall rest in my closet until next May, where, whenever I reach for a flannel shirt or a tweed jacket, they'll remind me of the carefree gaiety of summer weekends at the beach while I'm freezing my nards off in February.
The mood isn't entirely mournful. This is, after all, a time of transition. I have much to look forward to in the coming months: two friends' weddings, where I will no doubt steal the spotlight in my Scottish evening dress; the annual Renaissance Festival; possibly hosting a Thanksgiving meal once again in my city house; and of course breaking out my fall and winter wardrobe. Time once again for Oxford cloth shirts at the office, rugby shirts for knocking around the house or casual weekend activities, canvas shirts and Bean Boots for visits to the dog park, and checked twill shirts for those weekend engagements that call for a neater appearance, such as visiting relatives or a fine dinner out. The time is nigh for my treasured Barbour jacket to reappear. The Clark's brown leather ankle boots will see regular use, as will my new pair of brown loafers (which I consider a year-round shoe, anyway). Sometime soon I also hope to acquire a pair of Blucher moccasins, which strike a perfect balance between carefree boat shoes and somber Blucher shoes. As the temperatures drop, I'll dig out my chunky cotton sweaters, my soft chamois shirts (on weekends), and hope to get an opportunity to wear my recently-purchased vintage L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater, the hallmark of preppies all over the east coast from the late '60s to the early '90s. It's been recently resurrected from the L.L. Bean archives and retails for about $130, but I snagged my barely-used vintage model on eBay for 28 bucks. Believe me, I am very tempted to put together a real-life version of "Prep Persona #3" from The Official Preppy Handbook (1980), which involved the aforementioned sweater layered over an Oxford cloth shirt and a popped-collar polo shirt, topped with a puffy vest, paired with wide-wale corduroy trousers, and finished with a pair of Bean's rubber moccasins (no socks, of course).
Although I am excited about unearthing my fall wardrobe, I will nonetheless miss my preppy summer wardrobe and accessories. Preppiness and summer go hand-in-hand; all summer long, I went about town looking as if I had just stepped off a boat. My most recent acquisition, L.L. Bean's Boat & Tote bag, made in Maine of thick, sturdy canvas, is a badge of membership in Club Prep, and for use on the beach, it must have blue trim, whereas trips to "the countr y" call for bags with green or other earth-colored trim. For that extra preppy touch, it ought to be monogrammed in threads that match the colored trim. However, for women, something bright and fun by Vera Bradley or possibly Lily Pulitzer is an alternative worthy of consideration. I noticed micro-expressions of approval from other people of quality in the courtyard at the condo as they recognized my bag, which coordinated perfectly with my blue soft-sided cooler, royal blue swim trunks, and pale blue polo shirt. Various shades of blue and white are the de rigeur colors for seaside accessories, though pale pinks and pale greens are a fun way to mix it up. Yellow and orange can be hard to pull off tastefully, and red just looks plain wrong. One must use good taste when selecting towels. Classic cabana stripe towels (wide alternating stripes of a single color and white) are the timeless choice. Other preppy beach-goers prefer more whimsical towels depicting artistic illustrations of sea creatures such as lobsters or nautiluses, and also simple patterns of checks, stripes, or polka dots, as long as their designs use a limited color palette and avoid gaudy gradients or airbrush effects. Preppies do not use towels depicting flags, Bob Marley, peace signs, giant hundred-dollar bills, or Betty Boop. Basically anything sold at the local beachwear store is off-limits, just take my word for it. I prefer wearing polo shirts on the beach because they make me look more respectable, which serves to defend Wrightsville's tradition as a vacation ground for people of quality against the onslaught of trashy people in wifebeaters, jeans shorts ("jorts"), and basketball shoes with black socks who would fit in better at Carolina Beach. In fact, at a particular private beach club up the coast, t-shirts are forbidden in the clubhouse except for in the poolside restaurant and locker rooms. T-shirts can still be respectable on the beach if they bear logos or decorations related to other preppy vacation spots, but anyone wearing a t-shirt celebrating the present location is worthy of ridicule. I also find it silly and pretentious when I see people down south wearing t-shirts and hats from The Black Dog Tavern. This is North Carolina, people, not Nantucket. T-shirts from traditionally preppy local colleges and universities are also acceptable, provided the wearer actually attended, plans to attend, or is the child, parent, or grandparent of an alumnus and didn't attend a rival school himself. T-shirts celebrating participation in specific athletic tournaments of a preppy nature, such as soccer, lacrosse, or tennis championships, regardless of how long ago, are a third option. Off the beach, in town, the options are numerous, though there are still protocols to observe. During the daytime, it's perfectly fine for a man to walk around within reasonable walking distance of the beach in damp swim trunks, provided he wears a shirt and footwear and doesn't intend on eating in a restaurant. Preppy women always wear cover-ups or shorts and tops over their swimwear when not on the beach or at the pool. Cotton or linen shorts in various solid colors, seersucker stripes, Madras, or embroidered with patterns of nautical motifs are perfectly acceptable for men of all ages almost everywhere except fine dining establishments, even at bars and night clubs, but cargo shorts really aren't preppy, with their saggy pockets and bulging rear pocket flaps, and denim shorts are absolutely horrid. Shorts should fit well and not fall below the knee when standing. Chino trousers and canvas pants are safe choices for fine restaurants. Grown men should avoid t-shirts even at casual restaurants at dinner. Other shirting options include polo shirts and button-front shirts of seersucker or other lightweight natural fabrics, but garish Polynesian patterns aren't preppy. To be truly preppy, button-front shirts, unless they are constructed with a convertible collar and straight hem, should be long-sleeved and worn with the sleeves rolled up to suit the temperature. The exception to this rule is shirts in tartan patterns, the reason being if they were long-sleeved, they would look like checked shirts from the wearer's fall wardrobe. Shirttails can be worn tucked or untucked; if tucked, colorful belts with stripes or nautical decorations help to lessen the sense of formality. Shirttails should always be tucked at a fine restaurant or clubhouse. Preppy beach footwear includes flip-flops, be they expensive leather or cheap plastic, sandals, boat shoes of leather or canvas, loafers, and Blucher moccasins. All must be worn without socks when paired with shorts, but socks are optional when closed-toe shoes are worn with long pants. Athletic shoes can be worn in the daytime, with or without short white socks.
I did get a taste of preppy beach paradise one weekend this summer, when my wife and I joined her parents at their waterfront home in another coastal North Carolina locale. They enjoy private beach access as members of a beach club, which owns a strip of sand where only members are permitted to sit, and better still, alcohol is freely consumed without fear of legal action by zealous patrolmen. An attendant prepared a spot for us with comfortable chaises and large umbrellas, and a waitress brought us Bloody Marys, margaritas, and Coronas. All around me at all times were fine people of good breeding with well-mannered children. No one was loud or boisterous, nor did I spot any repulsive tattoos. Children knew not to tear around knocking people over. Jorts and wifebeaters were nowhere to be seen. It was everything Wrightsville used to be in the glorious '90s, before unwashed hoi polloi began creeping in from underneath their slimy rocks.
So, while I bid an emotional farewell to another glorious summer season, I turn my attention to the coming autumn and all it holds in store — winery tours, visits to the dog park, bowls of hot soup or chili on gray afternoons — and, while I love our exciting travels, I nevertheless look forward to lazy weekends at home, nestled in my living room with good books and hot drinks, wearing my cozy rugby shirts.
Friday, June 15, 2012
What's my age again?
Getting old blows. I've watched my older brother wrinkle and sag, largely due to the stress of his ongoing divorce. I've watched my grandparents-in-law gradually deteriorate. The ravages of sun damage are even beginning to take their toll on my wife's beautiful skin. Although we're all programmed to get old, sooner or later, thanks to those god-damned genetic time-bombs known as telomeres, I'm working now on being in the "later" category.
Considering how much I wasted a good deal of what should have been my most vital years (ages 15-25) being a good student, not getting into trouble, and not getting laid, my demented psyche has determined that I can recapture my lost youth by maintaining the appearance of a late-20-something. During some downtime in my cubicle, I did a great deal of research on the inter-webs all about aging: why skin sags, how cells slow down their regeneration, free radical damage, blah-blah-blah. I tried my best to filter out the old wives' tales, pseudoscience, shaky anecdotal evidence, and sales pitches thinly disguised as success stories written by snake-oil hucksters, and base my anti-aging approach on well-researched and time-tested techniques.
My approach begins with nutrition. When researching what keeps skin young and firm, I read all about the makeup and regeneration of collagen and elastin. Since collagen is comprised of proteins synthesized in the body from lysine and proline, using vitamin C as a catalyst, I knew I needed to get enough protein and also plenty of vitamin C, so I've begun eating either protein supplements or lean animal protein such as fish or chicken every day, as well as taking a vitamin C supplement. Vitamin A is also important for regenerating skin tissue, so I take a supplement every other day (care must be taken not to overdose on carotenoids). Coenzyme Q-10 (CoQ10) also promotes collagen and elastin production, so I take a CoQ10 supplement every day. As the body ages, it begins to produce more collagenase than collagen, which breaks the peptide bonds in collagen; certain phytochemicals such as anthocyanins and catechins, found in dark berries and green tea, are known to inhibit collagenase production, so I make sure to consume some form of dark berry fruit every day, as well as a cup of hot green tea. Copper has been linked to wrinkle repair, so I take a daily men's multivitamin containing copper. Part of skin's healthy appearance is owed to an abundance of moisture, so I make an effort to consume generous quantities of water every day (which also gives me plenty of chances to get up from my desk during the work day). I'm not stopping at looking young; I'm also going for a young, energetic, healthy overall feeling. I'm attempting to eat a healthier diet in order to protect my heart and the rest of my body. I abstain from refined sugar, which is just plain toxic, and consume oatmeal nearly every morning for its poop-enducing fiber and artery-unclogging beta-glucans. I try to keep saturated fats to a minimum so I don't pack on unnecessary pounds. As suggested by my shrink, I even started taking fish oil supplements. I've also begun exercising fairly regularly (my wife's recent knee injury has made it more difficult for me to get motivated to work out).
Further preventive measures involve daily skin maintenance. I settled on using a moisturizer containing retinol twice a day, as its usefulness in protecting the skin is well-documented. I also use a mild exfoliating skin cleanser twice a day, to remove some of my dead skin cells and bring new skin to the surface. For good measure, I'll top it off with a smearing of emu oil, a biological moisturizer that seals off the skin.
While I can't reasonably expect all this effort to make me look 25 forever, I think I can at least expect to look 5-10 years younger at any time, and also feel even younger than that on the inside. I have to say, for the past couple of weeks, I really have felt less depressed, more content with my life, and even more energetic and less exhausted in the mornings. My stupid knees still make noise despite my constant intake of glucosamine & chondroitin.
For me, part of feeling young is revisiting the things I enjoyed when I was younger. I recently sort of rediscovered CDs. Remember how douchey vinyl enthusiast geeks proliferated as CDs took over as the primary storage form of music? I find myself becoming a CD enthusiast in the age of touch-screen MP3 players. Now I'm no musical Luddite; I carry my entire music library in my pocket on my iPhone. But lately, I rediscovered the pleasures of the tactile experience of pulling a CD out of its shiny jewel case decorated with album art, sliding it into a CD player, and listening to it hiss as it spun around getting up to the proper speed. Last week, I even paid a visit to a used CD store to pick up a few classic albums from the '90s, to help me get into that youthful spirit. I picked up Blink 182's Enema of the State (containing a popular track which inspired the title of this blog entry), Green Day's Dookie, and Matchbox Twenty's Yourself or Someone Like You. I slide them into the factory CD player on my 2001 Toyota and I'm transported to that glorious time, the turn of the 21st century, and suddenly I'm 20 years old again. Recently, I even tracked down the same model CD player I had installed in my first car. The dream is that one day I'll have a duplicate of my '89 Volvo sedan in which to install it. Play it again, Kenwood.
Considering how much I wasted a good deal of what should have been my most vital years (ages 15-25) being a good student, not getting into trouble, and not getting laid, my demented psyche has determined that I can recapture my lost youth by maintaining the appearance of a late-20-something. During some downtime in my cubicle, I did a great deal of research on the inter-webs all about aging: why skin sags, how cells slow down their regeneration, free radical damage, blah-blah-blah. I tried my best to filter out the old wives' tales, pseudoscience, shaky anecdotal evidence, and sales pitches thinly disguised as success stories written by snake-oil hucksters, and base my anti-aging approach on well-researched and time-tested techniques.
My approach begins with nutrition. When researching what keeps skin young and firm, I read all about the makeup and regeneration of collagen and elastin. Since collagen is comprised of proteins synthesized in the body from lysine and proline, using vitamin C as a catalyst, I knew I needed to get enough protein and also plenty of vitamin C, so I've begun eating either protein supplements or lean animal protein such as fish or chicken every day, as well as taking a vitamin C supplement. Vitamin A is also important for regenerating skin tissue, so I take a supplement every other day (care must be taken not to overdose on carotenoids). Coenzyme Q-10 (CoQ10) also promotes collagen and elastin production, so I take a CoQ10 supplement every day. As the body ages, it begins to produce more collagenase than collagen, which breaks the peptide bonds in collagen; certain phytochemicals such as anthocyanins and catechins, found in dark berries and green tea, are known to inhibit collagenase production, so I make sure to consume some form of dark berry fruit every day, as well as a cup of hot green tea. Copper has been linked to wrinkle repair, so I take a daily men's multivitamin containing copper. Part of skin's healthy appearance is owed to an abundance of moisture, so I make an effort to consume generous quantities of water every day (which also gives me plenty of chances to get up from my desk during the work day). I'm not stopping at looking young; I'm also going for a young, energetic, healthy overall feeling. I'm attempting to eat a healthier diet in order to protect my heart and the rest of my body. I abstain from refined sugar, which is just plain toxic, and consume oatmeal nearly every morning for its poop-enducing fiber and artery-unclogging beta-glucans. I try to keep saturated fats to a minimum so I don't pack on unnecessary pounds. As suggested by my shrink, I even started taking fish oil supplements. I've also begun exercising fairly regularly (my wife's recent knee injury has made it more difficult for me to get motivated to work out).
Further preventive measures involve daily skin maintenance. I settled on using a moisturizer containing retinol twice a day, as its usefulness in protecting the skin is well-documented. I also use a mild exfoliating skin cleanser twice a day, to remove some of my dead skin cells and bring new skin to the surface. For good measure, I'll top it off with a smearing of emu oil, a biological moisturizer that seals off the skin.
While I can't reasonably expect all this effort to make me look 25 forever, I think I can at least expect to look 5-10 years younger at any time, and also feel even younger than that on the inside. I have to say, for the past couple of weeks, I really have felt less depressed, more content with my life, and even more energetic and less exhausted in the mornings. My stupid knees still make noise despite my constant intake of glucosamine & chondroitin.
For me, part of feeling young is revisiting the things I enjoyed when I was younger. I recently sort of rediscovered CDs. Remember how douchey vinyl enthusiast geeks proliferated as CDs took over as the primary storage form of music? I find myself becoming a CD enthusiast in the age of touch-screen MP3 players. Now I'm no musical Luddite; I carry my entire music library in my pocket on my iPhone. But lately, I rediscovered the pleasures of the tactile experience of pulling a CD out of its shiny jewel case decorated with album art, sliding it into a CD player, and listening to it hiss as it spun around getting up to the proper speed. Last week, I even paid a visit to a used CD store to pick up a few classic albums from the '90s, to help me get into that youthful spirit. I picked up Blink 182's Enema of the State (containing a popular track which inspired the title of this blog entry), Green Day's Dookie, and Matchbox Twenty's Yourself or Someone Like You. I slide them into the factory CD player on my 2001 Toyota and I'm transported to that glorious time, the turn of the 21st century, and suddenly I'm 20 years old again. Recently, I even tracked down the same model CD player I had installed in my first car. The dream is that one day I'll have a duplicate of my '89 Volvo sedan in which to install it. Play it again, Kenwood.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
A-WASPing we will go
Once more, it has been far too long since my last entry. I've been quite busy in the ol' cubicle recently. Seems like everyone around here needs something and needs it fast. I've been putting in full 7-and-a-half-hour days the last couple of weeks! I'm about to drop!
I'll start with an update on a recent, fortuitous turn of events: the acquisition of a new used car, and the permanent removal from my sight of the bane of my existence, the Crown Victoria. One day in late March, my bride received a call from her grandparents, saying they wanted to buy her a car. Just like that. This was completely unexpected -- we hadn't asked for a car or even dropped hints. That very weekend, we went to Carmax and found our ideal ride -- a late-model Toyota Highlander. While it wasn't the preppy Volvo XC-90 SUV that I had hoped for for my bride, it was still a major upgrade from the aging 4runner, which I was delighted to have for my primary vehicle once again. I hung onto the Crown Vic for a little while, not sure what do do with it, and when the registration renewal finally came due, I decided just to see what Carmax would give me for it. I received an insulting offer, but took the money and ran, glad, in the end, to be rid of that albatross once and for all. No longer do I stand out in traffic like a chimp on a unicycle. I move along completely unnoticed, in a vehicle perfectly suited for my persona: the douchey preppy.
Speaking of preppies, you may recall a series of writings on this silly blog all about preppies and what makes them tick, if they tick at all. Further research into the subculture compels me to make a certain distinction, albeit a blurry, murky distinction with few clear boundaries, between preppies and a similar culture within their culture, identified by an acronym summing up its proud, mildly inbred roots: White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, or WASPs.
A culture within a culture, WASPs bear many similarities to preppies, such as affluence and an interest in refinement and good manners, yet there are a few characteristics that set them apart. I'll do my best to clarify some of these distinctions.
Religion. By virtue of the P in WASP, WASPs are protestant, but it doesn't quite stop there. While all preppies are affiliated with Christian denominations that reject papal authority, WASPs are exclusively Anglican or Episcopalian. Baptists tend to be too preachy and fundamentalist for the WASPy disinclination toward controversy, and their contempt for alcohol and dancing conflicts with WASPs' love of drunkenly gyrating to beach music at weddings. Methodists, meanwhile, are so bland and repressed that they bore WASPs to tears. WASPs don't take their faith terribly seriously, mainly using their churches as a social center where they can keep up with acquaintances they never see elsewhere, show off their expensive blazers, get together for dinners where wine flows freely, and make sure their children make lifelong friends with other WASP children, beginning in their church's private preschool.
Education. Most preppies encourage their children to excel in academics, but know to stop pressuring them if they just don't show a natural aptitude in certain subjects, knowing they can at least get into UNC-Pembroke after high school. WASPs, meanwhile, have zero tolerance for anything short of outstanding when it comes to grades and GPAs. Now, with advanced placement courses so commonplace, even a 4.0 GPA is regarded by some WASPs as coasting.
Athletics. Preppies and WASPs value athletic prowess equally, but preppies enjoy a little more variety than stodgy WASPs. Preppies and WASPs alike partake of golf, tennis, soccer, skiing, lacrosse, and swimming, but a WASP would be highly unlikely to share a preppy's interest in baseball or bowling. There's a little overlap regarding basketball; while preppies like both to play and watch, WASPs will watch their alma mater but only play if they are freakishly tall and have a good shot at joining the team at their parents' college. Basically if it's not European, doesn't require expensive equipment, or is too popular among the middle class, WASPs aren't interested.
Tradition. Both preppies and WASPs revere the practices of their forbears, but preppies feel more comfortable with taking a little creative license when it comes to how they carry on these traditions. A preppy would take cheeky pleasure in, say, stringing up Corona beer bottle lights on the Christmas tree in the family room, as long as nearly all other decorations are strictly traditional. A WASP would find no humor in deviating from the way it's always been done.
Englishness. Preppies are largely of English descent, but feel no shame if their bloodlines are muddled with ancestors from Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Scandinavia, and France, and even dabble in traditions from cultures with which they have no affiliation. Preppies view Cinco de Mayo as a great excuse to chug margaritas, and those of Scottish descent love to put on a kilt and get together with other grown men in skirts. I know I will rattle a few WASPy cages this fall when I attend a friend's wedding dressed in Scottish formal attire instead of a bland dinner jacket. WASPs, on the other hand, will positively shit a brick if something isn't done exactly as the monarch of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would do it.
Transportation. Buying cars new or nearly new and keeping them going for at least a decade is a trait held in common by preppies and WASPs, but the choice of vehicle makes a difference in distinguishing the preppy from the WASP. Preppies will pore over Consumer Reports, looking for the model that stands the best chance of still being in good shape ten years from now without needing constant maintenance and repairs. This is why you rarely see a preppy driving an American sedan, but so many will drive Ford and Chevy SUVs. Like everyone else, some preppies can't get over their need to be seen as successful, and while the nation of origin makes little difference to them, many will opt for the more expensive badges such as Lexus, Infiniti, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, and Acura, when a Toyota or Honda would have been just as reliable. For WASPs, on the other hand, it's Europe or bust. Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Land Rover/Range Rover, and Volvo are the chariots of choice for the WASP. American is out of the question, and while Japanese is not terribly popular, either, some WASPs grudgingly accept Lexus as on-par with Mercedes-Benz, but you'll never see a WASP tootling about in a Camry.
I'll start with an update on a recent, fortuitous turn of events: the acquisition of a new used car, and the permanent removal from my sight of the bane of my existence, the Crown Victoria. One day in late March, my bride received a call from her grandparents, saying they wanted to buy her a car. Just like that. This was completely unexpected -- we hadn't asked for a car or even dropped hints. That very weekend, we went to Carmax and found our ideal ride -- a late-model Toyota Highlander. While it wasn't the preppy Volvo XC-90 SUV that I had hoped for for my bride, it was still a major upgrade from the aging 4runner, which I was delighted to have for my primary vehicle once again. I hung onto the Crown Vic for a little while, not sure what do do with it, and when the registration renewal finally came due, I decided just to see what Carmax would give me for it. I received an insulting offer, but took the money and ran, glad, in the end, to be rid of that albatross once and for all. No longer do I stand out in traffic like a chimp on a unicycle. I move along completely unnoticed, in a vehicle perfectly suited for my persona: the douchey preppy.
Speaking of preppies, you may recall a series of writings on this silly blog all about preppies and what makes them tick, if they tick at all. Further research into the subculture compels me to make a certain distinction, albeit a blurry, murky distinction with few clear boundaries, between preppies and a similar culture within their culture, identified by an acronym summing up its proud, mildly inbred roots: White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, or WASPs.
A culture within a culture, WASPs bear many similarities to preppies, such as affluence and an interest in refinement and good manners, yet there are a few characteristics that set them apart. I'll do my best to clarify some of these distinctions.
Religion. By virtue of the P in WASP, WASPs are protestant, but it doesn't quite stop there. While all preppies are affiliated with Christian denominations that reject papal authority, WASPs are exclusively Anglican or Episcopalian. Baptists tend to be too preachy and fundamentalist for the WASPy disinclination toward controversy, and their contempt for alcohol and dancing conflicts with WASPs' love of drunkenly gyrating to beach music at weddings. Methodists, meanwhile, are so bland and repressed that they bore WASPs to tears. WASPs don't take their faith terribly seriously, mainly using their churches as a social center where they can keep up with acquaintances they never see elsewhere, show off their expensive blazers, get together for dinners where wine flows freely, and make sure their children make lifelong friends with other WASP children, beginning in their church's private preschool.
Education. Most preppies encourage their children to excel in academics, but know to stop pressuring them if they just don't show a natural aptitude in certain subjects, knowing they can at least get into UNC-Pembroke after high school. WASPs, meanwhile, have zero tolerance for anything short of outstanding when it comes to grades and GPAs. Now, with advanced placement courses so commonplace, even a 4.0 GPA is regarded by some WASPs as coasting.
Athletics. Preppies and WASPs value athletic prowess equally, but preppies enjoy a little more variety than stodgy WASPs. Preppies and WASPs alike partake of golf, tennis, soccer, skiing, lacrosse, and swimming, but a WASP would be highly unlikely to share a preppy's interest in baseball or bowling. There's a little overlap regarding basketball; while preppies like both to play and watch, WASPs will watch their alma mater but only play if they are freakishly tall and have a good shot at joining the team at their parents' college. Basically if it's not European, doesn't require expensive equipment, or is too popular among the middle class, WASPs aren't interested.
Tradition. Both preppies and WASPs revere the practices of their forbears, but preppies feel more comfortable with taking a little creative license when it comes to how they carry on these traditions. A preppy would take cheeky pleasure in, say, stringing up Corona beer bottle lights on the Christmas tree in the family room, as long as nearly all other decorations are strictly traditional. A WASP would find no humor in deviating from the way it's always been done.
Englishness. Preppies are largely of English descent, but feel no shame if their bloodlines are muddled with ancestors from Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Scandinavia, and France, and even dabble in traditions from cultures with which they have no affiliation. Preppies view Cinco de Mayo as a great excuse to chug margaritas, and those of Scottish descent love to put on a kilt and get together with other grown men in skirts. I know I will rattle a few WASPy cages this fall when I attend a friend's wedding dressed in Scottish formal attire instead of a bland dinner jacket. WASPs, on the other hand, will positively shit a brick if something isn't done exactly as the monarch of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would do it.
Transportation. Buying cars new or nearly new and keeping them going for at least a decade is a trait held in common by preppies and WASPs, but the choice of vehicle makes a difference in distinguishing the preppy from the WASP. Preppies will pore over Consumer Reports, looking for the model that stands the best chance of still being in good shape ten years from now without needing constant maintenance and repairs. This is why you rarely see a preppy driving an American sedan, but so many will drive Ford and Chevy SUVs. Like everyone else, some preppies can't get over their need to be seen as successful, and while the nation of origin makes little difference to them, many will opt for the more expensive badges such as Lexus, Infiniti, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, and Acura, when a Toyota or Honda would have been just as reliable. For WASPs, on the other hand, it's Europe or bust. Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Land Rover/Range Rover, and Volvo are the chariots of choice for the WASP. American is out of the question, and while Japanese is not terribly popular, either, some WASPs grudgingly accept Lexus as on-par with Mercedes-Benz, but you'll never see a WASP tootling about in a Camry.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Belly up to the Bookcase; Retro Kitchen
To some, a home is merely a structure where you sleep, shower, shit, and shave. To me, it's a refuge, a space where you can hide away from the worries of the world, and the nest should be feathered with as many little luxuries and comforts as one can afford. As far back as I can remember, I always thought a hallmark of home luxury was the home beverage bar. I never lived in a home that had one; at most, we had a table with a few bottles of liquor, mixers, and glasses. I remember visiting the homes of people who had something more built-in, sometimes with running water and/or a mini fridge, and thought how marvelous it would be to have something like that in my own home one day.
I attempted a beverage bar of sorts when I still lived with my parents. Having taken over my elder brother's bedroom as my own office, I had an entire closet at my disposal. I obtained a plywood board about 18 inches deep, covered it with matte black shelf liner, and installed it as a counter surface using shelf brackets. The already-present upper shelf was a good place to mount a stemware rack and hooks for beer mugs. From the downstairs utility room I unearthed my sister's old dorm fridge, which went under the counter. I wanted a mirrored backdrop of some sort, and settled on a $5 12"x48" mirror from Wal-Mart. It was crude and makeshift, and didn't even have any alcoholic beverages, since I hadn't yet discovered the pleasures of imbibing the devil's brew, but damn it, I had a bar! I stored soft drinks in the fridge and served them in stemware to friends. Eventually I grew tired of it, since I honestly wasn't really using it much, and dismantled it in favor of storing my archives.
So not too long ago, I studied an underutilized built-in bookcase in my present living room and decided it would be an ideal spot for serving spirituous beverages to guests, or just making myself a cocktail after another shift in the cubicle. Different ideas swirled around in my head, but I knew that ultimately it needed to function as a one-stop beverage service station. Running water was out of the question since my humble home rests atop a concrete slab foundation, but I could still lend a touch of luxury to my living room with shelves laden with liquor, mixers, and glistening glassware. Every truly fine home bar I've seen has a mirrored backing to bounce back the light from the room and make the glassware sparkle. My first sad attempt at replicating this effect on a budget was to purchase mirrored tiles from that cesspool of human misery known as Wal-Mart and affix them to the back of the bookcase with mounting tape. Right out of the box they gave me problems, as they had been hacked up by simple-minded Indonesian child laborers who had no respect for 90-degree angles, leading to unsightly gaps between the tiles where they didn't perfectly align. I pressed ahead anyway, procuring new shelves cut an inch shallower to accommodate the mirrors and painting them gloss white myself. With everything in place, I stocked the shelves with martini glasses, 6 crystal rocks glasses that I had procured at an Eckerd's in 1998 for $5, our liquor collection, an ice bucket, and a couple bottles of club soda and tonic water. It wasn't long before the cheap mounting tape behind the even cheaper tiles started to give out, and tiles would slowly slide at a glacial pace down the wall, forming interesting geometric patterns. One day I'd had enough of looking at this embarrassing spectacle, and on an impulse I Googled "36 48 mirror." And Lo! The angel of the Google appeared and said "fear not, for I bring tidings of affordable hardware. For available to us this day in the store of Lowes is a mirror, which is $41.99." The next day I purchased my beautiful 36" x 48" solid mirror, scraped off the retarded old Wal-Mart tiles, and mounted it in place. The following week I went out to look for anything that could be of use in making the bar more splendiferous. I purchased some sturdy but attractive rocks glasses, shot glasses, little glass bowls for garnishes such as olives and cherries, toothpicks, and salt & pepper shakers. Then it was off to the food-jobber for cute little cans of tomato juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and soft drinks, as well as the little glass bottles of tonic water, club soda, and ginger ale, and for a final irresistible flourish, Coca-Cola and Diet Coke in glass bottles. The bookcase bar is absolutely resplendent! Every evening I look forward to coming home and whipping up a cocktail or martini in my living room before a session of mind-rotting celebrity gossip shows.
Not too long ago, I received in the mail a catalog from Crate & Barrel. While lazily leafing through pages of clean lines and uncluttered settings, I came across a photo showcasing various food storage options, all within the interior of a refrigerator. Foods and juices were kept in sparkling glass containers and jugs, without garish product labels or slick, shiny, soulless plastic to offend the eye. This is how food used to be kept in cold closets of yesteryear—leftovers stored in sturdy lidded glass dishes, their patterns of ridges diffusing light into a rippled pattern of color; milk kept in glass bottles without labels cluttered up with government-mandated information that no one reads; juices in ribbed glass jugs, showing off their vibrant oranges and reds; and meats and cheeses wrapped in translucent wax paper or crisp brown butcher paper, waiting to offer a pleasant tactile experience as the consumer unfolds the crinkly paper instead of unzipping a slick plastic bag damp with condensation. The photo brought to mind the kitchen fridge in the kid's house in Empire of the Sun. Whenever I watch it I like to pause the DVD and examine the contents: glass bottles of milk, fresh fruit not in plastic bags, and wedges of cheese on plates with glass domes. Housewives in the '30s and '40s really had something when it came to cold food storage. Maybe they would have given their high heels to have zip-top plastic bags and plastic milk jugs, but I'm ready to give up the bland sterility of Rubbermaid containers and tiresome twist-tie bread bags for something with a little more style and substance. I shall gradually convert my refrigerator's interior into a trip down kitchen memory lane. My first step forward has been to go to the source of my inspiration, Crate & Barrel, and view their food storage options. Huzzah! Their lidded glass containers were on super-sale! I have an assortment on order as I type. I also plan on repackaging things such as cheeses and deli meats in wax paper and brown kraft paper. I've long been a fan of the retro appeal of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and know fully well the pleasure of unwrapping a treat instead of sliding it out of a sterile plastic sack. I read one tip online that bread can be wrapped in wax paper and then in a flour sack towel, so tonight I'll see about getting some flour sack towels at a dollar store and trying it out. At worst I'll be out a couple dollars and half a loaf of bread. Also at C&B I found some white porcelain egg storage trays as a beautiful alternative to crunchy, squeaky styrofoam egg crates. I was also happy to find a ceramic lidded jar, which, being fully light-tight, should prove an elegant container for my whey protein powder (a light-sensitive product). In the future, I'll purchase some lidded glass jars for breakfast cereal and oatmeal, and glass jugs for milk and juice.
I attempted a beverage bar of sorts when I still lived with my parents. Having taken over my elder brother's bedroom as my own office, I had an entire closet at my disposal. I obtained a plywood board about 18 inches deep, covered it with matte black shelf liner, and installed it as a counter surface using shelf brackets. The already-present upper shelf was a good place to mount a stemware rack and hooks for beer mugs. From the downstairs utility room I unearthed my sister's old dorm fridge, which went under the counter. I wanted a mirrored backdrop of some sort, and settled on a $5 12"x48" mirror from Wal-Mart. It was crude and makeshift, and didn't even have any alcoholic beverages, since I hadn't yet discovered the pleasures of imbibing the devil's brew, but damn it, I had a bar! I stored soft drinks in the fridge and served them in stemware to friends. Eventually I grew tired of it, since I honestly wasn't really using it much, and dismantled it in favor of storing my archives.
So not too long ago, I studied an underutilized built-in bookcase in my present living room and decided it would be an ideal spot for serving spirituous beverages to guests, or just making myself a cocktail after another shift in the cubicle. Different ideas swirled around in my head, but I knew that ultimately it needed to function as a one-stop beverage service station. Running water was out of the question since my humble home rests atop a concrete slab foundation, but I could still lend a touch of luxury to my living room with shelves laden with liquor, mixers, and glistening glassware. Every truly fine home bar I've seen has a mirrored backing to bounce back the light from the room and make the glassware sparkle. My first sad attempt at replicating this effect on a budget was to purchase mirrored tiles from that cesspool of human misery known as Wal-Mart and affix them to the back of the bookcase with mounting tape. Right out of the box they gave me problems, as they had been hacked up by simple-minded Indonesian child laborers who had no respect for 90-degree angles, leading to unsightly gaps between the tiles where they didn't perfectly align. I pressed ahead anyway, procuring new shelves cut an inch shallower to accommodate the mirrors and painting them gloss white myself. With everything in place, I stocked the shelves with martini glasses, 6 crystal rocks glasses that I had procured at an Eckerd's in 1998 for $5, our liquor collection, an ice bucket, and a couple bottles of club soda and tonic water. It wasn't long before the cheap mounting tape behind the even cheaper tiles started to give out, and tiles would slowly slide at a glacial pace down the wall, forming interesting geometric patterns. One day I'd had enough of looking at this embarrassing spectacle, and on an impulse I Googled "36 48 mirror." And Lo! The angel of the Google appeared and said "fear not, for I bring tidings of affordable hardware. For available to us this day in the store of Lowes is a mirror, which is $41.99." The next day I purchased my beautiful 36" x 48" solid mirror, scraped off the retarded old Wal-Mart tiles, and mounted it in place. The following week I went out to look for anything that could be of use in making the bar more splendiferous. I purchased some sturdy but attractive rocks glasses, shot glasses, little glass bowls for garnishes such as olives and cherries, toothpicks, and salt & pepper shakers. Then it was off to the food-jobber for cute little cans of tomato juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and soft drinks, as well as the little glass bottles of tonic water, club soda, and ginger ale, and for a final irresistible flourish, Coca-Cola and Diet Coke in glass bottles. The bookcase bar is absolutely resplendent! Every evening I look forward to coming home and whipping up a cocktail or martini in my living room before a session of mind-rotting celebrity gossip shows.
Not too long ago, I received in the mail a catalog from Crate & Barrel. While lazily leafing through pages of clean lines and uncluttered settings, I came across a photo showcasing various food storage options, all within the interior of a refrigerator. Foods and juices were kept in sparkling glass containers and jugs, without garish product labels or slick, shiny, soulless plastic to offend the eye. This is how food used to be kept in cold closets of yesteryear—leftovers stored in sturdy lidded glass dishes, their patterns of ridges diffusing light into a rippled pattern of color; milk kept in glass bottles without labels cluttered up with government-mandated information that no one reads; juices in ribbed glass jugs, showing off their vibrant oranges and reds; and meats and cheeses wrapped in translucent wax paper or crisp brown butcher paper, waiting to offer a pleasant tactile experience as the consumer unfolds the crinkly paper instead of unzipping a slick plastic bag damp with condensation. The photo brought to mind the kitchen fridge in the kid's house in Empire of the Sun. Whenever I watch it I like to pause the DVD and examine the contents: glass bottles of milk, fresh fruit not in plastic bags, and wedges of cheese on plates with glass domes. Housewives in the '30s and '40s really had something when it came to cold food storage. Maybe they would have given their high heels to have zip-top plastic bags and plastic milk jugs, but I'm ready to give up the bland sterility of Rubbermaid containers and tiresome twist-tie bread bags for something with a little more style and substance. I shall gradually convert my refrigerator's interior into a trip down kitchen memory lane. My first step forward has been to go to the source of my inspiration, Crate & Barrel, and view their food storage options. Huzzah! Their lidded glass containers were on super-sale! I have an assortment on order as I type. I also plan on repackaging things such as cheeses and deli meats in wax paper and brown kraft paper. I've long been a fan of the retro appeal of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and know fully well the pleasure of unwrapping a treat instead of sliding it out of a sterile plastic sack. I read one tip online that bread can be wrapped in wax paper and then in a flour sack towel, so tonight I'll see about getting some flour sack towels at a dollar store and trying it out. At worst I'll be out a couple dollars and half a loaf of bread. Also at C&B I found some white porcelain egg storage trays as a beautiful alternative to crunchy, squeaky styrofoam egg crates. I was also happy to find a ceramic lidded jar, which, being fully light-tight, should prove an elegant container for my whey protein powder (a light-sensitive product). In the future, I'll purchase some lidded glass jars for breakfast cereal and oatmeal, and glass jugs for milk and juice.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The L.L. Bean orgy is winding down
True to my word, I have been amassing an impressive collection of casual toggery from respected outfitter L.L. Bean, but it's time to rein in the orgy of spending. Making an effort to shift away from stodgy old man to youthful-yet-timeless, I purchased items such as long-sleeve t-shirts to be worn under regular t-shirts, chunky rib-knit cotton sweaters, waffle-knit cotton layering shirts, plain-front chino trousers that avoid the impression of old-man front-butt, bright striped polo shirts, and washed jeans cut to fit more flatteringly than my other ones. My duffel coat is a fabulous addition to my winter outerwear; warm, good-looking, and long enough to cover my bum without getting bunched up in the car. I also gathered a few "preppy" staples such as cotton web belts (one in khaki with a blue stripe, the other in blue with a repeating pattern of sailboats), and a pair of their classic Bean Boots, which have already been quite handy in our recent wet weather. I went a little overboard with a few unnecessary accessories, such as a fleece jacket that I couldn't pass up at 20% off, as well as a steel sports bottle, a red plaid scarf that looks perfect with the navy blue duffel coat, a pair of swim trunks (an upgrade from my Old Navy ones), a nice canvas shoulder bag (man purse), two soft-sided coolers (in different sizes), and even a distressed wooden chess set as a decorative piece. It actually looks really great on our huge coffee table, and helps give off that impression of being at a family beach house. The shoulder bag will be useful for outdoor activities such as the Highland Games or beach-sitting. The big soft cooler will be great for the beach, as it has a padded shoulder strap, so it should be much easier to carry than the rigid plastic Coleman.
So far this season I've only worn one of my fedoras once, when fully dressed in coat & tie for lunch at my in-laws' country club. The rest of the time I've been quite content with my faded L.L. Bean baseball cap. For the past several years, I've been known for my fedoras, wearing them almost exclusively when the weather turned cold, but honestly, they just don't look right with the duffel coat, and the faded cap looks so much more youthful anyway. In homage to a trend among my high school classmates back in the good old '90s, so I've been wearing my t-shirts from Dockside and Sanitary Restaurant over long-sleeve t-shirts. I've also taken a shine to wearing thick flannel shirts over the waffle-knit shirts for an outdoorsy look. I think maybe, finally, I've hit on a fashion sense that works for me. Coming into the office one day last week, wearing my new faded jeans with a wide belt and a slightly douchey front-tuck, I noticed the new girl's eyes quickly glance at my junk while flashing a wide smile as she said hi. Success! I am youthful and attractive! While I'm happily married and not interested in any sort of fling, it's still nice to get that kind of attention from the ladies.
The after-Christmas orgy of consumption has to come to a close, however. I burned through my annual bonus on the clothes and a few other things, and now that the big ugly bill from the hospital has arrived, it's back to austerity for a good long while, but at least I'll be well-dressed while I'm eating my beans & rice at home on Saturday nights.
So far this season I've only worn one of my fedoras once, when fully dressed in coat & tie for lunch at my in-laws' country club. The rest of the time I've been quite content with my faded L.L. Bean baseball cap. For the past several years, I've been known for my fedoras, wearing them almost exclusively when the weather turned cold, but honestly, they just don't look right with the duffel coat, and the faded cap looks so much more youthful anyway. In homage to a trend among my high school classmates back in the good old '90s, so I've been wearing my t-shirts from Dockside and Sanitary Restaurant over long-sleeve t-shirts. I've also taken a shine to wearing thick flannel shirts over the waffle-knit shirts for an outdoorsy look. I think maybe, finally, I've hit on a fashion sense that works for me. Coming into the office one day last week, wearing my new faded jeans with a wide belt and a slightly douchey front-tuck, I noticed the new girl's eyes quickly glance at my junk while flashing a wide smile as she said hi. Success! I am youthful and attractive! While I'm happily married and not interested in any sort of fling, it's still nice to get that kind of attention from the ladies.
The after-Christmas orgy of consumption has to come to a close, however. I burned through my annual bonus on the clothes and a few other things, and now that the big ugly bill from the hospital has arrived, it's back to austerity for a good long while, but at least I'll be well-dressed while I'm eating my beans & rice at home on Saturday nights.
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