Back from the Vineyard

Well, back from Martha's Vineyard. Had a lovely time, even though I still haven't been able to figure out why it's called Martha's Vineyard. Any idea?

The Kennedys were very nice hosts. Of course, we had to get away, since we couldn't hang out with them the WHOLE time, that would just become dull. Especially because the Vanderbilts were calling for tea and getting a bit jealous that we weren't going out on their yacht. And I really wanted to see the Carnegie-Mellons, but the Kennedys were rather possessive of our time. I mean, really-- how many Jackie O stories can you listen to? But they were such lovely people and we'd be happy to summer with them again--if they can fix that tennis court. Up at the Vineyard without tennis? Never!

Actually, it was more of a chair-breaking, screen-door falling, bug-zapping, cartwheeling, poker-playing, poker-losing, excessive-drinking, somewhat-smoking, corn-grilling, beach-laying, sea-breezing kind of weekend. I brought work, which stayed in my suitcase the whole time. Furthermore, I have to face the fact that I have become Very New York, since I jumped every time a bug flew by or crawled on the porch. And I think Nature gives me allergies, though it really could have been a host of other things. But I really am a city girl, which is fine by me. It does go against my self-advertisement as an easygoing girl who can rough it if necessary, but I think I'm still that girl, as long as there are no more inchworms.

Martha's Vineyard can indeed boast a high level of quaintness--especially our house, if by "quaint" you mean "decrepit, with accompanying faux-Victorian details." It was, however, an awesome deal, and the perfect vacation--lying on the beach, hanging out at the beach bars, eating spray cheese from a can (surprisingly, not my idea, but I took to it rather quickly), playing cutthroat poker until the wee hours. I am now what my mother would call a "kari kooti" which means "little black dirty animal" which is my mother's rather endearing way of noting that I have a tan. All I expect to see in the pictures is my teeth and the whites of my eyes.

And as for that four-ace hand that beat my to-the-jack straight--well, you know who you are, and I hope you're feeling lousy about taking this poor writer's money.