Kerry Peresta's Blog, page 4

Life in the MASK Lane

Today, I was headed to WalMart, routinely checking off my to-do list before walking out the door. First, I made sure my jewelry was in place. Next, I found my purse and made sure my wallet was in it. Also, I pulled out my makeup bag from my purse and began systematically putting on lipstick.

Uhh…

With a start, I remembered the time I had inadvertently puckered ugly lipstick stains on the inside of my mask. No use wearing lipstick, I reminded myself. Nobody will be looking at anything but my eyes, anyway. I put the lipstick back in my purse, thinking about how even our habits are taking a hit. I always put lipstick on before I walk out the door to go somewhere, but not anymore. I have begun to form new 2020 habits.

So…appropriately masked and unlipsticked, I went forth and shopped.

I’ve noticed that people don’t give direct smiles or glances anymore.  If direct eyelocks are involved, I’ve found most people smile nervously, scoot as far away as possible, and slide by me in the aisle before (gasp) I might try to strike up an awkward, mask-muted, conversation.

Other things that have changed: the way I check my ears after loops are on. I’d rather not look like Howdy Doody. I talk more loudly with a mask on, and appropriate expressions are impossible, thus shortening communication. Eyes  slice this way and that in suspicion, as if wearing a mask automatically makes us outlaws. If I’m distracted, and have accidentally left my mask in the car, I’m met with the evil eye and a convicting stare.

I, for one, am a non-judgmental masker. If someone wants to go without a mask, that’s their business. And no officious comments here, it’s my blog. Be nice. Not everyone CAN wear a mask. I hate the darn things because I cannot breathe and I feel trapped in them. I don’t feel pretty when I go out anymore, either. All that time spent making up my face wasted. The makeup takes a hit, and lipstick? Forget it. It’ll smudge all over my face. So, the end result is that it is less and less appealing to go out.

Also, have you noticed that we even judge each other’s mask habits now? Masks should be appropriately worn (fitted tightly to the nose and firmly under the chin), earrings should be outside the loops, not inside. Ditching the earrings is even better. (Can you say…androgynous? Yeah, I don’t want to inhabit a world like that.) And mask and outfit must be matchy-matchy. Entire conversations are now mask-related, and how they have become a fashion statement, which ones are better and why, etc.

Sigh.

This is no way to live. I was a holdout on even buying one until I actually won one in a Zoom meeting. Haha. The irony was not lost on me. So after that, I went out and bought another one.

After all, I have to match, don’t I? Plus, I don’t like the looks I get when I wear the disposable kind.

2020, you are getting your way. I’m positive this is not a good thing.

I look forward to the great unmasking. May it be soon.

I Liked the Old Normal

I miss hugs.

It feels strange to go out now. If I have to sneeze (heaven forbid) and I am in a store, even though masked, I feel like a ‘super spreader’ caught in the act. The ‘covid elbow’ is a poor substitute for a handshake, and though we laugh about it, it is weird. Isolating.

Then there are those who want to spew their anger all over those who don’t mask up. Don’t they realize that the masks they are wearing do little to stop the spread of their saliva as they scream obscenities and accusations? I prefer to not go through the exercise of explaining why I don’t want to wear a mask, so now, I jerk one over my face as I enter a store, then jerk it off the moment I leave. It is a reluctant obedience. I gave up.

And that is the problem. A lot of us have given up. And given over.

We wander through our few, but necessary, shopping expeditions like silent wraiths in an apocalypse. I’ve noticed people have begun avoiding each other’s eyes. The friendly hello is fast becoming outdated. Our ‘new normal’ is gaze avoidance, silent meandering, a quick snatch of products needed (lest they not be on the shelf one day) and screening the checkout lines for distancing.

I hate the phrase ‘we are all in this together’. We are not in this together. We are in this APART, i.e. social distancing and Zoom calls. Mandatory masking. Video call apps are becoming wildly creative. Microsoft Teams has a new mode called “Together.” If more than five people are on the call, they look like they are seated in an auditorium side by side, as if everyone is in a classroom. Together. And everyone seems happy about this. It even includes fake high-fiving. This is so creepy I’m having trouble comprehending the consequences. Are we now manufacturing fake togetherness in an effort to make forced isolation more palatable?

It’s not palatable. It’s not healthy. And it won’t last forever.

Friends now look at each other as if they are already infected, and stand a good distance away or raise their hands in protest if one zeroes in for a hug. Can you say…rejection? I know, I know…it’s protection…subliminally, though, that rejection thing is happening. Mandatory quarantining and screening are a given. My dentist takes my temperature when I walk in, makes me swish with hydrogen peroxide for 30 seconds (no less, or they make you do it over) and nearly slathers hand sanitizer all over my upper body. They perform all of this like medical attendants from a Hitchcock movie. Smiling, militant, hard-lipped, steely-eyed. They are focused on the mission. After all ‘we’re all in this together’.

Nope. I’m not all in this at all. I mean, I am…but…in my mind, I’m running as fast as I can for freedom.

The new catchphrases of the dreaded COVID existence:

new normal

mask up!

virtue signaling

flatten the curve

essential business

novel coronavirus

shelter-in-place

stay safe!

social distancing

super-spreader

contact tracing

droplet transmission

PPE (personal protective equipment)

Our communication is peppered with these phrases, now. It is the top conversation on every network, FB, Twitter, Instagram…the entire world, I guess. Still, I refuse to cave. I’ve limited the amount of news I allow into my brain. I’m stunned by the division this ‘pandemic’ has brought, and avoid FB posts that lecture the rest of us apparently misinformed, misguided, uneducated, helpless souls. It now makes me laugh, the sheer condescension of some of the comments aimed at those who rail against imposed restrictions that should not happen.

One thing is certain, a pandemic brings out the best and the worst in people. At least now, it isn’t hidden.

I miss hugs.

I believe they’ll be back.

 

Non-Seafood People Need Love, Too

I’m really not the best person to tease. In fact, I was teased so badly as a child, that it’s called ‘bullying’ today. The scars are healed, now, but once in a while they flare up, and I fly off the handle a bit. It’s usually due to a repetitive scorn, and after about a trillion times of throwing it in my face, I just…well…here’s the rest of the story.

There is one thing my husband and friends mock and denigrate me about as if I were the queen of fools. Quite honestly, I’m sick of it. I have driven a stake in the ground. (Umm…sand, actually. We live on an island.)

I’m saying no.

I will absolutely not, ever again, eat seafood in any form. Not clams. Not oysters. Not shallots. Not grouper. Not redfish. Not…well, I can’t remember names of seafood, but believe me, folks have all but forked bites of it into my mouth in an effort to show me how wonderful it is. Do they not think I’ve tried several times? Do they think that I outright lie when I say I don’t like it? It’s a mystery. One of my good friends even told me to stop saying I hated seafood  because I wouldn’t be considered a local (insert eyeroll here). Seems to me people that love me would know this about me and LEAVE ME ALONE ABOUT IT.

Sigh.

Why do people feel they have an obligation, nay…a holy DUTY…to recruit non-seafood people into the seafood-lover militia? I will be the token anomaly. It’s okay. Locals can point to me and whisper, “that’s our last holdout, but we still have hope” all they want to, but there is no hope. And I reject all manner of putting stuff in my mouth that is even slightly fishy. I have the right to refuse, don’t I? Isn’t that the American way? I especially reject crustraceans that wander the ocean scooping up all manner of fish poop into their little clampy mouths and then arrive on a restaurant table artfully displayed for $500. Yuk on several levels.

Look, seafood people – we non-seafood people should make you even more proud of your lofty seafood vocabulary and discussion of culinary literacy regarding lobster, crab, dauphin, (is that a fish?) or whatever. You know something we don’t. (We don’t really want to know, but hey, we will listen with rapt attention and respect your right to know. We can still get along.)

Speaking of crustaceans, the worst of the worst happened a couple of weeks ago.

My husband and I are semi-retired, and he is looking for hobbies and fun stuff to do as he feverishly awaits full retirement. When we moved across the street from a lake, I took a very deep breath when he took up fishing.

With all his heart.

I mean…the man seeks out every neighbor and pulls information and help from them like a dentist pulls teeth. He is merciless. So now we have not one, not two, but THREE stinkin’ fishing poles in the garage PLUS a filet knife, line, tackle, and all the other fishy accoutrement. Trust me when I say I hate the smell of fish more than the taste of it and this man knew it when we got married. Did that deter him?

Of course not.

But we have agreed on boundaries. He can’t bring the fish in the house unless its fileted and on its way to the freezer. Don’t get me started on the rotting bait he ‘just happens’ to throw into the trashcan for our poor trash pickup people to endure. Plus, now we have a racoon problem? Hmmmm.

But I digress. Worse than that, he has started CLAMMING.

OMG.

Now, he has dirty, muddy rubber boots, borrows this little rake-thing from a neighbor and wanders out into the muddy marsh. With a smile on his face, no less. I know now where the phrase ‘happy as a clam’ comes from. These, also, cannot come into the house, and I thank God that we have water faucets all around the perimeter of our home so he can wash the little critters outside. His mud-spackled clothing has to go straight to the laundry, and his mud-spackled body straight to the shower.

When he’s done clamming, he looks like a slightly remorseful- but proud -three-year-old boy fresh from a mud puddle. The other day, in all his mud-bespeckled glory, still wearing the grimy rubber boots, he grabbed his white, plastic bucket of unmwashed, still very much alive clams and strode purposefully toward a neighbor walking her two little purse-dog Pomeranians in the street in front of our house.

I was downright horrified as he marched toward her, bucket held high, little bitty fork-rake thing at his side, in all his clammy glory to show off his catch. Come to think of it, I guess clamming is where the term ‘clammy hands’ comes from.

Eww.

Our neighbor smiled and tried to be polite, but backed away before the dogs leapt into the bucket.

A few days ago, he asked me to come watch while he raked the salt marsh mud for clam treasure, which I did. After all, a wife’s gotta support her man, at least on the surface, right? I don’t have to smell or touch the mud or the clams if I stay a good space away from the entire activity. He bought me black rubber boots for the occasion (why?) and I nicely responded that I’d watch from the bank in a chair, thanks.

With a goodly amount of wine.

So now I’m finding out that there are plenty of clam-lovers and clam-diggers out there. To my horror, once a friend of ours found out my husband had become conversant in all things clam, he promptly invited us over for dinner. He’d make Clams Casino Fettucine.

Guess who provided the clams.

The host generously cooked me chicken instead, but told me later he cooked it in the same sauce as the clams.

Did he have to tell me that? Really?

 

 

Life on Hold

I cannot imagine what California and New York are going through. Enforced isolation. Isn’t that a little like, um, prison? I know, I know…separation slows the virus transmission. However, a little too reminiscent of Venezuela. Cuba. China.

Don’t want to think about it.

But…public beaches are now closed on Hilton Head.

What?

The mayor had already closed all restaurants except for takeout. All public meetings have been canceled, along with school and various and sundry other activites. Gym is closed. Pools are not open. Heritage Golf Classic is postponed.

As long as we had our gorgeous beaches to keep us sane during social distancing and closing off every recreational or social venue available things were fine. We had long lines early in the morning at Publix, Kroger, WalMart and Harris Teeter as we raced down the aisles for food and tp, but basically things were fine. Then the mayor closed our beaches.

What’s next? Golf courses? We have around 24 or so on the Island. It’s the one thing people here – vacationing or otherwise – could do safely and be assured of lots of space around them.

Golf venues will more than likely close as well. Unless a miracle happens. Which, in my mind, is always a possibility.

My house is overly stocked, now, on toilet paper. That this is a thing to celebrate mystifies me. We are also stocked to the gills on meat, bread, milk and peanut butter. Oh, and eggs. Coffee. These are essentials for us. I have two bottles of wine.

I don’t think that’s gonna do it. Must add wine to the list when (and if) I venture forth. Will handshakes be a thing of the past? Gosh, I hope not. I’m an enthusiastic hugger, so if the handshake is out the door, what will happen to hugs? 

Some say this will change life forever, at least in the U.S.

On the up side, one would hope a situation like this would make us more appreciative of daily amenties, public venues, the ability to navigate life freely. Teach us not to live in chronic fear, but hang onto courage and resilience in spite of it. To cling to hope. And there is ALWAYS hope.

One thing is certain. It’s making all of us – no matter political party, race, or affiliation – think about things. Life. Death. The importance of touching another human being. The freedom to buy and eat what we want and not what is being rationed. Toilet paper. (Had to throw that one in there. I’m looking forward to all the memes after this pandemic settles down.) Maybe we are putting down our phones and connecting more with the people we live with. Maybe we are enjoying our own little patch of earth more than usual, since many of us cannot venture outside it. Maybe we’ll learn to be grateful for small, overlooked things like a good conversation or an unexpected ‘I love you’ instead of rushing through life not even noticing. Perhaps we’ll learn to live on less and stop spending money on overpriced and underwhelming extras. Perhaps Democrats and Republicans will put down their swords.

Maybe.

Maybe a lot of good will come from something that looks like, on its face, a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions.

But still.

Mr. Mayor, did you have to close the beaches? Two whole months?

Sigh.

 

 

 

 

Pinterest and Other Assorted Life Complications

I used to have focus. At least a little. I’d make a list for the day, stick to it (kind of) and feel proud of accomplishing my goals. This was before social media and the ability to live our entire lives on our cell phones.

I resisted Pinterest for years. My daughters encouraged me to try it, but I couldn’t see the point. Add another time-waster to my day? I already had Facebook, Instagram, Twitter…Weather app, music apps, podcast apps…why Pinterest? What the heck would it add to my life, anyway?

Eventually, they wore me down and I took a peek. Then more peeks. Then, ohmigosh when I listed my house and bought another, I clung to Pinterest for styling-a-house-for- sale and decorating  ideas like a life raft.

Another Pinterest holdout bites the dust.

Now before I launch into my new lust for all things Pinterest, let me add that my favorite store in the world is HomeGoods. My car now senses when we are close, and automatically turns into the HomeGoods shopping center. I experience withdrawal symptoms if I don’t go check out their latest  inventory once a week. That being said, Pinterest is like HomeGoods on steroids, only with interior designers. Plus, it is at my fingertips on my cell which makes it impossible to resist. I stumble over topics like ‘bookcase design ideas’ and ‘coffee table decor’ and ‘patio decorating for fun parties’. ’99 amazing ways to make your entryway look great’ or ’49 brilliant storage ideas for small spaces’. Pure. Bliss.

However, I had to put the brakes on my daily habit of cruising through Pinterest décor/home ideas because my budget and my rabid desire to update my décor didn’t quite, um…match. Before I knew it, one small bookshelf makeover racked up $200 or so at HomeGoods. I’m like, what?! I only bought a few things! But they were very cool, current things, my mind whispered back reassuringly. After a few months of  Pinterest over-exposure, I’ve begun backing off a bit. I can’t even think what would happen if I started scrolling through their make-up tutorials. Ulta has enough business from me as it is. Besides, how many times in one lifetime must a woman update her look? Exactly.

It’s all about the apps, isn’t it? We can buy just about anything we need on Amazon, now order our groceries online and have them delivered, scan a wine on the shelf with an app and  find out its ratings; you name it, there’s an app for it. Other huge time-wasters are the photoshop apps. Do you have one? Tried one? They are addicting, for sure.

Recently, I interviewed celebrity style designer to the stars, Anya Sarre, for an article in a local magazine. She lives in a world of photoshopped, cosmetically-enhanced, forever young public personas. I asked her how she managed to thrive in such an atmosphere. “It’s all fake,” she stated, flatly. “Fake! Everything you see is NOT. REAL. It takes an army to get me ready to go anywhere in public. Ever tried one of those photo airbrush apps? Try one! You’ll see what I mean.” I didn’t say anything, but I discovered those apps a couple of years ago. I’m not going to admit which one, but all I have to say is, who needs a facelift with these apps? Seriously, they take off fifteen years in five minutes. The fallout, however, is that now when I look in a mirror I’m wanting to see the airbrushed me and not the real one. Oh well.

It’s getting harder to figure out which apps are helpful and which aren’t. I once had a client yell at me over lunch because I’d brought him a print advertising campaign for a major daily newspaper. He’d held out his cellphone and waggled it at me. “Everything is gonna be right here. RIGHT HERE! Newspapers are gonna be dead and gone.” This happened around 2007. He was right! So many ads lurk on our phones/apps that we often can hardly get to the information we need, and newspapers are struggling to survive.

Now we can do a zillion things at once with a click or two, and often it feels like I don’t do anything very…definitively, or with the appropriate focus. Who thinks that fast?

So I’ve come up with a solution. I’ll delete all the apps on my phone except Pinterest.

That should do it.

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  Make new friends, but keep the old; Those are silver, these are gold. New-made friendships, like new wine, Age will mellow and refine. Friendships that have stood the test- Time and change-are surely best; Brow may wrinkle, hair grow gray; Friendship never knows decay. For ‘mid old friends, tried and true, Once more we our youth renew.  -Author Unknown A visit with an old friend we haven’t seen in a while is like sunshine on a rainy day…like feasting after famine…like a dip in the pool after hot, sweaty yard work. Is there anything better? As I’m meditating on the  few days of my friend Lynette’s recent visit, I’d put it close to the top of my list of favorite things. We celebrated her new, serious love interest, her ongoing health after a tough fight with late-stage breast cancer in 2007, and the fact that our friendship has survived, even thrived, through the tough […]

Lonely Christmas 2016 Sparks Stealth Plan

Kerry & Jim Peresta, and cats Hazel and Emma Christmas 2015

 

This year, Christmas planning has been a subdued affair-partially because a direct hit from Hurricane Matthew stole the entire month of October and put me hopelessly behind, and also because my adult children have decided to have their own Christmas celebrations at their homes this year.

As I puzzle over how to do Christmas without any family besides my husband (he’s adorable, but let’s be honest – I will miss watching my kids and grandkids rip into their gifts and make a huge mess); I  remind myself of the primary reasons we moved to Hilton Head Island a year and a half ago.

1) The thought of living in Baltimore one more second gave us nightmares. 2) We wanted to live somewhere kinder, gentler, warmer, and happier. 3) Since we now live ten minutes from the beach, we knew our kids and friends would come at least once a year.  4) Cheaper cost of living in preparation to retire.

However,  the reality  that my kids and their families may or may not be able to afford to visit has caused my “move to the island” fever to wane.

Dinner with my daughter Bonnie’s family at Crazy Crab Jarvis Creek.

So I am doing what any sane, caring mother would do. I am executing a plan to convince  them to move.

Son Josiah, arriving for Christmas 2015 after his Navy deployment, greeting my grandsons, Gabriel and Micah.

The first step was to plant the seed, and tamp it down firmly. I plant it every time I talk to them, then press it in. I plant it as a joke when they talk about the bad weather up north (“haha wow, just think, if you move down here you’d never have to think about sleet or snow again!”), I plant it as a solution (“that’s really sad about your husband’s job, honey, you know…there are lots of jobs around here and I can keep an eye out for you. Does he have an updated resume? Send it to me.), I plant it as an escape (“well, sweetie, that’s just the attitude up there, people are way too busy. Here, you’ll get a job where people are…nice),  I plant it as a budgetary measure (“What?! I can’t believe your electric bill is $450! My electric bill is only $98, and our house is the same size as yours!”), I plant it as a permanent vacation (“It will be so nice to see you, and yes, I know its a little expensive to fly here…just think if you lived here.”).

Sometimes, like an alligator lurking at the bottom of a lagoon, I withdraw to  plan my next move.  I believe step one has been executed repeatedly, and that I should now figure out step two. Occasionally, I get glimpses of seed-growth from step one. For instance,  my son in California (the dyed-in-the-wool liberal that I cannot wait to get down here to God’s country so he’ll come to his senses) is trying to get into Citadel – just two hours away – to further his military career. I count that as a win. My daughter in Delaware has suggested to her husband that he ask to relocate to his company’s headquarters in Charleston, also two hours away from Hilton Head Island. Another of my grown kids has indicated he would move in a heartbeat, and is trying to save the money to make it happen. At this point, there’s one staunch holdout in my brood of four, because her boyfriend doesn’t want to leave his family and she doesn’t want to leave him. This situation is a sticky thorn in my side, but I’ve resigned myself to the fact I may have to travel to visit them. Still, three out of four isn’t bad.

 

My son Drew visiting Thanksgiving, 2016

In the meantime, I must pull myself up by my lonely bootstraps, and determine to enjoy the Christmas season at hand. Maybe it will be okay. Perhaps, because I will miss the happy chaos of children this year, I can convince my husband to squeal in delight, rip into his gifts, and throw wrapping paper all over the place. I wonder if, just to make me happy, he might drink from a sippy cup that leaks, or cry because he’s been scratched by the cat. I don’t know if I can get him to race around the house and knock things over, but I can try. He’s just a big kid, after all.

Cutest thing ever in my bed, Christmas 2015. Micah and Sophia

Things I remember from last year: sweet toddlers snuggled up in my bed, fast asleep, oblivious to the cartoons softly burbling from the TV; my adult children laughing and sharing stories from when they were growing up; the soft clink of dishes being rinsed and put into the dishwasher (a benefit of birthing girls), my eyes wet with joy at the sight of them grown and fully formed and adulting.

Big sigh.

 

In January, the plan moves forward. Step two, you and I will discuss our next moves on New Year’s Day when I add you to my list of 2017 resolutions.

 

 

The Hurricane Chronicles: Part 1

I sit here, hands on keyboard, at the ready…wondering how I can put into words what I’ve been through the last few weeks. Evacuation? What the hell is that? A reality, now. Shelling out money for hotels unnecessarily? A waste. But we didn’t have a choice. Where was my family? Who are my real friends? The ones that didn’t call, or check on me during a freaking hurricane? Did they even care that I may have no house left? Why did I move to a barrier island, anyway? And what’s up with these damn contractors that tell me they will be there and don’t show up? I don’t understand.

My mantra the last two and a half weeks has been “I don’t understand.” The developing realization in my fogged and traumatized  brain is that I don’t HAVE to understand, was never MEANT to understand, and that God is on the throne and I’m not. Saying this trite phrase is one thing, but living it out…entirely another.

It has shaken me to the core, this hurricane thing. It has uberly enhanced my relatively new marriage (under ten years), it has stolen my peace, it is almost stealing my fall delight due to struggling through tree-removal contractors that I’d rather slit my wrists than deal with, and it has stolen a large portion of my savings account. As I say this, the words seem trite and ill-conceived. I have friends who have lost jobs, homes, because of Hurricane Matthew. Yet I complain that my downed thirteen trees and the desecration of my yard has exhausted my endurance. I must have very little of that. Very little.

I have talked plaintively with my elder daughter, the one that is so on fire for God that literal smoke emanates from our conversations, and she has extended to me life and hope. “Put on praise music, Mom. I swear that’s what you need.”  I did, and it helped. To “let go and let God” is not just a cute phrase, it is often a difficult and decisive choice. A trusting that comes wrapped in catastrophe and ribboned with complaint. “Through it all,” as the song goes, “through it all, I’ve learned to trust in Jesus…I’ve learned to trust in God!” (Song credit: Andrae Crouch) I wish I was through with the learning. I wish I’d arrived at a place of trust, a place of peace, a blessed place of placidness that brooks no anxiety or pain or sorrow.

But I haven’t. Hurricane Matthew proved that. I absolutely haven’t, and I am mad about it.

I am mad at the contractor that lied to me about finishing the job of taking out my 80-foot pines that wouldn’t stand up to the wind. I am mad at the crappy hotels we had to stay in and their expensive rooms that lacked any amenities or decent service. I am mad that I have no family within twelve hours of where I live, and therefore not available to help. I am mad that no matter how much money we save, it dissolves in a matter of weeks for one reason or the other. I am mad at myself for my lack of faith when things do not turn out as I want them to. I am mad that even though my prayers that my house be spared were answered in full, I still complain about my ruined yard, and I should know better. I should be more patient, more long-suffering, more mature in my walk with God.

But I’m not.

And perhaps that is why I’m going through this bitter dance with Hurricane Matthew. Perhaps.

I don’t know yet, what I’m to learn, or what the future holds, but I know Who holds the future. It’s not me. It’s God, and I’m not Him.  I hope I can hang onto that truth for the rest of my life, because I sure don’t want to go through this again.

Ever.

But Your will be done, Lord.

Amen.