Straight No Chaser

Nu Ma Iei

my mom's theory on the appeal of the island relies heavily on the idea of "patina," which dictionary.com defines as "the sheen on any surface, produced by age and use." i can see that, i guess. lots of old money there, old houses and old people, all of which i'm sure are growing steadily better, the older they get. i did get to write a little while i was up there. mostly character sketches and little vignettes, ironic because that's exactly what i wanted to not do. the house we stayed in was spacious and totally bare, like a museum before they haul the goods in, with high ceilings and high windows, a modern kitchen and not a scrap of decoration. by contrast, chad's friends stayed at this tiny, crumpled house right on the beach, built for four but forced to house twelve, one of the dirtiest and most unattractive dwellings i've ever seen. the lady who owned it had apparently decorated it with her eyes closed, some forty years ago, and then held onto every item and scrap of paper she'd collected since then, tacking each one up on the wall or lining it up with others in a cabinet somewhere. seriously, there was barely room to walk around, with all the crap she had in her house. weird little sayings typed up on scraps of paper, taped to the walls. creepy victorian baby dolls, wide-eyed and white (noteworthy because she's one of those black people who believes in europeanizing--scattered photographs throughout the house displayed two kids, four grandkids and a bunch of great-grands, each generation more ethnically ambiguous than the last); my mom tripped over one of their strollers and banged her knee, and for the first time in my life i heard her say "fuck."

the lady showed up halfway through the week, kind of an unfair surprise considering they'd rented the house through saturday. unfair because she was clearly there to check up on them, to make sure all her "curios" were being cared for. but she didn't say that, just sat in a rocking chair on the front porch and rocked back and forth for hours, waiting for people to pass her so she could interrogate them. i was first, which sucked because i didn't technically live there, had just stopped in to get some kool-aid. she had all these questions, how did we like the house (me: "charming! all your stuff is so interesting"), was everyone being gentle on the floorboards (me: "they should be, they're pretty...well-behaved, for seventeen-year-olds"), did i notice there seemed to be a lot more "africans" on the island this year? an influx which makes her uncomfortable, for reasons having to do with melanin mixing (her warning: "be careful, you're on the fence, your children will thank you if you pick the right man..." meanwhile rubbing her palm to indicate fair-skinnedness, which i found so offensive that i ended it there). like i said, i was only the first. she got everyone in turn. a third-degree conveyor belt.

i did catch "must love dogs" while i was up there, saw "wedding crashers" for the second time, and was treated to a sneak preview of "four brothers." that was fun. vineyard theaters are tiny and quaint, with velvet curtains around their screens, and you can hear every breath taken by every single other person inside, which somehow makes paying attention to the movie a challenge, more fun.

abruptly, ten guilty pleasures, a decidedly incomplete list and in no particular order:

1. nick junior
2. being barefoot
3. the soap opera that i've now missed for three weeks straight
4. watching the same movie again and again till i know every detail
5. people-watching
6. picking up my paycheck
7. pressing the soles of my feet to the windowpane while i talk to marcus
8. sleeping late
9. being thin
10. sneaking strips of bacon when no one is looking (only nine times in eight years, i swear)