Happy Snew Year

White stuff is falling on New Year’s Eve, for a change. I do believe this may become an annual New England tradition, just like the Christmas cold I get every year, without fail. Honestly, I’d prefer the fruitcake, to go with all the others out there.

I do pity all the amateurs, who, after getting wild and crazy all evening, will have to navigate that slippery, checkpoint-laden pavement, probably losing their buzz in the process. Personally, I’ll be in bed long before that exciting magical event of numbers increases by one, which is almost as exciting as the day that we go from, say June 9th to June 10th. Woohoo, whoopee!

I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions, but will make an exception this year: My goal is to avoid deer ticks the way I avoid relationships with men. As if they carry the plague or something. If I find one clinging to me, I’ll bash it with a rock until there’s nothing left but a few shattered bits.

That way I can continue my peaceful, happy, singular, unencumbered existence.

Still, all in all, it’s been a decent year, despite the temporary setbacks of illness, poverty, and driving a car with no heat. Nobody I know, including me, died, and spring is just around the corner.

Right?

Work it, baby, work it

I'm sorry, well no I'm not, actually, but I found this to be extremely funny. I can just picture it, doing those squats, when splat, out pops a baby.

Who Didn't Know That?

AP: Gender Divorce Gap After Illness Strikes

“When faced with the serious illness of a spouse, men are far more likely to walk away than women, startling new research finds.”

Are you F*ing kidding me? What’s new or startling about that? Does everyone live with their head up their arses?

Who doesn’t know that men can’t handle emotional caca? Literal pooh, they can deal with. Like if the toilet overflows, crashing down into the living room in a brown mushy mess, your man is there. He may not know how to fix it, but he’ll remain calm, cool, and collected, managing to call in all the right people to take care of the disaster.

But if one of your kids gets seriously injured in a motorcycle accident, he’ll disappear into the woods with his hunting buddies.

Don’t worry, he’ll be back once your daughter learns to walk again.

If a wall of your house is breached by a runaway moose, he’ll be there to heroically remove that rampaging beast from your bedroom. And then he’ll manage to securely strap a tarp over the hole, right before that massive rainstorm hits.

But if you’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer, rest assured that he’ll be off with his girlfriend while you’re getting chemo. Once you’re all recovered, don’t wait for him to come back. Men have one focus in life, and that resides below your neck. He’ll stick with that mistress until it happens to her. Then he’ll get an upgrade for her too.

It’s a fact of life, like dog poo on your shoe, that the vast majority of the male species simply is not equipped to deal with emotional issues. Whether or not this is a genetic design flaw, or is a result of not playing with enough plastic dolls as kids, is open for debate.

If you are one of those ladies fortunate to have discovered a man who can cope with the crisis of illness, rather than taking off to the pub till all is well again, congratulate yourself. That’s a rare breed not seen in the wild very often.

Make up your minds already!!

These two headlines were side by side on my news page this a.m:

Molecular Proof: Exercise Keeps You Young
People who exercise regularly tend to stay healthier as they age, and now new research may explain why. Compared to people who did not exercise, elite runners in the study had cells that looked much younger under a microscope.

Too Much Exercise May Pose Arthritis Risk
The study involved men and women of healthy weight, without pain or other symptoms. Knee injuries were more common and more severe among those who engaged in high-impact, weight-bearing activities such as running and jumping. The researchers are continuing to follow the participants to see if those in the high-activity group actually develop arthritis and if low-impact vs. high-impact activities affect their risk.

In other words, if you’re a runner, eventually you won’t be able to walk, but you’ll look so young and healthy sitting there in your wheelchair.

Please excuse me now; I’m off to apply for a government grant to study the effects of reading too many conflicting reports early in the morning.

Leafing

Having spent so many years on the sea, what I wonder about may appear to have an obvious answer to you more experienced landlubbers.

Why do people rake up, bag up, and cart away all the leaves in their gardens? And why do they follow up that process by going to the store, buying bags of mulch, and spreading them all over the now leaf-free land?

I'm not talking about the leaves on the lawn. I do know that grass grows better when not buried alive. I'm talking about gardens, ornamental and otherwise. Granted, so much of my life has been lived on the sea that my education in these matters is lacking, but I have noticed, while hiking in the woods collecting deer ticks, that the earth in forests, which is naturally mulched by fallen leaves, is lush and rich. Is there a reason why letting fallen leaves lie on ‘civilized’ landscaping is not acceptable?

A few of my theories:

Raking leaves into a big pile helps feeds that strong desire to leap without actually dying.

Containing leaves in plastic bags satisfies a desperate attempt to feel in control of one’s destiny.

Messing with mother nature helps kill time in an unemployed existence

There was nothing to watch on TV at the moment

Needed a place to hide the bodies

Am I close on any of those guesses?

Armageddon is Here

If you didn’t save yourself by stocking up before the day of the Turkeys, it’s too late now. You’re screwed. From this point on, you’ll have to take your life into your hands each and every time you venture out among the surviving turkeys that will be roaming loose in every store during this season of ‘I want it, it’s mine, and I’ll kill you for it.’

If you actually enjoy that sort of thing, risking angry crowds ready to trample you for a cheap bauble, standing in long lines of cranky, complaining, and most likely highly germ-ridden people, overpaying for that crap, well, what can I say? It takes all types to make the world go round and spinny.

If, however, you’d like to be saved from being one of those voted most likely to end up on next T-day’s table, I can help you learn how to have a calm, peaceful, non-angst filled holiday season, all without spending more than you could manage to rob from the bank.

Simply send $199 plus $400 shipping/handling to Alitloff Center, and I will send you the intimate details of how to use my program. Following my protocol will keep you safe, un-broke, un-flattened, and yet still show your loved ones just how much you care.

May you survive this holiday season unstampeded.

Is it abnormal to have formed a family out of a group of disparate, yet similar, people? Given that the vast majority of families are made up of oddballs who have nothing in common but the same nose and a genetic tendency towards dreaming about axes, I suppose it’s acceptable.

I now find myself part of a family that formed because we were all in the same boat, which had sprung a major leak and was sinking fast. A failed business leading to loss of home, a new business which will eventually grow strong, but is currently struggling in this economy, an illness that curtailed earning potential so much that keeping a roof overhead became a remote possibility.

By taking to the life raft together, we saved ourselves, drifting to this spit of land, where we became a semi cohesive unit, almost as dysfunctional as any of our blood relatives, loving each other nevertheless.

Later today, another stack of people, all of whom are unable to afford to be with their genetic families this year, will be bringing a dish to the table, joining us in sharing the warmth and love. Maybe we can even argue a bit, just as families do, discussing such things as, does this holiday seem like VJ day to some? Do certain tenants of this land really want to celebrate the day that their ancestors came along to save the carcasses of a bunch of sorry white folks who were completely unable to care for themselves in this land of bounty, only to be repaid later by being annihilated nearly out of existence?

Happy Turkey Day, because goodness knows there are plenty of them out there.

Naked Lobster Hunting

I was wandering down the dock one Friday morning, when a friend approached and asked me to go sailing with him later in the day. Already residing aboard a much nicer boat than his, I initially declined. Besides, I was scheduled to work that evening. But he begged. “I met this girl” he began. “She won’t go with just me on board, and everyone else is at work. You’re the only one around. And since you're also a girl, that would probably put her even more at ease about going.”

I let him talk me into chaperoning his date, as long as he promised to get me back in time to go to work.

She was a lovely girl from the Soviet Union, on vacation from doctor school on the mainland. We sailed through the harbor and out into open water, spending a lazy hour or so tacking in the lee of Diamond Head. On the return tack, my friend suggested dropping anchor not far from the break wall, so we could go swimming.

Now, this next part may come as a shock to all you puritanical Americans, but rest assured that a large portion of the world is not as freakazoid about the human body as we are.

There was no question of bathing suits, so we all stripped off. That in no way meant a water orgy was about to begin. It simply meant we were going swimming. My friend, who was part fish anyway, wanted to look for lobsters under some rocks about 30 feet down on the bottom. His plan was that if he found any lobsters, he'd return to the boat to get a sack and some gloves, returning to free dive for the critters. He leapt in wearing nothing but a mask, carrying a scuba tank tucked under one arm, its regulator stuck in his mouth. He wasn't even wearing swim fins. His date just wanted to swim, so she jumped in and began to splash around beside the boat. I wanted to see where lobsters lived, so I strapped a mask on my face before hopping over the side. Swimming on the surface, I began to follow my friend. He glided down to one set of rocks, but came up empty. Rising off the bottom about fifteen feet, he began swimming towards another pile of rocks.

Somehow, probably because we had visions of a yummy lobster lunch dancing in our heads, we missed seeing the dive flag floating on the surface. Intent on spotting lobsters, neither of us saw the group of Japanese tourists, who were taking part in a dive class on the other side of the rocks, until we were right over top of them. There were eight them, outfitted in full wetsuits and dive gear, sitting on the bottom in a circle, performing some exercise assigned by the two dive instructors who were with them.

The Japanese strive to do everything exactly as they’re taught. I could imagine the hours of instruction on the proper use of dive gear; how it can only be done just so. And when it comes to nudity, the Japanese are worse prudes than Americans. I could envision the instructors’ admonitions later, once the class was out of the water and back on the beach. No no no, never, that is not how you do it. Crazy haoles.

The expressions on those ten faces will live in my memory long after I’ve forgotten my name or where I live. The cloud of bubbles around them suddenly increased tenfold, as twenty pairs of eyes went round and huge in shock, all staring upwards at a stark naked man swimming over their heads, holding nothing but a scuba tank, shadowed by a naked woman. I laughed so hard I blew the mask right off my face, inhaling quite a bit of salt water, as my friend swam casually over the stunned group, waving the Hawaiian ‘hi’ sign at them. I followed suit.

What else could we do?

The Way to World Peace

It looks like your dad may have been right about that playing with dolls thing, but for the wrong reason:


-Toxins in plastic 'feminize boys'

Chemicals in plastics alter the brains of baby boys, making them "more feminine", say US researchers. Phthalates have the ability to disrupt hormones, and have been banned in toys in the EU for some years.

“ This feminizing capacity of phthalates makes them true 'gender benders' ”

Certain phthalates impact the developing brain, by knocking out the action of the male hormone testosterone.

Boys exposed to high levels of these in the womb were less likely than other boys to play with cars, trains and guns or engage in "rougher" games like playfighting.*


Finally, we’ve found a cure for what's wrong with the male species! I know what every little boy is getting from me this Christmas. Plastic, and lots of it.

C’mon, everyone, join me in this. Just imagine what, within a generation or two, we could achieve. An end to violent crimes. No more school/family murder/suicide shootings. No more big fights over silly stuff like oil and religion.

Peace on earth. Just like the Beatles said.


*read the full article here.

The Decaffeination of Mr. J

I’m finally going to confess publicly to something I did a decade ago.

I was living in San Diego, working in a sail loft. I had two bosses. One was fairly level headed, although when I first started the job, my impression was that he was a bit of a snothead. “Tell her to do this”, he would say to his partner, my other boss. He did that several times during my first few days, despite the fact that I could both see and hear him. Finally, being me, I said, ‘hey, what’s up? Are you allergic to girls? Are you scared of my fleas? Am I too lowly to be spoken to? Or is there some rule here that I wasn’t told about, where everything has to be translated through Mr. J?’

Turns out that he was just remarkably uncomfortable around new people.

Mr J, on the other hand, was not the least bit shy. He would talk to anyone, anywhere, any time. As the day wore on, Mr J’s caffeine levels would elevate as he consumed cup after cup of coffee. He would talk faster, becoming more animated and spastic with each refill. We all made comments about trying to reduce his caffeine intake.

But I actually did something about it.

Not long after I started, I was given a key and the alarm code, becoming the one who opened the loft in the mornings.

I chose to arrive early to open up for one reason, and one reason only.

So I could be the one who made the coffee. I hid a big can of decaf under my table, and slowly, over the course of three weeks, added a bit more decaf and less regular coffee each morning, until the only caffeine Mr J had roiling around in his bloodstream was what he came in with in the morning. The two pots of coffee he consumed at work were now 100% decaf.

The change was remarkable. Everyone, even regular visitors to the loft, noticed how much he had calmed down. He no longer followed people out of the shop with his mouth motoring at 600 mph, his arms rotating wildly like out of control propellers.

I told no one what I had done, simply continuing to keep the regular coffee jar filled with decaf. It was a small price to pay for the decreased maniacal activity of Mr. J. Although I was certain that eventually someone, especially the secretary, who was the one most likely to take petty cash to buy coffee for the loft, would notice that not one of them had bought any coffee in over a year, no one ever did.

About a week after the coffee decafalon was completed, the young kid who worked there was sitting on the steps, cup of coffee from the pot in hand, looking as though the night before had been hard on him. Staring woefully into his cup, he said, “I don’t know what it is, but this stuff just doesn’t seem to wake me up anymore.” It was all I could do not to break out in hysterical laughter.

I didn’t tell a soul.

Fast forward two years later, when it was time to give notice because I was moving back east. I knew that I couldn’t just leave things as they were, because the next time the coffee ran out, whoever bought it would buy regular, and Mr. J would probably die from the caffeine overdose.

I debated letting the secretary in on my deception, in the hopes that she could secretly continue the caffeine-free environment. But given her complete inability to keep anything to herself, I decided to start re-caffeinating Mr. J.

After spending a three week span of time reversing the process, he was back to two pots of regular coffee per day. And no one could understand why, after such a long period of calm, he was once again a blur of hyperactive motion.

I never told anyone what I had done. I just left. If they weren’t clever enough to think of doing that on their own, then they could just live with his caffeine wackiness, 45 hours, six days a week.

Don't Do It

Oh my god, the horror of it all! What is this world coming to? We need to address this disaster immediately. Bring out the lawyers, call the insurance company. Imagine my shock when I read this headline this morning:

Hot Tub Injuries on the Rise

"Although some steps have been taken to make hot tubs safer, increased prevention efforts are needed," said a representative for the coalition of hot tub sellers. “We are currently undergoing intensive research, by drinking champagne in the hot tub round the clock, to see what disasters may occur."

“Based on our findings, funded by a 6.8 million dollar government grant, we’ll suggest warning labels to be plastered all over hot tubs before they can be sold. However, additional research grant money may be needed to thoroughly investigate this deadly new danger, as well as to provide programs to educate the public about the hazards of using a hot tub. We may also need to research the use of safety harnesses, life jackets, knee/elbow pads, and helmets, for use while in or near a jacuzzi. Plus, funding should be made available to study the feasibility of creating a licensing class for any individual wanting to get within 50 yards of a warm, burbling tub of water. One way or another, we’ll work to keep these morons safe from their own stupidity. Not because we give a crap one way or another whether or not some bonehead slips and falls on a wet surface. We just don’t want to get sued.”

There you have it. Who would have imagined a wet surface could possibly be slippery?

Good Advice

You could heed that advice, or, you could:

I can't afford it

Let’s blame it all on the insurance company and the lawyers, shall we? If it weren’t for them, we could earn a decent wage, afford health care, right?

Wrong.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: As far as I’m concerned, the downfall of the free world began with that broad who stupidly spilled hot coffee on herself and then made a million off McDonald’s for being a dumb ass. Like no one could possibly have known that pouring hot coffee in your crotch would hurt. Suddenly, the common man looked around his environment, thought of that huge payout for lack of intelligence and coordination, and decided that spending a few years in court could be much more profitable than actually working at a real job. It would also solve that attention-getting need, by being in the center ring of the circus of law.

Now, human greed appears more rampant than ever, with everyone looking for any infraction as an excuse to sue for millions. Of course the insurance companies have fed off that greed. Of course law firms are looking for that big case that will set them up for life. They are all made up of human beings too, who all want the same thing.

An easy life without working for it.

Has anyone gotten that life from a lawsuit? Maybe a few, just like the few who have won lotteries. But the vast majority of us are paying the price for the greedy success of those few. We’re getting paid peanuts because our employers have to shell out so much money in insurance premiums to cover their asses against that lazy employee or ten, who would rather crush a limb in a press and sue for damages, than do the job.

And because Hep Huey sued the doctor over a hangnail, basic malpractice insurance now costs each doctor the equivalent of a house every year, and our insurance premiums are beyond what most can afford.

Now, whenever presented with a hangnail, the doctor must order every expensive test known to science, because if one thing is missed, the lawyers will be calling.

If your neighbor puts a fence around his property, will you sue for loss of view? If your neighbor doesn’t put a fence around his property, will you sue for having to look at his battered shed and broken tractors each time you look out your bathroom window?

Tip: Save the lawyer fees and stop staring at the neighbor, or he may have to counter sue you for stalking. Besides which, you knew when you bought your house that it was next door to a lawn mower repair shop. What the heck did you expect? You're as dumb as the moron who bought a house next to an airport and then sued because the planes were noisy.

Am I alone in thinking that if we strived to accept different perspectives and points of view, rather than suing everyone into agreeing with us, our lives just might flow more smoothly and freely? Is it worth considering that if we all relearned the art of forgiveness, instead of fighting bitterly for years over a trifle, life might just be kinder, gentler, and less expensive? When grandma in the battered Buick bumps your bumper, instead of opening your car door and falling out on the pavement screaming “I’m dying!,”get out, ask her if she’s all right, and get over that two inch scratch in the bumper. There’s a reason they’re called that, you know. Don’t waste the time of the ambulance, three police cars and two fire engines. Don’t spend years fighting with the insurance company about needing an entire new car because yours is no longer perfect. Suck it up. Accept that as long as humans have been around, and as long as they will continue to be around, accidents will happen. Mistakes will be made. It’s human nature.

The only way to solve the problem of human error is to get rid of the humans.
Which, if we keep reproducing so many of them, we’ll probably crush ourselves out of existence anyway. But that’s a subject for another post.*
*See, I told you everything I wrote was an acid rant.

I thought maybe if I tossed some negativity out there in an effort to get rid of it, I’d get my head clear and get back to entertaining myself with amusing anecdotes.
But maybe that’s hopeless this time of year. My brain cells turn brown and fall off with the leaves, not re-sprouting until spring, when the ticks come out again.

And yet, given a choice of going anywhere else in the world (a realistic choice, that is, otherwise if I won that million dollar lawsuit I’d be looking for a hut in the tropics somewhere), I would still chose staying here with the ticks and the dark and the cold and the snow and the rain and the ice and the naked gray trees and the coyotes looking to eat my lovely little dog.

There’s no accounting for human nature.

The End of the World is Nigh

It seems as though the color orange makes me rant, like a bull seeing red.

I’m blaming my inability to come up with a post that’s remotely funny, or even mildly entertaining, on the color of the fall leaves. To read my recent writings is rather like standing outside in acid rain.

It kinda burns.

But since this blog is for my own personal entertainment, it's my prerogative to post as erratically as I feel like it. And out of respect for those few who do check in, I won't torture you with my recent ravings.

However, if you do believe that when cats and dogs get along, the world is going to end, then get ready. It's coming:



Don't say I didn't warn you.

Moving Day

I’ve been busy using my meager store of energy to move. Again. This is becoming a bad habit.

This time I didn’t go far, just upstairs to my shop. Still, being the pansy weak wimp that I am now, it wasn’t easy carting crap up the steps and then tottering back down for another load.

For the big stuff, I bribed friends to help. I called up my strongest friends and said, “Hey, how would you like to come for breakfast? There’s a catch.”

I got enough takers to get the job done, and even an offer to help me move every day if I would continue to cook breakfast like that every morning. ‘Forget it’, I said. Cooking is something I work hard to avoid. I do it about as often as I move. Which is shaping up to be about every six months.

So, tomorrow, people are moving into my house to defray the cost of rent I can no longer afford.
People I have never met. Three of them.

My idea of a getting a roommate was trying to find one quiet professional that I could boot once I got back on my financial feet.

Nowhere no how would I have thought to invite a single mother with a 13 year old daughter, a dog, a cat, and grandma from Poland who speaks no English.

But that’s what I did. My mouth was open and I was making the offer before I could stuff a stopper in it.

Life is either about to get very interesting, or intolerable enough to make living in a ford escort look very attractive.
Stay tuned.

I really can't read

20 years ago, I pitched my TV out the window after a particularly annoying set of commercials. I chose to become an avid reader, mostly of non-fiction.

However, thanks to vision disturbances caused by that damn tick, I've been reduced to perusing short articles and stalking blogs. Reading for longer than five minutes at a stretch causes the world to get a bit spinny.

On one hand, since I don't do drugs and alcohol, it's kinda fun watching words change shape, elongating and then shrinking, right before they start swirling round the page as my eyeballs begin to roll around in lazy circles. On the other hand, it's incredibly annoying just after getting into a good book, especially when I give up and stand up. Walking in that state leads to banging into walls because the dang doorways won't stay in one place. And who knew that coffee table could use those legs to walk into my path?

I can read for a longer period of time if I proceed very slowly. See. Dick. Run. See. Jane. with. ax. See. Spot. pee. on. carpet...I have always been a very fast reader, so reading slowly annoys me in even shorter order.

Eventually this will resolve itself, but for now, there's not much I can do but stare at the wall or watch Netflix. Not that there's much difference between the two.

I have, however, gleaned some valuable lessons while watching Netflix online streaming videos (no commercials!). For example, from watching Mythbusters raise a sunken boat using ping pong balls, I decided rather than equiping my next sailboat with a life raft, I'll simply fill it with ping pong balls to keep it from sinking in the first place. This would have the added advantage of preventing injuries while getting tossed around down below in a heavy sea, or after a long night at a shore side pub.

And should I ever get lost in the wilderness, following Bear Grylis' techniques will get me dead in a day. However, channeling Les Stroud should see me through.

Les: It's very important to avoid getting wet or hypothermic if you want to survive.

Bear: And now, instead of making my way alongside this raging river, seeking some hapless creature to bite the head off, I'm going to tie a few sticks together and hang on tight as I barrel down the frigid rapids, bashing into rocks as I go. And should I lose this 'raft', I'll have no problem safely body surfing the rapids until I can make my way out, soaking wet, freezing, battered and bruised, just as the sun sets.

Granted, watching some dumbass try to shoot down a river holding onto a couple of twigs is more exciting than watching some guy camping comfortably beside it, however...

Here I am, once again that landlubber person I said I'd never be: one who watches and life on TV rather than actually living it. It's enough to make a person want to go get lost in the woods, ticks and all.*


I promise this will be the last time I mention ticks or Lyme's in any of my posts**

**probably

The Way Out

I mentioned in my previous post that the events of this ‘summer’ have caused me financial stress. I managed to pay the rent last week, but with the season now over and my mobility still somewhat challenged, I don’t have a prayer of making it until next spring.

I’ve been wracking my poor lyme-fogged brain over how to get out of this black hole of poverty, and believe I have found the answer. But I’ll need some help. Initially the participants will have to volunteer, but when the funds start rolling in, I’ll pay you back.

The first step is to move to Arizona and rent a house. The second is to organize a housewarming party, inviting my ‘girlfriends’. This is where the volunteers come in. Although no men will be invited, I will need one male volunteer on standby, preferably a boyfriend/husband of one of the women.

Each woman will bring a dildo as a housewarming gift. During the party, I will get in an argument/catfight with the woman who has the man in her life. She will accuse me of making eyes at him; I will accuse her of being a jealous witch. Things will deteriorate from there, and one of the other guests will call the police.

When the cops come, I will be on top, beating the woman about the head with a dildo, the others toys lying on the floor nearby. When the cops ask who owns all this contraband, the other women will collectively point to me. The officers will have no choice but to arrest me, because in Arizona, it is illegal to own more than two dildos. The fuzz may appear squeamish about taking me in, but the other women will insist, by threatening to report the cops for refusing to do their job. After all, the law is the law, and isn’t having so many instruments of pleasure as bad as having a house full of meth?

So what’s the financial advantage of getting arrested for having too many dildos (honestly can a woman have too many?)?

Once I’m out on bail, I’ll contact the tabloids and talk shows, selling out to the highest bidders. I’ll have already written a rough draft of the book, ready to clean it up with pertinent details. It will have to be published quickly, before my five minutes of fame wear off.

I probably won’t make a fortune, but I bet I’ll at least be able to refrain from having to reside in my car over the course of the winter. And even if this plan doesn’t pan out as designed, at least car dwelling will be more comfortable in Arizona, rather than freezing in frigid New England.

Who wants to come to a party?

Gone to the Dogs

Last week I dropped off my car at the garage because of a muffler problem. When the mechanic called later in the day, I was bracing to bend over and take it like a man. I was not prepared for him to say, "Yeah, this car ain't worth fixin'. Come get this hunk a junk away from the other cars here, just in case it's contagious."

Ulp. After all the miles that car and I had covered together, with nothing worse than a few flat tires and a faulty alternator, how could it have come to such an untimely end with absolutely no warning, while making nothing but easy local hops? And of course Murphy's visit had to coincide with the end of free-flowing money season, in which I had not been able to fully participate anyway, thanks to walking difficulties caused by that damn lyme tick. (Which reminds me to mention that when I do get my butt kicking ability back, I'm going to get even with each and every person who had the temerity to call me 'granny' as I toddled by.)

It turned out that because it was late afternoon on a Friday, blazingly hot, and the mechanic was overloaded with work, the report of the untimely death of my ride was not quite accurate. One tow truck and a second opinion later, I learned that a butt load of fixits would still be necessary for optimum health, but the patient could be saved.

Oh that I could so easily obtain new parts and be back on the road in a matter of days.

As I contemplated the mess I'm in, my dog strolled up, dripping black mud, having gone for a paddle in her own personal swimming pool. The 'pond' behind the house, which had remained fairly fresh throughout summer's frequent deluges, had recently been drying into a lovely aromatic muck puddle. I couldn't help but think of that Jimmy Buffett song, "my head hurts, my feet stink and I don't love Jesus."

'My car's broke, my dog reeks, and I can't go walkin.'

"Sharks That Live on the Land"

The other day, I was asked how I was feeling, as I struggle ever so valiantly, or not, to overcome Lyme's disease.

Many sailors, even reformed ones who are trying not to think that staying on the sea where they belonged would have prevented nasty little deer tick encounters, tend to respond with Jimmy Buffet quotes:

"Good days and bad days and going half mad days."

The response: "Only half mad? You must be feeling better."

It's good to be loved.

I can't read

It used to be that if people admitted this at all, it was with a hint of shame. But the next generation will be saying it with pride, because it will mean that they're hip, or whatever the equivalent term will be in the future. (hey I'm so uncool that for all I know that term has already been passe for ages-oh well.)

Reading is going out of fashion. Watching words disappear bit by bit has been distressing me. I go to read the blog of a clever writer, and there's a video sitting there instead. I click on a website, and a commercial starts yapping at me.

To a non-TV owner, there's nothing worse than a snippet of advertising leaping out and attacking at unexpected moments. I have already expressed my opinion regarding the bombardment of ballyhoo.

Thank goodness for books and magazines that don't reach out to smack a person upside the head. But alas, according to an article by the BBC, that's about to change. If ever I'm peacefully reading a book or a magazine article, enjoying the magic a good writer can make with well hung words, and a page starts talking to me about diaper creme or why I should own a hummer, I'm going to grab the nearest sharp implement and hack that offending organ into itty bitty dysfunctional chunks.

The STD Advantage

The Lyme bacteria, which is related to syphilis, has been found in the sperm of infected men, inducing researchers to begin studying couples where both husband and wife have Lyme’s.

Imagine the possibilities. One example of how handy this could be is if you were a woman on a public beach, desiring nothing more than to sit peacefully by the water reading a book. But the surrounding crowds are noisy, the kids are obnoxiously spewing sand each time they run by, and single men seem to think that the only reason you’re sitting there is because you’re just dying to be swept off your feet by a 300 pound tobacco smoking, morning beer swilling Neanderthal prince charming.

This is how to rid yourself of the disruptions:

Say loudly to the next man who dares to ask, ‘honey whatcha reading?’, as if he was able to read or comprehend anything you say, “I’m reading up on the STD I have,” and watch what happens. While there’s always an outside chance that bozo will be happy to hear that you want to swap STDs with him, most likely, not only will Mr. Wihom (wonderful in his own mind) lumber away so fast that he spills beer, but also all the self respecting families will move away in disgust, leaving you enveloped in a large, peaceful, empty patch of beach all your own. And if anyone should grow so bold as to try to have you removed, you dirty unclean diseased wretch, simply look surprised and say, 'what, my partner gave me Lyme’s.' Make sure to have a printout of this as a bookmark in your book, as well as the results of your Lyme titer. And yes, even if you’re a single woman without a man in your life (i.e. happy), you can still use this. People are gullible.

Of course the sad reality is that if you do have Lyme’s, you’re taking that antibiotic so that you can’t even look out the window at the sun without getting all burned up. In that case, don’t even think about the beach, you cave dweller.

The 'NoNikNak' Rule

Being the compulsive obsessive neat freak that I am, I have never liked clutter. Also, I have a tendency to move a lot. The less I have to pack, the better. Besides which, I'm usually broke and tend to live in tiny places, where there's no room and I couldn't afford useless fribble even if I wanted any.

In my housecleaning days, homes full of baubles made me crazy. I attribute most of my insanity to too many years of having to pick up and dust off and under too many hideous home decorations.

When I lived on a sailboat, it was easy to convince people not to give me trinkets. Not only was it clear that there was no space for useless crap, but also, loose flying trolls could become dangerous in a heavy sea. When I recently moved into this spacious abode, I invoked the no knick knack rule, repeatedly and forcefully, to friends and family. I vociferated in no uncertain terms, that just because I've moved off the boat into this big roomy space, don't expect to see any curios you've given me displayed on your next visit. I will have given those bits away, either to someone who likes such notions, or to Goodwill.

So far everyone has taken note. As a general rule, I would much rather be given time, love and understanding, rather than a gift, but if you must, living things, no not puppies kittens ocelots or fish (except maybe that last one to help stock the pond so I don't have to go to the store for dinner), but green growing plants, are acceptable. I am working towards recreating summer green inside my house, in what will probably be a futile attempt to counterbalance winter.

So what's in my house that could be mistaken as a knick knack?

This is NOT a knick knack:

This is a family heirloom, a prototype made by my grandfather over 30 years ago, not long after he and my grandmother moved from the big house in town town, where the mailbox was a slot in the door, to the small house in the country, where they had a real mailbox at the end of the drive. This was what he wanted atop their mailbox at the end of the drive. It was to be wind powered, such as these:

Unfortunately, not wanting to set the neighbors gunning, literally, for them, or offend the Amish, who would most definitely have to turn the other cheek when passing by, my grandmother put the kibosh on that.

These are not knick knacks:

My friend hand carves and sells these. Since we sailed the same routes, he asked me to display them on my boat as advertising. In return, I made him a nifty carry bag and gave him business cards to spread around to promote my canvas business.

These are also not knick knacks:

This is a useful piece of marine hardware. Meet Win and Dex, who used to hang in the rigging of my sailboat to indicate wind direction.

These are not useless decoration:

The power here goes out quite frequently.

This is not a knick knack. This is the entertainment system:

So there you have it. Those are the only items in my house that could be mistaken for bric a brac, and I just wanted to set things straight for the record.

Boys ARE different from girls

I hadn’t believed it, until my brother’s memorial service nine years ago. Where we grew up, there were four of us kids, me, my brother, and my two cousins, who lived next door. There were no other children nearby, and only two other houses in the area, both containing older adults. The rest was woods and fields.

My brother had requested that we not have a service, but we decided, if you can say the heck with us and go shoot yourself in the head, we’re entitled to do whatever makes us feel a smidgen better. So there. Friends and family met in one of the fields where we used to play as children. We gathered by the pond, which had been the focal point for us when we were kids. That's where we would launch and paddle the inflatable boat, which we would 'borrow' and carry through the woods, whenever no one was around to see us do it.

We had no real format for the service. My cousin, bless him, stood up and began to reminisce about our childhood, dredging up memories. Crying all the while, until the sheer silliness of it all began to hit us and make us smile though our tears, he told stories about the four of us together. Then he began telling us about all the things he and my brother had blown up, set on fire, and tried to smoke. I believe there was a tale of stuffing firecrackers up a dead raccoon’s butt to see the carcass explode. My female cousin and I looked at each other in amazement. “Did you do any of that stuff with the boys?” I whispered. “No, did you?” I shook my head. Later, I asked her, “Would you have even thought to do any of that stuff?” “No.” “Me neither.” Even though we had both been tomboys, up in trees, blazing trails through the woods, and having an occasional campfire. Even though we could crash our bikes with the best of them.

But blowing up dead raccoons? Never would have thought of it in a million years, even if you showed us a series of three pictures, one of a raccoon, one of firecrackers, and one of blown up bits.

Boys are sick puppies.

What to do when life hurls lemons at you:

But what do you do when it hands you Lyme's?

I'd like to think that someday soon I can stay awake, not tip over, get rid of the aches in every joint in my body, and get back a little bit of rational thought and creativity. And YES I used to be able to think, so stop laughing. I just tried not to do it too often, because I didn't want to use it all up.

What a great way to spend a beautiful New England 'summer'. That inch of rain we got last night helped a lot. When I get better, I'm moving to Seattle for its drier climate...

Lymeade, anyone?

Congratulate me

I am now a card carrying member of the Lyme's club. Dammit. For so many years now, I've run around in the woods half naked, sometimes several times a day, never getting anything more than a couple of mosquito bites. I was feeling powerful and godlike, romping unscathed in the forest, while so many dropped around me.


My how the mighty have fallen, to one tiny little insect no bigger than the head of a pin:



It's quite embarrassing to pass out in the hardware store.

On the bright side, I can now blame being lazy and taking lots of naps on having Lyme's. And the economy of this state, which has suffered so by getting eight inches of rain a week (no I'm not making up that number), will begin to recover, enjoying at least four weeks of wonderfully sunny, summer-like weather. Like it was August or something. How do I know this? Because I have four FOUR -4- freakin weeks of antibiotic to take. And while I'm taking it, if I even LOOK at the sun I'm going to turn into a deep fried crisp.

Stay tuned for my new look.

“After a long battle, we’ve finally won our right to the beach,” said Sam, the group’s representative. “These unsanitary creatures have been multiplying and spreading and taking over the entire coastline. We deeply resent this invasive species reproducing beyond sustainable numbers, over-running every square inch of space. Winning the right to use this beach has been a victory for seals everywhere.”

SAN DIEGO- A colony of federally protected harbor seals is causing a stink about whether it should spend its days lounging at a popular cove or be sent packing. On Monday, Gov. Arnold signed a bill that adds a marine mammal park to the list of acceptable uses for the sheltered cove where the seals have lived for years.

The city had planned to spend $688,000 to hire someone to walk the beach with a public address system broadcasting the sound of barking dogs to scare off the seals.
Ooohh, oohh, please please PLEASE can I have that job? I’m more than qualified to hang out at the beach all day, plus I can provide a real live barking dog. In fact, I’ll do it for a mere $400,000….Uh, might it be that spending over half a million to bark at seals is part of the reason why the state of California is fresh out of money?

One human observer wasn’t impressed. “I don’t particularly like them. I think they smell, and I’m not interested in looking at them,” said Big Man Small…(Yeah, I feel that way about a lot of guys.) “I don’t think there should be a whole beach for the seals.” BMS goes on to say, “Just because we have forty other beaches in the area to use, doesn’t mean the seals should get even one of their own. Let them stay at sea and drown. It’s our world to do with as we want, F everything else. Now bugger off, I have to work on my melanoma.”

Seals began showing up in increasing numbers during the 1990’s. In 1997, the city posted a warning that the pool shouldn’t be used because it was contaminated with high levels of bacteria from seal waste. Said one NJ tourist, “What’s a little seal poo? At least there aren’t also used hypodermic needles all over the sand like we have back home.”

In 2004, a disgruntled swimmer filed suit, alleging that a seal sanctuary was not one of the permissible uses listed in the state trust. That’s correct, here in the great USA, you can sue a seal. God bless America.

Go, seals.

This just in-living may cause cancer

I get my news via internet, usually in the morning, meaning I can skip the hype and get to what’s real (at least what’s real to me, and that’s all that counts). While sipping my morning tea and skimming headlines, I saw one that blared, ‘drinking hot tea may cause esophageal cancer.’ Instead of making me panic, I started to laugh, almost snorting hot tea through my nostrils. But then I got scared about what kind of cancer that might cause me, and spit tea all over the floor instead, wondering if spilled hot tea spilled would react with the floor wax and/or the wood, which might also give me some heinous type of cancer.

While cancer is no laughing matter, I do get a kick out of hearing what will cause us a hideous death. Here are just a few of things:

Grilled meat
Sun
Stress
Wine (and then there are those articles that claim wine may prevent cancer-take your pick)
Cell phones
Showers
Tight Clothing
Dryer Sheets
Underarm deodorant
Plastic
Air

I could go on, but you get the idea. Now please excuse me. I’ve finished my hot tea, and must shower, put on my deodorant, get dressed in my freshly dryer-dried spandex, and worry about whether or not I have enough burgers for the cookout, while drinking wine from my plastic wine goblet and talking on the cell phone in the sun, breathing the fresh summer air.

A sure recipe for a health disaster.

Quote of the Century? Yeah well...

A friend sent this to me via email a while ago:

‘Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she’ll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she’ll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she’ll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she’ll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her. So if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit.’

OK, let’s break this down:

‘If you give her sperm, she’ll give you a baby.’ Eek. Don’t you dare. I’m barely domesticated, and don’t EVER want any of that baby stuff. ~shudder~ I’m extremely allergic. I remember this one time, over two decades ago, when someone forced me to hold one of those tiny, wiggly, wormy, squirmy, squally smelly things. The relief I felt when it was taken off my hands…Whew. I still have flashbacks and nightmares.

‘If you give her a house, she’ll give you a home.’ I’m still struggling with this whole landlubber concept. A sailboat might be acceptable, however. I like that rocky-rolly thing.

‘If you give her groceries, she’ll give you a meal.’ Um, yeah, I hate to cook. If we catch a fish, sushi we can discuss.

‘If you give her a smile, she’ll give you her heart.’ My heart disappeared quite a while ago, meaning that I now truly am the cold-hearted b***h I’ve been accused of being. I’m more likely to take that smile the wrong way and beat the living crap out of you.

‘Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater.’ But of course I make all things greater, just by the fact that I am female.

‘She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit.’ Yeah, that part I can do. In spades.

It feels like this:




But should be like this:



Do you want to know just how much the weather has sucked the big one here in New England? At my favorite shipyard a few chilly mornings ago, when the temp was 47 degrees, I ran into a couple whose wife had thrown a huge blowout for her husband’s 50th last year. She said something about celebrating quietly this year, and I flashed back to last year’s bash that had spread over three docks, all of us scantily dressed in Hawaiian garb, dancing in the hot summer sun. Momentarily confused, I asked him, but isn't your birthday in the middle of summer? They both looked at me as though my brain was leaking out right in front of their eyes. Duh, oh yeah. By the calendar, it is mid summer. By the weather, it’s early April. Huh. Imagine that. I may as well be in Alaska. At least the odds of sunshine would be better there, given that it shines night and day.

The Cat is Still Alive*

You know that yowling that male cats do when they engage in a fight? Not the mrow, your mother lives in a garbage can, yowl, your sister has six toes, growl, your balls are teeny, that proceeds it, but the actual fighting part? Yeah, that noise that sounds like a feline getting killed.

Since we live so far out in the sticks, stray cats don't travel this far to cause trouble, meaning that we live blessedly unbothered by screaming cat fights. But on this night, as I settled into bed with the two dogs, mine and my friend’s, I heard no hurled insults, only a single loud scream from a cat. The cat. The dogs leapt up barking, as I fumbled around for clothes, glasses, boots, spotlight. Of course shining a light into the thick underbrush surrounding the house was futile. In the dark stillness I heard nothing, no scurrying, no stampede of coyotes, no deadly fisher cat expressing joy over a fresh kill. No beautiful gray cat responded to my calling.

I returned inside where the dogs were waiting, wanting to go out and see for themselves. Forget it, I told them. There might be something out there bigger and meaner and hungrier than you two.

Back in bed, I lay not sleeping, heavy hearted, contemplating the best way to tell my friend, upon her return from vacation, that she was now catless. After about an hour, while debating whether I should give up on the sleep idea and mourn the loss of such a great cat, or take a pill and become happily oblivious, I heard the cat door bang. No way. But there he was, completely unscathed, unfazed, happy, normal, all in one piece, NOT DEAD! I was so overjoyed to see him that I fed him again, in the middle of the night, in the hopes that he would be happily full and not go back outside to hunt a free meal.

Yeah right. This lean, mean, killing machine, able to catch a flying squirrel off the steeply slanted slippery tin roof in the dark of night by leaping right through the newly installed second floor window screen like it wasn’t even there, returning back through the window with his prey, for now, he lives to kill again.



*yeah yeah I know he should be kept in at night. But freedom is a personal choice and the choice is to let him live free which he could die doing. You know, the way we pansy humans used to be before we got so fear- ridden and paranoid about actually living that we do nothing but stay in and watch TV about how dangerous and unsafe life is.

On Safari*

During the years that I lived aboard my boat here, the fourth of July tradition was to pack as many guests as possible on board, and sit tight on my mooring inside the harbor, watching the show. The fireworks were ok, but watching the incoming boat parade and the display of drunken boat handling in the pileup at the launch ramp afterwards was often much better.

After I rudely sailed off into the sunset, taking my party platform with me, my friends were forced to find another venue for enjoying the fourth of July festivities. I had spoiled them; sitting ashore among the commoners was no longer good enough. The new tradition became to load everyone on one friend's classic wooden powerboat docked at the shipyard, and motor out to another friend's classic sailboat, which was moored right off the town beach and right by the fireworks barge. The two woodies would be rafted together in a lovely photo op for those who had boring ordinary fiberglass vessels. When I arrived back here boatless last year, I was welcomed aboard Safari. I had heard the legendary stories, had met the owner on shore a time or two, but had never been aboard.



There's nothing like a classic wooden boat. There's something about that timeless feel, the warmth of the wood. Maybe it's the dry rot. Yes, that's a ladder up the mast. The owner asks for no comments, please. It's a work in progress.



This year had a particular poignancy to it, as last year turned out to be the final fourth of July Safari would ever see. Last October, she came loose from her mooring, and died on the rocks in a wicked Nor'easter. The owner was not a member of the boatless club for long, however. The party must go on!


Uh oh, busted by the fun patrol. Sorry, officer, we'll try to behave. No promises, though.

We avoided the drunken boat parade pile by not unrafting until very late, returning to the dock well after the last boat had already parked. The most miraculous part of the evening wasn't that the owner of the former Safari had so quickly managed to recover the sailing lifestyle after such a devastating loss, or that we were lucky enough to celebrate this new boat, but that it wasn't raining! And we didn't freeze to death! After so many cold, gray, wet evenings, we were all gobsmacked to discover that it actually doesn't get dark until well after nine at night. Like it was summer or something.

Another successful fourth of July, where nobody fell overboard and nobody exploded.





*This replacement boat is actually not named Safari; in fact it has no name yet. We offered to put suggestions into a hat for the owner to draw one, but for some reason, he didn't care to try that.

What did you do today?

Well, friends of mine just returned from an 8 month circumnavigation via the southern ocean. Me, I brushed the mats out of the dog. And am waiting for a bull’s eye rash to appear where I pulled that deer tick off my leg the other day.

This time last year, I was having the best time of my life, despite the fact that I lived mostly in my car. That wonderful summer was what lured me to stay here, to suffer through winter. I was looking forward to another fantastic New England summer, where I could start working towards a new goal, whatever that might turn out to be.

But this year, something doesn’t seem quite right, as I sit here moldering. I’m winter white, not having seen the sun other than for a few moments here and there. It rains nearly every day. It’s raining as I type this. Temps rarely get to 70 degrees. I can’t breathe from all the pollen. I’m working simply to pay rent, not towards any goal or dream.

Because I have so very many good things here, good friends, enough work to get by, a wonderful dog, a lovely home and workshop, I’m trying hard not to think, why am I not out circumnavigating the planet?*




*How's that for a happy cheery post?

What's wrong with this picture?



This new microwave must have been installed by a giant with no brain. I'm 5'7", and am stretching just to reach the bottom edge. I can't reach the top buttons, and although I could manage to shove something in, if it stopped near the back, I would be unable to get it back out. And forget using the convection shelf. Do you think that the 5'4" tenant moving in will be impressed with having to use a footstool to nuke her food?

Boat Habits

Good boating habits can make the difference between a boat that floats and one that doesn't.

For example, it’s helpful to secure everything on a sailboat in case of capsize or knockdown. Loose items can become missiles flying around the cabin in heavy weather. It sucks to be pummeled by flying tomatoes while off watch in your bunk, almost as much as it blows being outside on deck getting whacked by flying fish.

It’s important to keep the boat well organized, so that you know exactly where everything is. Frantically ripping items out of lockers in search of the liferaft is not helpful when the boat is sinking. Telling thieves, who slipped aboard while you were sleeping, to hang on while you search for the harpoon to use to repel them, doesn’t work so well. Having to unload the all contents of every cupboard when you’re desperate for a hint of rum, but can’t remember where you stashed it, is dangerous to the well being.

Keep the toilet seat down when not in use, because when it crashes down and breaks the bowl in that accidental jibe, she’s not going to be impressed to have to crap over the side, especially in a crowded anchorage. And most likely, your boat neighbors won’t be thrilled with that either.

Replace all caps tightly. Having mayonnaise ooze over every item in the icebox is rather unpleasant. And after that boisterous sail across the bay, finding the head liberally coated with an entire tube of uncapped toothpaste is not only messy to clean up, but now there’s nothing left to brush your teeth with, unless you scrape it off the overhead.

Wash, dry and stow all dishes before going to bed, in case of squalls or uninvited guests. It’s no fun to slice open your feet on broken bits of crockery that have fallen to the floor after the anchor dragged and your boat crashed onto the rocks. And if thieves board in the night, having a clean dish off of which to offer them a snack could mean the difference between keeping your life and your boat, especially if you’re not sure where your harpoon might be stowed.

After you’ve washed those dishes, make sure to close the cap securely when finished with the dish detergent. Otherwise, the boat will fill up with soap bubbles in that massive downpour that caught you ashore at the local pub, reminding you that you left the hatches open.

These are just a few of the things that are important on a boat.

There are some habits that I’ve given up now that I’m a landlubber. I have finally stopped feeling around with my toes for the foot pump to get water to flow from the faucet. Before walking downstairs to the washer, no longer do I carefully wrap my dirty laundry in a sealed, waterproof bag, like I used to do when I lived on a boat at anchor, in an often futile attempt to keep my freshly laundered duds clean and dry on the dinghy trip back from the laundromat.

I’ve become lax, leaving the cap open on the dish soap. And although I still wash my dishes before retiring for the evening, mainly because the last thing I want to see first thing in the morning is a pile of dirty dishes, sometimes I leave them in the drainer overnight. After more than 20 years at sea, I’m losing my seaworthy habits.

What good habits do landlubbers have?



*As this disaster was deposited next to the first boat I ever owned, which was hauled out for a major refit, I was down below, deep into working on the engine. What drew me out to see what was going on wasn't the noise of the travel lift or the activity of the boat yard workers, but the smell. Weehaw! Nothing beats eau de fresh barnacles.