Why run with the crowd when you can run around in circles?

Monday, August 31, 2009

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.'

Friday, August 28, 2009

"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.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

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.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

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.

Friday, August 07, 2009

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.

Sunday, August 02, 2009

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.