Smoking Wet

My favorite bad guys were the ones in the movie ‘Waterworld’. Their base was the oil tanker Exxon Valdez, and they all smoked cigarettes and rode jet skis. I have never been able to decide which I despise more, jet skis or cigarettes. I used to joke about welding a big steel grill on the front of my van, because whenever I would see a jet ski trailing behind a car, I had a strong urge to flatten it. My hero was a fictional character in one of Jimmy Buffet’s books, who blew up a raft of jet skis because they were ruining his quiet fishing grounds. I used to live on a boat that was located inside a ‘no jet ski, no wake zone.’ That, of course, meant that on both weekend days, jet skis sped around my boat the live long day. I’m not a violent person, but with all that noise and those wakes for hours on end, the only thoughts I could entertain were pretty destructive. Had I carried out any of them, I’d probably be facing life in prison. “But your honor, they were jet skiers.”
Then there is the smoking thing. This, beyond anything else, makes me want to barf. If there’s a pile of cat puke on the floor, I’ll sigh and clean it up. If there’s a heap of cigarette ash in the same location, I’ll walk way around the coffee table for days to avoid it. I can’t bear the thought of going near it. Disgusting. Even standing in line in the grocery store next to someone who has just smoked a cigarette makes me want to grab a hose and wash them off. But this won’t help. Pores ooze nicotine. My sense of smell is mediocre at best, but I can smell stale cigarette on someone who has just come out of the shower freshly washed. Ewwww. Gross. Go away.
For years I have managed to live among peaceful non-smokers, and have been quite content. Recently, my life has taken a downturn. At the moment, not only do I cohabitate with a heavy smoker, but my new boss also smokes copiously on the job in my face. And this morning when I got up, there on the counter was a pile of ash. And in a few minutes, I’ll have to go off to work to wade through ashes all day long.
I suspect I won’t last long. I love the new job, but to come home to the same thing as well, forget that. It’s akin to jet skis speeding around the boat 24/7. I’m not sure what to do about this recent addition of such a large amount of gruesomeness in my life, but drastic action may be called for.
How did Keven Costner get rid of the bad guys in the movie Waterworld?

Chasing my tail

The car shook and vibrated down the road. It sounded as though it had a sore throat. But I made it, all the way to the west coast of Florida, in one long day, running from the north before it got too frigid, and before I had to witness that horror of white stuff falling out of the sky. News leaked out that I had escaped south, and I was offered a job on the east coast, which is not where I was or where I was planning to be. Well, okay, it was instant, fun work, a little more than a three hour drive away, and I could stay aboard the rather luxurious boat I would be working on. Good deal, except that foolishly, I didn’t check the weather before driving east across the state in my still wheezing jalopy. I arrived at the coast at the same time as screaming winds and drowning downpours, all spinning off from that tropical thingy blowing up the Bahamas. After two days of trying to keep my balance as the boat bounced up and down in the slip, I gave up and fled back to the calm west coast. While waiting for the east coast weather to clear, I decided to start the job hunting process on the west coast. About 8 seconds after I started looking for work, I had a job that I could start right away, just around the corner! Well great, except that I still had to meet my east coast work commitment. So I tried out the new west coast job for a day, sticking my finger into the moving parts of a sewing machine to impress my new boss. Duh, maybe I’d better head back east now. I spent a week on the boat on the east coast, trying to keep the neighbor’s boat cat away while I painted. White 2-part epoxy cat foot prints look really flash on a nicely varnished rail.
And here I am again, back on the west coast of FL. Are you with me so far? Me neither. I still don’t know whether I’m coming or going, where I’m supposed to be living or working or what I’m supposed to be doing. So today, to clear my head, I spent my day off unbolting and unfastening bits of a dead marine diesel engine scheduled for removal and replacement. Do I know how to have a good time or what?
Sometimes I wonder. I never was a normal girl.
Salon? Pedicure? You must be kidding. Pass the tool box and get out of my way.

The Way It Was

Life is fluid. That doesn’t mean it’s all wet, leaky or suffering from water retention. Okay, maybe sometimes that’s true. But what I mean is that life moves, changes, flows. Life is not supposed to remain the same forever and always. How boring would that be?

So saying, and having lived in the natural cycle of life for quite a while, I am a bit surprised at returning to the ‘real’ world and discovering that society seems to think that everything should remain the same for all eternity. Is it only my perception, having been out of touch for so long, or is this actually true?

I noticed that while touring state parks awhile back, questioning certain rules, each and every ranger said, state to state, “we’re trying to keep it the way it was when the first Europeans arrived.” Huh? If that’s the case, why are there parking lots? Marked trails? Public bathrooms? Vending machines? And where are the Indians? In coastal parks, I bet the first Europeans would have been thrilled to land in a rugged, foreign environment and find a concession stand on the beach to refresh themselves after their long, arduous journey across the sea. Imagine their joy when they discovered the bathrooms and showers right there in the parking lot, after weeks of being aboard a salt encrusted boat. And as they traveled inland, traveling down roads filled with the same chain stores repeated unendingly through small town after town, how wonderful it would have been to pull into a nicely paved campground after sitting in traffic all day. Oh, the joy of that hot shower after which they could have a pizza delivered to the campsite. But no, when the first Europeans landed, they had to shoot their own food, pee on the ground, sleep there too, and defend themselves against attacks from the soon-to-be previous tenants of the land.

While I can appreciate trying to preserve some of our heritage, how about if we keep it the way it was when the dinosaurs were around? Or when life was nothing but tiny organisms crawling around in the muck? I’d like to see that. This whole ‘life began with Columbus’ crap gets on my nerves something fierce. But then maybe that’s just my vanquished Cherokee side talking.

Chocolate Sucks

Am I the only person on the entire planet, and maybe beings from other planets too that we don’t know about who jet down in their space ships in the dark of night to sneak into the Hershey’s factory and nip kisses when no one is looking, who doesn’t like chocolate?

At a recent social gathering, I was offered a piece of chocolate cake, and said “no thank you, I don’t like chocolate”. I have learned over the years that I have to explain why I don’t want dessert, or I get a lecture about how ‘you’re so thin you can afford it and a little won’t kill you and are you sure you won’t have some yadda yadda yadda.’ Why does everyone do that? If I don’t want to eat crap, why do people feel they have to talk me into it? Anyway, having given my explanation for not wanting a piece of cake, all conversation in the room stopped, and every head swiveled in my direction. If I had run into the house all bloody, wielding a large ax, screaming, “I just chopped up five people”, I don’t think the looks I got would have been any more horrified than they were by my simply saying that chocolate was not for me.

So now I am wondering, am I alone in this universe? Is there anyone else out there who doesn’t drool when passing brown mounds of sugary goo?

Heavenly Crap

Just when you think it’s safe to come out, another illusion is shattered all to heck. Discovering the truth about falling stars is even more traumatic than finding that Santa doesn’t exist. I think back, recalling all those years of long night watches, lying out on deck, the boat sailing merrily along on autopilot. I spent hours gazing up at the heavens, wishing upon shooting stars. No wonder life is s**t. Wishing on the stuff would probably have that trickle down effect, wouldn’t it?

Humor lost and found

Let’s face it, sometimes life likes to lob grenades at you. You’re standing there minding your own business, trying to decide whether you would prefer tuna or egg salad for lunch, when, WHAM, INCOMING!

Having thrown yourself into the relative shelter of the basement, while you’re cowering among the moldy blankets, dirty unused pots, and old broken door bits, you wonder, did I do something so terrible that started an entire war?

All goes quiet. You wonder if it the worst has passed, and whether or not it is safe to come out. Maybe it would be better to simply shelter here for all eternity. Nice little spot, when not raining, which creates a little lake that covers the entire floor. After all, the sump pump usually drains the water eventually. Yes, maybe this is the best thing, to sit here forever, rather than exposing yourself to those bombs again.
But what the heck, it’s human nature to challenge the enemy and to dodge the bullets. When you finally dare to poke your head up, the air appears clear, although the basement steps have been blown to smithereens. Out you crawl, clawing your way back up, dirty, battered, but still alive. A good hot shower would make it all so much better.

In the shower, you realize that you have been hit, and that your sense of humor has been knocked off. You’ll look for that later, after a nice long nap.

Waking up, it’s time to go hunting that missing sense of humor. While you were still hiding in that hole long after the all clear sounded, leaving your sense of humor exposed on the floor, the four cats in the house came along and thought it was a new cat toy placed there for their entertainment. They batted it around for a while, chewed on it, argued over who got to whack it next, and then rolled it somewhere under a piece of furniture. If you’re going to be rearranging the living room to find it, may as well get the vacuum cleaner. You know there will be a lot of other crud to clean up as you search. Starting under the couch, where dust bunnies look like buffalos, you find forty two bottle caps, a human tooth, several pennies, hey, cool, a dollar bill, an entire walnut still in the shell, and holy crap is that a complete bat skeleton? But no humor.

Moving on to the coffee table, under which there are more bottle caps, what may have been a tomato in a previous existence, and a few moldy, well maybe it’s better not to know what those used to be.
Yes, there it is, under the chair by the TV, right between the hairball and the dead mouse. Excellent. Needs a good cleaning, so into the washer it goes. These things can’t be tumbled dry; they shrink. Hanging it outside to dry is a bit risky; the cat out there has recently been mutilating birds left and right. You don’t want him getting his claws in your newly refreshed sense of humor, so it’s now hanging safely on a hanger in the shower in the downstairs bathroom, drying out of reach of all creatures, except for maybe a passing spider. And there simply can’t be any harm in a little old spider, can there?

Flats and fire ants

Success! The engineless sailboat is now back from the Bahamas and in its home port on Florida’s west coast. Although we managed to make the trip without getting whacked by a major big windy thing with a name, we did get terrorized by squall after squall after squall. Some contained so much lightning that at night, it was almost like daytime. Dancing in the disco, with bolts hitting the water all around the boat, wind blasting rain sideways at us like someone pointing a high pressure hose, while we balanced on deck reefing sails.
I had been wanting a nice fresh water shower, but that was ridiculous.

We tied to the dock late at night, minutes before another massive squall screamed through. We sheltered below, snug, and laughed at it all.

The next morning, I headed north back to my own home port, after clearing as many fire ants as I could from the interior of my car. A large group had taken up residency in the two weeks I had left the car parked in the grass. I had probably unknowingly parked in their territory, so they decided to take advantage of the instant housing. During the battle of reclaiming my vehicle, I received a few wounds in the ant carnage I caused, but was by and large the victor. When I drove away with a few prisoners of war, I was headed for the scenic drive through the mountains. But the behavior of the car convinced me to alter my course to head for the more populated interstate 95, rather than deserted 81 with all those big hills. This turned out to be a good call, as the wobble in the front end worsened with each mile.

In the middle of South Carolina, the passenger's side front tire blew into shreds. Despite darkness and vehicles whizzing by at 800 mph, within minutes, I managed to replace the carnage with the donut, which itself wasn’t looking too healthy. I could see this pathetic excuse of a spare wouldn’t carry me far, so called AAA and located the nearest tire repair place, planning to drive there and sleep in the car with the remaining fire ants to keep me company. That way I would be the first in line when the shop opened in the morning. I almost made it, too, crawling along at 20 mph, when the donut broke. Always willing to experiment, I tried driving on the rim until that completely crumpled as well.

Thank heavens for AAA, and cheap digs nearby, where the tow truck driver insisted on taking me after dropping my car at the repair shop. It was now well after midnight, and I thought about walking back to the car after he dropped me off, wanting to save the cost of the motel. But the room rate was good, and the allure of a real shower and sleeping without fire ants was too strong.

I was on the repair shop’s doorstep before they opened at 7, and was on my way all repaired by 8:30.
Mechanic: “Have you been offroading this car?” Me: “Well, uh….maybe.”
My former vehicle had been 4X4 with high clearance. Road, no road, it didn’t really make much difference. Lesson learned: Ford Escorts are not meant for anything other than pavement. Where’s the fun in that?

My plan of driving overnight to avoid traffic having been foiled, while parked on the nation’s capitol beltway with the other idiots, I had to appreciate the irony that it turned out to be easier to sail an engineless sailboat across the Gulf Stream in prime hurricane season than it was to get a car 1400 miles up the road.

Back to the Sea, Sort of

Every time I think I’m finished with sailing, a few months living ashore changes my mind. Yes, it’s convenient to have unlimited hot running water at the turn of a tap. It’s nice not to have to haul a dirty smelly bag of laundry five miles down the road to wash it only to have it pour rain on your nice clean clothes on the dinghy ride back to the boat later in the day. It’s nice to sit on the front porch watching the lightening storm approach, without having to hyperventilate into a paper bag thinking about how much it’s going to cost to replace all those electronics when that one bolt lands atop your mast. It’s enjoyable sitting on the porch, knowing that in all likelihood it won’t move, nor will the neighbor’s porch drag into yours.

But after a while, seeing the same sight out the same window day in and day out, the same people coming and going at the same time, having the same drunken screaming fights every weekend, gets a little stale. Living aboard a boat, life swings with the wind and tide, and neighbors come and go almost daily. Often when underway, you change ports often enough to not even remember sometimes where you are upon awakening, especially if arriving in a new port in the dark, so it’s all a big surprise when you wake up in the morning. Geez I thought I was going into Key West, but this here is, uh oh, crap, we’re in trouble now, Cuba.

This current trip is not a pleasure cruise. We’ve been calling it the rescue attempt. The skipper tried to sail his boat to England in the spring, but a series of big messes, including but not limited to a blown engine, landed him back in the Bahamas with no choice but to leave the boat there for the time being.
The timing of getting it out has not been good.
It seemed like a good idea at the time
We are sailing, okay, trying to sail, a nearly engineless sailboat across the Gulf Stream from the Bahamas to Florida in the absolute height of hurricane season.
.
I say nearly engineless because we carried a six horsepower outboard motor on the plane as hand luggage. The guy at the airport in Ft. Lauderdale tried to give us a load of crap about it, which was just what we needed at six in the morning after driving all night to get there. But he was outvoted by the usual laid back Bahamian pilot’s attitude. “no problem, mon, load it here in the nose of da plane.” A day of labor and interesting contortions found the outboard bolted to the stern of the boat. We worked our way out of the sheltered lagoon with only two groundings, mainly because the boat wouldn’t turn quickly enough under half jammed rudder to follow the sharp curves of the channel.
Unfortunately, once out on the banks, there was one key ingredient that didn’t seem to be in the forecast for the foreseeable future: wind. Never mind, the longer we sat waiting, the more likely we were to get much more wind than we could ever use. Jokes of running to Nova Scotia in 150 knots were not so funny when listening to the reality of tropical updates. We decided to motor at less than three knots, nearly the maximum the outboard could push us, until we found a breeze. 70 miles later, we stopped for more fuel.

Nearly 80 miles after that, we found ourselves stressing about whether or not we would have enough gas to get to the next fuel stop. Our sailing had been limited to one good squall, although unfortunately that gave us a wind on the nose for several hours, before the seas transmuted back into a mirror glass finish with every detail of the bottom highly visible. No edible fish sighted, but there were lots of jellyfish, roofing tin, tires, bikes, cans, etc.

Finally, a breeze came up not long after sunset, allowing us to sail to anchor behind the island of Bimini in the middle of the night. The breeze held just long enough to get us into the harbor the next morning. We fueled up and are now ready to cross the Gulf Stream. Except that there is, you guessed it, no wind. And no way we can run that little outboard across the stream. And a low pressure system north of here that is ‘moving erratically’, and could possibly develop into something we would rather not sail into, like square waves in the gulf stream.

Who knows how long we’ll sit here waiting for wind. And who knows how strong it will be when it does finally get here.
It’s all good fun.

Time, tooth and nail

I am blessed with something right now that most people only dream of: spare time. I know this is a gift, and I’d like to think that I’m using it wisely. Working on my tan, brushing the cat, stalking neighbors…

Right now I’m on the Narragansett Bay, hanging out with the most wonderful group of boat bums I’ve ever met. In a few days I’ll be off to Florida for some exciting adventures crossing the Gulf Stream in an engineless sailboat at the height of hurricane season. Sooner or later I’ll have to go back to work. I should have a long time ago, but have been all caught up in traveling. Besides, work sucks.

Many may wonder how I can afford such a luxurious lifestyle.

I rob banks.
I sold my children.
I can live on air.

First of all, it’s not luxurious by any American standards. A lot of my traveling around this country was done in an Astro van which I converted to a campmobile. The rest was done on a variety of sailboats, visiting foreign lands. I am lucky enough to be able to live on very little. Never having gotten married and having kids saved me from the tremendous expense of mortgages, dirty diapers, college funds, divorce, rehab, bail.

Some smug people with children have asked me ‘who will take care of you when you get old? I usually ask them who is taking care of their parents. ‘Are they living in your basement? Do you keep them in the attic? Stuff them in a closet?’ No, they’re in a ‘retirement community’, 3,000 miles away now that you moved. And they’re paying for it themselves, with your inheritance money.
I don’t need kids to lock me up when I get old. The authorities will probably do that for me long before I age. There is probably a nicely padded room somewhere, already set aside for me.

Besides, is there any guarantee that I’ll get old? No. Not one. Warranty not implied. I could die tomorrow in some bizarre hangnail accident.

This doesn’t mean I don’t keep an eye to the future. Many career oriented people ask me: How will you finance retirement? How will you afford to live once you can no longer work? That’s easy: someday I’m going to win the lottery. Failing that, I’d like to think that my minimalist lifestyle will always be easy to finance.
Hey buddy, can you spare a dime…
Security is an optical illusion anyway.

Automatic Voodoo Doll

Has your loved one sailed off taking all your earthly possessions including your heart and the cat? Are you so busy picking up the pieces of your shattered life that you just can’t find a spare moment to get revenge on your ex loved one? Or are you simply so livid that you don’t even want to see a likeness of the now rotten apple of your eye long enough to stick pins in it?

We here at Alitloff Center have your answer: the automatic voodoo doll. Send us a photo of your soon to be sufferer, and we’ll send you back this handy item. Simply fill it with bird seed, chant the included incantation, and hang it up. Every time a bird picks out a seed, your former till-death-do us-part partner will flinch. Savor the thought that while you are hard at work trying to rebuild your dismantled dreams, your wastrel will be wondering why on earth those bits of flesh are so sore.

Using the Automatic VooDoo Doll
When you are certain the intended victim needs to be punished, this is the proper path for your wrath.
The Chickadee Curse may:
• Home in on the victim as if directed by avian radar.
• Cause them to fear cats, owls and hawks.
• Make them flap their arms a lot.
• Give them a craving for bird seed.
• Cause them to squawk at four in the morning.
• Give them funny sore spots.

Order your automatic voodoo doll today!

CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse

Today’s guest post comes from the netherworld of Danules, rhymes with Hercules, well okay it doesn’t, but you get the idea:

Let me tell you about the time I invested in a race horse. I had some stock money lying around that I wasn’t sure what to do with. The stock market was fluctuating, real estate was in a slump, and this friend of mine said he could bring me in on a once in a lifetime opportunity to buy a race horse descended from the very best bloodlines. It seemed a little risky, but after some careful contemplation over a large bottle of rum, we decided to go for it. He really was a beautiful horse. He even looked fast. We named him CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse. He really had four hooves, not three feet, because generally speaking horses don’t have feet; we just liked the name. It had a certain ring to it. Anyway, we found CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse a great jockey and the best trainer available, and we got him whipped into shape, so to speak. In no time, he was blazing down that practice track like a Ferrari. Eventually the time finally came for his very first race. He came in fourth, which wasn’t too bad. We got a ribbon for that one, but no money. The next few races he came in second or third, but we still had high hopes for his winning one until about the tenth race. CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse always ran a good race, but he just didn’t seem to have what it took to win. He still placed second or third, just missing by a nose. We had some ribbons and trophies, and every now and then CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder horse would get his name in the paper, but he wasn’t generating any revenue. We were starting to get a little worried about our investment. After his fifteenth race, which he lost by a nose of course, my partner and I went out to a bar to help sooth our losses. Normally I’m not a real alcoholic kind of a person, but I guess we both had a few too many that evening. We were sitting at the bar complaining about our predicament, and we just happened to be overheard by a guy in a booth who just happened to be a plastic surgeon, and happened to be even more intoxicated than we were, because he concocted this plan as a joke. But as the river of alcohol continued flowing rather mightily that night, our plan started to become less of a joke and more of a mission inspired by some unquestionable higher power. Anyway, about two in the morning, we led CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse into a freight elevator at the Bowling Green Medical Center, rode him up to the fifth floor, and led him down a long hallway to the Doctor’s office. And to make a long story short, which I guess is a useless gesture at this point, from then on CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse won every single race he ever ran by a nose. Even if the other horses were faster it didn’t matter, because when they got a glimpse of CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse’s eighteen inch nose extension, they veered off the track. After that, the racing commission passed a bill which outlawed any type of cosmetic surgery on race horses, so that CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse wasn’t allowed to race anymore. But my partner and I did manage to sell him to a traveling circus that didn’t have enough money in the budget for an elephant. The bearded lady fell in love with him and vowed to look out for him as long as he lived, so everything worked out okay in the end.

Bad Drivers Beware: Falling Sheep

Arriving back in the US after spending months in the slow moving environment of a small sailboat is always a shock. I recently traded small, peaceful islands for acres of pavement with vehicles flying every which way. Originally I had planned to be in this asphalt jungle for only a short period, but it is looking more and more likely that for now, I’m stuck. Without a car of my own, I’m really stuck. I swore I didn’t want to own another vehicle, but am now looking to purchase a used car. I did my internet research and picked out possible heaps in my area. Then I arranged to borrow a vehicle so I could go look at other vehicles. This involved a trip two hours north to borrow the pick up truck of a truck driver who didn’t need his little truck while he was out driving the big truck.

There was one car I wanted to check out on my way to Grandfather's 91st b-day party, and I started out with plenty of spare time. But everyone else was diddling that morning. When I finally got underway, I immediately got stuck in the first little town's annual hoe-down festival traffic. Of course there was the usual moron in an SUV who decided to go sit in the middle of THE intersection into town. He was headed towards the beast of burden parade, and was effectively blocking everyone who was trying to leave. Did it not occur to him that by not letting anyone out of town, he wasn’t going to get in? Finally, cars squeezed together enough to get this idiot out of the way, so that those of us who wanted to escape the yodeling contest could do so.

Free at last from the sight of parents chasing cotton candy covered children down the sidewalks, I was rolling along nicely through the countryside, until I came across my first farm vehicle. Ordinarily these are passable, but the road was very winding with many blind curves. I am not so much of a gambler as are my fellow drivers. I’m not willing to bet that the odds are in my favor that there isn’t some bozo flying around that blind corner the very second that I make a move to leave the giant pile of metal in my wake. I also know that following two inches from the rear end of this lumbering behemoth is not going to make it go any faster. It will only lead to the possibility of being irrevocably crushed by falling sheep if those rusty metal bars give way. There’s nothing to do but slow down and enjoy the ride. The sheep finally turned off into a field, only to be replaced by a tractor, dragging what looked to be a medieval torture device behind it. Unlike a lot of people who try to push other vehicles off the road and out of the way once they realize that they are going to be late, I practice Zen patience. Feeling a bit peckish, I decided to take advantage of the slow speed to search for berries growing along the side of the road. I found a few sprouting brambles, stopped, and picked myself a snack, which caused me to lose track of the rack. But never fear, there’s now a delivery van in front of me, obviously lost and a slow reader, as it almost stopped at every cross road to closely monitor, photograph and record the names on the street signs. Finally the van either found the correct address, or gave up and just picked one. After it turned off, I resumed a speed just slightly above the speed limit, and carried on unimpeded for a bit, without even the usual hurry-up-or-I’ll-kill you driver trying to park in my trunk. This is one thing I just don’t understand: How is it that the same person who drives 62 mph on a small, secondary road filled with school bus stops and slow moving Amish carriages hidden around each bend, can stand in the yard screaming at people who travel in the same manner through his or her own neighborhood? I have a lot of fun when drivers like this are up my butt because I know that even if I’m late, driving like I’m in the Indy 500 is not going to improve my chances of being on time. When I have one of these impatient imbeciles trying to drive over my car, I slow down. And continue slowing down, until I come to a complete stop in the middle of the road. Usually this confuses people so much that they just sit there for a second, before roaring around me with a screech and a gesture. I resume traveling at my sedate pace, catching up to them at the next traffic light.

Today’s trip was so far blessedly free of driving fiends. But wait, what on earth is that very fuzzy thing up ahead? I suspect that this was the moment when I missed one of my turns, being unable to see anything past that enormous ball of hay crawling along in front of me. By the time I noticed that I was no longer on the correct road, I had to make a long circle back on course. I ended up arriving at the car dealership at the time that I was supposed to be pulling up in front of my family's house, still forty minutes further down the road.

Unless it’s in a marine store full of used boat bits, I generally despise shopping. But I do like car hunting. I am the daughter of a mechanic. That means that I know enough about cars to be dangerous to used car sellers. I keep this knowledge to myself and pretend that I don’t have a clue. I also have a highly developed BS meter. When something untrue flows out of a person’s mouth, I am usually aware of it. I like to play along to see just how much rubbish I can get from one single individual.

When I screeched up in the truck, I parked it between the car I wanted to look at, and the front windows of the car dealership. I leapt out of the truck, and immediately threw myself down on the pavement to have a look under my prospective future ride. All was good except for a fairly substantial oil leak from the pan. I noticed salesman-shod feet coming at me, so quickly picked myself up off the ground and pretended I was looking at the pretty upholstery. Before the guy even had a chance to fire his BS launcher, my first question was "how long has this car been sitting in this particular spot?" That caught him off guard, and he responded with “about four days”, before he even realized that he was telling the truth. Yes, a hefty oil leak indeed. Normally I prefer to drive the car down the road, stop, and do all this checking of systems out of sight of the dealer. That way I know what the car’s obvious problems are, before making the decision whether or not to enter into the dickering stage of the game. But there was no time for a test drive; I was already too late. All I had time to do was to start the car and check its vital signs. By now the salesman had recovered his composure and was telling me that the car had been owned by an older couple. “Aren’t they all?” was my response. Only once have I ever met a used car salesman who hasn’t said “this fine vehicle was owned by a little old man/woman who only drove it to the supermarket and to church on Sunday.” And into telephone poles and onto curbs and over animals large and small and under ladders and can't even remember the home address, let alone that cars ever needed servicing. Spare me.

I bought my last car from the one salesman who said, “I dunno who mighta had it before. We brought it back from the auction two days ago and parked it there. Haven’t had time to service it yet, so I can’t tell you if it’s any good or not. You maybe can try carfax.” I drove that cheap heap for five trouble-free years, covering over 140,000 miles. When I left to go sailing, I gave the vehicle to a friend, who still drives it today. No, I can’t have it back. And yes, I plan to visit that used car dealer tomorrow, in the hopes that history can repeat itself.

In the case of the leaky car I looked at yesterday, my cover has been blown. But when I resume my jalopy hunt tomorrow, I will have nothing else scheduled except to have fun with more car salespeople, and this time I will not let on that I know which end of the car is the front.

Happy Birthday, Grandfather

Four of us were out having lunch on a Sunday afternoon, me, my grandparents and their daughter. The daughter wanted to borrow her parents’ car sometime during the upcoming week. Her car needed to go to the shop for the day, but her husband was going to be out of town all week with the other car. Both grandparents each pulled out their daytimers, put their heads together, and started debating.

Grandfather: “Well, let’s see. I already know Friday is out because I have the library board meeting in the morning, and then we start the new yoga class in the afternoon.”

Grandmother: “Monday morning won’t do. I have three appointments. Is there anything scheduled for the afternoon?”

Grandfather: “The afternoon is booked too. Remember, we’re leading the seniors ‘shop till you drop’ mall trip. We’re going to harass all the teenagers.”

Grandmother: “Oh yes, I forgot to write that in. And I see we have the bowling league in the evening. How does Tuesday look? I can’t read what I’ve written here.”

Grandfather: “We have the ‘Save the Wild Conch of Abaco’ luncheon. I’m giving a speech. And later on we’re going line dancing with two other couples from our aquatic aerobics class.”

Grandmother: “Wednesday is pretty full with the book club, the church officers meeting, and the annual ‘Walk in the Park after Dark’ group, you know, the one where two off duty cops come along fully armed, so no one gets mugged like last year?”

Grandfather: “Oh yes. I love that walk. Let’s see, Thursday morning I drive Mom to the spa. While she does her thing, I’m going to pop over to help decorate the Meals on Wheels lounge for the big party on Friday night. I’m getting an award for all my years of delivering to shut-ins. Hey, look, here’s an opening. We don’t need the car between 3 and 5 on Thursday. You can have it then. Will that do?”

Daughter sighed and said, “Never mind, my car will probably hold together until hubby gets back. Thank you anyway.”

At the time this conversation took place, Grandparents were 87 & 84, respectively. In my 30’s at the time, I was awed that these two senior citizens had a more active schedule in a week than I had in a month. As I sat at the table contemplating what now appeared to be my slothful existence, I was thinking, ‘wow, these people are truly amazing-I’m glad we’re family.’ And, ‘note to self: get a life. A real one.’

Grandmother went on ahead last November, a week shy of her 94th birthday. Not long after, Grandfather was introduced to his first computer. He has discovered the cyberworld. He is grocery shopping by peapod online, ordering needed items to come to his door, doing netflix, emailing, and keeping up with news, happenings, and watching all that is going on in the world. He even jokes about internet dating. A gifted writer with a wonderful sense of humor, he is able to recite poetry or break into old Broadway show tunes apropos to any occasion. We’re waiting for the website or a bit on youtube. He turns 91 today.

Truth in Advertising

In my real life, I don’t own or watch TV. I usually live on a boat, and sail around experiencing life in the raw, true and unedited, instead of watching someone’s fake plastic version.

Recently, however, I have had the joy of commercials. Mind you, I only watch the weather channel in the morning, while eating my cereal and waiting for the tropical update, to see if there are any named storms bearing down on my beloved, who is sailing ‘out there’ somewhere. tag (See previous post) This few minutes every morning is enough for me to see dozens of commercials, which leads me to scream,

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE???!!!”
Now I understand what has gone so horribly awry in modern society.

I actually suspected a long time ago that advertising was at the root of our shallowness and insecurities. I think the quintessential example was the mouthwash commercial that introduced us to a concept that didn’t exist before advertisers thought it up: morning breath. Thanks, mouthwash maker, for teaching us that instead of waking in the morning, sighting our loved one beside us, and greeting that person with a smile, a kiss, a cuddle, and perhaps even more, we were supposed to turn away in shame, leap out of bed and race for a big swig from that blue or green bottle beside the bathroom sink.

Razors for women were invented by advertisers. It started in the early part of the last century, during the flapper phase when dresses for women became sleeveless. As the dresses grew shorter, the razor companies saw an even greater opportunity to sell more products. It’s acceptable for men to look like men, but if a woman looks like a woman, and not like a prepubescent little girl, STONE HER, she must be a witch. Or a lesbian. Okay guys, I can see that the little girl fantasy might get you arrested. The closest thing you can get is a depilated adult female.

Women must have a certain body shape, and their boobs MUST conform. If these mounds don’t fit the image, there are various types of torture devices, commonly known as bras, to try to force these unruly masses into the proper configuration. Failing that, there’s always the silicone option. Have you ever used silicone? It’s oozy, messy, impossible to clean up, and doesn’t hold up well. If I avoid using it on my boat, why the heck would I want to put it in my body?

While it’s a tragedy to die young, it’s a sin to look old. Buy the red sports car, cover that gray, transplant that hair, zap those unsightly wrinkles away, take that pill and dance like a teenager! Take this pill and perform like one too! Great, you too can have a heart attack while reliving your misspent youth.

Hmmmm…Come to think of it, advertisers may be right on that last one. I know I would prefer to go out with a dance and a wiggle, rather than zonked in the recliner in front of the TV watching commercials. Moving on…

We have been conditioned to spend all our time, effort, energy, and money chasing an entirely elusive and subjective concept: Perfection.

If you believe what you see, it’s impressive to consider how much the average person in modern society needs to rush out and purchase to become even marginally acceptable.

Guess what, folks, my boobs are small, free and unfettered, my legs are hairy, no chemicals are plastered on my face, and my hair dries in the fresh air. I drive an aged ford escort, buy clothing from goodwill, and don’t care what the neighbors have/do/look like that I don’t. In fact, I don’t give a #$%* at all what the neighbors think of me. I accept myself, despite advertisers trying to subtly and subliminally point out all my flaws. I like me!

I should be exterminated. If more people started living naturally as I do, think what that would do to products currently sold by the billions. World economies would collapse. Entire industries would disappear. And we would all have more time to spend enjoying each other, which is a lot more important that spending our lives in the bathroom, trying to live up to a standard that does not exist.

Misplaced Love

When I say that, I mean it literally. Just a short time ago I was sailing in the Bahamas on a small sailboat with a wonderful man. But #$%* happens, and I ended up flying back home.

My love and I didn't leave things neat. Yes, in a way I did run away screaming, but not from him. He is a great guy and I am crazy about him. But THAT boat, and the way he kept it, made me nuts. I can't function or think straight without order, despite my best attempts to do so. And there was no way to organize the boat; there was simply too much stuff in too small a space. Adding me and my crap into the pile didn't help at all. That and being weathered in for THREE WEEKS at tiny little Staniel Cay in the Bahamas, while some of my family were in crisis here, led me to bail.

My man and I left it open as to when and where we would reconnect. It is much easier for me to make a plane reservation to travel to the boat, than for the boat to try to get to where I have landed.

It has now been nearly five weeks since hearing one peep from my other half. What am I to think? It’s hard to rejoin a boat when you don’t even know where it is. When you aren’t even sure it’s still afloat. When you’re not even certain that the skipper hasn’t been fatally whacked overboard by some moving part of the boat, or by some part that wasn’t supposed to move, say, the mast as it fell down.

I don’t even know if I’m allowed to worry or if I should be extremely p/o’d. If he’s fine, I’ll kill him.

misplaced love

It's not so Pacific

The day had begun like any other. John got up and went to work. I did some laundry and went to the store. People we knew from the marina approached me and said “Hey, aren’t you leaving for Hawaii in a few days?” “We’re leaving today,” I replied, much to their surprise. I guess no one believed we were actually going to do it. We found it hard to believe ourselves.
It is difficult to describe the feeling as the lines were cast off from the dock later that afternoon. This 2,000 mile passage was known for making or breaking sailing couples. Did we have what it took? Were we truly prepared? We both had faith in our vessel, a Cascade 36, one of the strongest built fiberglass hulls to ever sail the high seas. Our doubts lay within ourselves. We smiled at each other nervously and sailed out of the bay.
The first sign of what the passage would be like came at dusk, when the wind stopped blowing as we sailed into the middle of the shipping lanes. At the same time the stereo blew out. We motored out of the shipping lanes with no Jimmy Buffet music to sooth our nerves. Five days later, we had traveled a grand total of 250 miles. During most of this time, a sea lion drifted with us, circling the boat and talking at us. I think we were being laughed at because he could move faster than we could. Upon his departure, we were visited by over 100 dolphins, jumping and playing around us. It seemed that almost as far as our eyes could see on both sides, behind, and in front of the boat, there were dolphins. It was an incredible sight; one that was so enthralling that neither of us gave fetching the camera a thought until after the show was over. True to the old mariners’ belief, the dolphins brought us good luck. The wind finally began to blow and we caught a barracuda for dinner.
We sighted a whale on the eleventh day, after which the sun made its first appearance. Plotting our course by sextant alone, the sun was more than a luxury. It was a necessary ingredient in successful navigation. Joyfully, we threw off our clothes and grabbed the sextant, creating a new process by which navigation, and all other tasks, should be done in the nude whenever possible. After confirming that we were still in the Pacific Ocean, we kicked back and enjoyed the deep, clear blue of the sea. We watched our fishing line for our daily mahi-mahi. The minute we caught one, we made sushi and enjoyed a heavenly lunch on deck. Later, we had a refreshing saltwater rinse on deck to sooth certain sunburnt parts of our bodies.
John made pizza on the grill for dinner that evening. Usually we devoured it instantly, but this time we only nibbled, watching the sea uneasily. The water looked the same. There were no ominous black clouds on the horizon, and no wind shifts. But there was an almost imperceptible difference that we could feel in the pit of our stomachs. Perhaps, so in tune with our environment, we could feel the change in pressure as the barometer began a steady plunge. “I think we’re going to get hammered”, I said quietly to John. Unfortunately, he didn’t disagree with me. By the time it got dark, there was no question about it. Both wind and sea had risen at an alarming rate. We shortened sail and prepared for the worst.
John had the dawn watch that morning. As I arose, he said, “You don’t want to know what’s out there.” But I could tell without looking by the motion of the boat and the sound of the wind in the rigging. I got up to gaze at 15 foot seas agitated by 30 knots of wind.
We dropped the double reefed main and ran downwind with the working jib alone. We had an early lunch as the boat crawled up one wave and slid down the next. Little did we know this would be our last meal for 24 hours.
On deck, we struggled to drop the working jib and raise the storm jib in the still increasing wind and seas. We towed a drogue astern on a bight of 300 foot line, to ease our speed and to help keep the boat on a downwind course. Our self steering gear could no longer handle the 45 knots of wind and 20 foot seas. All we could do now was run off and wait for the storm to pass.
The wind was screaming through the shrouds as night fell. The boat’s motion was violent, although she was steering herself well under drogue and storm jib, with the helm lashed. Moving about the cabin was difficult and dangerous to the limbs. John crawled into the quarterberth where I was holed up. We lay together listening to the howling wind, pots, pans and dishes banging together, and canned goods rolling back and forth in storage. Suddenly there was a slam-crash, and the boat lurched sideways. Water spilled through the small gap in the hatchboards and smacked us on our heads. We tangled ourselves up together trying to leap out of the bunk at the same time. John turned on the deck lights, pushed open the hatch and took quick stock of conditions outside. “Did we hit something?” I gasped. “No, we just took a wave over the stern, that’s all,” he replied. “THAT’S ALL?!” I’m wet, you’re wet, EVERYTHING is wet. And now we’re going to get giant monster waves breaking over the boat! I hate this crap!” I cried as the boat fell off a wave with a thump. John admitted to not enjoying this party either. Wet and shaken, we climbed back into our cozy little puddle of a bed. We tried not to bruise each other too much as we got tossed around. Sleep was impossible. Too tired to talk, we each thought our own thoughts. Weather such as this tended to make them profound ones. An experience like this could almost make a person religious. Sometimes it rained so hard that the sound of the falling drops could be heard over the shrieking wind and crashing waves. John muttered something about wishing daylight would arrive. I wondered to myself what difference it would make. I actually preferred not to see the watery mountains that leapt around and over us.
To John’s relief, daylight did finally arrive, revealing that everything on the boat was still where it should be, including the two kayaks we had strapped outside the lifelines on either side of the cockpit. To my dismay, I could now see 30 foot waves. The wind was holding at about 50 knots. Feeling week and dizzy, I remembered how long it had been since we had last eaten anything. I was attempting to put some rice into a pot when the next wave slammed over us. I went for a sail across the cabin, landing on the floor next to the pot. John’s laughter interrupted my string of expletives directed at the sea for the wave, the pot for not sticking to the stove, and at the stove for not hanging on to me. “WHAT’S SO FUNNY?” I roared. “If we couldn’t laugh we’d all go insane,” he tossed at me. I picked up myself and the pot, lunged for the stove, and got everything secured before the next wave wreaked its havoc on us. The little bit of food we managed to consume restored our spirits for about five minutes.
Water had been leaking in one port and both dorade vents, even though they were both closed. Each breaking wave forced water in around the hatch boards, which dribbled down the companionway steps. Water was running over the floor with each lurch of the boat. I began poking around, determined to find a dry spot somewhere. I finished my futile inspection and sat down, dejected and disheartened. John had been periodically checking the bilge to make sure we weren’t taking on water below the waterline. He chose this moment to check it again. He pried open the cover and peered in. “Look, no water in the bilge. Isn’t that great?” I let out a groan, crawled back into the wet bunk, lay my head on the wet pillow, and pulled the wet covers over my wet self. Of course, I thought bleakly, why didn’t I think to look in the bilge for a dry spot?
Darkness came upon us once again, but this time there was a difference. The wind had lessened, only slightly, but to us this was a monumental thing. It meant that there was an end to this torture in sight. This was something we had seriously come to doubt in the last 48, horrendous, gut wrenching, exhausting hours, which felt more like weeks.
Around 2 a.m., the wind had died down enough to warrant putting up more sail. With us still exhausted and the boat still heaving in 15-20 foot seas, it took us almost two hours to sort everything out and bumble through the sail change. At one point, John was standing by the mast ready to raise the working jib as soon as I got the halyard attached. Suddenly the boat dropped out from under me, and as I landed with a painful thump upon the windlass, I let out a really bad word. Suddenly the end of the halyard in my hand was going up, up. “Stop, stop!” I screamed. “It’s not attached yet!” “I thought you said ‘up’”, John replied with annoyance. “That’s not what I said.” I attached the halyard to the head of the jib before I became airborn again.
We were sitting dazed in the cockpit after our exertions when something flew out of the darkness and hit me in the side of the face, just as it started to rain. I leapt up with a yell. We looked down to see a flying fish flopping around in the cockpit. John set it free, and we both began to laugh, harder and harder. We sat in the rain and laughed ourselves silly. We had survived our first ocean storm, not to mention the attack of the flying fish. Deciding to forego our normal watches, we fell into bed, where we slept for three blissful hours. The nightmare was over.
The sun came out later that afternoon. The boat looked like a patchwork quilt, with wet towels, bedding, and articles of clothing hanging from every available space. On the foredeck, we bathed in bucketfuls of warming tropical water and took naps in the sun. As John prepared dinner that evening, he said, “You know, it wasn’t really that bad…”

The size of it

I always like to hear the other side’s opinion, and I would like to know who thinks that leaf blowers aren’t on the top ten list of stupid inventions, and why these noisy, polluting, dust-making demons have a purpose. Just what is the point? Okay, so you get yourself a leaf blower and you go out into your driveway and start the blowjob. In short order, dust and debris are flying through the air, carried by the prevailing wind, to land…Where? All over your neighbors’ yard, drive, car, kids, etc? And in short order, don’t these particles simply blow back where they came from in the first place? What, exactly, have you accomplished, other than damaging your hearing and sinuses, as well as throwing a few more bits of carbon into the air? Is it an added bonus that you have managed to royally piss off the next door neighbor by blowing bits of grass and sand all over the fresh paint on the front porch? Jerk.

Maybe leaf blowers are simply an extension of the ‘small’ syndrome. By this I mean trying to make up for lack of stature by having big and/or loud stuff. Lack of stature doesn’t necessarily mean short, or small anatomy, but simply a person’s self image. One of the most blatant examples of the compensating factor is someone who drives a giant truck with mammoth tires. If this truck makes a huge noise as it bounces down the highway, getting everyone to look, or rushing for ear plugs, all the better. Toting around a honkin’ leaf blower probably helps too.

I get very annoyed at that little kid ‘hey look at me’ syndrome, but also feel sorry for those poor souls who can only make themselves feel better by surrounding themselves with mastodonic possessions. I bet they have to spend much more time at work to pay for this towering pile of crap, compared to someone with no ego problem, who can gleefully tool around in a tiny little car. My guess is that the confident person also gets to enjoy a lot more leisure time, having saved all that money not spent trying to shatter the sound barrier, having to buy extension ladders to get into and out of that big truck, and not buying useless crap such as leaf blowers.

Language of the future

Although I don’t want to admit to where I am living, (outstanding warrants), at the moment I’m stopping in a small redneck type town, full of wandering children who have no purpose other than to spray paint the side of my garage and who know only one word, which they use profusely—f**k. I actually heard a young man walking down the street having an entire conversation using only this word, giving it different inflections and making it sound like complete sentences, while his companion walked alongside nodding his head. Impressive. And here I spent all those years in school learning so many different words. Just think of all that time squandered, learning how to spell various words, their meanings, how to pronounce them properly, and how to use them in a complete sentence. I feel so obsolete, so out of date. Who knew we needed just the one word??? What a waste of life’s precious time, time that could have been spent climbing trees and saying f**k.