The Obamas are on Martha's Vineyard and I'm driving with the motorcade

As Vineyarders, we play it cool with celebrities. Over the years, this well- publicized nonchalance has emerged as our calling card. Live and let live is our collective motto, a motto that we some- times even adhere to.
So what if Carly Simon just walked past me? Ho hum.
There’s Ted Danson watching his wife, Mary Steenburgen, chuck skillets at the Agricultural Fair. That’s nice, but honestly I’m here to watch Kara Shemeth, the women’s skillet-throw record holder, an Edgartown resident, and a land surveyor.
And no, I don’t know where David Letterman lives. I don’t care where he lives. Well fine, if he invited me over for dinner, I might be able to find his place.
Some of us even pretended that President Obama and his family might have chosen Martha’s Vineyard for their vacation spot last summer because of our cool ways; we said we’d give them an opportunity to enjoy some quiet, private family time.
Ha. As soon as the first family arrived
on the Island, we ditched the cool. Our collective heart started to flutter. We swooned like young girls in the forties did over Frank Sinatra. Our inner-Fonzie, where we nurture our own Happy Days king of cool, retreated into the abyss and unleashed a bunch of dorky Potsies. I was among them – although those who know me well might say that my inner-Potsie lurks dangerously close to the surface, even on a good day.
After dropping my daughter off for a horseback-riding lesson on a gloriously sun-soaked August afternoon, I found myself driving directly behind the presidential motorcade. I couldn’t believe my luck. And to think, I had just complained about feeling trapped in a perpetual cycle of drop-offs and pick-ups. Had I not spent the summer fine-tuning my chauffeuring skills, the chances of finding myself behind the Obamas would have diminished exponentially. I whipped out my phone and started calling people. Everyone I spoke to seemed duly impressed with my accomplishment.
“You’re right behind them?” 

“Practically driving next to them,” I said. 

“Amazing!”
I was driving with the Obamas – spending some quality time in our respective cars together.
I started to wonder if I looked tired. Earlier I had noticed the circles under my eyes seemed to be drooping down toward my chin. Oh no. I panicked. I bet I looked like hell.
I reached across to the passenger seat and found a tube of lipstick. It had melted into a gel-like mass of glop from sitting in a hot car all week. It didn’t matter. I dipped my forefinger into the lipstick canister and applied Revlon’s Perfectly Plum goo to my lips.
Did I really think the Obamas might look in their rearview mirror and see me? Did I for a second believe the motorcade might stop and I’d meet the first family? And if it did, would it have mattered that I wasn’t wearing lipstick?
Or a bra? 

Oh no. I wasn’t wearing a bra. 

I drove on, turned right toward home. There’s always next time.

(This essay was originally published in Martha's Vineyard magazine)

Lost, again.

I lived in Boston for seven years and spent six of them driving around lost. For the better part of that gas-guzzling period, I searched for street signs that weren’t obscured by an intrusive branch or obscenely large leaf and groused about ending up at Logan airport on my way to a movie.

Admittedly, I am a self-diagnosed directions dyslexic. However, I suspect I wasn’t the only one hopelessly trying to navigate my way through Boston’s web of one-way streets, all seemingly heading in the same direction. While I have a remarkable ability to get lost almost anywhere, Boston poses challenges even for those gifted souls endowed with an internal GPS system. Ask anyone that has spent time driving around Boston. I’m confident that I’m not the only one who has wondered how they ended up in Medford on their way to Cambridge, or more importantly, why they can’t seem to find their way out of Medford. (After unexpectedly driving around Medford for several hours last year, I became rather fond of the city and decided I could be happy living there, assuming I never did find my way out.)

After I left Boston, I moved to Martha’s Vineyard, which is an island. It’s difficult to get lost on an island, even for me, which means that I have more time available to do other things. The problem, I’ve discovered, is that on Martha’s Vineyard there isn’t a lot to do in February. Lest you forget this reality of living in a tourist destination during the off-season, just go to town and the signs readily remind you.




Yes, even the restroom is closed.

It seems like a good time to start a blog.

The internet is open.