a few beach essentials

A good day at the beach has some requirements.

First, the chair. 

It has to be the right height. Comfortable. Have a cup holder. A place for a phone and Kindle.  Be adjustable to different back angles. Be compact and easy to carry. And have a flexible sunshade (the absolute best part of my Sunflow chair).

Small, easy cooler for one

Put this in the freezer and you don't need an ice pack.  Fits a bottle of water. A sandwich. And maybe some fruit. Who needs more?

At least one good float

This one by Poolmaster is perfect. Easy to carry (which is key). Flexible (you can lie on it or sit on it). Comfortable. And inexpensive ($20 on Amazon). I've spent more time in the water this summer than ever before.

And the most important essential of all? 

A beautiful beach. 

And my three favorites are all nearby.

Chapoquoit. 4.1 miles away.

Old Silver Beach. 1.2 miles away.

And WIld Harbor. A  half-mile away. On one loaded-up golf cart.

the long good-bye

Tropical storm (or possibly hurricane) Henri is making its way up the east coast toward Cape Cod.

Saturday is a changeover day.

My mother is worried.

The bridge could close.

There could be long long lines at gas stations.

Who knows, they could even run out of gas.

All this is could happen on the very same Saturday that Alexander and Megan are planning to leave.

"Tell them they have to leave early," my mother tells me.

I oblige.

Then a bit later she adds, "They should be on the road by 6am. Otherwise they could be backed up for hours trying to get ova the bridge."

I relay the concern.

Alexander and Megan are now armed with all the knowledge they need.

How they use that knowledge is up to them.

That's hard for my mom to accept but she tries.

I hear my mom on the phone Saturday morning talking to a friend. "Left? They're not even up yet."

Around nine, Megan comes downstairs. 

All packed. Baskets emptied. Bed stripped. And even a beautiful thank-you note written to my mom.

A bit after that Alexander comes down. Still not fully packed.

They grab a quick breakfast.

They don't seem in a big hurry.

And eventually, they are ready to hit the road.

11am.

One last pic before they leave.

And guess what?

They make it over the Bourne Bridge just fine. 

They have plenty of gas.

And Henri turns into a non-event.

mostly the same

I've been on the Cape since August 12, and mostly it's been the same. 

But same in a good way.

Great beach days. Especially at low tide and 78-degree water. 

Spending time with my mom who looks amazing with her natural-colored hair.

Early-morning walks on near-deserted beaches.

Dinners out.

Hanging with my good friend M.

Home-cooked meals outdoors. 

With the moon as the perfect backdrop.

Morning fog.

And gorgeous sunsets.

But the one non-same activity is getting to spend time with Alexander and his friend Megan who arrived last Saturday.

There's always a bit of drama, but so far, all is good.

verbal attack in elevator

It should be an uneventful trip to the basement to deposit my papers and bottles.

It isn't.

I get in the elevator. One floor down the door opens and a man gets in.

It takes a second for it to register that he's maskless. 

Before I have a chance to exit the elevator, the door closes.

This is a man (about my age) that I know. 

Know not in we're friendly and we hang-out together. But know as in he's lived in the building for ages and if we saw each other on the street we might nod hello. That kind of know.

I say to him, "You need to put your mask on."

He replies, "I don't have a mask on me."

I point to the sign behind me, in our very small elevator.

His response is unexpected.

He starts screaming, "You F*CKING C*NT." 

And he just keeps going, louder and louder. Totally out of control.

I go up to the first floor, and soon he's there (not necessarily that he follows me but because that's where he is heading).

His ranting continues. Louder and more vehement.

He stands in my face, pointing his finger, and shouts obscenities.

Inexplicably, I don't cower. 

I just stand there, looking him in the eyes, almost daring him to hit me.

The doorman holds him back as it looks like he's about to physically attack me.

On subways, and in stores, I never say anything to people who chose not to wear masks. I just move my seat or stand far away.

But this is my building. 

I'm in a very small elevator. 

And a giant sign stating the required protocol is prominently displayed behind me.

The man retreats to his apartment. 

I stay rooted in place in front of my building, too shaken to move.

A few minutes later the man comes out of his apartment and approaches me.

"Look, can we talk like two adults?"

I nod.

He then apologizes. Tells me he's sorry he exploded. He's just so tired of people telling him what he can and cannot do. And blah blah blah.

I accept his apology.

We live in the same building after all. I don't want to be afraid of my neighbors.

But still.

As the Delta variant spreads and rules about mask-wearing and vaccinations keep changing, I get that it's hard to know the right thing to do.

But if I had to guess, calling someone a F*CKING C*NT is never the right thing.

finally, a v-neck

I have always loved the sun. Or more specifically, getting tan.

We all now know, if we didn't then, that baking in the sun is not a good idea for lots of reasons.  

Over many summers, my chest has become mottled. It does not look good. And for years, I've avoided V-necks. 

Recently while at the dermatologist (whom I've been seeing for years and love), Dr. Rhonda Pomerantz tells me that I'd be a good candidate for IPL — Intense Pulsed Light. It's used for skin pigmentation sun damage, and according to Wikipedia, "the technology uses a high-powered, hand-held, computer-controlled flashgun to deliver an intense, visible, broad-spectrum pulse of 

On March 9, I go for my first of two treatments. 

I am excited to improve this bad look.

I'm told that the process will be uncomfortable, and afterwards I'll be red. But over time, the dark spots will slowly lighten.

The process begins.

Instead of using the word uncomfortable, perhaps a better description would have gone like this:

"It'll feel like you are being slowly tortured with lit cigarettes all over your chest."

It is brutal. 

And every few minutes I need to take a short break.

The whole process probably takes about 15 minutes, if that. But it feels like hours.

Though it looks horribly painful, as soon as it's over —and for the days and weeks following —there is zero discomfort. 

Now that I know what it feels like, I am dreading the second treatment a few weeks later. But on April 14 I return.

Same procedure as last time.

Protective goggles and some gel goop on my chest.

But this time, quite by accident, I am talking to Dr. Pomerantz the whole way through. And the simple distraction of talking makes this time much less painful than the first. 

And, Dr. Pomerantz later tells me, she had increased the intensity level of the pulses.

The weeks pass. The spots continue to lighten. 

And now it's August.  

Finally, I can wear a V-neck without being totally embarrassed.

It's not perfect, though I never thought it would be. 

I'm quite happy to settle for a much-improved. 

Face maybe next.