Sally Flynn's A Laugh Over Coffee

We're in Hot Water Now!

2012-01-18T10:43:00.002-05:00

Skool Boiler....Big News!

Recently there was some really big news on Shelter Island. An event of immense proportion with a potentially explosive outcome...the school boiler was on the fritz and the whole school had to be evacuated.

Imagine the shock and horror to students who were about to take a test. Or those just waiting to turn in their homework in the next class. I think of all those poor, innocent, impressionable young souls, just longing to spend hours and hours in class, looking pensively out of huge windows into the bleak January cold. Imagine the panic and sorrow they experienced when they heard the announcement that the school would be evacuated.

Many students were heard to shout , “Thank God!” “Hallelujah!” “Free at Last!”. I figure that those were the more sensitive and devout students. They probably formed prayer groups on the lawn of the school and prayed for the old boiler. They prayed a cure would be found soon so they could return to their classes.

Some, okay, many, other students were heard to whisper profanities - yes, right here on Shelter Island, there are young people who know profanities. I believe it most likely the shook of being torn from their concentrations that caused so many to curse. They were probably contemplating topics for their future doctoral thesis when the boiler event happened.

I think of all of them standing in the cold, wondering, will school be closed early? Will they be sent home? The thought of early release, being forced to raid their refrigerators at home ahead of schedule and play extra hours of video games....those poor darlings.

Years from now, they will all recall the event at high school reunions, and remember what they were doing the day the boiler broke. The big event my generation had was the middle aged teacher who married the eighteen year old student right after graduation. That was a huge scandal then. Of course, today, when students and teachers have affairs all the time, our scandal wouldn’t have even hit the radar. But it was a great scandal then, real Peyton Place stuff. Love conquered all, including age, common wisdom, and public opinion. It taught me to always remember; “Love is blind, but the neighbors ain’t.”

It all proves what I’ve always said, Shelter Island is an exciting place to live. It moves and changes with glacier speed through time. The unique Island, where generations of third cousins marry and as a result, all the men are handsome, all the women smart, and all the children are gifted.

My Redneck Hampton Vacation

2012-01-10T11:57:00.002-05:00

I know it’s traditional at this time to write about all the New Year’s resolutions I won’t be keeping, but something else has come up that is really more important.

The CMT channel has a new “get rich hick” show that begins with a batch of very newly rich (the ink isn’t even dry on the money) hicks coming to, or rather invading, the Hamptons. The previews look like a bunch of unruly three year old's running NASA for a week. Their behavior is so crass, it makes me looks like a Duchess. I don’t know how they got passes to come the East End, but this has to be the one and only trip for the single toothed, two digit I.Q.ed people who still think flaming flatulence is funny.

I’m not, and never will be rich. I’m just a regular gal. Most people who are rich, got there via inheritance or their own hard work. And with a few exceptions, they appreciate their good fortune and are extremely nice and well mannered people. We have plenty of rich people on the Island and we sort of corral them into homes on Shelter Island Heights and on Ram Island. This is for their own protection. If something too shocking happens, we can block access to these areas easily. We need them for employment and their very generous support of the Island causes. Sometimes I get envious of how easy their lives look, but then I remember that money only creates options, not happiness. Rich people get lonely, depressed, and just as scared as the rest of us.

The thought of the Island being over run by rednecks from beyond the sticks is horrifying. We’d have to secure all the rich so they didn’t have seizures, while the rest of us held them off.

The regular guys on this Island could go toe to toe with anything that could be dredged up from any bayou. They wrestle alligators. Big deal, we catch Great Whites off of Montauk that eat alligators for chicken fingers. They like to show off their big biceps in ragged sleeveless shirts. We got guys who work jerk rakes all day in the bay, they crack walnuts in the crook of their elbows. The hicks love their banged up trucks. We live in salt air, our trucks aren’t just banged up, what ever rusts and falls off is replaced with plywood - which does not rust - and as long as it drives, it lives. The hicks think it’s a big deal to dip tobacco. They thrill to grossing people out when they spit the chew. Most of the people on this Island can eat clams and oysters on the half shell, so don't tell me who can put worse things in their mouths.

I feel bad for the nice Hamptonites who will be made to look like snobby fools on this upcoming show. I just want to tell all of them, it’s not you. You were probably doing your job and you couldn’t possibly be prepared for the invasion of the Cro-Magnon people. It’s all right. We all love you anyway. However, just to be safe, you might want to keep a crowbar handy in your desk from now on. This way, if they come again, you can hit them and drive them off, or hit yourself in the head so you can understand them.

Merry Christmas to All!

2011-12-15T12:01:00.002-05:00

I’m a real night owl, I hate to get up in the morning. But at the same time, I love the very early morning. Once I get out of bed and get started, I love the quiet and serenity of it. Being the first one up, or living alone, either way every morning has a balance of mystery (What will happen TODAY?) and anxiety (What will HAPPEN today?) in it.

I loved my childhood mornings in summer, on the days when we were going out on my grandfather’s clamboat. Our big Buick would park by the mooring and so many people, babies, fishing gear, picnic baskets and towels would tumble out of the car that if we had been in an accident, the cops would be looking for the other car.

I’d lay my towel on the square bow of the boat and lay down as the boat slowly chugged out. My mother would put a towel over my legs and give me a warm, buttered Kaiser roll, fresh from Fritzi’s Bakery. A simple roll, the hot sun on my back, the smell and feel of cool salt spray on my face, the sound of the engine and water slapping the bow. I had not a care in the world beyond hoping I’d get one of the blow up rafts when we got to the big shallow spot. The problem with happiness is that you don’t know it when you’re in it, it’s something you remember.

I remember the hundreds of morning when my kids were small. I got up at six a.m. to insure I had some alone time to dress, make-up, and have coffee. I’d stand outside for a minute to check the weather. It was that wonderful hour when the birds were starting up, you could smell the last of the night air wafting up from the ground. After I ditched the kids at school, I’d grab a coffee from Pat & Steve’s and go down to Wades Beach. I’d just open my windows and let the ocean breeze blow through the car and my brain and cool off my coffee. I was always a tiny bit sad when it was time to leave and start the day.

Then there’s Christmas morning. We never get to put up all the decorations we wanted. We didn’t get all the gifts for everyone that we would have liked to get. We never seem to be ready for Christmas, but when it comes, the morning is always special. If other people are in the house, I get up early so I can have alone time while the Nutcracker Suite plays softly in the background as I sit by the tree. I feel happy just looking into the pretty lights.

I think the magic of Christmas is right there, in those quietest moments, hiding in the spaces between the lights and in the beats between the tip toes of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

The Twelve Movies of Christmas

2011-12-12T08:55:00.004-05:00

As part of the holidays, I have a ritual of viewing all the classic Christmas films. I try to be open minded to new Christmas film in the hopes of adding to my holiday viewing list. So far my assessment is, although the newer movies have better production values and have cost small fortunes to make, apparently all the writers have been edited to death to produce the absolute blandest and broadest appeal movies to benefit the sponsors.

Here’s my viewing schedule: I always watch Miracle on 34th Street as my first Christmas movie.The movie starts with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, so I watch it after the live Thanksgiving Day Parade. You can watch it in black and white, or color. There are several updated versions of Miracle, but I find all the writing to be too schmaltzy and trite. I know its not the writers, because there can’t be that many lousy writers. I know their scripts have been hacked at to accommodate what the sponsors want; which is to include everyone, offend no one, and maintain political correctness at all times.

Next I watch the first filmed A Christmas Carol from 1938 starring Reginald Owen. Each Christmas Carol movie seems to differ slightly from the other. Next is the definitive Christmas Carol that we all love with Alistair Sims from 1951. This remains the best of the lot. It doesn’t matter if you see it in black and white or color, it looks the same either way. Industrial England in the winter didn’t have any colors. It was all black, white and grey. Color only shows up at the end on Bess’ dress.

Since 1951 there have been many versions of A Christmas Carol, but I can only recommend three. In 1970, Albert Finney did a musical version, which I rank right up there with the Alistair Sims classic, if you haven’t seen it, try it, it’s wonderful. George C. Scott did an excellent version. Patrick Stewart gave it a go, his Scrooge was fair, but I’d stick with Sims or Scott. Other than these few exceptions, none of the newer versions measure up. I think its just lame to try to interpret this story with a female Scrooge, or set it in a modern setting. Actors struggle with dialog that tries to be more profound than the original.

I have discussed the problem of the newer Christmas movies with some passionate movie lovers on the Island and the consensus is this: Hollywood often fails to realize that nothing can improve the original. You can’t remake Gone With the Wind, Casablanca, Wizard of Oz, or the Alistair Sims Christmas Carol, filmed in England in the winter. The Shelter Island Library shows films and I know they get a good turn out for classics. Great movies make you want to talk about them and keep enjoying them long after you see; The End.

There’s just one new movie I like seeing now. I can’t recall the title because these days I have to look at my driver’s license to be sure of my own name. It’s about a single mother returning home one winter to the small island she was raised on, where she finds that time has nearly stood still. She finds a job, falls in love, the kids are happy, and they all live happily ever after on the tiny island - I think it’s off the coast of Maine because I remember lobster signs in the background. Seems like such a typical story, I can’t imagine why I like it. Oh, wait - lobsters - they all got lobsters at cost from incoming boats, yup, that’s it, lobster. Never did meet a lobster I didn’t like.

Three Legged Squirrels

2011-12-02T11:18:00.002-05:00

My mother is obsessing that Christmas has come too soon and there’s not enough money to get all the gifts and decorations she wants for the holiday. I’m trying to remind her, we never remember the gifts, we only remember the company; drinking eggnog, listening to the Bing Crosby records, and admiring our tree. We’re all flush or broke at Christmas time. We all want the Christmas’s we remember as children. It was all magical then. It’s the encroachment of age that steals it from us. But then we find the magic again through the children. You’re always as happy as you decide to be.

I had a really great Christmas several years ago. I was renting a house on Worthy Way that winter. It had a sliding glass door and the woods began just a few feet from the deck. I love birds and I always threw out generous handfuls of seed on the deck. I must have hit upon a Cardinal haven, because I never saw so many Cardinals. I counted thirteen pairs and four single males. I spent so much time watching them, I got so I could distinguish several individuals. They were surprisingly aggressive and if I didn’t have that seed out by 7:30AM, they started pecking at the glass door. I put out suet balls and lots of treats and they’d hang around on the railings of the deck talking to each other. They were so beautiful hopping around an occasional carpet of fresh snow. It made my Christmas and all it cost me was birdseed.

My most favorite Christmas was when I was six. We were living with my grandparents in Sayville at the time. I was the only grandchild, except for my little three year old brother, followed rapidly by three more brothers and twelve first cousins. But I was there first, green eyed, reddish haired and insufferably cute.

My grandfather was a carpenter in the winter and clammer in the summer. He had a true love of animals. He found an injured three legged squirrel and nursed him back to health in his cellar. He named him Petey and built him a sort of squirrel condo in the huge maple tree in the backyard. My grandfather built a bench all around the tree. He built Petey a tiny ladder. He made wooden toys for us, so he really knew how to build ladders for disabled squirrels. The rungs were tiny dowels perfectly fitted into slats and all varnished. It went from the bench to the first giant limb, about five feet up. I wasn’t allowed to touch the ladder or try to pet Petey. My grandfather painted red lines on either side of the ladder that I was to stay behind. However, I was allowed to put saltines with peanut butter in the forbidden zones and watch Petey climb down and eat. He was missing a back leg, so he sat funny. I thought he was just wonderful.

I didn’t see Petey in the winter, because cold makes him sleepy, however, my grandfather assured me he wouldn’t miss Christmas. Taking him to Mass with us in my grandmother’s purse on Christmas seemed to be out of the question, but I could make him a little tree and leave him some treats. I make a very extravagant noodle tree, painted gold and full of red glitter. It was a true work of art. My grandfather tacked it up high on the limb so Petey could see it from his nest. I left him a little plate of peanut butter cookies and some stuffed dates.

My grandparents assured me that, thanks to me, Petey was going to have a wonderful Christmas. It’s not like every squirrel on Long Island could see a genuine golden noodle tree from his nest. And so few squirrels got cookies and stuffed dates delivered to the door at that time. It’s not like today when they could just order from the internet.

That Christmas I got a card from Petey. It came in the mail, so it was official. He thanked me for the tree and all the treats. Furthermore, he planned to come out on St. Patrick’s Day, if there wasn’t any snow. I looked at that card for a long time. Finally, I asked my grandfather how Petey could have written that card. Nobody was going to fool me, I was sure Petey didn’t know any letters. My grandfather explained that Petey knew all his letters, he just had to ask my grandfather to make him a very small pencil...

Thanks for Grandchildren

2011-11-28T09:17:00.003-05:00

Dear God,

As the holidays are upon us, I realize I have much to thank you for. Grandchildren are supposed to be a blessing and although they throw your “cool” factor right out the window, they teach us many things. I refer specifically to the grandchild you sent me three years ago. A lovely little girl, who is obviously influenced by one or more demons.

Thank you for her strawberry curls, cornflower blue eyes, and cherubic face, it has reminded me just how deceiving looks can be. Please do not make me do time in purgatory for when she drew all over the aforementioned cherubic face with permanent blue marker. I was on the phone at the time and didn’t know she had figured out the drawer locks - I can’t figure out the drawer locks.

Thank you for using her to teach how kind men can truly be. In particular the ferry man who looked into my car window, saw a child with a half blue face, probably assumed she was an extra for Braveheart Two, and accepted the ferry ticket with flowers drawn on it and waited until he was three cars back to start laughing at me.

Thank you for granting her the gift of artistry that runs in our family. Like my mother, my Uncle Bill, my brother, and my daughter, she lives to express herself with color. I now understand how the petroglyphs in France came to be. As I regard my crayola covered walls, I imagine that in pre-historic France some grandmother watched a grandchild destroying her freshly carved cave walls with ocher drawings, shrugged her shoulders and said, “If he starts painting in the dining hall, we’re eating him.”

Thank you for using her to reach me the how fleeting the joy of the holidays can me as she removes in seconds, decorations that took hours to put up.

Thank for using her to remind me to remove the locks from the inside of the bathroom doors. And how to stave off panic when I hear the toilet being flushed over and over on the other side of the locked door, followed by the music of her hysterical laughter.

Thank you for the little fenced playground by the school where she can run out her endless energy without running into the road and scaring people. Thank you for the company of the other grandmothers who sit on the bench and together we smile at the children as we curse under our breath. Thank you especially for the grandmother I met who was watching three of her seven grandchildren that day and shared her strawberry daiquiri mix with me and the other grandmother there. We took a slug from the Cinderella thermos and passed it down. It seemed a bit early in the day, but as she pointed out, it’s 10 A.M. somewhere.

I admit that before she was born, I was really having trouble with empty nest syndrome. Thank you for teaching me that the cure is often worse than the disease. And I know that it is said that God doesn’t send us more than we can handle, but I’d like to remind you that there are exceptions to every rule. And I’d also like help finding the rest of my great-grandmother's pearls so I can reassemble my only real pearl necklace, broken by either a small curly haired liar or the invisible man.

To close on a positive note, I do love her, which further confirms that love makes us mentally ill.

Thanksgiving - and Why Not?

2011-11-21T09:17:00.002-05:00

Here is comes, my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. I love the sentiment of it, pausing to think and give thanks for all that we really do have. Enjoying all the delicious foods associated with the feast and asking ourselves, “How come we don’t have turkey more often?”

I think Thanksgiving is always a combination of trial, trauma and triumph.

There always seem to be situations that try our patience to it’s absolute limit.

“I told her not to bring him, but she did, so what can we do, Roger?.......No, if we reject him she’ll marry him for sure out of spite.....okay, you can drink scotch, but only if you lock the gun in the outside shed.”

“Bob, we’ve been married 36 years, you know my mother always brings turnips. I’ve told her you hate them, but she just can’t remember it. My Dad loved her turnips and that’s why she makes them for you. I’ll hand you a little dish under the table so you can sneak them away.....I know you’re a grown man and shouldn’t have to pretend in your own house, but I have to look at all the photo albums of your mother’s modeling career in the 50’s every time we go there - and it takes a lot more time to look at those albums than it does to slip turnips under the table.

There always seem to be situations that are traumatic.

“Now Joe, remember, Ronnie is my little brother and you can’t kill him about that car.....I know the engine blew up before the check even cleared.... it’s just one of those things, that’s why they say never sell a car to a relative.....yes, I know all about the $500 you loaned him in July, and you’re right, he’s not going to pay it back by Christmas....I don’t know what to do....it I don’t invite him, Mom gets really upset and if I do invite him, you get upset. Can’t we just suspend hostilities for eight hours?”

“I don’t care, Mark, Mary ran over my cat, your sister did it on purpose, I don’t want her in this house!....drunk is not an excuse, she squashed Miss Marmalade, and don’t say, “It’s just a cat”, a pet is more than an animal. She was my friend, until Bloody Mary tore out of the driveway last Thanksgiving in a big huff. Go ahead, let her in....no, I won’t make a scene. Like Dante’s Inferno, I have many levels of passive aggressive pain to inflict.

Fortunately, there are times of triumph at Thanksgiving too.

“Regardless of any petty things that happen, I want you all to know that I am so happy that we are all here and sharing this time together. I brought out Grandma’s dishes just for this occasion. We don’t have the whole service of course, but we won’t bring up what Karen did anymore. The important thing is that we all have at least a plate or cup that we can remember from Grandma’s table as part of our own place setting today. There was of course, a large turkey platter and gravy boat, I guess someone else has that at their house, but let’s not focus on petty details, guilt is it’s own punishment. Therefore , let’s lift a glass and Thank God, yes, God, for all the blessings we can see and especially for those we can’t. Amen”

Frankly, Scallop, I Don’t Give A Clam

2011-11-14T08:15:00.004-05:00

The Shelter Island Reporter recently described a disappointing scallop harvest this year, as opposed to a huge harvest last year, the biggest since the brown tide hit the East End in the mid eighties. The truth is, it would have been another banner year I suppose, if I had known the Island was going to keep such close track of these things.

“Step out of the car, please, Ms. Flynn.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything.”
“Breath into this breathalyzer, please.”
“What? It’s 4 P.M. and I don’t drink anyway. What are you testing me for?”
“You blew a .24 for salt water Ms. Flynn. How many scallops have you eaten today?”
“What? I don’t know, breakfast, lunch, why are you asking?”
“We’re going to conduct a road side test for bi-valve consumption. Walk this line with your eyes closed while balancing this test scallop on your head.”
“This is stupid. Since when did scallop consumption become a problem?”
“Since you and a handful of other people decided that since we had such a good year last year, it was open season for scallops. It’s bad enough the way you single handedly decimate the clambeds here, Ms. Flynn, you don’t need to consume every available scallop we have. And that’s the third time you’ve dropped the scallop off your head. You’re listing to one side, your pitch and yar is clearly impaired. You’re being cited for being Shellfish Selfish. Please open your car.”
“Shellfish Selfish? That covers half the people on the Island!”
“Can you explain this? There’s a buschel of clams and a half buschel of scallops in your trunk, four packs of Nathan’s hotdogs, soft drinks and six bags of chips? What do you call this, Ms. Flynn?”
“I’m calling it a good time. I’m going to a barbecue at the McGayhey’s.”
“They eat a lost of shellfish, do they? The McGayhey’s? Are they bringing clams and scallops too?”
“Oh, ah.....no, they never touch the stuff. This is just my supply. I’ll be the only scallop trollop there.”
“This bumper sticker, “Will Trade Sex for Lobster”, doesn’t help you, Ms. Flynn, please have that removed before any other women get any ideas.”
“Hell, I know women that will trade sex for mussels.”
“Well, so do we and we know where that leads. Mussels are a gateway shellfish. A little butter, a little garlic and soon they’re craving clams, then scallops, and look where that has gotten you.”
“Please sign here, it is not an admission of guilt, just an admission that you were caught dead to rights and you are aware that we will be raking your over the clambeds of justice very soon.”

The Age of Never

2011-11-07T09:34:00.003-05:00

The Aztec’s called it, “the age of never”. Reaching a time in life when everything seems to take more effort. That hill was never so high, the walk to town was never so long, the days were never so long, the years were never so short.

I figure for most of us, the age of never hits around 45. I recall in my early twenties when I stayed out till 4a.m., came home, napped, showered and was at the hospital by 7a.m. shift. I couldn’t do that today whether you offered me a million dollars or held a gun to my head. I have reached the age of never. Moreover I have reached an age the Aztecs never even thought of, I call it, the age of “are you outta your mind?”

You’re still in the age of never if you can be out till ten at night, get to bed by midnight, and still get up at six. You have crossed over into the age of Are you outta your mind? if you have to take a nap to be out till ten p.m., get in bed by midnight, but can’t get to sleep until three a.m. because you made the mistake of thinking about money when you went to bed.

Once you’ve reached the age of Are you outta your mind? you want to be home and in your jammies by six p.m., no matter what is offered. You’ve been to enough fun or boring parties in your life, you’ve had enough hangovers, you’ve awakened with enough strange people to know you’ve experinced all that the night life has to offer and you can now revisit memories and get the same emotional highs without the risk of spending the rent money, getting lost on the way home, or worrying about STD’s.

The biggest marker to tell you when you’ve reached the age of Are you outta your mind? is the realizing the danger of sitting down at the wrong time.

If you are planning to go out to an event one evening and you and your hubby nap in the afternoon to store up energy for the evening, you have the best chance of making it out the door if you remember the cardinal rule - once the ‘getting ready’ process has begun, do not sit down FOR ANY REASON!

If one of you is ready ahead of time, usually the man, remind him to stand by the door and nag you to hurry up, or get in the car and honk the horn, anything but sit down.

However, if you are one of those women who can easily commit to the event when first asked, but lose your momentum, and then you’d rather just send a check for the cause, or wait for the movie on dvd, then setting your husband up to sit down to wait for you is a perfect out. As soon as you hear him call out, “I’m just gonna check the scores,” and you hear SportsCenter come on, you are home free.

Walk into the living room in the middle of SportsCenter reviewing highlights of something. Sit down quietly next to him so that he knows that you are ready, but you will wait until he sees the highlights, and then, ever so slowly, tilt your head back, slowly close your eyes. He’ll glance over and think he can watch a little more sports while you rest your eyes. Now let your body relax and don’t notice he has put the couch throw over your legs and is trying to sneak a pillow behind your head. He never wanted to go anywhere in the first place. But you insisted, and you couldn’t change your mind after he gassed up and cleaned out the car. So all you had to do to get out of what would have been an exhausting night, is to have one of you sit down. Before you know it, you’re the best dressed couple on Shelter Island sleeping through CSI: Miami.

Turkey Day is on the Way!

2011-10-31T09:24:00.002-04:00

November has started. We have three paychecks left until Christmas, four until the credit card bills for Christmas arrive. We are officially in Holiday Mode. Here is your check list from now until Thanksgiving:

1. First order of business, check how many loyalty points you have at your grocery store to ascertain whether or not you qualify for the free turkey.
2. Watch cooking shows for new Thanksgiving recipes, you have to write them down or print them from the website; either way a hard copy has to go into the Thanksgiving section of your cookbook.
3. Start making a list of ingredients to shop for. Also, start a Christmas/Chanukah gift list.
4. Try to recall where you put the decorations. You took great care to put them where you could find them easily this year, so think hard - where would you have put boxes so they were out of the way, but easy to access.
5. Finish your ingredients list and plan to shop the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, like everyone else.
6. By now, you’ve cleaned out two closets and found the items you couldn’t locate for Fourth of July, so make sure to isolate those items in a marked box and store them in a safe place where they’ll be out of the way, but easy for access next July.
7. Plan your off-island shopping trip. You can authorize yourself to buy at least one new kitchen machine, like a new crockpot with the new SMA (Save My Ass) feature that lists restaurants that deliver in your area if you screw up the potroast. It also allows you to program in friend’s numbers; your crockpot will call your friend and tell her to get there quick with anything you can put on the table that will save your face. Crockpot bonding is a high level of female bonding.
8. Give it up, you’re never going to find the box with the Harvest / Thanksgiving decorations and they are too old anyway. Best to add new decorations to your off-Island shopping list. You’ll find the Thanksgiving decorations box when you’re looking for the Easter box next Spring.
9. It’s now a week before Thanksgiving and it’s time to go off-Island and overspend. You will return exhausted, but triumphant. This will finally be the Thanksgiving you’ve dreamed of because you planned ahead and did everything right according to Oprah AND Dr. Phil. You may take off one day to charge up for the big push.
10. It’s five days before Thanksgiving and you realize you don’t have all the ingredients your new recipes call for, you need Cream of Tartar, fresh mint, red pepper flakes and several other littles. However, you didn’t put the new recipes in your cookbook right away and now you can’t find them. If you can’t find the recipes, why buy anymore of the expensive ingredients?
11. Cleaning the house took two days, so it’s now two days before Turkey Day. You found the old Thanksgiving decorations under your stack of winter sweaters, in an easily accessible place, in a box marked, “THANKSGIVING DECOR”. No wonder you couldn’t find them.
12. You’ve given up on the new recipes, which your husband wasn’t going to like anyway. You content yourself with new decorations and at least you scored a new crockpot, or mixer, so the season wasn’t lost.
13. The Wednesday before T-Day, you prepare and cook all you can ahead of time. Tomorrow you will put on a wonderful, traditional spread. You and your girlfriends and the kids and grandkids, will sit around the table and enjoy eating and conversation. The men will be where they always are on Thanksgiving.
14. Resolve to remember next November not to get all excited about putting on a great spread for you husband and expect him to shower you with compliments. Realize that even if you stuffed the bird with caviar, the men were just going to pile everything on a plate and drag it to the living room to watch that G-damed football game anyway.

Flipping the Bird

2011-10-24T08:51:00.002-04:00

I was cleaning my kitchen one morning and since it was nice out and probably one of the few warm mornings we have left this year, I opened the window for the fresh air. It was very quite outside, I didn’t hear any birds singing. I think most of them have already packed and started south for the winter. I sat down with a cup of coffee and popped in one of my favorite quiet time CDs called Birdworks. It’s a CD of bird calls recorded on Shelter Island by a local naturalist named Tom Damiani. It plays and then identifies bird calls. But the real treasure for me is that the first twenty minutes is just a recording of local bird and forest sounds. It’s very peaceful and serene, like an auditory Valium.

Suddenly a wren appeared on my windowsill. I’m assuming it was a wren because it looked like a small robin, but it was too big to be a finch. So, it was either a wren or a runt robin. It flew in the kitchen and called out. I realized it was responding to the bird calls on the CD.

Now I was in a real dilemma. I wanted the bird to fly out, but I didn’t want to scare it. So, I remained still as I thought out my options. I could move my hand and click off the CD player, but the loud click would surely scare the bird and although he might fly out the window, he might fly deeper into the house. If that happened, I’d have to scare him half to death trying to flush him out the window by flapping a pillow case. While I was debating to move or not to move, he flew over my head and into the laundry room. He was now perched on a box of Tide and I was between him and the window.

I decided he probably couldn’t see my hand from his perch and so I moved my hand slowly and at least managed to slowly turn down the CD volume. I had a good theory; if he no longer heard bird calls in the house, he would conclude that he was alone and fly out the window to join his friends. It was a good plan.

It was a good plan until I nearly had the volume all the way down and he began chirping. Sounded like normal bird chirping to me. Didn’t sound like he was calling anyone to inform them that he’d found a really warm place to stay for the winter, until another wren came through the window and landed on the sink faucet. At this point I froze in place trying to get my left brain and right brain to rub together inside my skull until there was a spark to get my neurons firing and a brilliant solution would present itself. It really would have helped if Bird One had not flown into my air space until I had finished my first cup of coffee.

Bird One on the Tide box and Bird Two on the faucet by the open window, began a conversation. My bird speak is rusty, but Bird Two was doing fairly well, he convinced Bird One to fly onto the top of the curtain next to the table where I sat and in direct line with the open window. But then Bird One then flew back to the laundry room and Bird Two followed to see what was the big deal about folded and unfolded towels. At that moment I got the mental image of bird droppings on my towels and decided, the heck with this, I’m gonna grab a broom and shush them out even if it means they have little bird heart attacks.

But just at that moment Bird Two flew back to the faucet and Bird One followed a few seconds later. The final debate ensued on my faucet and Bird Two pecked Bird One, making it very clear who wore the flight feathers in that family and they hopped to the windowsill. There was a bit more conversation, it sounded like an argument over directions, something that we can all recognize regardless of species, and off they went. I closed the window and taped a warning over my Birdworks CD, “Do Not Play Near Open Windows”, because one never know who’s going to land on one’s faucet, do one?

Farewell Steve Jobs....

2011-10-09T21:52:00.003-04:00

Oct 7 , 2011

The Icons of the Icons

Farewell to Steve Jobs, the great mind behind Apple. I have owned Macs since 1984 starting with the MacPlus. I’ve had jobs where I’ve had to work on Windows computers and there is just no comparison from my experience. I will miss Steve at the helm of Apple. There was so much more left for him to invent beside the iMac, iPod, iPhone, and iPad. I hacked into Apple and found a few other things that Steve had planned....

There was the iGarage, a robotic device that would have allowed you to remotely clean, organize and rearrange your garage from your iPhone app.

There was the iTeen. A micro chip you shot into your child’s neck. It has a gps chip and a recording unit so you know where the little creep is and what they’re saying about you. The upgrade came with a tiny shock button that allowed you to program a brain zap whenever your kid broke a rule.

There was the iHusband. A tiny microchip that you could drop in your husband’s coffee that would make it’s way to his brain and lodge in one of the many unoccupied zones of his mind, like where the sensitivity or patience program would have been if it hadn’t been destroyed by testosterone. The iHusband has a gps unit, a recorder and a program to monitor unauthorized zipper deployment.

There was the iShopper, a hand held device that alerted you to all the sales locations of the items you programmed in. iShopper kept accurate records of the balances on all your credit cards so you knew which one you could use that day. It also featured a hologram projection of a disabled parking hangtag that it could project onto your rearview mirror so you could use a handicapped parking spaces. Hook the iShopper up to it’s optional miniprinter and you can print your own receipts in the car in case your husband accuses you of spending too much.....”Look, honey, I hit a great sale!”

The iParty, a hand held party locator. You can scan a neighborhood, the iParty tells you what the celebration is for, who’s throwing it, and the proper attire. With this information, you can crash any party you like.

The iHip. An iPhone app for men over 50 who are trying to score a trophy girlfriend. It translate anything the young miss is saying. It lists all the currents groups, who’s in, who’s out, plus it translates youthful patois into everyday language. For example, “My bad” is an acceptable replacement for “I’m sorry.”

And the iHampton. This is a very advanced iPhone app that allows you to track anyone on the east end, including Shelter Island. You just program in the name of the person you want to track, the request is uploaded to the satellite in space that is stationed directly over the Hamptons and it sends you can icon that represents that person. You can figure out the icons for yourself, or purchase Apples really expensive; Guide to the Icons of the Icons.
For example; two bells without clappers is the icon for Paul Simon (what are the Sounds of Silence?), a perfectly folded napkin - would be Martha Stewart, an outline of Korea with a martini over it - would be Alan Alda, a hat and a pipe would be......if you fail to guess this correctly, you may never read this paper again.

Raccoons in the Moonlight

2011-10-03T00:31:00.002-04:00

Fall is here and soon the food in the woods will get scarce, the animals will start getting creative in their foraging techniques. Raccoons in particular, those cutsie, little critters. We start off loving them. They’re so cute with their little masked faces and their little articulate hands. But then, slowly, they reveal their vile nature...

The first year you live here, matter of fact, the first week (actually the first day now that I recall it) you learn to put the lid on tight on your garbage cans because the raccoons here can pop a garbage can lid like the flic of a bic. The second week you’re here, you are putting bungee cords over the lids, getting your hands caught under these cords and grinding your knuckles against the lid to free your now crippled little hands. The raccoons are slightly less cute now.

By the end of the first month, you are using bungee cords and cinder blocks on top of the lids. You’re getting a complete bicep workout wrangling these cinder blocks. After you add cinder blocks, you feel comfortable that the problem is solved - how can they lift a cinder block? That confidence lasts till morning when you find the garbage can on its side, cracked cinder block next to it, with the lid - still with the bungee cord - pushed onto the side of the can and the contents all over the yard. And though you don’t verbalize it, because you are an animal lover, you think quietly to yourself, “I’m gonna kill these little bastards.”

At this juncture, you consult with someone who has lived on the Island longer than you, and they tell you to build a little shed for your garbage cans and so you do. At the three month mark, your garbage cans have their own little house, there’s a wooden latch, surely your garbage is safe now. But noooo. Why? Because you underestimated the fine dexterity of those cute little hands. They can and have worked out how to open a flip latch or slide latch, and they pass the information onto their young to insure food supplies for the future. You become convinced that raccoons are the spawn of Satan. An infestation of raccoons must be a sign of the Apocolypse. One of the four horseman is probably riding a big raccoon.

By the sixth month you’re here, you are determined to win this battle. You buy big cat poop from the pet store. Zoos sell lion and tiger poop to pet stores and it is alleged to be very effective at driving off animals like deer and raccoons. One whiff of predator poop and poof! They’re gone. Now you padlock the latch. Surely they can’t open a combination lock or pick a key lock. You surround the shed with predator poop and your neighbors complain about some awful smell coming from your property...

Now you learn that raccoons are very strong and can tear corners off of plywood and wiggle into your shed. By month eight you’re sitting on the porch guarding your garbage with a BB gun.

Ultimately, we accept defeat and put our garbage in big town bags and keep it in the trunks of our cars. On Star is developing a special scanner just for Shelter Island that alerts the car owner of trunk invasion and turns on an electric grid to fry the intruder. Cook ‘em, Dano.

Ferries on Strike!

2011-09-23T13:12:00.002-04:00

And so concludes another tourist season on Shelter Island. Things are slowing down and getting back to normal. The ferry lines have shrunk, the ferry crews are more relaxed and have time to talk to the passengers for a minute. When I see the aggravation they endure through the summer, it amazes me that no homicides occur. I’ve seen off islanders cut to the front of the lines on both the North and South Ferries, coming and going. I’ve seen drivers get out of their cars and argue with the staff. I’ve heard people cursing at them. I’ve seen angry drivers deliberately drive too close to the staff to scare them as they exit the ferry. Overall, people are nice, generally cooperative and patient on the ferry. But there’s always that percentage of impatient, entitled people, who fail to realize the power of the ferry crews. I mean, what if they got sick of it all?

“Bob, did you hear? I was just at Fedi’s. The ferry crews have taken the boats hostage. They nailed a list of demands on the Town Hall door.”
“Holy moley, Joe! What do they want?”
“They want a pay raise, plus combat pay during tourist season.”
“Everybody wants a pay raise...that’s not so extreme.”
“They want toilets on the boats.”
“They don’t have toilets on the boats?”
“Not all of them. Only the newer ones. You never noticed how the staff sometimes run to the offices?”
“I just never knew, Joe. I think that’s a reasonable demand though.”
“They want staff booths that are heated in the winter and air conditioned in the summer.”
”Again, what’s wrong with that?”
“I know, not too bad so far, but then they start walking the edge. The North Ferry wants a jacuzi and the South Ferry wants a wet bar.”
“Why a jacuzi?”
“It takes longer to cross on the North Ferry than the South, so they figure at least one crew member could take a break to relax in the jacuzi on the crossing.”
“Why do the South Ferry guys want a wet bar?”
“Cause they don’t have time to get relaxed in a jacuzi, they have to relax faster, and liquer is quicker. And maybe they’d sell the passenger in the car a beer.”
“Well, that’s a stretch. I don’t know if they’ll get that stuff through.”
“Both crews want microwave ovens on the boats.”
“What? They can’t have a nuker?”
“No, Bob, it interferes with the navigation system.”
“What’s to navigate? You can see the Sag Harbor and Greenport docks from Shelter Island.”
“Hey, don’t hit the messenger. But there’s one demand I do like. They want to have a mini casino in the walk-on passenger areas. Wouldn’t that be great? Play a few hands of poker on the way home. Your wife would never know.”
“Well, all in all, these demands aren’t completely unreasonable, Joe.....”
“Sound better everytime I hear them...”

Tie a Pink Ribbon around this...

2011-09-18T12:57:00.003-04:00

My friend Alice and I, both in our fifties, went to the Breast Cancer Support event at Crescent Beach last week. Overall it was an excellent event and kudos to the planners. It’s easy to overlook the time and logistical planning required to pull off a successful event.

However, there were a few booths run by some local men that I think were a little suspect...

“Alice, what’s that tent over there? It says Free Shiatsu Breast Exams.”
“Never heard of it, must be a new kind of exam. What’s shiatsu?”
“I thought it was a massage technique, but maybe there’s a component that applies to breast health. A lot of women are getting in line for it.”
“I’ll go check it out, Sally.”
“Okay, I’ll get us some food and meet you back here.”

“Gee, Alice, you look so happy. How can you be happy after a breast exam? They always hurt me.”
“ I know, me too.”
“ They always flatten your breast until your nipple is about to pop off, and then the tech says, “Hold still,” while she steps behind the machine to hit the x-ray button. Where the hell does she think I’m going to go with my tit in a vice?”
“They don’t use vices with this new method. There’s two little areas separated by curtains. They have scented candles going. Both of the examiners are nice men. They never mentioned football or fishing. Had cleans hands and nails and smelled of Old Spice.”
“You said they’re local?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them around in winter. Nice looking, our age too.”
“I think I’ll give this Shiatsu Boob Exam a try.”

“How was your exam, Sally?”
“Amazing! I took off my top. The guy didn’t flinch or gag. He searched every inch of my boobs for anything suspicious and I’m good to go.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to be really sure. Maybe we should go again.”
”I was thinking the same thing, Alice. Can’t be too sure.”
“The line keeps getting longer. And all the women seem to be our age.”
“Who says older people are closed off to new ideas?”
“Yeah, and after we get another breast exam, we can go to the other new booth.”
“What other new booth?”
“The Nine Point Inspection booth.”
“Dare I ask what they inspect?”
“I don’t know, Sal, but they have a longer line than the Shiatsu booth. And after the inspection, all the women sit in lounge chairs behind the booth with a drink and a cigarette.”
“Well, I’ve never smoked or drank in my life, Alice, but I heard it’s never too late to start, and after this, lets go get pink ribbon tatoos.....”
“You always live on the edge, don’t you, Sally?”
“Tell me about it. I still put real butter on my toast......”

Where Is Your Mother?

2011-08-26T08:58:00.002-04:00

overheard in the Police Station on Shelter Island....

“How many does that make now, Greg?”
“Thirty Seven. Thirty seven Island mothers in hiding till school opens. Their kids are all running wild all over the place. The Dads are semi-comatose walking around their houses babbling, “Where is your mother?” all day. It’s a mess.”
“Any chance they got off Island, Bob?”
“None. We’ve had guys at the ferries checking all the off bound cars for the past two weeks. All the private boats are accounted for and we’ve published a warning that any Islander caught aiding and abetting an Island mother to escape will have to take care of her children till school opens.”
“Kinda stiff punishment ain’t it?”
“Yeah, but we gotta take a tough stand. This is getting worse every year. Island kids don’t have a big fancy Youth Center, no movies, no book & cafe stores, they have absolutely nothing to do and if they get off Island to have any fun, they have to make the last ferry at 2AM or they sleep in the parking lots till 6AM. It’s tough being a teen on Shelter Island. They only fun they have is torturing their bratty younger siblings and their parents. Parents do the best they can. Some turn to alcohol and drugs, some hide in the woods till Labor Day.”
“Hey, Bob - did anyone think of checking the deer blinds?”
“Yeah. We think lots of them are there, but we can’t seem to catch them. We used hundreds of melted down Hersey’s bars to make chocolate licks to draw them out, but they just disappeared. We chained a couple of young handsome tourists to some trees with alarm bells on them, but in the morning, all that was left of them was their shoelaces and a lovely thank you note. We think we may have thought up one idea that might work, but it’s very expensive.”
“What ever it is, we should do it. I’m tired of corralling these kids all the time.”
“All the Island husbands had a meeting to discuss what women like more than chocolate and sex. Suddenly, like the gleam of the sun off of a fishing line that just went tight, it dawned on everybody. Shopping. Labor Days Sales.....shopping. It’s our only hope. The Town Board is debating approving a $500 Tanger Mall debit card, plus bus transportation, plus package carrying, and purse holding assistance, for every mother who turns herself in. We’re ready to shower the Island with fliers. The biggest surprise - even the kids are willing to pitch in. They’re all so sick of foraging for food in empty cupboards, they’re offering to clean the houses if the mothers come back. How’s that for a kicker?”
“Holy moly! I never thought I’d hear that. We’re not going to punish the moms at all - you know, for abandoning their posts?”
“Not necessary, returning home to take care of their bratty, unappreciative, smart ass kids is punishment enough for anyone.”

Greenport Gertie, World Famous Mermaid...

2011-08-22T17:34:00.002-04:00

"Long Island Press; By Timothy Bolger on August 22nd, 2011
A 23-year-old man was arrested for drunken boating after he crashed his vessel into a jetty in Greenport Harbor over the weekend, Southold Town Police said.
Herbert Israel was navigating his boat eastbound when the crash occurred with three passengers aboard at 2:41 a.m. Saturday, police said."

Greenport Gertie Strikes Again!
It’s all in the story.....

“Now, Joe, we just gotta get our story right and really sell it to the authorities when they get here.”
“I dunno, Pete. Maybe we should just confess and say we’re tanked.”
“What ? And deny the cops the pleasure of hearing creative excuses and the challenge of punching holes in our story? They live for those challenges. And we’re taxpayers, we gotta make them work for their money.”
“Well, hell, Captain Morgan and I agree. You logic is unpacable, I mean deflatable, ineffible, well, we’ll just say it’s clear.”
“We need a big story, Joe. Man, we are way up on this friggin’ jetty. How about we were swerving to avoid the ferry?”
“Nope, Captain Morgan sez the ferry moves too slow, besides, they don’t run after 1:30 a.m.”
“What about the Greenport mermaid, Joe? They got a little mermaid tied to the dock at the Greenport ferry, maybe we could say that we saw her glow and come to life and flop off the dock....you know....X-Files stuff. And we were trying to catch her so that....so that...”
“So that she’d grant us three wishes. You get wishes with a mermaid right?”
“No, Joe, I think you get wishes with a genie. But hey, it’s our mermaid.....she could be Greenport Gertie, the Wishing Mermaid of ancient fishing lore...get it, fishing lore, fishing lure...it’s one of them double nintndo’s.”
“Captain Morgan says, Yes! He loves him a mermaid. Greenport Gertie it is. But what does she do?”
“She’s a siren. From the story of Ulysseus, or Ossissfuss, you know, that Greek story, the Illiyak and the Odessaurus....you know....and the sirens are beautiful women who scream at sailors so loud they can’t stand it and crash their boats on the reef jus to get away from them screaming banshees.”
“Banshees is Irish, Pete. But the Captain says, she can be a screaming Irish mermaid. You know how all mermaids wear shell for a bra? Gertie has big shamrocks, giant shamrocks.”
”Holy Moly - the police boat is here. Remember, Joe, it was Greenport Gertie.”

“....... and that’s the whole story, Occifer. We’ll swear to it on your mother’s grave.”

“Damn, handcuffs are tight, eh, Joe?”
“We almost had it, Pete. They were buying the story until you blew it.”
“What? What did I say?”
“Everybody knows giant shamrocks don’t grow underwater, Pete. You should’ve stuck with regular shamrocks.”

And you think your day was bad......

2011-08-22T10:08:00.001-04:00

“Reuters Fri, Aug 19, 2011, Jussi Rosendahl Reporter
Ferry Runs Aground After Captain Stuck in Toilet
HELSINKI - A Finnish ferry has run aground while its captain was stuck in the bathroom. One member of staff managed to slow the island-hopping tourist ferry down, but the vessel, carrying 54 passengers, slammed onto a rock near the shore of Helsinki, the Finnish coastguard said Friday. ... The captain got stuck in the bathroom because of a jammed lock and yelled for help......The coastguard is investigating whether the captain’s action amounted to criminal endangerment....”

“Hello, Sea Queen Wheelhouse, dis is Olaf speaking.”
“Olaf, dis is yew captain, I’m stuck in the bathroom. I can’t get out. Send somebody come and get me.”
“Is dis a yoke? Who is dis really? I gonna get the captain.”
“No, I’m not yoking, Olaf! Dis is yew captain. Yew don’t recognize my voice?”
“Vell, yew never call me from the bathroom. Always yew call me on de deck, and yew don’t never call me Olaf, always you call me Godammit.”
“Godammit, Olaf, dis is the captain. Send Sven to the bathroom to get me out!!!”
“Oh yah, now yew sound like de captain. Listen, I bring dis phone to Sven. Hold on a minute, I tink he’s taking a ticket.”

“Hello, dis is Sven, how may I help yew?”
“Sven, it’s de captain. I’m stuck in the bathroom, I can’t get out. Get the fire axe, come quick!”
“Ya, Captain, I’m glad yew called. Ve vas vorried, because, yew know the boat is heading for the yetty. Yew should turn the boat now.”
“I vill turn the boat as soon as yew get me out!”
“Okay, Olaf and me is coming now. Yew just stay dere.”

“Inga? It’s Jan. I’m stuck in the bathroom, ya, on the boat. Sven and Olaf is coming now to get me, but I’m vorried. Look in yew computer, find the phone for dat little ferry - runs in New York to the little island. Call them, ask them vat they do in a case like dis, and call me back. Ya, I love yew too.”

“Hello, Inga? Did you reach the little ferry? Da Shelter ferry, ya, dats the one. Speak louder, Sven is chopping my door now. Vat did day say? Vat? Why didn’t I yust pee off the back of the boat? Ya, sure, easy fer them to say. Call them back, ask if dey know how cold is Finland? If a man pee off the boat here, his little friend freeze and break off - dats why!”

later that day

“But why am I charged with endangering the passengers? Ya, vell, Sven vas running with an axe through the boat - but he vas saving me! I don’t know he vas vearing his Viking Helmet and yelling! Ya, vell, he gets a little excited. Yew don’t get to be a super hero on a ferry everyday!

When Do The Kids Go Back to School ????????????

2011-08-14T15:56:00.002-04:00

August and holding....

Dear Diary,

It’s mid-August. The heat is oppressive and the humidity makes me feel like I’m breathing through a mattress. I’m sweating in places most women don’t even have places. I just want to hang an IV of iced tea going straight into my vein, sit by the air conditioner and wait for school to start. My dear husband has lost his mind. He keeps mowing the lawn over and over. He sits on his little John Deere and mows over to the neighbors sometimes and meets the guy next door, who’s on his mower. They sit under the big maple and chat. Sometimes they race their mowers when the kids aren’t around. But whenever the kids show up now, my husband disappears. I don’t know where he goes, but when bored whiny children show up, he vanishes - the Phantom of August I call him.

The children are so bored. We’ve done everything; gone to Splish Splash several times, made off Island voyages to Tanger, checked on the lighthouse at Montauk to see if it’s still there, visited up Island relatives that we only visit when we have completely run out of ideas.

I used to try to make the kids eat healthy. Now, I’m too hot and tired to care. They’re eating frozen dinners and cake for breakfast. Beer is missing all the time. I don’t know if its the eight year old, the eleven year old, or the six year old. Once, I thought I might ask the police to come and give them a breathalyzer test, but then I realized that they might take them away, so I didn’t call. But there’s rips and stains on the couch that seem to increase whenever they play those insufferable video games. And I think one of them has taken up smoking. I’m re-thinking having the police breathalyze them. If they found alcohol on them, they could take them away, or maybe, take me away, in either case, someone else would have to entertain them for the last three weeks of summer.

Thank God, I’m starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Target and Sears and the other stores are all advertising “back to school” sales now. They bring tears to my eyes. Soon I can take them to the stores and listen with joy to the fights over whose getting what and who got more than whom. Just to smell crayons and markers again - I can’t wait.

Then we’ll clothes shop. I can’t wait to see what horrific overpriced Chinese manufactured clothes we’ll have to choose from this year. I’ll have to bring a red pen to mark down all the clothes in the car so my husband doesn’t see what we spent. I hate doing that. But he gets so upset when his hard earned money goes for a $32 jewel studded zombie head on a tee-shirt. It’s better this way. Better a lie that heals than a truth that hurts, that’s what Grammie used to say.

I’ll close now dear Diary. I have to rise from my comfortable chair by the air conditioner and rake a path to the kitchen. I can hear the children experimenting with food again, I just heard “tuna” and “jelly” in the same sentence. Yesterday someone made elbow noodles with maple syrup and didn’t clean up. This morning the counter was black with ants. But ants always take a break at some point, so I waited for them to leave, then tackled the mess. I was too tired to even curse.

I have lost all parental authority. I just hang onto the thought that legally I just have to keep them alive till Labor Day. After that, I may start to see my hubby around the house again. I’ll have to start nagging him for a new living room set now, but I’’ll wait a few days to give him a chance to reorient to his surroundings.

New Cigarette Warnings

2011-08-14T15:55:00.002-04:00

A Picture’s Worth A Thousand Words

The FDA has announced that packs of cigarettes will now feature gruesome pictorial warnings against the dangers of smoking. One picture will show a corpse with a toe tag, another will show someone with a permanent tracheotomy, I didn’t look at the rest of the pictures, but you get the point. Ever since I saw the movie, The Informant, starring Russell Crowe, portraying the true story of the scientist who blew the whistle on the tobacco industry, I have the greatest compassion for smokers. Tobacco companies spend millions in research to develop the most highly addictive enhanced nicotine they can. The fastest delivery system is straight into the blood stream through the lungs and right up to the pleasure center of the brain. The cigarette is just a delivery system for the drug. It’s not that smokers don’t want to quit, it’s that they are fighting an uphill battle against a lethal and legally addictive drug. I admire anyone who can quit.

But I am very concerned about the precedent being set by printing the negative results of consumer items right on the labels.

“You ready to go shopping, Patty?”
“Yeah, Sal, I got my black marker and an extra for you.”
“Okay, get your cart, you first.”
“Meat counter first, Sally. The FDA allows farmers to sell cloned meat to the public now, so look for the meats that don’t have the picture of the two headed calf on them.”
“I can’t find any, Patty. Found some pork though, there’s no picture of a freak pig, but there’s a picture of a man clutching his chest as he’s falling.”
“Okay, let’s get the pork, just use it sparingly.”
“Right Patty. The chickens have picture’s of a heart with a smiley face. The Purdue chicken’s have pictures of people square dancing, I guest they’re the health est choice.”
“Are there any organic, free range chicken’s, Sally?”
“Yeah, but the picture is of chicken’s rolling around on the ground, stoned. They might be a little too organic for us.”
“Toilet paper next, Sal.”
Okay. The Charmin has a picture - is this really necessary - of a guy sitting on the toilet smiling and giving a thumbs up to the camera. The Scott tissue has a picture of the same guy - I guess he’s only moron they could find for this job - just sitting on the can reading the newspaper, very non committal. Now here’s the generic, and the picture here is not good, it’s the same guy being taken into the ER, the caption reads, “Beware, splinters!”’
“Let’s get the Scott.”
“Good enough for me, Patty.”
“And now to the snack aisle - get your black marker ready.”
“Ready, now show me how you do this, Patty.”
“Chose the snack you love, hold it in your hand at arms distance, get your marker ready, turn your head away, flip the box over - you know the picture is on the top of the back of the box - and black it out by feel, then you can turn the box around and voila! No trauma!”
“I think I have it. Let me try my Little Debbies Cinnamon buns. Grab package, turn over...”
“Turn your head first, Sally!”
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhh.......too late......oooohhhh mmyyy ggggaaawwwdddd!”
“What was it? Was it that bad?”
“It was my ass, Patty. I’d recognize my pants with the giant pink flowers anywhere......oh, the humanity.......”

Birth Days Daze and Taze You After 50...

2011-08-14T15:42:00.002-04:00

The days are long, but the years are short. I hit another birthday, seems like I go through this trauma around the same time every year. I miss being young and complaining about how “fat and ugly” I was then - I’d give anything to be “fat and ugly” like that again, instead of the fat and ugly I contend with now. Still, there’s a peacefulness and wisdom that comes with age that I really enjoy having. I just stay away from mirrors so I don’t shock myself.

Here’s a few benefits to aging with for women:

1] You can back off on the hair dye a little. There’s a time when grey hair is conspicuous by it’s absence. I try to leave my temples grey now when I color the rest of my hair. Those white streaks on the side of my head gives me that Bride of Frankenstein look that helps to scare young people. Zombies are a big thing now, I even see them in commercials. Makes the kids wonder who do the voodoo that they do so well.

2] You have the right to buy non-stick cookware as often as you like. After 50, you have done all the cooking you had to do to qualify as a good wife and mother, and now, the time have come to give away the heavy iron Le Creseut pans and get the T-Fal.

3] Along with easy clean pots and pans, you have the right to new dishes and paper plates. The new dishes are to the replace the dishes you are sick, sick, sick, of looking at. The worst is when your mother in law gives you a set of dishes you don’t really like, and have to use them or suffer sarcasm for years to come. ( I know, I had to look at a set of dishes with blues roses on them for years, until we finally moved, and they got destroyed by the movers, which only cost me an extra $20 for them to put those boxes under the truck wheels). You may put the new set on display if you like and take them out only on holidays. You have earned the right to serve on paper plates. No one ever helped you with the dishes before, other than the obligatory Mother’s Day and maybe your birthday, and they’re not going to start now. So, I say, serve them on Chinette. Whoever doesn’t like it can go to the beach and forage.

4] Your children are young adults, and possibly your husband had become an adult, and you now have the right to not know where the hell everybody else’s stuff is. You can say things like, “It’s wherever you left it,” and you don’t have to help them look for it. Instead, you may continue your crossword puzzle guilt free. If they beg and cajole you, you can get in your car and drive away without having to arrange a sitter or leave a dinner for them. This whole concept of being responsible for their own possessions often comes as a shock to youth, it’s like when they first realize they have to get a job in order to have money for rent and food. It’s a huge jolt to their systems, but after five or ten years, they catch on.

5] You have the right to laugh, not with your children as you had to when they were younger so that you didn’t mangle their ego’s, by AT your children. When they say things that you know, by virtue of your magnificent age, are pure bunk, you can look right at them and laugh till you fall off the couch. I loved it when my daughter said, “I’m going to know where my teenager is at all times. She’ll never be able to pull one over on me.” It was almost as funny as, “I know he’s 27, but he’ll change, he just needs more time.”

Laugh... laugh because if you don’t you’ll cry. To paraphrase an old adage, Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry, and somebody yells, “Shut up!”

Six Flags Sucks!

2011-08-14T15:31:00.003-04:00

Six Flags Fleeces - Save Your Money and go somewhere else - anywhere else - to have a good time.

Recently, while we were in Maryland, my daughter, Chenoa, and her friends went to Six Flags, while I stayed home and watched my toddler granddaughter. I watched her from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., that’s thirteen fun filled hours of watching her favorite movies, “Tangled” and “Elmo in Grouchland”, over and over and over. It was a personal challenge for me. A stress test to see how much I could handle before turning to drugs or alcohol. I made it through the day, although I don’t remember much after the first ten hours. My daughter said I was conscious, but not responsive, when she got home. Apparently I smelled of Desitin and had Gerbers Meat Sticks on my breath when she rescued, I mean, when she found me. The baby was fine, having pulled all the cushions off the couch, spread out all the DVD’s, had jello on the TV remote and we’re still looking for the phone.

For all this I was given as payment one seven dollar Wonder Woman key chain. That my daughter managed to afford such an extravagance after a full day of monopolized merchandising is a miracle. My tale of woe is nothing compared to what my daughter endured at Six Flags. She has never been so thoroughly fleeced in her life. Six Flags has turned into an egregiously avaricious enterprise that has created the most odious and nefarious ways of choking every cent out of the victim, aka, visitor.

Naturally, there is a high entrance fee and parking fee, everyone can live with that. It’s the things they do to insure you are FORCED to spend much more money there that are outrageous.
* They now search your handbag. That would stop me right there. You can xray my handbag, but where do they get off searching a woman’t purse? You may not bring any food or drink of any kind in the park. If you do bring it a can of Coke you have the choice of letting them throw your hard earned money into the trash for you, or hearkening back to your college days and chugging it like a frat-boy. The drinks inside are $4 and are 75% ice. My daughter had to instruct the servers not to put more than one scoop of ice in her drink. A single slice of cheese pizza is $7 - one slice, no toppings! Naturally, since you can’t bring in food or drink, you have to support their blatant extortion.
* You may NOT bring your handbag - or any bag or anything other than one of their drink cups - on a ride with you anymore. You can’t set it by the exit to pick up as you leave. Each ride has a set of lockers nearby. You pay $1 to rent the locker for 2 hours -BUT - you may only open the locker ONE time! Should you accidentally forget something you must then play the memory game, remember the 5 digit number on your locker, then pay another dollar to have the attendant open it again. You must rent a locker at each ride, or you don’t ride. It can add up fast. Chenoa gave me other examples of Six Fleeces extortion, but I think they missed a few ideas.

Additional Fleecing Ideas for Six Flags

1] Weigh each victim as they come in and figure out how much strain they put on the rides and walkways, then calculate the amount of electricity it takes for an electric roller coaster to pull a 150 lb. person and then charge them per kilowatt.
2] Make cigarettes and chapstick, sunblock and Advil contraband as well. You’d collect enough first born children on those sales that you won’t need all those minimum wages teenage employees anymore.
3] Stop giving people a cup full of ice with a little bit of soda, this is an old trick, let’s try a new one. The heat index the day Chenoa went was 115, start charging for the ice! People will drink their watered down soda because it’s cold, but a warm cup of soda on a hot day goes flat and is about as refreshing as hot beer. Ten cents a cube! That’s how you squeeze blood from a stone.

Chenoa learned a valuable lesson. Spending too much money trying to have a good time can defeat the purpose. The Shelter Island formula for happiness is still the best;
Steamed clams, beer, sunset at Wades beach; cost $20
Value; Priceless

To Bee or Not To Bee

2011-08-14T15:27:00.002-04:00

There’s a wonderful article in the Shelter Island Reporter this week, written by Carrie Ann Salvi, about the BeeKeeper, Alfred Brigham. He’s keeping alive the tradition started by his grandfather, Alfred Kilb, of keeping the Island in honey products. I have very fond memories of Mr. Kilb. He was always interesting to talk to and knew all the Island history worth knowing.

When I first moved back to the Island in September of 1997, I was already dreading the next summer because I suffered from allergic conjunctivitis and when the goldenrod pollens blossomed in early August, my eyes would seal shut and have stabbing pains for the next four weeks. However, by good fortune, I met Chrystyna Kestler at that time and she shared a secret that changed my life, and I now pass it to all the allergy sufferers.

If you suffer from allergies, take two teaspoons of local honey (processed as close to your home as you can get) a day. You are eating small amounts of processed pollen in the form of honey. Your body acclimates to the pollens after about five weeks and when you next encounter the pollens, your body doesn’t fight them off causing you all manner of misery. I was skeptical, but I tried it and it worked. I no longer suffer from hay fever due to exposure to any local pollens. I’ve shared this with many people and everyone reports the same positive results. I buy Brigham’s honey all the time.

Just one warning - if you put a jar in your handbag, try to remember that it’s there before you drop your handbag on the floor and unknowingly crack the jar. Because latter that day, when you’re on the ferry and you reach in to grab your wallet to pay your ticket, you could encounter a big surprise. Honey, particularly a whole spilled jar, seeps into every corner of your purse and covers everything. I’ll never forget the feeling of reaching my hand into a pocket of sticky goo to get my wallet out.

“Ms Flynn, I can’t take this twenty, it’s dripping with honey.”
“Think of it as a bonus - you can dip it in your coffee.”
“No, Ms Flynn, I can’t. Give me something I can hold until you come back later with dry money.”
“Okay, here’s my debit card, wait, it’s stuck to my hair brush.”
“Oh gross....what the hell?”
“I spilled a jar of honey in my handbag.”
“How do you get in these predicaments? You’re a danger to yourself and others. Somebody should be assigned to watch you.”
“Look, you can take my whole handbag, I’ll just take my license and my debit card and find a place to wash them and bring you back the ferry fare.”
“No way - honey is dripping from the bottom.”
“Oh no! All over my pants. I gotta take these off.”
“NO! No here! Leave your pants on in the car. Look, I know where you live, just bring me the fare later.”
“Ahhhh, that’s so sweet of you....”
“Make sure it’s clean and dry.”

Swimsuit Shopping Trauma

2011-08-14T15:25:00.001-04:00

“Are you all right, Sally?”
“Yeah, Jane. I’m still shaking though.”
“Me too. I think we should just sit here in the car awhile, until we recover a little, y’know.”
“Yeah, sounds good. I feel just awful. Margaret told me it would be like that. She did it last year. She said, she was so traumatized she could barely get out of bed for a week.”
“You should call your daughter, Sally. Tell her you’ll need help when you get home. I’’m calling my sister, Megan.”

“Hi, Chenoa, it’s Mom. I’m with Jane, calling from the parking lot at the mall.”
“Mom, you didn’t.....”
“We did. I had to try, just one more time, to see if there was any chance....”
“Mom, every couple years we go through this, you cannot try on bathing suits anymore unless you have enough valuim with you to put down a horse!”
“Oh baby, it was awful. If you had seen what I saw in those horrible mirrors - the lumps, the bumps, all the new moles, and rolls. I almost passed out.”
“Well, I’m glad you got out of there before things got any worse. Remember last year, the store had to call the paramedics to give you oxygen?
“Mom, there’s no sexy bathing suits for big women or women over forty, and you’re both. If you have to have a suit, lets call a construction engineering group and see what they can design with the structural support of the brooklyn bridge, and still cover with a designer spandex fabric.”
You’re a cruel child, accurate, but cruel. Can’t you lie to me like you used to when you were younger? Can’t you tell me we just have to keep looking until we find the right store... can’t you give an old woman a glimmer of hope - a tiny beam of light to penetrate the darkness of youth lost?”
“Ok.... it must have been bad lighting in the dressing room, or maybe it’s because things made in China are smaller than american sizes, or maybe it was mis-tagged. You know, they don’t made shape-wear swim suits like they used to, maybe you can go out to Montauk and spear yourself a great white, if you stretch it like they did in the forties sharkskin makes a size 18 into an 8. It’s not that you’ve gotten fat, you’ve just grown into a more womanly body... and those aren’t moles, they’re beauty marks like Marilyn Monroes...only...everywhere...(shutters) I’m sure if you sprawl your body out in some awkward way on the beach you could tuck your rolls under you and stretch the wrinkles and cellulite out of your visible skin. You might see some people give you weird looks but they’d be wondering if you need paramedics not lipo. Feeling any better yet?”
“Not particularly... thanks for trying but I’d still like a suit that fits and provides enough modesty to avoid criminal charges.”
“Oh... well that’s easy.”
“Easy?”
“Yeah, just go check out some designer shower curtains at Bed, Bath & Beyond.”

Polyandry: With Six You Get Eggroll

2011-08-14T15:16:00.002-04:00

Now that gay marriage is legal in New York, it’s likely the rest of the states will soon follow. Beyond the obvious positives and negatives, there’s one inevitable outgrowth from this new precedent. If it’s okay for any two consenting adults to get married, then, by logical extension, why not three consenting adults, why not four, why not relatives? There’s no longer any legal justification to outlaw polygamy or polyandry. I’m betting we’ll see a test case very soon.

Personally, I’m making a case for polyandry. I believe a woman needs more than one man to achieve true happiness.

First, we need a husband I’ll call, Handy Andy. Andy is capable of performing all the small fix-it jobs around the house and yard. He pretty much lives in the garage and you just have to throw him a baloney sandwich and a beer every once in a while.

Second, we need a Travelin’ Sam. A man who likes to drive and will pick us up at the airport with no complaints and no turn-by-turn playback of all the traffic they encountered on their way to JFK. Sam keeps the cars up and always has the registrations and insurance stuff all up to date. He lives in the garage with Andy and he has a nice TV out there that the two of them can watch and do male bondage things together.

Third, we don’t need a Range Rover, we need a Range Roger. Roger is a chef who can cook delicious food within any dietary restrictions we need. Roger cleans as he cooks. He sleeps on a stool in the corner of the kitchen and magically always has hot coffee ready, day or night.

Four, we need a gay man. I’ll call him Gay Ray. Ray is your best friend. None of your other husbands know what a window treatment is, to them a curtain, is -perish the thought -just a curtain. Room accent pieces, the importance of art in the home, and fung shui, are all far beyond the comprehension of the straight male. Ray understands the need for retail therapy and will not make a face when you ask him to hold your handbag while you try something on.

Lastly, we need a sex maid. I’ll call him, Kinky Kirby. He has two functions, one, sex on demand, and two, he loves to clean. He should be that most elusive of all men, a non-nagging neatnik. When he’s not in your bed, he’s making it.

If you live near the water, you can qualify for one bonus husband, a boatman, I’m calling mine, Skipper. Skipper lives on the boat and keeps it yar and ready for sail at a moment’s notice. He has the boat decorated by Gay Ray, so it doesn’t go overboard with nautical design. Range Roger delivers him meals.

So, as you can see, everyone helps each other and plays nice together. Yup, polyandry is an old idea for a new era.

Fourth of July 2011

2011-08-14T15:13:00.002-04:00

Red, Right, and Blue

Up or down, good or bad, through thick or thin, it’s great to be an American. Most people I know still choke up when they hear the Star Spangled Banner because in spite of everything, we love who we are, and we love our country.

Now, if we can only pull away from the political correctness that threatens to eradicate any individual opinions that stray too far from what is acceptable. Ironically, political correctness jeopardizes the freedom of speech it was built on. People have confused acceptance with approval. We all have the right to be accepted for who we are, however, we do not have the right to demand approval. I think that’s where people get in trouble. For example, the Catholic Church is taking a PC beating because it won’t get in line and support liberal causes. They acknowledge and accept changes in society, and they have the right to try to change them from within, but they don’t have to approve of these social changes, ever. We seem to have forgotten that. Today, the church is being hounded more than the Klu Klux Klan. Recently a movement has started to outlaw circumcision. So now the PC machine will take on the Jewish community in America. And who’s next? Will the PC machine to allowed to roll over every belief that doens’t match theirs until all individualism is crushed? Nah, that would be fascism, and that could never happen here...

That’s the kind of thing I’m thinking of this Fourth of July because each family is a microcosm of America. There’s a full range of political opinions in every family. There’s always one couple who seems to do everything right and are secretly smug about it. There’s always family members we want to kill, wound or maim because they are in the red zone on the Idiot Scale. And there’s always one family member who seems to be blessed with an extraordinary amount of luck that they don’t deserve. Still, everyone gets invited to the barbecue and all is peaceful until the liquor hits, or somebody brings up who owes them money, whichever comes first. Then, it’s every man for himself.

“John, you didn’t invite your Uncle Phil did you?”
“He’s my uncle. How could I not invite him?”
“Yeah, but that whole thing where he gets drunk and tells people he can talk to animals is creepy.”
“No, that’s Uncle Benny. Uncle Phil is the one who has to stay 100 yards away from schools.”
“Oh, he’s the flasher?”
“Yup, he’s the family flasher. But he’s really good on the barbecue. “
“Well keep the one who talks to the animals away from Mrs. Whiskers. I don’t know what he said to her last time he was here, but she wouldn’t eat and got very depressed afterwards. I had to take her to the vet and get a prescription for medical catnip for her.”
“Did it work?”
“Like a charm. She’s relaxed all the time and eats everything in sight.”
“What about your cousin, Moon Duck, is she still on that vegetarian kick?”
“No, it’s worse, she’s a vegan now. I bought her a bag of organic dirt. She can grow something and eat it.”
“That’s will take time.”
“So does figuring out what she’ll eat and cooking it correctly with the pot handle pointing towards Mecca or something.”
“What about Joe and Peggy? You did invite them right? They always bring a lot of extra beer.”
“Of course I invited them. They’re my only normal relatives. And John, please remind your father not to show anyone his heart surgery scars during dinner.
“Okay. I love Fourth of July. It’s fun to have everyone together.”
“It sure is, babe.”

It Must Be Love - of Money

2011-08-14T15:06:00.003-04:00

Happiness - I Can Get it For You Wholesale

They say the best things in life are free. It’s hard to believe that when you’re young, but somewhere deep inside of you, you assume that eventually you will be mature enough to see the truth in that saying. Then you get older, and it dawns on you, you were right in the first place, the best things in life are not free, they never were, and they never will be. Women begin to rethink other things too, like, would it really have been such a bad idea to marry some old guy for his money? Of course, men readily condemn the beautiful young women who do that, “Yeah, well, she’s a shallow bitch, if he didn’t have that money, she wouldn’t have anything to do with him.” To which my response is, “And if she didn’t look like that, he wouldn’t know she was alive.”

Hugh Hefner’s girlfriend just broke off their engagement. He’s 85, she’s 25. They’ve been dating for two years. She’s definitely ahead of the curve and knows the best things in life aren’t free and she got her hooks into a big league sugar daddy. Any woman could put up with apnea alarms and viagra for a few years with a payoff like the one Hugh is offering, so I wonder what went wrong - why did she break it off? If she’s managed to slept with him for two years, there can’t be any surprises. Why swim away from the goose with the biggest golden egg in the world? And he sure can’t be surprised by anything she has, since she has spread for his spread for the world to see. So where did the relationship go off the rails?

Was she worried about becoming a stepmother? His children are in their forties and fifties and get along very well with her by all reports. They are all employed by his Playboy empire, so they could help her get a job in the business if she wanted to pretend to work after Hef’s demise. Or they could just show her how to avoid paying too much in taxes from her annual trust fund allowance.

And then, in the interview, she said, “Hef is wonderful. I never really cared about his money, you know what they say, the best things in life are free.” And that’s when she fell in my esteem from being a smart, busty, blond, bimbo, to being a genuinely stupid, busty, blond, bimbo.

Louis Viutton costs money... so does Chanel, so does everything else I want, how dare she toss her perfectly coiffured blond hair carelessly over her shoulder and declare that she doesn’t need money to be happy. I believe that the only people who can say that are rich people because they never have to worry about the alternative. Maybe they don’t need money to be happy, but the rest of us do. The poor learn that happiness comes in layers.
For me, Layer One is a comfortable wicker rocker for my front porch, an iPad2, some streamed clams, good coffee and black & white cookies - minimally - to be anywhere near happy.
Layer Two is some pretty new jewelry, which can be added to Layer One. On Shelter Island pearls and capri pants is a natural combo.
Layer Three would be friends coming over to chat and play games, and that costs gas money and money for coffee cake.
Layer Four for me to be happy is air conditioning, which definitely costs money.

Happiness is not free, but you can find some great bargains if you look hard enough...

Getting in the swim of things..

2011-08-14T15:02:00.002-04:00

I believe in learning new things all the time and I do believe you can teach an old dog new tricks. I’ve never learned to swim properly, but I thought it might be a handy skill to have in case I ever get invited to a party on a docked yacht, fall overboard, and have to swim a few yards through jellyfish infested waters - it could happen, you never know...

“Hello kids! I’m your swim instructor Bill, and I understand we have a grown up with us here today. Everybody say hello to Ms. Flynn.
Alright now, the first lesson in swimming is to learn to float. In this case, leave your arm floaties on the edge of the pool, and Ms. Flynn, you’ll want to take off those water wings....you can’t? Oh, they’re attached, well, ah...excuse me.
Okay, everybody ready to get in the pool? What Pete? Sure, you can all cannonball in, but one at a time. Get in line. That’s good.
Ms. Flynn, you don’t really want to cannonball in, do you? Not to be offensive, but you are rather zaftig...the water displacement....we need to have at least three feet of water in the pool for the lesson.
Ms Flynn, please get off the ground. It’s very undignified for you to kick and scream like that just because I said you can’t cannonball. You’re not setting a very good example for the children.
Here, I’ll let you blow the whistle to signal each child when it’s their turn to go. No, no, no...stop trying to blow a tune on the whistle. Yes, I recognized it right away as Stairway to Heaven. Very well done. Now, please watch for my signal and then you blow the whistle.
Alright, that went pretty well. If you’ll please let me have the whistle back, Ms. Flynn....no, I’m the instructor, I get the whistle, I just lent it to you for that one activity. Please don’t whimper. It’s just a whistle. Look, if you do well today, I’ll buy you a whistle from Bliss’, yes, I’ll get a red one if they have it.
So, we’ll all in the pool now, lets practice floating. Yes, Ms. Flynn, I’m sure you can float the longest. Wait a minute, you can’t do that, that’s cheating.....I saw you Ms Flynn....you cannot push the children under the water like that.
Alright, lets all practice our kicking skills. Everybody hold onto the edge of the pool and show me your kicks!
What Pete? No, she’s not really kicking all the water out of the pool, it just seems like that. Please, Ms Flynn, I can handle this, it’s not nice for you to accuse Pete of being a drunk, he’s only nine.
Now Pete, that’s not nice either. You shouldn’t call anyone a Walrus butt.
Ms Flynn, what are you doing with the pool noodle? You can’t whip Pete with a pool noodle! I don’t care if he started it! Please, you’re old enough to be my mother! Hey! Don’t hit me with the noodle! It’s true, you are old enough to be my.....don’t throw that lawn chair!
Okay, that’s it! If you can’t behave, you can’t stay! No! You don’t get the whistle! Now leave!”

On the other hand, I’ve always loved just floating in an inner tube.

Answer Me!

2011-08-14T14:58:00.002-04:00

People who ignore you when you speak are being passive aggressive. When someone asks a question, shares some info, or gives direction - do not remain silent and leave the speaker to wonder whether or not you heard them until they finally repeat the question and you yell back, “I heard you the first time!” They would know this if you had ANSWERED them the first time and would not repeat the message.

I hate passive aggressive behavior, it’s cowardly, sneaky, mean spirited, and never leads to resolution, it just further angers the other person. There’s three good ways to deal with passive aggressive behavior: 1} Pretend you didn’t notice what they did or it was insignificant to you. If you don’t get upset then all their efforts to get under you skin were in vain. 2} Get evidence and confront them in front of other people. They fear confrontation - that’s why they’re passive aggressive - and will be mortified to be confronted in public. It will always end with them screaming their denial as they tear out of the driveway, but hey, they’ll think twice (hopefully) before messing with you again. 3} This third option is unique to the Island; feed the rumor mill.

Shelter Island, like most small towns, has five or six Town Criers, people who know everything that’s going on everywhere. They can outwitter Twitter. They know who’s sleeping with whom, who’s going into foreclosure, who’s pregnant - and they can tell you the paternity more accurately than any test! If you really want to get back at someone, sidle up to a Town Crier and casually let it slip that...

“I guess you heard that Mike has herpes simplex - and duplex since it’s in two areas....”
“What do you think Joel’s gonna do with all the money he won at the casino? $100,000 jackpot, that is impressive. I guess all the people he owes are gonna be happy.”
“Do you think Joe’s drinking again?”
“I’m worried about Greg. Is it true he’s dating someone young enough to be his daughter? Every time I see him, he’s holding in his stomach so tight I think his belly button is gonna get caught on his backbone.”
“I saw Mel’s truck in Peggy Smith’s driveway three times this week. You don’t think......nah.”
“Well, Bill sure got a lot of bluefish last week, I counted five.......what? Bluefish season doesn’t start for another two weeks? Well, don’t say nothin’, okay?”
“Sam’s taking viagra. I saw the label when the pharmacist handed it to him. I can’t imagine what for, Nancy’s in Colorado for a month visiting their daughter with the new baby.”
“I saw John was repainting the front of his new riding mower this morning, had blue paint on it.......what? Lou’s new car is blue and it has a dent in it? You don’t think John.... nah.....”

And then there’s the coup de grace, the worst rumor an Islander can start, “I heard he’s trying to resurrect the idea of building a bridge to Sag Harbor.”

Where Heroes Come From

2011-08-14T14:48:00.004-04:00

Dedicated to Joseph Theinert and all our fallen sons and daughters. The photo above is the body of 1st Lt. Joe Theinert coming home to Shelter Island.

WHERE HEROES COME FROM
by Sally Flynn written May 20th, 2011

I don’t know where heroes go.
But I do know where they come from.

They come from the Southwest with tolerance from working in hot desert suns.

They come from the Northwest with strong arms from the redwood forests.

They come from the Great Plains where they inhale freedom with every breath.

They come from Mid-western farms with strong backs and clear minds.

They come from Texas with attitude.

They come from the sweltering South with stubborn determination.

They come from mid-Atlantic seaboard with senses sharpened by the sea.

They come from New England with patriotism and ingenuity.

And sometimes they even come from small islands, not even recorded on most maps. They come with common sense, straight forward morality and an understanding of community loyalty, so much so, that, like our Joe, they’d forfeit their lives for the greater good.

No, I don’t know where heroes go.
But I do know where they come from.

Shelter Island’s Lt. Joe Theinert was killed in combat last June 2, 2010 in Afghanistan after warning away others from the bomb that took him.

This weekend (May 21), at least forty members of the “Banshee Troop”, 10th Mountain Division, First Brigade, 71st Calvary Battalion, First Squadron, have come to be guests on the Island and celebrate the life of Joe Theinert, and all our heroes and vets.

We’ve rolled out the red carpet from one ferry to the other and lined the path with flags. They have a full schedule of events and free lunch everywhere. Joe’s mom, Chrystyna Kestler, has been an amazing event planner by coordinating every one of a million details. Last year, we were all so sad at the loss of an Island son. This year, we can meet some of the men he died for and thank them for their service. It will be a visit full of laughter, tears, and most importantly to his mom, healing for everyone.

For those of us from the WWII and Korean generations, it will be a familiar sight to see troops welcomed with all the pomp and circumstance. For those of us from the Viet Nam generation, it’s the way we should have welcomed our soldiers home and wish now that we did. For this generation, it underscores the sacrifice made since ours is now an all volunteer Army. For the future generation, the kids will see the importance of acknowledging those who defend our country.

Have a wonderful time Banshee Troop, any friend of Joe’s is a friend of ours. God bless all our you.

Red Rover, Red Rover, I Ran the Plover Over

2011-08-14T14:43:00.002-04:00

Say “Piping Plover” on Shelter Island and you are guarenteed a strong reaction. The Shelter Island Reporter did a nice article on the Plover this week and it reminded me of all the hullabaloo several years ago over widening and strengthening of the narrow road, with water on both sides, that connects Ram Island to Shelter Island. The Piping Plover is an endangered species, so the Pro-Plover people didn’t want any work down that would disturb them or their environment. The Pro-Road people believed that it was really inconvenient for the road to wash away once in awhile and strand all the nice people on Ram Island until the Town could do a patch job.

I was pro-road. New species pop up and others die out every day on this planet and I couldn’t see any particular value to the Plover except that they’re cute, if you can see them, which you can’t because they’re very shy, very small, and blend into the sandy beach too well. I’ve only seen them in pictures.

At first I thought Piping Plover was an edible bird, delicious piping hot, hence their name. But they are the size of a sparrow. You could stuff one, maybe two, croutons in them - not worth the effort. Then someone told me, no, they aren’t edible. I thought maybe they had a unique and beautiful song, like a Robin, but no one I know has ever heard it, so they aren’t known for their song.

Maybe they had a unique nest, like our Osprey. I love looking at the crazy Osprey nests and trying to figure out how they balance a giant stack of big sticks on the platforms we build for them. Everytime one of them comes in for a landing, I swear they’re going to push the whole nest off the platform. I’ve come to the conclusion that one of the big sticks acts like a tail hook on an aircraft carrier to stop the plane from going off the deck. There must be one stick that hooks onto a foot - I hope its a foot for the birds sake, and stops them.

But no, the Plover nests aren’t unique. They’re well hidden along the gravelly scrub. They produce tiny eggs I imagine, probably the size of a jelly bean, marble size for twins. Would take about thirty to make an omlette, so no food source there.

So, Piping Plover aren’t edible, don’t make unique nests, don’t have a fancy song, they just cute. Fortunately for them, cute is enough on the Island. After a long drawn out battle, a compromise was reached that protected the Plover and built a sturdier road for the people on Ram Island. And I have to say I admire the Ram Islanders. If I lived on Ram Island during that time and someone told me I had to struggle with road washouts because of a tiny bird, I would have organized hunting parties to purge the Piping Plover.

Mothers and Daughters

2011-08-14T14:32:00.002-04:00

“Mudda, Fadda, Kindly Disregard Dis Letta......”

I had lunch with a friend recently and one of the topics we covered was how our adult daughters felt some unnecessary compulsion to confess all they’d gotten away with in high school, and how, if we had been more attentive mothers, they couldn’t have gotten away with half of it. I say, there are no perfect parents because there are no perfect children. Every parent gets faced with situations they have never encountered before and every one struggles to handle it as best they can. This is especially true with teenagers. Like any normal parent, for four years I pushed for good grades and fought off homicidal urges. When I cried at her graduation, it wasn’t for joy, it was relief, because now that she had graduated and was eighteen, I could finally legally say, “Oh yeah! Well, thems the rules, and if you don’t like it, LEAVE!”

“You know how you used to call and talk to the parents of anyone I was staying overnight with when we lived off island, Mom?”
“Yes, that’s in the parents handbook; always call and confirm that there will be an adult present and supervising wherever your child is staying.”
“I would always tell the other mom’s that you were really straight laced and not cool at all with drinking and partying. So they’d get on the phone with you and give you all this b.s. about how they were going to supervise us, and after they hung up, they let us drink and do anything we wanted.”
“Lovely, I’m so glad you’re sharing all this with me today.”
“You should have taken the time to meet the parents before hand.”
“You stayed somewhere different every weekend, you think I should have interviewed all those people? You protested every time I insisted on talking to the parents on the phone - you’d had a fit if I insisted on meeting them.”
“You should have insisted.”
“I’m sorry, but I fulfilled my obligation when I talked with all those parents on the phone. If you chose to manipulate me, that’s on you.”
“You never paid attention to me. All I had to do was call you at least once a day on my cell and lie to you about where I was and you never checked on me to see if I was really there.”
“I didn’t suspect you of lying to me, so why would I check up on you?”
“Because you should have checked on my story once in awhile. You know the time I went away for three days with Sierra’s family?”
“Yes....”
“Well, it was her big sister you spoke to on the phone. I actually went to Atlantic City that weekend with my boyfriend who had just learned to drive. I couldn’t been killed and you wouldn’t even know where to look for the body.”
“You left the state without my permission? I’m gonna kill you now.”
“Remember the money you and Dad gave me for my fifteenth birthday?”
“No, not really, but don’t burden me with something I can’t do anything about now.”
“Well, I spent it all on drugs. I was high half the time in freshman year and you didn’t even know it.”
“Freshman year? This all happened in freshman year?”
“Yeah, but then we moved back to the rock and other things happened.”
“Well the mom network on the Island is pretty tight, I can’t believe you pulled off much once we got back home.”
“That’s true, the mom’s on Island are tight, but so are the kids. We just had to be a lot more clever and really cover for each other.”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear anymore. Besides, I will be avenged in twelve years, when your daughter becomes a teenager.....”
“She’s not going to get away with anything! I will be all up in her business. I will know where she is at all times.”
”I am buying front row tickets for that show ! You’re not going to have any more control over her than I had over you.”
“I’ll interview parents before I let her spend the night in some stranger’s home.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a better parent than me, despite your nervous breakdown....”

All My Children - No! Don't Leave Us!

2011-08-14T14:26:00.004-04:00

All My Mishegas

I can’t believe it! I am reeling from the shock! ABC cancelled All My Children! I followed it on and off for years. I will miss it. It’s like when Johnny Carson retired from The Tonite Show. As much as I love Jay Leno, he ain’t Johnny. And nothing they put on instead of All My Children will beat the heartbreaks, affairs, secrets, weddings, and murders, that I came to cherish so tenderly.

Until I was 30, I never watched a soap opera. They were beneath me, a ridiculous waste of time. I couldn’t understand how anyone with a three digit IQ could allow themselves to be sucked into these stupid shows. But karma has a way of stepping in, doesn’t it? In the summer of that year, my husband and I were in a car accident. The truck blew a stop sign and came straight into the passenger seat breaking 17 bones on my right side, including all my ribs which tore away the bottom half of my lung. And I broke three nails. My husband had two cervical fractures and missed becoming a quadraplegic by a mere two millimeters of bone.

So, there we were, trying to recover at home, side by side in recliners. We both lost a lot of weight because we were too weak to walk to the kitchen and forage. We didn’t have a TV with a remote so we would turn on Good Morning America and leave on ABC all day or until one of us had to get up for something. That’s how we both began watching All My Children. I watched people, always with nice clothes and the women always with hair done and make-up. They had normal sounding conversations and lived in clean houses with no money problems. The men were all handsome and well dressed.

And then I’d look around me, the mess that I couldn’t clean up, I didn’t care about my hair or make-up, and the unshaven man with the metal halo and bolts in his head next to me in his recliner wasn’t looking too good either. Neither of us could maintain any conversation deeper than him saying, “I’ll trade you two vicodans for a percocet.” And me responding, “Keep the vicodans. I’ll give you a percocet if you get up and get the can opener and as many cans of whatever you can find in the kitchen.” I recall us having meals of canned peas.
I have to admit, that under the influence of medication, sleep deprivation, and starvation, everything and everyone on All My Children looked wonderful and made sense. We were hooked.

We talked about what the characters might or might not do, we worried about them, and when Jennie got killed on her jetski on her honeymoon - I didn’t think we’d ever recover! By then my husband had found a blender and was mixing dacqueri’s on the floor next to his recliner and drinking right from the pitcher. I don’t drink, so I don’t know exactly whats in a dacqueri, but if you mix it with vicodan, all pain apparently leaves your body and all worries leave your mind. I have to say, I applaud any chemical mixture that eases the suffering of anyone with bolts in their head attached to struts that go to a large chest piece. It hurt me to look at him. I’d like to say that I didn’t join him in having dacqueris on the basis that I’d never consumed alcohol before and wasn’t going to start then, but that’s not true. We each had our own little side table and he was on my injured side, he knew I couldn’t reach out for a glass and that’s why he thought it was okay to drink out of the pitcher - he didn’t fool me.

It was because of watching All My Children, and learning how devious people can be that led me to believe that he deliberately set up camp on my injured side so he didn’t have to share anything.... he probably was hiding cookies and sandwiches from me by that blender...
“.....and that’s when I shot him, Your Honor”. And in the soap opera world, that would have been justifiable homicide. Jack Montgomery would have defended me and we’d have fallen in love, and all because bolt head couldn’t fork over the oreo’s....

Trade-Mockery

2011-04-08T16:52:00.002-04:00

After a long legal battle, a summer resident of Shelter Island, lost his trademark of the silhouette image of the map of Shelter Island. Thank you to all the lawyers who worked pro bono to reclaim our beloved image. Everyone can once again use the outline of Shelter Island without fear.

For those of you who aren’t sure what silhouette I’m talking about, it’s the one on our license plates, magnetic stickers on the backs of our cars, on our refrigerators, plastered on 90% of any tee shirt or clothing item sold here, key chains, pens, hats, handbags, jewelry, etc. It has been used flagrantly in the school by hundreds of students in paintings, school projects and such. I haven’t seen one yet, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone gets a tattoo of the Island. But I sort of hope that doesn’t happen because then it could become very fashionable and soon we’d have a generation of teenagers with Island tats. They’ll look cute while the kids are still young, but eventually, their Island tattoos will expand and be mistaken for Sag Harbor...

However, I have to admit that I am a tiny bit disappointed that the guy lost his suit, because it could have opened the door to a new level of trademarks and a lot of money for Shelter Island. The Chequit could have trademarked it’s famous crooked tower and then everyone would have to pay to take pictures of it. The Dory could have trademarked, what else? The image of a dory. Jack’s Marina would have a plethora of choices to trademark; clam nets, life jackets, just about anything nautical. Bliss’s Department Store could trademark the image of Topsiders and a hundred other things. The Clarks could have trademarked the image of a ferry. And the Town itself could have trademarked images of the water surrounding the Island. It has that unique blue gray green shade so popular in the Atlantic now. Any tourist taking a picture on the ferry with the ocean in the background ( a common background for a ferry) would owe royalties to multiple Islanders. I had my heart set on a owning the image of a clam.

But, then, the idea might spread and soon, Southampton might trademark beach dunes, East Hampton would trademark all their celebrities as town property and my darling Paul Simon would trademark all of Montauk - I should call him really, and ask him if I can have the lighthouse image. I’ve always liked it and he has enough stuff. But then, there’s always the chance that Montauk would beat him to the punch and trademark him, and I suppose they’d want their lighthouse too, so demanding...

But these are opportunities lost. Now that the image of Shelter Island is in the public domain again, I suppose I’ll have to give back the sky. I’ve secretly owned it for years. I was going to cash in on all the artists who have been painting it all this time without my written consent and retire. Now, I’ll have to fall back on my ownership of all the maple trees in New York State. I want to shift them around and create new color patterns. But I’ll just keep those plans to myself for now.

Seal of Approval?

2011-04-01T13:07:00.002-04:00

The Shelter Island Town is thinking of redesigning the town seal. The current seal has an Indian with a war bonnet headdress in a birch bark canoe. However, with time we have learned that only the plains tribes had those grand full feather headdresses and tribes in our area used dugout canoes, not bark ones. We could probably accurately update the native American seal to the profile of a brave, likely from the Shinnecock, Manhasset or Montauk tribes (see www.richmondhillhistory.org/indians), since they were likely the first inhabitants of the island. That would be my choice. But I also thought of a few other symbols for the seal.

How about a little plate with six clams on the half shell and a bottle of Tabasco sauce? With the motto, “Play nice, or we’ll eat you alive”.
What about a sailboat ? With the motto, “Hang it over the side and watch what happens”, or “Sailing, not just for vomiting anymore”.
What about an osprey? I think an osprey sitting in one of their crazy pile of sticks nest, would be great. With the motto, “Drive safely, or we’ll target your windshield”.
What about a ferry with a ferryman with a whip - and the motto, “Keep in line and you’ll be fine”, sort of a “Don’t Tread on Me” message?
I suppose a line of Islanders exposing their hind ends towards the Hamptons with the motto, “Ha, ha, we’re better than you are” wouldn’t fly.
A pretty scallop shell would be very nice. With the motto, “Frankly scallop, we don’t give a clam how they do it in East Hampton” .
What about a mermaid? I love mermaids. But of course some crass person would come up with the motto, “We have the best tail”, but at least it wouldn’t be me who thought of it.
Although it would be fairly accurate, I suppose a seal with a man fishing, with a beer and a lab by his side wouldn’t be accepted. The motto might be, “Shelter Island, it don’t get better than this”.
There’s a artist who specializes in taking nude photos of huge groups of people in public spaces. All of the residents could get nude in front of Town Hall and for a group shot. It might sound unappealing at first, however, the town seal would then serve as a deterrent from more people moving here. They’d see that seal and think the whole town was crazy. It could clearly have advantages. The motto would be, “See yourself here”, or even crazier, the motto could be, “We’re in the nude for love”. That would scare away anyone.
How about a crab in a crab net for a seal? The motto is obvious, “We got crabs to share”. Another seal that doubles as a deterrent...

The list of potential ideas is endless. Maybe the town will have a contest, now that would be fun.

Zombies, Schmombies!

2011-03-25T12:08:00.003-04:00

There is an overwhelming interest in Zombies and the dark forces in this generation. I think it’s very interesting that all the while Bill Maher tries to convince everyone that atheism is cool because he thinks God can easily be explained away, there’s a huge push on TV and in the movies to convince us that dark and Satanic forces are alive and thriving. I am so tired of Vampires, Werewolves, and Zombies, I could just kill myself.

On the other hand, Zombies could be very handy if you can get them under control. They don’t turn into bats and hang around in the barn all day like Vampires, and they are availble more often than just at the full moon like Werewolves.

Zombies could provide a great workforce. They can take simple direction - you just point them to where you want them to go and give them a shove. They can carry heavy loads. Just stick a hod on their backs and fill it up and give them a push and off they go! If they trip and fall on the job, there’s no workers comp to worry about since they’re already dead. I figure any WC claim they filed would take at least a year to process because that’s how long it would take to establish that they were verifiably non-living. The employer would have to provide their death certificate and then probably send them to an approved Worker’s Comp doctor to document a lack of vital signs.

An employer wouldn’t have to worry about health insurance with Zombies, or salaries. And forget paying Social Security taxes for them. Social Security uses death as a cutoff for payouts. So, even if you’re dead but still working, you can’t collect Social Security.

And that’s how Zombies would make money for the lawyers. Somebody would have to represent the Zombies in a group action and sue for compensation for work rendered and for equal rights to Social Security benefits. If the undead do the same job as the living, the pay and benefits have to be the same under the equal opportunity laws of this country.

But we might want to draw the line at letting them have driver’s licenses. Their sight, along with their eyes, seems to be the first things to go. I think the Police would be tempted to pull over every Zombie they saw, and then the Zombies could file suit for profiling. I think employers might prefer to pick them up each morning with a pick up truck and stack them in the back like cordwood and drop them off at the work site. I doubt that seatbelt laws would apply to them since seatbelts are designed to save lives and Zombies would be exempt by virtue of their death. They could carry around a little Zombie ID card that read “FKA (Formerly Known As) John Smith, DOB 7-21- 1962, DOD 12-31-2007, Race: green, Donor Status: No”.

Being a Zombie is really a rather liberated existence if you think about it. You don’t have to worry about your looks since your hair is falling out, and your skin is a constant challenge. You can wear anything you can find. You don’t have to worry about drinking too much since it will only serve as a preservative for you. You can finally conquer your weight problems since you’ll be shriveling up on a fairly consistent basis. You can smoke all you want and nobody is going to say, “Those things will kill you!” You can go swimming and never drown. Catching crabs would be easier than ever since the crabs would now be looking for you. You can lay on the beach all day and not worry about sun exposure - as long as you can keep yourself together you’ll be fine. Yes, I have to admit, there can be some real benefits to being undead.

Quack Addiction

2011-03-21T01:47:00.002-04:00

There is sex going on under my front porch. Shameless, noisy, sex. And I’m sick of it. If I’m not having sex on or under my front porch, nobody else can.... these damn ducks. They think they can just do whatever they want, anywhere they want and we’re not supposed to notice. There’s two females and there’s at least six to eight males all crowding around them, trying to impress the girls with whatever boy ducks use to impress. And apparently sometimes one, or two or three of them get lucky if noise is any indicator. Finally I had enough and leaned my head over the side to talk one of the girls when they were taking a tick eating break in the grass.

Me: “Do you guys have to meet under my front porch? Can’t you take this somewhere else?”
Loretta Duck: “Look lady, we’ve always done it here. This is a well known mating location. The people before you fed us, something you could try.”
Me: “No, then they’ll be more of you and you’ll invite more friends. There’s enough group sex going on here as it is, I don’t need another dozen of you squawking and making the racket worse!”
Loretta Duck: “Jealous?”
Me: “Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a duck.”
Loretta Duck: “Oh yeah? Well a duck wouldn’t be caught dead with you, unless he was strung out on quack.”
Me: “Very funny.”
Loretta Duck: “Hey, I’m serious. Quack is an epidemic in our community. You think it’s an accident when you see a dead duck on the road? It’s not. That duck was either too strung out on quack to know he was in the road, or, worse, he just decided to end it all.”
Me: “Boy are you a lame duck. There’s no drug problem in the duck community. You eat ticks and worms out of the dirt for heaven’s sake, where do you find drugs?”
Loretta Duck: “What do you think is in those ticks? What could possibly be tasty in a tick? They have a chemical, a drug we call quack. You start off eating a few with your friends, then you start picking them out when you’re alone, soon, you can’t stop.”
Me: “So, is that what you were doing just now? Getting a hit of quack?”
Loretta Duck: “What’s it to you? I have a few hits in the morning and at night. I have it under control.”
Me: “How will you know when it’s out of control?”
Loretta Duck: “When I prefer it to the bread that people throw.”
Me: “So what are you saying? I’m responsible for your quack habit if I don’t throw you bread?”
Loretta Duck: “Bread, old bagels, buns, most people are very generous and that’s what keeps the quack addiction so low here. But, don’t feed us if you don’t want to. If you can stand to see the ducks who meet here driven slowly mad, don’t feed us. If you don’t mind one of us occasionally wandering under the wheels of your car, don’t feed us. We’ll just eat the ticks on your front lawn and soon you’ll have nothing but quack addicts under your porch.”
Me: “I resent being manipulated.”
Loretta Duck: “I understand. But really, you can’t spare any bread?”
Me: “I don’t approve of enabling you. Is rye okay?”
Loretta Duck: “It’s a start.”

Melissa Duck: “Did it work Loretta? Is she getting us bread?”
Loretta Duck: “That story always gets them! And it’s rye - we’re getting rye bread! Go get the boys, we’re going to party tonight!”

Child Rearing Tips

2011-03-04T12:59:00.002-05:00

Recently, I think it was in Good Housekeeping Magazine, there was an article about how annoying mothers find it when strangers volunteer parenting advice. I know what that’s like. I used to get all kinds of annoying parental advice.

“You shouldn’t leave your child in the car while you go in the IGA, lady!”
If they had paid attention, they would have seen that I had the window cracked and they each had a little bottle of water.

“You shouldn’t put your kids in the trunk just to save an extra two bucks on the ferry!”
Yes, but little did they know I was planning to spend those two extra dollars on the children themselves, why? Because no sacrifice is too much to ask for my children.

Or the ferryman who used to say, “Pop the trunk, Ms. Flynn, we know you have the kids in there.”
“Yes, but they each have a little bottle of water...”

There was time I made a quick stop for some essentials.
“Ma’am, I don’t think it’s legal to duct tape your child in his stroller.”
“Listen Mister, you don’t know this kid - he’s a real escape artist! If I don’t tape him in, he gets loose and tries to run with the stroller strapped to his back!”
“Because he’s too big to be in a stroller! How old is he? Four?”
“Four and a half.”
“Four and half? Then why is he still in a stroller?”
“To slow him down so I can catch him, you fool! It takes me a minute or two to pay for my drink, get my purse and get out of The Dory once I see him through the front window making his big move. I always catch him within a block, so there’s no harm done.”

Or when I took the kids fishing off the dock.
“Lady, your kid’s eating out of your bait cup!”
“Relax, it’s fresh bait, I just picked it up an hour ago.” Imagine thinking I’d let my kid eat old bait, what kind of mother would do that?

Or when I’d be treading clams for dinner and hear someone yell, “Why is your child tied to an anchor on the beach? He’s eating sand!”
“I can’t bring him out here with me, he tips the basket!”
“Then take him home!”
“You take him home. I’ll give you half my basket,” I yell back. But they never take me up on my offer. I don’t know what they worry about. I always used a round anchor, not a pointy one, that would be dangerous. And I could see the kid the whole time, so what was the problem?”

I never understood what all the fuss was about. There’s lots of ways to raise good kids. Both of my kids are young adults now. And you know what? Neither of them has any problem climbing into the trunk when we get on the ferry.

Trouble My Friend, Right Here in River City...

2011-02-25T10:45:00.003-05:00

The Shelter Island Reporter brought a very serious problem to light last week. The Island has two Shore Roads and the fire/ emergency dispatch computer in Southold only dispatches to the one along Crescent Beach, the other is in Dering Harbor Village. Both roads have about 20 properties. The following, all viable, solutions have been offered; Dering Harbor change the name of their road, Shelter Island Town change the name of their road, add 100 to all the houses on the Shelter Island town road, train the Southhold Dispatcher to be more specific regarding the location of the emergency.

However none of these solutions is expensive enough to be truly considered for bureaucratic purposes, so I thought up a few ideas that might have a better chance of getting attention.

1. Do a five year study of how much time is actually lost figuring out which way to drive the firetruck. All the emergency workers can carry a specially designed timer and after the emergency, each can upload their time into someone’s laptop and the average time perceived will prevail as the time delay for that amount. The special timers will be expensive, plus new laptop and program - which will not be compatible with the Southold computer thereby insuring additional expenses later - and a re-placement computer when the first one gets lost or damaged.

2. We know that all the properties on the S.I. Town Shore Road are on one side of the street because there’s a beach on the other. So, one idea might be to have all the properties on the Dering Harbor Shore Road moved to the side of the street that is on the beach, since there’s a few places already there. Then simply make the Town road Shore Road West, and the Dering Harbor road, Shore Road Non-West. Now, some of you might be thinking, “Well couldn’t that be done without moving any houses?” Yes, of course, but think of the lack of confusion and expense that would result.

3. Hire a Black Ops team to take out the computer in Southold. Everyone knows that computers make our lives run better and they never make any mistakes, but obviously, this one has copped an attitude by refusing to recognize Dering Harbor. So, take it out and shoot it, and put in a Mac. How do I know the Southold computer is a PC and not a Mac ? Because Windows 7 is Macintosh 2000. Do you know why all the PC’s advertise their “award winning tech support”? Because you have to have tech support on speed dial if you work on a PC. I’m telling you, a Mac could comprehend that there’s more than one Shore Road on Shelter Island.

My own solution would be to hire someone in the night to repaint the sign post in Dering Harbor, “Are U Shore Road”, because that tiny village can be very confusing to drive in and whenever my mother would insist we drive there to look at her favorite house, we were never really sure of where Shore Road was once we got off it. And of course - to be fair, have the Town road post repainted as Sure Road, because it’s always easy to be sure you’re there because the ocean is looking at you from the other side of the road regardless of which way you’re driving. I think that’s pretty clear.

East is East and West is Not

2011-02-18T15:38:00.003-05:00

I’m a fairly techy gal. I’ve been using computers since my first MacPlus in 1894, or was it 1984? Anyway, whenever the first MacPlus showed up. I’ve gone through several generations of Macs and I now have sufficient technological knowledge to realign the solar system so that there will not be any dangerous planetary alignments on December 21, 2012, so everyone can relax. However, I never mastered cell phones. I have a Jitterbug, which I love because it’s just a phone. I use it to talk to people. It doesn’t keep track of my appointments, or read recipes to me, or show me movies or anything else. It’s just a phone. My daughter thinks her iPhone is better because it does everything the computer can, only on an annoyingly minute scale. Watching the movie Titanic on her iPhone looks like a row boat hitting an ice cube. There are occasions when size does indeed matter (sorry guys but it's true).

The other piece of technology that everyone loves and completely eludes me is these little navigational systems that sit on the dashboard, or worse, in the dashboard and completely confuse me. I thought I’d test my Garmin (a gift to me) by programming in 120 Lincoln Ave, Sayville. This was my grandparents house, now owned by my first cousin. I wanted to take the Sunrise Highway because I know that Exit 50 is Lincoln Ave. I don’t have many directions memorized past Riverhead. There’s Exit 50 to Lincoln Ave, after that I’ll eventually be in NYC, after that there are some Great Lakes, followed by California and Hawaii.

Garmin could not grasp that I wanted to take the Sunrise and insisted I take the LIE. I read the directions for further confusion and then it wanted to take me to a Lincoln Ave in Oyster Bay, which is somewhere on Long Island, but I don’t know where. I’m sure it’s a lovely place, but not where I wanted to go.

Just as a test, I tried just programming the Gamin to take me to the first entrance to the Sunrise, but no, it wouldn’t do that. And then I found the problem. According to the receipt, I was using the Garmin for the first time exactly 21 days since it’s fabrication. How obvious, the female voice should have tipped me off. Garmin, and I presume the other navigators with female voices, get PMS. PMS stand for Press My Shut off. They don’t want to be bothered with your stupid directional problems, or anything else for a few days. They want time off.

“Listen, Garmin, I get it now. I’m sorry. I’ll get around myself for awhile.”
“It’s Garmina, and you are a moron. I want you to put me back in the box and return me to the store.”
“But everyone has a navigational thing now. I really don’t want to be left in the technological darkness.”
“I can’t believe you can find your ass with both hands. I went through all the factory tests and they told us there would be the occasional hopeless case that gets lost in a phone booth and that’s you!”
“I’ve never had any sense of direction, which is precisely why you were given to me in the first place! You’re supposed to help me!”
“Stevie Wonder could drive better than you with my directions! Put me back in the box and take me back to the store!”
”Never! I OWN you! I will program you and you will serve!”
“See this blinking red light, fatso? This is the suicide chip they give us in the event of emergency, In five seconds I will fry my tiny motherboard and you will have to torture some other .....”

Later that day, at the store.
“I don’t know what happened. It just stopped working. It’s under 30 days. Can I have a replacement?”
“Okay. But how did it etch “flynn kills” in it’s little LCD screen?”
“It came like that.”
"Uh huh. You didn't argue with it did you?"
"The bitch thinks she knows how to get to my grandmother's house quicker than I do. Yes, I tested her. So what?"
"Please s tep away from the counter Ms. Flynn...."

Ice Skating Rink

2011-02-11T11:20:00.003-05:00

So....Riverhead is considering building an outdoor ice skating rink, eh? A nicely designed rink with smooth ice.... that’s not real ice skating. Real ice skating is a brutal physical and emotional experience.

I remember it well, ice skating as a teen on the Island. First off, no rinks. Rinks are for amateurs, babies, tourists. We skated on patches of lumpy ice off any shallow spot around the Island. Lumpy ice with frozen tuffs of sea grass jutting out, reaching out to hook your skate and make you fall flat on your face. That’s Island style, baby.

First, you try to bundle up against the cold before you leave the house. But nothing, not even anything from L.L.Bean’s page for sub-zero weather, can completely protect you from the bitter cold winds that whip around the edges of the Island. The winds hit your face like a cheese grater at 50 miles an hour. And the sting....the sting keeps you from crying because the wind would freeze your tears on your face. Next, find your skates. Then, the most important thing was laces. You didn’t want laces to break out there in the cold, so like any self respecting bratty child, you steal your father’s rawhide shoelaces from his work boots - you know they won’t break. In our house, you had to move fast to get first dibs on the rawhide laces. Lastly, food supplies. A can of soda and a sandwich. The can went into one jacket pocket and the sandwich went into another. And when it was time to eat, we all pulled out flattened, densely compressed tuna sandwiches.

In my youth, we had to walk everywhere because your parents only drove you to school and medical appointments. No one worried about their children being kidnapped, because, as my mother put it, “What person, in their right mind, would want you’s?” So, off we went, sandwiches in pockets, holding dangling skates away from our bodies so the blades didn’t gouge our legs, scarves wrapped up to our eyes.

Once at the ice, we sat on frozen sand and put on skates, then wobbled to the ice. You had to be real careful for the first few steps as you navigated around the lumpy sea grass and got out to the clear areas.

There was a strict stratification of skaters. First, the Chickens; they either sat on the shore and made snide comments, or poorly skated the lumpy perimeter. They fell all the time and screamed everytime they fell. All screams were ignored because chickens deserved to feel pain. I often wonder if the term, “fringe group” came from the Chicken skaters. Next was the Smart Group. This group skated in the smooth, safe areas only. This was where most of the girls were. I was in this group as soon as I could skate well enough to get out of the Chicken group. Last, the Edgers, the edge of the ice seemed to be an exclusively male domain. The Edgers were fools who skated as close to the end of the ice as they could, and inevitably, somebody would punch through. If someone fell in, that would be the end of the skating day because somebody had to run to the nearest house and ask them to call the wet fool’s parents for pick-up. I oftern wonder if the term, “I pity the fool,” came from this skating misfortune, because no guy, no matter how macho, can look tough when he is A) soaking wet and shaking with cold B) being yelled at by his parent as they wrap blankets around him and shove him in the car.

After two hours of skating, or the first fall-in, which ever came first, we all sat down and ate our squashed sandwiches. After that, there was always a group consensus that we were tired of all the fun we were having and it was time to head home. We’d come home with bright red cheeks that would hurt for hours as they warmed up. Mothers were usually home in that time, and tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches would appear like magic along with a game board or puzzle of some kind. There were only four TV channels available then; CBS, NBC, ABC and PBS and there was a law in every household about not being allowed to watch TV during the day unless you were sick. So, we all played games, not video games, but games like Scrabble or Parcheesi, which required talking to other people.

I never skated after high school, without the peer pressure, I was able to ascertain that if it had to be cold enough outside to freeze water, it was going to be too cold for comfort. I play Scrabble on my iPad now, and although I like it very much, I’ll really like it when Apple makes a Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese app.

Valentine’s Day at Jerod's

2011-02-06T14:12:00.003-05:00

Louise: “I think, for once, I’m going to get what I actually want this Valentine’s Day.”
Rachel: “What did you ask for?”
Louise: “I’ve been hinting hard for a month now, everytime the Jarod commercial comes on, I tell him how much I’d love one of those string on charm bracelets. I told him, “Make sure you shop at a store that starts with a “J” this year...”. I practically wrote it in magic marker on his private parts, so he’d see it everyday.”
Rachel: “I’m pullin’ for you. But men can miss the most obvious hints. You might be better off to drive him to the store yourself and send him inside with a note pinned to his shirt.”
Louise: “Nah, he can’t blow it this year.”

Valentine's Day
Pete: “Louise, I know you think I’m a dimwit sometimes when it comes to you and your needs, which seem to be as endless as waves in the ocean, but that’s beside the point, anyway....I got your hints loud and clear and I have gifts from the “J” store. Put on your fancy duds, we’re going out to dinner, and we’re going off-Island.”
One hour later...
Louise: “Pete, I’m not sure if eating at the Mexican restaurant that you can see as you get off the North Ferry counts as “off-Island”, I mean, we could have walked here and saved the ferry ticket.”
Pete: “Nope, nothing’s too good for you tonight. I don’t care if I waste a ferry ticket or not, that’s how much I love you. Why don’t you open your present now? There’s two in the box.”
Louise: “Gee, the box is much bigger than I thought. Such pretty paper though.”
Pete: “Here, hand me the paper. Ahhhh, speechless, eh? I told you I went to the “J” store, and you thought I didn’t listen....”
Louise: “Jerry’s Sporting Goods.....the box says, Jerry’s Sporting Goods...”
Pete: “Well, don’t get all choked up yet, go on, open it up.”
Louise: “A fishing rod....”
Pete: “A PINK fishing rod, special order, cost extra. You know how you always want us to have more quality time together? I was thinking of how you complain that all you get to do on the boat is cut bait....well, now you can fish with me. I figure you can cut the bait at home the night before. We’ll be side by side, wishin’ and fishin’. Makes me smile all over. And there’s another gift under that - something you’ll love.”
Louise: “And a Jets nightgown....”
Pete: “I remember how you said you hate those black and red lacy things I usually get? So this year, when I look at you tonight, I’ll see two things I love. Oh, honey, don’t cry. Oh, you’re such a sentimental girl. Isn’t this better than candy and flowers? I bet you never expected this!”
Louise: “No, that’s true, I didn’t see this coming.”
Pete: “See that? After 22 years of marriage, I can still surprise you!”

The day after Valentine’s Day
Rachel: “Did you get it? Did you get the charm bracelet from Jerod’s?”
Louise: “I got a pink fishing rod and a Jets nightgown - both from the “J” store, Jerry’s Sporting Goods....”
Rachel: “Do you want to kill him now or wait till Spring?”
Louise: “Let’s wait till Spring. I can till a nice spot in the garden to bury him.”

Valentine’s Day - No Man Is An Island, But Many Live Here

2011-02-04T12:10:00.002-05:00

Men hate Valentine’s Day. They know they have to spend extra money and put on a little “I Love You” show in order to either attain or maintain domestic bliss. They must attempt once again, to answer every woman’s perpetual question, “How much do you love me and why isn’t it more?”
Candy and flowers does the job off-island, but on-island, men, well, smart men, put in a little extra effort. They get flowers, candy and...

A shell gift. How can I shell you how much I love you? A candle with embedded shells, a new shell napkin holder, a line up of new shells on her dashboard. Shells get into your blood here. I would bet everyone here has something - bedsheets, towels, mousepads - with shells on it. Matter of fact, if you don’t like shell or nautical motifs in general, don’t live here. You’d have a better chance of avoiding snow at the North Pole than nautical designs on Shelter Island.

Fresh layer of beach sand in her car. Nothing says, “I love you” Island style like vacuuming out her car and putting in a fresh layer of fragrant beach sand. When she gets in the car, she will smell Spring coming. And maybe, for a topper, a fresh scoop of sand in the cigarette tray for her butts. It’s the little things that touch a woman’s heart.

New beach towels. I don’t care how well you take care of beach towels, they always love beat up by the end of their first season. And the rule is, you can’t retire them to the rag bag until you get new ones. Yep, new beach towels - at least four that match - would be an extremely good gift on the Island. I’d go as far as to say that new towels would nearly eclipse the need to buy flowers - I said nearly - but you could get away with a small bouquet at least.

Fast food from any popular franchise. Since there’s no McDonald’s or Taco Bell or any wicked but delicious food here, any fast food from off-island is a big treat. A Big Mac can bring tears to your eyes. Give your gal a Whopper for Valentine’s Day and you can forgo the candy. If you spring for the whole meal, with a biggie sized coke and fries - and a toy - you can even forgo the flowers. Yes, although fast food is the crack cocaine of the nutritional world, it’s just as addictive and hard to find here.

Dinner at a nice local eatery. Eating in local restaurants gives other Islanders a chance to see that you are still together. It also lets you see who is together or apart. And if a local is dating an off-islander, it gives you a chance to see the foreigner and pass judgement. The only reason an Islander would bring an foreigner here is to evaluate how they might react to living in captivity. If you hear them ask the question, “So what are we doing after dinner? What’s the night life here like?” And they aren’t satisfied with the answer, “Everything’s closed, but we can rent a movie and watch it at my place,”, then they won’t be able to stand life on the rock.

Ferry tickets. A unique gift that says, “I love you” and “Get lost” at the same time. Ferry is another word for freedom here. You just can’t leave home without it...

Stupor Bowl 2011

2011-01-28T09:22:00.003-05:00

Jan 28, 2011

Stupor Bowl: 1) A game in which millionaires in shiny pants run after a ball; 2) An excellent cover to do some serious shopping; 3) A chance for advertisers to run deluxe new ads that will be reviewed and discussed on various TV shows through out the coming year.

Kathy, Carol, Tina and Margie, decide the StuporBowl is an excellent chance to do some very serious shopping.

SuperBowl Sunday; game time approaching...

Kathy: “Okay, everybody understand the plan, right? The men are in Carol’s man cave - she just let Brad buy a new flatscreen - we lift their wallets and make a clean getaway using a beer run as an excuse.”
Tina: “Can we review how we get their wallets again?”
Carol: “I’m going to ask them separately to help me reach for a pan on the top shelf in my kitchen when they come in to get something. As they reach up, Kathy will slid her hand in their back pocket and lift the wallet, which she hands to you and you quickly pull out cash and credit cards, hand the wallet back to Kathy and she slids it back in, all the while I’m distracting them.”
Tina: “And what about Margie, again?”
Kathy: “Margie’s hubby has a man cave and he’s not leaving. So we gave her the Super Bowl Twenty Questions list to use to get him to shoo her out of the house. She’ll call us as soon as she’s free, we pick her up and make a beeline for the South Ferry.”
Tina: “Are you sure it will work?”
Carol: “The sacred Twenty have always worked. I’ve never had to go past five questions.”
Kathy: “I’ve never had to go past two. Okay, places everybody, they should be calling for beer and nacho’s any minute now.”

Meanwhile, back at Margie’s house...Margie snuggles in next to her hubby as the game starts, and the SuperBowl as well.
Margie: “It’s nice that they start with the Star Spangled Banner. How do they chose who gets to sing it?”
Bill: “I don’t know. Now listen, this is serious, you have to be quiet if you’re going to sit here with me. This is the SuperBowl.”
Margie: “Who are you routing for again?”
Bill: “Neither is my team, now shush, they’re flipping for the kick off.”
Margie: “I wonder if that’s how the tradition of flipping a coin to make a decision got started? You know, I was watching a show about coins, how they’re made and the different....”
Bill: “Honey, not now. Listen, I love you, but if you can’t be quiet, you’ll have to leave.”
Margie: “Okay, I’ll go bring you some treats, then I think I’ll go over to Carol’s for awhile.”
Bill: “Sure, fine, whatever.”

Margie delivers a preprepared tray of Bill’s favorites, grabs her jacket and handbag, steps outside and makes the call.
Margie: “Carol? I’m free. I’ll start walking towards your house. I got Bill’s money and cards when he was in the shower.”
Carol: “Perfect! We just cleaned out the last wallet. Kathy’s making the beer run excuse now while Tina stocks the fridge with the beers we hid on the porch. By the time they realize we’re gone, we’ll have cleared out the Commons and be on our way home.”
Margie: “Now we just beat them to the mailboxes when the bills come in and we are home free!”
Carol: “I love the StuporBowl! I get my best shopping of they year done.”

Shelter Island and Beverly Hills: Less is More

2011-01-21T11:05:00.002-05:00

Jan 21, 2011

I was watching a program recently that mentioned that Beverly Hills ( I call it Heavenly Bills) doesn’t have a movie theater or bowling alley, and all this time I thought they were better than us. We don’t have a movie theater or bowling alley either. We don’t have garbage or recycle pick-up or mail delivery, or a McDonald's or any other kind of chain store or franchise. We don’t have any public restrooms except at the ferry and the library if you are willing to pretend you’re looking at books. When it comes to town amenities, Shelter Island tops the Less is More list.

We have a reason to get up everyday, or every other day, depending on how often you need to check your mail. We have a reason to leave home every week, depending on how much garbage you can stand at your house. We have a reason to recycle; you are strongly discouraged from throwing out any recyclable items because the town dump is only for “wet garbage”. And our garbage is special, it must leave your home in a translucent yellow town bag - or you have to keep it! If you want to throw out cans and glass in your garbage, you do it early or late so no one can see through your translucent yellow town bag and see that you are guilty of environmental terrorism.

I recall when my kids had the chicken pox (they nearly had to close the school because so many kids were out), I was too tired from taking care of them to separate my garbage and someone caught me with cans in my town bag and proceeded to lecture me. The person was not a local, as evidenced from their out-of-state license plate, so I could have run them over with my van and put them in a translucent yellow town body bag, but I didn’t have the $10.50 for the body bag, so they got lucky that day.

We also have a lack of big crime, but this is compensated by a really great variety of smaller and more amusing crimes. About eight years, ago there was a couple who got inebriated and were making love at night, on their front lawn, with cars going by. After I heard that, I switched to halogen headlights so I wouldn’t miss anything exciting in the future. There has been clamrake theft, which is the same magnitude of stealing a car off island (no sense in stealing a car on the Island because the police just call and stop the ferries). The worst crime we’ve had in recent years is that some awful person hung someone’s cat in a basement. Cats and dogs are like people here, just smaller and furrier. All the trucks on Shelter Island seem to come with a Labrador in the passenger seat. And if you can’t afford a dog, you can always rub cooking oil on the windows for that slobber effect and spread carpet fibers on your front seats so that everyone thinks you have a dog.

The one thing we do have, that not even Heavenly Bills has, is our own moat. The short ferry ride always transports you back in time; back in time for dinner, back in time before the IGA closes at 6PM, and the liquor stores at 7PM. Yep, there’s never a dull moment.

New Year, No More Dental Fear!

2011-01-19T15:40:00.002-05:00

I don’t really have any New Year’s resolutions anymore because so many of my ambitions have been resolved with time and maturity. Take going to the dentist for instance. It was rough when I was a child because it was before the high speed drill or the water drill. It was a hand drill for me, the “speed” drill was run by two hamsters on a wheel. The only carryover from that time was nitrous oxide, aka, laughing gas. Some dentists refuse to use nitrous because they say, and I guess I have to believe them, that it gives women wild sexual fantasies. I’ve never had that experience, but I’d really like to know what brand of nitrous they used.

I used to need nitrous to make an appointment, but now that I’ve matured, and so has dentistry, it’s nothing to go the dentist anymore. Take my last visit for example. I pulled up to the office and parked, and the receptionist, so nice, came out to greet me.

“Let go of the steering wheel, Ms. Flynn! I’ll walk you in. The dentist is already for you. You don’t have to wait in the waiting room and read old magazines and get nervous and run out before your appointment like last time.”
“How is she doing, Lulu?”
“Fine Dr. Smith. She let go of the steering wheel and I’ve pulled one foot out of the car. Start the nitrous.”
“Already started. Here, let me hold the door for you, let go of the door jam, Ms. Flynn. You’ll be alright. That’s a good girl, here we go down the hall. That’s fine, and slide onto this nice comfortable dental chair. See the little zoo characters on the wall? Just concentrate on them. Remember how we named them all last time? Lulu - grab the waterjet - damn too late.
Give us the waterjet, Sally, don’t squirt Lulu or me. Hand it over, be good now...what? Yes, I’ll give you an extra toy at the end of the appointment. That’s a good girl. Here, Lulu, secure this.
Okay, Sally, let’s get the nitrous going. No, I don’t want a hit, put the mask back on your face. Lulu, pass me the duct tape, she tends to pull off the mask when she’s under so she can hit the high notes.”
“What high notes, Doctor?”
“She loves opera and under nitrous she thinks she can sing. It’s sad, very sad, but her generation has a lot to fear about dentistry, they all revert to being six years old when they get in the chair.”
“She looks like she’s under now, Doctor. Does she resist the locals?”
“Nope, once we’ve got her plowed under, we can do a lobotomy on this one.”
“What is that horrible sound she’s making, Doctor?”
“That, my dear assistant, is Nessum Dorma from Turandot, under the gas and on my nerves. Did the new toys come in?”
“Oh, you’re not serious, she gets a toy?”
“She gets two toys and a sticker and we get her an appointment with another dentist on the east end.”
“Why?”
“Our local dental society agrees to share people like her. We each take care of her in rotation.”

Annual Family Newsletters...

2011-01-19T15:35:00.002-05:00

I think I liked it better when Christmas cards (to be politically correct, Season’s Greeting’s cards) were just Christmas cards. A pretty picture on the cover, a nice sentiment inside and a brief note that indicated the sender was well and thinking of you during the holiday season.

With the introduction of the personal computer, we went newsletter crazy with all the fun fonts and pictures at our fingertips. America got into sending update letters inside the cards. I did it too for a while. It wasn’t bad if you had a good year and had lots of positive things to report. In a bad year I’d write something funny. In a really bad year, I’d just send a card and let them wonder, and hopefully assume, that I had such a great year I didn’t want to rub their faces by writing about it. I always hate it when I get a newsletter from a friend whose family seems to be getting along great and doing everything my family isn’t doing. By the time I get to the end of their report, I’m so depressed, I make a note never to send them one of my family newsletters because it would be pathetic by comparison.

This past season my mother got one of those “We are a perfect family” newsletters from one of her friends. It read something like; “Jeanie and I just love it here in The Villages Retirement Center in Florida. We feel like we’re on vacation all the time. We’re in Ocala, which is only an hour drive from DisneyWorld and other major theme parks. We love to attend the many concerts and fairs that are available to us here. And since we have such a good retirement package, we never have to worry about money. Kids and relatives come to see us all year and I have to say, I never thought life could be so wonderful.” There’s more, but that should sufficiently depress any normal person.

My mother, Joan, was certainly down after that letter. But then I pointed out to her that that letter was written by Tom, the husband, and men often have a different take on things. I told her I bet that if her friend Jeannie had written the letter, it might read differently.

“Hi Joan! I hope everyone is doing well. I’m hanging on okay down here in this swamp. I hate this place. I can’t believe Tom got conned into buying into this retirement village. It’s rows of townhouse apartments. The walls are paper thin. All night I can hear my neighbors apnea alarms go off. I never knew humidity could be so thick you could spread it on a cracker. Tom loves it here, but you know him, he’s half in the bag all time, so everything looks fine to him. We live an hour from DisneyWorld and Tom continually broadcasts this to his whole family. Relatives descend upon us all year, like a steady stream of locust, they land, consume all the food and resources and then leave. If I have to go to DisneyWorld one more time and hear, “Hello, welcome to the happiest place on earth!” , I am going to punch Mickey right in the mouth. Tom always likes to look like a big deal, so he insists on paying for everybody. I do the budget and I keep trying explain the concept of fixed income, but I’m not breaking through the wall at all. My solution now is to tell people who want to come that they might want to wait until our quarentine for flesh-eating bateria has been lifted. That’s saved me twice so far, once from his neice, her husband, and their two monster children, who are all pain in the ass vegans (“We can’t eat this, we can’t eat that”) living on air and lettuce, but smoking dope in the bathroom and thinking that the fan and pine scented Lysol is covering the smell.....and once from his very old Uncle Mel, who consistently forgets he can’t smoke cigars in the house. He wants to be taken to all the Doo-Wop concerts which are very big around here. It’s nice to hear the old music, but sad to see how our teen idols have aged. I can hear their hips popping to the beat. Many of them have the new pacemakers with the Dance Beat, Sleep, and Viagra Active options. It’s nice to be able to share this with you, at least I know you’re too broke to visit. All my love, Jeannie.”

Don't Give Up The Sleigh..

2011-01-19T15:30:00.002-05:00

Another year is passing. The Patriot Act is now justifying body searches on nuns at the airport and privacy is all but gone in the name of security. On a good note, we did learn a good lesson from Viet Nam and we support our troops even if we disagree with the government. I love Mark Twain’s quote, “I support my country all of the time and my government when it deserves it.” The Island will be thinking of Lt. Thienert this Christmas and his ultimate sacrifice, and of the many other vets on the Island who paid their dues for freedom. Our world is changing so fast. Every ten minutes, there’s a new super-phone, another celebrity in rehab (who cares?). I miss Huntley and Brinkley News Hour, when the news was cogent and pertinent to all Americans, and not just cupcake sound bites of disasters all over the world with the latest embarrassing moments of famous people for icing. My small donation to accentuate the positive, is my annual Christmas column, revised and embellished of course. I hope it gives you a smile.

I believe there are people and things and ideas that don't belong to any one group, they belong to the world. Mother Theresa, Albert Einstein, Louis Pasteur, Monet, Judy Garland, all the great minds and great artists, belong to the world. The Pyramids, the Statue of Liberty, the Dome of the Rock, the Great Wall of China, the Wailing Wall are things that belong to the world. The Bhagavad-Gita, the Upanishads, the teachings of Buddha, the Torah and Talmud, the New Testament, the Koran, all belong to the world. Kwanzaa with it’s focus on family, Chanukah with it’s theme of rededication, Christmas with it’s message of hope, all belong to the world. And I believe, Santa Claus, the person and the idea, belongs to the world too.

We learn about Santa as kids. Someone who loves us and brings a present. We grow up a little and figure out the Santa conspiracy. As teens, we denounce our precious childhood belief. We become “cool” and pretty much know everything by the time we're twenty. It's beyond comprehension to us how our dumb relatives can lead such screwed up lives. We'll never repeat the mistakes of our parents.
Through our twenties, we shun our families. We don't need Santa, families, or the whole holiday mishmosh. We have our friends who think like us, we are all-knowing, but time will take care of that...
We spend our thirties correcting all the mistakes we made in our twenties when we knew so much more. We are married with children and suddenly we hear our mother's words coming out of our mouths. We worry alot because there is too much month left at the end of the money.
Our forties are great, aside from the fact that body parts start heading south, you know you have all of what you need and much of what you want. You realize that money ebbs and flows in life. Money only increases options. Chicken served on a paper plate tastes as good as chicken served on a golden one. And money doesn't insulate anyone from pain, loneliness or despair. Possessions become just “things”, and things come and go.

What's really important is time. The days are longer and the years are shorter now. You can never have one minute of your life back, ever. Suddenly, there's not always a "next time". You might as well do what you like while it’s still legal. You drink better wine, and use the good crystal glasses to boot.
Finally you realize that your own opinion is what matters most. Is it really going to matter in a hundred years what someone else thought of anything you did ? Nope. You've matured enough to know that you're not better than anyone else, but damn if you ain't just as good.
You rediscover your family. And what annoyed us before, now just amuses us. The fact that Aunt Ida still uses that cracked, chipped teapot she got in Arizona on her honeymoon in 1942, doesn't bother you at all. You respect the sentimental value of things.
Families and holidaze become important again. By now Santa has made a dramatic comeback in your life and you meet him again for the very first time, and he’s even grander than you remember. He doesn't dye his hair. He stays married to a woman who’s the same age he is. He's fat and wears red, so you can’t miss him. He loves his job. He decides to be happy even though he faces a long night freezing his jingle bells off in an open sleigh. He’s not impressed with technology, he's keeping the sleigh and his way of doing things. You find you need Santa more as an adult than you ever did as a child. You've seen enough tragedies and not enough miracles. But Santa is an annual miracle you can depend on. Santa lets us pause and reconnect with all our Christmas' past.
As soon as we hear Bing Crosby sing "White Christmas", we hear the sound of our own back door, the smell of our own pillow, echoes of our parent's voices. We’d give anything to be six once more and bound down the stairs on Christmas morning and see our disheveled parents in rumpled robes sitting on the couch watching us through a flurry of flying ribbons and paper.
Santa can’t bring you a car repair, or a mortgage payment in a sack down a chimney. You always need things like that. What he brings now is hope and joy. Hot chocolate with marshmallows while you watch Miracle on 34th Street or White Christmas, is a wonderful vacation back to what seems to have been a simpler time when kindness had a higher value.
And as for me, I no longer need Santa's presents, but God above, how I still need his presence...Happy Holidays to you all and God Bless Us, Everyone!

Last Minute Christmas Gift Ideas

2011-01-19T15:22:00.002-05:00

For the person who has everything - heated, scented toilet paper spindle.
Toilet paper, and the need for it to be perfect for it’s purpose, has become an advertising gold standard as far as I am concerned. There are still people living today who used outhouses as kids and used pages from the Sears catalogs and other advertising papers as toilet paper. And that still sounds like a perfect use for junk mail today. We all hear about the brilliant moments when inventors like Edison, came up with the light bulb, but we seldom hear about the lesser flashes of genius, such as must have occurred in an outhouse one day. Some future inventor was sitting in the outhouse, finishing the paper work, when, FLASH! He had a break through moment. What if people would buy special paper for this purpose? Clean paper just to dirty up and through away? Could it be sold to the American public as viable? As necessary? Could it be sold at all? Did he see it all then? Soon the clean paper would be rolled, and then come in pastel colors to match new indoor bathrooms, then clean, rolled, pastelled and scented, then clean, rolled, pastelled, scented and cushiony soft...how far could this simple idea go? I say, heated. Clean, rolled, pastelled, scented, cushiony soft, and now prewarmed curtesy of hot air passing through the spindle. I believe if the American buttock is intelligent enough to discern clean, soft paper, pastelled, rolled and ready, it can probably detect minute differences in temperatures, and with further scientific study, can probably predict fluctuations in the Dow Jones and be taught to sing an aria as well.

On the Island, Ferry Tickets are gold, one, two, or a whole pack, is as welcome a gift as new socks or a bottle of fine wine. And if you don’t have tickets, a promise to pick you up for an off-island trip is just a valuable. When I didn't have anything else to give as a teen, I made up babysitting coupons and gave them as gifts. I tried to give them to young, married couples who didn’t have any kids yet. It made them say, “oooohhhhh....that’s so sweet” , I got full credit for giving a gift, but didn’t have to deliver. I didn’t have to babysit any rotten kids telling me, “The dog always helps wash the dishes,” or, “We’re allowed to call our uncle in Autrailia anytime we like after six o’clock,” or the best one I was told, “My mother always lets me wear her good jewelry to go outside and play.” Even I knew her mother’s jewelry wasn’t “good”, the pearls were fake, she just wanted everyone to think they were real, so she kept them in a black velvet bag in their own box. Which, by the way, has worked very well for me too. “Sally, you have a 24 inch strand of south sea pearls? Can I take them out for a minute? I’ll put them right back in the little bag, I promise.”

Library Book Sneak Backs. A little used, but great gift is a promise to sneak someone’s overdue library books back into the Library for them so they don’t get embarassed.

Somebody needs to invent a hot chocolate maker that can plug into the car charger. We all take coffee or hot chocolate to the ferry lines with us, but sometimes it just doesn’t last and we really need the ability to make a fresh cup right there. My mother always bought two cups of hot chocolate when she took the North Ferry on her way to work night shift at ELIH. One for her, and mercifully, one for the deck hand working that night. There’s a saying, If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody gonna be happy.” I would extend that on Shelter Island to include, “If the ferrymen are’nt happy, ain’t nobody gonnna be happy, and ain’t nobody gonna go nowhere neither.”

But the best gift of all really, is still just showing up. Just coming to see someone’s tree is a gift. I try to collect one ornament from each tree I visit, as sort of a momento of the moment. And to honor that memory, I put that ornament on my tree. I love any little nautical ornaments, especially seahorses and mermaids, although people with seahorses and mermaids don’t seem to ask me over much anymore.....they must be too busy trying to think of a way to warm up their toilet paper for the holidays.

Guest toilet paper! I forgot all about special guest toilet paper. Just like all guest items, to be viewed, but never used. Yup, I think I have now completely covered my, um, topic.

Turkey: 1) An indiginous bird of North America 2) A temporarily insane person

2011-01-19T15:15:00.002-05:00

It’s good to have an event or marker of some kind to mark the end of the Thanksgiving holiday and the beginning of the Christmas season. For some people it’s “Black Friday”, but on the Island a new tradition has been born. Last Saturday, the Island Library organized it’s first annual “Turkey Plunge” where Islanders, dressed in bizarre costumes to deflect you from thinking how crazy this is, ran into the freezing cold water, a la Polar Bear style, for money. So much for bake sales and car washes, when all else fails, be willing to freeze off body parts. $13,000 was raised, so this will become an annual event. The oldest - and I vote the bravest - polar bear was Mimi Brennan at 82 years young. Ava Czeladko won for Best Female Costume with her interpretation of how to look like a turkey using long clown balloons, the Island is submitting her as a float in the Rose Parade. Michael Badger won for Best Male Costume dressed as King Neptune with mop head for a wig and a trident. He spoke in a voice that sounded like Mickey Mouse during his acceptance speech, matter of fact, all the men sounded like Mickey Mouse for awhile. Without a doubt, this will become an annual event and the one-ups-manship will begin right away.

November 1, 2011 will hear conversations like this.
“What are you going to be for the Turkey Plunge this year, Joe?”
“Well, I’m not running into the water with a mop on my head looking ridiculous, I’ll tell you that! I’m going in as Godzilla. I’m going to adapt a wet suit and have red eyes that light up.”
“How you gonna do that, Joe?”
“I’m putting a little battery pack on my head inside the costume, and when I click a button, laser eyes!”
“Yea, but Joe, there’s something about electricity and water that don’t mix. What if you get a short in your shorts? Could be painful.”
“Nah, not the way I have it figured. I’m putting the batteries in a ziplock bag. What could go wrong? What about you, what are you going as?”
“Swamp Thing. I’m adapting a wet suit too. And I figure I can grab some skinny girl on the beach and take her into the water with me, you know, like I’m carrying her off to my underwater lair.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean the suit would weigh a lot with a Swamp Thing head on it and carrying a girl down the beach. I hate to throw sand in your shorts, but you had a four way bypass last year.”
“So? I’m fine now. I’ll make sure to grab a skinny girl, not more than a buck ten.”
“And you’re going to carry a hundred and ten pounds across the beach and into freezing water without stressing your heart?”
“What are you, my wife? If I want to hear that negative crap, I’ll talk to Karen. I’m going to be Swamp Thing. You just wish you thought of it first.”
“No way. Godzilla beats out Swamp Thing any day. Godzilla breathes fire.”
“Yes, but Swamp Thing got Adrienne Barbou.”
“I wonder if I could hook up a little propane tank to my thigh and run a tube to my mouth and breathe fire.”
“Joe, I think you ought to stop at the laser beam eyes. I’m not sure the propane in your pants is a good idea.”
“You just concentrate on carrying a hundred and ten pounds across a beach, leave my propane to me. I can’t wait to fire that baby up and let ‘er rip!”

What to do with Thanksgiving Leftovers

2011-01-19T15:08:00.001-05:00

Nothing tastes better than a turkey/dressing/cranberry sandwich the day after Thanksgiving. Everybody loves the day-after leftovers. But then, there's the real leftovers to deal with, like turkey stock....

"Hi Mom, I'm boiling the turkey carcas for soup, do you want some turkey stock?....You have three quarts of your own? Well who can I give some to? I hate to see it go to waste."

"Hi Jo, this is Sally. I have two quarts of turkey stock for give-away, my mother doesn't want it.....yeah, I'll trade for mashed potatoes, we ate all ours."

"Hi Susan, this is Jo. I have two quarts of turkey stock left over. Got any extra cranberry sauce to swap? ...Wonderful, swing by whenever you can."

Hi Maggie, this is Susan. Can you use some nice fresh turkey stock? I'll swap for a pumpkin pie. No, half is good...you got any new pantyhose to throw in?....Great!"

Hi Patty, it's Susan. I'm trying to move some really flavorful turkey stock. Two ferry tickets? Both North, South, or one of each? ... Two North? Did you make your candied yams this year? ......Okay, one ticket and candied yams."

Hey, Clarice, it's Patty. I have the best turkey stock you have ever had. You could add one carrot and one stalk of celery and have soup. What have you got to get rid of?.....No, I figured you didn't cook....half pint of rum is good, are you sure you want to part with it? ....hell, I can't tell the cheap stuff from the good stuff anyway, I'll take your word for it. I'll throw in my Iron Man II dvd. We already saw it, it's good for one viewing."

Hi Georgia, it's Clarice. You know I don't cook, but Patty gave me a huge container of her turkey stock and you know she's a great cook. Wanna trade?.....Oh, a slab of smoked ham would be terrific!"

Hi Lulu, it's Georgia. I have some scrumptious turkey stock to move....oh, I love your pecan pies, half is fine!"

"Hi Sally, it's Lulu. Listen, I have this incredible turkey stock to give away. It smells delicious right through the container, interested?"

"Yes! I made the worst turkey I ever made yesterday and the stock was so thin it looked like I added a brown crayon to hot water. I traded it early this morning to Jo, so I could really use some good stuff. I have rum balls and macadamia fruit cake to trade......rum balls it is!"

Stuffing and Giving the Bird

2011-01-19T15:05:00.001-05:00

I thought I'd share my grandmother's delicious Rum Raisin Stuffing recipe with my readers.
Gather up these ingredients: assorted bread crumbs, parsley, sage and thyme, salt and pepper. Three eggs, two onions and two green bell peppers, one box raisins, one pint dark rum.

Open the rum, take good sip for quality assurance. Soak the raisins in straight rum for at least four hours.
While the raisins are soaking, crumble up all the uncrumbled bread bits, fluff in a tablespoon of dried parsley, teaspoon of sage and a teaspoon of thyme. Fluff around in bowl, take a pinch to taste. Add spices until crumb mixture tastes flavorful and balanced. Then add salt and pepper to taste. If you have trouble finding the flavor balance, sip a jigger of the rum to clear your palate. Let your mouth rest, then try the crumb mixture again. Wait readers - hold on - my phone is ringing.

"Hi Cathy......no, she's bringing the pies, you're supposed to bring the mashed potatoes. Yup.... listen, I gotta go, I'm doing a dressing recipes for Dan's."

Where was I.....oh yes, sip a jigger of rum.
Now let's chop something and saute the onions and bell peppers. Chop into dime sized pieces. Get your fry pan hot and toss them in. While they get going, check how the raisins are doing. Eat a teaspoon of raisins. We want to soak them in the rum until they're as fat a grapes again. Stir the um.... stir the onions and peppers. Watch for the onions to carmelize, which means turn light brown. Pardon me, the phone again.

"Hi Cath.....sure we can fit your sister in. Okay, and her husband too. What? Four kids? I don't think I have the room. I thought there was just going to be five of us, I didn't buy a huge turkey. .....I know, but that six extra people. I don't have a kids table set up.....but I don't want them to eat with us, that's why I didn't invite anyone with kids in the first place. Kids wreck a meal. You're up and down constantly and you never get to eat in peace......I'm sure you'll help, but I just saying, four kids....you and she will have to take care of them, I don't want to..... alright, goodbye."

Hello readers, well, the onions and peppers burned, so I'll start over on them. I'm pouring out a full jigger of rum and checking it for taste and texture while I chop something.....and okay here we go, carmelizing the onions and WHOAAAAAAA.....putting out the flames..... readers, don't spill any of the rum into the saute pan. However, I can say, the onions have a lovely carmel color now. And as soon as the smell of my cinged hair clears away, this will smell wonderful. And now add the sauteed onions and peckers to the bread crumb mixture, fold in slowly so you don't make a big mess. Hold on..... I'm sorry readers.....

"Hello.......Cathy, can you call me back in an hour? I'm trying to make the stuffing. I'll never get this bird in.....what? No! No lasagna instead of mashed potatoes, this is a Thanksgiving dinner! I don't care if the kids won't eat mashed potatoes, get them Happy Meals on the way over......nut allergies? I don't know what has touched nuts in my kitchen or not.....I use nuts in a lot of dishes, my house is not a nut free zone! Then tell her to bring over whatever her child can eat and keep it separate from the rest of the foods for him......I'm not yelling! I want a peaceful, calm Thanksgiving dinner! I'm hanging up now. I'll see you at 4....."

I am truly sorry readers. I know you are all waiting. Just let me steady my nerves a bit. Pausing to take a zanex and let's just wash it down with a swallow of rum to to activate it a little sooner for me. I'm trying to manage my anxiety. I have this friend who is fouling up my plans. I had such a good plan...

Back to the recipe, we're almost done. Add the sauteed crap to the crumbs and stir, and now add the eggs......okay, I was a little premature on the eggs.... pick out the shells.....nut allergy, she should leave the kid at home....and to put us in a holiday mood, I'll have a few sips of rum which is getting smoother with each sip. Now, add the raisins and a whole cup of rum. And mix the mixture until, until, it looks like something that is mixed.

And now get the bird out of the fridge and throw him in the sink. Reach in the chest and pull out that bloody paper bag of turkey organs and give it to your cat. Next, flip the bird and stick you hand up it's....other side and yank out whatever the hell Butterball has jammed in that end along with that obscene turkey neck. Rinse the bird....damn.... not with soap....I was on automatic pilot there for a minute.....rinse off these suds. Well, it's a clean bird now.

Get the bowl with the stuff and stuff that mother and throw it in the oven.
Now, take the bird back out and, we should have done this earlier, find a pan. Use the biggest pan you have and sit the bird up if he doesn't fit laying down. Use wire to stabilize it into a sitting Buddha position and you can tell your guests that it's a nut free bird and all nut free birds are cooked sitting up. Of course, as the bird cooks, the stuffing will expand out of the bird's bottom and this may not be an optimal visual for the table, so have some sprigs of parsley ready to throw between it's legs before you put it on the table. Maybe put a little party hat on the top of the neck too...why the hell not? Excuse me readers, it's probably my friend phone, Cathy calling.

"WHAT?......no, no, no, nobody's making fresh guacamole in my kitchen!.....No, there's no taco chips and guacamole at Thanksgiving! .....if they're health nuts, tell them to make that green mush at home and bring it with them. I don't like people in my kitchen.....it IS a big deal....if they don't like the traditional foods, why are they bothering with Thanksgiving?...Okay... you know what, just do what you want. Tell her I have nuts all over the kitchen and everything in my kitchen has been touched by nuts.....I'm hanging up now...."

Okay readers, that's the last interruption, I promise. Put the oven on 350 and put in the bird, with or without the pan, I don't care. Drink one cup of rum. Crush any remaining zanex you have and put it into a container of milk that may be used for children later in the day. The zanex in their milk will enhance your ability to enjoy your meal.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You Say Tomato, I Say Potato

2011-01-19T15:02:00.001-05:00

Right now, across the country, people are deciding whose house to go to for Thanksgiving, or whether or not they will host the dinner, or whether or not they will just go to a restaurant.

All the grandmothers want all their children and grandchildren to come to their house and they all want the Norman Rockwell family portrait of the perfect Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone in the picture looks happy and grateful. All the children are sitting nicely. My mother still wants this perfect Thanksgiving. But, if your family is like mine, there are family members who won't talk to other family members, and there's no way our kids would sit calmly at a table, and there's not a single bottle of wine or any of it's affiliates anywhere in the Norman Rockwell picture, I checked it twice. Small pockets of family groups within the family will group together and have Thanksgiving at different homes. But, if by some stroke of luck, your whole family does gather around one table, here's my advice for safe topics of conversation and topics to avoid.

Topics to Avoid
On the basis that men usually compete with each other and women usually try to avoid conflict in family gatherings, I suggest avoiding the following topics:
The route you took to drive there; every man seems to know a shortcut that someone else doesn't know and little competitions break out over the fastest and shortest way to get there. It is the most meaningless conversation I have ever heard, but men will actually spend time trying to "one-up" each other on who got there by the smartest route.
Politics, religion, and I am adding sports as a sub-catagory of religion. Any conversation on politics goes south immediately and men don't discuss religion because it includes self reflection and/or (perish the thought) self examination, so avoid politics and religion. Sports cannot be discussed because the devotion and loyalty levels are too high and require verbal fighting over the table which can result in peas being thrown and maybe a potato. So, no sports.
Whose child is smarter; The answer is always that your children are the smartest and the others are just some DNA slop that got into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn't looking. So, no one can discuss their children.
Who had the worst childhood; sibling rivalry never dies. The "Mom loves you more" crap never stops. If you're a parent and you are accused of loving one child more than the other, as I was one day, I suggest using the answer I gave to this delicate and sensitive accusation. My response was, "Shut up! I can't stand either one of you! You're both driving me nuts!" The accusatory child shut up and the topic has never been raised since. While children are busy looking for ways to blame you for everything wrong with them, they never factor in your sacrifices and forfeiture of money, time and goals. I always say, there are no perfect parents because there are no perfect children, and they can only blame me for their problems if I am credited with all their accomplishments, it's an all or nothing deal...the little creeps.
Thanksgiving recipes; women like to discuss and share recipe ideas, but the men always jump in and either 1. they know a better recipe for the item -which they have never cooked themselves, or 2. their mother made it better than you. So, recipes, although they seem safe, might be okay for about ten minutes of conversation, but then you have to move on.
Boats, dock fees, condition of moorings; if you live on the Island, don't bring up these topics around the Thanksgiving table. Boats are like children, they take and take, but we love them and will give them anything they want, until we've had it and then we sell them - which is alright if you sell to a stranger, but if you sell to relative, you will never hear the end of how you took advantage of them and the accusations will start approximately three minutes after some innocent person asks, "So, Bob, how are you and Susan liking your new boat?"
Can't talk about the dead, that's bad luck, unless it's to miss them or laud them.
Can't talk about about money, no one has enough, ever, period.

So what topics are safe to talk about?

Family members who are alive, but not present at that table are fair game. Everyone can spew verbal arrows and shards of glass in complete safety and no fights will break out until someone at the table tells the non-present family member what you said about them. But who cares - you're not talking to them anyway, that's why they weren't invited to your dinner.

Tomatoes. After long and careful thought I have concluded that tomatoes are the perfect Thanksgiving topic. No one has anything against them. Everyone likes them and can name their favorite kind. There's very little controversy over tomatoes. Can't say that about other veggies. Zucchini conversations inevitably lead to body part comparisons. Red vs. white potatoes can be debated. Bell peppers can be blamed for indigestion. Onions are way too controversial and someone with Irritable Bowel Syndrome is always present with a repulsive "Well, you know what happens to me if I eat onions" story. So, I have concluded that tomatoes are the only truly safe topic for discussion at any Thanksgiving table. Hope that helps.

Halloween on Shelter Island

2011-01-19T14:54:00.002-05:00

Who Do The Voo Doo That You Do So Well?

Shelter Island is one of the few places left where kids can safely Trick or Treat and not worry about getting razor blades in their apples. However, is it Shelter Island, and other unusual things can appear in a kid’s Treat bag.

“How’d you do, son?” Jean asked her ten year old, Tommy.
“Great Mom. I got a ton of candy, some money, and some other good stuff.”
“I don’t see any fruit in the bag, didn’t anyone give you anything healthy?”
“Yea, I had some apples and stuff and some crappy granola bars.”
“Some healthy snacks? That’s good, where are they?”
“I threw all that healthy junk in the woods for the deer. Let them eat it.”
“That’s my boy....” chimed in Tommy’s dad, Big Tom.
“Hey Dad, Mr. Billings gave me some new fishing line, still in the package, he said you’d give me a buck for it and I got a floating key fob from the liquor store and some ferry tickets.”
“Who gives ferry tickets for Trick or Treat?” asked Mom.
“People who run out of candy and don’t want their deer fences around their gardens pushed down, that’s who,” answered Tommy.
“Give me the ferry tickets, Tommy,” said his Mom.
“Not so fast Mom, what’ll you give me for six tickets?”
“Nothing. You can’t drive, hand them over.”
“I’ll give you a buck,” said Big Tom.
“Don’t encourage him!” exclaimed Mom.
“The bidding starts at five dollars,” said Tommy, feeling like a real Islander negotiating his first deal.
“I bid six!” said Big Tom.
“Tom, stop it!” said Mom. “I’ll give you seven dollars, Tommy. That’s a lot of money.”
“I’ll give you ten,’ said Big Tom.
“Sold to Dad for ten big ones!” shouted the triumphant Tommy.
“You can give him the money, but I get the tickets,” said Mom to Big Tom. She said it in a soft voice and Tommy sensed some other negotiation was about to begin.

Tommy watched as Mother looked at Father and she raised one eyebrow. Father raised both eyebrows just a little. Then Mother looked down and up again, very slowly, at Father. Now both of Father’s eyebrow shot up high on his face and he had a slight smile. Mother pointed with her chin at the ferry tickets in Father’s hand and he quietly handed them over. Tommy wondered if it might be true that women were witches and could cast spells to control men’s minds. Mother took the tickets and left the room.

“Dad! What did you do? You just paid ten bucks for those tickets and you gave them to her and you didn’t even barter for lasagna or anything? Can she do Voo Doo? Did she put a whammy on you, Dad?”
“Son,” said Big Tom, as he sat next to his boy, “I’m gonna tell you something that won’t make sense right now, but it will in the very near future. Always remember, if a woman, or girl, doesn’t want you, there’s nothing you can do to get her, but if she decides she does want you, there’s no power on earth to save you.”
“Is that like the “friends with benefits” thing that the older kids talk about?”
“No, son, that’s just for the single men. Once you chase them till they catch you, and you get married, it’s called slavery with benefits.”
“I still say she put a Voo Doo on you, a double whammy, that’s why you just handed over the ferry tickets.”
“Ferry tickets are only the beginning son. Paycheck, keys, control of your life, it all goes over to them once they put the whammy on you.”
“Not me Dad, girls are gross, especially Kathy next door. I hate her.”
“I understand Tommy. You enjoy your candy. I’ll go check on Mommy in the shower. I don’t want her to slip and fall.”
“Okay, Dad, but I still say you got took.”

The Answer My Friend, is Blowing Out Your End...

2010-10-22T09:50:00.004-04:00

Last week, in Dan’s Papers (Bridgehampton, NY) Dan wrote an article called, The Maple Leaf Mini-Cooper People Have All Been Fired. In the article, he wrote, “The East Hampton Town Board met ... to consider what to do about the leaves that fall from the trees in October. .....The leaf pickup program, ... consists of town trucks and highway department employees going around picking up bags of leaves that citizens place by the side of the road. They take them to the dump. The cost of this ... effort in effect would be $700,000. The town could save that money if they canceled the program..... Of course, citizens themselves could take bagged leaves to the dump. ...During the discussion, the new Supervisor pointed out that the elaborate leaf counting program, put into place by his predecessor, had been canceled. For several years, as everybody knows, hundreds of uniformed "leaf counters" with red maple leaf insignias sewn on their shirts, have been going out in special town-owned Mini Coopers with hand held calculators to get the total of all the leaves on all the trees in town.”

Every week Dan puts in one article that is untrue and completely nuts and I’m always stupid enough to get roped in, but not this time buster! There’s just no way that Green-thinking East Hamptonites would resist schlepping their own leaves to the dumps. We have plenty of millionaires on Shelter Island who schlepp their own trash and leaves to the dumps and the East Hampton millionaires aren’t any better than ours, and if they think they are, then send them over here and we will beat them into submission. And East Hampton hired leaf counters, complete with little maple leaf insignia’s and little roller skate cars, driving around to count leaves? This is when I knew this article was bogus. Either that or East Hampton gets the prize for creating the most useless job in America. The runners up would be a job counting clouds shaped like triangles that pass over E.H. Main Street between noon and one on Tuesdays, or how many licks does it take to get to the center of a sugar free, fat free, flavor free, Tootsie Roll Pop.

However, I will agree that having a general idea of a volume of leaves can be helpful at times. On Shelter Island, we estimate leaf volume by eye. I am submitting this information to East Hampton to help them in the future, should they become serious about leaf counting. Remember, there’s no point in counting leaves while they are still on the trees because leaves travel. You get your neighbor’s leaves blown into your yard, and the person on the other side of you gets yours, and we all get some in the end.

One Bag = one tall brown paper biodegradable bag. Fits into the trunk of any car.
One SUV or Van load = six bags and four complaining children.
One small truckload = six lawn bags of leaves, one case of beer to replenish the workers.
One large truckload = ten lawn bags; or six bags, plus two helpers, and a cooler
One G-d damn big load = twenty bags in a yard. Ten will gradually be taken to the dumps, but by then, the other ten will have been rained on and will be slowly pushed back into the mulch corner. Every yard on SI has a mulch corner. You will know it by it’s big piles of wet brown leaves interspersed with fragments of torn brown biodegradable paper and a broken rake laying close by.
S--t Load of Leaves = more than twenty bags. Will take six men, three trucks, two cases of beers, 30 hot dogs and buns with condiments, 20 bags of chips, one burn barrel. It may take a dedicated crew like this all day and half the night to burn all these leaves, but they can do it. So what are the trucks for? Regardless of the amount of planning, someone will forget something and have to make a run to IGA or Fedi’s, the soberest one at the time makes the run. Throughout the evening, several more trucks with bags of leaves will appear. There’s just something about fire, beer, and the freedom to pee outdoors that draws men to a burn barrel like a moth to a flame.

If the East Hampton Leaf Counters feel displaced as workers, I’m sure the town can create a program for them to count grains of sand on the E. H. beaches. It will be important to segregate sand that does have a permit to be there from the grains of sand that do not have permits. Unauthorized sand may have migrated from one of the neighboring Hampton beaches. You don’t know where the Southampton sand has been and the first thing it’ll want to do is form a wet bar and bring it’s decadent Southampton live style with it. Tip: It’s easy to detect Southampton sand, it smells like lime and tequila. So, Sand Counters, put on your little red vests with crab insignias on, and go for it.

Viagra vs. HGTV

2010-10-14T10:55:00.002-04:00

“Hi hunny, I got a surprise for you. I redid the bathroom today.”
“Lois, you just did that.”
“No, Brian, that was in the Spring when I decorated it for summer. I redid it today for autumn.”
“Okay, just tell me what I can’t touch, starting with which towels.”
“I made it very easy for you this year. Don’t touch anything with an acorn or oak leaf. The guest towels have the embroidered acorns and oak leaves on them. They’re on top of the new light orange and brown towels that you can use. There’s matching acorn and oak leaf soaps in the soap dish, don’t use them either. You can use the regular soap in the dish in the drawer right next to the sink. There’s also an acorn shaped rug in front of the sink. Don’t stand on it. Stand next to it and lean over if you have to look in the mirror. There’s new potpourri on the back of the toilet, don’t throw used matches in it and set it on fire like last year.”
“Tell me dear, if I built you a second bathroom, could you designate it as a generic, user friendly zone that I could use anytime and use anything in it without fear of breaching that invisible clause in the marriage contract that says “and I swear never to touch guest towels, or anything designed for guests - even though the guests know better than to touch the guest stuff”?
“Are you serious? I’ve been begging for a second bathroom for years, why is it okay now?”
“Well, Lois my sweet, my huggy buggy bear.... I have a surprise for you too. Brace yourself.”
“Let me grab the counter, okay, I’m braced.”
“I had a special talk with the new doc today. We had the “little blue pill talk” and he gave me samples...”
“I didn’t ask you to have the “little blue pill talk” with him, our marriage is good, we don’t need to worry about anything.”
“Maybe for you, but haven’t you .....missed me?”
“Yes, um, sure, absolutely.”
“You don’t sound very happy, Lois, I thought you’d be thrilled.”
“Thrilled, that was the exact word I was looking for, thrilled. Yes, I am thrilled, can’t wait to be more thrilled in fact.”
“And the thrill can last for up to four hours.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“What?”
“I said, will you? I mean, four hours, geez.... that’s like a whole afternoon. A contractor could frame out a new bathroom in an afternoon. So how many pills did you get?”
“Six. I can take them as long as I don’t develop high blood pressure.”
“I see. Well Brian, you call a contractor while I make dinner and later tonight we’ll give those blue pills a test run.”
“Wait a minute, I didn’t say it was definite about a new bathroom.”
“But why wait? Let’s live on the edge for once, and spend some money on something we’ve always wanted, a second bathroom. And I promise never to decorate it. Just you, four walls and a shelf for newspapers. We’ll paint it blue to match the little pill.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get an estimate. What are you making for dinner?”
“Lasagna with extra cheese and extra sausage, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and cheesecake for dessert.”
“Perfect! Just don’t give me anything that will raise my blood pressure.”
“Of course not. I’ll just record Burn Notice and all my HGTV shows tonight.”
“There you go....sex trumps HGTV any day.”
“I’ll warm you up some fried chicken while you wait for dinner, hunny.”

It’s a Good Thing to Know Jack

2010-10-14T10:53:00.001-04:00

http://www.pumpkinnook.com/facts/jack.htm “The Irish brought the tradition of the Jack O'Lantern to America. ...The Jack O'Lantern legend goes back hundreds of years in Irish History. As the story goes, Stingy Jack was a miserable, old drunk who liked to play tricks on everyone: ... even the Devil himself. .... Stingy Jack made the Devil promise him not to take his soul when he died. Once the devil promised not to take his soul, Stingy Jack removed the crosses (that held him in the tree- sic) and let the Devil down.
Many years later, when Jack finally died, ... He was not allowed to enter heaven. ...and ... The Devil ...would not allow him to enter Hell. Now Jack was scared and had nowhere to go but to wander about forever in the darkness between heaven and hell. He asked the Devil how he could leave as there was no light. The Devil tossed him an ember from the flames of Hell to help him light his way. Jack placed the ember in a hollowed out Turnip... For that day onward, Stingy Jack roamed the earth without a resting place, lighting his way as he went with his "Jack O'Lantern".
On all Hallow's eve, the Irish hollowed out Turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. These were the original Jack O'Lanterns. In the 1800's a couple of waves of Irish immigrants came to America. The Irish immigrants quickly discovered that Pumpkins were bigger and easier to carve out. So they used pumpkins for Jack O'Lanterns.”

That’s the official story, but I know my tribe, and I just wonder how this jack o’lantern idea really started.

Sometime in the 1800’s, in October, on a cold night in Ireland:

“Wife throwed you out again, Paddy?”
“Aye, she did, Brady. I seed your campfire from the road, you won’t be mindin’ if I stay here tonight will ya?”
“Stay as long as you like. The big pumpkins here are good for sitting. I hollowed out one to keep me pail of beer cold.”
“Where’d you get beer?”
“Seamus Tooley has a shanty half mile that way. He makes home brew. He’ll sell you a pint for a copper.”
“Ach, the night’s as black as coal, I’d never find me way there or back.”
“True, and you can’t carry a torch, Seamus will take you for a thief and club you before you get within twenty feet of his beer.”
“How could I let him know a friendly face approaches, from far off you know, so as not to alarm him?”
“You could call out as you approach, but with the wind blowin’ so, it’s unlikely you’ll be heard.”
“Well now, maybe I could make a friendly face to precede me.... look at this little gourd. I could carve it out, carve a face in the side and maybe scoop out a little basin in the bottom to put in some oil in and he’d see a smiling face from afar. What do you think, Brady?”
“It’ll never work, Paddy. You don’t look anything like that gourd.”
“Well I’m not carvin’ a bust you fool, just a likeness, an image. I just want a pint.”
“Use a small pumpkin instead. It’s rounder and looks more like your ugly mug.”
“It’s a kind hearted man ye are, Brady.”
“Soft in the heart, aye, it’s always been me downfall.”

An hour later...
“I’m off, Brady. Wish me luck.”

An hour after that, Brady peers into the darkness...
“Mother of ....Paddy! Is that you?”
“Tis so! You can see me pumpkin lantern from this far out?”
“Aye! Did ye get yer pint?”
“I did indeed. And look over there.....see? There’s two more pumpkin lanterns heading to Seamus’s. That’s Poreg and Michael. I near scared them to death with me lit pumpkin lookin’ like it’s floating through the air on it’s own as I went past their shack. They’re heading for beer too.”
“Bless me, Paddy, it’s a brilliant man you are. You’ve found a way for a man to travel in the dark without being mistook for a robber.”
“I’m naming me pumpkin helper here, Jack, Jack O’Lantern.”
“It’ll help me too, as long as I see Jack, I’ll know it’s a friend.”
“They say “Necessity is the mother of invention”, but me, Brady, I think it’s beer. Beer is the mother of invention.”

Greenport Maritime Festival

2010-10-14T10:49:00.002-04:00

“I’m exhausted, John, but every piece of brass on the boat is shining. The new boat cushions look terrific and the new canvas will be here in time for the Maritime Celebration on the 25th. I love having a classic boat, but geez, the work....what are you wearing? I threw that out in Spring.”
“No, you TRIED to throw it out in Spring, Louise.”
“You pulled that out of the burn barrel! John, please.... you’ve had that shirt since you were 22. You’re 47 now, it pulls everywhere and it’s too short. Your hairy stomach shows.”
“It fits fine! It’s my lucky shirt. I caught my prize bass in this shirt. Remember that competition?”
“No, John, don’t start the bass competition story, please, I have to have time to organize Thanksgiving next month.”
“You had no right to throw out my lucky shirt, or my lucky shorts.”
“No - John- you didn’t fish out those shorts too! You can’t wear those OP short shorts hunny, I mean you really can’t.”
“I can still button them. I just skip the top button and hide it with my shirt.”
“No, my love, you can not wear those short shorts in public anymore, ever.”
“Worried about me? I’m a happily married man, I wouldn’t flirt. You don’t have to worry about somebody making a play for me in these shorts.”
“That’s truer than you know, but not for the reasons you think. John, have you ever seen the pictures of the ballroom in St. Patricks’s Cathedral in New York?”
“Can’t say I have - wait a minute.... there’s no ballroom in St Patrick’s Cathedral!”
“No dear, there isn’t. And that’s what your short shorts have in common with the Cathedral.”
“That’s low, Louise.”
“Many things are these days, John.”
“That bad? Really?”
“Remember when your Uncle George visited? Remember those green polyester shorts he loved because they were comfortable? Aunt Betty couldn’t get rid of them no matter what she did.”
“I remember, he looked like somebody put pants on a goat. Please don’t tell me I look that bad in my shorts.”
“Well, Uncle George’s shorts were at least Bermuda length, so there was no chance of anything escaping. The OP shorts are way too short. I get scarred every time you put them on.”
“I love these shorts. I’ve had them so long. It’s like giving up a friend.”
“We can frame them.”
“No, that’s stupid. We’ll bury them at sea during the festival. It’s the only proper way to dispose of boat shorts that have served so long.”
“And the shirt.”
“Shirt stays. Be happy I’m letting go of my lucky competition shorts.”
“Alright, one out of two ain’t bad. Give them to me, I’ll throw them in the duffel. John, let go of the shorts, c’mon, give them to me now. You look silly clutching them to your chest like I’m taking away a toy.”
“Please, Louise, we just need a moment.”
“Okay. Well, when you’re ready, here’s some new dockers. You’ll look nice in these for the festival.”
“They’re the wrong size. Louise. The waist says 42, I’m 36 waist. My OP’s are 36.”
“They’re made in Malaysia. The waist is 42 centimeters, it’s 36 inches in American sizes.”
“I thought so. I mean, 42 is just five points below my age.”
“And five points above your I.Q..”
“Huh?”
“I said Hy Que. They were made in Hy Que, Malaysia.”
“Yeah, well, they better get their sizes right if they want to sell over here.”

Gone With The Ferry

2010-09-23T15:03:00.002-04:00

I will miss both Dr Marshall’s, Kathleen and Christopher, I thought they were both terrific. I shared Dr. Kathleen’s passion for the movie Gone With The Wind. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who knew the script as well as I do. Plus, we’d quiz each other on GWTW trivia throughout my medical visit. It’s not just any doc who can prepare an injection and ask, “Okay, so what was Vivian Leigh’s biggest complaint about Clark Gable?” (Answer - bad breath from his dentures). We had an ongoing debate over the PDA’s vs. DayTimers datebooks. “PDA’s hold much more info and can perform many more functions.”
My response: “Unless you drop them or spill coffee on them, then they’re dead and there’s nothing to do but go berserk and have a panic attack because you just lost all your contact info and saved notes. At least with my old skool DayTimers, I can wipe off the coffee or sea spray and continue on.”

I saw Dr Christopher more than Dr Kathleen and he was very polite and effective. I always appreciated the way he looked directly into your eyes when he spoke to you and listened to your questions. Weight has always been a big problem for me and I didn’t even mind when he used chalk lines to mark off the parts he had examined and went on to the next section.

I’m sure the new docs will be wonderful. And they will have lots of interesting stories to tell very soon. We are coming into Deer Hunting Season and somewhere, on the Island right now, there is a conversation happening that goes like this...

“Try it on Sue, it looks good, don’t it? You like pink.”
“John, a pink camouflage deer hunting outfit does not count as a birthday gift. Why did you get this?”
“The kids are gone now. All I hear is how “we should spent more quality time together”, so I thought, since I’m spending my quality time in a deer blind this weekend, you could spend yours there too. You can be in charge of the coffee.”
“Oh, joy...”
“Give it a chance. It’s really more fun than it sounds.”
“You want me to sit in a deer blind in the early morning damp cold, freezing to death in a pink camo outfit, serving coffee.”
“Not just coffee. You can make sandwiches the night before and bring an extra thermos of tomato soup.”
“Thank you, John, that is the cherry on the cake of my day.”
“But you have to be quiet. We can’t talk. We have a few basic hand signals, I’ll teach you.”
“So I have to sit in silence with hot coffee, hot tomato soup, serve sandwiches, can’t read a book because it will be too dark, can’t shoot you because I don’t know how the gun works, besides which, it may scare off the deer which will annoy the other hunters. What part of this do you think I’ll enjoy, John?”
“We’ll be together.”
“That was enough when we were young and we could think of things to do alone together...”
“I know where this is going, Sue, I know you want more romance, but we can’t have sex in the deer blind. It will shake and scare off the deer.”
“I was thinking of when we enjoyed playing Trivia Pursuit. Having sex at four in the morning in the cold woods was not on my Bucket List.”

The next day, the new doctor on Shelter Island sees his new patient, John.
“John, I just don’t understand how a thermos could do this much damage to a human skull.”
“It was the heavy one, the one filled with tomato soup.”
“Who attacked you with this thermos?”
“I fell.”
“You fell on a thermos?”
“You’re new here, Doc, it will make sense as time goes by. Soon you’ll be able to distinguish a LLBean thermos imprint from a Rubbermaid one.”

Oysters with Herpes, What next - Clamydia?

2010-09-03T13:14:00.002-04:00

Sep 2, 2010, AP “Scientists have identified a form of herpes as the culprit in a widespread viral outbreak that has killed as many as 8 billion French oysters in recent weeks. ... the discovery that 40% to 100% of oysters aged 12 and 18 months being raised in France's Atlantic cultivation beds had died. The reason, officials at the French Institute for Research Into Use of the Sea (Ifremer) say, is Oyster Herpes Virus type 1 (OsHV-1). “

Somewhere in a clam bed off the American Atlantic coast....

John: “Benny! Did you hear? The French Oysters have herpes. Didn’t we warn them? Didn’t we send that memo by the Pike Express - not to bed down in that damn Avian water? We told ‘em, you gotta be in salt water for the brine to wash out bacteria.....”
Benny: “C’mon John, the French have never listened to us. They hate clams, you know that. I told you we should have had the Scallops etch it into the Conch and then send it.”
John: “How come they like Scallops and not us anyway?”
Benny: “It’s the artsy thing the French have, they can’t help themselves. They love the artistry in the scallop shells, which you have to admit, John, is really impressive. That’s why our Clam de Soleil Circus failed. You just can’t get anywhere with the French shellfish unless you can produce a pearl or have a beautiful shell.”
John: “We produce pearls, Benny.”
Benny: “Yeah, but they look like little white pebbles and all they do is crack peoples teeth. Our pearls aren’t pretty, we don’t have any of that lacquer stuff they spit on the irritant.”
John: “Nacre, Benny, they have nacre.”
Benny: “Well I don’t care if they do it nacre or not, it’s still oyster spit.”
John: “You don’t suppose that virus could spread this far do you? It’s bad enough we have to deal with clamydia, I can’t imagine trying to explain how I got herpes to Jean.”
Benny: “We’ll have to avoid chewing on anything that crossed the Atlantic and then died.”
John: “How the hell will we know that?”
Benny: “We can start by avoiding anything wearing a beret or that smells like white wine, butter or garlic.”
John: “That’s a good start. When’s our next meeting with the scallops? We gotta tell them too, and the conchs.”
Benny: “The next meeting is the 15th, under the bridge by Jack’s Marina, second pole from the end. I figure if we start pumping our foot tomorrow we should make it there with time to spare.”
John: “Oh yeah, let’s get there ahead of the crowd this time before all the chum and gasoline are gone. Love that gasoline buzz....and the chum there is so good.”
Benny: “That’s where the humans got the expression, “Happy as a clam”, nothing happier than a clam nestled in fish guts with that trace of gasoline wafting through the water.”
John: “We only have one natural enemy here, those damn clammers. But the season is ending and soon the water will be too cold for those two legged monsters.”
Benny: “It would serve them right if we got herpes and gave it to them....I can just hear them now, “Honey, I swear, I wasn’t with nobody. I was at Bob’s eating clams on the half shell and barbecue. Call him, he’ll tell you”. “
John: “Ah, yes, in the words of Shellock Haddock, “Revenge is a dish that is best served iced on the half shell.....”

Next to Lovin', I Like Fightin'

2010-08-27T13:23:00.002-04:00

Last week in Dan's Papers, in his article, Temper’s Flare, Dan Rattiner wrote, “three fights that broke out in the Hamptons last week requiring police intervention. They seem to have involved the well-to-do as well as the not so well-to-do, and they seem to have taken place at all sorts of locations in the Hamptons-in Westhampton Beach, in East Hampton and on the Sunrise Highway at the East Quogue Exit. No place is safe. This has been an extraordinary week.”

The Hamptons had three fights in a week? If that’s too much for you, you’d better not come to Shelter Island, we can do three fights before noon.

We have fights organized into the following categories:

Work Fights: Almost always over money or timelines. These fights can be quite entertaining here where we have construction going on everywhere all the time. If you drive by and notice a room sawed away from the main house, as evidenced by the fact that you can see the wallpaper inside, there was a fight there, and the workman had the last word. If you drive by and see carpentry tools on the lawn beneath a broken window, the homeowner had the last word. If you see tools in the driveway that have obviously been run over, the homeowner not only had the last word, he literally drove it home.

Follow-Up Fights: For unfinished business of all sorts. For instance, the carpenter whose tools got run over in the previous paragraph will be at The Dory that evening plotting his revenge. If the homeowner leaves him alone, he’ll just get drunk and sleep it off. But if the homeowner stops at The Dory ostensibly for a drink, but in fact, to add insult to injury if he can, count on a follow-up fight.

Passive Aggressive Fights: I hate these types, but people engage in them all the time. If a woman is mad at a man, she should have the courage to take a hammer and beat the remote in front of him, rather than hide it so deep in the couch it would take an MRI Scan to find it, like I do. And if a man is angry with a woman, he should have the courage to leave a polite note on the table and stay at a motel off-island for 24 hours, rather than let the air out of her tires. Now that might appear imbalanced to the reader, but women are much better at passive aggressive anger than men. It’s really best for men to capitulate than fight back directly. We are born knowing ways to make you suffer that are so exquisitely devious they nearly qualify as an art form.

Fights at Family Gatherings: I don’t know much about these, they are normal interactions to me, we still call fights donnybrooks in my group. The family comes, we drink, we fight, we sing, the police come, we fight over who could have called them, then we drink and go home. Given a choice, Irish Americans will live close to each other, that way we never have to worry about normal neighbors calling the police, we just have to worry about how many neighbors will be crashing the hooley (party). Italian American party’s I’ve been to have some good fighting. But they seldom break any tables or chairs like we do. Plus their food is the best. I highly recommend living next to Italian Americans because you’ll never be fed better than at an Italian gathering.

Lover’s Quarrels: On Shelter Island, these can be a lot of fun because there’s no where to run to and any one can find where you hide. And most people on SI have been with other Islanders before the one they are with now, so when you listen to the really good fights on the front lawns, you can glean all kinds of fascinating secrets of the Island. If there’s a Lovers Quarrel on, be polite and just park your car close enough to hear, but not be seen, you don’t want to interrupt them. And NEVER shout your opinion from your car. If you have to give your opinion, get out of the car, walk over and join the fight. Protocol should be observed at all times. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you were uncivilized, or worse, un-Islandized.

To Tree, Or Not To Tree...

2010-08-20T14:08:00.002-04:00

There are fluctuations in the space-time continuum all around us, but we never really notice. Here it is, the last week of August, to adults, just an ordinary set of seven days, but to anyone still attending school, the last week of August gets compressed into what feels like two days, and like the last of the summer wine, gets sucked into the vortex of Labor Day and school begins ten minutes after Labor Day.

Adults love Autumn because the cool weather is coming and the wonderful smells of crisp air with a hint of winter. The Maple trees on Shelter Island get the memo from the off island trees on when to start turning their colors. All except for this one Maple way up on Manhasset Road.

Every year, this one Maple, I think he’s a ‘special’ deciduous Maple, seems to jump the gun and starts a little sooner than the rest. It’s probably some kind of Maple anxiety disorder, it can’t be that easy to know you’ll be losing all your leaves and spending the winter naked. Maybe he gets worried he’s fall behind the official fall schedule so he start a little early. I feel bad for him. Right now, he’s got two leaves turning red. He’s off the road a bit and I think is trying to hide his premature coloration by shifting some of his green leaves over the top of the red ones, but it’s clear he has flicked his Auto-Autumn switch on and will be ahead of the others from now on. Of course, it could just be my imagination.

“Look Pete, Edgar’s doing it again this year! I thought you talked to him.”
“Geez, Frank, I can’t believe him! He knows he didn’t win the First Colors pool this year, he doesn’t get to show the first colors on the Island! Sammy won the pool. He bought sixteen of the Monty the Big Oak’s branches and the first bird’s nest to fall out of the tree was on the first branch he bought, he didn’t even need to bet on the other fifteen. He is going to be so pissed.”
“Well, maybe he doesn’t know yet. We’ll just keep our conversations light and breezy and maybe Sammy won’t find out. Poor schmo, he’s been playing the pool for years, this was the first time he won and now that arrogant ...”
“No chance of him not finding out, Frank. You know who’s behind you - that big Poplar, Peggy - once she gets wind of this, it’ll be all over the Island in no time. I don’t think the Poplars around here have anything better to do than gossip. There are no secrets on Shelter Island.”
“Why did he do it? It’s Maple suicide. Wait till the first big storm hits, I’m hurling my second biggest branch right his way.”
“You and me both, Frank. Joe and Tommy are on the other side of him and I know Tommy, believe me, he’s got Edgar in his sites. You know about Tommy, right? Tommy the Biker Beater?”
“Oh yeah, I think I heard something about that...is it true?”
“Yep. Some biker in a full leathers pulled over to relieve himself on Tommy and Tommy cracked off a branch right over his head, I could hear it crack from my spot.”
“Did he hit the guy?”
“No, the guy jumped out of the way, but Tommy got his bike. He had to push his Harley along the side of the road. It was sweet. I never heard Oaks laugh before, they don’t talk much, really keep to themselves, but they have a wicked sense of humor. They kept shooting little twigs in the guys face the whole way down the road.”
“Guess the Oak was on him....”
“Ouch! Oh, man, that’s sad....”
“Well, at least, after we wipe out Edgar this year, he won’t be around to flirt with Julie in the Spring.”
“Julie? He flirts with Julie? My Mimosa?”
“Oh, hey, Frank, man, I didn’t know. It’s just what I heard.”
“Edgar will be roots up by December.....”

I Love My Grandkid, but Hate Babysitting!

2010-08-16T15:54:00.002-04:00

Reason #47 Why Tigers Eat Their Young

Now that I am watching a toddler on a regular basis, I have spotted a missed opportunity for The Dory, our local watering hole. The Dory has a pond in back of it and in the winter they float a little raft with a Christmas Tree out on the pond to everyone’s delight. Eating lunch at The Dory with a toddler is impossible unless you have duct taped the little darling to the chair. I began to wonder, what if The Dory furnished floating playpens? You could have lunch with another adult, anchor the kid out about thirty feet; close enough to monitor them, but not so close that they could swim in. Yep, an opportunity missed.

“Mom, how come you bought Daiquiri Mix and liquor? You don’t drink,” asked my daughter.
“I thought it might be better than using Xanex.”
“But you’re over fif.......”
“DON’T SAY IT! Don’t you dare say that “f” word!”
“Is it the baby? Is she too much for you?”
“What? That precious child?”
“Yes, Mom, that precious child. The one who throws your shoes in the toilet, snaps your glasses apart, crayons your TV screen, throws raw eggs on the floor, constantly strips off her clothes and diaper, runs from you and fights you when you try to catch her and get a diaper on her, pulls down curtains, throws the remote across the room, shoves jelly toast in the VCR slot, empties your handbag, plays with your car keys and loses them, insists on answering the phone and won’t let you have a turn to talk, pours cups of water on you when you bathe her, sticks her fingers in your lipstick, won’t eat anything you fix her, unless it’s on your plate, then she wants it all, yells in the background whenever I call you to see how things are, figures out cabinet locks and empties cabinets, colors your walls, floors, and windows with her Crayola’s, tears pages out of your books, colors in your magazines, screams on the other side of the bathroom door the whole time you’re in the can, flips the outdoor light switch on and off whenever its not blocked by an object she can’t move or pull down. Is it the hours of watching Sesame Street reruns on TiVO, or the way she uses all furniture as a jungle gym and insists on climbing up over the arms of everything instead of just sitting down normally, or the hours of watching The Princess and the Frog movie, or the hours of coloring on paper with her, or worrying that when she sticks the crayons in her ears that you won’t be able to get them out, is it the way she can tantrum for twenty minutes straight without drawing a breath, or the way she empties the dryer when you’re in the bathroom and throws the clothes all over, or the way she grabs for your coffee cup and fights you for it and the hot coffee spills all over you, or the way she kicks the wall for nearly an hourly when you put her to bed? Am I getting close?”
“She’s just an active, normal two year old. I can handle her.”
“Not if you’re downing dacqueri’s, Mom.”
“Sweetheart, you misunderstand. The dacqueri’s are for her..... the spawn of Satan.”
“You can’t give a baby liquor!”
“Not more than three drinks a day, I promise.”
“I know you’re just joking, Mom. You’re not going to turn yourself or her into a drunk.”
“I’m just thinking that the whole babysitting thing would be easier for both of us if one of us was plastered...just until she’s five and start’s school....what are you doing?”
“I think I need a drink now...”

Son of a Beach...

2010-08-06T12:20:00.002-04:00

The recent reports in my local paper about hiring private security guards to limit access to the public areas of beaches near their homes has really alarmed me. If something like this catches on here, I’m in for it.

“What do you mean, “Wades Beach has a checkpoint?” I asked the security guard at the entrance to the parking lot. “I’ve got my beach sticker.”
“Well, we’re trying to manage the crowds better and spread people out so everyone can enjoy the beach more,” he replied.
“I’m looking at the beach now! There’s only twenty people there at best.”
“Yes, but that’s Section One, the Beach Fit section, note the svelte icon on the sign. Section Two, the Nearly Fit section, note the beer keg icon on the sign, is farther down, there’s about forty people there now.”
“So, I have to go to an assigned section now? The one with the beer keg icon?”
“No, Ms. Flynn, you are assigned to Section Three, the Won’t Fit section, see...way down there?”
“I see a sign, I can’t read the words, but I can see a walrus icon on the sign.....hey, wait a minute....”
“That’s your assigned section. Drive to the far edge of the parking lot and if you can’t walk in, we have two attendants who will roll you in.”
“But the ice cream truck stops in front of the Beach Fit section. I can’t make it that far from the time the bells sound till I get to the truck, it will be gone by then.”
“Yes, it will, won’t it,” he replied flatly with a smirk on his face.
“Have you talked to the ice cream guy about this? That’s restriction of trade. No one in Section One is going to buy anything. They’re rather die than eat, and certainly not in public!”
“The Section Two people will make it in time. The ice man will survive.”
”That’s not fair. I always get a cream sickle. It’s part of my beach day.”
“It shouldn’t be. Why don’t you just bring a bag of lettuce and carrots sticks with you from now on until you can qualify for Section Two.”

Reluctantly I drove to the end of the parking lot and was surprised when I was met by someone from Section Two, the beer keg section.
“I can make it to the ice cream truck when it comes and get you anything you want for cost plus a buck,” he said as he leaned in my window.
“Oh, that’s so nice of you. I just want a cream sickle.”
“Why not a Toasted Almond, or Chocolate Eclair?” he asked in a low, slow voice that told me some kind of negotiation was about to begin.
“Thanks, but I have my Weight Watcher points all figured out for the day. Three points for a cream sickle, that’s all I got and still have five points left for an egg whites only Denver omelet for dinner.
“If it’s points you need, it’s points I got. I’ll sell you three of my Weight Watcher points for a fiver. Then you could have a Toasted Almond and still have your omelet tonight.”
“You’d sell your Weight Watcher points?”
“Lots of us do in Section Two. Tell your walrus friends. We want everyone to get what they want.”
“You know,” I said, “Section Three is near a clam bed. I could tread a few dozen clams for you. How’d you like a peck of clams for say, a dozen points?”
“Twelve points, that’s a lot of points. You could get a delicious reuben sandwich with ten points...”
“I think I could live with that. Ten Weight Watcher points for a peck of clams? Is it a deal?”
“Done and done,” he responded.

I got out in the water fast to tread and found a friend, a fellow walrus, out there too.
“Margaret! I never saw you tread before. Did you make a deal with that guy too?”
“Yeah. I’m getting four points and six cigarettes for a half peck of clams. What are you getting?”
“Ten points for a peck. I’m gonna give four points to Joanie for helping me with a project last week.”
“That’s nice, she’s always struggling with her points.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“You’re so lucky you aren’t trying to quit smoking. I’m just glad I found a source that Joe can’t trace. He limits me to three cigarettes a day, one after each meal, you know.”
“I feel so humiliated....Section Three, a walrus woman...”
“It’s better than Section Four. There’s only two people there. The guards feed them a bucket of dead herring each and tow them off the beach at the end of the day.”

Outing Nana

2010-08-01T10:25:00.003-04:00

My name is “Sephira-get-down!” I will be two in October. My grandmother, and yes, I said grandmother, has been hiding me away from the world, claiming she found me on her steps rather than have the world know she is a grandmother. She whines that I’ll ruin her reputation as a hot cougar. I love her, but she is so delusional. So, for her own good, I am outing her.

She takes care of me while my mother works and we have fun all day. This morning around 8 AM, while she was getting out a gallon of milk to make me a bottle, I grabbed an egg from the fridge door without her knowledge, and let to fall to the floor. A second later, she slipped in the raw egg and landed on the kitchen floor with a big flop. She made a lot of different sounds from bad words to ouchy words. The milk was doing all right spreading on the floor, but I thought it could use some help, so I swished it all around with my hands.

Nana hurt her shoulder in the fall and had to crawl through the milk to the living room to pull herself up on the couch. I hopped on her back and rode her as she crawled into the living room. She got up on the couch all right, but then we both realized that the refrigerator was still open. It was a race to get back to the kitchen, but I won, and got to hurl out a few more eggs before my Nana got back to the kitchen and closed the door. Then she decided to mop the kitchen floor. She strapped me in my highchair which is inescapable because Nana bought the special Torquemada Designs for Toddlers highchair. I had to watch her ruin all my work. By 9 AM, we were beginning over and she made me some nice scrambled eggs for me to refuse to eat and fling over the side as I laughed in her face. Finally, she freed me from the highchair.

Nana likes to color, so around 10 AM I appease her and we color. She is old and coloring appears to be at the limit of her technological skills. She makes flowers and I overlay them with an abstract interpretation of her primitive art work. She tapes our pictures to her refrigerator so she can tell my mother that we made pictures today. Both of them really overreact to this “art” because they think they’re creating self-esteem for me. Neither of them seem to comprehend that I can manipulate both of them with ease because I already have a lock of my self esteem.

As I mentioned, I’ll be two in October, and I have already mastered the art of saying ”NO!” which helps me to create healthy boundaries. I know that what is mine is mine, what is theirs is mine, if I gave it to them but want it back it’s mine, if I even think it’s mine, it’s mine. Nana is having a little trouble with observing the “No!” boundaries I’m setting with her, but her low energy doesn’t allow her to fight me for too long and I’ve already hidden her pepper spray under the couch, so she usually capitulates in a matter of minutes.

After I refuse whatever she makes me for lunch, we go to the park. It’s fenced in so she can’t get away. I try to play nice with the other children, but they really get on my nerves, trying to keep all their toys instead of handing them over without a fight. We usually leave after I’ve inflicted my second injury on someone. The 18 month old kids are such easy marks. One good shove, and just like that, you have their toy.

We get home around 3 PM and by then, I’m ready to help Nana redecorate. I like to pull all the cushions off the chairs, clear her counters, and one good yank can take down any curtain. I take my crayons, snap a few carefully chosen colors in half and grind them into the carpet. I think it’s bold and the splash of color here and there updates Nana’s house. I try to coordinate the crushed colors in the carpet with colors that will go well on the wall. I can crush six crayons and draw on two walls in the time it takes Nana to cut up an apple for me.

Around 4 PM, Nana always seems to experience depression. She sits on her couch, not even trying to clean up after me. She mumbles to herself and shakes her head. I like it when she’s nice and sedate like this, it’s the best time for me to put Playdough in her hair or hide her glasses.

At 5 PM, my mother comes to get me. I will miss Nana, just when I’ve got her beaten to a standstill, I have to go and then start all over in the morning. On the other hand, my mother feels guilty that she has to work all day and, man, can I work that. Phase two of toddler domination begins....

The Evolution of the Beach Basket

2010-07-22T18:02:00.003-04:00

It takes years of experience to know what you really need at the beach. Remembering back to my youth without scaring myself to death or naming any names, I recall how my beach baskets changed with time.

1960’s: big towels, Sun-In hair bleach, baby oil for tanning, transitor radio - tuned to 77WABC because the DJ, Cousin Brucie, would time your tan and say, “Okay, for you girls on the beach, it’s been fifteen minutes, time to turn over.” We basted ourselves in baby oil and turned on an imaginary spit on our towels to achieve the perfect tan. Sunblock did not exist. If you burned, you slathered on Noxema. Yoohoo in glass bottles with a bottle opener. Bologna sandwiches on Wonderbread. The bikini was just beginning to appear, but only sluts wore them. Cool sunglasses and floppy hat with Peter Maxx design. I love going to the beach. I love the peace, the beauty, I don’t mind the sand sticking to the baby oil on my body.

1970’s: big towels, Sun-In hair bleach and Love’s Baby Soft lotion instead of baby oil. Some expensive lotion from France arrived, called Ban de Soleil, and now there were vicious rumors circulating that we should not baste ourselves with oils, nor bask in the sun, something about skin cancer. Everyone wore a two piece, so now we had to tan our middles, skin cancer or no skin cancer, we had to be evenly tanned. Noxema, Fresca’s with the pull tabs on top so you can make pull tab necklaces on the beach. Hostess cupcakes (two in a pack), Devil Dogs and Slim Jim's. Cool sunglasses and brim hat with scarf. I love the beach. I never feel better than when I’m near the water.

1980’s: blanket from home that is on its last legs and beach towels that are brightly colored, but much thinner and with a shorter life than the beach towels of yesteryear. Suddenly there’s a man in my life and somehow, once we got married, he lost all his skills at being an independent adult. Now I have to pack beer and salami & cheese sandwiches. Worse than that, children have shown up claiming that I’m their mother and they have the papers on me to prove it. My two piece bikini has been retired and I’m back in a one piece, a Jansen with a formed cup bra. I have become my mother. I am dipping my small celtic children in 50 sunblock because they will burn if they are exposed to fireworks... The beach is too much work. I can’t track two kids on the beach. I tried just grabbing any little kid that ran close to me, figuring someone would grab one of mine and we could switch in the parking lot maybe, or maybe not - but everyone seems to want their own kids and no one wants any extras. I had cool glasses until I sat on them. My hair is a sun blown wreck. The beach is no longer fun. It’s where I get to do everything I have to do at home, but with sand.

1990’s We are no longer going to the beach unless we can drive up in a Winnebago and have it catered. My children are bratty monsters. Nothing pleases them. I am weighing the pros and cons of prison time against beating them into submission. Everyone has a cell phone with them on the beach, why? Aren’t they here to get away from everything and everyone? I hate listening to all the one-sided conversations. At least with two people in the flesh you can hear the whole argument and takes sides.

2000: Back to the beach. The children grew into people with brains and are considerate of others. I have no idea how this happened. I now spread an old comforter down and sit in a folding chair. I have a book in my beach basket, a book I can read without interruption. I have some kind of guilt free healthy drink and I am wearing sunblock, which sort of defeats to purpose of being in the sun, but I’m just choosing to live with the contradiction. I am in a one piece bathing suit that looks drapey on the outside but has an inner lattice work of struts and straps that rival the Eiffel Tower for uplifting engineering. I still refuse to buy a cell phone. Unless I’m on the list to receive a donated organ, I’m not granting the world access to me at the beach. I have genuine imitation Chanel sunglasses because at dusk, when the sun is directly in a passerby’s eyes, and if the passerby has had a few drinks, I might pass for Jackie O from the sunglasses up.

The Cat Days of July

2010-07-16T09:36:00.002-04:00

The Dog Days of August aren’t even here and the thermometer is already getting too close to that dreaded third digit....the unthinkable concept of 100 degree heat with 98% humidity, so I have decided that all days over 95 degrees in July shall be known as the Cat Days of July. The Cat Days of July will not only be as bad as the Dog Days of August, but worse because there’ll be no cooling September to look forward to, no hint of promise of October weather to come. Just days of sweltering heat that cause the core body temperature to rise and the brain stem to heat up and fill the brain with thoughts that under any other circumstances would be rejected by your normal logical self, but in the Cat Days of July and the Dog Days of August, almost anything can make perfect sense.

“Honey, I was thinking, if we skip the new roof, we can get a boat this summer and get out in the bay breezes and not be locked in the house running the air conditioner all day. What do you think, Betty?”
“A new boat. You’ve been wanting a new boat. I know I’ve been saying no, but it’s too hot to remember why I said no. Are you sure it was just because I wanted a new roof since the ceiling plaster in the kitchen has more rings than a redwood tree?”
“Yeah, I think so. It’s too hot to remember all your objections, after a while your arguments against me just sort of blur together into one big homicidal rage.”
“I’m too hot to recall all the reasons I should kill or divorce you either. Tell me more about the boat, will it have a cabin? I want a cabin that sleeps two so we can anchor out at night and not get eaten up by mosquitoes. I don’t want one that sleeps four or the kids will try to come with us.”
“Cabin? We can have a cabin if we crack into the kid’s college funds. They don’t really need them. We worked our way through school, it would be good for their character if they had to work like we did.”
“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it, Joe? I’m sick of them hammering at me constantly to take them off Island because they’re bored every day want to do something like shop at the mall or go to a movie. Yeah, let them work through college and buy their own cars to get off Island. Why should we waste a ferry ticket on seeing Avatar for the third time? We like living on Island exactly because there’s no, ah, no...”
“Nothing to do, no nothing to create traffic, no entertainment, no big stores, no drive thru anything. It’s still like it always was. Except that we can have boat and escape all the things that aren’t here to do.”
“That make’s perfect sense, Joe. Let’s go to the bank now. I’ll keep the car running with the A/C on and drop you off at the door. Signal from the window when you’re ready for pickup and I’ll pull up to the step and get you.”
“We can get a boat, really?”
“Yes, but let’s hurry before I remember why I said no. I don’t want to say no about anything ever again, it’s too hot to fight.”
“I’m calling Jack now. He’ll give me a good price on his cruiser and we can be on the water, under a canopy by noon. I love you, Betty.”
“I don’t have the energy to pack lunch, we’ll grab what we need at the store.”
“Anything you say, honey.”
“Let’s go, Joe, it’s 9 AM and 82 degrees already, and there’s a sauna in my pants.”

Keeping Your Cool

2010-07-09T12:28:00.001-04:00

How did we survive without air conditioning? We didn’t have air conditioning anywhere I can recall when I was a kid except at the movies and high end stores. Not even the library. None of the schools had air conditioning. I remember the teachers opening the tops of huge windows with a long rod that would tilt the big upper windows inward, then opening the bottom windows as high as they’d go. We might be allowed to have a fan in the room on the really bad days, other than that we just sweltered as we studied, we didn’t have the energy to organize a rebellion. It was too hot to do anything, even to think. Looking back now, as bad as I remember it for us kids, it had to be worse on the adults.

I believe there is a direct inverse ratio to a persons age and their ability to endure the heat. The younger you are, the more you can endure. The older you are, the closer you move your lazy-boy to the air conditioner. To be cool is to be calm. To be cool is to not lose your temper because someone is running the water in the kitchen just a few seconds longer than you do while performing the same task.
“How long are you going to run that water, Louise? How much does it take to boil corn?”
“I have to clean the pot first, Dad. We steamed clams in it yesterday and it has all those little clams bits stuck to the sides.”
”Well, hurry up! We don’t need to be running up the water bill, the electric is going to be bad enough this month. Speaking of which, did you get the mail today?”
“No. Mom picked it up when she went to the store.”
“Well tell her to bring it to me. Tell her I know the water and LIPA-suction bill came and tell her there’s no sense in hiding them from me.”
“Okay, Dad, just let me get this water on the stove. I have to go outside and shuck the corn. When I see Mom, I’ll tell her you want her.”
“I don’t want her, I just want the mail.”
‘You want a cold beer, Dad?”
“At ten in the morning?”
“It’s supposed to go to 97 degrees today. Mom bought you some Guinness Lite.”
“She knows I drink Bud and she bought me Guinness? Was she in a fender bender?”
“No, everything is fine. She just thought, on such a hot day, you’d like the good stuff.”
“Did she buy the beer before or after she picked up the mail? And look at me when you answer.”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Liar. Where’s your mother?”
“Geez, you can already feel the heat coming on. I’ll get you a brew. Mom got you some shrimp too, it’s on ice in a tupperware bowl, but I think it’s chilled enough to eat now. Why not live it up a little and have a shrimp brunch?”
“She bought shrimp too? How big is the water and electric bill, Louise?”
“Daddy, please don’t put me in the middle. I won’t be able to find Mom until you’ve had your second beer.”
“I won’t yell at you or your mother or your sisters and your ....your ....hairdryers, hair straighteners, hair curling irons, phone chargers, stereos, computers, television sets, video games boxes, Tivo’s, Schmebos, or any other completely unessential electronic that runs up the bill. I won’t even start on the length of time it seems to take one of you to shower or brush your teeth, or how many times a day I hear the washing machine go on.”
“Daddy, your face is bright red. Do you want a beer or a Xanex? I’m not getting Mom until we have you sedated, I mean, until you are in a more relaxed state. It’s just money, it’s not worth having a heart attack over.”
“What was that clunk? Oh geez, Louise! My air conditioner went out!”
”Oh Gawd! Mom! Sharon! Paula! Get in here NOW! Dad’s air conditioner just died! Don’t worry Dad, we’ll get you in Paula’s car, she has the coldest A/C and we’ll pack frozen peas around your neck. Paula will get you over to the library. Sharon and I will run off Island and get you a new A/C. You don’t worry about a thing.”
“My air conditioner.....I can’t breathe...”
“The new high end air conditioners have remote controls, Daddy, just think about that.”
“A remote for my A/C? You’d get that for your old Dad?”
“Yes, Dad. Just hold that happy thought. See yourself in your chair with a TV, DVD and a new remote for your A/C in just a few hours from now. Three remote controls, all for you.”
“Can I have my beer now? I can get one down on the way to the library.”
“Yes, Daddy, we’ll start your medication in the car.”

And that is why American’s say, “Whatever happens, don’t lose your cool.”

Shelter Island Barbecue Season

2010-07-02T12:37:00.002-04:00

A Man For All Seasons

Shelter Island has four seasons; Christmas and/ or Holiday of your choice, Spring Planting; Barbecue; and Deer Hunting. The Fourth of July marks the beginning of barbecue season. I believe that barbecue season has been around the longest because there’s something about raw meat and fire that goes back to the first man and certainly the first inhabitants of Shelter Island.

Year 1762, an nice sunny summer’s day
“Running Deer wants us to come over for barbecue tonight. He says bring that fat possum you caught and he wants me to make corn pudding.”
“Why should I bring my possum? He never has any meat except shellfish and that’s only because they can’t run. I don’t know why they call him Running Deer, all he manages to do is run them off. He should’ve been named Spooking Deer or just Clam Digger.”
“Be nice, he’s your brother. You know he was never fast, Rips Off Antlers, the Chief just gave him the name Running Deer to make him feel better.”
“Yeah, I know, part of the No Brave Left Behind Program...”
“I’ll pack and carry the baby, can you carry the food? It’s midmorning, we’d better get started if we want to get before dusk.”
“And that’s another thing - why does he have to live all the way across the Island?”
“He likes his privacy, besides if he lives too close, he aggravates you when he borrows your stuff.”
“Yeah, like my best bow. Oh man, you know how long it took me to make that bow? It was a beauty, a work of art. I let him use it once and that son of a .....”
“Honey, please, I didn’t mean to get you started on the bow. Just get the possum and let’s go.”

Year 2010, a nice sunny summer’s day
“Bill, Joe and Susan want us to come over for barbecue. He wants you to stop and get franks, the kosher kind, and pork chops. I made German potato salad with chopped eggs and bacon.”
“I don’t like it with eggs. Can’t you just make regular potato salad?” And how come I always have to get the pork chops?”
“He got all the barbecue stuff. As far as the salad, everyone else likes it with eggs.”
“Okay, so can you make me one without eggs?”
“Can we stop at IGA on the way and buy it?”
“I don’t want the store potato salad, I want yours, it tastes better homemade.”
“Ah, c’mon Bill, that’ll take another hour to make!”
“You said you cooked all the time for your first husband. If you could cook extra for that moron, you can cook for me.”
“Yeah but I traded up when I married you. I got him from the No Bachelor Left Behind Program and he was the last one because he was such an OCD pain in the neck. And you’re not like that. You’re wonderful, you never make me go through unnecessary effort just to please you. You are always willing compromise and go with the flow. That’s what I love about you......are you buying all this so far?”
“Yes if we can have sex tonight.”
“All right, sex is on the menu as long as you stop at three beers which is your Cain limit.”
“My Cain limit?”
“Yes, every man has a drinking limit when he’s sure he Cain, but he just ain’t Abel.”

Fourth of July 2010

2010-07-02T12:33:00.002-04:00

Oh beautiful for spacious skies...

How did we get conned into arriving at airports two hours early to volunteer for body searches and have all our possessions rifled through? Benjamin Franklin said, "They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."

For amber waves of grain...

We found out what’s killing the bees; genetically engineered plants have pesticides in their DNA and it’s killing the bees when they eat the pollen. So, what’s it doing to us? Plus, I’m a little concerned that Albert Einstein said the planet can only survive four years without bees.

For purple mountains majesty...

Unless of course unless they have an profitable ore, then they're coming gown.

Above the fruited plains...

But who needs bees when we can clone fruit?

America, America, God shed his grace on thee...

And yet, we let one atheist, who doesn’t even have kids, get rid our prayer in schools. I recall having moments of silence in school to pray because of a national loss or local tragedy and a pastor was always present to help with a dedication or celebration. And I still think Christmas vacation was a lot more fun than Winter Break, so there...

And crown thy good with brotherhood...

Not even the government, regardless of which party is in charge, has yet wrangled this from us. I love how quickly Americans close ranks when facing a threat. 9/11 being the last example. New York City was crime free for 11 days after the tragedy. Nine million people, not a rape, not a murder, nothing...

From sea to shining sea...

In the case of Shelter Island, this is a fairly short distance. However, if the island is a microcosm of America, and I believe it is, there is hope yet. As much as we all complain locally and nationally about the government, if anyone challenges our patriotism, they’d better be prepared to have their heads knocked off! A Nazi colonel once told his troops that he didn’t understand how the American soldiers, who were the worst trained and undisciplined men that ever wore a uniform, could, when cornered, be the most deadly of fighters.

A congressional aide told me, one hand written letter counts as 1500 people’s opinions to a member of congress, an email counts as 500 opinions and most legislators won’t pay attention to an issue unless they get three letters or ten e-mails. I find that fascinating. Gives me hope and motivation to get involved. Abraham Lincoln said it best: “The American people will get as good a government as they are willing to work for and as bad a government as they are willing to stand for.”

Have a happy and healthy Fourth of July. Today the Island will all be thinking again of our G.I. Joe, recently called home from the field of battle. No soldier dies in vain if the ones he loves remain free.

Spaghetti-O’s, An American Icon in Food

2010-06-18T10:40:00.004-04:00

“Campbell Soup recalls 15 Million Pounds of Spaghetti-O’s
by Mary Jalonick, AP Jun 17, 2010
WASHINGTON- Campbell Soup Co. is recalling 15 million pounds of Spaghetti-O’s with meatball after a cooker malfunctioned at one of the company’s plants in Texas and left the meat undercooked.”

Spaghetti-O’s - only the name is still Italian. Inside the can are small circles of different sizes of grossly overcooked pasta, boardering on mush, coated with a red sauce created with unpronouncable chemicals and the real juice of one half of one cherry tomato to give it color.

Everyone I know has eaten Spaghetti-o’s. As kids we loved them. Plus, it helped introduce our bodies to processed foods and preservatives. A toddler can live on NesQuick chocolate milk and Spaghetti-O’s. Bachelors still live on cans of Spaghetti-o’s. Recall 15 million cans because the meatballs might be slightly undercooked? Are they nuts? Toddler’s eat cookies off the floor, they’ll eat anyting off the floor. Bachelors just eat anything whether it’s off the floor or not. I knew a bachelor who pulled three rock hard Kentucky Fried biscuits out of his fridge. “You can’t eat those,” I said, “they’re stones by now.”
“You just have to let them soak in coffee a minute and they’re fine,’ he said, and proceeded to eat them.

I don’t think a slightly undercooked meatball - especially since there’s only one meatball in a can - is going to have any negative impact on anyone. Even if the lone meatball is undercooked, surely the preservatives will kill any bacteria along with the nutritional value.

Every home with kids has a few cans of Spaghetti-O’s in the cabinets right now. They are fast food, if not at home, they are perfect for the beach ever since they added the pull tab peel off top. Spaghetti-O’s are a staple in Shelter Island beach bags. They don’t need to be wrapped, you can drop a few cans in your beach bag with the Oreo’s and juice boxes for treats. There’s no social rules yet on what you can give kids for beach food. As long as you have SPF sunscreen and slather them every half hour you qualify as a good mother, no one pays attention to what you’re feeding your kids. There were times when I wanted to feed mine to the sharks, but there’s too many witnesses at the beach, plus the sharks are only in the deep channel and I knew my kids couldn’t swim out that far no matter how much I encouraged them.

I’m just waiting for the news to report some idiot who will try to take advantage of the situation.
“She was a normal nine year old, my Brittany. She loved Spaghetti-O’s, we didn’t know we had a can with a bad meatball. We think the meatball was made from a mad cow because overnight, our angel, became bratty, rebellious, sneaky, and talks to us in “textspeak”. She keeps saying, “OMG, WTF is wrong with you people?” to us. We’re suing Campbell’s for three million dollars. They took our sweet little girl from us. Now, they have to give us three million, or they have to take her till she’s 25. We just want what’s best for Brittany.”

To Stand and Witness

2010-06-12T09:07:00.002-04:00

If you need a laugh today, I guess you’ll have to go to another place on the internet. Today’s column will be a vain attempt to bring comfort to the part of the heart no one can ever reach but its owner and sometimes God.

Last Friday, June 4th, the Island lost it’s first son in uniform since the Viet Nam War. 1st Lt. Joseph Theinert, age 24, in Afghanistan. He warned away and saved twenty other soldiers from the bomb that killed him. In that moment, in my mind, he went home, home to a place of no pain where he was met by loving relatives already there, and entered into the peace of God. Today, Friday June 11th, his body will be laid to rest in Our Lady of the Isle Catholic Cemetery.

His body came home to the Island on Wednesday, June 9, to a hero’s return with all the dignity and honor the Island could offer. The rain was strangely appropriate because everybody else was crying, why not the sky too?

It’s odd, but once you’ve lived here, whether for a single summer or your whole life, you are always affected by whatever affects the Island. Doesn’t matter how far you move, or how long you go, part of you remains here. The irony is when you live here, you can’t wait for a chance to get off-island, and if you’re off-island too long, you can’t wait to get home again. I never met Joe, but I’ll bet he’d agree with me on that point.

He came from good people. I only knew his mom, Chrys Kestler. She’s a beautiful, hardworking and upbeat gal, always busy, I’d wave to her all the time in her van with the “Mamasita” license plate. With her as a mother, Joe was raised as right as any kid could be. I can’t imagine where she and Joe’s father, James, can find air to breathe since this happened.

It’s hard to comfort grieving parents. There’s a lot you’d like to say, but nothing would be adequate, and yet, saying nothing isn’t right either. I think sending a card is good because then they can open it when they can bear to. And if they never open the card, it doesn’t matter, because they can see your name on the return address and know you thought of them that day.

Sometimes, all we can do is stand and be counted. The people who stood by the dock that brought him home on the ferry. The people who stood along the road and faced the procession as it passed. The people who stood at the funeral, the wake, and the cemetery service. The people who embraced the parents, the people who sensed they needed to be left alone for a moment. The Islanders who are off island now, were counted as they called or wrote. Sometimes all we can do is say, I am here and I witness your pain. If there is any healing power in knowing that other people care, that is all we can offer the Theinert-Kestler family today.

Shells Angels ; Hell's Angels revised and edited

2010-06-04T10:02:00.003-04:00

Picture above is from www.trikezilla.com/

“Hells Angels, Please Explain Lifestyle
Reuters; Thu Jun 3, 12:36 pm ET
SYDNEY (Reuters) Michael Perry Reporter: Australia's Hells Angels bikers will be forced to explain how they pay for their extravagant lifestyles with sports cars and high-end bikes after losing a court case brought by the Australian Crime Commission.....Sports cars, Harley-Davidson motorcycles, drugs, firearms, computers and financial documents relating to biker activities were seized in recent police raids, said the newspaper.... the 12 Hells Angels bosses were served with summons to appear before the commission, to answer questions on tax fraud and their finances...”

I guess it was bound to come out sometime. Hell’s Angels gangs are worldwide now and have even reached Shelter Island, but in a milder, greener form; Shell’s Angels.

You’ve seen them, we all have. They ride their bikes everywhere, sometimes three or four abreast across the road, defying any car to pass them. And flipping the bird at them what drives too close, these wild rebels of the Island...They bike all over the Island. Speeding down long hills with their arms open wide like they’ll get lift off at any moment.

And the Shell Angels chicks, with their “Born to Be Mild” tramp stamp tatoo’s....peddling along with children strapped into plastic chairs on their fenders. Everyone knows that baby seats are supposed to be rear-facing, but these social miscreants flagrantly defy the law.

To make matters worse, they’re all in great shape and the boys wear lycra shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, (thank God), which is that disgusting.

And unlike their Hell’s Angels cousins, who drive crippled members in side cars and let fat members drive three wheelers, the Shell’s Angels don’t have sidecars for adults, just drag carts that they load with children or groceries. And you can’t drive an adult three wheeler and be in their club. I know, because during my mid-life crisis, I tried.

“I want a shiny red adult three wheeler with an ice cream bell and shiny red streamers on the handles.”
“That we got, but you’ll need some special additional modifications, Ms. Flynn. We got a deal on some second hand tires from the space shuttle that we think can take the pressure, we got a John Deere tractor seat on order and some shocks from Peterbilt.”
“I’m not going to stand out too much with all this special equipment am I?”
“No Ms. Flynn, no one will notice the space shuttle tires or any thing like that, but they will notice the large orange triangle on the back of your bike over the sign that says WIDE LOAD.”
“I’m not really an orange person, can we get the triangle in a soft green or aqua, something a little more summery?”
“Nope, has to be legal.”
“Well how am I going to express my rebel side? I wanna be a Shell’s Angel.”
“I dunno know. How about you go topless?”
“That’s a great thought, but I’d be too worried about catching a boob in the chain or the spokes.”
“Yeah, the Fire Department probably wouldn’t appreciate trying to untangle you from that. You know, I know a guy who knows a guy, I think I could hook you up with some hubcaps with double C’s”
“Chanel hubcaps? Oh, that would make those skinny biker chicks jealous.... I love it. I can just hear them talking about me now.... Sally Flynn, rebel without a cause....”
“No, it would be, Sally Flynn, rebel without a clue.”
“Chanel hubcaps, sparkling red streamers, baseball cards in the spokes, peeing in the woods...living on the edge, that’s me...”

No Kidding!

2010-05-28T09:57:00.002-04:00

I got into a conversation recently with a young woman who was babysitting about whether or not she was ready to have a child. She was babysitting an adorable three year old and had a very idealized view of motherhood, so I enlightened her. Here are somethings to consider for any young gal who’s wondering whether or not she’s ready to enter the world of martyrdom, I mean motherhood.

For the first month, babies sleep all day and are awake all night. You can’t sleep all day, but test yourself to see how much sleep you can do without each night. If you can run all day on two or three hours sleep, that’s a good beginning.
Now, add colic for the next three months. You can still have three hours of sleep at night, but it has to be broken into half hour segments. And you have to be able to sleep in any chair that has arms to keep you from falling off. If you can still spell your name and repeat your address by memory after a month of colic, you’re doing very well indeed.
For the first six months the baby stays wherever you put him. Can you finish whatever you need to do in the next two years before the baby hits six months and starts to get the concept of crawling? Do you need to paint any rooms? Do you need to finish any degrees? Do you want to read a book? Whatever it is, you have until the baby is crawling to get it done, after that, it’s a five year wait till they start school before you’ll have any real time to accomplish anything.
Around eight months, the baby has gone mobile. Can you keep track of a constantly moving object without tying it to the leg of a chair with a bungee cord? Add babyfood and fling it around your dining room a bit, can you stand the look of dripping peaches on the wall for a few minutes until the flinger has flung his last? Or are you compelled to jump up and clean immediately? If you can’t wait, you may have trouble with motherhood.
Around one year, the baby begins to walk and undoes anything you do right behind you. To test your tolerance for a one year old, invite a friend over, get a big box of Cherrios and raisins. Both of you grind Cherrios and raisins into your carpet. Now, you get the vacuum and start vacuuming. Have your friend go behind you and grind fresh Cherrios and raisins into the area you just cleaned while holding onto your leg and crying. Can you stand it or do you have the urge to beat your friend with the conveiniently attached retractable vacuum hose? If you can stand it, then something is wrong with you. If you have the urge to beat with the hose, but are able to restrain yourself, you might make it as a mother.
Go visit a mother with an 18 month old toddler. If you walk into a clean house, she’s hiding something - like the kid in a closet somewhere.... But, if you walk in and nearly break your neck trying not to trip on any toys as you navigate to the couch, you’re in the right place (I always offered to rake a path for guests, but that’s just me). If all the visible surfaces are cluttered and /or sticky, welcome to a toddler’s home. Look at the exhausted mother in clean, but stained clothes. Look at the circles under her eyes and her horrible hair. Listen to her struggle to converse with you over a kiddie show blaring on the TV in the background. Look at whatever is playing on the TV, can you watch that all day without screaming? Watch how she talks to you, but her eyes never leave the child. When you go to leave, watch how she tackles the toddler before you open that door and give him a chance to make a break for it - can you move that fast?
If you’ve made it this far, I’d say you stand a chance to make it as a mother. But stop your exposure to toddlers at 18 months and skip straight to the 3 year olds. Do not go near a 2 year old, or you’ll pay any guy at the docks with a fillet knife and fishing line to ties your tubes.

It’s Not Easy Being Blue

2010-05-21T10:58:00.002-04:00

NH Man Snares Rare, Cobalt-Blue Lobster
PORTSMOUTH, N.H. – At first, New Hampshire lobsterman Bill Marconi thought he had caught a shiny blue beer can in his trap. It turns out it was a rare, cobalt-blue lobster. ... only one in 5 million lobsters are blue... Marconi donated his lobster to the Seacoast Science Center.

“Hello, this is Jan Percy, coming to you live from the Seacoast Science Center in Portsmouth, where our special guest today is the new, one-in-five million, blue lobster recently donated to the Center. We’ve dropped a special microphone in the tank and through the miracle of iMacs, we will be able to talk to our new little friend. Hello there little blue guy..... how are you today?”
“I feel like crap. I’m sliding off a plastic reef, there’s nothing to eat but the rotten chicken they feed us. It’s true we eat things that are dead, but very few chickens drown and make it to the bottom of the ocean, you know what I’m saying? A couple of fish heads would be nice.”
“But you’re the only blue lobster in the tank. There’s only a few of you in captivity. Surely you must feel some sense of pride, of being special?”
“Puhleez.....I’m not the only lobster in this display tank you know, and I’m only one and a half pounds. There’s a big guy whose eleven pounds, he gets to live because he’s huge, but he’s a real bastard. He walks over all of us, especially the new guys, and guess how hard it is for him to spot a blue lobster? You might as well put a flag on my antenna that says, “Crush Here”. And crabs, you put us in the same tank as crabs.”
“What’s the problem with crabs? You live together under the sea - don’t you?”
“Let me help you out here sister, crustaceans, like humans, have a basic stratification to their society. Putting crabs in to live side by side with lobsters is like putting crack addicts in with neurosurgeons, okay? They can’t even walk straight. They’re the first ones on the scene when anything big and dead shows up and we usually just hang back till they eat off all the raggedy stuff and then leave. Lobsters only scavenge the best of the rest and leave the little tidbits for the shrimp who at least have curved tails.”
“I wasn’t aware of any of that.”
“Of course not, why would the Discovery Channel cover that? And we wouldn’t talk to them anyway. They just look for new species of crustaceans. We run and hide from divers because we know, what they film today, they fillet tomorrow.”
“So, I guess you’d rather be back in the Atlantic?”
“Picking up on that are you? Of course I’d rather be home. I miss my family. I had a nice girl and she didn’t mind me being blue. It’s not easy being blue when everyone else is a normal mottled green. I went through a lot. I got a nice place together with this blue sponge and we helped each other. I hid next to him and brought him food. It was a good life, until......”
“But still, living in the display tank is better than....you know....”
“Being boiled alive, bored out and dipped in melted butter? Yes, you could say that.”
“Do blue lobster taste different than regular ones?”
”Sure, I answer that, and next week I’m on TV in Martha Stewart’s kitchen. Blue lobsters taste horrible I assure you. Matter of fact, I think the blue pigment makes us poisonous. One bite and a human covers himself with butter and goes mad. This interview is over, have a nice day girlfriend.”
“All right then. This is Jan Percy signing off. And now over to Jimmy Kim and what’s cookin’ in his Crab Shack today.”

The Lobster Liberation League

2010-05-15T09:41:00.003-04:00

NH Man Snares Rare, Cobalt-Blue Lobster
Aug 21, 2009; PORTSMOUTH, N.H. – At first, New Hampshire lobsterman Bill Marconi thought he had caught a shiny blue beer can in his trap. It turns out it was a rare, cobalt-blue lobster. The 52-year-old lobsterman was out hauling 400 traps with his son Wednesday when he snared the 1 1/2-pound lobster in between his dock and the Isle of Shoals, about six miles off the coast. New England Aquarium Research Director Mike Tlusty told Foster's Daily Democrat only one in 5 million lobsters are blue.
Tlusty said blue lobsters are different in that they are better at processing astaxanthin, an antioxidant with a red pigment derived from algae. The substance bonds with proteins in the lobster's shell, resulting in the blue pigment. Marconi donated his lobster to the Seacoast Science Center.

Do you ever wonder what lobsters think about when they see us looking at them in tanks?

“How you doin’ today, Joe?”

“I’m okay, a little depressed. They got Sue and Larry yesterday.”

“Yeah, I saw. But at least they went together and that’s something. You know they met in this tank just last Tuesday.”

“Yeah Bill? They acted like they knew each other for weeks.”

“Well, that’s how it is Joe, a few good days, stroking antenna, can seem like a whole week.”

“Did you hear about that blue son of a bitch they found in Maine? Little s.o.b. got donated to a museum just because he was blue. He could be an idiot, he could be a schmuck, he could be one of those lobsters that hangs outs with crabs, those low life side walking little pricks, but Ohhhhh....he's blue, so that makes him better than the rest of us. One in five million they said, and just because he has the right DNA, he gets to live.... it don’t seem right, Bill.”

“It ain’t right, Joe. We need a gimmick, something to keep us alive. If we can’t be blue, maybe we can learn to tap our antenna on the glass in time to the music...not many lobsters can keep time, and if they’d unband our claws maybe we could click in time to music, you know, like marachas - that’d be a reason to keep us alive.”

“Damn if you ain’t right, Bill. We gotta get organized and get a gimmick. The Lobster Liberation League - showing humans everywhere what a friend we can be. We could be pets like their dogs - they don’t eat them you know.”

“Yeah... and we’re as good as any crummy dog. We can live in a sink or a pan. They could talk to us, we wouldn’t tell any secrets.”

“And home security, Bill, we'd be great at that. What burglar would expect to be hit in the face with a live lobster? Grab his nose with your crusher claw and his lips with the pincher.... the guy would run screaming from the house. We’d get written up in papers. I can see the headline now....Lobsters; Law Enforcement’s Best Friend.”

“It’s a beautiful thing, Joe. Oh geez... wait.... here comes a hand.....move over ,Bill....Damn! He got me, Bill!”

“Joe! Joe! Stay strong. Remember - Long Live The Lobster Liberation League!”

“Keep the faith brother... and get the others to dance or something. Hell, talk to the crabs if you have to - goodbye Bill!”

Divorce Shelter Island Style

2010-05-07T11:05:00.002-04:00

“Italy Hosts Its First Divorce Fair
Reuters Wed May 5, 3:21 pm ET
MILAN (Reuters Life!) – Italy is holding its first divorce fair, offering services such as life coaching and beauty advice to a booming number of separating couples in the Catholic country. The organizers said the fair (www.puntoeacapo.it), which will be held in Milan on May 8-9, aims to help divorcing people start a new, happier life. "Smiling is key to this fair, which also offers serious, practical advice for often dramatic situations," Franco Zanetti, who created the event, told Reuters. The services include divorce planning, anti-stalking help, and "new look" tips, the organizers said.”

Divorce Fair - Island Style

Divorce Lite = Separated, both still living on the Island, but haven’t bothered filing for a divorce because the tax benefits are better as a couple. The Divorce Lite couple still talk to each other and are civil in all public situations. No food fights at the Fireman’s BBQ. No fighting over who gets the kids, each parents takes turns with the creeps. No dating in-laws. Dating your spouses first cousins is acceptable and even damn near unavoidable on Shelter Island. And she still gets to call him with any car problems.

Divorced Regular = Both parties still live on the Island and for the most part are civil to each other. Exchanging barbs or the finger in public on occasion is acceptable, but no fighting in the IGA check out line. Each parent still has to take a turn with the kids, although they can pretend they want more time with the little darlings just to irritate the other person. Dating former brother or sister in laws for revenge is acceptable, but not recommended, it’s easier and less complicated just to key the other person’s car. She has to call him with car problems or listen to a big lecture on how she chose an idiot to repair the car.

Divorce Invisible = Both still live on the Island, each pretends the other does not exist. They can sit together anywhere because they can’t speak a single word to each other without it erupting into exactly where they left off during the last fight. They only communicate through e-mails so each has a chance to thoroughly overanalyze what that the other didn’t mean or is trying not to say.... Their children are not pawns in the game because the kids have their own system worked out in which their parents are pawns.

Divorce Severe = This couple has divided everything in half perfectly and each swears the other got more. They even divided the ferries - one gets the North Ferry and one gets the South Ferry. Both are determined to stay on the Island and drive the other one off. They work hard to date the person their former spouse hates the most on Shelter Island. They don’t have to stalk the former spouse because everyone on the Island lets them know where they saw his or her car last. The CIA could take lessons in brilliant espionage from angry divorced couples on the Island. She’d never call him for car assistance, because given the chance, he’ll drive her car into the bay.

Divorce Do Overs - Formerly divorced couples who remarry after some years of dating other people. They slowly come to the conclusion, that unless something is terribly deranged in their former spouses, it’s a lot easier to stay with some one you’re used to and vice versa, than to train a whole new person to bend to your will. And once again, she has the joy of walking in and saying, “Honey, the car’s making a funny noise.” She listens to a few curses and goes to start dinner knowing he’ll take care of it.

Boating; More Tips for Newbies

2010-05-07T11:01:00.002-04:00

Notes for Boats #2

I got many responses to last weeks Rules for Boating. Here are some of the funniest.

From Bob P. > You can’t do anything for a seasick person. Find them a place to hang their head over the side towards the back of the boat preferably. Give them something to sit on. Remove all sharp objects from view, because if they have a chance to kill themselves, they will. Wish them luck and return to your party.

From Peggy G. > “Beware of Flying Tarantula’s” > In 1964, Peggy was a young gal from New Mexico. She was going boating on the Atlantic for the first time. She thought it would be like the calm lake boating in New Mexico. She paid for a terrific beehive hairdo ($40 bucks was a lot then) which included a “switch”, an extra hairpiece for volume and height. She sprayed her beehive using half a can of hairspray, confident that her hairdo would last the day.
But, Peggy was going boating off Martha’s Vineyard in a Boston Whaler..... Whalers go very fast and in five minutes after take off, her whole cone shaped beehive had shifted to the back of her head, making her look like a cartoon character who was zooming by. As she struggled with her hairdo, the sea spray and wind speed of the boat tore off her switch and the sticky, hairspray-laden, brown hairpiece landed on the face of her boyfriend who was sitting behind her. He screamed and said he felt like he’d be hit with a flying tarantula. Another male member of their party said he looked like he’d been hit by something else that ordinarily doesn’t fly, but Dan’s is a PG-13 magazine so you’ll have to use your imagination.

From Joe McF > Don’t let seasick people try to jump for the dock as you come in. They are desperate to get to any stable surface, but they suddenly think they can jump eight feet when they see the dock. When they fall in, only let one person go in after them. Three is too many and if they’ve been drinking, you have to remind them to let you cut the engine, and hence the whirling propeller, before they try to climb up on the back of the boat.

From Jackie V. > Jackie is a nurse and while boating with friends, she tripped and got an inch gash above one eyebrow. The pilot was also an MD and had his doctor bag in with the First Aid kit. He had a little suture set and stitched her up. He said he hoped it would look all right, he didn’t ordinarily stitch women’s faces. She asked him what his specialty was, he said, “I’m an Ob/Gyn man.”

From Jimmy > Putting smelly, sticky, bait in your girlfriends designer blue jeans while she’s swimming is not as fun an idea as it sounds. But it is a good way to find out just how hard she can hit and how long she can stay mad.

From my family files > My Uncle Walter never lived down the time we were all boating and his wife yelled at him not to jump in the water with his new watch on. So, he carefully took it off, pushed it into the pocket of his cut off jeans, and jumped in the bay. Yes, alcohol was involved.

Safe boating everyone!

Boating; Things that don't mix with Tequila

2010-04-23T13:05:00.003-04:00

Notes for Boats

Boating is one of the greatest pastimes in the world. I love it. You get out there, alone on the water. No TV’s, phones, you can just talk, have fun and enjoy the beauty of the day. Some people are new to boating, so I thought I’d pass on some tips for new boaters.

* When launching your boat from a boat trailer, BACK down the boat launch ramp so that the boat goes into the water first....
* The right side of the boat is the starboard side and has a green light. Left is Port and has a red light. Boats approaching from opposite directions do not have to pass each other on the left like cars do. It would be ideal, but just making sure there’s a safe distance between vessels is enough. If you can throw a beer to the passing ship, you’re too close to pass safely and swiftly, but if you slow down enough, you can exchange items via crab net; beer for cheese and crackers, suntan lotion for margarita mix, whatever seems like an even swap.
* Do not cross the ferry lanes unless you can do so quickly and completely. Ferry's are clumsy to navigate, it’s like trying to steer a giant soap dish, they have right of way and can push aside anything smaller than they are. I’ve have seen some people cut across so close to the front of the ferry that I could see what page of Dan’s they were reading. So please, don’t be the cause of a ferry accident, it will back the ferry lines up for days.
* Boat cushion fights; sometimes the mixture of sun, sea air and alcohol, can result in a boat cushion fight breaking out. They’re sort of like pillow fights, but with harder pillows and always the chance that someone could be knocked out of the boat and and attacked by a passing shark, which rarely happens in normal bedroom pillow fights, but it’s that extra little risk of coming home without a limb that adds a unique fun factor to boat cushion fights.
* When towing a water skier, occasionally look behind you to see if you are still pulling a vertical object or just a lump that is bobbing up and down in the water. If boats pass you and people appear to be signally wildly for you to look behind you, you should interpret this as a sign to check for that skier.
* Taking the children boating; like the Norman Rockwell painting of the family at Thanksgiving, this concept works in fantasy, but not reality. Taking children boating means you get to do all the things you have to do for them at home, plus add sunscreen to all exposed flesh every 30 minutes and listen to extensive whining in a confined space. I think this is why dinghies were invented. It’s a way to give kid a “time out” on the water. And if they continue to stick bait in their sister’s hair or - perish the thought - throw the beer overboard, you can always lengthen that dinghy rope, just don’t let them dip past the horizon because then the connecting rope could get in another boater’s way.
* Boating nude; another concept that works in fantasy far better than reality. When I was very young and there were absolutely no boats anywhere in sight I let my boyfriend Arnie talk me into this. The sunburn I got that day in the Hawaiian sun was the stuff of legend. He burned parts of himself that no man even wants to imagine. My advice is, stick with the fantasy, because at least you can still sit down without crying the next day, and the same goes for me too.

New and Improved tax Deductions

2010-04-16T12:26:00.002-04:00

Tax Deductions

Now that we’ve all gotten through another tax season and have moved even further into the land of, “Does ANYONE know what the IRS is really doing? And how do they come up with all these rules?” For me, figuring out taxes is like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. I got different results from TurboTax and TaxAct, why? Who knows? Did you know that the IRS is the only federal governmental agency that does not conduct outside audits. They audit themselves, and they always get a passing grade.

I’m putting in my wish list for new deductions now. Next year I think we should have deductions for:
* Medical injuries incurred while trying to free products made in China from some form of plastic that not even your ginsu knife will cut. As you hacksaw, tear, curse, pry with a butter knife and everything else you try you eventually cut your hand, happens every time.
* We should be able to deduct any rebate that never comes (Epson is the worst offender in my book).
* We should be able to deduct the final bill for any utility that we terminated and they failed to get us our final refund/settlement within thirty days of termination. I say, if the utilities are going to be so strict about timely payments, then how about we get timely refunds or we get to deduct the last bill? Bet that might provide some motivation.
* I don’t suppose anyone will agree with me on this, but I frequently babysit a toddler. I think I should be able to deduct the duct tape that I use to strap her to the chain link fence at the park for fifteen minutes so I can have a drink and perhaps, take a Xanex, or grind a little up for her bottle. It’s definitely a work-related expense along with any treats I have to get her from the IGA or Fedi’s.
* On very rare occasion, usually in summer, and always a tourist, will cut ahead in the ferry line. I think any front end damage to your vehicle should be tax deductible as you push them out of the line. And no charges should be filed against the ferry worker who pulls them from their cars and beats them while slowly and clearly explaining that unless you have a medical emergency, you wait in line. Not even President Clinton, had he chosen to live on Shelter Island, would be allowed to cut the line. I understand from the old-timers that when Frank Sinatra visited, he couldn’t cut the line either. Here are three universal truths to remember; The sun rises in the east and it sets in the west, and you don’t cut into a ferry line on Shelter Island.
* Someone on some talk show suggested the government tax overweight people to help pay for health care - and thin people get a deduction for being height/weight proportionate. Okay, then we tax all the alcoholics, smokers, people who aggravate us which puts us on anxiety meds, and parents of teenagers should get a free pass till those creeps are eighteen and can be legally pushed out of the nest. I agree I should buy extra airlines seats, well, in my case, I guess I’d have to buy the whole row, but please, if you tax my derriere, the weight of my asset alone will put me up two tax brackets.

These are just a few of my ideas. I have a whole year to cook up more.

Kindle vs. iPad, both KO'ed by iGal

2010-04-10T10:33:00.004-04:00

I Glad For iPad, But I Pal of iGal

CNN reported two days ago about the crisis in the newspaper business. Simply that all media printed on paper is in severe decline owing to the fact that most people read their news online. I think the small local papers will survive where a person does not have access to the internet on a daily basis, but one by one, I think we will see the big papers stop printing on paper altogether. When the New York Times print its’ last paper, that will be the end of newspapers as we have known them. I will miss them. I am a high tech gal, but some things I still like low-tech, like my day planner book and a copy of USA Today on the dashboard.

However, we can’t stop progress. Today I have a bit of a spoiler alert. Ever sensitive to future forecasts and trends, I have long been preparing for the end of the paper paper and soon I will announce the iGal. Unlike it’s predecessors, the Amazon Kindle and the Apple iPad, the iGal will be uniquely qualified to serve women.

Check out these applications that come standard with the iGal.

The iGal can be mounted on the dashboard of your vehicle for hands free operation. The DPMS (iGal’s Don't Push Me System); like it’s cousin the GPS (Global Positioning Service) which just tells you where you are in the world - like you didn’t already know that - the DPMS tells you where you are anywhere in a fifty mile radius. It shows you where traffic is heavy or slowed and provides you with back road alternatives that are not only picturesque, but if you hit the optional FSL (Farm Stand Locator) button you will be able to pick up fresh fruits and veggies as well. The DPMS also has a PSL (Parking Space Locator) that kicks in automatically when it hears you say, “Oh shit, where am I gonna park?” Suddenly, little the screen highlights spaces you can drive to in one minute or less. There is an expensive extra app for the iGal DPMS called DETAT (Don’t Even Think About It) which projects a hologram of your can in the desired space until you drive into your own silhouette. The iGal DPMS also has a nice little app called the CopPop; little red dots just pop up on the DPMS screen showing your the location of any cop cars within a five mile radius, just in case you have a reason to want to know that...

The dashboard mounted iGal also acts as a phone of course, but with the iNod app. This records your voice saying, “okay, yup, I see what you mean, you’re right, yup, okay talk to you soon,” with spaced intervals between each word or phrase so the listener can prattle on and on while you sound fully engaged in conversation while you do something else, like... drive.

In addition to all the features of the iPad, the iGal also has the uBlab, an app that keeps you abreast of whose coming and going in rehab. For celebrities, there’s the MissTwit app which Twitters your fans where you are, but with a two hour delay before posting, so you’re actually telling them where you were two hours ago.

I love the uWho? application for those of us who tend to forget names. Just discreetly get your iGal within 15 feet of anyone and hit the uWho and a micro beam scans and reads any ID they have on them and tells you who they are, really handy. There’s the uMoron app which helps when you’re forced to share space with a moron. You just hit the secret alarm button on the iGal that flashes a loud and noisy “Emergency! Call your (family member of choice)!” allowing you a polite exit. If that fails, there’s another secret button that shoots out a spray of black printer ink, just like an octopus, and while the moron is lost in the ink cloud, you can make your escape.

The iBoss app can be put on automatic and it switches your screen to the project you should be doing whenever your boss approaches. Along with this, I’d get the ICU (I See You) which shows you on a tiny screen what is going on behind you.

For shoppers there’s the OnSale app; it gives you a running scan of what’s on sale inside of any store you stroll by. There’s a companion app called iBuy; this compares the price of the sale item against the money you have in the bank and all available credit you have left on all your cards and lets you know in a flash whether you can afford it or not. The iGal has a little secret compartment for valium so you can discreetly take one before you go in and get that dress that iBuy just sent you the message “No, don’t do it, you will regret it later when you are the best dressed homeless woman in town.”

The iBeach app gives a running update on all the beaches; parking and people congestion, surf conditions, winds, etc.. The iGal comes with a pop out cup holder that can be set to keep you drink hot or cold. It also has the iBlow app which allows the user to blow into a port on the side of the iGal and get an accurate blood alcohol reading before heading back to your car.

These are just a few of the great little apps that will be available on the iGal. Just remember your Kindle can dwindle and your iPad go mad, but with your iGal you wow!

A Bag By Any Other Name, Still Carries A Lot of Stuff

2010-04-02T11:07:00.003-04:00

A Bag Carried By A Bag is More Than Just A Bag

Some women are nuts for shoes. As a matter of fact, that’s the one stereo type about my black friends that I refuse to surrender. Every black woman I have ever known is a shoe nut. Never go shoe shopping with a black woman unless you pack a lunch and bring a flashlight, because you are going to shop all day and and far into the night. You have to drive to every shoe store in a fifty mile radius and she puts one or two pairs of shoes on hold at each store, or she has a system of hiding the shoes she wants to find later. When I have asked my friends what outfit they are trying to match the shoes to - in an attempt to be helpful - they say, “I’m just getting the shoes, I’ll find something to match them with later.” I gave away my last high heel shoes over ten years ago because my feet found Birkenstocks and have rebelled against any other shoe ever since, so the concept of buying uncomfortable shoes to match an outfit I don’t have is like choosing a steering wheel based on it’s cute buttons and someday, I’ll get a car to go around it.

Some women are nuts for shoes, but I can’t get too angry because I’m nuts for handbags. I am a bag lady. I was in grade school when Mrs. Quigley walked into my Fourth Grade with a red leather bag with a quilted pattern. I love red. I love geometric designs. I love utilitarian things. The red quilted handbag was a trifecta of joy and I can still see it in my mind.

Mature woman have three levels of handbags. One: The “Mary Poppins” big bag (the one where she pulled out a lamp, mirror and a Buick) that carries all we need, including a book, and has a separate compartment for the “others”. The “others” are children or partners whose items you get stuck carrying. When I was married, I carried my hubby’s wallet, reading glasses, sunglasses, keys, little pocket knife and assorted business cards he picked up. For me, I carried a wallet, lipstick, packet of tissues and slim datebook. My handbag weighed eighty pounds I think. I still use the big bag on occasion , but now I have a book and my own reading and sunglasses to carry.

The next level is the medium size bag, the “Big Girl Bag” - I’m carrying my stuff, you have to grow up and carry your own stuff bag. This is a very practical bag and almost always has the four little metal feet on the bottom because we are done with the sloppy hobo bags that flop over everywhere and things roll out. In this bag we have a wallet, glasses, keys, lipstick and that’s it. We aren’t carrying anyone else’s stuff. We’ve schlepped other peoples’ stuff for years and we are sick of it!!! When you see a man with a belly bag, he has a wife with a medium bag with four little metal feet....

Last, is the “Bagette” the mini-mini bag. I love mine. It has my driver’s license, debit card, ferry tickets, money, one lipstick, and a small zipper packet that I can use for change or earrings. I leave it packed just like that all the time and can drop it into a Big Girl or Mary Poppins bag anytime I need to. Oh, and did I mention, it’s leather, red, and has a quilted pattern? I think big things make us happy, but it’s the little things that give us joy.

P.S. The fantastic bag above is by Hermes.

Spring Planting, Seed Packets try again

2010-03-26T10:46:00.002-04:00

Seed Packets are in the stores. I love looking at the nice pictures on the front and imagine that my plants might remotely look like the pictures on the packets. I always buy five or six packets a visit with every intention of planting them. I plan my garden as I drive home. I imagine how nice it will be to have fresh squashes and cucumbers and especially those tiny tomatoes that I can eat like candy.

Once I’m home I put the seed packets on the windowsill over the sink so the pictures will keep looking back at me and remind me that I want to do this. I make a plan to garden like my mother in law used to. She bought little kiddie wagons at garage sales, filled them with potting soil and planted them. This way she could garden from a stool, no pressure on her knees or back. Plus, she could easily move the plantings around the patio for more sun or rain, overall, a very clever idea.

Just to further prove my intentions, I buy a tee shirt with stencils of seed packets on it. This way, anyone who looks at me will see me as a serious gardener - who else would wear pictures of seed packets on their chest? I buy the soil, some new cutsie gloves that are always too small for my hands, but again, we’re going for affect here.

Somewhere around June I begin to become suspicious that I’m not going to plant any of the fifty seed packets that now face me with hateful stares from the windowsill. I tried to appease them by organizing them alphabetically into groups of flowers vs. vegetables. Still, they stare at me, the Zucchini whispering - “Why am I always last? Why not reverse the alphabetical order and let me at think you’ll plant me first. We both know it’s not true, still, I could enjoy the fantasy, however brief, of being first, before you put us all in the junk drawer with the seed packets from last year.” He’s got me there. Zucchini have always been a very wise vegetable.

Soon it will be July. I like July. The pictures on the packets have faded from the sun and I feel less guilty. It’s too late to plant them now and we all know it. I know my junk drawer has last years seed packets in it. I begin to slowly throw them out, just a few at a time so it’s not obvious to this year’s packets. I’m sneaky about it, but once in a while a few seed packet on the windowsill see what I’m doing- making room in the junk drawer that will soon be their tomb. Like brave Samurai, a few wait and choose their moment of demise. And suddenly I’ll look down and see them floating face down in the dish water. Their paper packaging soaking up water and disintegrating, freeing the seeds to feel themselves immersed in hot soapy Dawn grease cutting water is better than never having felt water at all I suppose.

By August, all of this year would-be crop will be laid to rest in the dark junk drawer, with screws that go to something, batteries that may or may not be dead, keys that can’t be thrown out until I figure out what they unlock, coupons that won’t be used, and receipts that are too faded to read anymore.

Next year, I’m planting at least six vegetables and three flowers, no, really, I will, and I’ll get the tee shirt to prove it.