alitloff

Hick Chicks

2012-01-21T10:18:00.003-05:00

We were parked outside the back door of one of the city’s finest restaurants, unloading boxes of organic greens, when a young woman popped out the kitchen door, approached us, and asked,

“Do you know where I can get the tea from here?”

I looked at my delivery partner; she looked blankly back at me. It turned out that we were both thinking the same thing: why would this person not ask the kitchen staff about their tea, and what was so good about it that she wanted some so badly?

I said, “ I’m sorry, what?”

“The tea,” she repeated. “You know, the train.”

Duh, oohhhh. The T. By way of explanation for my ignorance, I pointed to the out-of-state farm plate on the delivery van. She shook her head and went back inside the restaurant to ask less countrified people about transportation.

Don't Mess With the Redneck Chicks

2012-01-06T21:02:00.002-05:00

A true story of my ‘hood.

Two guys in their early 20’s had been burglarizing in the city for a while, but it was getting old. Since the downturn in the economy, there were always so many nosy neighbors gadding about, reporting suspicious activity. It was hard to get away cleanly.

“Ya know what we need to do?” says one. “what?” says the other. “Jack a white van and head to the ‘burbs. All those folks are loaded, and no neighbors would think twice about a white van in the drive. We’ll go in all cool like we’re workin there, and all will be golden.”

“Man, that’s a great idea. Lets go look for a van.”

Fast forward to the duo driving south out of the city, because that’s where they heard all the rich folk live.

They drive blindly, and find a remote house on a quite street. 'Yeah, this is it. Let’s go.'

They are used to folk who work 9-5. It’s 2. They bust in, and start grabbing stuff they want to take.

Being latchkey kids, they have no concept of mom coming home to meet the bus at 3.

Mom pulls into her single lane drive behind the white van. 'Hmmm, I’ve requested no workmen….what’s up?' She walks in to find her possessions piled by the front door. And does country mother freak out, run screaming from the house? Nah, not in this hood. She’s had a rough day, and all that anger is burning…"HEY ARE YOU ASSHOLES STEALING MY HARD EARNED STUFF???" The said assholes stand stunned, like deer caught in the headlights….And Country Mom starts throwing punches. "NONONONO…..you dumbf*cks"….The yelling and screaming goes on, far beyond what these city boys have ever encountered, and the two robbers think, hell the neighbors gotta notice, we’d better bail….but Mom’s car is blocking their stolen vehicle. Crap, nothing to do but head for the woods. How bad can it be? Les Stroud and Bear Grilis do it all the time…..

Yeah well, this is swamp yankee woods. Its entirely filled with briars and muck.

The police report stated that the suspects were apprehended shortly after dark……

Of course they were, pansy city boys…no doubt running down the road, hands in the air, shouting, 'for gosh sakes someone call the cops to arrest us. Get us out of here and take us to jail where it’s warm and dry.'

I hope the word spreads: don’t underestimate country folk, especially swamp yankees. You city folk may be used to living behind lock and key, but we in the woods know that our muck is mightier, and we’re not putting up with any crap from you.

Burned out on Christmas

2011-12-18T18:33:00.003-05:00

Maybe if it hadn’t started in September, I wouldn’t be sick of it. And playing Christmas carols two weeks before thanksgiving? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.

I try my best to support my wonderful local hardware store filled with personable, knowledgeable staff, but occasionally find that I have to set foot in that big dumb chain hardware store, like the other night. My hardware store closes at six. I foolishly ran out of thread sealant tape at 7, and if I didn’t go get some right then to finish the plumbing job, there would have been no water until the next day.

Ever since there were green leaves on the trees, I’ve I entered through the contractors entrance in an attempt to avoid the massive Christmas display. I also try to avoid the orange panhandling employees, which is nearly impossible. 'Would you like a quote on a new kitchen?' 'Can we interest you in our flooring?' 'May I show you some options for window replacements?' 'Do you want to see what’s under my orange vest?'

GO AWAY. I JUST WANT SOME DAMN TAPE.

What pushed me over the edge the other night wasn’t that it was impossible not be whacked in the face with a poinsettia in every aisle, nor was it the Christmas music playing for the second month in a row. It was the guy standing next to me, loudly humming along to the carol, completely off key.

I’m blaming this completely traumatic event on the fact that Christmas is now a week away, and I’ve done absolutely NOTHING.*

Can I pull it off before Sunday? Will I find the motivation to care?

*We won’t mention the fact that I just found out that Christmas was a week away, not two like I thought.

Party Animal

2011-12-15T09:08:00.002-05:00

At 7, I was slurring my words. By 9, I could hardly hold my head up. Finally, I staggered to bed. The next morning, I woke up with pounding head, cotton mouth, eyes puffy. What the hell did I do last night? I tried to remember…

Oh yeah…Nuttin fun, just rode the rollercoaster of low pressure/high pressure. It appears as though post-lyme, my body has become a human barometer.

If this keeps up, I swear I’m taking up drinking.

Stupid human trick

2011-12-10T20:49:00.005-05:00

I returned to the farm at 6:15, bringing my dog in from the car on a leash to prevent her from running off into the dangerous darkness. She and I had only been in the house for about fifteen minutes before the very nearby sound of a pack of wild coyotes chasing some poor hapless critter filled the air.

My reaction as my dog barked? I got up and locked the slider. Because while coyotes may be able to open a slider, they can't do so if it's locked...

At least I had the decency to laugh at my silly self.

Behind the times

2011-12-04T19:17:00.003-05:00

Just before Turkey day, these critters were crossing the driveway. The thought crossed my mind to speed up and bag one for our meal. Almost unconsciously I found myself gunning it, but alas, nailing one with the delivery van just wasn't as easy as ripping the door off a taxi cab.

Arisen

2011-09-26T16:56:00.003-04:00

Starting the day off right, with an upright boat:

And here she comes, in all her sodden glory:

She's alive, she's alive!!!

Phoenix-"it's not time to rise yet"

2011-09-25T17:32:00.009-04:00

Working to get the boat upright to begin pumping out water:

Hey, that's sort of right!

Aw, Crap

The team ashore, collecting more compressed air and lift bags:

And that's the end of today's story. Tomorrow is a new day, and Phoenix WILL rise again.

Sailing Vessel Phoenix-A Brief History

2011-09-24T17:47:00.011-04:00

Phoenix IS the replacement boat for Safari, who (and yes boats are people thank you very much) died in a wicked nor'easter in the fall of 2008.

Phoenix is a work in progress, as can be seen here in this photo, taken last year after her unscheduled trip to the beach:
So far we have enjoyed two fantastic Fourth of Julys and one Classic Yacht Regatta aboard her, racing last year as a sloop, because her mizzen mast was still down for repairs. All of us were looking forward to this year's race, now that she has both masts up:

Unfortunately, while the sailing term 'hull down' does apply here, this is not how the phrase was meant to be used. Nor is this how any boat should ever look.

The eternally optimistic owner, who, along with his crew, will work to refloat Phoenix on tomorrow's low tide, is already planning a strategy to repair whatever happened to sink her, and thinks he'll get the motor de-salted and running in time for the next Classic Regatta, scheduled to be held in three weeks.

Given what I've seen him and his crew accomplish on the other boat disasters, I wouldn't be surprised if that all came together.

And then after that, he'll give up his current job to start a new company: Phoenix Salvage Operations.

Our hearts are with you my friend, and our willing helpful hands, carrying sponges, buckets and blow dryers, are standing by to assist with the drying out process, once Phoenix rises again.

Doom and Gloom

2011-09-04T19:03:00.004-04:00

I love listening to all these people who grow their own food and stockpile heaps of necessities in order to be prepared when (insert favorite conspiracy theory here.)

‘I’ll be ready,’ they say. I ask, ‘what if someone comes to take it?’ ‘I have guns’, they say. Really? That’s great. Let’s look at this for a moment. You’re assuming that random strangers are going to be beating down your door in order to steal your stuff.

Hmmmm. No, random strangers don’t know where you live. Who does? Your parents. Siblings. Siblings’ children and spouses. Cousins, Aunts, Uncles, second cousins ten times removed, because haven’t you been faithfully attending family reunions all these years, where you bragged about how prepared you were?

Friends you’ve known from the second grade, and all of their families. Each and every one is someone you care about, on your doorstep, desperate, begging for help. Hundreds of them. What are you going to do? Pick and chose? Shoot them all and fend for yourself?

I ask you, are you really prepared?*

*because it's my blog and I can be a screaming bitch if I feel like it, ok? Which has nothing to with precancerous growth, week long power outages, and a house afire, I swear.

Pining

2011-06-08T06:41:00.007-04:00

I won't apologize for a long period of no posting, since choosing what to write when is one of the great prerogatives of a free country. Besides, there's too much to do in our too brief summer to sit inside at the computer. That is a winter activity, which I will be resuming in a few short weeks, along with eternal snow shoveling.

But this morning, since it's downpouring, leaving me unable to fit a finished canvas project on a wet boat, here I sit. Since I already cleaned the house, I'm typing randomly, filling the time until my world dries off a bit.

Fourth of July was a repeat of two years ago, and last year, down to the sunset. Minus our great launch, however, as that boat still isn't in the water. The owner of the boat we partied upon had to ferry us in his inflatable dinghy in shifts, meaning lots more work for him. Also this year, his sailboat had the full complement of two masts, instead of just one.

A friend sailed his small boat up and rafted alongside to enjoy the fireworks. When the show was over, he cast off under sail, gliding past our bow in the darkness.

It's funny how a random image can pitchpole a person right down a wave of memories.

Here is another one that caused me to crave life under sail:

Don't worry, it's only a fleeting feeling. Like a recovered crack addict, the moment will pass, and I'll continue on contentedly with my landlubber life.

It's a Dog's Life

2011-05-15T07:28:00.008-04:00

Excuse me for my lack of posting, again, but getting another dog has come with a new full time career: outwitting the wily escape artist.

In the past week+, I have been busy reinforcing, rebuilding, rethinking, and adding catches and latches and gates. I have dug all around my deck and buried planking (hopefully) down past a dog's tunneling ability.

Meet Amphissa (a type of olive). We call her Ampy, because at times she can be a crazy amped up terrier. And of course, a rescue dog never comes without issues. This street dog knows no commands other than sit (we start dog school in two weeks). I still haven't convinced her that it's not ok to sit on the kitchen table and wait for me to come home.

Still, Olive couldn't have asked for a better match, as she and her new best bud spend mass quantities of time happily knocking each other around the triple reinforced fenced yard. They both sleep through thunderstorms, get terrorized by shadows that try to come in the car windows to attack them, and are both non-morning dogs. Nothing beats having a good mate to help terrorize chipmunks and rid the yard of moles.

Goodness knows I needed another tick collector in my life.

Thanks, google

2011-05-04T08:17:00.004-04:00

Do you know how hard it is to find good stalkers nowadays?

It’s not like it was in the old days, before the advent of the internet. To be a good stalker, you had to go out and actually find a suitable victim to follow. The time and expense alone weeded out the weak. Not everyone could waste hours touring shopping malls, seedy bistros, used car lots, or other stalkee rich venues, before even beginning to prowl through someone’s life. The dangers inherent in actually physically stalking a person were so much greater. Getting poison ivy while lurking in the bushes was the worst. With no chat forums to support you with the legalities of how far you could go, the odds of getting arrested were huge.

Now that anyone can be a stalker with the simple click of a mouse, without leaving the comfort of home, the quality has deteriorated so greatly that it’s like trying to find a piece of stainless steel in West Marine that doesn’t stick to a magnet or rust the minute you get it wet.

With google blocking my blog as spam, I fear I may have lost the decent stalkers that I worked hard to collect, by crossing that fine line between giving them so much that they didn’t feel special, to that point where they didn’t get enough and went away unsatisfied.

So to you my cherished stalkers, I apologize. Now that my blog has been granted a reprieve from the firing squad, please come back, and I’ll do my best to remain a decent stalkee for you.

Have you seen my marbles?

2011-03-24T09:55:00.008-04:00

After spending two solid months working on my boat 12-14 hours a day, the boat went back into the water looking brand new. There was still a boat load of little fiddly projects to be done, but the massive projects were complete. As the boat splashed down, along with a huge sense of accomplishment, I got the overwhelming sensation that I had at least one more boat rebuild in me.

I carried that feeling up until that damn tick got hold of me. Now? Heck, I can’t even rebuild myself, let alone an entire boat. Almost overnight, I morphed from a highly organized, ultra efficient, energetic, fit young human, into a inconscient middle ager. That focused drive I used have? Hmph. Let’s look at an example of how things unfold for me now:

I want to make a shelf for the bathroom. Simple, right? Get a board, cut it to size, screw the brackets to the wall, attach the shelf. On this fine spring morning, let’s get started, shall we? Where the heck did I stash that piece of wood?

I look under the trailer. Look, there’s my rake. I’ve been looking all over for that. I fish out the rake and use it clear some of the debris from the yard. Oh yeah, I was looking for that board, wasn’t I? I head over to house to the basement. No board, but hey, look, the washer. I have to do laundry. I trudge back across the yard, fetch my laundry, and get that started. Oh yeah, the board. Hey, there it is up in the branches of that tree. I wonder why I put it there? Oh well nevermind. I fetch it out. Drat, I need the saw. Where is that? Upstairs in my shop. Back across the yard, go upstairs, get the saw. I see the freezer. Right, I need to defrost some meat for dinner tonight. Look at all that ice in here. This freezer needs defrosting. I may as well sew up the rip in these pants while I wait for the ice to melt. Good job, that’s done.

What was I doing? Oh yeah, a shelf in the bathroom. Back to my place. Forgot the saw, didn’t I? Return back across the yard and upstairs to my shop. Pick up the meat I forgot. That trash bin is kind of full, maybe I should take it out. Head to the dumpster. Go back to work on the shelf. Forgot the saw again, didn’t I? Back to the shop. Oh my, I should water those poor plants. Go downstairs, fetch water, go back upstairs, water plants. Start back downstairs. Dammit, the saw. Finally remembered!

Cut the board. Now, we’re getting somewhere. Hey, look over there by that wall, flowers! Yippee, spring! Walk over to check out the flowers. The bed needs weeding. What was I doing before? Oh yeah, the bathroom shelf. Head back to work on that. The dog greets me. She needs a walk. Let’s take a turn around the fields.

What was I doing? Oh yeah, the bathroom shelf. Look at those dirty car windows! I’d better clean them before my trip to CT tomorrow. Go inside to get window cleaner. What a mess; I left my breakfast dishes. I’d better wash those before they get any crustier. I should check my email to find out what time we’re supposed to meet on Thursday. Appears as though it’s about to rain, and my saw is out there. I’d better get that board in too. Shoot, I need to bring in some wood for the stove. Hey, wasn’t I doing laundry a couple of hours ago? Trudge over and put that in the dryer. Notice the bicycle stored there for the winter. It has a flat tire. Well, it’s almost bike riding season. I should get that out, clean it up, and pump up the tires.

There, now I’m ready to ride. Put the bike back in the basement. Really, it looks like it’s going to snow, not rain. NOOOOO!!! It can’t; it’s spring. Snow will hurt those pretty young flowers. Where did my snow shovel get to? What was I doing? Oh yeah, the bathroom shelf. Damn, the drill needs charging. What will I do for half an hour while that charges? I need to go to the store. Now is a good time.

Go to the store. See that long overdue library book while loading groceries. Take it back. Browse for another book. Remember that groceries are in the car. Go home. Put them away. Dammit, out of those 27 items I bought, I forgot butter, eggs, carrots, tamari sauce, tea bags, kefir and broccoli. Moron. At least I remembered the yogurt raisins. What was I doing before? Oh yeah, the bathroom shelf. I’d better get my skates on. I’m starving. Did I eat lunch? No, forgot again. No wonder I’m so skinny. I’d better marinate that chicken. I’ll have a handful of raisins to keep me going. Drill’s charged. Let’s get that shelf installed. Crap, didn’t I have laundry in the dryer? I’d better get that before it gets dark.

The dog wants to play with her Frisbee. Sure, why not? Toss it until it’s really too dark to see. Ok dog, come in now, before the coyotes come out to eat you. Oh yeah, that bathroom shelf. But first I’d better put the laundry away. Then maybe I should vacuum. Tracked in a lot of crap today. Oh, but before I do that, I should finish that shelf.

AND FINALLY, I FINISH THE SHELF!

It’s dark and I’m exhausted. How the heck did I get so tired when all I did today was make a bathroom shelf?

And there you have it. It’s hard to live with myself. Aren’t you glad you don’t have to?*

*Is it any wonder I haven't posted for so long? I simply get side tracked by all the shiny objects in my path.

Life is like a clean, empty slate

2011-02-14T08:44:00.004-05:00

I have nothing to post at this time. My mind is filled with a blank whiteness that won't go away. Jumping up and down doesn't break through it. Whacking it with an axe or trying to set it on fire with hot embers doesn't clear the white film from my sight. I concede defeat, and will have to learn to live with the blank whiteness, until, given some miracle I no longer believe in, the blank whiteness melts away of its own accord.

Winter Camping

2011-01-24T08:20:00.009-05:00

Living in a 30 foot RV, you’d think I’d be miserable, camped out in the snow all winter.

You’d be wrong. Yeah, that surprised me too.

I’ll admit it; the start of the cold weather season was tough. The fire wood that had been freshly pulled from the swamp did nothing but smoke and make creosote in my wood stove. I did manage to successfully burn an entire winter’s worth of kindling in a couple of weeks, trying in vain to get the swamp wood alight. As convenient as it was to not have to add any more clothing layers before going outside, I began to tire of wearing my hat and gloves inside all the time. As condensation dripped off everything, I began to wonder where I had stashed my foul weather gear.

I was sure I wouldn’t make it. As my friends watched me suffer, they were anticipating the ‘moving Kit back into the house’ breakfast party.

And then someone swapped me a load of real, non swamp-infested wood in exchange for some canvas work.

Nothing beats a wood stove. My favorite winter morning pastime is to get it cranked to 82 in here, and then don my summer wardrobe, which consists of, well, let’s just say it creates no laundry. On milder days, when temps hover around 20, I can even open the outer door, leaving the storm door in place, which thrills the dog no end, because she can come and go through her dog door at will. For a canine, nothing beats dashing out after squirrels, and then popping back in for a biscuit and a thaw by the wood stove before heading back out for more fun in the snow.

Life ain't so bad.

Now, if we could get rid of that daily snow shoveling routine, I might not even mind winter so much.

Why Did I Steal This?:

2011-01-14T17:00:00.013-05:00

because my driveway looks like this, that's why:And that's only the first half. There's that much more again down round the bend where I live. My theory was that by swapping a small slippy car for a rugged 4x4 to traverse half a mile of country driveway, there would be no snow. Obviously, that didn't pan out.

I also have 4x4 on my feet. Please no comments on the duct tape. They're great boots.
I do hate this about the truck I stole:Given the prodigious number of snowflakes that are going to cover us until at least July, I need to redesign that stupid dashboard snowflake. It's the flake that broke the shoveler's back. I think I'll put this image on there instead, in the hopes that it will make me think of tropical drinks:
What is it really? Well, after my dog came in all covered in ice balls and I brushed them off, I thought it would be funny to put them in a glass and take a photo. Why did I think that was funny?

Because I think I got camper fever, and don't own a gun to shoot six holes in my freezer, that's why.

Let Sleeping Bears Lie

2011-01-07T07:33:00.003-05:00

Reasons why I haven’t posted for so long:

They found me.

Spent all this time shoveling snow.

Got put in the kennel over the holidays.

Ran out of olives and went into a great depression.

Kidnapped by the grinch. Oh wait, that would mean that I held myself hostage.

Caught lazyitis from the infected hordes surrounding me.

Had to go visit my home planet.

Held without bail for grand theft pick up truck.

Forgot which way was up.

I was trying to hibernate, but now that I’ve been rudely awakened in the middle of my long winter sleep, I’m on a rampage, so look out.

Diggity Dog

2010-12-08T07:34:00.004-05:00

What do you do when you’re still a pansy-assed weakling after battling lyme disease for more than a year, but your budget is zip after underworking all that time, so you can’t afford to hire a ditch digger? But that strength-necessary task absolutely must get done before the big freeze-up.

Just do it. Dig for a bit, get frustrated at your lack of muscle, and then stop and contemplate your life. Maybe it really would be easier to live in the car, driving south away from the frozen land, and just earn enough for gas.

But wait, gas prices are up again, so you may not be able to afford that lifestyle either.

While leaning on your shovel trying to find the zip to carry on, your dog jumps into the trench you’ve started, and digs digs digs. Within moments, she’s dug down four inches deeper than you managed in half an hour.

Being showed up by a dog pisses you off enough to say, well, if that little dog can do it, so can I. And off you go with your shovel, calling in the dog whenever you need a break. And in two days, the trench is dug, the new wire is in.

Where would we be without dogs?

Whereby my friends try to kill me

2010-11-28T16:33:00.003-05:00

(Can you spot the mountain dog?)

I thought that the email that came through regarding Sunday’s group hike was simply a misspelling: “Tomorrow’s Wall”.

My friends claimed that they tried to convey that this was not an easy hike. However, the email that read: “lots of ups and downs on this one” did not accurately clarify that up and downs did not mean simply walking up and down hills, but clambering over boulders that had been sheared from rock walls formed during the last ice age.

As a recovering lymie, I’ve been working to rebuild my strength, by digging trenches, climbing ladders, and carting firewood. But still, it takes time, when, for the last year+, you’ve resembled a piece of linguine that’s been stuck to the wall far too long.

Four hours of climbing over rocks was just a bit over the top.

Life is a big pile...

2010-11-23T17:14:00.005-05:00

So just jump in!

Things I’m thankful for:

That I don’t live in Siberia

That I don’t have to drive a hummer

That the roof over my head no longer leaks

That there are trees to hug

That the fleas have all abandoned my dog

That lyme disease is receding into the background

That I have friends who care whether or not I set myself on fire

That spring is almost here

That I don’t have to leave the house on Black Friday

That I’m not a turkey (most of the time)

Turkey?! We're on it!

2010-11-04T08:39:00.002-04:00

What do you do when your happy glasses get all scratched and fogged up?

Old Woodies

2010-10-25T08:52:00.015-04:00

Yesterday marked the second time in my life I've ever been in a sailboat race. And just like the last race, it was marked by ferocious winds and fierce competition, as you can see by the photos.

Well okay, so there really wasn't any wind this time either. And had we done what others did, which was to motor up to the start line, cutting their engines as the starting horn sounded, we would have done better. But no, silly us, we were trying to sail in no wind, which meant that the tide, which was stronger, pushed us down onto the committee boat. It took half an hour to jibe around and get through the start line, which gave our competitors a huge lead. As the day drew to a close and the dampness of the chill air began to penetrate our bones, we gave up, turned on the motor, and headed back in towards the party. That blew our chance at the last place prize, but by god, next year we'll go for it!

What do you do when you're headed back to the mooring and discover that someone had come along and 'borrowed' your boat hook?:*

*These remarkable boat hooks will soon be available for sale at Alitloff Center for $89.99 + s/h. Order yours now to beat the Christmas rush!

Ahhhhh

2010-10-20T18:50:00.005-04:00

I feel as though I should run through the fields beating my chest, shouting, "I HAVE FIRE!!!" ala Tom Hanks in Castaway.

As long as I don't catch on fire, we're good. I now have the one thing that makes New England winter tolerable (other than buggering off somewhere tropical until spring), and that is a wood stove.

Now all I need is wood.*

* The sticks that are burning were 'borrowed' from a friend. I have to give them back when I'm done with them.

Still Ticked Off

2010-10-13T08:29:00.006-04:00

Originally, I started this blog so friends and family could follow my travels as I sailed around the world. For those who read the drivel that I write, you know very well that this never happened.

Thinking that the adrift period would be brief, I tried to fill this space with funny stuff, until I found myself back at sea again, blogging about my travels to tropical paradises, turning my readers green with envy as they plodded through everyday life.

Yeah well. That damn deer tick’s plans for his life overthrew mine in a complete coup.

And as sick as you are of hearing about my lyme disease, believe me, that comes not even a parsec close to how tired I am living with it, day in and out. Some days I just want to hurl myself into the compost heap, decompose, get spread all over the garden, and sprout again in some other form.

But instead, feeling like a freshly dug up turnip that the dog has carried around, I slog along slowly. Every now and then, I have a lucid moment, where I look around and notice that the world is still turning. Most of the time, I’m just not on it, but am circling in my own foggy orbit.

And finally, in those rare glimpses of the world outside my head, I’m beginning to be able to see the humor in my situation.

I’m not planning to turn this blog into the lyme journals (any more than I was planning to spend years on shore:), but maybe, if I can couch my confuddlement in comedy, I can give another lymie a laugh, which, as we all know, is the best medicine.

C’mon, folks, go ahead and laugh at me and with me. Then we’ll all feel better.

Home is where the ticks are

2010-09-26T20:19:00.004-04:00

For the first time in my life, I’m not looking to move on. Yes, I often miss the sailing life, and yes, I miss traveling to new places. But as I wandered hither and thither throughout the years, I always kept returning to this one particular harbor. I never stayed for long, because of that freezing thing, but still I came back, almost every year.

Now, as an icy future stares me in the face, I have decided to stay. And even more insane than that, I’m not moving back into my house, instead leaving it to the overactive night squirrels who have completely ignored the eviction notices. Sleep has become so invaluable to me, that I have decided to attempt to spend the winter in my blissfully quiet tin can, which has very little insulation, and is nicely equipped with a furnace that only blows hot air when the outside temp is 70, otherwise, on dark cold nights, it works really well as an air conditioner. The single pane trailer windows with the large gaps was what I loved about living here all summer. It was just like living outdoors, except that the skeeters couldn’t get in through the screens, and I didn’t get wet when it rained.

Why would I consider major winterizing modifications to a twenty year old camper, when it would be infinitely cheaper to drag the entire rig to Mexico, where I could afford to live for next to nothing in the warm sun?

Scroll to the top of this blog and read the title: ALITLOFF. Okay so maybe I should change that to ALOTOFF.

In the spring I made a deal with myself: If I could eradicate my tick borne debt by the end of September, I would go south with the geese. Not only did I not come close to meeting my own expectations, but sometimes I still completely drop all my balls, and wander off to smell the pretty flowers. It only makes sense to stay here among friends, in an area where even many strangers understand the effect that lyme disease can have on a formerly competent person. Being here with the people I love will keep me warm in a way that I won’t find anywhere else. I know, because I’ve looked for nearly 20 years. That, and I still need a lot more sleep before I face the world again. The long dark days of winter are a perfect time to stock up on zzzzs, in the hopes that I’ll wake up a complete non-lymie in the spring.

So, if anyone has any spare insulation, firewood, etc, bring it on over. I wouldn’t say no to thermal socks either.

Here's Mud in Your Eye

2010-09-01T08:57:00.007-04:00

Because we have an even number of people on the farm, we have two winning captions for the disaster that befell our lovely 'pond', which used to look like this:

But now looks like this:

The winning titles are:

Haiti
Meteor Crater

Luckily, Earl is coming to break the tie for us. I'm guessing that in the aftermath, "Haiti" will be declared the winner, because all that mud is going to slide down and fill in the crater.

Will humans ever learn to quit messing with mother nature?

Lightning DOES Strike Twice

2010-08-24T22:18:00.006-04:00

History almost repeated itself, but thankfully, this time there was a happy ending. Conditions were almost the same, except that it was actually windier than when Safari took her final journey. The difference to Phoenix living to tell her tale was that she miraculously avoided all the rocks on her trip to the beach. Soft sand is no match for a tough boat.

The owner attests that it's much better to wear yourself out scrubbing the exposed hull at low tide, and then, on the evening's high tide, cranking on lines and anchors to haul the boat back into deeper water, than it is to chop up your beloved vessel with a chainsaw.

And also, that boat is getting chained to her mooring. No more beach parties.

Farewell Old Friends

2010-08-09T13:40:00.009-04:00

I had the most delicious dream last night. I was aboard my anchored boat, and through an open porthole, could see my love’s gray steel boat anchored right next to mine. In the dream, each morning I awoke, day after day, and there he was, still beside me. Plus, my boat had a brand new engine in it!

When I started to awaken into the real world this morning, I fought to stay asleep to keep the dream alive. But alas, daylight reality entered, and I had to admit that dream was blown long ago.

But dreams do have meaning.

I purchased my last pair of sandals in 2007 at a Key West dive shop, while my love browsed the spear gun selection. Could that have been a hint of foreshadowing, a sign of what was to come not long after, when our relationship took a dive and I fled?

I wish he had harpooned me and reeled me back in.

Regardless, those aged, well worn sandals should never have been in this summer’s wardrobe. But there they were, in all their holey bottomed, strap failing glory, because I had been unable to locate any suitable replacements. Until today, when simply passing a storefront window, there were exactly the sandals I’d been waiting for all summer.

I just hope that pitching the old sandals into the rubbish bin and getting new ones has no meaning whatsoever.

How Safe Is Your Car?

2010-08-05T18:34:00.003-04:00

That depends on how you drive it. If you believe that you have one of those magic cars that will glide smoothly across ice all by itself at 70 mph, here’s a tip: your car is not safe.

If you’re driving on a jam packed three lane highway where everyone else is going 40, odds are, that if you believe you can continue to travel at 90 by zipping in and out of traffic, your car is not safe.

If your mechanic told you a year ago, when you last got your oil changed, that you needed new brakes, your car is probably not safe. Especially if you have to start slowing down a quarter mile away from a stop sign in order not to skid through it.

If you stole your car, it’s probably not safe.

If your car doors lock automatically when you accelerate over 25, and then you drive into a lake causing all the electronics fail, your car is probably not safe.

If you’ve aged past the ability to merge into traffic from an on ramp, your car is probably not safe.

If you leave the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked while parked in front of a Bronx mini mart, your car is probably not safe.

If you pass a cop who’s going the speed limit, your car is probably not safe.

If one of your wheels just flew past you on the highway, your car is not safe.

If you own a Yugo…well nevermind, if you own a Yugo you don’t really own a car.

If you bought the biggest, honkenest, most expensive gas guzzling SUV that you could never afford, and then got laid off, your car is probably not safe. (BTW: driving a hummer is the same as wearing a sticker that says ‘look at me I am a giant weenie’-which we all know means that it’s actually very tiny.)

And because I just said that to all the hummer owners out there, my car is not safe.

Seaworks

2010-07-05T20:19:00.004-04:00

This is for my friend who said, "So many of these fireworks remind me of sea life-urchins, jellyfish, sea anemones, even a sea bird flying over looking for a meal."

Whaddya know, she was right!

School's Out

2010-06-27T20:47:00.010-04:00

Let the education begin!

After a difficult year of loss and change, barely squeaking through the seventh grade, the kid needed a celebration:

We even let her play with matches. What teenager doesn't like to light stuff on fire?

Get a grip will ya, we were simply having dessert. No need to call DCF just because we let the kid finish making the peach flambe.*

*No minors were served alcohol in the process,
which was a real bummer to the minor.

Home Oil Refinery

2010-06-20T20:51:00.007-04:00

Has your waterfront property just become coated in oil? Do you have a fishing boat that's not allowed to catch fish, despite the demand for pre-oiled fish in upscale restaurants and markets?

Don't worry, because now you can turn that disaster into profits with one of our home oil refining units:

Simply collect the tarballs on your land, or skim the oil surrounding your boat, and fire away. You'll now have your own gasoline, diesel, heating oil, motor oil, and heck, with our number one best selling unit, you can even make jet fuel. And anything you make over and above what you can use, big oil must buy back from you, just as the electric company must purchase excess electricity generated from your solar panels or wind generators. Big oil will no longer corner the market with their billion dollar refineries.

Your property values will soar, and your boat will no longer be a rust bucket derelict that no one wants. All the brokers will be on your doorstep with enormous offers.

Contact us today to view our demo and pricing. Hurry, these units are slipping away fast!

On the Rocks

2010-06-11T19:19:00.005-04:00

It's not that I don't love you. It's not that I want to give up on us. I don't want to leave you, I want to stay here forever.

But you've been so cold to me for so long, and then sometimes you smother me until I can't breathe. Between your dark moods, and those biting jabs that knock me to the ground, oooof. It's nearly impossible to get up again.

I know that in order for this to work, I have to accept that you are what you are. I'm the one who has to change, adapt, because you won't compromise one inch.

I don't know if I'm up to it. I've tried to make this work for two years now, but am longing for some warmth in my life.

Oh, Rhode Island, I don't know if I can continue to live with so much winter. Which is followed by spring, oh, lovely spring, when everything blooms so beautifully and clogs my lungs with pollen. For an entire week, there's been no sun, no temp above 70. Is this a rerun of last year's wet, cold, soggy non-summer, filled with life-sucking ticks?

I don't think I can take it. It may be better if I pack up and go. But go where???

2010-06-10T15:27:00.005-04:00

Ever hear the term 'armchair sailor?' It's a somewhat derogatory term for someone with little or no boating experience, who can expound in great detail about how some nautical catastrophe like sinking, running up on a reef, or getting dismasted in a storm wouldn't have happened to them, because they've read all the manuals.

We have them here too:

Economic recovery

2010-06-10T10:01:00.013-04:00

This year there seems to be a drought in the normally abundant money season. Lots of boats didn't go into the water. Many summer home owners are doing cleanup and repairs themselves, rather than hiring someone.

Last summer, even though I was barely able to function thanks to lyme disease, I earned more than I have so far this year. Apparently, I have recovered much better than the economy. On Memorial Day weekend, the official start of the season, there was no parade of boats in the harbor, despite the picture perfect weather. The beach town next door was bereft of the usual traffic jams.

When I returned here two years ago after several years of wandering, I had the best summer ever. Why? Because I mostly diddled, enjoying sailing the bay and playing on the beach, working just enough to get by.

Trying to live here year round is a completely different shell game. Freezing all winter, garnering debt that needs to be eradicated by hustling to earn a buck in the short summer season, all while trying in vain to breathe the constantly yellow air, has made me realize that I'm doing it backwards. I should be living and working somewhere else ten months a year, and then taking an extended vacation here in July and August, working a little bit just to break even.

But where to go? What to do? I want to stay in canvas work, near boats and the water, and I don't ever want to see snow. That pretty much narrows my choices down to Florida and coastal California. Florida is a hurricane prone, soon-to-be oil coated swamp; California tends to have earthquakes and be on fire. What a selection.

I'm thinking that I'd like to participate in an exchange program starting in the fall: Anyone who has a boat canvas business in Mexico, Central or South America (not cape horn or anything stupid like that-palm trees only!), let's swap for a year to see if the grass really is greener on the other side. Before we trade places, we can apply for a government grant to study, document and publish the results of our experiment, possibly encompassing a best selling book and movie, so we'll be covered if it doesn't work out. Any takers?

It Don't Bug Me None

2010-06-08T19:27:00.007-04:00

Haven't blogged for a while, have I? That's because currently, I'm not speaking to the human race. I've found something much more entertaining, and which requires more intelligence, to do: observing the great variety of insects that inhabits my camper.

That's right, I said camper:

Last month I moved out of the house, nothing against my housemates or the squirrels that run wild in the eaves. I just needed my own space. Peaceful. Quiet. No wild parties till dawn (that'd be those pesky squirrels).

I may now be headed down the redneck road to becoming trailer trash, but so what? I like living here in my tin can, more so than in the the tin shack. It's not a boat, but still, I'm cozy and comfortable, going to sleep each night and staying that way until dawn.

The only bummer is the much longer commute to my canvas shop. Now I have to truck all the way across the yard in order to get to work:

But this will do for now, until I re-evaluate my life in the fall. By then I should just about be all done with my bug study.

Out There

2010-05-19T16:26:00.002-04:00

The owner of this blog is currently very busy with a team of selachians, uh, lawyers, fighting an egregious charge of Blog Abandonment and Neglect for no Good Evident Reason (BANGER).

No I'm Not

2010-04-26T07:31:00.002-04:00

I haven’t been able to keep up with the blogging recently. Have you ever tried typing by holding a crayon in your teeth? It’s so tiring.

Recently, I got a very personal tour of the mental institution down the road from here. Those new fangled straightjackets are much more difficult to get out of than were the older models…

No, I’m not crazy, at least not by my own standards. Just alitloff…

And oh yeah, I moved again, without leaving the property. Details to follow, when I can safely avoid those people in white coats driving that white van with the bars on all the windows…Oops, gotta run!

Rising Waters

2010-04-02T21:32:00.018-04:00

Next time I hear that school got canceled just because it was raining, for cripes sake, I won’t think ‘pansies’. And I’ll stay home too.

This week’s floods created the need for some new road signs. We already have these, for the really stupid people:

Now we need a few of these, to keep safe those geese who have given up flying for interstate travel:

And for those lucky people with duck ponds in their driveways:

In other words, not all god's creatures were distressed by the floods. I wasn’t bothered until it took me an hour and a half to get home from three miles away. During that epic journey, I had plenty of time to figure out ways to redesign my Ford Escort into a more flood-friendly vehicle.

The first improvement would be an exhaust stack that would jam onto the tail pipe and run up the back of the car, above the waterline. With such an addition, that first puddle would have been a snap. As it was, we barely made it through, floating past three dead cars. Then the road got closed behind me. Two miles further on, I found the road closed in front of me, where three feet of water raged across, making me wish I still had a kayak.

At first, it looked likely that I was destined to spend the remainder of the rainstorm sitting in my car on the side of the road. But a small lane that looked a driveway was the way out, and my car forded the next water hole without all that sputtering. From there, the pavement rose on higher ground, leading me to think I was home free.

As I sat in my dead car in the next giant road lake, I came up with a design for some pontoons down the sides of the car, and a rudder/tiller that I could attach to the stern. Oarlocks could easily be attached to the roof, where the oars could remain stored until needed.

After some pushing and a bit of dripping, the car was game for the paddle home.

Ironically, my driveway in the swamp was the driest road I had traveled on that day.

Stupid buggers

2010-03-26T21:43:00.010-04:00

I should be overjoyed and energetic. The days are getting longer, with little green bits and flowers popping up here and there. Despite seven inches of rain in less than a week, we had an absolutely splendid spell of spring-like weather, without a white flake in sight.

Not long ago, when a summer day was about to hit us full force, I decided that enough was enough, and stopped taking that stupid antibiotic, the one for lymes where you can’t go out in the sun without coming back in within minutes resembling an overcooked lobster. And oh, what a delectable day it was, sitting on the beach in tank top, shorts and happy bare feet, watching my dog romp, gazing at sailboats gliding up the bay, feeling the heat of the sun on what’s left of my body.

That was the last nice day I had, before beginning a dark descent back into an unsteady world of exhaustion. The person I used to be could stay energized for days, sticking to the wet, sideways-slanting deck of a sailboat in a gale with one toe. Despite eight months of treatment, this person I've become still sometimes can't remain upright on level ground, and wouldn't pass a sobriety test despite consuming no alcohol in nearly a year (because booze exacerbates the sick wobbly feeling I live with, that's why-and save the unbalanced jokes, okay?)

I hadn't expected to start falling apart for at least another decade, thinking it would happen gradually enough that there would be plenty of time to get used to the idea of becoming a decrepit doddering dame, instead of the physically strong, able-to-rebuild-a-sailboat-in-a-single-bound-bundle-of-energy that I had been.

I'm still struggling with having been bouncy and active one minute, and flattened the next. Now, it's hard to remove a lid from a jar that's already been opened. What a wimp.

Place your bets-will I get any of my strength back, or will I always be this weak pansy girl who annoys me no end by wanting to sleep all the time?

The $1,000 Stomach Ache

2010-03-13T10:47:00.004-05:00

It began with me washing the poo off my dog’s butt at 5 am. I dunno, maybe it’s just me, but I can think of a few better ways to start a day. At 9, she tossed her cookies. At 11:00, she looked at me with glazed eyes, obviously unwell. By 1, she couldn’t even stand up.

I learned something that day. Vets are like people doctors. They’re all off playing golf on Wednesdays. That left me with only the most expensive place to take her, the doggy ER.

Had I not taken her, odds were high that she would have died. The cause is still not certain. Let’s, shall we, list the known toxins on our 23 acres of property, of which she has free reign: There’s the ‘graveyard’, which is the area in the vicinity of the cat door. It’s always littered with corpses of all types: Birds, mice, moles, voles, chipmunks, formerly cute little bunnies, the occasional bat, and other creatures that are no longer identifiable. Normally there are at least three dead things available for immediate consumption at any given time. That cat is a career killer.

All over can be found an assortment of cat poopsicles, deer scat, rabbit raisins…Ok, let’s face it, there’s a lot of yummy crap out there. But apparently that’s not only harmless, it can even be beneficial to a dog. Lovely. And I suppose rolling in doodoo is good for her coat? Maybe, but it’s not good for my nose, which is why she gets chucked in the tub on the occasions when she comes in reeking.

Then there’s the compost heap full of used dirt and micro green bits. My dog loves the greens that grow in the greenhouse (which is why she’s not allowed in there-dogs in the trays are not up to code), but I’m guessing that, like the carcasses, after those tasty treats have been decomposing for a while, they probably aren’t the healthiest choice of snacks.

Then there’s the infinite supply of sticks to chew into bits.

Whatever it was that nearly did her in, she certainly seems all better now, ready to romp and chomp once again. Thank goodness it’s a crappy weekend, not suitable for playing outside. When it stops raining, if it ever does, I intend to surreptitiously monitor her movements, in what will most likely be a vain attempt to discover what it was that she munched. In about a week, she gets her liver functions rechecked. If everything is fine, it was simply something she ate.

That was a heck of an expensive meal.

A Season of Reruns:

2010-03-03T09:57:00.010-05:00

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you the following
special report:

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming:

Raise your hand if you're ready to change the channel to spring after seeing that special report.*

*although the air temp on Tuesday was 52, with plentiful sunshine and not a hint of wind, bay water temp was 38. Yes, my dog is insane. It's hereditary.

Which would you prefer?

2010-03-01T08:56:00.013-05:00

Hell:

Or Heaven:

It's that time of year again, where I ask myself daily, "What was I thinking?!"

Hell has always been portrayed as a hot, burning place. That version is wrong. Hell is frozen over, where you can't go outside without spending half an hour layering up, and then have to cart that extra 50 lbs with you. Hell is your butt touching that toilet seat at 3:00 a.m. while at the same moment one bare foot misses the rug and lands on the cold tile floor. Hell is never being able to make your fingers function because they're always frozen numb. Hell is weeks and weeks of starting each day by scraping and shoveling frozen stuff off your walk and car and driveway.

As we enter March, I count the number of boat canvas jobs that came into my shop during the month of February: 0. Which matches my bank account, unless you count the credit card, then it's less than nothing. Zip also matches my enthusiasm for gray, damp, dank, chill New England days.

Without gas money to flee south for a break in a car that needs brakes, there's nothing to be done except suffer through, awaiting the season of plenty. The arrival of spring will hopefully see hell thaw out. The mud stage should usher in sunshine, sailing weather, and income.

And when the leaves turn dead and drop off as the season of replenishment winds down, if anyone should hear me even think about staying here another winter, please whap me with a big hunk of fish carcass until I come to my senses.

I'm going back to sleep. Don't wake me till it's green and sunny out, or unless your boat is in the tropics needing canvas work, and you're willing to fly me, my sewing machine and all the materials in to do the work.

At this moment, I will work for sunshine.

Snow+Out of Shape Lymie Body+Snow Shovel=Call an EMT(emergency massage therapist)

2010-02-12T07:58:00.005-05:00

"Is this all of it?"

Apparently, New England weather reporters are so bored out of their minds with our mild winter, highly jealous of their mid-Atlantic counterparts who have mega snow to play with, that they’re making up weather. I should have know that the report was all hype, because I simply could not match the dire predictions for our area with what my eyeballs saw on radar.

Being the good cruising sailor that I am, always prepared for a thrashing from Mother Nature, I readied the house where I’m pet sitting for friends. I filled containers with water, set out candles and flashlights, cranked up a nice fire in the wood stove, and covered the holes in the roof with a tarp. I got the cat dressed in his little boots, sending him out to the top of the driveway with a bucket of salt. I made sure there was plenty of licorice tea and yogurt raisins on hand. Just as the snow began to fall, I took the dogs for a long romp in our favorite hiking spot. After all, who needs wild animals loose in the house in the middle of storm?

I left my own home in the hands of my housemates.
They have people who shovel for them.
I have lymes.

Yesterday afternoon, gearing up mentally and physically, I ventured out armed with a snow removal device, implementing my plan to shovel each time the snow reached four inches, or until I keeled over, whichever came first. Reaching the summit of the driveway, I found myself still standing, utterly stoked. I did it! For the first time in seven months, my mind overturned the conviction that the battle would never be won against the legions of nasty little lymie creatures munching away at me, believing that there would always be a handful of rebels hiding out, making sneak attacks when no one was looking, but now, there's hope that I can soon say “I had lymes.” Past tense.

Soaking wet, I staggered back inside to wait for the next four inches of snow to fall, so I could go out to shovel again. When it got dark, and meteorologists were still threatening us with heavy, heavy snow, I made sure the car was angled correctly to shine headlights up the drive so I could see to shovel. Finally, I let the dogs out into the two inches of fresh snow that had fallen in the last eight hours, and then went to bed.

All you poor souls buried alive just south of here, don’t hate us because we’re not inundated. After all, we spent last winter encrusted in ice while you all romped through unscathed. This year, it’s just your turn to get our snow. Besides, winter ain’t over yet. Mother Nature is still in charge, and could give us a stupendous spanking at any moment she chooses.

How to Bedevil Your Beaver

2010-01-29T10:31:00.012-05:00

Now that I have your attention by making you think that you're going to read something sexual relating to the female nether regions, please let me disappoint your notion.

To beleaguer a beaver, begin by driving out the in the morning and finding that a tree by the pond has fallen more than halfway across the driveway:

At first, in your sleepy state, wonder what made that tree fall, because there was no snow, ice, hurricanes or tornadoes. In fact there wasn't even a zephyr of a breeze the previous night. You know that because of the number of times you were awakened last night by those pesky squirrels partying in the rafters. Stop thinking about squirrel annihilation, and call your friend who owns the property to report said tree to her, because although cars can squeeze by, no tractor trailer that may be coming down the drive that day will be able to reach the greenhouses to pick up their load of lovely fresh herbs growing there.

No not that kind of herb. Get over it.

Get out of the car and take a look to see that the fallen tree was the overnight shift work of beavers:

Unfortunately, times are hard everywhere, and Bosley Beaver wasn’t allowed to work overtime. That meant that although he managed to get the tree down by the end of his shift, he was unable to stay on the job long enough to strip it and haul it away to the new addition being built on the dam. “Oh well”, thought Mr. Beaver, “I’ll just have to leave it until I come back to work again.”

Imagine Bosley’s bewilderment when he arrived back at work the next evening, only to discover that after spending an entire shift gnawing down a tree, it was no longer where he had left it. He now had to start all over, after reporting the incident so an investigation could be begun into the disappearance of the tree.

The rest of us are now concerned about the fate of the wood guy, who came along and cut up the beaver’s tree for firewood, if the beavers figure out whodunit.

I wonder what type of punishments beavers mete out to tree thieves?

The Grinch Rocks

2010-01-27T20:40:00.007-05:00

When mom walked in, daughter and I were sitting casually at the newly assembled table, putting together a puzzle.

Well, actually, we were diddling with the pieces. Neither of us is into puzzles. That was mom’s thing, which is why we had strewn puzzle pieces across the table.

Daughter and I got rid of that stupid Christmas tree in an hour, all neatly boxed, labeled, and stowed in the basement, dragging out the table to put in its place. “What is this?” Mom asked. “What have you done with my tree?”

“Your tree got voted off the island. Would you like to work on this puzzle?” We moved aside as Mom stepped up to the table, trying to act annoyed. But we could tell that she was pleased. She spent the next two hours happily assembling puzzle bits.*

Really, she couldn’t complain, because after all, it wasn’t like she was completely tree-less. Out of the goodness of our grinchy little hearts, and in the spirit of compromise to keep the peace, not because we’re scared of mom or anything, we left her a bit of tree, the top part, nicely planted in a pot. We even strung some lights. I can’t complain about that either, because it makes a handy night light when I have to go downstairs to pee.

But mom may get her revenge. The puzzle that we haphazardly grabbed off the shelf, rushing because we could hear mom approaching from outside, turned out to be a Christmas one, with snow and reindeer and other holiday doodoo dads.

She has threatened to hang it on the wall behind the table when it’s finished.** Where it would be the first thing we would see each and every time we came in the door. BAH HUMBUG!

*Mom is now re-assembling those same bits as I post this. That cat really can fly, but needs to work on her landings a bit more.
**the cat may continue ‘accidentally’ scattering puzzle pieces across the floor, preventing any threat of a holiday scene being finished and hung up in sight of the grinches.

Go, Kitty, Go!

Operation Take Down the Freakin Christmas Tree Already

2010-01-20T13:16:00.019-05:00

Back in October, I took on housemates because I couldn’t afford rent. Laying around all summer, instead of earning heaps of money like I usually do, took a big toll on more than my health. Originally three people moved in, but Grandma went back to Poland after a month, leaving me mother and 13 year old daughter.

I was sure I’d get plenty of blog fodder, as they drove me up the wall and out of my house. But that didn’t happen. Mainly because they argue in Polish, so I don’t know what’s going on, but also because I love and respect them both.

Except for that one thing, when Mom started putting up the Christmas tree on Thanksgiving weekend.

Daughter and I worship the Grinch. He’s our hero. In fact, we’re still fighting over the grinch pants my aunt gave me during the holidays. When the tree got set up, we objected strenuously, begging her to at least wait until December, with me pointing out that it was the twelve days of Christmas, not 120. All to no avail. Up the tree went.

As we enter the third week of January, there’s no sign that the tree will ever be taken down. It’s time for it to go. I said so over the weekend.

"No." said mom. "Not until March. Maybe later."

Freak that. Daughter and I have begun a ‘dismantle the tree’ campaign, enlisting the animals. We're going to make good use of “Cat did it”, the most spoken phrase in the house, as all sorts of stuff, much of it ten times heavier than the cat, gets knocked down/over/off, during the cat’s daily insane flying fits.

Unfortunately, the tree has stoutly withstood the cat’s antics, so we have a plan, beginning with ornaments disappearing a few at a time, escalating to loose branches, a wobbly stand, and ending with wildly cavorting animals creating a big crash. We’ll have this sucker down before the end of the month. The two grinches in this house won’t grow bigger hearts like that pansy in the movie. Christmas is OVER!

The mission is well underway:
Search

Remove

Destroy!
And that dang red holiday crap carpet that makes me so want to pee on it is also outta here.

Quake Safe Homes*

2010-01-17T09:11:00.007-05:00

* Disclaimer: Side effects of unsafe placement may be fatal. Do not place your quake proof home near any ‘solid’ man-made structures, such as buildings, bridges, dams, electrical wires or large obnoxious vehicles. Avoid placing near sizable trees, hills that may collapse, or near sites of possible rock slides, avalanches or tidal waves.With proper placement, while these homes may very well fall down upon you in a quake, the worst that would happen is that you would say “Ouch, *#%^!*,” crawl out, rub your aching head, and have to set it back up again.

More Proof That Humans are Idiots

2010-01-09T11:03:00.004-05:00

This year’s conference opened by citing the human article that stated:

'Scientists say dolphins should be treated as 'non-human persons'. Dolphins have been declared the world’s second most intelligent creatures after humans, with scientists suggesting they are so bright that they should be treated as “non-human persons”. The researchers argue that their work shows it is morally unacceptable to keep such intelligent animals in amusement parks or to kill them for food or by accident when fishing. The scientific research . . . suggests that dolphins are ‘non-human persons’ who qualify for moral standing as individuals.'

While we applaud this conclusion if it leads to a bid to stop the murder and enslavement of our mates, having our intelligence compared to that of humans is downright insulting.

This article only serves to prove that human beings are persisting in their outrageous belief that they are intelligent, despite their complete inability to live within the natural habitat this planet provides for them. The only reason these creatures didn’t die off a long time ago is because of their creation and use of tools. Somehow, this gives them the erroneous impression that they are better than any other creature on the planet. However, our studies have proven that any human placed outside, in any environment, be it field, jungle, lake or ocean, without tools, without protective covering, does not survive for long, unlike every other species in existence.

Originally, we found this human shortcoming of needing tools to survive to be quaint and amusing. We had no qualms about permitting them to carry on. After all, the ships they built provided us with our own Olympic venue and athletic training centers for our youth. We were able to use the detritus left in the ocean to create our underwater entertainment centers, which as everyone knows, have been highly popular. Watching human efforts to flail about in our element was always a great show, as well as providing valuable research into their behavior.

And of course, what humans did on land was not our concern. However, in recent years, their numbers have increased so alarmingly that our own well being is now threatened. The manufacturing processes involved in the making of the sheer amount of tools that the human species needs simply to get through a single day, is starting to affect our oceans to the point that, in the next several generations, our descendants’ health and well being may be severely affected.

It is time to act. In order to attempt to control the exponential growth of this species, we are in the process of setting up legislation banning aid to any human, as was previously encouraged. No longer are we permitted to assist them when they’re in distress, take them home and play with them, keep them as pets, or leave food out for them. Also, we’re forming research teams with sharks, to determine an effective way to reduce their numbers. Hunting seasons and quotas may need to be mandated in a bid to manage the quantity, before we are forced to say “goodbye and thanks for all the fish.”

Save me

2010-01-03T15:08:00.004-05:00

Is there a group for recovering addicts, in particular for those poor sailor souls who are hung up on palm trees and tropical ocean breezes? Because over the weekend, as the white stuff piled up outside, blowing sideways in a definitely-not-the-least-bit-balmy force 8 breeze, I spent several hours trolling yachtworld, looking at sailboats I can never afford. Heck, even if the quintessential sailing vessel landed in my yard for free, I still couldn’t afford it.

My self hypnosis program, entitled ‘palm trees are for pansies, strong people shovel’, is failing me. I feel myself slipping, getting that ‘Florida feeling’, which is a terrible state, because, well, Florida is a terrible state. Still, there it is: a strong urge to flee the white stuff and fondle a coconut.

Maybe I should at least get my car heater fixed. Maybe then I’d be able to stay on the snow wagon?

Happy Snew Year

2009-12-31T12:37:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-15T19:10:00.003-05:00

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?

2009-12-09T08:05:00.007-05:00

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!!

2009-12-02T07:27:00.004-05:00

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

2009-11-27T20:30:00.006-05:00

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

2009-11-26T10:26:00.005-05:00

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.

2009-11-26T10:01:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-21T10:18:00.006-05:00

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

2009-11-16T08:06:00.009-05:00

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

2009-11-14T09:57:00.005-05:00

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

2009-11-06T09:19:00.005-05:00

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

2009-11-04T08:34:00.014-05:00

You could heed that advice, or, you could:

I can't afford it

2009-11-03T08:11:00.008-05:00

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

2009-10-20T09:01:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-29T07:44:00.005-04:00

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

2009-09-12T07:55:00.012-04:00

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

2009-09-07T09:09:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-31T09:12:00.014-04:00

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"

2009-08-28T07:52:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-20T07:09:00.014-04:00

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

2009-08-18T15:42:00.008-04:00

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

2009-08-07T07:04:00.017-04:00

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

2009-08-02T13:43:00.004-04:00

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:

2009-07-31T06:33:00.006-04:00

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

2009-07-24T19:46:00.006-04:00

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.

2009-07-21T12:57:00.002-04:00

“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

2009-07-17T08:47:00.013-04:00

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...

2009-07-14T10:43:00.006-04:00

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.

2009-07-13T07:33:00.007-04:00

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*

2009-07-08T09:33:00.006-04:00

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*

2009-07-05T00:07:00.008-04:00

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?

2009-06-29T10:01:00.003-04:00

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?

2009-06-16T08:17:00.007-04:00

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

2009-06-14T09:34:00.005-04:00

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.

When Friends Converse

2009-06-09T19:27:00.002-04:00

I was sitting with a friend of mine when his cell phone rang. “Yes, hello? Oh, hi.” To me, he says “It’s Darla.” (a mutual friend, whom I had seen while working in the house next to hers earlier in the day.)

To her: "Yes, the party is starting, come on over. What? Ok.” To me: “She says to tell you she’s impressed; that she saw you working like a Trojan today.” Pause. To her, while looking at me: “You mean like the condoms? But they don’t always work….”

And it was all yellow

2009-06-03T07:56:00.005-04:00

What’s all yellow, you may ask, if you live in the arctic or in a walk-in cooler or some other highly frozen place. If you live in a place that has spring, you know what’s all yellow. Absolutely everything. My dog is yellow. My dark green car is all yellow, inside and out. I’m all yellow, inside and out. Even the water in the harbor, which is moving water that flows with the tides, is all yellow. A sailor on a boat coming up from the Caribbean reported hay fever attacking his vessel while it was still 100 miles offshore.

I try to move slowly and carefully, because if I'm disrespectful, marching through the yellow particles in a rush, they gang up into an angry yellow cloud, which smacks me with a sneezing fit. When I am assaulted, there's not much I can do but lie down, lie still, and try ever so hard to breathe, just a little.

But yellow is unbreatheable. With a brain full of yellow fuzz, I can’t think or reason or comprehend how to complete the most fundamental tasks. I can barely keep my itchy eyes open.

I've heard of rose colored glasses, but really, isn’t a yellow tinted world just a bit over the top?

I love spring. It’s my favorite time of year.

No, really, it is.

Those darned monkeys again

2009-05-28T07:53:00.010-04:00

I thought I was being facetious about that lovely monkey with lollipop paws; that the idea was completely absurd. But if modern science can do this to monkeys, then it's not so silly after all , is it?

Wouldn't it be cool to glow in the dark?*

*What did you want, a real post? Forget it. All my time is taken up with the difficult task of trying to suck enough air into my lungs to get some oxygen to my poor brain, which isn’t really working. All I’m getting is pollen choking off my airways. Factor in 87 straight days of gray skies, rain, and temps in the 60 degree range, when it’s supposed to be freaking summer, and I am definitely NOT a happy monkey.

The New Place part 2

2009-05-25T15:50:00.010-04:00

Today is a work day, and my commute has changed since moving here. Now, I have to go from here:
(Bed cops look away: this brand of bed was identified and purchased using stolen tags)

All the way up the stairs:

To my workshop:

Unless I decide to stop by the well gaurded office first, then it's not as far to travel:

It's a tough trip, but somehow I manage it every day. Usually, when I walk in, I say to my boss, 'sorry I'm late; traffic you know.'

And then my boss kicks my butt, docks my pay and makes me stay late to make up the time.

Mean old bat.

The new place

2009-05-24T13:55:00.018-04:00

I've moved into the tin shack in the woods:

As you can see, it's well hidden, making it all the more difficult for the people with the straightjacket and padded van to sneak up on me:

As a hobby, I breed mosquitoes in the backyard:

I hide behind the screens in here, because they get agressive when they haven't had enough to eat:

This place is way bigger than a boat. In fact, my boat even has its own room:

We'll continue the tour later. Someone just informed me that it's a holiday weekend and that the tradition is to cookout. Feeling way too lazy to fire up my own grill, I'm off to find a party to crash.

2009-05-22T22:02:00.001-04:00

That image of the lovely monkey with the lollipop paws has sustained during this week from the black abyss. Although up until now, I thought monkeys had hands and feet, but what do I know, being a gosh darned landlubber and all.

Today, while shoveling nine months of grunge and beer bottles out of a college student rental, proving to myself that I hadn’t really retired after all, I found myself wondering if the monkey sucked on its own limbs when it wanted a tasty treat, and what happened when it rained. Did the lollipops dissolve? Could it get more lollipops at will, or, like the honey bee, once the one stinger was gone, was life over? Did the monkey have to defend those yummy appendages from sweet toothed marauders, or as self protection, did these lollipop limbs taste like pond scum? Although there are creatures that like the taste of pond scum. My dog for one.

As I scrubbed at a shower stall that hadn’t been cleaned since I last shined it up in September, I wished I had a monkey with scrub brush paws. Forget those useless lollipops.

When I took off sailing three years ago, I swore I would never clean another college rental again as long as I lived.
But, these same places are rented by the week in the summer.
And on that one day per week, I make more money per hour cleaning between weekly tenants than I could make walking the streets. It’s hard to say no to earning a week’s wages in half a day.

So, I pay the price in spring by scraping these houses clean after nine months of hard partying by college students, which my clients are happy to pay me the big bucks to do. And after 20 years, even though I’m less enthusiastic now, and slower (anyone who dares suggest that I’m not as spry as I used to be gets a monkey with brass knuckles), no one even comes close to knocking me off my cleaning throne. And yes, it annoys me greatly to be the best at something even a monkey could do.

Finally this week is over. Next week, I can get back to the work I love, the boat canvas creations. This is not work a monkey could do, even if it had seam rippers for paws. This business involves compound curves, oblique angles, and precision measurements to fit right and look good. Not to mention having to be able to sew in a straight line, something that’s difficult for me, given my dislike of the straight and narrow.

Speaking of, I believe I moved sometime last week. I promise to post some pics of the new place when I’m sure that’s really true.

And a Lovely Monkey with Lollipop Paws

2009-05-18T19:51:00.006-04:00

I wish I could lay claim to inventing that title. I normally scroll through my junk mail before deleting it, just to make sure nothing important gets trashed. Often some of the spam titles are catching, but this one gave me the belly laugh that I needed at the end of a long day of hard labor:

"mylhyn_lovendino: And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws‎ - The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg -Where the early pumpkins blow -And your head so large doth …"

I was so tempted to open that email to see what other gems might be in there. But I managed to restrain myself, just in case giant trojans (no not the condoms) got released and inserted into the nether corners of my laptop.

I'm off to bed now, to dream of lovely monkeys with lollipop paws.

More Perks at the New Place

2009-05-06T17:37:00.007-04:00

There's a new furnace:

And there's even a lawnmower:

To mow the grass:

I know I have it good, no, better than good.
I have it darnfreakintastic.

Moving day is a week from Friday.

Notes on becoming a landlubber

2009-05-04T19:44:00.004-04:00

How did this happen? How did I, the person who spent the last 20+ years saying that I would sail until I someday sailed off the edge of the world, hopefully when I was so old and gray I could barely handle the boat, how did I go from that to deciding to go live in the woods?

Is this a permanent illness? Or is there a cure? Do I want to be cured?

I had always viewed landlubbers as, well, somewhat lacking. And, dare I even say it, possibly even slightly retarded. No offense meant to those of you I know and love, and even those of you I don’t. But I failed to see that given a choice, how could anyone stand to live in a house? Houses, for the most part, barring earthquakes, landslides and termites, just sat there. They didn’t carry you to far away lands. If you wanted to go somewhere else, instead of merely raising an anchor and sailing off, taking along everything you owned, you had to pack. What a silly thing, trying hard not to forget anything vitally important, like your Viagra. Although if you were going to Mexico, ‘hay no problemo, tengo aqui’, on every street corner of every village. That and valium. The magic ‘v’s…

I had visited people who lived in houses, and while unlimited hot water, heck, even running water, period, could be a real novelty, was it worth the price? Was it that great to spend each and every day in the same place, watching the same cars come and go at the same time every day, listening to the same screaming drunken fights, or having one, every weekend? Where was the thrill in that, when you could be out in 30 foot seas getting your butt and your boat royally kicked by mother nature?

What was wrong with everybody? Damn landlubbers.

And now here I am, one of you. Waking up looking at the same squirrel in the same tree every morning.

???

Tear it up

2009-05-03T20:30:00.005-04:00

Has your lovely cruising sailboat gone from this:

To this:

Did your interior morph from this clean, comfy home:

Into the dumpster from hell like this?

Is your family now sheltering in a hotel, threatening to hire a hit man if you don’t put it all back together ASAP? At night, are you having trouble sleeping in a pile of nuts and bolts? Can’t find your clean underwear in any of the sailbags piled in the head?

Never fear, this is what the sailing life is all about. Days, weeks, months of upheaval, all for a few short weeks of getting the crap kicked out of you in squalls one after the other, giving you the opportunity to see what projects you forgot to do when stuff breaks while you’re cruising in a country that your government does not approve of.

Is there anything else in life worth doing besides messing around in a torn apart boat, putting it all back together for the challenges that come next?

I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.
Unless it's becoming a landlubber and gardening.
Ain’t life funny?

AP: Pakistani leader: Bin Laden 'may be dead' — or not

2009-04-27T20:00:00.003-04:00

I don't think I can get any funnier than that headline.

The new place

2009-04-26T18:26:00.011-04:00

Has a dock for my boat:

And although it's far off the road, I do still have neighbors. These built their own home from scratch:

They're very quiet. It's a little creepy that we so rarely see them, so it won't be a surprise to see their names splashed all over the headlines, related to some heinous crime.

These neighbors we could do without. They are loud, and always complaining:

But at least they shut up at night, unlike these party animals who are rude enough to come look in the windows after dark, freaking out the cat:

*I stole this shot, 'cause I don't have the patience or the photographic equipment nor the proper bug repellent to sit outside in the dark trying to get a shot of my own.

What's in a name?

2009-04-26T07:00:00.004-04:00

It’s because of the name, isn’t it? Because when we hear ‘swine’, we think, yuck, filthy pigs.

36,000 people in the US alone die from flu every year, which works out to about 100 people a day, IN THE U.S. ALONE, dying from the flu. That’s your common, boring, garden variety flu.

774 died from SARS, the last media event, WORLDWIDE, in a year. Only about 8,000 got sick from it. Worldwide. Your odds of winning the lottery were way better than getting SARS.

People, relax. The swine flu is another media circus, just as was SARS. I know heaps of you out there may be running around screaming ohmygodweregonnadie! No, you're not. Wake up. IT'S THE FLU. Any other well-known flu will kill you the same, but only if you’re already in the risk category for dying from it. Otherwise, you’ll probably miss a few days work and feel like you have, well, the flu.

Yeah, yeah, I know it's a strain never seen before, yadda yadda yadda. That happens all the time too. IT'S STILL JUST THE FLU. Years ago, while living in Hawaii, I got something dubbed the 'Asian flu.' (Such a name wouldn’t be allowed in this day and age-too racist-even though that’s where this strain had originated, in Asia). That, knock on my wooden head, has so far been the only time I’ve ever had the flu, and has also been the sickest I’ve ever been in my life. Did I catch it because it was so serious? Possibly. Or maybe I caught it because I was working nights, partying on the beach till dawn, and then spending my days swimming, scuba diving, sailing. Sleeping was not on my list of things to do. (Ah, the gifts of youth). Did I die? No. Did the world go crazy and panic? No. Did Hawaii get shut down, quarantined? No. Few outside Hawaii got it, except of course for those who dragged it off to their homelands and shared, which is how it got to Hawaii in the first place. No big deal; it was simply a newer version of an old product, rather like Window Vista replacing XP. It sucked, but we survived.

When you’re reading the spectacular headlines, and feeling the urge to take to the bomb shelter, keep in mind that so far, 11 people WORLDWIDE, have died of this strain of flu. With chances being good that yesterday, 100 more in this country alone probably crapped out from all the other strains of flu.

Get some perspective, and go take your vitamin C.

moving day

2009-04-25T22:13:00.010-04:00

As much as I love this cottage where I currently reside, it is only a winter rental, and by gum, I do believe that winter may actually be over. Although being New England, just 'cause it's gonna be 83 tomorrow, doesn't mean it won't snow next week.

Unless I want to pay per week what I pay per month to stay here, it's time to move on. And I have found the perfect place to suit my budget. It's a tin shack in the woods, half a mile off the road, seven miles from my favorite shipyard.

This here's my new bathroom:

There's even a garage,

for my wheels:

What more can a person ask from life? I know just how lucky I am.

2009-04-24T20:53:00.004-04:00

Well you have to admit it's not something that you see everyday, unless you live in South America or wherever the heck these tortoises live.

No comment on the frog. Kiss it and see what happens...

Just remember that the last lips on it were those of a canine who just finished consuming a dead mouse...

Sorry for not being around much lately, but it's SPRING!!!

Time to stop hibernating and go roll around in the green green grass.