"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.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
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.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Embarking upon a new fashion sense with the new year
I apologize, reader, that I have neglected my bloggery for nearly two months. I'll pick up where I left off and summarize the mundane events of my existence over the last few weeks.
I'm still driving Daddy's car. He's basically letting me use it as long as I like, which is a load off, given the financial strain we'll likely be under for a while while we pay off my wife's surgery. Yes, my bride finally had to go in for a diagnostic procedure, where they found the likely cause of her abdominal pains and we hope fixed the problem. Thanks to my shitty insurance through my employer, we'll be facing bills to the tune of several thousand dollars, which we'll have to pay off in monthly installments for years to come. So much for my plans to get my wife a nice Volvo or something.
Thanksgiving was much more relaxing this time around. Instead of cooking all day for 7 people, or bunking down in a residence with 8 relatives and 3 dogs, we checked into a nice Marriott for 3 nights and made our various family visits during the day, then retired to our quiet hotel room and took a dip in the hot tub downstairs, waking up to a sumptuous breakfast buffet each morning. We considered it a last hurrah before the upcoming surgery consumed our lives. During the week before the procedure, I became possessed by the spirit of Howard Hughes (or maybe Howie Mandel, who's still alive), growing paranoid over bringing home infectious organisms that could jeopardize my wife's health and delay the procedure (which she already had to reschedule because the first week of December wasn't convenient for her self-centered employer), so I washed my hands every chance I got and used sanitizer in between hand washings. And yet, I still caught a cold! So I had to avoid kissing my wife and took to wiping down doorknobs with disinfecting wipes. I guess the paranoia paid off because all went according to schedule. The silver lining to the dark cloud of surgery was that, with the surgery taking place on the 22nd, we had a solid excuse not to travel and visit family on Christmas day or the following days, and instead we spent the holiday and my remaining vacation days sitting around in our cozy house, eating sweets, sipping hot chocolate, watching movies, and viewing the entire first season of Bones (a gift for my wife). Coming back to work today was such a drag.
I did not allow my body to atrophy completely, however. I have resolved to exercise at least a little bit every day, from now on, health and schedule permitting. After finally undertaking the task of cleaning out the upstairs library, I made a little headway towards my goal of setting up the room as a dual-purpose library and gentleman's gym. Keeping the heavy tasseled draperies and oriental rug, I added a fake potted palm from downstairs and the twin standing fans from the master bedroom. My rudimentary set of weights -- consisting of only a pair of 35-pound and a pair of 20-pound dumbbells -- sits on a pair of end tables side-by-side, and the stability ball and Bosu sit in the corner. For extra old-time strongman appeal, I downloaded a $4 collection of piano rags to play while exercising.
A generous gift from my wife will ensure that my workout won't be completely mired in the 19th century. On Christmas morning, I was bestowed with a brand-new Xbox 360 Kinect with a Zumba game and a game inspired by The Biggest Loser. If it works out for us, we'll cancel our gym membership and save $50 a month. I hope to purchase additional used dumbbells for a little more variety -- and resistance -- in my exercises. I would go out and get some tonight, but I'm afraid I already spent all my Christmas money on my lingering L.L. Bean habit. I really hope this particular "look" I'm going for sticks, and it's not just another stupid phase in my lifelong journey to find my ideal fashion sense. While I was going "preppy" back in the summer, I overdid it and took it too far in the conservative direction, at one point going to the beach bars wearing polo shirts neatly tucked into belted khakis, making my wife feel like she was out with her father. Now that I'm halfway into my 32nd year, and no doubt coinciding with my desire to relive my college days, I'm developing an obsession with looking, feeling, and staying young, and if I've learned anything on that long road lined with castoff garments, it's that one's clothing choice can make a great impact on one's perceived age, so now I wish to bring to mind a smartly-dressed college student. Not quite frat-tastic, not quite Junior Republican, just somewhere in the middle that says casual, youthful, and effortlessly put-together. The first great leap I made in this direction was acquiring 3 pairs of dungarees, or "blue jeans," as today's youth calls them, and wearing them daily. The outermost layer of my winter wardrobe shall be a classic duffel coat with toggle closure, long the choice of the ivy-leaguer who wants a long coat but wants it to be a bit more cavalier than the Crombie while looking more put-together than a simple fleece coat. Other layering garments shall include rib-knit cotton sweaters, worn with t-shirts underneath, not a stodgy collared shirt, as if I just rolled out of bed and threw one on before heading to PSY-101, waffle-knit crewneck shirts for variety, sometimes worn underneath thick, soft chamois shirts, and plain white long-sleeve t-shirts worn under contrasting short-sleeve t-shirts or polo shirts. I'll still don the brightly-colored rugby shirts for '80s throwback appeal, and I'll keep my oxford shirts in the mix, interspersed with my weathered canvas shirts, all worn untucked, of course. I also purchased a pair of L.L. Bean's gumshoes, not just for urban downpours (could have used them last week when I had to make a grocery run in pouring rain), but also for strolls on the beach in early Spring when it's still a little too nippy for bare feet. By dialing back the conservative vibe and shaking it up a bit with colors, patterns, and textures, I hope to look as if I woke up next to a naked sorostitute with no recollection of how she got there, and plan to head to the beach or the mountains as soon as I get through my morning exam in Rocks for Jocks, blowing off my afternoon "cake" class so I can get there while it's still daylight. I now feel smugly superior when I cross paths with a suit-clad stooge in my office building who, despite probably earning far more money than I do, has no choice but to wear that itchy gabardine cocoon with a silk noose around his neck. While I covet his salary, he no doubt covets my youthful freedom. If I could only afford a car for my wife, I could reclaim the 4runner, the perfect car for the preppy, outdoorsy college douche.
I'm still driving Daddy's car. He's basically letting me use it as long as I like, which is a load off, given the financial strain we'll likely be under for a while while we pay off my wife's surgery. Yes, my bride finally had to go in for a diagnostic procedure, where they found the likely cause of her abdominal pains and we hope fixed the problem. Thanks to my shitty insurance through my employer, we'll be facing bills to the tune of several thousand dollars, which we'll have to pay off in monthly installments for years to come. So much for my plans to get my wife a nice Volvo or something.
Thanksgiving was much more relaxing this time around. Instead of cooking all day for 7 people, or bunking down in a residence with 8 relatives and 3 dogs, we checked into a nice Marriott for 3 nights and made our various family visits during the day, then retired to our quiet hotel room and took a dip in the hot tub downstairs, waking up to a sumptuous breakfast buffet each morning. We considered it a last hurrah before the upcoming surgery consumed our lives. During the week before the procedure, I became possessed by the spirit of Howard Hughes (or maybe Howie Mandel, who's still alive), growing paranoid over bringing home infectious organisms that could jeopardize my wife's health and delay the procedure (which she already had to reschedule because the first week of December wasn't convenient for her self-centered employer), so I washed my hands every chance I got and used sanitizer in between hand washings. And yet, I still caught a cold! So I had to avoid kissing my wife and took to wiping down doorknobs with disinfecting wipes. I guess the paranoia paid off because all went according to schedule. The silver lining to the dark cloud of surgery was that, with the surgery taking place on the 22nd, we had a solid excuse not to travel and visit family on Christmas day or the following days, and instead we spent the holiday and my remaining vacation days sitting around in our cozy house, eating sweets, sipping hot chocolate, watching movies, and viewing the entire first season of Bones (a gift for my wife). Coming back to work today was such a drag.
I did not allow my body to atrophy completely, however. I have resolved to exercise at least a little bit every day, from now on, health and schedule permitting. After finally undertaking the task of cleaning out the upstairs library, I made a little headway towards my goal of setting up the room as a dual-purpose library and gentleman's gym. Keeping the heavy tasseled draperies and oriental rug, I added a fake potted palm from downstairs and the twin standing fans from the master bedroom. My rudimentary set of weights -- consisting of only a pair of 35-pound and a pair of 20-pound dumbbells -- sits on a pair of end tables side-by-side, and the stability ball and Bosu sit in the corner. For extra old-time strongman appeal, I downloaded a $4 collection of piano rags to play while exercising.
A generous gift from my wife will ensure that my workout won't be completely mired in the 19th century. On Christmas morning, I was bestowed with a brand-new Xbox 360 Kinect with a Zumba game and a game inspired by The Biggest Loser. If it works out for us, we'll cancel our gym membership and save $50 a month. I hope to purchase additional used dumbbells for a little more variety -- and resistance -- in my exercises. I would go out and get some tonight, but I'm afraid I already spent all my Christmas money on my lingering L.L. Bean habit. I really hope this particular "look" I'm going for sticks, and it's not just another stupid phase in my lifelong journey to find my ideal fashion sense. While I was going "preppy" back in the summer, I overdid it and took it too far in the conservative direction, at one point going to the beach bars wearing polo shirts neatly tucked into belted khakis, making my wife feel like she was out with her father. Now that I'm halfway into my 32nd year, and no doubt coinciding with my desire to relive my college days, I'm developing an obsession with looking, feeling, and staying young, and if I've learned anything on that long road lined with castoff garments, it's that one's clothing choice can make a great impact on one's perceived age, so now I wish to bring to mind a smartly-dressed college student. Not quite frat-tastic, not quite Junior Republican, just somewhere in the middle that says casual, youthful, and effortlessly put-together. The first great leap I made in this direction was acquiring 3 pairs of dungarees, or "blue jeans," as today's youth calls them, and wearing them daily. The outermost layer of my winter wardrobe shall be a classic duffel coat with toggle closure, long the choice of the ivy-leaguer who wants a long coat but wants it to be a bit more cavalier than the Crombie while looking more put-together than a simple fleece coat. Other layering garments shall include rib-knit cotton sweaters, worn with t-shirts underneath, not a stodgy collared shirt, as if I just rolled out of bed and threw one on before heading to PSY-101, waffle-knit crewneck shirts for variety, sometimes worn underneath thick, soft chamois shirts, and plain white long-sleeve t-shirts worn under contrasting short-sleeve t-shirts or polo shirts. I'll still don the brightly-colored rugby shirts for '80s throwback appeal, and I'll keep my oxford shirts in the mix, interspersed with my weathered canvas shirts, all worn untucked, of course. I also purchased a pair of L.L. Bean's gumshoes, not just for urban downpours (could have used them last week when I had to make a grocery run in pouring rain), but also for strolls on the beach in early Spring when it's still a little too nippy for bare feet. By dialing back the conservative vibe and shaking it up a bit with colors, patterns, and textures, I hope to look as if I woke up next to a naked sorostitute with no recollection of how she got there, and plan to head to the beach or the mountains as soon as I get through my morning exam in Rocks for Jocks, blowing off my afternoon "cake" class so I can get there while it's still daylight. I now feel smugly superior when I cross paths with a suit-clad stooge in my office building who, despite probably earning far more money than I do, has no choice but to wear that itchy gabardine cocoon with a silk noose around his neck. While I covet his salary, he no doubt covets my youthful freedom. If I could only afford a car for my wife, I could reclaim the 4runner, the perfect car for the preppy, outdoorsy college douche.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
A Return to Normalcy
The automobile is more than just a means of getting to work and back, or at least it should be. For me, for quite a long time, that's all my personal vehicle was, because, quite honestly, I became scared to drive it more than absolutely necessary. Nothing is mechanically wrong with my Crown Victoria; it's perfectly safe to drive and capable of going hundreds of miles with no trouble. What's wrong with it is the message it sends to other motorists and, of greater concern, law enforcement officers. The unfortunate fact of life regarding large sedans, Crown Victorias in particular, is that they are popular among essentially two types of people: the elderly, and criminals. So, if a cop sees anything other than a white-haired mass of shriveled flesh at the wheel of a big sedan, he immediately assumes the driver is up to no good. Younger white guys like me driving Crown Vics are assumed to be police impersonators. In the years since that traumatic incident when I was actually detained under such suspicion, I have tried hard to buck the stereotype, making every effort to appear average and harmless while asserting my right to drive whatever car I want without harassment. I've gotten sick of it, reader. I'm caving in. I'm ditching the Vic.
My decision results from an escalating trend of unwanted attention from those armed, undereducated mouth-breathers comprising the police and sheriff's departments. I became more and more nervous and tense just driving the two miles to work and back as they would give me long stares or attempt to follow me. The past few weeks reached a boiling point, of sorts. One afternoon, a police car tried to turn around and follow me, but couldn't get back into traffic from the driveway. A similar event went down just last week. A police car drove by in the oncoming lane, whipped into a parking lot to come back for me, but got delayed by a slow driver exiting the parking lot, so I had just enough time to pull into a strip mall. I got out and watched from a position of concealment as the officer doubled back, waited in an empty lot across the street, then gave up and left. The day before, I saw one coming up the road to my rear, so I ducked into a McDonald's parking lot before he could get close enough to follow me. By the end of last week, my nerves were so shot that I couldn't even drive home for lunch. I explained the whole situation to my dad, who was very understanding and even let me borrow his spare car for a few weeks while I shop around for something else.
I really feel no sadness over the matter. I mostly feel relief. Today, driving my dad's car, a nondescript Volvo sedan, I finally felt "normal" again, for the first time in ages. My heart wasn't pounding, and I wasn't constantly looking in the mirror and sweeping the road and driveways ahead for cop cars. I no longer dread the drive to and from work, darting down back roads in hopes of avoiding the po-po. Seriously, my anxiety got so bad last week that I spent an hour studying the satellite map looking for back roads and usable commercial parking lots, anything to avoid the main roads. No more of that; I can take the direct route again, in a sensible but forgettable Volvo, without fear of persecution.
In a way, it felt like the '90s again, probably because I was associating my dad's Volvo with my dearly departed 1989 Volvo sedan, which I drove all over town and beyond from 1996–2003. I may have to make a '90s CD for tomorrow's commute to enhance the mood. Oh, how I miss Old Blue. It took me to high school every morning, down to Cameron Village with its blue & white plastic awnings, up to the Barnes & Noble at Crabtree Mall on weekends, out to Pleasant Valley for trips to Best Buy, and to the Mission Valley Cinema countless times. Sure, it had a leaky sunroof and hesitated to accelerate, but it was the embodiment of the freedom one has during the early driving years and the college years. I think, deep down, everyone wants his first car back. If I had the money for a spare car, I'd snap up an identical model as soon as one turned up for sale and stick on an NCSU decal and a replica annual inspection sticker.
For now, though, I'll have to settle for my '90s room for Jack Finney-esque time-travel. Progress is stalled out a bit due to cash-strappedness, but I'm coming up with ideas here and there for what to do as funds become available. I think I'll get a vintage poster promoting Blink 182's Enema of the State. Since it's supposed to be an apartment bedroom, I can get away with not having a mini-fridge or microwave, but I still need a computer desk to show off my 1996 Compaq. I'd love an old 500-series HP printer, too, and I need to hit up Edward McKay to look for period textbooks. For best effect — and I don't know if I can convince my wife to agree to this — I need to repaint the room off-white. What college apartment has walls in any color other than off-white or possibly light gray?
So far, the room does have a nice effect despite its lack of thorough authenticity. Last night, I plugged my iPhone into the vintage TV's AV input and played a 12-minute compilation of TV commercials from Fox primetime, dated October, 1999. I swear my mind really did drift back and forth in time as these commercials, many of which I'd nearly memorized from repeated exposure and then forgotten, played as background noise while I folded laundry. For brief flashes here and there, it really was the autumn of '99.
My decision results from an escalating trend of unwanted attention from those armed, undereducated mouth-breathers comprising the police and sheriff's departments. I became more and more nervous and tense just driving the two miles to work and back as they would give me long stares or attempt to follow me. The past few weeks reached a boiling point, of sorts. One afternoon, a police car tried to turn around and follow me, but couldn't get back into traffic from the driveway. A similar event went down just last week. A police car drove by in the oncoming lane, whipped into a parking lot to come back for me, but got delayed by a slow driver exiting the parking lot, so I had just enough time to pull into a strip mall. I got out and watched from a position of concealment as the officer doubled back, waited in an empty lot across the street, then gave up and left. The day before, I saw one coming up the road to my rear, so I ducked into a McDonald's parking lot before he could get close enough to follow me. By the end of last week, my nerves were so shot that I couldn't even drive home for lunch. I explained the whole situation to my dad, who was very understanding and even let me borrow his spare car for a few weeks while I shop around for something else.
I really feel no sadness over the matter. I mostly feel relief. Today, driving my dad's car, a nondescript Volvo sedan, I finally felt "normal" again, for the first time in ages. My heart wasn't pounding, and I wasn't constantly looking in the mirror and sweeping the road and driveways ahead for cop cars. I no longer dread the drive to and from work, darting down back roads in hopes of avoiding the po-po. Seriously, my anxiety got so bad last week that I spent an hour studying the satellite map looking for back roads and usable commercial parking lots, anything to avoid the main roads. No more of that; I can take the direct route again, in a sensible but forgettable Volvo, without fear of persecution.
In a way, it felt like the '90s again, probably because I was associating my dad's Volvo with my dearly departed 1989 Volvo sedan, which I drove all over town and beyond from 1996–2003. I may have to make a '90s CD for tomorrow's commute to enhance the mood. Oh, how I miss Old Blue. It took me to high school every morning, down to Cameron Village with its blue & white plastic awnings, up to the Barnes & Noble at Crabtree Mall on weekends, out to Pleasant Valley for trips to Best Buy, and to the Mission Valley Cinema countless times. Sure, it had a leaky sunroof and hesitated to accelerate, but it was the embodiment of the freedom one has during the early driving years and the college years. I think, deep down, everyone wants his first car back. If I had the money for a spare car, I'd snap up an identical model as soon as one turned up for sale and stick on an NCSU decal and a replica annual inspection sticker.
For now, though, I'll have to settle for my '90s room for Jack Finney-esque time-travel. Progress is stalled out a bit due to cash-strappedness, but I'm coming up with ideas here and there for what to do as funds become available. I think I'll get a vintage poster promoting Blink 182's Enema of the State. Since it's supposed to be an apartment bedroom, I can get away with not having a mini-fridge or microwave, but I still need a computer desk to show off my 1996 Compaq. I'd love an old 500-series HP printer, too, and I need to hit up Edward McKay to look for period textbooks. For best effect — and I don't know if I can convince my wife to agree to this — I need to repaint the room off-white. What college apartment has walls in any color other than off-white or possibly light gray?
So far, the room does have a nice effect despite its lack of thorough authenticity. Last night, I plugged my iPhone into the vintage TV's AV input and played a 12-minute compilation of TV commercials from Fox primetime, dated October, 1999. I swear my mind really did drift back and forth in time as these commercials, many of which I'd nearly memorized from repeated exposure and then forgotten, played as background noise while I folded laundry. For brief flashes here and there, it really was the autumn of '99.
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