Drawing the line.

Most people who choose to live here during the months that are not June, July or August have to get creative when it comes to making a living. That includes those of us with college degrees.

For about a month now I have been doing some errands, grocery shopping etc., for an elderly woman. Yesterday, I was out and about getting lunch for her and her live-in nurse and was being bombarded with phone calls from the nurse with various requests. Can you get some bananas? Sure. Can you get me 3 coconut macaroons? No problem. Two gallons of milk? You got it. Can you get me a baked potato and a do-it-yourself perm kit? Wait a second. Where am I supposed to get a baked potato?

During this succession of requests she slipped in a casual, “oh and can you pick me up a feminine wash?” Sure thing. I just wanted to get off the phone. And then I started to think, a feminine wash? What is that? And then very slowly... painfully, almost excruciatingly slowly, I realized that the nurse was asking me to buy her a douche.

First and foremost I called Adam, who made no attempt whatsoever to muffle his laughter. He also launched into a lengthy explanation about the risks of douching, but before I let myself think too deeply about why he even has this information, I had to remind him that I was not the one in the market for a douche or a do-it-yourself perm kit for that matter.

At first I had no intention of buying this “feminine wash” for her. I thought that I would make a silent yet strong statement in my refusal. Something like do not EVER ask me to buy you DOUCHE ever, ever again.

But then after trying 4 different places for the perm kit, I started to feel bad for the nurse. She is stuck in the house all day, she has no freedom and no escape and she can’t even perm her hair. The guilt got worse and worse so while in the grocery store (which was blissfully vacant) I went ahead and casually threw a box of Massengill in my basket. Then I made a bee-line to the register, pretended to be looking for something in my wallet when the cashier rang in the douche and thanked god that I didn’t see anyone I knew.

The douche, by the way, only cost $2.49, making it the most inexpensive commodity on this entire island. Which leads me to wonder if they just give douche away on the mainland?

Back at the house, as I unpacked the groceries the nurse immediately informed me that I got the wrong douche as well as the wrong Lysol. A little while later she let me know that her sandwich sucked to boot.

For reasons that I still don’t quite understand, I left that house, douche and the Lysoln in hand, with a halfhearted promise to exchange them for the preferred “cleaners”.

I still have both the douche and the Lysol. It takes a great deal of audacity to walk into a grocery store (on an island where everyone knows everyone) and try to exchange a douche. I guess I am not audacious enough. But I hate to see anything go to waste so I am trying to convince Adam to take the Massengill with him to his friend's house on Sunday (for the Superbowl) and nonchalantly leave it in the bathroom, just to see what happens. The Lysol I am keeping for myself.

For those of you still wondering, I haven’t decided whether or not I will buy the feminine wash for the nurse. It would probably be the nice thing to do, but it might also be my chance to draw that line. My decision depends heavily on the tone she uses with me next time we talk. That and whether or not she gets her hair permed.

Mouse-Free Mac & Cheese

When I say I used to have a family of mice living under my stovetop, I do not speak metaphorically. It’s not some cutesy, Manhattan code for: “My life is so insanely hectic and the delivery options are so vast and enticing that I have opted to use the oven not for cooking but instead for sweater storage.”

No. What it means is, back in the days when I lived in an apartment slightly larger than a ladies room stall (and not the handicapped one with the changing table and private sink,) I had a very large, and very persistent family of mice living under my stovetop.

Occasionally, to be fair, they vacationed behind the microwave. Summers underneath the refrigerator, that kind of thing. But mostly, they made themselves quite cozy scampering about between the burners, popping up now and again to confirm that yes, that irritating human is still around, and no, she hasn't dropped any crumbs for us today.

Because, and here’s a lesson: Crumbs come from cooking. And cooking, you see, is hard to do when MICE ARE LIVING IN YOUR OVEN.

Now, I suppose it would be a teeny tiny stretch of what some might call “the truth” if I were to imply that the only reason for the cooking hiatus was rodent-related.

And a hiatus, I guess, would in turn imply that there was significant cooking going on in the first place. You know, pre-mouse.

Sadly, not so. Not so with the cooking. Unless it could take care of itself in a pot of boiling water, or better yet, the microwave, I probably had it delivered.

But that’s what New Years Resolutions are for!

Because this year, I live in an actual house, with an actual working oven. And the only animals that ever see the inside of this oven are long-dead and usually in meatloaf form.

So this year, I made a list. I guess techinically it’s not a list since it’s one item long. More like a directive. A forward-thinking note-to-self.

Here is what my list said:

New Years Resolutions:
Cook Good.

And so, without further ado, may I present one of my very first, completely-delicious-while-at-the-same-time-only-slightly-resembling
-radioactive-material:
Mouse Free Mac & Cheese!




I got the recipe from this site right here, which I adore and drool over daily. I changed it a little (because I’m crazy like that) and added Japanese breadcrumbs to the top layer before baking, on account of their delicate flakiness (and random existence in my cabinet.)

Meet the Focker.

I sat down at least a dozen times this weekend to write an intro for my brother to go with that exceptional picture of him posted on Thursday (see Pu-pu platter). I think that by opening with something that speaks so clearly for itself, I set myself up for failure. I searched the old lexicon but I had nothing. I'm not sure any words can do that shot justice. Although Alex did a pretty good job when I sent her a copy before posting "he looks like a special/drunk/French boy at his big birthday bash." So just take it in, absorb it, notice the flaming pu-pu platter and the fruity drink in the corner. And don't worry, there's more where that came from.

We are hoping to have Daniel as a guest blogger sometime. Right now he is wrapping up his college career and "planning for the future." He is considering nursing school, but we aren’t sure if that is a legitimate aspiration or something to provide us with endless jokes and Halloween costumes.

Of course there is nothing wrong with nursing, my mom has been doing it for 30 years. But there is something undeniably hilarious about my little brother becoming a man nurse. A 'murse' if you will. I will.

your yoga is showing.

Let’s face it. Once Columbus Day hits, those of us crazy enough to brave winter on this island basically do so on our couches. Sometimes, when we’re feeling particularly sociable, we might go to other people’s couches. But other than the occasional snowshoe excursion to the post office or trip to the five and dime, it’s pretty much sofa city from October on.

So, when I moved here about a year and a half ago, straight from the bustling streets of Manhattan – where I NEVER sat on my couch watching Law & Order marathons for better parts of Sunday afternoons, what with all of the museum-visiting and lecture-attending and general woman-about-towning I had going on – all of this down time took some getting used to.

I’d say two weeks.

Once I’d settled into my new routine of working, playing, reading and “cooking,” I realized it might be a good idea to look into a hobby that actually required leaving the house.

And this, my friends, is what brought me to my first yoga class. Not a burning quest for spiritual enlightenment. Not the desire to maintain a healthier, more holistic lifestyle. Not even the promise of leaner legs and firmer abs. (Though, as long as we’re promising things, I probably would’ve taken some nicely toned biceps and triceps, too.)

No, I’d heard of the many benefits of practicing yoga and they all sounded swell. But the truth is:

I was bored.

Oh, also? I had one friend. You might have heard about her. She’s a little, blonde dynamo and she LOOOOOVES the yoga.

So in the early days of our friendship, when Erin suggested we try a yoga class and I was all, totally! I love yoga! Watch me touch my toes! I was basically just looking for a way to pass the few hours between work and Wheel of Fortune.

Well, here’s where things get complicated. Because now? If pressed, I will tell you everything you never wanted to know about “my practice.” Erin and I love comparing our favorite “asanas,” often over a steaming cup of kombucha tea, and we’ll even, on occasion (occasions we are not especially proud of) throw out a “pranayama” reference or two.

This was not an easy transition for either of us to make. And although Erin was coming from a much more yoga-friendly place than I, it took us both a good five or six months to truly embrace this new, healthy and totally un-funny part of ourselves.

Because for some reason, yoga and the funny have a hard time coexisting. How is it possible that a yoga teacher will ask you to breathe into your pelvic muscles while remembering the way your Kindergarten teacher smelled, all with a stone-straight face and a sense of urgency that borders on the terrifying?

This is the pressing question that keeps us up at night. (That, and just how ACTIVE are the active cultures in yogurt? I mean, really.)

Welcome to Upward Facing Mondays. For the yogis and yoginis among you, we’ll be posting some of our favorite poses and anecdotes, complete with (possibly costumed) photo shoots and easy-to-follow instructions. And for the haters, we promise never to take ourselves too seriously, and never, not even once, will we ask you to lift your hearts and smile.

racing the snow plow.

Pu-pu Platter

parched.

Lately, we’ve been having some problems with the water. As in, there is none. As in, Saturday afternoon -- yes, the very same Saturday afternoon three unsuspecting souls showed up for a lovely little visit to Chez Nip ‘N Tuck, expecting a cozy retreat in the woods, and maybe, I don’t know, a WORKING TOILET -- our water pump broke.

What is a water pump?

Clearly, it is that rusting, gnarly thing buried three thousand feet under the ground, in a carefully hidden and randomly selected corner of the backyard.

And how is it possible that a water pump will break, be replaced, break again, freeze, be replaced, leak, break again, be replaced for a third time, and still, incredibly, not do the one thing it purports to be able to do?

i.e. PUMP. WATER. TO THE HOUSE?

It is possible because we live on an island. And because we live on an island, these things take time. There are special plumbers that need to take special boats from a far away place called the MAINLAND. Not to mention the special parts that need to be ordered from special pump warehouses, or the special landladies quietly residing in special states just south of the Mason-Dixon.

But living without plumbing is fun! It’s just like camping! Besides, if the pump hadn’t broken, I might never have discovered that it only takes FIVE GALLONS OF WATER poured into a bucket and thrown violently into the toilet bowl to force it to flush! (For a quick video demonstration, and a catchy little jingle, see here. And then call Hannah and tell her she was right.)

Also, if the pump hadn’t broken, and I could do things like shower once in a while, I might not be sitting here, typing with egg yolk in my hair. Although, to be honest, I suspect that has more to do with the fact that I was put in charge of making breakfast this morning, a rare reversal of domestic roles that I suspect, after today’s performance, will never happen again.

Or at least not until we have running water.

Tica "Venga" Babylon.

From the Costa Rican jungle



to the dunes of Martha's Vineyard.



Not even Whiskey can resist her dopey feral charm.

in the beginning...

I had already been living on this island for four months when I met Alex last winter. She was the first friend I made here, entirely on my own. The first friend who was not my brother, my boyfriend or someone introduced to me by my boyfriend. After my brother (my other BFF) left at the end of the summer Adam looked forward to the day when I would make a new friend and stop greeting him when he got home from work everyday in a manner similar to how our dog, Dudley, greets us now.

Alex was my friend, not a friend of a friend, my friend. Well fine she is my high school friend’s college friend. But still. We were at a now defunct bar that may or may not have been doubling as a drug den looking at each other in that way people do when they know each other but don’t know how. She made the connection first. "Aren’t you Jenna’s friend?" More like your friend now Ms. You Seem Normal. After all, we are the same age living on a deserted island in the winter where a great deal of people are very not normal. In the early stages of our friendship whenever I was going out with her I would tell Adam, very casually, "I’m going out with my friend Alex", putting added yet unnecessary emphasis on the word my.

We’ve bonded over yoga, being washashores and the trials and tribulations of a relationship with a local boy, excuse me, men…local men. Alex and I have a lot in common, yoga, reading, hilarity, traveling foreign countries, the list goes on. After all something led both of us to live here. I’m still struggling to figure out what that something is. But it might have something to do with this…

just a hop skip and a jump from my front door.

Salty Dog

Dudley loves the island life.

we almost took a class.

Another confession:

We are not, as they say, computer savvy.

HTML? Makes our brains leak slowly from our ears.

But thanks to Blogger, here we are, joining the masses in cyberblogland. It is so easy, it almost makes us nervous. We feel, it's true, less than worthy. As if fluency in all of the strange symbols and a comprehensive understanding of interface design should somehow be a prerequisite for blogging.

We don’t even know what interface means.

But still, we blog.

And promise never to use the word “blog” in verb form again.

Canine the first.

Whiskey: 15 pounds of paralyzing neuroses.

but we do have brothers.

Dear Internet,

(And by Internet, we of course mean the both of you enlisted to read this blog during its awkward, training-wheel stages. Welcome! What do you think of our template? Too blue? We are already insecure and need constant reinforcement. Reinforce!)

Here’s the thing:

In our extensive probing and research, we have found that a common response to the question “Dear Lord, Why? Why another blog? ” – often goes something like:

“Well, I was telling my sister about my day? And she was, like, laughing a lot? And she kept saying: man, you’re hilarious! You should really start a blog and share your unique world views and special brand of hilarity with the world!”

We are here to confess the following:

We have no sisters.

And.

Nobody told us to do this.

Which, we guess, means that if you find our particular brand of hilarity or unique perspective on whatever we happen to be perspectifying on any given day, say, less than hilarious or relevant…well…

Maybe it’s your sister’s fault. Did you ever think about that?

We know you don’t need us, Internet.

But it’s a long winter where we are, and maybe -- just maybe -- maybe we need you.

Your Favorite Washashores,

Erin & Alex