Sheets to the Wind by Iris Smyles

If you introduce yourself as a writer or an artist, people assume it’s not just a hobby, but your profession. Lots of people have sex, for example, but until you’ve gotten paid for it, you’d be lying if you answered “prostitute” next time someone asked, “What do you do?”
I was 6 when Victor, who was 11, offered to teach me how to bat. I stood behind him in Ibsen Court, where we lived, watching as instructed, as he swung through and all the way back to my eye. My brothers led me home as I cried, and I had to start first grade with a shiner.
On the one hand, being called a commodity, a thing to acquire or trade, is degrading, no matter how many camels you say you could get for me. On the other, I'm an old-fashioned girl still on the marriage market, brought up by Greek parents who've alerted me to the danger of letting my stock go down.
August in the Hamptons is a scourge of elegance. As The Star’s Lady Columnist, countless invitations cross my desk, and deciding which glamorous event to attend and write about is a trial by ordeal.
Col. Randolph Bresnik, a NASA astronaut who had been commander of the International Space Station, delivered a talk before a series of photos from his various space missions, most of them of the Earth viewed from the space station, most of them, not looking out, but looking back.
The older I get the less interest I have in travel, which, let’s face it, is just an exotic type of commute. While friends roam the globe in search of adventure and strange sights, I prefer to stay home; you can cover a lot more ground by going nowhere.
Party. To Party. What does it mean? What does it require? What elusive substance is it that marks the difference between attending a party and partying in the verb?
“You’re Holly Golightly on the outside, and Kafka on the inside,” Frederic said over the phone. “I’m a cockroach!” I hiccupped, tears streaming.
Part of the appeal of going out in your early 20s is that you never kneow where you’ll end up. You start at a bar, maybe, arrange yourself in line of the wind, and put your sails up.
When I was 18 and had just moved to New York City, I’d go to “exclusive parties” in SoHo where I knew no one and would say, “I’m on the list,” though I was never on any list. Walking up to the crowd pressing in at the Bridgehampton polo grounds ticket desk Saturday, a small part of me felt I’d arrived.
On the eve of the summer solstice, called Midsummer, the veils between ours and the spirit world are thinnest, according to Shakespeare, who took pagan lore for granted when he set humans and faeries loose in an enchanted forest in his comedy “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
My favorite part of “Jaws” is when Quint is introduced. The small town of Amity, which looks a lot like Montauk/Amagansett, is imperiled. A great white shark who’s been stalking its shores during bathing hours has eaten a small boy, so the townspeople have gathered.
Last night I dreamt I went to Tick Hall again. It seemed to me I stood under a bright sky in the Montauk Playhouse parking lot waiting for shuttle van service, for parking at the house was barred to me, I’d been told in an email.