Gift Wrapping for Idiots

Wrap It Up!

Last week in Dan’s Papers was a very nice article suggesting how to create a wrapping zone in your home for gift wrapping.

First, find an area, it could be a room or a corner, that you can designate as your Wrapping Zone. I found a perfect spot. I cleared away the clutter and began getting organized.
“Mom, what are you doing with all my stuff?’
“I need this space, Jake, for wrapping Christmas presents.”
“But this is my study area. I need the laptop and my school stuff. Don’t you want me to get good grades for college?” he asked - like I’m gonna give up my Wrapping Zone for that...
“You know I’m really sick of this, ‘my children are my life crap’. You need to understand my needs. My gift wrapping skills are horrific. Gifts from me look like they were wrapped by KoKo the Gorilla. You’ll be leaving home next year, but I’ll still have to wrap gifts - ever think of that?”
“Oh, I see Mom, improving your gift wrapping skills so you can impress people with fancy paper and fluffy bows is more important than my educational needs?”
“I’m glad you understand, son.”
“No, Mom! I was kidding! How can you be so shallow?”
“Listen, all my friends bring beautifully wrapped gifts to all our social occasions. The paper is folded right, the bows match and a good wrap job increases the perceived value of a cheap gift by 32%.”
“Is that what you’re about now, Mom? Impressing people? When did you become a Martha Stewart wannabe?”
“I was born a Martha Stewart wannabe. I’ve lived my life looking like the top graduate of the Helen Keller School of Home Decorating. Tasteful gift wrapping is my first step on the long road of rehabilitation from ludicrous to lovely.”
“If I give up my space, is there a stop somewhere on this road where you stop buying everything that’s red? We have a red couch, red dishes, red bath towels, everything's red Mom. Are you going to buy anything in Martha Stewart colors? You know, those soothing muted tones....”
“Yes, there is a stop for that, Jake. It’s a little further down the road.”
“How far?”
“Somewhere around your thirtieth birthday I think.”
“Forget it. I’m keeping my study space.”

I had no choice but to adapt and overcome.
“Where are you going with the all the wrapping stuff, Mom?”
“I’m taking over the back seat of the car for wrapping.”
“Sounds good. What’s the lunch box and flashlight for?”
“Because I’m gonna be out there all day and all night, Jake. “
“It won’t work, Mom, I don’t feel guilty.”
“Do me a favor, son, keep an eye on the weather report. If I’m out there in the freezing cold too long, come and get me.”
“I’ll bring you a blanket and I still won’t feel guilty.”
“And bring some hot water in case the scissors freeze to my hands.”
“Creative, but it’s still not working.”
“Be sure to feed the cats, answer the phone and if it’s your grandmother, you have to talk to her for as long as she wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll bring you the phone, it’s cordless.”
“I’m really not trying to guilt trip you, son. I don’t expect anything for birthing your nine pound self. I don’t mind that the doctor had to use a crowbar. I don’t mind the years of watching mind numbing Disney videos followed by your Godzilla obsession. I don’t mind putting your needs ahead of mine everyday of my life until just now when I wanted a chance at wrapping a pretty present.”
“I’m glad you don’t mind, Mom, cause I don’t mind years of listening to you nearly sing on key, listening to you whine and yammer that I never talk to you, cutting my hair to save money, enduring your ability to get lost in a parking lot, watching you screw up phone numbers and check books constantly because of your dyslexia, oh, and you never got me a dog.”
“Geeeeezzzz...you are good at guilt tripping, Jake... I feel just terrible.....”
“I learned from the best. Close the door on your way out, Mom.”

When Christmas Shopping really meant something....

Flying Fingers vs. Frozen Feet

Well, it’s official, I did all of my holiday shopping by internet this year and everything is being gift wrapped and sent straight from the source along with a printed gift card from me limited to 100 characters.

It’s wonderfully convenient to shop by internet. At the same time, I recognize the end of a era for me and one that my kids will never know... the Christmas (and Hanukah, relax...) shopping days at a big mall.

I recall when I was young, listening to my mother, grandmother and aunt coordinate what day were we going shopping. Next, came the car selection. My aunt had the most reliable car, my grandmother had the one with the biggest trunk and my mother had the one with the best heater. Biggest trunk usually won out. We all brought blankets and piled into my grandmother’s old Buick. The heater had broken years earlier and my grandfather, who courted my grandmother on a horse drawn buckboard, saw a car heater as an unnecessary luxury. The back seat of the Buick was huge and my mother and aunt discussed building a small fire there for warmth. But the idea was vetoed because the ring of stones would surely shift while Grammie drove. So we toughed it out.

The goal was to get there early in the morning, if you could hear the mall music from your parking spot, you did well. But my aunt was (and is) notoriously late, so we always parked within sight of the mall. In that day, women never left the house in slacks, we were all in dresses. As a kid I got to wear leggings under my skirt, but my Mom, Aunt and Gram had to endure the cold with only nylons to keep their legs warm. Gram had a sealskin coat, but she was still frozen by the time we got to the front door of the nearest store.

The mall music blared with seasonal standards, we, and everyone around us, would softly sing along. It was crowded. Our coats were now a heavy encumbrance. We waded through people who were wading through us. We shopped for hours and piled our cart high. We waited in long, long lines for checkout. Everyone in line struggled to maintain a good attitude despite tired feet and crying kids.

After the shopping we schlepped all our big, colorful, bags to any place in the mall where we could sit and have hot chocolate, a final warm-up before we braved the cold again. My Mom, Gram and Aunt would try to remember exactly where we had entered the mall and try to figure out if there was an exit closer to the car. Global warming was nowhere in sight then. Winter was freezing cold everyday from mid November till March and that was that. The post-shopping walk, tired and package laden, was a real killer with icy winds whipping up your skirt, like getting goosed with freezing fingers. It was not unusual for my Grandmother to carry a flask of Baileys and add a shot to everyone’s hot chocolate (except mine, I was still under 13) as a bracer to the cold. Today, that would be outrageous, but it was not an issue at all when I was young. People had a shot to warm them up. They didn’t get drunk and they weren’t alcoholics. It was even the custom on our street to leave a shot in the mailbox on Christmas Eve for our mailman, Mr. Brady. Poor Mr. Brady. He was probably crocked by the time he got home, but I guarantee he wasn’t cold...

After we got home and hid everything in Grammies attic. My grandfather, who liked to cook, would have some hearty soup and Irish soda bread ready for us. He made hot buttered rum and smell of it was sweet and comforting. Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole records were stacked and playing on the stereo while we ate hot soup and reveled in our gift choices.

My grandfather grilled my grandmother on how much she had spent. Grammie was able to show him the sale prices marked in red on each tag. My aunt and I used different red pens to carefully mark down all those tags on the ride home... I knew I was growing up when I was trusted to maintain a poker face when Pop looked at the price tags.

Holiday shopping together is a bonding event for women. Like men who hunt together. There is something about braving overwhelming odds and surviving that unites people.

Here’s to all our Moms with frozen legs and feet, bad mall music, and hot chocolate with Baileys!

Sounds of the Season...

Things you hear at Christmas time...


“WHERE ARE THE DECORATIONS?”

“We had Christmas with your family last year, this year is my families turn.”

“Why are toys so expensive? I never got this much!”

“Why should I spend $80 for a toy? They’re just gonna climb in the box and play in it all day.”

“I just can’t send cards to everyone anymore. Between the cards and stamps, sheesh...I’m just gonna send to family and our closest friends.”

“Why do they always put the gorgeous paper that I want next to the only blah paper that I can afford?”

“We’ve got to clean this house...and you’re all helping! STOP! Don’t run for that door! Get back here you cowards! Get back in here all of you! George! Get out of the car! You get those kids back in here!”

“Hi Mom, it’s me. The coast is clear. I asked for help cleaning the house, George and the kids disappeared...seventeen seconds...I think it’s a new record. You and Dad can bring over the presents now. I got wrapping and bows, can you bring tape?”

“No, there is no acceptable Rap version of White Christmas. Put down the Bing Crosby record and move away from the stereo...”

“Who erased the Charlie Brown Christmas from the Tivo? It’s not stupid. It’s traditional. That’s right, you watched it when you were two and you’ll watch it again when I’m ready and you’ll like it.... Because it puts Mom and me in the Christmas spirit, that’s why. Fifteen is not too old to watch it, neither is fifty. ”

“Brad, since your car can find the liquor store with or without you driving, will you get me some rum on your next trip? Huh? For rum balls and fruitcake. Okay, then get two bottles. No, we’re not going to drink a bottle of Captain Morgan. We’re not playing pirate and slave girl on Christmas Eve. No, I don’t care if you put a bow on it, the answer is no..... I know, but that was when we were young and childless. If we do that in front of the fireplace now we’ll scare off the reindeer and your back will be out for a week.”

“Regifting is only for those who can keep track of who gave them the gift in the first place, Karen. You don’t want to give somebody the same gift they gave you. Well, think... who would give you a cookbook? ...Of course Mom. Right, so you can’t give that to her for Christmas. No...I don’t think the black nightgown that Benny gave you would work for Mom. Husbands freak if they see their Mother-in-laws in sexy nightgowns. Better put her on the list of people who are getting new gifts this year.”

“Joe, tell your brother to stop teaching the kids to stuff minimarshmellows up their nose. Why? Because he’s YOUR brother! My family doesn’t do that...we should go to my Mothers this year.”

“Because it’s an Island tradition to go to the tree lighting....it’s not lame... when you’re grown, you’ll remember it fondly. Well, there’s a few people who sing in tune, but that’s not the point. The point is that everyone sings. You won’t be embarrassed. Just sing out. The angels will rearrange the notes on the way up. By the time the carol reaches heaven, it’ll be beautiful. Yes. I do have an answer for everything. Now put on your coat and get in the car. You can get a head start on complaining about the cold.”

007 License to Kill Okay, what is 006 then?

The new Bond movie has a new, very hunky Bond and the benefit of special effects. I’m kinda glad. I know Bond is the quintessential misogynist, egocentric, irascible bad boy with a good heart. If he were an actual person in real life, his inability to emotionally connect, commit, or even reliably participate in your life would make you cut the brake lines on his speedy car yourself. Still, there’s a strange existential appeal to a person who lives by their rules and never gets caught. I think that’s why men and women love Bond. For men, it’s the guy they wish they could be. For the women, it’s the one we can’t tame, but it sure is fun to try.

But what about the other “double o’s”? What levels come before 007? Do you have to go through each level like getting a Black Belt?

001 - License to Nag: 001 allows you to nag in any fashion you can create. You might ask the same question over and over in different forms. There’s so many ways to nag, it only takes a little imagination. Nagging allows you to follow people through the house restating your opinions over and over until they capitulate. It takes focus and perseverance to wear the enemy down. In time, they will do anything you ask if you just shut up! Then, they are putty in your hands.

002 - License to Yell Real Loud: 002 seems to work better for men than women. Men have that nice deep voice that can be heard through slammed bathroom doors. A loud yeller can be very intimidating. It makes the victim think they might go over the deep end at any time.

003 - License to Silence: More intimidating than yelling, the silent treatment. As a 003, you can refuse to speak to people for days while giving them hateful looks. Very effective. If you don’t talk, they don’t know what you’re thinking... are you planning to make cookies or torch the house?

004 - License to Smack: This is the first level where you get to hit people. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as a stinging slap. As a 004, you can administer one head twisting smack, or smack back and forth till you see teeth fly, it’s really up to you. What a pleasure to slap people who really need it; like people who cut lines, people who are holding up the drive up banking line; shoppers who are still deciding at the checkout, which color blouse they want. You perform a real public service when you give this person a wake up smack.

005- License to Beat Senseless: The 005 level allows you to beat senseless anyone who is assigned to you for a beating or anyone you see who deserves one. When you see a Porsche park in a Handicapped space and an able bodied male pops out, you can beat him till he IS disabled enough to qualify for the space. When you get your order from a fast-food drive through and the order is wrong, if you go in and they argue with you, as a 005, you can beat them with their french fries basket until they remake your entire order and give it to you for free. Many people choose to stop at the 005 level because they get all the advantages of the 007 level in terms of coercing people, without having to qualify with all those weapons. What's the real advantage of being able to assemble a Baretta handgun, in the dark and underwater and having to kill the person, when a simple beating to within an inch of their life, will get the point across without having to stop what your doing for body disposal? Leave them alive so they can crawl away....

006 License to be Passive Aggressive: Far more powerful than nagging, being silent, smacking or beating people is being passive aggressive. Pouring bleach on someone’s clothes, slashing tires, leaving the seat up, erasing messages...all done anonymously of course. What better way to drive anyone nuts than to act out and not give the other person a clue about what they’ve done to irritate you, or an opportunity to work it out? When they blame other people for the action, you can foment their anger with encouraging gossip. Then sit back and enjoy the satisfaction of them decking an innocent party.

007 License to Kill. Everyone thinks this is the big deal level. But it’s really reserved for those who washed out of 006....

The New Old Fashioned Thanksgiving!

Kennebec Journal, Kennebec, ME 11/11/06
4 p.m., a Wilson Pond Road caller reported his mother’s neighbor, who he has a farm property line dispute with, was standing on his lawn with a rifle in his arms, making turkey noises.

“Joe! What are you doing on the lawn with a gun?”

“Just once Mary, I want to have the whole Thanksgiving experience. I want to hunt my own turkey, kill it myself, dress it and cook it. What’s the benefit of living in the country if you can’t have an authentic Thanksgiving once in awhile?”

“I don’t think sitting in a lawn chair with a gun and calling turkeys over from the neighbor’s farm qualifies as a hunting experience. And what do you mean, dress the turkey?”

“Dressing the meat... cut off the head, gut it, pull out the feathers, you know...”

“No, I don’t know and I’m not doing that when I can buy a Butterball at Fred’s Market.”

“It’s all part of the frontier experience, Mary, geez, have a little adventure. I make the kill, bring home the beast and you dress it. Division of labor.”

“If you insist on doing this, you dress it. I’ll cook it, but that’s it.”

“Right. You'll be too busy digging up potatoes and yams for the feast.”

“What potatoes and yams? We don’t have a garden.”

“And turnips. I love turnips.”

“How much of the Discovery Channel have you been watching, Joe? Where are all these crazy ideas coming from?”

“A man has to test himself. He has to know how to survive in the wild, Mary.”

“You wanna test yourself? You wanna survive in the wild? Get in the car, Joe.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s Wednesday morning, Joe. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I’ll show you danger that will make your heart race, thrills that will chill you to the bone, and endurance tests the likes of which you cannot imagine.”
(one half hour later, the parking lot of Fred’s Market)

“Joe...run... grab that last cart! Push that woman down if you have to!”

“I got it!”

“Run for the door, Joe!”

“Oh my gosh, Mary.. I drowning in a sea of people, where are you?”

“I’m here darling! Reach up, grab my hand! Pull me in!”

“Got cha!”

“Push the cart, Joe! Push through the throngs of people to the fresh turkey bins!”

“Hooray, we made it!”

“Reach in the bin, Joe, grab anything you can hold onto and yank it out. Once it’s in the cart, it’s ours!”

“I got one!”

“Onto the stuffing and cranberry sauce, follow me, Joe!”

“I don’t know if I can make it, Mary! You go on without me..”

“No, Joe! We’re in this together. All the way to the checkout line and beyond to the parking lot! Come on, me bucko!”

“Mary, oh Mary....I had no idea. I never appreciated you like I should have. I just want you to know that you’re the best wife....”

“No time for that now, Joe! We’ve got to get to the stuffing and the cranberry sauce. The potatoes are on the way to the Pumpkin pies. We can do it Joe, We can make it if we work together.”

“Not the Pumpkin pies, Mary. We’ll never make it to the Bakery section. Let’s be thankful for what we have and go for the checkout.”

“Chickening out on me Joe? Haven’t got the guts? Where’s the man I married? The man for faces turkeys alone in his yard armed only with a rifle and a lawn chair? Where’s that man?”

“He’s right here baby... with you all the way. Now where’s that Bakery?”

“That way Joe, see the sign?”

“I see it, sweet cheeks. You just get behind me and grab my belt.”

“Oh....Joe....”

“We’re here, Mary, reach out and grab the pies!”

“I got ‘em, Joe! I got two! Head for the checkout!”

“My heart is pounding, Mary. I feel so alive! It’s the thrill of the hunt. I knew I was born to it.”

“Now comes the hard part, Joe. We’re in line. We must survive for two hours while guarding everything in the basket. We can trade with the others for things we missed. I’ll throw my body over the basket, Joe. Watch my back.”

“I got you covered, darlin’, I brought my gun.”

“Oh Joe, you were right. There’s nothing like the thrill of the hunt together!”

Weight ...Wait a Minute...

“Judge ye not...”

If you’re thin, don’t bother reading this column, just keep turning the pages till you hit some wine tasting section because you’re not going to understand any of this. Today’s column is just for those of us who battle the bulge.

Okay, gang, here we are again. Facing the holidaze. We just spent a lot of money at IGA to give away candy and get the same candy back. How dumb are we?

Now, what to do with the candy? We can’t throw it out because that would be wasteful. But if we keep it, it will call to us all day ....”Stop vacuuming... come to me.. come to me.. .”. I can hear a Snickers bar call me through six feet of concrete. I mean, it’s just a minibar... three Weight Watcher points. How bad could it be? We begin to rationalize... “I could eat five minibars and still have enough points for a skinless chicken breast and a huge salad”.

Oscar Wilde said, “The best way to dissipate temptation is to give into it.” That logic works perfectly this time of year. My trick is to limit the temptation. Throw out the second tier candy now. We all know the first tier is all the chocolate candies, then there’s the second tier stuff, Sweet Tarts, DumDums, and such. We only eat that because we’re out of the other. So, toss out the second tier stuff as soon as you can. The first tier candies only last a week at most. That leaves two weeks of sensible eating before Thanksgiving strikes. If you don’t throw out the second tier candies now, the candy will last till Thanksgiving.

Do your best till Thanksgiving and then just relax and enjoy the day. Try to eat your Thanksgiving dinner with other heavy people instead of family members. That way you can eat in peace without your family monitoring every morsel you put on your plate. What kills the joy of a feast faster than a relative pointing out that you’d save 16 calories with butter sprinkles instead of butter? And don’t you love the way they say it - like you didn’t know that? It always puts us on the defensive, which moves them into attack mode. They launch into a lecture of whatever they did for four whole days that allowed them to shake off five pounds. Then they say the stupidest thing, “You know, five pounds to me is like fifty pounds to you.” That’s like equating a stolen kiss to a rape. Thin people are as cruel as they are clueless. We know the difference between five and fifty pounds, two pant sizes. Fat does not mean stupid.

Another plus of dining with other heavy people is you can have dessert without feeling eyes on you from all corners of the room. If you dine with relatives, you can only have one sliced of pie. It has to be pumpkin, because everyone knows that’s the lowest calorie pie and therefore you are allowed one criticism-free slice. Then you get to watch everyone else enjoy the pecan pie, fruitcake and rum balls. I have an Aunt I haven’t seen in years. I avoid her because she feels perfectly comfortable demanding to know my clothing sizes. She, who has always been thin, eats more in one sitting than I do in a whole day. That seems to be the case with most thin people. Just once, I’d love to sit on one of them and squash them, as a kind of perverted poetic justice. Well... it’s the thought that counts...

Do your level best between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then enjoy Christmas dinner guilt free if you can. Thin people usually give us a break on Christmas day, but only if they get to say, “Don’t worry, you can start dieting after New Year’s.” So we take the one day pass and surprisingly to those who watch us, we don’t really eat more than anyone else does. It just stays on us longer and piles up. My goal isn’t to lose any weight over the holidaze, my goal is not to gain more. If I can just hold the line till January, I will consider it a successful holiday.

So, my dear fellow weebles (weebles wobble but we don’t fall down), do your best and don’t feel bad if you have to body slam a skinny person now and then. It provides us an emotional release and might keep us from emotional eating - which is what the skinnies warn us against anyway...

Man Laws

Man Laws for the Holidaze

There’s a funny commercial series running now featuring Burt Reynolds and other men sitting around a table creating “Manlaws”, like “no fruit slices in beer”. I write a lot of columns from the women’s perspective, but I know men have a perspective too, however incorrect and misguided. I consulted with a few of my brothers and got their opinions on some holiday issues that surface this time of year. I have removed the obscenities, corrected the grammar and I’ll share these Holiday Manlaws with you now.

If you want me to carve the pumpkin, you can’t supervise or criticize. Also, two teeth are the limit I will cut out for a pumpkin’s smile, live with it.

Don’t show me a picture from a magazine expect me to be able to carve a designer pumpkin that looks like the picture. I cannot carve the Mona Lisa into a pumpkin!

Don’t tell me to take the kids Trick or Treating and then tell me not to let them eat too much candy! They are collecting a sack of candy! They will have a Hersey’s hangover by morning.

Just get accept it now - mittens WILL be lost tonight! I can’t keep track of two goblins, a ballerina, a zombie, and eight mittens all at the same time!

It wasn’t my idea to schedule a football game on Thanksgiving Day. You’re right, it breaks up family time. You’re right it’s horrible background noise for those conversing in the other room after dinner. You’re right I should have enough interest in my family to turn off the TV. You’re right about everything, okay? Now can I watch the game?

They say, everyone is entitled to fifteen minutes of fame. Let me have fifteen minutes as Head of the Household. Let me stand at the head of the table and carve the turkey without one word from anyone as to how it should be done, how they do it, how it was done by their father. It’s a dead bird and I have a large knife, I think I can take him.

Don’t make low calorie gravy or anything suggested by the American Heart Assc as Thanksgiving substitutes. There are no calories or cholesterol in a Thanksgiving dinner.

Give me three days to digest my Thanksgiving meal before you start telling me your Christmas decoration plans and how easy it will be for me to add a new wing by Christmas.

If you buy a Christmas decoration that has to be mounted on the roof, you mount it. Don’t buy anything that can’t be mounted from halfway up a ladder or lower.

If you want me to untangle Christmas lights, you and the children must leave the house. Untangling lights is one of the oldest forms of torture dating back to the Middle Ages. It comes in right after a root canal with no anesthetic and terrible rash in a place that can’t be reached. I am not responsible for anything I say or throw while untangling Christmas lights.

Clear an area for a tree and practice the art of silence. A tree will appear in the designated spot soon. As soon as I have the money, time, energy and rope. Nagging clogs up the area of a man’s brain where the To Do list is.

I don’t care how long it takes. The tree has to be plum. If it’s not straight, it will drive me crazy. You can’t obscure it with bulbs and tinsel... I’ll know it’s not straight. Just get behind the tree and turn it the way I tell you till I’m happy. For all the stuff you do that drives me nuts, you owe me this....

Please don’t buy any toys that need assembly. If you buy a toy that needs assembly, look at the directions. If you can’t read Japanese, neither can I. If you bring home a wagon that needs assembly and the directions are in Japanese, but you got it anyway because it was ‘on sale’ and you assumed I can figure it out myself, stop and pick up a bottle of Henessey’s as well. I may or may not be able to put the wagon together, but at least I’ll pass out before I try to kill you.

I can’t say it, because I know how much you love being a martyr, but I do like it when you decorate the house. I do love all the little things you do for the holidaze, but you didn’t hear it from me.

Pregnant Again ? ? ?

Pregnant again?????

You really have to stop drinking... I recall the very first time I told my ex I was pregnant. He was thrilled. Then I told him I was pretty sure he was the father and he was even happier! (Hey, I'm a busy woman, okay?)

Holy Moly! Well, you just jumped off the career track for the next ten years. Welcome to Mommyland...here are the guidelines:

1. Husband has to sleep in the barn until the vasectomy heals.

2. If he insists you have a natural, drug free childbirth, agree. But only on the condition that he has a natural, drug free vascetomy...

3. The last book you read, is the last book you will read for years to come.

4. You will notice stollers and pregnant women everywhere.

5. With 2 babies in diapers, you will not know who you are, where you are, or what day it is till 2020. You will not remember when you last changed your underwear or when you last brushed your teeth.

6. Your life, as an educated, coherent, intelligent adult with something to contribute to the world is over. You will develop that secret lobe of the female brain, the Mommy lobe. You will know all the words to Wee Sing videos and all the songs to every Disney movie. Your exercise will be limited to fetching items for the kids, running to save things from being thrown in the toilet and speed packing diaper bags.

7. Pick a Soap Opera. Your days will be so repetitious that you will rely on a soap opera to help you keep track of what day it is, provide adult conversation sounds in the background so you don't lose your ability to converse and to remind you that sometime in the future, you will be able to wear clean clothes again, just like they do on TV.

8. Remember that most parenting books were written by men, who were never in the trenches! I refuse to listen to their advice because they have never experienced the unrelenting aggravation and fatigue that Mom's live with.

Truth be told, if those kids are alive when your hubby walks through the door at 5PM, you have done your job!
I was on my hands and knees at 6AM one morning fishing a Happy Meals toy out of the toilet when my daughter squeezed a big puff of baby powder in my face causing me to sneeze so hard I shot out my tampon and released a full bladder. Unless you have lived in the trenches of motherhood, don't think for one minute you can do this job better than me....

Parenting books make good wedges to level tippy table, good coffee coasters or kitchen trivits. If you want to use a parenting book for parenting purposes, attach it to a ruler first to create a nice flat paddle.

9. Welcome to fast food. You will have every fast food menu and prices memorized in no time.

10. Get ready to hear, "Oh, you're not working, you're just home with kids." over and over. Ask that person to babysit for you someday. Stay away from the house until they offer you enough money to come back.

11. But seriously.....my advice

Buy the Dr Spock baby book; a good warm humidifier/mister; stock up on nice second hand kideos, books, toys; stock up on pediatric tylenol, cold formulas, and vick vapor rub; buy a crockpot, a large lasagna pan, a compact food processor and LEAVE IT ON THE COUNTER, and lots of gallon size ziplock bags.

You will refer to the Dr Spock book a hundred times and it will save lots of worry. A crup cough comes suddenly and usually at night. Have a humidifier ready. Vicks vapor rub opens stuffy noses and tight chests quick and easy. Have tylenol ready for an earache.

Learn crockpot and casserole cooking. When you cook, make lots, always freeze some in gallon size ziplock bags and you'll always have something you can pull out of the freezer for dinner.

The food processor can turn leftovers into baby food, which can also be frozen....You don't need to pay 1.29 for a jar of creamed corn... you can puree it yourself in the processor for half price. Once you get in the habit of using a food processor, you will cut your food prep time and food costs in half.

Ziplock bags hold sets of toys, pack easily in a diaper bag.

To sterilize little toys that have been in little mouths, I used to put them in a ziplock with a 1/2 cup of bleach, fill with water, let sit a few minutes, drain, rinse off toys. Ziplock hold snacks, books & toys, 1 travel size powder and one clean diaper, or 2 dirty diapers.

Put stuffed animals in ziplocks, freeze for 24 hours to kill imbedded dust mites. (Do I know this mom stuff or what?)

Here is my famous, NO NEED TO PRECOOK the noodles lasagna recipe: Men love this.

Sally's Lasagna Time: 20 minutes prep to oven

1 box lasagna noodles
1 large tub ricotta
1 lb mozarella solid ball is far cheaper
4 oz parmesan cheese, solid block is far cheaper
4 oz romano cheesse, solid block to save $
1 lb fresh spinach (must be fresh)
1 lb whole mushrooms (must be fresh)
1 lb Italian sausage (optional)
1 large jar your favorite spagetti sauce
garlic powder

Use your food processor to slice mushrooms, set aside. Use processor to grate all dry cheeses together. (You will be amazed that this takes only seconds). Mix dry cheeses with ricotta in large bowl. Rinse spinach, cut off stems with scissors (because scissors are faster that a knife). Cut up and fry sausage. You're all done with prep.

Grease pan, put in thin layer of water, just enough to cover the bottom.

Arranges in layers:
1. Dry noodles down first
2. spinach and mushrooms using half your quantity
3, generous sprinkle garlic powder, some sausage pieces
4. cheese mixture, by the spoonful, using half your quantity
5. Pour sauce over all, using half your jar.
Repeat 1 thru 5.

Bake at 350 degrees UNCOVERED, one hour.

Let stand 1/2 hour after it comes out of oven.

The juices from the veggies get absorbed by the noodles. Letting it stand 1/2 hour after you pull it from the oven, lets the juices 'set' inside the noodles and you will never have hard chewwy lasagna noodles.

This is all the good advice I can give you. Find a friend to come and visit you when you have forgotten all words longer than two syllables. A true friend, so that you don't have to clean the house or find a clean shirt, just rake a path and clean a spot on the table.

your pal, Sal

Football Season & Homicide

Football Season and the Art of Home Management

Football season has officially begun. Thousands of men across the country have stood in front of their significant others and said, “Football season has begun. Before we get near the Playoffs, is there anything you want moved, discussed or painted? Speak now, or shut up till after the Superbowl.”

Women lament being football widows, yet, it can work to our great advantage if we simply abandon being sensitive and caring. Those emotions just hold us back anyway.

Things to do while he watches the game.

1. Get a new hairdo. Anything you want. He’s not going to notice till mid January 07.
2. Redo the bedroom. New carpet, new bedroom set. He’s sleeping in his lazyboy on the weekends and too tired to notice anything new during the week. By the time he notices the new furniture, it will have some wear on it and you can fall back on our old reliable line, “That’s not new. We’ve always had this. I just moved it / cleaned it / painted it / rearranged it.”
3. I don’t endorse having extramarital affairs, but if you must, do it during football season and end it during the playoffs. It will give him a feeling of relief to hear you say, “Okay, if you’re going to watch the game, I’m going to blah, blah, and blah.” And you can actually say “blah, blah and blah” because after they hear “Okay, if you’re going to watch the game..” the rest is a blur to them. They’re just relieved that you won’t be in the house prattling in the background while the game is on.
4. Experiment with new recipes the YOU like! He’s fine living on nachos and beer for the next four months. Buy that bright red Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer! He won’t see it. He’s just going to and from the fridge.
5. You can redecorate any room and in Spring, when he notices the changes, he won’t say anything because he’s not sure exactly what has changed and if he asks you, “What’s different?” he knows he’ll hear, “I put those curtains up six months ago, and you’re just seeing them now? You never notice anything I do to make this house look nice! I don’t know why I even try, blah, blah, blah....” . Then he feels like a fool. Not because he didn’t notice your improvements, but because he knows better than to open his mouth and admit it.
6. Try to plan your pregnancies so that you’re not due during football season. It’s so hard to drive yourself to the hospital while you’re in labor. It’s so embarrassing when no one visits but your Mom and girlfriends. And then, after the Superbowl, you always have to explain to him where this new baby came from. I have a friend whose was in labor/giving birth DURING the Superbowl. Her husband and father rotated between the delivery room and the visitor’s lounge, updating each other constantly on the respective events which they regarded as equally important.
7. Women who aren’t used to being football widows consistently made a critical mistake that jeopardizes their lives. Never, under any circumstances, ever, not even to announce a tornado about to hit the house, stand in front of the TV during a game and say, “We need to talk...”. He’ll be instantly enraged and not hear anything you say. He’ll agree to anything to get you to move. However, the agreement won’t stick because it was made under duress. Standing in front of the TV during a game is the worst thing you can do in a relationship. The female equivalent would be your husband getting drunk in front of your family at Thanksgiving Dinner and exposing himself to your mother, it’s that bad...
9. I always used football season to covertly change his wardrobe. New socks would creep in and old favorites would disappear. I’d buy my hubby underwear in the correct size. Men think they can wear size 36 for as long as they can stretch the waistband to fit them. Their theory is, they aren’t overweight if they can wear size 36 underwear. One season, my hubby went from size 36 to size 40 underwear... Threadbare flannel shirts evaporated and his flower power jeans from 1968 too. The trick is, not to clean the closet. Just pull out the old stuff and jam in the new things. That way, the new stuff absorbs the old smells and makes the transition easier.

So just remember, football season equals abandonment to a woman in love and control to woman in her right mind.

Mosquito Ace

Is it my imagination, or are there more mosquitoes now than last summer? Despite all my best efforts, I seem to have six bites going at any given time.

Don’t you hate it when you’re in bed, all comfy in that drowsy, just about to fall asleep mode, when all of a sudden you hear the unmistakable high pitched buzz of a mosquito zooming by your ear?

I don’t care how drowsy, comfy, or sanguine you are, nothing will break your reverie faster than knowing that a mosquito is just waiting for you to fall asleep so they can have dinner - and you are the menu. They might start with your arm for an appetizer, moving to your legs for the main course, and top off their repast with your face. I can’t speak for others, but when I hear that zizzy sound, I fling the covers off, flip on the light and the battle is ON!

Mosquitoes have been around far longer than people. If there’s any credence to Carl Yung’s race memory theory, then mosquitoes have millions of years of predatory race memory built into their tiny brains. Whereas, we have only a few hundred thousand years of practice outwitting them, so the advantage is theirs.

Sitting in bed, I wait for one to fly by. They have a slow screwball pattern and yet, when I clap my hands through the air, I miss them. It always surprises me, they aren’t flying that fast, I should be able to catch them in flight, but I never do. And for reasons unknown, a fly swatter, which works great on flies who certainly fly faster than mosquitoes, can’t seem to get them either.

I figured out that their millions of years of experience has given them a sixth sense about things coming at them at a rapid rate of speed. Of course a mosquito being hit by a human hand must equate to us being hit by a building, there’s a good chance we’d see a building coming at us. We have to assume that their visual acuity is at least as great as our own. If I can see a building coming, they can see a hand and that’s why they can get out of the way so fast.

So, since they know what a human hand looks like, I’d have to come up with a new strategy. I had a small white rectangular scarf box about 10 inches long, on my bed one night leaning against the white wall. I’d heard the zizzy sound and was up and on patrol. As I glanced over at the wall, I saw her land up high up in the corner. I knew from experience than she’d fly a little closer and a little closer as she snuck up on me (I am so on their game).

As she got to the point where she was just past arms length and hence still in her safety zone, she landed. Landed because she thought she was safe. Landed so she could stand there on the wall and laugh at me. She was waiting. Waiting and choosing which part of me looked most succulent tonight. Slowly, I wrapped my hand around the box, all the while watching the TV and tracking her in my peripheral vision. The white box was camouflaged against the white wall. A box looks nothing like a hand or a fly swatter. This was an object not familiar to her. People never grab boxes to swat mosquitoes, she wouldn’t know that I could reach into her safety zone with this box, the advantage was mine.....

She lifted up and landed about an inch closer. The tension was incredible...predator versus prey....I saw her rub her front legs together, the way they do when they’ve made their decision and visualized a little landing zone on an exposed piece of your flesh, and BAM! She was all over the wall! Just a red smear with broken black fibers! AHHHH VICTORY IS MINE!

That box stays on my bed now. I’ve killed seventeen mosquitoes on my bedroom wall so far. I know because I’ve left all the smears there. Just like a pilot marking off kills on the side of his plane, I leave the smears and smudges there, in testament to my skill and determination. The smears could serve as a warning, if the newcomers cared to pay attention.

But that’s the problem being a Mosquito Ace, there’s a always another mosquito coming along. One who thinks she faster than me. Another one who just has to try, another one who just has to die....

Shelter Island Cool...

First let me say, my hat is off to the 100,000+ people in Queens who have survived without electricity through this last heat wave for more than six days now, without any sign of mass murder. How easy and tempting it would be to get rid of an annoying person with the full knowledge that you’d probably get off.

“Look, Your Honor, it was 98 degrees, 98% humidity, I was eight months pregnant, they opened the hydrants and he didn’t wanna take the kids outside to cool off and have to watch them. He wanted me to go down four flights, cause the elevator was out, and run after kids. I didn’t even know I could throw a TV, Your Honor...”

Last week I reported that there was an osprey on Ram Island Drive that was always on the pole next to the one with his nest and mate on it and I was worried about him. Well, I’m happy to report I saw both of them in the nest recently. I guess they worked it out. Maybe she got through her PES (pre egg syndrome), maybe they got some counseling, I don’t know, but it’s nice to see a couple trying to work things out. Some couples just belong together. I mean, she could try it with a crow, but they migrate and those mixed marriages between summer and permanent residents just never work.

Keeping track of specific osprey couples is an Islander thing. If you do it, you can come across as a real local, too. Here are a few other suggestions to promote your “I am a cool local” image.

Never admit you have a Shelter Island map in the car. No matter what, you just gave your last one to a tourist, because if you live here, you can’t ever need a map, that’s the law. If you have to ask directions from a longtime local, always pretend to know the reference points they cite.

“...and then you turn left, where the old graveyard used to be, you know where that is, right?”
“Oh sure....”
“You know, they see a ghost with a long flowing dress there sometimes...”
“Oh ... ah, you mean the one with the white dress or blue dress?”
“I didn’t know there was one with a blue dress...”
“Oh ... she covers Tuesdays and Wednesdays, when the white dress ghost has off.”
“I’ve lived here all my life and never heard about the one with the blue dress...who told you that?”
“I think it was a Gibbs.”
“A Gibbs told you that? Well, my family’s been here longer than them. They’re newcomers compared to us.”

Always pretend you know people in the old families. If you’re not sure who they are, the Shelter Island map will show you. Bona fide “Olde Families” have roads named after them. Cartwright Road, Congdon Lane, Clark Lane, etc. al. The Clarks, the Congdons, the Gibbs, the Kilbs, the Klenawicus’ (the Klenawicus’s have the airport), and the other old families are all intermarried. Their family trees resemble a box of tangled Christmas lights. But they have a code that I’ve figured out. Everybody is a ‘cousin’ to everybody else. ‘Cousin’ is used as a generic link. Any family member who is out of favor is referred to as “once removed.” “Twice removed” means there’s a restraining order. “Thrice removed” means they have actually, perish the thought... moved OFF-ISLAND!

All ‘off-island’ family members must be referred to in terms of when they move ‘back on-island’.

“Well, she’s married to a nice fella in California, about seventeen years now. They have four kids. When she moves back on-island, I’ll give her that China set from her Grandmother.”

Cool locals often refer to ‘back on-island’ syndrome, “Islanditis,” I call it. It’s an infection you get that can only be cured when your car is on the ferry heading ‘island side’. Wherever I have lived in world, I kept coming back to visit family and ’the island’. I always knew someday I’d be ‘back on-island’ for good. I know many people like me here. Couldn’t wait to get “off the rock” as a teenager, couldn’t wait to “get back on-island” as a weary adult. My daughter couldn’t wait to get off the rock, either. She’s off on her journey now. It’s just a matter of years. When she moves back on-island, I’ve give her that painting she loves...

The Sports Parents Awards!

SPA's

Last week I attended the Shelter Island Varsity and Junior Varsity Sports Awards. The coaches were terrific and they were careful to say something good about each child. They even gave out MVP and special Coaches Awards. The kids were all acting extremely cool and detached on stage, like they were there just to shut their parents up. I noticed just how frivolous they thought these awards were as they all fell over themselves running up to the podium whenever their names were called...

It occured to me watching these proceedings that we really need to also acknowledge sports parents. So I have invented the SPA. The Sports Parents Award

There should be a "Mileage SPA". This SPA goes to the parent who put the most miles on their vehicle driving any number of children to sports events and practices.

The "All Practices SPA". This SPA is to be awarded to the parent(s) who watched every practice and made every game.

The "Best Face SPA". This SPA goes to the parent who was most able to look totally engrossed in any games they attended.

The "Kudo's SPA". For parents who can create a recording loop in their brains that repeats for the child over and over how great they looked out there and every minute details of every play they were involved in.

The "Grand SPA". This SPA goes to every single grandparent who attended the games of grandchildren and sat on hard benches with arthritic hips and never complained once.

The "Thankless Schlepping SPA". This SPA goes to every parent who schlepped sports equipment anywhere for the team. Often working alone and in the rain, these hearty souls truly warrant our gratitude.

The "Treats SPA". Given to the parent who brought the most treats to share to any event.

The "Cuckoo's Nest SPA". For any parent who, without a gun being held to their head, got on the bus with any team and endured teen and pre-teen stream of consciousness drivel, goofy behavior, horseplay and inane songs sung in four keys simultaneously.

The "Altruistic SPA". For parents who applauded for the other teams kids too.

The "Get a Grip SPA". For parents who actually got upset at referee calls. Not being a sports person myself, I am always amazed at how seriously some people take sports. It's not like the kids are doing cancer research, they're just playing a game, and I hope having fun.

The "Clutch SPA". For any parent who came through in a clutch. Washed a jersey just in time for the game or raced to the store to get shoelaces minutes before they closed, or ran to the store during the game and brought back water for the team. These unsung heroes deserve a SPA too.

The "Graveyard SPA". Awarded to any parent who works night shift and A) made it to any game B) remained conscious through the game.

The "Somebody Stop Me SPA". This award is given exclusively to coaches. These people have families and lives of their own and yet, they volunteer to coach our kids. Why? What drives them to do this? No one knows. Genetic researchers are speculating that they have a defectic self-preservation gene.

A special thank you to all those who coach and help the coach. A good coach should make sure every player has a turn in every game. It sounds small, but it isn't. Kids need acknowledgement and need to know that their contribution, however modest, is wanted. I have clear painful memories of being the last name called when choosing teams for any sport. Only those of us who have had the experience, know how differently our self-esteem may have developed if someone, seeing our lack of confidence, gave us some of theirs.

Playing sports in school is not about winning. It's about building character. Kids learn to be on time, they learn the value of practice. They learn patience. They learn how to help each other. They learn to handle disappointments with grace and victory with modesty. This is the value of sports in school, not the trophy on the mantle, but the trophy of accomplishment in the heart.

Turn ON the !@#%&! AIR CONDITIONER!!!

Ways to Tell It’s Time to Turn on the Air Conditioner

Everyone tries to wait till the last minute to turn on the A/C because it’s more expensive to run than the heater. We struggle to find ways to stay cool till we reach the absolute deadline, which is when homicide is imminent somewhere in the house. So I thought I’d provide a few early warning signs at the beginning of the summer, just so everyone has a clue.

While having breakfast, you notice the icing has slid off your cross bun.

When you cracked the eggs on the side of the frying pan, they dropped in hard boiled.

Your animals have passed out by their water dish.

The water in the goldfish bowl is bubbling, but you don’t have a water filter.

Your normally rambunctious children lie languid on the couch and you can easily roll them out the door.

Your normally languid husband lies comatose on the couch and you can easily remove the remote from his hand.

The rinsed clams on the counter have steamed themselves open.

You can pour the peanut butter out on the bread.

You leave spatula’s on the end tables flanking the couch to help people break the seal that leather makes when it bonds to human flesh.

You help whimpering family members peel their thighs off the leather couch cushions.

You cover your leather couches and chair with bed sheets.

If you run out of bed sheets, you rub cooking oil on your leather furniture so people at least have a chance to slide free.

You watch Christmas movies, or any move that has a lot of snow in it.

It’s 10 AM and all your makeup has slid off your face.

You’ve filled the baby bath with baby powder and you’re just rolling the whole baby through it.

The ice cube you tried to rub across your forehead melted on contact.

You are rationing ice cubes to family members and accepting bribes.

There is a frozen baby’s teething ring in your bra because it cools you down without dripping.

You keep rearranging food in the freezer just for the exposure to cold air.

You husband agrees to telepathic sex.

While talking on the phone, your ear forms a watery suction seal.

Paper money feels damp.

If feeding your family means you have to get near a stove, then they can just starve or forage on their own.

Cigarettes ignite as they are pulled out of the pack.

The personal space between family members has increased to a six foot perimeter so nobodies body heat touches anyone else’s.

You know that turning on the A/C uses energy that increases global warming and you really don’t want to do that, but the globe is so warm in your house right now that unless one of those break away icebergs shows up on your street so you can chip out an ice cave to live in, you are just going to have to turn on the A/C at some point.

Someone in the house finally breaks from the pressure and yells out, “Can we PLEASE turn on the A/C!”, followed by a chorus of agreement, ended when Dad yells, “It’s not that hot, go run some cold water on your face.”

Beer. Beer will save the family. Someone gets Dad a cold brewski, then a second. In that moment after Dad takes the first sip from the second beer, then pauses to look at the bottle - in that second when man and beer regard each other, Mom turns on the A/C. And before you know it, all is right with the world.

Father's Day Gifts

(painting by Sue McDonagh)

Father’s Day

We hear so much about mothers and their importance in our lives, we tend to dismiss the incredible positive influence that a good father or father figure plays in our lives. My stern Irish grandfather was my father figure, along with four uncles, and in spite of the scandals that have come up lately, our parish priest, was a father figure to us too. We attended St Lawrence in Sayville - the old church that burned down. Father Daum was well known to all of us and a visitor in our clan’s homes. I recall with perfect clarity being nine years old, standing in the living room, after a very traumatic event. Father Nuss was there. He gave my mother an envelope from the church and took an additional $20 from his own wallet - that was a lot of money then. He called my grandfather, because my mother was too upset. Grandpop came over and together these two fathers sat in the kitchen and made a plan for us that made all our lives better from that day forward.

Yes, fathers don’t always ask your opinion, they don’t always take your feelings into account, they just won’t allow you to get too far from the well - and would you have it any other way, really? Because when you’re stuck in the muck, Mom will bring you tea and sympathy, but Dad will bring a truck with a winch.

Here’s a list of gifts kids can give Dads everywhere...

A day with no arguing. No voices raised. Play HIS music loud and admit it is better than your (c)rappy music!

A day where you get up and mow the lawn and even do the edging, without being asked, cajoled, or threatened.

A day where the garage gets cleaned and everything gets labeled and put in it’s place.

A day without sarcastic comebacks or profanity. A day of normal, pleasant conversation. I know it will kill you, but he’ll never forget it... Twenty years from now, he’ll be saying, “Remember that day when Johnny talked nice the whole day? Who’d have known he had it in him?”

A day when his vehicle gets cleaned out, washed, hand waxed and detailed.

A day when you don’t do anything to upset your mother.

A day where you barbecue for the family according to HIS standards. Might as well get used to them now, because his standards will be yours sooner than you know....

A day of boating, fishing, or clamming, with the old man. With no arguing and no catching more than he does.

A day where you let him teach you something, without claiming you already know how to do it perfectly - you don’t! It’s hard to comprehend that now, because by age 18 you know more than you will ever know again in your life. As time goes on, you’ll see an alarming increase in the number of things you know nothing about.

A day when the phrases, “That was my fault, I’m sorry” and “Thank you” are spoken spontaneously to all members of the family!

A day where you talk to your paternal grandparents on the phone for as long as they want to talk to you without signaling to other family members to scream, “FIRE!” so you have an excuse to get off the phone.

If your Dad’s religious, go to services with him and don’t look bored. If he plays golf, play with him and believe everything he says. If your eyes see a slice and his eyes do not, believe his eyes. If he sails, go sailing, but don’t tell him what canvas to put up, and after the sail, coil all the ropes without complaint.

You abuse him for 364 days a year and he takes it on the chin. On Father’s Day, just let him have one day where he’s right the whole day! Don’t worry about sacrifing your standards, you can aggravate him twice as much the next day to get caught up.

Raccoon Recon...

Raccoons... what’s next?

Laying in bed being brought into a level of consciousness I don’t usually have to deal with till 7 AM, I opened one eye enough to see that the clock read 1 AM. I could hear the sound of plastic bakery containers being opened in the kitchen. My son was in bed, it wasn’t him. I was in bed, it wasn’t me. The cats can’t open plastic bakery containers because they don’t have opposable claws, so it wasn’t them.

I had no choice, I was going to have to get up and find out who was after my blueberry muffins.

She was small with a gray brindle coat, a lovely ringed tail, and black outlined eyes filled with a pititful expression. I reached for a broom to swish the raccoon out of my kitchen, only to realize, I have an electric broom now and they’re no good for raccoon swishing. I grabbed a spatula and chased her, but she didn’t run. She ambulated slowly to the cat door and left. My two cats only looked up as she passed within inches of them. They didn’t even try to protect me, me the provider of food, treats, toys, gee thanks guys....I locked the cat door so she couldn’t get in again.

I realized she was kinda thin for a raccoon and then it hit me. She was probably a nursing mother who had just gotten the pups to sleep long enough to get out of the den for awhile. I wondered if she used Tylenol to knock them out like I used to do with my pups.

I returned to bed and fell asleep until about an hour later when the sound of cabinets being opened in the kitchen woke me up. Yes, she was back. My muffins weren’t enough I guess.... She tore the window screen to get in. This time I was doing that thing where you’re trying to yell at someone without waking up the rest of the house, that super charged whisper. I told her, “Listen, you, you can’t come in my house and shop! You have to find food outside!” I shushed her out my front door and swatted her bottom with the spatula. I was sure I had handled that dinfinitively.

4 AM......only our children, when they are babies and can’t understand threats, are allowed to wake us up multiple times in the night and still be alive in the morning. I knew it was her moving dishes on the counter.....I went to the kitchen, she stayed on the counter, eating tidbits and just looked up at me. I thought raccoons were supposed to be shy and timid. She was neither. I wasn’t sure if she was brave, too tired to run, or learning disabled. This time I used a spatula and a hand towel to shush her out, like a lion tamer with a whip and chair, I shushed her toward the door and she kept turning around looking at me like, “What? What did I do?”

This time I was going to beat her. I got my pillow, blankie, and water and set up camp in my recliner. I turned on the TV to create light and sound to keep her out. I had the spatula at the ready. My plan worked. She did not return that night....

But after three breaks in my sleep, I was up for the rest of the night. My conscious began to work on me. I started to feel guilty, what if she was starving, what if she didn’t have enough milk, what if this was the only time she was going to get out this week? What if I hurt her when I swatted her? As the time wore on, I felt terrible, exhausted, but terrible.

The next night she was back. At 11 PM I saw her face peering in through the cat door. I took her a bowl of Friskies Seafood Mix dry food. I thought she could carry pieces in her cheeks back to the kids. I soon realized that wasn’t necessary... because she had no trouble dragging the whole bowl in the woods. The kids must have been thrilled, Mom brought home 'take out' !

We’ve named her Rachel. So now I feed three indoor cats, two feral cats, seed for the birds, nuts for 'Al Byneau', our white squirrel, green scraps for the deer and now extra kibble for Rachel.

40% of the grocery budget goes to animal food now. It’s not so bad I guess, unless I have company and they ask for something to eat.

“Sure! What would you like? I have Kal Kan, Friskies -wet or dry, Song Bird Mix, walnuts, squash scraps....what would you like?”

Getting Your Madonna to Lighten Up!

“There’s a million stories in the naked city....”

I went to The Dory, a local bar on Shelter Island, to celebrate my 400th column last week. I had their incredible stuffed clams. Jack Keiffer, the owner, always makes them with clam pieces big enough to actually see. I was knockin’ back Shirley Temples with three cherries like there was no tomorrow - because danger is my middle name....

I love meeting new people. Ed and Dave, were the two new people I met at The Dory that night. They were both very handsome and both too sober to go home with me of their own free will....damn! They are contractors, and as I do with nearly every one I meet, I asked them to tell me a funny story.

Ed related how he had this guy that worked for him once upon a time. I don’t recall the guy’s name so I’ll call him James because I hate the name James, it’s a bad luck name for me. All the James’ I have ever met have been bad luck for me and created havoc in my life. I finally decided a few years ago that God created the name James just for me, as a way to tag and identify men I should avoid. When I meet men named James, I picture them surrounded with orange caution cones, then I get away from them as fast as I can. I don’t know if Ed’s worker was named James, but he might as well have been because he was bad news.

So back to the story. Hard worker, reliable, all was well with James it seemed, until one day. One day James had a minor electrical problem so he called Ed on the chance that Ed had enough electrical knowledge to solve the problem, which it happened he did. James was so thrilled that he made Ed his expert for everything. He called Ed for every problem he had, great and small; electrical, plumbing, computer, women, choosing lotto numbers, everything.

We’ve all known someone like that at least once. Someone who has made us their expert and annoyed us to death with the minutiae of their lives. Killing them is out of the question because they are usually pretty social and someone would actually miss them. It’s impossible to hand them off to anyone else once they’ve latched onto you like a lemora, so that's out. You don’t want to hurt their feelings, but in the end you have to tell them that you have a brain tumor that grows from the sound of their voice, or move out of state in the middle of the night.

Yes, James drove Ed to distraction. But one night was the coup de gras. James had purchased a statue of the Madonna for his mother. The statue was in the yard and James was having trouble getting the Holy Mother to light up, so who did he call? Ed. Ed the all knowing.

“Did you check the wiring, James? Is it frayed anywhere?”

“No, wiring’s good.”

“Are the connections wet? Are the plugs laying in damp grass?”

“Nope. Plugs are above ground. Everything’s dry but she’s still not lighting up.”

“Okay, did you check your fuse box?”

“No.”

“Alright. Go to the fuse box and just to be sure, slowly flip each switch back and forth.”

“Okay, but hang on, I gotta put new batteries in my flashlight.”

“Is the fuse box is in a dark location?”

“No, all the lights are off.”

“All the lights in your house?”

“No, all the lights on the block. I called the power company a little while ago, power should be back on in a few hours.”

I can’t relate the words Ed spoke to James next. But it was a string of profanities that melted the wires. The diatribe ended with Ed telling James never to call him again. Then, right at the end of Ed’s yelling - the Madonna lit up in the yard! Ed told me, “I couldn’t believe it! The guy took it as some kinda sign that I was his mentor for life!”

Never mind the naked city. There’s a million stories right here on the naked island...

Woman Shoots 'Gator in Living Room!

What’s good for the goose is good for the gator...

“Bradenton woman shoots alligator: Tampa Bay's 10 News 5/16/2006
The alligator was only four feet long, but a Bradenton woman says she wasn't taking any chances. When the reptile came into the lanai of her home Saturday and attacked her golden retriever, Candy Frey went and got her gun. After Frey and her daughter managed to push the gator out of the lanai through the dog door, she blasted away at it four times. ..
Frey says the alligator barely bled from gunshots to its neck and shoulder. The wildlife officer put it back in the lake. Frey was given a warning citation for hunting without a license.”

“You’re writing me up??? Are you insane? The alligator was in my house! Threatening my child!”

“It’s illegal to hunt gator in Florida, don’t matter where they are ma’am.”

“I wasn’t “hunting gator” on my front porch! He was coming towards us and snapping his jaws!”

“Why didn’t you just jump behind him and pull him out by the tail? It would have been safer.”

“Oh, let’s see.... because he could swing around and clamp onto my arm?”

“Not if you’re fast ma’am.”

“You’re right... what was I thinking? It must be my fault! My "gator management" skills just aren’t up to speed. I missed the ‘Wrestling Reptiles’ part of my Welcome to Florida life skills classes.”

“There you go ma’am. See how easy that was? A little education could have helped this whole thing. This little feller wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was wantin’ yer dog. You was safe the whole time.”

The lady in Florida calls her friend Sally, on Shelter Island....

“He gave you a ticket for hunting alligator in your house?”

“Yes! I’m going to fight it. These people are crazy.”

“If you killed it, can you keep it and make a nice bag?”

“Oh...I never thought of that...silver lining in every cloud.”

“How’d it get in?”

“Through the dog door.”

“Through the doggy door... really.... that gives me an idea.....”



A police car pulls up in my yard.

“Ms Flynn, the bluefish did not come in through your cat door...”

“Yes they did ! All of them! Look at them, they’re huge! They were surrounding me to attack. That's how they attack you know... in schools....”

“Ms Flynn, the bluefish did not come in through the cat door. It’s not bluefish season yet. Now how did you get eight big bluefish?”

“Listen, an alligator in Florida just attacked my friend in her house and alligators live in the water too, so being from the water does not prevent them from attacking land mammals, like me.”

“And how did they get gutted and cleaned?”

“It was an act of self defense.”

“And the grill is going in the back yard because?”

“Okay, you got me there. I was tampering with the evidence.”

“Tampering.....or destroying?”

“Just tampering. I’d never destroy evidence.”

“So what’s the tartar sauce for... in the quart size?”

“It’s bluefish repellent. As soon as they came in, I grabbed it and started smearing it on the floor in a circle around me.”

“And the basil, oregano and lemon juice?”

“I confess. The repellent didn’t work. I had to kill them. I was afraid someone would get the wrong idea, like I enticed them in, so I was going to sprinkle lemon juice around the yard to throw the dogs off the scent of the fish.”

“You really need professional help Ms Flynn. We’ll have to take the bluefish in for evidence. We’ll need the tartar sauce and lemon juice too.”

“Hey, wait a minute.....”

“You have a problem with that Ms Flynn?”

“Ah.... no.... no... of course not....I guess you want the white wine too?”

“Oh yeah.... we’d better take that....best to be on the safe side.”

“Napkins? Forks? Place cards?”

”No, we have all that at the station.”

“Right....from the other fish poachers.”

“Naturally.”

Gardening Takes Guts!

Choose Your Weapon....

In the process of choosing young veggie plants for my garden in recent weeks, I have had several conversations about garden security with other garden store patrons.

Over planting: Planting all you want and extra for the deer on the theory that even after the deer eat all they want, you’ll have enough left for yourself. Excellent theory, but when the deer find a a nice big cache of food, they don’t keep the location to themselves, no, no, no...deer are stupid, they tell their friends and soon you have three times the number of deer coming through your yard.

Fencing: The obvious and easy answer, but... many towns have so many rules and regulations about what kind of fencing you can use, it’s like trying to understand the federal tax codes. The fence can’t injure the animals it’s trying to keep out and it can’t be too high it case it looks offensive to absolutely anyone driving by. The best fence would be about five foot high with razor wire on the top, or nasty poison tipped spikes, but noooooo...... somebody, who shouldn’t be near your garden stealing squash in the first place, might get injured, so no razor wire or poison tipped spikes.....picky, picky, picky....

Wagon planting: My mother-in-law does this. You buy old kiddie wagons and plant your veggies in them. This gives you a mobile garden! You can bring the garden in at night. Or hide your plants anyway you want. The added benefit is you can garden from your lawn chair. Just wheel the wagon up and start digging.

Hanging Gardens: You can plant almost anything in hanging baskets. Not a bad idea if you have a big porch. You can hang your garden all around and sleep on the porch with a shotgun in case the deer try to come up the steps. The two positive side effects are; 1] you could get a freezer full of venison, 2] neighbors will never bother a man crazy enough to guard his zucchini with a shotgun.

Roof Top Gardening: I haven’t seen this yet, but it’s a matter of time. If you have a flat section of roof, with a little partial shade, what better location for a deer and rabbit proof garden? The roof isn’t doing anything but covering your house, so why not put it to some real good use with a roof top garden? If the deer and bunnies are smart enough to get a ladder and get onto a roof top garden then you'd better move out of that area as soon as possible.

El Camino Gardening: After roof top gardening, this is probably the best option for critter proof gardening. Buy an old El Camino and plant your garden in the back. This way you can keep an eye on your tomatoes wherever you go. Plus, how easy it will be to show off your garden if it’s right there with you at the hardware store.

Seawall Gardening: Popular in the coastal towns, but only for locals. Pile clam shells and seaweed in three foot high walls around your garden with strings of decorative fly strips overhead. The smells of the sea products will obfuscate the smells of tender pea shoots and the confused deer will leave feeling foolish that they mistook a clambake for a garden. Naturally they won’t mention it to their friends because that’s just downright embarrassing for a deer to mistake the smell of seaweed for pea shoots.

Sherlock Holmes Garden: Sherlock Holmes said, “The best place to hide something is in plain sight.” I believe that. I have a theory, not in any book, that deer can find gardens not only by smell, but by pattern recognition. When they see straight lines of vegetation, they see buffet dinner. This year, I will be staggering my plantings to make them appear random. Plus, I’m surrounding my garden with big cat poop. Yes, you heard right.... ‘google’ it yourself, it’s proving out in gardens across America. Deer instinctively avoid areas where they smell evidence of a natural predator like a big cat. Cougar poop is selling like hot cakes in California. I will be making my first poop purchase soon. I’m not sure about Cougar poop because the deer here on Shelter Island are pretty smart and I know they’ve never seen a cougar, so I’m thinkin’ Lion or Tiger....

Mother's Day: Priceless

Drive to the beach with kids: gas $1.00
Equipment for Beach: blanket, towels, cooler, soda’s, sandwiches, sunscreen, beach toys, umbrella, chair, book you won’t get to read, sunglasses $400
Your toddler gleefully putting a shell she picked in your hand, priceless.

Drive to restaurant: gas $1.00
Mother’s Day Lunch with friends who are real mothers: $40
Making detailed plans to escape to Vegas without hubbies and kids: priceless.

Reminding boss Mother’s Day is coming: $0
Ordering flowers sent to his mother for him so he doesn’t look like a fool: $150.
Him knowing you saved his ass again and he owes you big time: priceless.

Cost of pregnancy test: $15
Cost of making a nice dinner at home so you can tell him the news: $80
Look on his face when you tell him that, not only are you pregnant, but you’re sure he’s the father: priceless.

Cost of materials for your Mother’s Day card in your fourth graders art class: $1
Time it took him to make it: half hour.
Look in his eyes when you carry it in your purse and show it to everyone: priceless.

Cost of four roses bushes for Mother’s Day: $150
Time to plant them: 2 hours
Being attacked in the shower by a happy wife: priceless.

Cost of Dr Spock Baby Care book: $4.50
Cost of telephone call home: $1.00
Hearing your daughter say, “Mom, I can’t find it in the book. What do I do now?” : priceless.

Sentimental Mother’s Day card $3.50
Time it took for your teenage son to choose it: one tenth of a second
Reading the card out loud in front of as many of your son’s peer’s as you can manage: priceless.

Sentimental Mother’s Day card, one dozen roses: $75
Time it took your husband to choose card: five tenths of a second.
Reading the card over and over again in private and crying: priceless.

Stupid "humorous" Mother’s Day card and one crummy rose $10
Time it took your husband to choose card: three minutes.
Look of "enlightenment" on his face as he ducks the flying lasagna pan: priceless.

Sentimental Mother’s Day card, one dozen long stem roses, one romantic dinner: $300
Money he gave you for new dress, shoes, salon nails and hair: $800
Look of shock on his face when you say, “Absolutely anything you want, anyway you want it tonight,” : priceless.

Cost of ambulance to Emergency Room: $1000
Cost of cardiac workup on your husband: $12,000
Look on his face when he turns to you and says, “Yea, baby, but it was worth it...” : priceless.

Slalom Driving for Deer

Driving Instructions for Shelter Island

Tourist season is upon us now and I thought it would be beneficial to review the driving regulations on Shelter Island.

1. Never use turn signals, it gives away your next move.

2. If you’re a tourist, don’t bother maintaining a safe distance between you and the car in front of you, because the space might be filled in by somebody else, putting you in an even more dangerous situation. We know you need to get where you’re going before anybody else does.

3. If you’re a tourist and want to think like an Islander, start by allowing one deer length for every ten miles per hour of speed. It doesn’t matter if there’s a car in front of you or not, just imagine that there is. The deer however, will not be imaginary.

4. It is suggested that you keep a change of underwear in your vehicle at all times in the event you miscalculate #3.

5. Learn to swerve abruptly without fishtailing. Shelter Island is the home of high-speed deer slalom-driving.

6. Never come to a complete stop at a stop sign. No one expects it and it will result in your being rear-ended.

7. Give Right of Way to any car that needs extensive or expensive bodywork.

8. Allow truck occupants that stop traffic in both directions so they can have a conversation, 15 seconds before you lay on your horn.

9. Braking is to be done as hard and late as possible to ensure getting a vigorous ab workout and foot massage as the brake pedal violently pulsates.

10. Never pass on the left when you can pass on the right. It's a good way to prepare other drivers for off island driving.

11. The top speed limit on Shelter Island is 40 mph. This limit applies even if no one is looking, even if it’s the middle of the night, even if you have a BMW, Porsche, Mercedes or any exotic car, even if you're an illegal alien with a phony license, even if you drive a truck and think you own the place.

12. Just because it’s obvious that you have no room to speed up or move over, doesn't mean that a tourist flashing his high beams behind you doesn't think he can go faster in your spot.

13. Always brake and rubberneck when you see an accident or even someone changing a tire on Shelter Island. No much goes on here and we need all the news we can get.

14. The faster you drive through a stop sign, the less chance you have of getting hit.

15. Don’t bother wearing your seat belt on Island. This way you can avoid injury in the event of a collision by exiting your vehicle immediately, straight through the windshield. Wearing your seat belt will only impede your hi-velocity escape from danger.

16. Remember that the goal of every tourist driver is to get where you’re going before you do.

17. You are not allowed to tie your annoying teenager to your front bumper. You must tie them to the top of the vehicle and be sure the head is securely tied down so it doesn’t flap as you drive.

18. There’s so much conflicting information about the safest place to put the toddlers in car seats, we suggest securing them in the car seat first, then placing them in the trunk and securing the car seats with your jumper cables.

19. Racing to the ferry doesn’t get you off the island any quicker. You still have to wait for the boat.

20. Do not balance your checkbook while in line at the bank’s drive thru window. If you do this, it is legal on Shelter Island for the driver behind you, to push your car gently into traffic.

21. If you cut ahead in a ferry line, be prepared to have your car pushed off the dock. The amount of money you have, what you own, who you own, your level of affluence means nothing here, cut that line and you’re dead.

Naked Door to Door Exams

Lyme Away

Somewhere in a New England resort town where Lyme Disease flourishes...

Bob: “Joe, you read about this? Some 76 year old guy in Florida posed as a doctor, went door to door giving free breast exams. Got away with it for a while...”
Joe: “Wow! What a great idea man, we shoulda’ thought of that.”
Bob: “Yea. Hey....wait a minute... what about Deer Tick Inspector?”
Joe: “Deer ticks...lyme disease... damn, Bob, that could work.”
Bob: “I got a doctor’s coat, stethoscope, I got a clip board too.”
Joe: “How come you got a doctors coat?”
Bob: “Ah..... Betty, she likes to play doctor - patient....it's one of her sex fantasies. I just put up with it....you know, just to keep her happy....”
Joe: “Oh, she likes to play doctor - patient now? Cool.... So, ah... can I have your old pirate and slave girl costumes for Lucy and me?”
Bob: “Oh sure, Joe. Anyway, we could give it try... Deer Tick Inspector Lyme Prevention Team... I like it...”
Joe: “ It won’t work... the local girls won’t go for it.”
Bob: “Yea, too smart, too bad.”
Joe: “But the tourists are coming...”
Bob: “Tourists...yea...what do they know?”
Joe: “This could really work, Bob.”
Bob: “We only got one coat.”
Joe: “We’ll take turns.”
Bob: “What’ll we tell them?”

A tourist answers the knock at the door of her summer cottage.
Joe: “Good afternoon Ma’am. Dr. Joe Smith. There’s a severe deer tick infestation in this area. I’m here from the Lyme Disease Prevention Board to give you a free inspection.”
Lady: “How nice, come in, look around.”
Joe: “I’m not here to inspect the house ma’am. I inspect your person. Please remove your clothes.”
Lady: “What? Are you crazy?”
Joe: “Lyme disease causes premature aging ma’am.”
Lady: “It does? Well, I’m sure it’s not that bad...”
Joe: “And it causes the reversal of any plastic surgeries you may have had. Like if you had a nose job, and got Lyme’s, you’re nose would grow back into it’s original form plus a half inch.”
Lady: “Oh my gawd!!!”
Joe: "And it has a strange effect on silicone, causing it to either shrink or explode....we can't figure it out..."
Lady: "Oh jeez!"
Joe: “Take it easy ma’am, no need to tear off your clothes, I can help you get them off. I’m a trained professional.”

Overheard in the neighborhood grocery store.
Lady 1: “...and they send out Lyme tick inspectors too. Such a nice place.”
Lady 2: “Did you pass inspection?”
Lady 1: “Yes. I passed once last week and twice this week.”
Lady 2: “How often do they have to check?”
Lady 1: “Frequently I guess. This lyme thing is a big problem here.”

In a doctor’s office in that New England resort town...
Doctor to patient: “What Deer Tick Inspection doctor?”

Jail cell in that same resort town...
Joe: “Damn, Bob, that was fun...”
Bob: “Are they gonna charge us or not?”
Joe: “Only if they can find a woman willing to testify in court against us.”
Bob: “Well, none of my ‘patients’ are gonna complain. If that cop hadn’t seen you in the white coat at that lady’s door, we wouldn’t be here now for trespassing...”
Joe: “Yup, you’re right. “
Bob: “So, is that lady gonna press charges now that she knows the truth?”
Joe: “No, she likes me. I inspected her quite a few times... in depth inspections.... I dont' think she'll press charges, but let’s just say, I’m definitely gonna need those pirate and slave girls outfits...”

Spring, right on time...

Signs of Spring in Resort Areas, like Shelter Island

Well that’s it....the clocks have been turned forward, Easter and Passover are over, we’re all eating pastel colored egg salad sandwiches and leftover matzoh which means Spring is officially here!

Here's some signs of Spring where I live...

Daffodils and tulips are trumpeting their colors all over.

Tourists are already showing up. You can spot them on the ferries very easily, they hit their brakes when the ferry docks and race the gate to get off the ferry. But that sorta works out well, because when they race the gate, the ferry worker gets to hold up that all powerful hand and stop them with a face that says, “I don’t care if your car costs more than my house, this is Shelter Island and we all take turns and play nice, you moron.”

There’s tiny piles of dirt all over the lawn, new dirt means, the worms are building below.

Soon they’ll be big piles of new dirt above ground as we watch the new crop of McMansions spring up.

There''ll be new bunches of illegal aliens all over to build the McMansions.

Soon, we’ll hear the iron songbird of Spring, the John Deere riding lawnmower.

We’ll start hearing the latest round of “I don’t give a damn how they do it in the city....” stories of locals dressing down arrogant city people.

We’ll stand in line silently at the post office listening to someone from Florida demanding something impossible from our long suffering postal folk. We’ll wish that there was a separate line for locals, and knowing that it can’t be that way, we’ll size up the offending irritant as to whether we can fit their body into a small town bag because the large once cost more...

Men coated with spackle and paint will show up at deli’s with sandwich orders written on blocks of wood. I always wonder if their wives give them grocery shopping lists on planks...

The teenagers of Shelter Island increase the volume of their unceasing bain, “There’s nothing to do here” and “I’m bored.” My daughter always thought that these phrases constituted justification for drug indulgence. She didn’t realize that these phrases conjure up long lists of house and yard chores in the parental mind. These lists, coupled with the knowledge that they need our money for everything including drugs, gives us the leverage we need to get them to do anything at all, even though they can only do it halfway and half ass. It’s just as well. If they did anything start to finish, correctly, and the first time - the shock would kill us.

For me the greatest sign of Spring showed up on the side of my brother’s house. Clam rakes...two of them....nestled gently together in the morning sun. Their rusty baskets seemed to cry out, ”Clams...clams...give us clams....”

Oh yes, the best signs of Spring on Shelter Island, are the ones we can dip in butter.

Chocolate Tax?

Easter Form 1040

Saturday, April 13, somewhere in America...

“Margaret, you can’t dye Easter eggs here. I need this table to do taxes.”
“You should’ve had the taxes done already, I need this table to dye eggs.”
“This is the only table and I need it for taxes. Taxes take precedence over Easter eggs.”
“Not to me and three kids it doesn’t. See the line in the middle of the table? You stay on your side, we’ll stay on ours.”
“Be careful with those cups of dye, will ya? I don’t want anything on these forms.”
“Okay kids, after we dip the eggs, let’s put them on the paper towels to catch the drips.”
“HOLY---! Margaret! The egg rolled over the 1099’s! Now they’re purple!”
“The table’s not level. Remember I told you that.”
“Yea, yea.... gimme some paper... I’ll fold a wedge and stick it under this leg... there.... no more eggs over the line, okay?”
“Okay, we’ll try. “
“And keep it down.”
“They’re kids, Joe. We’re doing the Easter eggs, they’re going to make noise.”
“Isn’t there some religious teaching about dying eggs in silence?”
“I don’t think there’s anything in the Bible that covers egg dying, Joe. I think that’s in your thin book series...Activities I’ve Done With My Children.”
“HEY! HEY! NO THROWING EGGS, GUYS! Margaret, make them stop that!”
“Okay, settle down, no throwing eggs! BRIAN!”
“OH @&#$)!! Margaret! Perfect! That egg just hit the 1040, and it’s my last one! Now it has a pink stripe and yolk on it. Get me a tissue.. geez... “
“Just wipe it off. The IRS doesn’t care if they get a return with a pink stripe, as long as they get the money. Besides, it’s their own fault for scheduling April 15th so close to Easter.”
“It’s an IRS tradition Margaret, they schedule April 15th around this time every year....”
“Well they should check the calendar first. Tax day should not collide with Easter.”
“Pass me a chocolate bunny.”
“Okay.”
“How come you got solid ones? I hate solid bunnies. Like trying to bite through rebar.”
“I’ll get you a knife.”
“No, then I’ll have little chocolate shavings all over. Next time get hollow bunnies.”
“I get what’s on sale, Joe.”
“Well find hollow bunnies on sale next year....the ones with the blue candy eyes...”
“Yellow bow or pink bow?”
“Don't start Margaret, just get the hollow ones. Everybody keep quiet. Color your eggs quietly or the Easter Bunny won't come.”
"Nice Joe. I can't tell you how much fun it is co-parenting with you."


Friday, April 21, in an IRS office....

“Oh man, Tom! This one is a real stinker....damn egg yolks. How are we supposed to get these returns done with all these egg smears and color streaks?”
“I don’t know what’s worse, Bob, the ones with the egg stink or the ones with the watercolor abstracts on them.”
“We can’t keep doing this. We have to come up with a solution.”
“Management is on it. They’re either banning Easter from April or moving the eggs and bunnies stuff to another holiday. They’re thinking of Memorial Day. Start a new tradition of dying eggs red, white and blue. And have chocolate flags.”
“How can they pull that off?”
“Hey Bob, we’re the IRS, the only government agency that audits itself. We can do anything we want. Shouldn’t take long to push an new bill through Congress making the change official. No more tie dyed Tax forms.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to change the tax deadline date to February or May to avoid the Easter collision?”
“We’re the Internal Revenue Service, Bob. We’re not here to serve the people.”
“I’m sorry Tom, what was I thinking?”
“It’s the sulfur fumes from the eggs. Happens to the best agents.”

The Untuckables

The Untuckables

I live on an island. There are hundreds of islands off of both coasts of the Unitied States. Some have bridges, but most use ferries.

One of our ferry's has a new ticket system. It used to be that you exchanged money for a nice 3”x 4” postcard paper ticket (I scanned an actual ticket above) with the date and your trip choices punched out. Now they’re testing a new system, with a computerized handheld ticket machine about the size of a small tissue box, which is appropriate because it prints out a tissue thin ticket. If it were any thinner, it would be spray....

I watched the tickettaker punch in the codes for a round trip and then use a separate little printer on his belt to print out the tiny 2” square ticket. It took longer for him to enter the codes and wait for the ticket to be printed than it used to take to hand over cash and get a torn off ticket with your change. What’s going to happen when these little electronic machines gets hit with salt spray? Or are dropped? Not that either of those two things would happen on a ferry...

But here’s the real problem.... the tiny tickets!

Everyone on Shelter Island has a specific spot where they tuck their ferry ticket. Most people tuck it above the driver’s window where the frame joins the headliner. Some have elastic straps on their sun visors and tuck it there. Everybody has a spot and can ticket tuck by feel, in the dark, half asleep, while holding hot coffee, while arguing, anything, but the ticket has to be big enough and stiff enough to tuck. These new small, flimsy ones are untuckable tickets.

They wouldn’t tuck in my usual spot, so I had to drive with one hand while I searched for alternative ticket tucking locations. I’m an experienced ticket tucker, but I couldn’t secure this ticket anywhere. Plus, I could see that from my handling, the print — with my round trip fare on it — was smearing. It finally ended up in my wallet. Then I had to dig it out for the return trip.

But the problem is even bigger than that. You see, loose ferry tickets in the car serve a multitude of purposes in Island life:

You can write a note on a ferry ticket and wedge it in someone’s house door or car door, or leave it under the windshield wiper.

If it’s a long note, you can put a “1”, “2”, “3”, at the top of each ticket. You could write a novel if you have enough tickets.

You can write short grocery lists on the back of tickets.

In desperation, you can use the corner of a ferry ticket as a toothpick.

I have written absence excuses on the back of ferry tickets for the school because the nice note I wrote is still on the kitchen table.

You can play three games of ‘tic tac toe’ with bored kids on the back of each ticket.

As you’re driving and hear something on the radio you want to remember, you reach for a ferry ticket and pen and the ticket is just the right size to lay on the center of the steering wheel and write while you drive.

A ferry ticket can flatten and remove spiders from the car.

All of my bookmarksers are ferry tickets.

I asked a fellow school mom for an easy recipe she mentioned. She gave it to me on the back of a ferry ticket while we were in the parking lot.

It's not uncommon here to get in your car and find a note written on a ferry ticket waiting for you on the dashboard.

We can amuse ourselves on the ferry by looking at the shapes of the punches.

The old tickets could survive rain or coffee spills, but not the new ones. Three rain drops and you will be handing the ticket taker a lump of mush for a return ticker.

I know there’s no stopping progress. I know that computers make our lives better. I know that a computerized ticket is better for me than a tear off, I guess. I know all this, but I will sure miss those multipurpose ferry tickets.

Did I mention you can wallpaper with ferry tickets?