You can sit under my umbrella-ella-ella.

I had good intentions of writing a nice upward facing Monday post today. But I just can't wrap my head around yoga.

It might have to do with my background music. Jay-Z at the moment. I bought one of his old CD's and Kanye West's new one today. Not conducive to down-dogging. But this is the music phase I'm currently in. H to the Izzo.

It started yesterday at my parent's house. I was taking advantage of having access to modern technology ie: watching television. Cable TV overwhelms me, so whenever I am in it's presence I go straight to the music videos.

Kanye West's video for The Good Life came on and wow....it's amazing. The song and the video.

Then last night, I started thinking about how fun it would be to go to Kanye and Rihanna's concert in May.

I quickly went from thinking about it, to dwelling on it, to obsessing over how it is quite possibly the greatest idea I have EVER had and how it is no longer an option but a mandatory off-island excursion. I even found reasonably priced tickets.

I could hardly wait till morning to call my blogmate to tell her to get ready, we're going on a road trip (in 6 weeks).

I was a little nervous that her phone wouldn't work because it didn't yesterday. Then I realized that she gave me the Boy's phone number "in case of emergency", and I laughed at her, what kind of emergency would I have to call the Boy for? but I put it into my cell phone anyway.

Thank God.

Good thing her cell phone worked, because I don't know if this call would have been grounds for calling the Boy at 8am.

We exchanged pleasantries like "are you going to interview the lunch ladies today?" and "do you want to go to that movie about abortion on Wednesday?" and then with some restraint in my voice I asked,

"Do you want to go to the Glow in the Dark show in May?"
"What?"

"The Kanye West and Rihanna concert. Duh."
"Ummmm....."
"It's at the Tweeter Center, outside, it will be such a fun/funny trip."

"Hmmm....."

"You have till Wednesday to decide."

And then we went about our days. One of us to interview lunch ladies. The other to lunch with an old lady.

pathetic snipping

Saturday night we cooked out at the Bridge House, the family camp of one of our friends and one of the oldest houses on the island. It was the first grilling of the season -- still too cold to eat outside but warm enough to kick around a soccer ball at sunset.

After dinner I was snooping around some bookshelves and found a set of Illustrated Encyclopedias from 1961. Volume 8 is dedicated almost entirely to gardening, and contains the following priceless introduction to pruning:

"Pruning is an acquired art. Without adequate understanding, men are apt to commit a kind of tree and shrub butchery in its name, while ladies are likely to approach their victims with such tender hearts that the few pathetic snips they make are ineffective."


Hmm. I wonder which is worse. Tender-hearted snips?

Or BUTCHERY.

back and forth. forever.

Remember that movie Me and You and Everyone We Know? Remember that part with the kid and the poop and the chore wheel?

That was funny.

You know what else is funny? Miranda July, writer, director and star of that little cinematic gem has her own website/blog found here. And if that leaves you wanting MORE MIRANDA, you can also check out her online art project, Learning To Love You More.

Oh, Internet. Is there anything you don't have inside of you?

backseat driver

Venga has developed the strange habit of climbing up over the backseat and squishing herself against the rear window of the car, whenever we're in it. For any period of time. Ever.

It made a lot more sense when she was a puppy. That was often the sunniest spot and she could easily fit between the headrests. Now, as she's quite a bit bigger, it takes some fancy footwork and careful maneuvering to get her whole body up there, but still she manages to make it look comfortable.

One night last summer while I was double parked outside one of the bars downtown -- and when I say "downtown," please know that I am referring to the one strip of dive bars in one of the two non-dry towns this island has to offer, bars with names like "The Ritz" and "The Rare Duck" and "Seasons" (definitely a top pick if you're in the mood for pinball or karaoke,) but I digress -- anyway that's where I was, double parked and waiting for the Boy to pick up some take-out Thai, when a pair of drunken collegiates stumbled past the car, spotted Venga all curled up in her nook, and started slurring sympathies along the lines of: "Omigoddddd! That pooor dog! She must be suffocating" and "I think that's, like, puppy abuse. Isn't it?"

The window was down and I should have said something, but the boy was back by then and I was hungry.

I did, however, wonder about that bump when I started reversing. It's kind of hard to watch out for underage sorority sisters swerving down Main Street with this in your rear-view mirror:

getting back into the groove.

Hello friends! I'm back from my Central American hiatus. I'm happy to see that Alex has been entertaining you with her witty self.

I am still adjusting to this island life but I am happy to be back, blogging, yoga-ing, and debating my next career move as a giraffe trainer.

The Vineyard is feeling almost spring-y. Despite being more than 50 degrees 'cooler' than where I just was.

On that note, forgive me for being brief, I am adjusting.

Island Safari

While quickly scanning through the meager offerings of our local paper's Help Wanted section (just for kicks, not for a job or anything, don't get excited) I came across the following:

GIRAFFE TRAINER NEEDED

Must have innate ability to communicate with giraffes. This is NOT a paid position; rewarding giraffe relationships should be enough. E-mail danielle@mvtimes.com.

I know it might seem like I have very little going on and am therefore left with plenty of time to sit around concocting absurd Classified listings and then blogging about them, but I promise you, this one's real.

Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's a joke, some Island humor, a cheeky little commentary on the dismal selection of available jobs here in the off-season.

However, given that the contact info routes all queries to the paper itself, I'm not sure which is more disconcerting: the possibility that the island's major news source is searching for someone willing to talk to giraffes on a volunteer basis, OR the possibility that the island's major news source is so bored with the lack of newsworthy winter events that it has planted a FAKE LISTING in its own publication.

Is it summer yet?

Your Lord, Lord Whiskey

This is Whiskey's favorite spot for lounging, for the following reasons:

A. It's a stair landing located directly above the one major heat source we have in this otherwise bone-chillingly drafty house. The heat source itself is a propane monitor, designed, for reasons unknown to us all, to look like a fake fireplace. Whiskey is terrified of the artificial flames and the pseudo-crackling sounds they emit, but he is happy to appreciate the gusts of warm air that waft up to where he rests, arms crossed like the little gentleman of leisure he is.

B. This bed was purchased at Ocean State Job Lot, a discount store in Falmouth second only to the Christmas Tree Shop for bargains on things like canned goods and canine bedding. Although it may be difficult to tell in this shot, the colors of the luscious felt fabric and synthetic fiber stuffing perfectly pick up the honey-colored spots on Whiskey's hindquarters. As a gentlemen of leisure, color coordination is an issue for him.

On occasion, Venga will try to invade Whiskey's cozy digs, and on these occasions, Whiskey will often respond with vigorous licking, as only gentlemen of leisure do best:

Beneboast!

Beneboast: (v.) The act of reporting a good deed, done by you or for you, for the purposes of mass inspiration and enjoyment.

Beneboast! (www.beneboast.blogspot.com): (n.) The wonderfully witty and wise new blog by my friend Lauren, who we (the royal we) are just beginning to forgive for the unspeakable song-related atrocities she recently committed while we (the actual we) were on vacation in Florida. (Definitely NOT something to beneboast about.)

and would that be daylight savings time?

Though it's possible I've never come right out and said it, I live on this island with a Boy. And while this Boy is technically of man age, most of his behavior places him so squarely in the boy category that it just feels plain silly to refer to him as anything else.

And while I understand that many "men" in their mid-twenties continue to exhibit signs of adolescent boy behavior, and that it might perhaps last well into their thirties and forties...I am also pretty sure that there is a certain characteristic particular to island boys that separate them from the rest.

Here's a for example: This evening, say, around 5:15, the Boy came bounding into the House from work. Now, on any normal evening, the Boy coming home from work in no way involves bounding. There's usually a lot of sitting, a lot of yawning, a lot of "I'm hungry aren't you hungry can't we eat dinner now even though only the elderly eat this early did I mention I'm hungry?" -ing.

So when there's bounding, it generally means one of two things. He's either hurrying to go surfing, or he's hurrying to go surfing.

Or also, maybe he wants to go surfing. Immediately.

I guess there really is some technical reason why the decision to go surfing must always happen spontaneously and be acted on with a sense of urgency comparable only to, I don't know, an impending natural disaster of some kind. I've been told (repeatedly) that it has something to do with quickly shifting wind directions from off-shore to on, or on-shore to off, or whether or not his wetsuit will magically evaporate when the clock strikes 12. One of those.

However, it all seems a little needlessly chaotic for my tastes, especially the part when he asks, as he did this afternoon, for a ride home when he's done.

The ride home is not the problem. I like rides. I like home. See? No problem.

The problem can be detected in the following exchange, which occurred as one of us threw around the entire contents of the kitchen closet looking for his booties -- yes I said booties, surf booties, wicked hot surf booties -- and the other one of us stood patiently in the background:

Me: Okay. So what time do you want me to pick you up?

Boy: I don't know. Around sunset, I guess.

Me: Sunset?

Boy: Yeah.

Me: So what time, though?

Boy: We'll probably get out of the water around when it starts to get dark.

Me: So. Okay. But. So when should I pick you up?

Boy Genius: I don't know! When it gets dark! When the sun sets! Leave the house when the sun starts setting, and by the time you get there, it will be dark!



Okay. I realize that when you live on an island, and you grow up frolicking in the dunes or catching frogs or whatever it is kids do when they're not watching TV like the rest of us, your sense of time has a little more of a sun-dial feel to it.

But I grew up in a city, I had a stoop, I did not catch frogs and I wouldn't know how to read a sun-dial if it projected big digital numbers in the sky.

Actually, that's not a bad idea. Because when it comes to time, call me crazy, but I like numbers! Numbers are pretty much all I need! Nice, solid numbers that leave no room for error based on cloud formations or subtle hues of "dark."

Numbers like 6:58, which, according to weather.com, is when the sun will be setting this evening, and therefore, you can be sure, reflects the exact time at which I will be rolling up to collect the Boy...booties, board and all.

I am yoga (and so can you!)

Isn't it fun listening to people talk about how much they love yoga?

Sometimes, I'll find myself being asked a certain type of question ("Why yoga? How has it changed you? What's the best part about it?") and it's all I can do to stumble through a coherent response without throwing up in my mouth. Because honestly, nobody can talk at length about yoga and its many spiritual and physical benefits without sounding like a fluffy, idol-worshipping lunatic.

The way I usually try to get around this is to focus on the practical, tangible results of a regular yoga practice. Often I'll say something along the lines of: "I have so much more energy now," or, my personal favorite: "Yoga's just so easy because you can do it on your own."

These kinds of answers are good because they are non-threatening and, when executed with skill and the obligatory self-deprecating follow-up remark, they tend not to make you come across as borderline psychotic.

They are not so good because they are lies.

Okay, the energy thing -- maybe on the whole that's not totally false. Sometimes I do feel more energetic. Sometimes I don't. But I'm inclined to believe this has more to do with whether or not I've slept sandwiched between two fidgeting dogs, turning endless circles between my shins or snoring heavily on my head, or how many gallons of coffee I've managed to intravenously inject into my veins before 9 am, than how many Warriors and Triangle Poses I've done that day.

And the "It's great because you can do it on your own" defense? While theoretically this is true, in reality, it's crap. Sure, after you've learned enough of whatever sequence you've been practicing in class, or, in the case of Astanga and me, had the entire Primary Series beat into your brain so that you start dreaming in sanskrit and struggling to remember whether or not there's a vinyasa after the seventeenth forward bend -- when you get it all down, then yes, technically, because there is no necessary equipment involved, you can do it at home on your own.

Technically.

And technically, if you ask me, "Hey Alex, how's your at-home yoga practice going?" I will probably say it's going swell! I practice every day! Thanks for checking in!

And I will pretty much be lying. Because even though I do try every day to throw on some yoga pants (Another practical defense! Who doesn't love yoga pants?) and roll out the mat to practice, most of the time it's a slightly less productive practice than if I had gone to a class or done the entire 90-minute series with a partner.

And by this I mean it's not uncommon for me to do three to five sun-salutations and call it a day.

Case in point: While on vacation last week, as punishment for making me eat nothing but tofu and twigs, I convinced Lauren to do the entire Primary and/or Intermediate Series with me every single morning we were there. (It didn't hurt that our only daily obligation was to sit by the pool or try on sunglasses at Target.)

In the five days since I've been home, if you add up all of the time I've spent locked in my room with a yoga mat (so as to decrease the chances of a dog eating my hair while I'm upside down) then maybe -- maybe -- it would equal one full 90-minute practice.

The moral of this story is not that I'm a liar. It's that I'm lazy. But even lazy people can make yoga a part of their lives. And that, my friends, is why I love yoga.

There, see? I only threw up a little bit that time. You?

got your back.

Gon' git us some supper.

Actually he is on his way to eliminate the skunk that's living under our barn. I'm all for animal rights, and we did use a have-a-heart trap but there is no such thing as catch and release on an island.

Overreacted.

Fine overreacted is an understatement. I totally lost my cool this weekend. But I do believe that there are several of you who would also go, dare I say, ape shit? if you thought someone stole your dog and made off to South America with him.

I won't go too into detail here but Adam and I had an arrangement with the woman who we bought Dudley from, allowing her to use him as a stud when the time was right.

The time was right this weekend. She was supposed to have him for a few hours on Saturday but after dropping him off at 5am we didn't see Dudley again until 10:45 on Sunday night.

In an unlikely reversal of roles, Adam was cool as a cucumber all weekend, actually encouraging ME to calm down. I spent most of Saturday sobbing and by Sunday I was considering legal action.

I'm not proud of my behavior and looking back it may have been a tad excessive to assume that this woman who lives less than 5 miles away dognapped Dudley (and took him to South America) but what can I say?

Call me crazy. Actually don't. I've heard enough of that. Just call me a concerned, overtired, pre-menstrual pet owner.

Dudley is home safe and sound and his new girlfriend, Leona, is spending a few days with us. Just to make sure the deed is done if you know what I'm saying. Wink wink.

Check her out.

(too long.)

Lauren's parents have a "Florida car," which happens to be the very same, trusty Toyota that she carted me around in all through high school and beyond, when I moved to New York City and suddenly decided that getting behind the wheel of a moving vehicle was the risk-equivalent of bungee jumping or stepping out blindfolded in front of a train.

Unlike us, the car has aged since then -- locks are rusty, windows are temperamental, and, most disturbingly, the radio no longer functions as anything other than a display area for the schizophrenic digital clock.

This might not be such a catastrophic state of affairs, if one of us -- not mentioning any names, here -- hadn't decided early on that in order to pass the time on long, flat drives up and down the gulf coast, we would simply sing our own songs.

Did I say songs? That's kind of misleading. Because ONE OF US -- possibly the one of us other than the one of us that's um, you know, me -- not only decided that the go-to activity for this car-heavy, radio-free trip would be singing songs, but that it would be THE SAME SONG ALL THE TIME. FOREVER. UNTIL ONE OF US REACHES ACROSS THE OTHER ONE OF US AND STEERS THE CAR INTO AN ALLIGATOR-INFESTED SWAMP. THE END.

And this is where we move into slightly more embarrassing territory, because in order to answer the one question that I know must be tearing each and every one of you apart, limb from limb, in gut-wrenching suspense, I am forced to admit to the fact that there was a certain period of time when Lauren and I both fancied ourselves the # 1 and 2 fans of a certain, Irish pop group known as The Cranberries.

(Please --we were fourteen, and disaffected, and totally related to Dolores and her Northern Irish angst.)

And so, the problem isn't so much the fact that we are suddenly slaves to a certain sticky melodic jingle -- and when I say slaves, I mean that we live in service to this song, every waking moment of every day, we are singing it, we are humming it, it creeps inside of every silence that falls between us, it never, EVER LEAVES -- but the fact that the lyrics we sing on constant-repeat are evocative of a mother who has tragically lost her child to an interminable, unfeeling religious war -- prompting us to spontaneously erupt with sunny lines like: "How could you hurt a child?" or, the classic: "Nine months is too long...too long...too long..." while casually applying sun-tan lotion, flipping through a magazine, or pondering what combination of vegetable - plus - grain -plus-soy-bean concoction we'll have for dinner tonight.

I'm thinking now that, on our way to the Red Sox spring training game we'll be attending tomorrow afternoon, I might insist that we each listen to our own pair of headphones, attached to our own, varied selection of iPod splendor -- if only to ensure that when Manny knocks in a home run we don't accidentally shout something along the lines of:

"There's a PLACE for the baby that DIES!!!"

vegan vacay.

After an eventful flight from Logan to Fort Meyers -- (note to those traveling with small children: allowing your seven-year-old to fling himself against his neighbor's seat while gleefully listing similarities between the mind-scrambling turbulence that has rocked the aircraft uninterrupted for the past hour and his favorite "rollah coastah" is decidedly not okay. Particularly not when said neighbor is huddled in a fetal ball, white-knuckling the armrests and imagining a number of Castaway-style scenarios, sure to end in a swift plummet into the Florida swampland below) -- I am here in sunny Naples with my oldest friend Lauren and approximately three-quarters of the retired population of the universe.

Lauren is a vegan with a capital Very Very Vegan. It's a relatively new part of her life and has led to only positive things, and, as such, I am Very Very Happy For Her.

It also makes shopping at even the most organic of suburban South Florida supermarkets a challenge, one we met not-exactly prepared yesterday evening after somersaulting our way down the Eastern seaboard and mentally drawing up our wills.

We managed to spend two hours and $150 on mostly produce (two or three of just about every green, leafy or peel-able item available), four varieties of grain, three cans of beans, tofu (both firm and extra firm), curry powder, tamari sauce, almond milk, peanuts, dark chocolate and -- after reading every ingredient on every box and finally locating the only egg/milk/honey/xantham gum-free option -- pumpkin and flax seed granola.

Oh, and wine. All red, and all for me.

So here's to six days of fiberful, flesh-free feasting, mild hangovers, daily treks to Walmart and Target, both located just across the twelve-laned street, and an even suntan.

You Might Be Living On The Vineyard If: Part One.

When asked to give directions to your home, your answer in any way resembles the following:

"You want to be looking for a silver mailbox next to the third maple tree after the farm. (Try to avoid inadvertently driving on farm property; you might be accused of "messing with the chickens" and promptly shot at. It happens.)

The maple tree used to have some reflectors on it, but they fell off during Hurricane Bob, so the silver mailbox is really all you have to go on. You'll know you've gone too far if you pass that garden supply store where everything's always half-price, or the place that used to be the place with the really good egg sandwiches. Or if you drive into the ocean.

If you catch the maple tree in time, turn left at the mailbox, and after the fourth crater-sized pothole on your right, you'll see a little sign with a painted number on it. The sign is in the shape of either a sailboat or a bird. It's really hard to say.

If you get lost, don't bother trying to call. Your cell phone won't have service and neither does mine. You'll have better luck rolling down your window and yelling for me. Somebody's bound to hear you eventually."

"Home is Where The Links Are"

Don't worry, I'm not here to rave about the incredibly light and fluffy Grapefruit Yogurt Cake I baked yesterday afternoon -- except to say that it's basically gone, and to insist again that you go here and make it yourself.

I am, however, here to rave about something. Someone, rather: My incredibly talented and handsome cousin John, who, with the help of a few good men, has officially endorsed lady Hillary by writing and directing this very clever campaign spot.

While we at This Island Life remain in the Obama camp, I happen to be a firm believer in the old adage: Blood is Thicker Than Equally-Capable-But-Sometimes-Immaturely-Sparring-
Democratic-Hopefuls.

I think I even have it embroidered on a pillow somewhere.