Rotational Neglect

"Rotational Neglect" is a term that KT brilliantly coined to describe the practice where in trying to do everything, you're never giving 100 percent to anything and as a result all areas of your life suffer a little. I've been deep into this practice the last few weeks having lost my regular sitter/magician while gaining two new work projects. This was mayhem-inducing enough not to mention the staggering social calendars of preschoolers and trying to find time to squeeze in some Griswaldian summer adventures along the way. The PU has certainly suffered the effects of rotational neglect -- perhaps the most -- because currency is a blog's oxygen. To neglect a blog is to kill it (zero flags!) and that is not something I want to have happen here.

So I'm switching gears from RN to Serenity Preservation for the next few weeks.

When I boarded the ferry home from Nantucket a few weeks ago, I was surprised at how territorial I was of my own peace of mind, of the serenity I'd earned during four fantastic days on the island. The ferry was nearly-empty except for some loud and annoying French passengers who -- despite having the entire boat at their disposal -- decided to sit on top of me and pepper me with questions about Cape Cod. They even asked if I would point out the Kennedy Compound to them when we got close to Hyannis. Serenity threatened. I was offended. As far as I was concerned, I was still on vacation. I excused myself, grabbed my bag and walked to the opposite side of the boat. I pulled out my giant sun hat, put my feet up and read my book the rest of the journey.

I feel like I have to do that for awhile. Unplug. Step away from the computer. That said, I'm going to take a wee hiatus from the PU. A few weeks or so. The summer is a sea of endless distractions as it is and I'd rather be silent than make small talk for the sake of staying current. I hate small talk.

Aside: We're in the process of finding a pup tent and decent life jacket for Vito so he can come to the beach with us. When that happens, I can guarantee there will be a video posted up here similar to this one.

In the meantime, it's only appropriate that my last post for awhile contains the crappy low-res slideshow of the Nantucket trip --the 10th annual! This year's trip was most certainly in the Top 5. Even with bony cheese haters along for the ride and Kid Rock's abusive texts, it was all about hanging with the burds and mainlining Coronas & Prosecco on the beach. Viva la vida! (BTW, I planned on using that song as the slideshow's soundtrack but thanks to the sphincter that is DMR-protected music, it was not possible. I think I found a decent alternative, however). Enjoy!

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Nantucket: Where We Left Off

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

(Behold, another crappy low-res slide show)

I'm back from four full days on Nantucket. I missed the family but a change of pace was in order and as always, the island delivered. I was flung back into the fray yesterday because there is simply no way to ease back in. At this hour, I am still detoxing from pitchers of white trash sangria and late night kitchen dancing.

This vacation never disappoints even when it threatens to: 1) FTG forecasted a wash out but every day was perfect -- they were the kinds of days where when the sun got too hot, an ocean breeze would kick up and allow that extra hour of chilling at the beach. 2) Before boarding the Grey Lady, I was stopped by two security guards who pointed to the giant bottle of Cavit jutting out of my canvas tote. Apparently, transporting alcohol on the ferry is illegal. Who knew? We’ve been doing it for years, not wanting to pay premium at Island Spirits. One of the guards reached into my bag, presumingly to confiscate the contraband. Instead, he wrapped it up in my sweatshirt, camouflaged it with my book and magazine and sent me on my way. (Thanks, man.) The overall sense of well being lasted until I learned that they no longer serve hot dogs on the fast ferry. (What?!)

Upon docking, we indulged in our annual tradition of de-ferrying, hitting the Tiki for some frozen cocktails, food shopping buzzed and then cabbing to the house where we found all the good vibes lingering from years past. This is a rare occurrence with so many people and personalities in one house but we’ve found the right mix. We sadly missed our pregnant pals but celebrated the addition of Meghan, Nic, and Dillard (who’s requested her PU name to be “Dillighta.” not “Dillbag”).

We picked up where we left off last year: There was kitchen dancing to the annual Nantucket mix to which everyone on the trip – and those there in spirit – lent a song. As always, there were competing iPods lined up at the Bose, their on-the-go playlists jockeying for position. (BTW, I never ever want to hear “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy again. Ever. Especially since we now know what “Downloading some Country Music” is code for.)

Each morning, I fired up the iPod and took my walk to the rotary for iced coffee.
Every afternoon, we walked to the beach to stare at the ocean and read, idle chit chat rising from our cluster of beach chairs. The snack plates at cocktail hour weren’t quite as robust as years past having no Dell’Olios on board, but we over-enjoyed Brownguy’s batches of white trash sangria and played rousing games of LCR at the kitchen table. Nic was thrilled to nurture her gambling problem on island, taking all of our money – as usual – then gloating mercilessly.

We made Post-It notes for Cameo’s HR folder: Infractions: drinking, gambling, listening to country music, and cutting up her bathing suit.

We shared moments with off-island pals via text and picture mail, which resulted in an uncomfortable moment for Nic when she unwittingly walked in on Brownguy and T-Bag taking an “odd” photo to send to Smitty.

We hadn’t been to the Chicken Box in a few years because we thought we were getting too old for that scene. "Nonsense," we said. While getting ready, I received a call from home – “the babies want to say good night.” But it was a sneak attack, a ruse: They started crying and begging me to please come home immediately. In addition to their grief, Vito was apparently on a hunger strike (he didn’t lose any weight, btw). After I hung up, I started to descend into a guilty meltdown but was abruptly pulled from the quicksand. I was told to “shake it off” and was handed a madras in a pint glass.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the Box, the band sucked. And when the band is bad, the Box is worse. We distracted ourselves for a few hours, becoming embroiled in a barn burner of a pool tournament. Then, one of the infamous Duke lacrosse players sauntered by with some junior mints and we realized that perhaps we really were too old to be there. Seconds later, a sunburned senior citizen with his Nantucket Reds pulled up to his armpits walked in and all bets were off. We decided to head back to the house anyway -- which was an excellent call. I have some hilarious footage of what transpired but unfortunately cannot post it here.

The next day, we hung out at the house a lot where the occasional game of horse shoes broke out in between Coronas. That night, we had dinner at Cioppino’s where they seated all 10 of us in a private room upstairs. We half expected them to put some orange cones out around us too. Our unnecessary nightcap involved T-Bag squeezing into my denim jacket just to horrify some patrons at the Boarding House. Then, back to the house for hot dogs and hot tubbing and body bomb tributes to all the new babies getting ready to crown on the mainland.

Luckily, we were able to squeeze in a final lament at the Tiki before bidding the island farewell -- until next year when we'll pick up where we left off all over again. Good times, all.

Fear and Learning at Storyland

(Mind the gap)

We returned from our first trip up to North Conway with the kids and I'm still recovering. Pre-kids, we spent a lot of time up there in the White Mountains -- leisure time -- it's a beautiful place to visit in all seasons. [But make no mistake, for all its quaint galleries, shops and cafes, it’s still New Hampshire: Motorcyclists with mullets where helmets should be. Gunracks. At the local general store, you can buy a steak-and-cheese and some cherry bombs from the nice lady with the lower back tattoo. Sites in the woods off Route 16: A tipped-over school bus. Tumble down shacks with “private property” signs, its occupants likely holed up inside with rifles, challenging the government to just try to smoke them out. Live Free or Die.]

Anyway, we headed north to take the kids to Storyland with the Kielys who were vacationing there with their kids for the week. Years ago, when we spent a weekend up there with the Kielys – pre-children – we eyed the Storyland signs with a sense of forboding. “One day we’re going to have to go there with our kids. Shit.” Indeed, Storyland is one of the inevitabilities of parenthood in the New England area; it's an outing that is faced with deep resignation and a smidgen of dread. It is a fantastic wonderland for kids. For kids. If you’re over the age of six, you need to suck it up and go to your happy place lest you go completely mad.

Alas, this storied land is a three hour ride from Boston, and despite all our cheap distractions and iPod strategies, toddler insurrection set in: “Where are we going.” “When are we going to get there.” “I want to get out.” “Mama, I want you to hold me.” “Will you take off my shoes.” “I have to pee again.” Oh my God. Is it too early to start drinking? A DVD player with headphones was our savior. (Thank you, Lynnie.)

When we finally checked into our hotel and headed off to the park, Caroline and Paulie acted like we were dragging them to the oral surgeon: "I don't want to go." "I want to go home."

“C’mon, guys, it’s Storyland. Look alive!”

Thankfully, once they spotted Conor and Katherine out front, the gloom and doom lifted and they ran amok with delight. They tackled the treehouse playground, took a train ride, went on a pirate ship, visited Cinderella's Castle. They suspiciously eyed a very brunette Cinderella. "Cinderella has blonde hair," they said to the tune of "Who is this bogus imposter?"

(Woo hoo, Boulos)

Then, of course there were the rides. The teacups, the tilt-a-whirl, the flying fish. Every ride spins. And since the kiddos were still too little to go on the rides themselves, we had to accompany them. We grew more glassy-eyed and woozy with each attraction. It was like the Paragon Carousel x 50.

What's happened to us? I used to love rollercoasters and spinning rides. My favorite ride at Canobie Lake was the Turkish Twist, a ride that spun around so fiercely your body would literally cling to the wall from the centrifugal force. Now I can barely handle Ring around the Rosie.

After a few hours, the incesssant ice-cream-man music was starting to make us twitch so we packed it in. Since Nic and Paul had been up there since last Thursday, they were able to scope out places and restaurants that were the least taxing (i.e, have play areas for kids so the parents can chill)

Nic discovered an outdoor ice cream place with Adirondack chairs and a gigantic playground and when we arrived, the place was incredulously deserted. We parked it on said Adirondack chairs while the kids played. We sipped pinot grigio from some to-go cups and marveled at our good fortune at finding the only spot in town that wasn't crowded. We learned later it was because the entire region was in lock-down in the wake of a triple homicide in Conway a few hours earlier. We had no idea. More rainbow sprinkles? Another glass of pinot? Gunman on the loose. A community in fear.

The shooting had taken place at an Army Barracks store just a few miles from the North Conway Grand where we were staying. We'd passed it on the way into town and I remembered it because it had a "help wanted" sign out front. I remember thinking -- after battling the whiny uprising in the car for 3+ hours -- I could crack the passenger door, drop and roll onto Route 16 and flee into the woods. Then, I could get a part-time job and hide out until the kids calmed down in a few years.


All told, there was a great deal of living and learning on this adventure.

-We learned that Caroline has not inherited James’ ultra-competitive nature. Upon being told she'd won some skee-ball horseracing game, she screamed "No I didn’t!" and had a complete meltdown. She felt badly that the other kids lost.

-We learned family vacations are selfless endeavors requiring a tremendous amount of fortitude and patience. The sooner you realize this, the better off you'll be. I realized this on the ride home, but will be better equipped -- mentally, at least -- next time.

-We also learned that you need a condo, not a hotel room. While the NC Grand was a beautiful, family-friendly place, we were rattling around in the room like dice every night. The kids passed out at 8 p.m. and I usually fall asleep around 1 a.m. We couldn't read because the lights would've woken up the babies. We couldn't pop down to the Mountainside Tavern for a few cocktails. In another gross error of judgment, we rented the movie "Premonition." I thought I’d read somewhere that it was like “What Lies Beneath.” It wasn't. It was hilariously bad. We definitely should’ve rented “I Laid the Nanny II: 2007” as James suggested. I can admit when I’m wrong.

While we ended up finding some enjoyment in the adventure, we'll return better prepared next year, a bit wiser with a greater supply patience. One thing for sure: The kids had the times of their lives -- which was the whole point.

Some shots:

Out of Town

James and I finally got to the point where we had to leave town. We needed to slow down. We needed to eat our meals seaside. We needed to be somewhere off-season and sleepy.

That said, we fled the Land of Zero Downtime for the Cape this weekend, packing the babies off on what was probably the most hyped sleepover in recent history. However, any separation anxiety they had ahead of our departure evaporated amid promises of "surprises" upon our return and a casual mention of Build-A-Bear being on the babysitting agenda.

We headed out to the Crowne Point Inn & Spa in P-Town, absolutely agog at the prospect of sitting slack-jawed in a steam room and soaking ourselves in a mineral tub for a couple of days. These days, just showering without interruption is enough to get me into a lather, but I was able to squeeze in a massage and a sea salt scrub too. We were even able to indulge in some ancient rituals like napping, reading and watching the Red Sox without TiVo.


Other things that happened:

-Excessive Buddha statues all around the property -- including a massive one squatting in the garden just outside our room --- reminded us to pause. We did. Mostly to gawk and comment on the exorbitant amount of Buddha statues.

-At the spa, we were greeted by John, who would be the spitting image of Philip Seymour Hoffman if Phillip Seymour Hoffman was excrutiatingly groomed. He batted his eyelashes at us from behind the reception desk: "Name, please?" I told him my name. He smiled and peered at James. "So this would be Farrah or Bosley?"

He fetched us some robes and flip-flops. I took off my rancid sneakers that I’ve had for way too long. They're already a total eye sore but because I'd walked through a few puddles on the way to the spa, they were bringing that soggy sneaker smell.

John picked up my sneakers as if they were two dead birds. “ I’ll take these. They’re sucking the Zen out of this whole place.”

-On an EPB recommendation (thanks), we headed to The Mews for dinner. The restaurant was waterfront, our table windowfront right on the beach. The open-air doors were rattling and you could sense the season about to bust wide open -- I can't wait to go back over the summer. On the cocktail menu, there were about 100 vodkas from all over the world from which to choose. Our waitress, very schooled in booze, suggested the Blavod Black Vodka -- some flavorless Burmese herb actually turns the vodka black-- which was not only cool but yummy in a way that won't kill you.


The waitress neglected to mention, however, that the vodka was 40 percent alcohol, so after one bowl of loudmouth soup, Jimmy looked like this.

All told, P-Town was the perfect getaway in its off-season glory. While many restaurants and popular shops like "Spank the Monkey" – weren’t open yet, we found surprises (and fudge) for those who made this minibreak possible and hung onto our newfound relaxation for about 15 minutes upon returning home. The babies, in a record performance, went on an absolute tear this evening. Payback. The glassy eyes and creased forehead are back. My shoulders hurt.