Missing the gun and tattoo shops

I am officially THE Karen, or her ten year old niece who didn't get everything she wanted on Christmas morning.

Of all things to be missing about tomorrow's trip that's not going to happen, it's the trip itself. 

 The familiar landmarks and billboards and welcome signs to tiny rural towns.  Driving through quaint little villages of pretty churches and grazing cows; of bright red tomatoes at a farmers market, of babbling brooks and summer camps in their busy season.

(And OK, it's the Poconos, so maybe a sign advertising a gun/tattoo/tobacco shop..let's not let reality ruin my fantasy just yet)

 And the anticipation..the amazing anticipation knowing one is just miles away from their happy place.

I will cry, and I will drive myself crazy obsessing over all the things I'm missing, and I'll be unable to accept how unfair it is, even while acknowledging other people have it so much worse.

But I'll be fine.  More than fine.

We had a great pool day today, and I donned my plastic face shield, which is so much more comfortable than any mask, and the three of us had a terrific dinner overlooking the water in a seaside town that's less than ten minutes from our home.

Everyone distanced; dogs played with owners around the gazebo,   and all signs pointed to the nightmare ending in less than a year.

The return trip will be sweeter than cotton candy.  

Even if it takes a year or two

Mourning Woodloch

This is what I should be doing on this particular Saturday in June, what I've been doing every year on this particular  weekend since 2004. 

 I should be watching the clock, and trying to remember to pause and breathe because I am so happy that in less than forty-eight hours, we'd be in the packed car, first on major highways and then on deserted country roads where someone is selling quilts  and peaches.

I should be wondering if I still have any old schedules or coveted medals that I neglected to clear from my suitcase or beach bag,

(Which, I realize ,I do..an agent  in the airport in Antigua  found some hard-won medals and thought I was smuggling illegal crystal balls into the US and yes, I realize how OBNOXIOUS and SELF-SERVING I sound, deeply  mourning the loss of an important vacation when I was just in a tropical island just under four months ago, but please bear with me)

Woodloch is different.  Woodloch is the most important week of the year, when we see our family that shares DNA and our other family that shares our passion.

We should be wondering who'll be the first to arrive, what songs the theme show will offer, what   mouth-watering dessert will debut  on the menu.

We should  be wondering  what the theme of "Cupcakes Wars" is going to be.  Summer movies?  Your favorite dinner?

 Who will we hug first.?

 What staff member will be the first to say those magical words, "welcome home?"

I should be thinking about how cold the lake will be, and how worth  it it'll be because I get to swim with the sunfish, and I'd  look behind me and see the ripples of blueness, the swath of greenery beyond that, and then the bluest skies and the puffiest clouds beyond that.. 

 I'd smell wonderful things in that lake..mountain air and bodies oiled up with something that smells like lavender, and then I'd hear the laughter of teens diving off of the dock, or I'd see kayakers and paddle boaters wave to me and I'd be thinking this is it, this is heaven on Earth.

 All of the five senses would be in complete agreement.

And the rest of the family would  slowly trickle in at various times on arrival day

..Evan, driving that long way himself after work but arriving in time for a scrumptious meal, my niece and her hilarious fiancé, who've been counting the hours with more accuracy than I had, my brother and his wife who'd arrive later on to say how beautifully our home for the next week  was decorated.

We'd talk about all the on-line games we had been playing for weeks, trying to master them in order to get clues for the Scavenger Hunt happening the morning after we arrived, where twenty teams of vets would have items just like ours, and the puzzles would get more difficult every year, but we didn't care, we were up for the challenge.

And we'd catch the fever in the crowded nightclub(no pun intended) as we'd gather to place our bets on a wooden horse, or play a challenging game of TV trivia.  

I can never sleep on arrival night, even in that cozy bed, because my mind is racing like one of those wooden horses.."what will they have for pool games this year?  What crazy thing is Todd willing to do to garner all this points in "Double Dare?"

How big did my great niece and great nephew get in the year since I've seen them?  They'd arrive the next day, full of spirit and enthusiasm, especially Shoshana, who starts her official Woodloch count on departure day the year before.

I should be thinking about how close we were to winning that medal..if only I remembered  the name of that theme song from an obscure 1960's movie ten seconds earlier!

I should be thinking about NOTHING but Woodloch, and I am, but this time, it's with a profound sadness because we simply cannot go.

They are open for business.. the "new normal"...and guests are posting wonderful things. 

Woodloch is still providing the magic, even during a global pandemic.

But too many of us have issues that would compromise our health, even if we strictly  obeyed all the rules.

I'm going to Woodloch, but  in my mind only...

It's been compared to a cruise on land, "Dirty Dancing"..and summer camp for adults.

Maybe that's why I'm taking the loss so hard..I didn't always have vacation money, and neither did my family growing up, so my Woodloch then was summer camp for underprivileged kids in suburban Philly, where I learned to swim and learned to crave..wildly CRAVE.. camaraderie.

Yes, I can still do all the things I do at Woodloch, or at summer camp, with just the three of us, but there's no "team" in "I.".

.I don't want to play "Jeopardy" with just my family(even 'though there are plenty of apps to allow it) I want to be with a crowd! I want crowds!  Big, smelly, loud, crazy crowds, even 'though I HATE crowds!

I long to share the ecstasy of winning a medal at Broadway Name That Tune, I need to share  the  audiences' laughter provided by an obscenely talented comic, I need to share the crumb cake and the foodgasms that  Woodloch's bakery is famous for.

I have a friend who lives in Manhattan who gently scolded me over this mourning. 

(In fact,  she did so this morning!)

 She doesn't have  a backyard pool like I do; she can occasionally go to her crowded rooftop without any seating and pray that everyone's mask is adequate.

And she's right..

But that doesn't mean I don't miss everything I'm not getting in this terrible stolen year.

I've been writing travel blogs for ages, as Jim and I have explored museums and houses of worship and restaurants all over the globe, and while looking at ancient relics has its positives, there is no place like home.

My special summer home.

I can count..I know 365 days will go by faster than I think--

I just want the vaccine, or the virus to just die like it did during the Spanish flu epidemic in 1918.

 I need to sniff mountain air..

..and I need to stop writing this ridiculously long blog entry.

My fork is in the dirt

Part II:  Karen Bueller's Day Off.

My blog readers, who obviously have too much time on their hands,  have already  read the adventures that ensued when  Karen Went to Rome and/or Karen Went to Hawaii:

 Get prepared to hear the exciting details of my latest lark, "Karen Goes to Lunch."

Outside!

At a Mexican Restaurant near the mammography center, where the view was dirty cars in a parking lot but I did not care.

  I was being served

 On a real porcelain  dish.

  By a masked waitress that looked like Jennifer Lopez.

  (We've had her before..when she was mask-less and the world was on its axis)

Jim parked and they tried to seat me at a wobbly table and I almost became THE "Karen."

  I have not waited for three months for a wobbly table. Let me speak to the manager.

J-lo sits me at another, and explains that outdoor dining has only been okayed in NJ for three days, but they were slow, because they don't have a liquor license, which explains everything you need to know about New Jerseyians who were packing every outdoor restaurant in NJ that serves alcohol.

Jim spent the entire lunch on the phone, which is typical for date night. 

 That's actually unfair. 

 It's typical for date AFTERNOON, and I KNEW he had to work, and I was grateful for the company and the ride to Red Bank.

The heat came, the flies came, and I felt like I was back on an excursion from one of the European cruises. I usually complain about insects and humidity, but not on a day I get my Get Out of Jail card.

  Even crowds would have been embraced. 

 (And of COURSE not LITERALLY!)

Jim is apologetically on the phone, and he stops, and looks at me and says, 

"Oh boy..this vendor is.."

And I stopped listening, just as you probably just did, and I respond with:  "My fork is in the dirt."

I don't think I ever used that phrase before, "my fork is in the dirt" but we didn't want to bother the overworked J-lo  for a replacement because, as Jim puts it, "you don't need a fork when all you eat is eight bowls of salsa and forty chips"

He tries to get back to his work call when I hit him with, "so why did you marry me?  What is it you like best about me?"

He looks a little startled, and then answers, a little too quickly, "you are animated."

I wanted to say " you  can be replaced by a lab tech that can massage me like a can of Play Doh" any time, you know", but I said:

"Animated?? That describes BoJack Horseman, not your wife of 30-plus years"

He went back to his call, but deep in my heart, I knew, I just KNEW..that there was no one on this earth he'd rather have his first post-quarantine lunch with, even with flies, even with a pair of burly truck drivers just six feet away at the wobbly table.

Too many Karens

Guess who put on shoes for only the second time since March?

And a bra?

And guess who's said  bra was taken off within ten minutes after reaching her destination!

(Don't get excited..I wouldn't have turned down a quickie lunch on the patio overlooking the river..or a quickie quickie at the Molly Pitcher Inn--but this was my March routine mammography, long delayed. Thus explaining the unhooked bra)

I really felt like a coal miner blinded by the light.  Houses shrunk!  So did the street.  I haven't even seen my next-door-neighbor's "For Sale" sign, and when I finally did, the letters looked blurry.

We get onto the Garden State Parkway and it might as well have been the yellow brick road, that's how foreign it felt.  We drove by the PNC Art Center, and I remember all the five-star concerts and comics we saw there, and this time..the marquee was blank.

I did see a construction worker who was up to his neck in a ditch near the marquee, so I guess there are worse jobs than being a spoiled housewife with a hobby or two.

We arrive at our destination, Red Bank Radiology, and Jim hands me my mask.  It might as well have been Mickey Ears, that's how ridiculous I felt.  And my glasses steamed up, so I have no idea if any info I filled out on the form was correct or not.  I  checked "yes" when asked if I am pregnant.

The office has carefully spaced seats and arrows, and I was  sure I wasn't going to be able to follow the instructions.

In walks the next patient, a woman my age, who gave her name as "Karen A."

(Yeah, I know, I was thinking the same thing)

The another woman walks in, and I'm assuming her name was also Karen because she asked to speak with the manager. 

(In actuality, she asked the receptionist where she could ask a personal question, which means she might as well have been a Karen)

The tech comes in to the waiting room and asks for Karen.  We all rise and then she says, "Karen A" and the manager Karen sits.

I am taken to the back room, where I awkwardly try to place my arm in the correct position as the tech positioned the girls.

I was squished and pinched, as one typically is in a routine mammography, and then I was told to hold my breath--while wearing that mask.

She might as well have asked me to walk on a tight rope over the Grand Canyon.

She is professional and delightful while giving me breathing instructions, I am thinking: "Please don't let me pass out or pass gas. Both can have deadly consequences. And I'm going to do either..or both..in about four seconds"

The test is over, I wait in a small room with the Karens, where I find out the sad news about Aunt Jemimah. Next they're going to make her thin as to not offend the body shamers.

I wanted to get dressed and use the spray on deoderant that probably dozens of Karens have already used that day, when the tech says to me, "Karen A? The doctor needs a few more tests."

Very scary words.

She's walking me to the ultra sound room, saying that he suspects it's "some kind of cyst, just a cyst" and she's suddenly using that phrase like Shirley MacLaine did, telling her maid/BFF that Debra Winger wasn't long for this world.

Jim is in the car, and I have to mount a step stool that is as high as my bedroom mattress, the one we call Willie Nelson for obvious reasons, in order to get onto the ultrasound table.

The tech tells me to relax as she gently massages my left breast with  a pleasant smelling cream and an even more pleasant touch.

I wanted to say, "If I keep my eyes closed and fantasize that you're Jimmy KImmel, will you do the right one too?"

I should have led with this if you're dumb enough to be reading this far:

I am fine..perfectly fine.

It's something like a..warped protruding vein, I think she said? I stopped listening..it sounded grosser than cyst.

I walk to the exit and see a GUY in a mask, but he was just delivering a pizza.

My computer is being a whiny bitch now and freezing up on me, let me tell the rest of today's adventure in Part II

The queen of Aberdeen

I so desperately needed that good old fashioned date night, the kind that felt like the second Saturday in June felt like  last year, and every year since we met, and I finally had something close to it tonight.

I spent the afternoon in the pristine pool, started a book heavily recommended by my son that was made into a wonderful movie, "The Disaster Artist", and had some good  take-out comfort food from Perkins.

We spent a good portion of the day browsing through family  beach rentals within driving distance, hoping for that miracle that will make it possible to actually go somewhere by the summer's end.

Best of all, we saw a TERRIFIC movie that reminded us of something we'd see in a REAL theater, smelling REAL popcorn and overly-perfumed theater-goers, drinking one quarter of the over-sized Diet Cokes that we should have never ordered in the first place.

I felt like I was wearing shoes and undergarments and clothes that still fit while lugging around my oversized handbag, and OK, I was actually  going commando in my most comfy cotton nightgown with my feet propped up in a recliner, but we selected a movie that felt like a genuine summer hit, a pre-virus little gem we'd normally  see on opening weekend in a freezing cinema.

I highly recommend "The King of Staten Island." 

 Jim wanted to see it because of star Pete Davidson, I was interested because it was directed by Judd Apatow, and the movie did not disappoint.

Funny and poignant with twists and turns..it had a "Saturday Night Fever" vibe without the Bee Gees soundtrack.  

Pete Davison is more than just that nut job on SNL..he showed some real acting chops here.

And unlike in the theater I so desperately miss, Jim could laugh as loud as he wanted, put the movie on pause, replay it, laugh again, and not worry about disturbing anyone else in the auditorium.

I miss movies and the movie-going experience,  but seeing something good and satisfying  like we did tonight makes the loss a little more bearable.

The summer blues

It should FEEL like summer, but it does not. 

 And not because it's June 11th, and the official start isn't for a few more days. 

 And not because it's raining, I like the sound and the smell of a summer storm.

It should feel like summer because my cover up still smells like sunscreen.  My damp bathing suit if still drying on the rack. I did pool exercises yesterday, I cracked open the long neglected Kindle and am thoroughly enjoying the highly recommendable "The Escape Room."

It should feel like summer, or almost summer, because we're grilling more and using the oven less, because the air is perfumed with the scent of lilac and coconut oil, and rabbits are roaming freely, sending Luke into a frenzy, and everything is a rerun, which I usually LOVE because I'm enslaved to the tube for three other seasons..

But it doesn't feel like summer, it feels like a robbery. 

 (For me and everyone else, I know)

I should be counting the days to the June family vacation we're not going on. I should be reading Rotten Tomato reviews and discussing with Jim what we plan to see this weekend, where to eat, who to invite to join us.

I should be buying more corn!  Planning a pool party or two!  Talking with fellow fans of "This is Us" about what to expect with the fall premiere that's not going to premiere.

I should be getting a cute summer haircut.  I should be shaving my legs!  Buying a new bathing suit!

I should be soaking in the crowds at the beach, or the boardwalk, or even tables full of noisy eaters clanking silverware against glasses at some outdoor cafe in the city, even at 10:00 PM.

I should be coughing from pollen, not fretting that every tiny sneeze is an ominous sign.

I know it could be worse..I know I am a spoiled middle aged woman, and I've been that since I was a teenager.

Look at all the kids who waited almost a year for the promotion at summer camp..or the chance to reunite with friends they haven't seen in ages.

 EVERYONE's vacation has been cancelled, or postponed.  I'm sure I'm not the only one having weird dreams about a favorite resort, where everything is just a bit off, knowing that upon awakening, it'll STILL be a bit off. 

I miss the sound of ice cream trucks and barking dogs and rowdy kids.

I come alive in the summer, and I miss that feeling. That anticipation. That excitement.

Social media isn't helping.  I'm deluged with messages that it's "almost safe to resume a normal life"..until it isn't.

This is 2020!

The indication of perfect vision.

Barbara Walters catch phrase.

And for most of us, a stolen year.

So let me bitch..it soothes me.  Just a little bit.