Author: DeeDeeFilly

Carpe Beach’m: My Quest for the Perfect Puntastic Beach House Name

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Some people collect shells at the beach. (Yawn.)

I collect really dumb beach house names.

Exhibit A:

I Luv View

I have quite a Beach House Hall of Fame going now – from the fun-to-say “Whale Rested” to the dated cultural reference “Farfrumwerken” – each name treasured for its breezy goofiness, clever punmanship, or that most highly sought-after quality of all, sheer stupidity. Try this one on for size:

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I’m not making this up. it’s just THAT bad.

But the dork in me loves that there is thought and love and ridiculousness in every pun-filled morsel.

And I love that someone paid good money for a sign to hang on their multi-million dollar home that says, “Scooby Dune.”

You can go in a myriad of mind-bending pun directions with a beach house name, most of which lead straight to the sea (usually because “sea” rhymes really well with stuff):

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And there’s always something fun to be done with “dune.” (And by fun, I mean AWESOME.)

Other "dune" also-rans: Dune R Thing, Just Dune It

Other “dune” also-rans: Dune R Thing, Just Dune It

The bounteous wildlife of the sea is all but bursting forth with pun possibilities:

Also would have accepted: One Good Tern, All Conched Out

Also would have accepted: One Good Tern, All Conched Out

And always and evermore, there’s the “shore.”

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Shorely you jest.

Personally, I’m sucker for a good pop-culture pun, and this one ranks as maybe my favorite of all time:

And another pop-culture favorite with the kiddies: Looney Dunes.

And a favorite with the kiddies: Looney Dunes.

Sure, you could get all Downton Abbey and name your beach house something dignified like “Windswept” – as if it stands on the White Cliffs of Dover and not on stilts.

But as for me and my nonexistent beach house, I choose:

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Unexpected. Imbued with a sense of togetherness. A timeless reference to John Hughes. Grand champion in my book.

Ah, smell that salt air? Wanna get “A Wave From It All” right from your arm chair?

My friends, the sea beckons you to share your favorite beach house names with me.

I will treasure these tacky postcards as cherished souvenirs of our vacations past.

They will live on as…(God forgive me)… our “legasea.”

 

My Own Private S.S. Minnow

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I’m Throwing Back Thursday in my own way — dusting off some columns I’ve written in ages past and putting them back into circulation again. This one originally appeared in the Lyme Times on July 10, 2010 – long before my children actually started binge-watching Gilligan’s Island and could get the joke. 

Summer clunkin' 2011

Summer clunkin’ 2011

You picked a fine time to leave me, Ma Bell.

It’s the dead calm of summer.

Nobody’s around except my two kids who do little more than shadow me with expectant looks and requests for snacks.

And of all my lonely and desperate hours, this is the time our phone line decided to go on the fritz.

I won’t bore you with the details, but basically, talking on the phone sounds like I’m inside the microwave with Orville Redenbacher. What’s worse, this crackling mess is blocking my main escape hatch — e-mail and the World Wide Time Suck.

The phrase “trapped on a desert island” has now become part of my daily parlance.

Life here is starting to look a lot like Gilligan’s Island, and I’m the Professor.

Now, I’m sure you were all thinking I’d be Ginger. That is soooo sweet of you, but I don’t own a single scrap of gold lamé, and Ginger would never be caught dead in a skirted swimsuit and a farmer’s tan.

No, I’m the castaway in charge.

I’m the guy this ridiculous cast of characters waits around on to engineer a new means of escape every day, plans that involve initiative and occasionally monkeys and never seem to work very well. And like that guy, I tend to wear a hunted expression that all but pleads, “Help me. I’m surrounded by lunatics and head-hunters.”

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I can’t make up my mind exactly which parts my kids are playing as the scene is always changing.

Sometimes they’re Thurston and Lovey – a pampered pair who were quite sure their three-hour tour was going to be way more fun than this, who expect daily ice cream from the passing truck (only to have their hopes dashed), who need a full-time travel agent to entertain their every summer whim.

But more often than not, they’re bumbling buddies trapped in a love-hate state of mutual annoyance –Will as the cranky Skipper and Lucy as the goofy Gilligan.

There’s the constant background noise of growling and groaning and clunkings over the head, followed by complaints lodged with the Professor over what irritating things Gilligan has done or said now.

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But some days, Lucy’s our Mary Ann, all sunny contentment and bouncy pony-tail, wearied by the grumpiness on this stupid island.

And then there’s my husband, Bill, who’s one of the random guest-stars who would just magically show up – a Harlem Globetrotter of sorts.

He flits in and out, making nice friendly appearances to keep things interesting. Then he inexplicably gets to return to civilization every day – while here we sit, still stuck with a hole in our boat with no new ideas and no place to go. Being a Globetrotter is good.

Desert island living definitely has its merits.

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The pace is easy. You don’t have to be anywhere on time. You can wear the same capri pants every day and nobody knows the difference.

Sometimes there’s even time to kick back with a coconut drink – as long as you can tune out the ruckus of Gilligan and the Skipper squabbling their way out of that wretched hammock again.

This is 40…and then some

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I just got out of the bathroom, plucking another fistful of grey hairs.

Shut up, I know. They just grow back in an army of little silver spikes, intent on total scalp domination.

And yet I pluck. It’s what you do when you’re 43, which is what I am, as of today.

Back when I was young and beautiful...and apparently a boy.

Back when I was young and beautiful…and apparently a boy.

I now join the ranks of other 43-year-old women who haven’t exactly taken the world by storm – Shannen Doherty, Denise Richards, Debbie (now the more stately Deborah) Gibson.

Mind you, the 43-year-old guys are still ruling the school – Jon Hamm, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg (who has long since left Marky Mark and his Calvins behind).

But the 43-year-old women…hmmm…not as strong a showing. I can’t speak for how well Wendy Whoppers is holding up (an aging porn star, according to my handy “celebrities who are 43” list), but I don’t hear a whole lot from Claudia Schiffer anymore.

Even so, I doubt anyone’s ever offered her a senior discount.

Now, you may have heard this story before. (All my friends pretty much have.) But hey, old people repeat themselves a lot. 

Back when I was a sprightly 42, I went treasure hunting at Goodwill. I’d hoped for a little pick-me-up, the kind that comes from unearthing a stain-free J. Crew rollneck sweater just your size.

Speaking of cheap thrills, how bout Barbie clothes?

Speaking of cheap thrills, nothing beats Barbie disco ensembles on your birthday. (Please please note my midriff-bearing top.)

But know this: nothing brings you crashing back down to earth like the check-out lady inquiring in all helpfulness, “Do you qualify for our senior discount?”

(Let me be clear. I was NOT buying girdles or Maeve Binchy novels at the time.)

All I could do was stare at the woman.  Mouth agape. Eyes squinty.

And I hung on for the laugh. Surely, there had to be a joke in there somewhere. Surely.

Instead, she offered this qualification: “Our discount applies to people 55 and over.” Oh, well then, that makes everything better.

I squinted harder. My mouth hung slack. And I waited for her to cast her eyes upon my dewy complexion and blush hotly at her mistake.

Not to be unkind, but perhaps there’s a reason this woman worked at Goodwill. Clearly she was not one for making wise life choices, because she had the gall to ask me again, kind of snotty this time:  “Well, do you?”

Being old and slow-witted, all I could muster was a haughty laugh and (perhaps a little too long and loud) an indignant, “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

It’s a good thing for her that I’m a lover, not a fighter…and that I have very little upper body strength for strangling.

Because, man, that’ll set you back.

You’re walking around thinking, I’m young. With it. Quasi-hip. I may have two kids and a station wagon and spider veins, but I’m still pulling it off. Sort of.

I mean, I've got it going ONNNN.

I mean, I’ve got it going onnnnn.

Then you have that soul-crushing moment when you discover you’re not 25 anymore. And that nobody my age says “hip” much — unless they’re joking about breaking one.

The thing is, I don’t want to be 25. I am perfectly content here at 43 – right along with my friends, Sarah Silverman and Melissa McCarthy.

I’m just not quite ready to share that 55-year-old senior discount with Jamie Lee Curtis. Or her Activia, for that matter.

There’s plenty of time for all that.

Twelve years to be exact, not that I’m counting.

Motherhood and tattoos are forever.

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It’s hard not to stare at people on the train to New York City. I mean, it just IS.

It’s like a Play-Doh Fun factory on there. One after the other, they keep coming — frat boy, elderly arts patron, Asian hooker. Each one is wildly different from the person who passed before. God is nothing if not creative.

But of all the fascinating cases on our trek last weekend, I could NOT stop staring at the mother and newborn across from us. The mother was like some Caribbean goddess with raven locks, a billowing sundress, and this chocolate-eyed baby cradled in her arms. Almost as dramatic was her boyfriend in iridescent green skinny jeans. It’s quite possible he was one of the Black Eyed Peas.

TattooMomEdited

Just your typical mother and child. POW.

But here’s what made me sneak this crappy snapshot on a moving train. She was nonchalantly shaking up her baby’s formula when I spotted the most mind-blowing tattoo on her left arm.

It read – and I’m not making this up:

“MotherF—ingAwesome POW!”

This on the very arm that was feeding her newborn babe.

Her ginormous diaper bag is blocking the bicep in question, so you’re just going to have to trust me. But the swear was in an elegant cursive, the “POW!” was like a comic book graphic, and it hit me square between the eyes. POW.

That POW got me thinking. If one is going to launch into the lifelong commitments of both body art and the family way, there are certain pitfalls I’d think you’d want to avoid.

From the perspective of this middle-class mom from the Connecticut ‘burbs, here are some helpful hints that future candidates for motherhood and tattoos may wish to consider:

1. Your tattoo will be one of the first words your child ever reads. Keep it PG.

I want to cry when I picture that darling little girl a few years from now, dragging her tiny finger across her mom’s arm and sounding out the words like her preschool teacher taught her. “Fffff….uuuuu…..What’s this say, Mommy?” GROAN. You do not want this to happen. EVER.  So for the wise woman who’s thinking long-term, go with those Japanese characters that translate into something zen-like. Even if it is a swear, your future kids will never know. Do it for the children.

2. Future mothers must be strategic about tattoo placement. Let’s face facts: there are certain areas that lend themselves to spread over time and multiple children. Those angel wings splayed across your haunches? They could very well look like the work of the devil after love handles have their way with you.  So may I recommend the tops of feet – or better yet, toes? With age and diabetes, your toes may swell like Vienna sausages, but at least there is limited flesh spread.

3. For crying out loud, a tattoo is forever. Spell it right. How are you supposed to foster a love for learning in your children with something like “Sweet Pee” scrawled across your shoulders? Trust me, this is not aspirational. It might as well be a “Kick me” sign.

If I learned anything from the girl from the train, it’s that motherhood is a lifelong commitment, and so are tattoos. Neither should be entered into lightly.

So you may seriously want to rethink that Calvin-peeing-on-a-Chevy tat.

Save it for the back of the minivan. At least you can peel it off when you’re done with it.

And believe me, you will be. I already am.

Moving on to facial hair

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The monocle represents the height of manhood.

The monocle represents the height of manhood.

I did face-painting at my kids’ school yesterday — the sweetest gig in all of Fun Day.

For my troubles, I got a tent in the shade, a comfy plastic chair, and little to no banshee screaming.

My hottest request of the day was for the handlebar mustache and monocle. I’m not sure how kids even know what a monocle is, but man, did they want one.

Perhaps it’s some newfound desire to look older and more sophisticated, to rise above the little-kid realms where cheeks are adorned with lame-o butterflies and rainbows.

We’re getting past all that, I guess. We’re moving on to facial hair.

And more than that, we’re moving on to middle school.

My oldest, Will, is “graduating” from elementary school tomorrow.

On the face of it, moving from 4th grade to 5th isn’t that cool of a milestone.

I mean, it’s no testament to Will’s strength of character that he survived the mean streets of elementary school and learned his times tables.

But this kind of transition is just teeming with heightened nostalgia for saps like me who feed on this stuff.

Every event of spring has been met with the opening line, “Awwww, Will, this’ll be your last Author’s Tea!” or “This is your last class party!” or “This is the last time you’ll ever sing ‘Be All You Can Be!’” (the school song with the fist-pumping hand gestures and the self-esteem tropes that gets me every time).

To which, Will yawns.

Whatever. The kid’s moving on.

It’s gonna take me a little longer.

Which brings me back to face-painting – and the prize awarded for the weirdest request of the day.

I was taking a picture of the painted dragon wrapped around my daughter Lucy’s arm (which she soon wished was a mustache) when I noticed a little bitty third-grader in the background.

On each of her toothpick arms was painted nothing less than a nunchuck.

This was what she wanted.

This sweet little 3rd grader wanted big awesome nunchuck skills.

I’m kicking myself from here to yonder that I didn’t take a picture to show you, because you would die laughing.

These kids are growing up. They’re arming themselves for the future.

Just give ‘em a five o’clock shadow and some nunchucks, and look at that…they’re ready to take on the world.

I’m a blog!

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AuthorsTea

If she only knew all the stuff I’d written about her.

“Welcome to my blog.”

Those just might be the most overused words in the English language. (Except maybe “Are we there yet?”) Everybody and their Aunt Linda has a blog.

I’ve been writing a column in an actual newspaper made of wood pulp for what seems like a hundred years (a happy place known widely throughout rural Southeastern Connecticut since 2007 as “Tales from the Crib”).

I was happy there. Times were simple then. And from my newspaper treehouse, I hid away from the “blogosphere” — a place that sounds a lot like Thunderdome.

So yeah, I’m more than a little slow to this blog party…and the Twitter party…basically any party. I mean, I never even went to prom.

But if I learned anything from Breaking Bad (and I learned so very many painful life lessons), it’s that some things are worth getting a late start on.

I hope this is one of them.

I’ll still write here about my kids and family and faith — stuff that makes me laugh and stuff that makes me weep and stuff I want to do better. And I’ll still write about all that from the comfort of my home and my elastic-waist yoga pants that almost never experience yoga.

But with this fancy new blog, I’ll throw in some pictures. And I’ll cast the net a little wider. And we can go back and forth more about the stuff that makes us all laugh and cry and aspire and spit nails. And you can invite your friends if you want.

I’m not done yet. I’m just graduating to the next level.

If I’m weirdly inspiring my daughter through all this, then I guess I better raise my game.  I mean, the kid dedicated her book of 3rd grade poems to me.

 “To my mom who inspires me to be an author when I grow up.”

Now, if I could just keep her from actually reading the stuff I’ve written about her…