How to Pack for Two Weeks at the Beach

I've just returned from a lovely, relaxing vacation on Cape Cod. Well, as relaxing a vacation as one can have with a six-month-old puppy and a husband who doesn't go to the beach. Yes, my little hubby doesn't like to swim in the ocean. Doesn't like to sit on the beach. Not without good reason, mind you. He has vision problems that preclude his being able to see without his contacts, and his vision cannot be corrected with glasses. And he's not a fan of seaweed.

So our vacation consisted of sleeping incredibly late every day, having a lazy brunch on our private deck off the master bedroom of our rented cottage, and actually having the time to read the newspaper. Then I would walk down to the beach in the late afternoon, just when the crowds were thinning out and the sun wasn't strong enough to burn me to a crisp. About an hour later, the hubby would drive all the way to the beach with the puppy, and drop her off with me for her swimming lessons. (It's half a mile - tops - to the beach)

Gracie the pup had never been to the ocean, and was initially reticent to step into the surf. Perhaps she inherited a fear of seaweed from her dad. But after several days of slow coaching and encouragement, my little girl was doing the doggie paddle like a pro. She would then sit in my lap on the jetty, eliciting "Awww's" from passersby.

While dogs are not technically allowed on the beach in season, I noticed that the locals all bring their dogs down for a dip at about 6:30 - 7:00 in the evening. Gracie had a regular doggie playgroup nearly every evening. Just as the sun began to set, we'd all head back to our respective homes or cottages to get ready for dinner.

Now, here is where the title of this piece really comes in. Over the course of two weeks, I found that I wore: a bathing suit; shorts and a top; sandals or flip-flops; sometimes a sweater. What I packed was: a really nice dress in case I booked an audition (I did not); a strapless beach dress; three pairs of crops; a pair of jeans; a pair of shorts; two sweaters and a hoodie; two pair of sandals; one pair of nice shoes; one pair of flip-flops; three cover-ups; four camisoles; eight tops; two summer scarves; a straw hat; pajamas and a robe. I also brought along a full set of makeup (just in case that audition popped up, or if we went out to a fine restaurant); day cream; night cream; eye cream; my headshots and resumes (see above), and a ton of reading material.

After twenty years of vacationing on the Cape, you'd think I would have known better. But we used to go in September when the weather was very changeable. Now that said hubby works as a teacher, Septembers are out and August is in. It's really not that much different in terms of crowds, and the economy has kept the rental rates flat. But it is warmer.

So I've devised a list for all of you who will be heading to the beaches next Summer:

A bathing suit or two (sometimes they don't dry out overnight, and there's nothing worse than pulling on a cold, damp bathing suit)
One cover-up or pareo
One pair of shorts
One pair of crops
One pair of jeans (in case it gets chilly, or you go the the movies, where the air-conditioning is blasting)
Five or six colorful tops
One nice dress in a crush-resistant jersey (This can be black, but it's more fun in a color. This is what you'll wear should you get that audition or go to a fine restaurant.)
Flip-flops (if they're black, you can wear them to your audition and/or restaurant. as well as the beach)
Good walking sandals
Your regular skin care items (this you really can't leave at home, because you have to take extra care of your skin at the beach)
SUNSCREEN
A sun hat
An umbrella

You can pack all of the above in a carry-on. Bring a beach bag to carry any prescription medication that you are taking, and maybe one beach book. (Summer is not the time to catch up on your Dostoevsky.) Also, you can use it to collect shells, beach glass and pretty pebbles, even though your home is already overflowing with these items.

If you do land that audition, go to your friendly neighborhood drugstore and purchase eyeliner, mascara and blush. Better still, you should be able to fit that much makeup and one lipstick in your purse. You will never end up wearing any makeup otherwise. After two or three days, the sun will have kissed your skin with a soft, warm glow, even through the sunscreen.

Then you will be able to relax and kick back, never having to worry about how you are going to fit everything back into your suitcase, along with all the gifts you will have purchased, when you are trying to check out at ten o'clock in the morning.

A special note on wearing black: don't. You're at the beach. Everyone is happy. You're happy. Save the black for when you're back in New York. The obvious exception, of course, is that audition that you keep trying to land. If you're a New York actor, it's almost expected that you will wear black. Hence, that one black dress. But you'll stand out more if you wear red. Or blue, green, aqua, turquoise, orange - whatever color brings out your tan.

Oh, and about the pajamas and robe - we had house guests for a couple of days. That was the only time those items were needed. As I said, it was a lovely vacation!

The Nature of Friendship

Hi Friends,

A very sad event happened this week that got me thinking about the nature of friendship. I was trolling around the net and came across a web page for a community theatre to which I used to belong - the magnificent Elmwood Playhouse in Nyack, NY. I joined their page, and the first post I read was information about a memorial service for an old friend who had passed away - two weeks ago. I scrolled down and saw previous posts which told of our friend going into the hospital, then falling into a decline. Then there was a call to everyone to get to the hospital if they wanted to say their final goodbyes. Following that post was information about the wake and funeral, and then a memorial service the next week. And I had missed it all.

I sat at my computer for I don't know how long; staring at the words on the screen, burying my head in my hands, and muttering over and over again, "I don't believe this, I don't believe this." I couldn't believe that, after 25 years of knowing this incredible man, I could have not known of his passing. We had so many friends in common; folks who still worked at this wonderful theatre, friends who had helped him out in so many ways. Friends who never called or emailed to let me know that he was failing. I sent an email to many of these friends, telling them that I felt sad and hurt that no one had contacted me. Two people wrote back; one had also only just learned of the news after the fact, and the other had only just learned - from my email. I wrote back to everyone and said that it seemed that everyone assumed that everyone else knew, or would find out. I suggested we get together for a toast to our departed friend. And I told them that, although we were not in the best of touch, I loved them, and hoped that something like this would not happen again.

A couple of days have passed since this sad incident. I spoke to my shrink about it, and she commiserated. I spoke to some other friends, and they commiserated. Then I realized today that I haven't cried. Not one tear. I loved this man. He was a force of nature; designing Broadway-worthy sets for forty years. We worked for the same company in NYC for a while and would occasionally commute together. I respected his work, drank in his knowledge of theatre -- feared his wrath. But mostly, I just loved him. His was like a big, scary Rottweiler with the heart of a Golden Retriever. And he was always there. I could walk into that little theatre anytime of the day or night and be pretty darned sure that he'd either be there, or was expected, or had just left. He designed the set for one of my first Equity shows at the Helen Hayes Theatre (now Riverspace). In later years, my hubby (Jim, in case you don't know him) began to work in theatre education. Whenever he did a show, our friend designed it. Between Jim and the kind and talented Jack Gremli, our friend had at least two or three jobs every year. And yet, as I thought about all these memories, I didn't cry. I began to wonder why.

Maybe I'm still in a state of shock. Maybe if I'd been able to see my friend in the hospital, or have gone to the funeral, or the memorial service... maybe if I'd picked up the damn phone and called him once in a while. He wasn't the type to ask for favors or help, and he didn't pick up the phone much himself to call others. But I knew that. So what stopped me? Did I think I would be bothering him? Did I think it would be too much trouble for him to hobble to the phone on his feet as he began to lose toes to diabetes? Was I afraid the conversation would be awkward: "So, how many toes have you got left?" Or did I just assume that, if anything really bad happened, I'd just hear? Well, I heard, alright. And, even though I still can't believe it, it must be true - I read it on Facebook.

So while I can wallow in righteous indignation that no one called me, I have to come to terms with the fact that I didn't call my friend. Oh sure, I chatted from time to time about this set design or that prop that I needed to borrow. But when he really needed his friends, I wasn't there. I can only hope that he knew that I cared. I did tell him. And he'll always be in my heart. But don't be surprised if you get a phone call from me out of the blue - just to say hello. I'll be trying to be a better friend. The way I wish I had been to our beloved Robert Sven Olson.

I'm crying now.