Skip to main content

Pondering pedicures

   Oh how times have changed. My girl is here now. I have one girl and she’s almost 23. I’d say I see myself in her but she’s about five feet eight inches tall and about 115 pounds on a heavy day. I see a zipper in her instead. I was more like a tufted sofa at her age. Anyway, she’s here and it means a different dynamic that’s for sure. Not worse, just different. And I did finally get her to say that when she lies on the beach she gets a sort of buzz from it. Now that’s like her mama.  So here we are.
   You’ll  be glad to know that my swimsuit finally arrived from Lands’ End and they have a great slimming contour thing going on. I’m here to tell you if you’re “heavy set” and you need a swimsuit you need to do no more than Google “Lands’ End.”
    Now my new dilemma is that I’m in dire need of a good pedicure. I dared not investigate this possibility on the Vineyard until recently when I heard there was a lady off Main Street who did them for cheap. I shall let you know because I plan to visit the spot perhaps tomorrow if I’m lucky. Besides, anyone who touches these piggies for a living deserves to be compensated fairly.
   My part-time job is running along fairly smoothly. I threw a wrench in the works last week when I was assigned a 350-word piece and I turned in a 1,100 word novella instead. And I somehow thought it best if I didn’t mention this snafu to anyone. Let’s just say it wasn’t completely appreciated on production day at the ol’ newspaper. It’s all fine though. I think they sort of agreed that my subject deserved more than a blink of an eye. She was a cool lady.
   So I’d love to know if everyone else’s summer is moving along as nicely as mine. Summer has always been my tricky season. It started when I was in fifth grade and I realized my thighs rubbed together and my classmates’ thighs didn’t. I had these cotton polyester shorts that came to mid-thigh and when you live in a St. Louis suburb and it’s July and your thighs are rubbing together there’s going to be some moisture involved. This I found culminated in a sort of pimply outbreak between my thighs every summer. Needless to say, summer is still not my favorite season, even with the slenderizing swimsuit.
   Summer just means I can look forward to fall when I can pull out my sweaters, typically found in the men’s section of the Salvation Army thrift store. I’ve always found men’s clothing much more comfortable. No one cares how men look in little black trousers. No one cares if their thighs rub together and no one cares if the back of their filmy shirt is missing the hook-and-eye. Whatever.  
   I find one of the best parts of living on Martha’s Vineyard is that I never have to get a haircut again. I can wear shoes made of rubber year round. I could probably pick grass out of a West Tisbury yard and eat it by the handful and everyone would think it was tasty. Basically, anything goes here. And you don’t judge, you don’t criticize – at least not when anyone is really listening – you wear whatever you want and you work as much or as little as you want. It’s unlike anyplace I’ve ever been. Sometimes I think to myself that I’m comfortable here because I’m such a weirdo and I wouldn’t be as comfortable anyplace else.
    Oh you’ve got your Oprah sightings and your Bill Murray run-ins. But hey, if they’re here doesn’t that mean there’s a reason? One of them being that no one here actually cares that they’re here. All this is fine and dandy but at the end of the day I’m still wondering where the hell I can find someone who will cut my toenails for cash. I shall let you know how that works out.


Deb said…
I miss you! I'm glad you're spending time with your girl. Mine is coming in a few weeks, but just to use the house as a hostel on her way to Darien Lake. I guess Parish doesn't hold the same appeal as the Vineyard. (Those damned bumper stickers got it wrong, I guess -it is decidedly NOT "the place".)

I'd let my toenails get all gnarly if I were you. It's the flaw you need to offset how awesome you look in your new swim suit.

Congrats on the new job! They're lucky to get you!!

Popular posts from this blog

Just sitting around doing jack

I think my blog may have been hijacked. I haven’t written in forever because I’ve been writing …for my job, which may mean I’m no longer a “jobless goddess.” I may just be a regular goddess.
I love the word jack. I could use that all day. Whatever, hopefully those who want to read the blog will read. Back to jack. It’s a cool freaking word. I had a brother-in-law named Jack who pretty much personified the word “cool.” He’s gone too soon and missed by everybody.
There’s Billy Jack, get back Jack, Jack Sprat, Jack Nicholson, Jack Berry, Jack in the Box, Jumping Jack Flash. And my favorite, a little ditty my sister introduced me to, “Jack Mother.” This is a something you say when someone cuts you off on the highway. “I’m sorry officer, I was cut off by that Jack Mother in the blue Subaru.”
My brother Steve has a friend named Jack. I thought he was about the greatest thing ever when I was 12. Who are we kidding? I probably still do. Jackie was hilariously funny and I loved to watch my brot…

Little women

I’m getting a real kick out of my co-workers these days. I’m working with about a half dozen young women — young being the operative word.
They’re all so freaking competent it kills me. They can write like it’s nobody’s business, they all take great photos to go with their stories, and they almost always laugh at my jokes. I call them ‘the girls.’
They’re either about to go to university, just leaving university, or all done with it and on their way. They do yoga and eat a lot of avocados. We live on Martha’s Vineyard and none of them know who John Belushi is but they all know they should keep using the same plastic cup for take out iced coffee over and over and over again. If they see a bug, they think twice before killing it. Actually they leave it for me to kill because they couldn’t possibly… and they know I won’t hesitate.
We get along just fine the girls and me. Oh, there’s a little trouble when I insist on running the window air conditioner up in our second floor office —ramsha…

Who's got the soap?

I’m wondering at what age I’m allowed to hire a personal care attendant, covered by insurance of course. I haven’t reached my toenails in two and half years and the other day in the shower I seriously considered whether or not it was worth it to soap up below the waist. It hurts when I go anywhere past my kneecaps.
I’m okay with gray hair; that’s been coming in since I was in my 30s and I could still reach my ankles. It’s the burgeoning mountain under my man-sized T-shirts, just below my sagging breasts, that really gets to me. I want to know when exactly I stopped looking like I was 20, because it feels like yesterday. I look in the mirror strictly from the shoulders up these days.
It’s not completely depressing. I know there are about a billion other women in the same boat I’m in. I love the women who wear whatever the hell they want. Doesn’t matter if they’ve got those top-heavy grandma arms or busted veins mapping their legs. I say go for it ladies. I’m gonna get there someday.…