It’s Not Easy Being Blue

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Jesse James the Jerk Rides Again...

I have been a big Sandra Bullock fan for years. Ever since she did The Net. It was one of the first films where the heroine didn’t need rescuing because she outsmarted her nemesis herself. No rescue from Prince Charming needed. I loved it.

Now, while she probably hasn’t even landed from her Oscar win high, she is slammed to the depths by the person she loved and lauded on every talk show since she married him. Jesse James. We all thought he was a stand up guy. Tattooed and intense, espousing to be a reformed alcoholic, he won us all over with what appeared to be unshakable integrity. And now, with his recent admission of an affair with a woman who is so tattooed, she even has a tattoo on her forehead, he rends his carefully crafted “bad boy gone good man” in twain. He’s like Peter Cook, the moron who cheated on Christie Brinkley. I guess for Sandra, like dear Christie, it’s not enough to be beautiful, have a flawless figure, be a millionaress, be on the A-list, and the capper, be by all accounts, a genuinely decent and moral person. I can only imagine the pain Sandra is feeling today. After praising him in her acceptance speech, today she must feel a ton of humiliation on top of the hurt.

What does a woman have to do to be enough for a man? I asked myself that, but then it occurred to me, that’s the wrong perspective. I think we should ask why can’t a man realize when good is good enough? More isn’t always better and more will get you in trouble.

What’s wrong? She doesn’t look like the girl you married? How close do you look to the guy she married? Did you allow you body to be stretched and ravaged by pregnancy with rotten kids that now only want money and car keys?

What’s wrong? She doesn’t cook gourmet? Why is that? She couldn’t find the time to study gourmet cooking between working full time, wrangling kids, school obligations, making sure your bait was thawed by morning, and doing all the household chores?

What’s wrong? She’s not a freak in the bedroom? Did you shower before you got in bed? When was the last time you saw a dentist? Were you considerate all day today, or did you just start being nice at 9 PM? Do you still think she’s turned on by a disgusting porn tape, or have you finally realized she’s just pretending for your sake? How about you make her a scented hot bath and pretend it’s a turn on for you?

What’s wrong? She doesn’t make enough money so you can pay all the bills and get all the toys? Apparently no woman can make enough money for a man. If Christie and Sandra can’t do it, none of us can.

What’s wrong? She doesn’t get along with your mother? YOU don’t get along with your mother. You’ve just put it on your wife to the buffer, meaning whipping boy, between you and your mother. When your Mom calls, do you signal your wife to give you the phone or wave her off and dive for the nearest exit because you don’t want to listen to your mother ask you questions that always lead to her giving you advice that you know you should follow and know you won’t.

What’s wrong? She left you “for no good reason, I didn’t do anything”. And that’s the problem in a nutshell, you didn’t do anything. I think good marriages, straight or gay, happen when you both realize that you can find a hundred people with qualities you like, the trick is finding a partner with bad qualities you can stand. Instead of wanting more, choose what you have, unless the issues are major, like addiction or similar, work to stay together. Somewhere I heard a great saying; “there’s no perfect fit in an off the rack world.”

Good luck Sandra Bullock. I’m holding a good thought for you. You have a lot of women in your corner. And as far as Jesse the Jerk is concerned, the Italians in my neighborhood have a succinct saying, "Fuck'em where they breathe...."

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I hope everyone has a great St. Patrick’s Day. As I write this column on the 12th, St. Patrick’s Day is still five days away. We are making all the usual preparations.

First, we bought beer. But now we have to do that again because somehow the bought beer has been tested for quality to the point of extinction.

The seven quality testers now have to argue over which brand should be bought for the party. Four are voting for Guinness because of tradition. I’m sure it’s for the flavor and has nothing to do with the higher alcohol content. Two are advocating for Bud, which is mother’s milk in my clan, and one tester is wisely suggesting that we buy a variety of beers so everyone will be happy. That idea won’t fly because it eliminates too many arguments over which is the best beer. The fewer arguments, the less the chance of the hooley (party with punch) becoming a donnybrook (punching party), well, we can’t have that... My mother, who was not one of the quality testers, suggested her favorite beer, Coors light. Only the fact that she is a mother saved her ejection via the back door. I’m not a beer drinker myself because I hate the taste of it, tastes sour, bitter and just awful to me. But there’s something about the mention Coors light that makes a serious beer drinker’s head pop up and spin around. My brother's call Coors Light "piss water".

We will be having the traditional corned beef and cabbage - because we actually like it. I love colcannon (mashed potatoes except you replace half the boiled potatoes for boiled cabbage, very tasty). I have my grandmothers handwritten recipes for tea brack and soda bread. I’d make the tea brack from scratch but I discovered a fast, easy and delicious shortcut; buy the dough for roll-up crescents and sprinkle raisins and dried fruit bits on the dough, roll and bake = delish! Seems odd though, to serve tea brack with coffee instead of a bracing Irish tea, but that’s the way Irish Americans do it. Of course, it is Irish coffee (which contains our four basic food groups; coffee, liquor, sugar and milk) a nice big cup of Irish coffee first thing in the morning on St. Pat’s and continuing through the day - it helps block the smell of boiling cabbage.

We’ll be making green cupcakes with green icing and green sprinkles. The only scary thing about food green food dye is that it remains green on its journey through the body. It can be a wee bit of a shock unless someone clues you in beforehand. I forgot to tell it to my husband one year and he was prepared to rush to the E.R. the next day, certain that his intestines had gone gangrene. I did a fantastic job of keeping a straight face while addressing his concerns and simultaneously ignoring the wicked family members who were laughing in the background.

Next we have to delegate someone as the Designated Defender. Just like a Designated Driver, someone has to be the Designated Defender at Irish family parties now. This is the person who answers the door and talks to the police when they come. We didn’t need them when I was a child in Sayville, NY, because the police (whom we either knew or were related to) would come in and have a short one with the family before admonishing us to keep it down. They were always invited to come back after their shift.

In truth our St. Patrick’s celebrations have become thin and sedate as the family has spread out over the country and everyone tries to have no more than two DUI offenses on their record these days. Still, I know we all think back to our happiest times with too many people drinking too much, singing too much, fighting too much, the near arrests, the property damage .....ahhhh, it’s those little things I miss.

Two Million - Robbed!

Man robbed of $2 million bank withdrawal
Reuters Nov. 24, 2009
TAIPEI (Reuters) – A man in Taiwan was robbed of more than $2 million in cash that he had just withdrawn from the bank...Three masked gunmen robbed the 50-year-old victim in the southern city of Tainan, logging the highest-value robbery in city history...The gunmen approached the victim..., as he drove from the bank to his watch shop nearby, ..
Police are looking for the three men while advising people in the 769,000-population city to be more vigilant. "We're putting out a notice on public safety, telling citizens that we're ready stand beside them for protection as they use the bank.”

This story would have gone so differently on Shelter Island.

“Did you get the money from the bank, Joe? We should have at least five thousand for the trip.”
“Yeah. I took out some extra too.”
“How much?”
“I took out two million, Jean. I went to the bank in the Hamptons because I knew they wouldn’t have that much cash on the Island.”
“Im sorry, honey. Say that again.”
“I took out two million. I thought, just once in our lives, we should go for broke.”
“Joe, if you took out two million, we are broke.”
“Actually, that statement is truer than you realize. You better sit down.”
“Okay, I’m sitting.”
“Maybe take a Xanex.”
“You’re scaring me, Joe. What happened?”
“Three guys jumped me as I came out of the bank. They got all the money.”
“I don’t need a Xanex, I need a gun.”
“Jean, you can’t shoot yourself over money!”
“I’m not going to shoot myself over money, I’m going to shoot you, and yes I can. We don’t even have two million...”
“I maxed out our credit lines and credit cards, cashed our CD’s. I just wanted this to be a really memorable trip for us. We never get off the Island and how many other chances will we have to get to Atlantic City?”
“So, you were robbed of all the money we had, all the money we saved and all the money we could borrow.”
“I’m so glad you’re taking this so calmly, honey. I was sure you’d be furious.”
“Relax, Joe, I’m way past furious. I’m past irate, mad, annoyed, cross, vexed, irritated, indignant, irked; enraged, incensed, raging, fuming, seething, choleric, outraged; livid, foaming at the mouth, doing a slow burn, steamed up, in a lather, fit to be tied, seeing red; sore, bent out of shape, ticked off, teed off, and PO'd. I should be entering homicidal rage in the next ten seconds. Please call the Island police.”
“They can’t do anything for you. We were robbed, that’s the whole story. The locals can’t do anything.”
“They can keep me from killing you, Joe.”
“Jean, Jeannie, honey, you’re talking crazy. You’re just upset. We’ll get through this together. Why are you taking out the iron frying pan? That’s for camping. Jeannie, put it down honey. I’m your husband, you can’t kill me!”
“I get $100,000 in life insurance, Joe. It will help me start a new life.”
“They won’t pay on a homicide, Jean!”
“Oh yes they will! The agent is a woman. I bet she’ll give me double indemnity after you fall on this frying pan and die of a head injury!”

Supply and Command = Surving a Big Snow

Whenever a big snow storm is predicted, grocery stores make out great because we all stock pile for the storm. People prepare differently for storms according to sex, age group, and marital status. Couples split into two categories; BWC (Broke With Children) or CWM (Childless With Money).

Bachelors who live alone have the shortest storm supplies list; beer.

Bachelors whose girlfriends live with them; beer and maybe a candle so she doesn’t freak out if the lights go out.

Single women with no children have the best supply list; chocolate, candles, magazines, tasty canned foods that they love since they don’t have to please anyone else, cozy comforter, charged cell phone to chat away the time if the cable goes out.

Single Mothers have the worst list; candles, Lunchables, kid’s snack foods, crayons, coloring books, games, at least 10 minutes on a prepaid cell phone to call for help if needed, and absolutely nothing for themselves. If she has a boyfriend, and if he’s coming over, she also has to buy his beer. Why? Because once a man is dating, it seems to be her responsibility to make everything he wants appear before his eyes. He comes over before the storm, opens the fridge, sees the Lunchables and juice boxes and says, “Hey, you didn’t get me any beer?”

BWC (Broke With Children) couples get everything on the single Mom list, including beer, but the man is smart enough to get shrimp and chocolate for her, bags of salt, and possibly a new snow shovel.

CWM (Childless With Money) couples can get a list of any supplies they want, but why bother? If you’re going to be trapped inside for a few days, why shouldn’t it be in a nice hotel with room service? CWM couples can stay at the Sheridan.

Retired people are the best prepared. They’ve lived long enough to anticipate every possible contingency plan for a storm. They have a wood or kerosene stove if the heat goes out. They have lots of candles if the lights go out. They have plenty of canned food, and they always know where the can opener is. The have decks of cards and know card games. They’ve lived a long time, so they have funny stories to tell and retell. They do not require TV to entertain themselves or each other. They don’t have cell phones because they can’t see the tiny buttons or figure out how the stupid little things work anyway - but it’s okay because, they don’t need any help to get through a storm. Prior to the storm, they hired someone to shovel them out. They know someone will come check on them if no one has seen or heard from them 48 hours after the end of the storm. When they go to the store for storm supplies, they get cat or dog food, toilet paper and make a pharmacy run to insure they have all their meds.

If you’re not retired, you should always know a retired couple and stay on their good side. In the event of a really bad storm and if your supplies are running low, call them. The man has a truck, or something with four wheel drive. They will come and rescue you and your children. Just pack the kids things and whatever booze you have in the house. The retired people have Margarita and Daiquiri mix and a blender that works. Whatever your hyperactive kids don’t drink, the grown-up can have. It breaks the social mores, but hey, it’s a snow storm, no one should be stuck in a house with kids climbing the walls when a little chemical intervention can make everyone’s lives easier for the duration.

Roomination = Ruination

We’ve all just dug out from a big blast of snow and the weatherman predicts another big storm in the next two weeks. Snow storms are very bad for men, more so than women. First, regardless of women’s lib, we still send them out to shovel. But worse than backbreaking shoveling, snow storms pose a great financial risk to men; ruination by roomination.

At some point, when a women is trapped in her house, she relents and says, “Oh well, might as well make the best of it, “ and makes herself a cup of coffee or hot chocolate and sits down in her living room to take a few minutes for herself. This is where the trouble starts.

As she sits and sips, she begins to ruminate, you know, to think about how things are going for her in general. As she ruminates, her eyes lazily focus here and there in the room. Slowly she realizes that the “new” couch isn’t really new anymore. It was new five years ago and now she begins to see stains and wear. A slight feeling of sadness begins. Her eyes drift away to look at her pretty drapes that she loves. But wait, they don’t really match the love seat that came in after the drapes, do they? No, they don’t. And the end tables legs are looking a little beat up from all the hits from the vacuum. If a man can catch and distract his gal at just this moment, he has a chance of diverting her from the next step which will cost him a lot to time and money in the Spring.

She Who Must Be Obeyed, ruminates over the old and beat up furniture, drapes and carpet that surround her - and suddenly she’s sick of it. Within her reach is the TV remote and within that slim magic remote is the key to heart. She turns on HGTV - Home and Garden TV. They have decorating shows every half hour. They show her how, with just a little effort and $ 2000, she can redecorate the room. Rumination gives way to redecoration.

When a woman begins to ruminate about how she can redecorate a room, all is lost. Rumination and decoration collide in her mind and roomination occurs. Roomination is the ability to peer into April and see a new living room.

She looks at the exhausted man sleeping in yon Lazy-Boy recliner and envisions him putting in a new ceiling fan, taking out old furniture, laying down new carpet, and schlepping in new furniture. She mentally reconfigures the budget to afford what she wants.

Just for the guys, here are the signs your gal is roominating:
She sifts through the junk mail and keeps the flyers from furniture stores.
She begins to complain about how uncomfortable the couch is and about it’s length; if it’s a short couch, she will lament that a longer couch would allow you to sleep on it. If it’s a long couch, she’ll point out that a shorter one would allow you to fit in a new recliner for you.
All benefits of furniture purchases will be described in terms that benefit you.
A new carpet, with a thicker pad, will absorb your fall better when you trip over the cat.
Padded arms on the chairs won’t stick to your arms in summertime.
New drapes, with blackout liners, will shut out the sun, all the better for you to nap in your new recliner my dear....

Unfortunately, once roomination has begun, there’s no stopping it’s relentless progression. The victim becomes increasing discontented, fights over money erupts, hallway sex begins (you pass each other in the hallway and say “f--k you”), always a bad sign.

Sorry guys, there’s no option but to open your wallet and, if you play nice, you may get to chose the color of your new recliner.

The Big Dig

The northeast has many ‘snowbirds’; residents who winter in Florida or other warmer climates till Memorial Day. But sometimes, people who are from warmer places think they’d enjoy experiencing a winter.

7 AM
“Look at it, Joyce. A blanket of white velvet covering the land. What a beautiful morning. Our first big snow. It is awe inspiring.”
“It sure is, Charley. Looks like you’ll get to use your new snow shovel today.”
“I can shovel the sidewalk and driveway in about an hour I think.”

8 AM
“Are you back in already, Charley? The car is still buried.”
“Yeah. I just did the sidewalk. It takes longer than I thought. But at least we can get out to the street.”
“Not anymore, honey. While you were in the can, the snowplow came by and there’s a huge block of snow at the end of the walk, about four feet high.”
“No problem. That happens. You shovel out, the plow shovels you back in. It’s part of life in the Northeast, honey. I’ll shovel out the end of the walk after breakfast.”
“Okay, and the car too.”
“No problem.”
“I saw our neighbor give the plow guy the finger.”
“Very immature. Snow is just a fact of life here, Joyce, people have to adjust.”

11 AM
“It took forever, but I got the car cleared off and and shoveled out the driveway to the road. I didn’t realize how packed down the snow was at the end of the walk. I guess the movement of the plow packs it as it goes.”
“Well, just rest in the chair. I’ll make you some lunch.”
“What’s that sound? Is that the plow? Is he on this street?”
“Yup, Oh hell, Charley, he just filled up the end of the walk and the driveway with another mound of snow. He’s giving our neighbor the finger and laughing.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the neighbor just threw a flowerpot at the plow.”
“The man is unbalanced.”

1 PM
“Well, that should be it, Joyce. I shoveled out the ends of the walk and the driveway and re-shoveled both from the snow since this morning. I put a sign at the end of the driveway for the plow man not to block us in again.”
“Oh, Charley, I don’t know how to tell you. He just re-plowed while you were in the bedroom changing clothes. We’re blocked at the ends again.”
”WHAT? He just ignored the sign? Who does that son of a bitch think he is?”
“And the neighbor hurled a lawn chair at the plow this time. He’s a local you know.”
“Call the town, Joyce, find out who is plowing this road and tell them to tell him to lift the plow before he crosses driveways that have obviously been dug out.”

3 PM
“Okay, Joyce. That’s the last I can shovel us out today. I am pooped. Did you get ahold of the town?”
“Yes. They said they’d pass the message...”
“WAIT! What’s that? Is that him coming AGAIN?”
“Yes. Charley, he’s at the corner, maybe you can get outside in time, flag him down and talk to him.”
“I’ll talk to him.....”
“Charles... what are you doing with the bat? Hold on, phone’s ringing....it’s the neighbor. He said he’ll meet you at the end of our driveway since the plow will hit us first. He says he has bottles and rags, do we have any kerosene, gasoline or lamp oil in the house? What’s he talking about, Charley?”
“He’s talking about a man’s right to the pursuit of life, liberty, happiness, and the right to defend his home front from all enemies; foreign, domestic, or armed with snowplows.”

Crabs & Roses

“I hate Valentine’s Day! I never get it right! Why do you women have to have an extra holiday besides Christmas and your birthday where the guy has to sweat out getting another gift? It’s not fair. I’m still paying off Christmas.”

“Blame no one but yourselves, Pete. For decades men have been so closed off emotionally that women only got to hear “I love you” on our death beds. Valentine’s Day picked up speed as a way for us to drive a wedge into your thick skulls and force you to demonstrate an emotion via candy, flowers, and gifts. The deal was, if you can’t say it, you have to show it. The florist and chocolate industries in this country were built on guys inability to be tender.”

“Yeah, but we’re tender now. We have all had force fed “sensitivity training to get in touch with our feelings....ooooo....” . We say “I love you” all the time now. We know we’re not to get any action without it. We got the message, and we’re still being fleeced every February 14th.”

“That’s true. Guys are much more in touch with their emotions now I guess.”

“No, that’s not what I said. We’re no more connected to our emotions than before, we just know we have to say “I love you” all the time, it’s a filler for us now. Like,

“Hi honey, I’m going to the store, what do you need? Milk? Okay, love you, see you later.” See? It’s a filler, instead of just saying “bye” I threw in, “love you”. We get free points every time we bounce a “love you” in any conversation. The points rack up, and eventually, we get a payoff.“

“You’re all using “I love you” as a filler? Just to rack up points for sex?”

“Absolutely. Every chance we get. It replaces a lot of things. Like if I make a mistake, I just say, “I screwed up, but hey, you know I love you.” I never have to say that other thing anymore.”

“You mean, “I’m sorry” ? Why are you holding up your hands and making across with your fingers? I’m not a vampire.”

“It’s those words. We don’t say the “S” word.”

“But you can say the “L’ word now - anytime?”

“Yup. The “L” word works, as long as it’s not connected to the “M” word.”

“Yes, but L is just before M in the alphabet. You don’t think that’s just a random coincidence, do you?”

“Up till this very moment, yes Sally, I didn’t think that there was secret message in the L-M order of the alphabet. But now that I’m listening to you, it’s clear that one of us is nuts.”

“So what are you getting Cindy for Valentine’s Day?”

“Flowers and candy, what else?”

“She’s an Island girl. Ditch the candy, go get some crabs.”

“Crabs and roses? Sounds like Guns and Roses.”

“Yes, but minus the drugs.”

“What about candy, crabs and roses?”

“A little short on love points are we?”

“Yeah. I made a small mistake, and blew her engine up yesterday, I didn’t tell her yet. So whaddaya think? Will candy, crabs and roses keep me out of the dog house?”

“Under the circumstances, you better add some drugs after all....”

“She doesn’t do drugs.”

“Well, then you take them. It will distract you from the pain.”

“Pain? She’s not gonna hit me with the crabs is she?”

“Of course not. She wouldn’t waste the crabs. The roses however, will need to be removed by your proctologist.”

“I guess I could break down and use the “S” word.”

“Nope, too late for sorry. You might have to resort to the “M” word...”

“Nah, I’ll just get a new girlfriend.”

“What a prince.”

50 Ways to Use the Super Bowl...

There Must Be Fifty Ways to Watch the Stupor Bowl...

I don’t watch footbal because all I see is a bunch of millionaires in shiny pants running around a field. However, I do love the Stupor Bowl.

While your football fan partner is sitting in front of the TV with eyes glazed, grazing happily on BBQ and snacks, you can accomplish a lot.

Been wanting to get out of this relationship with all your stuff and not a big hassle? Rent a U-Haul, dress in sweats and tell you’re cleaning out the back bedroom. Pass your stuff out the bedroom window to whomever is helping you and you can pull can make a clean getaway by the end of the third quarter. Matter of fact, once you’re all packed, tell him you’re making a beer run and you need some money, and poof - you’re gone.

Have you longed to have a friend he hates over for a visit? Invite her during the Stupor Bowl. He’ll be in the living room all day for the pre-game, game, post game analysis, that’s twelve hours at least. You can have any friend in you like. He won’t care as long as nobody passes in front of the TV or asks any questions.

I once painted our bedroom and redecorated the whole room while himself watched the game. Afterward, he protested vehemently, so I just said, “Fine, put it back the way it was. All the old stuff is out in the garage.” Given a choice of repainting a room, dragging old furniture back in the house, taking off new bedding and putting on the old, OR complaining for a week then living with the new decor, all men will choose the latter. Somewhere it is written: Tis easier to complain than reclaim.

I have also used the Stupor Bowl to quickly and easily integrate new dishes or kitchen gadgets into the house. New plates appear, and when - IF - he notices them, you just say, “Oh, so and so gave them to us for our wedding. I just didn’t break them out till today. I was ready for a change.” Men never know what you got for a wedding gift or from whom, so you can use the excuse over and over for years. You can sneak in new food processors, new coffemakers, just anything that goes in a kitchen, it’s terrific and a real time saver. No need to listen to hours of him telling you, “We don’t need it.” Of course you need it. It was on sale, it’s better than the one you have, and besides, you love the color, ergo, you need it.

The Stupor Bowl is perfect for getting rid of the clothes he A} No longer can fit into but insists he can B} clothes that went out of fashion after high school but he refuses to believe that the definition of “cool” has evolved beyond him C} clothes his mother gave him that look awful but he refuses to acknowledge that not everything he owns looks fantastic on him.

If you have a daughter, this is where you teach her how to use the different sports events; Stupor Bowl, Basketball playoffs, all the other contests that declares winners, to her advantage. For someday, she may be in a relationship and have to sneak you in, with your luggage, so you can move in with them and help with the baby. Like a horse with blinders on, men do better if they don’t know whats going on around them. If they see too much and know too much, they might run from the house screaming and then the neighbors know too much.

Three Sheets to the Wind

Three Sheets to the Wind

There’s a new show on television about hoarding. I like to watch it because it makes me feel so much better about my house and helps me justify anything I want to keep, because at least, whatever I have, I’m not a hoarder! I can still walk through my house and be walking on carpet the whole time.

But my claim of not being a hoarder is challenged every January by the White Sales. All the stores sell beautiful bedding sets and every woman loves fresh, beautiful, new bedding. It livens up the whole room and motivates you to make other changes in the room or house.

And here’s where the hoarding comes in. There’s nothing harder for a gal to let go of than old sheets. Sheets, like a Thanksgiving turkey, have many incarnations before they are gone.

First, if it’s a complete sheet set, it becomes a back up set. You wash it and set it on the shelf for company. The “company sheets” are always a complete set. If one piece gets lost, ruined, or mislaid, the remaining components are relegated to the second incarnation of becoming bedding for the kids. You make a passing attempt to match one of the orphaned components, like a top sheet or pillow case, with the Spiderman or Mermaid sheets the kid has. You keep this semi-matching thing going as long as you can.

Soon after the kids get the sheets, you witness the third use of orphaned sheets; sheets make tents. Suddenly, tents are all over the house. You can’t have dinner at the dining room table anymore because Superman’s Fortress of Solitude is in your living room. It might also be Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders, or Batman’s Bat Vault, whatever it is, it is impenetrable by parents. You slip food and beverages under the edges for the occupants inside who are officially invisible as they plot the takeover of the world surrounded by four wooden chairs and a canopy of Laura Ashley flowers.

After tents, orphaned sheets become part of pet bedding. Sometimes we throw them over the couch where the dogs lie, and sometimes we fold them up and make a pad in the dog bed. It takes about two years for sheets to arrive at this fourth level.

The fifth level of a sheets life splits off here. Some cover old cars in the garage. Some get ripped up for rags in the garage. And some, the ones with the most life left in them, or the prettiest, become beach blankets. If you want to know a woman’s taste without asking her, look at her beach blankets.

“Sally, where did you get this hideous sheet?”
“What hideous? These are genuine Versace knockoffs. You don’t like red floral's?”
“It hurts my eyes. Was this a gift set? You didn’t buy these on purpose...”
“I love this sheets. I couldn’t bear to part with them. This is the last time I can enjoy them.”
“Thank God.”
”What?”
“I said, “That’s odd.” I meant what a shame. They must have been really bright when they were new.”
“They were gorgeous. Lit up the whole room all night long. I love red.”
“Only you.”
“What?”
“I said, “What’s new?”

Jose Cuervo Christmas Cookies

1 juicy lemon
1 cup of water
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup of sugar
1 tsp salt
1 cup of brown sugar
4 large eggs
1 cup nuts
2 cups of dried fruit
1 bottle Jose Cuervo Tequila

Sample the Cuervo to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the Cuervo again, to be sure it is of the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.

Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.

Add one peastoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point it's best to make sure the Cuervo is still ok, try another cup just in case.

Turn off the mixer thingy.

Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.

Pick the frigging fruit off the floor.

Mix on the turner.

If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaters just pry it loose with a drewscriver.

Sample the Cuervo to check for tonsisticity.

Next, sift two cups of salt, or something. Who geeves a s....t Check the Jose Cuervo. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.

Add one table.

Add a spoon of sugar or whatever you can find.

Greash the oven.

Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over.

Don't forget to beat off the turner.

Finally, throw the bowl at someone you love with a spoon, finish the Cose Juervo and make sure to put the stove in the wishdasher.

Cherry Mistmas !

Choosing a Christmas Tree

All marriages and unions have certain arguments in common; with whose parents are we spending the -fill in the blank- holiday? In whose name do we put the car insurance? Do we want a dog or a cat? And, do we want a real or fake tree?

Younger people and men generally want the real tree. Older people and women, who have to take care of the younger people and men, gravitate towards the fake tree.

“Hey Mom, Dad and I agree, we’re getting a real tree. We’re going to the tree farm and chop it down ourselves, you know, a father- son thing.”
“Fine, fine..... take your father’s heart meds with him. Do you know CPR? Remember - if a father drops in a Christmas Tree forest and no one hears him, do you tie him on top of the car with the tree, or bury him where he falls?”
“Mom, he will be FINE! I’ll chop the tree. He can tie it on the car. I’ll help him.”
“That oughta be rich. You can’t tie the garbage bag ties, we have to get the drawstring ones just for you.”
“Why are you such a Grinch? Why do you hate real trees?”
“I love real trees, I hate that I’m the only one who gets under the tree to water it, and I’m always stuck with taking it down and dragging it half out the door.”
“Yeah - and how come you do that? How come you always jam it in the door halfway? Then Dad has to pull it through and take it to the dump.”
“And where are you while Dad is doing all this, huh? Watching from the window inside the house, drinking hot chocolate?”
“I’d help him it he needed it, he likes to do it himself.”
“Right. All parents prefer to do manual labor ourselves, it helps define the existential borders of our existence.”
“I don’t know what you just said, but you’d have no help at all if you didn’t have Brett and me.”
“What? You don’t help now! Everything is a negotiation. You guys don’t voluntarily do anything.”
“Well, maybe it was the way we were raised? Ever think about that?”
“More often than you know.”
“And Dad and I are tired of the same stupid decorations you put on the tree every year. We’re going to get all new ones.”
“Like hell you are! You’ll come home with fishing lures and little crab nets.”
“It’s better than those lame golden noodles that Brett and me made in First Grade that you insist on embarrassing us with every year. It bad enough that you put them on the tree, but you put them where everyone can see them and then you tell the same stupid story over and over about how there was a snow storm that day and our noodles got wet and that’s why some of the gold paint is missing.”
“It doesn’t matter what kind of tree we put up, the golden noodles go on!”
“Dad’s right! You’re impossible to talk to! You always whine about getting new decorations, and when we offer, just because you can’t pick them out, you don’t want them.”
“I cannot trust people who always look like they dressed in the dark to chose decorations that will coordinate with my color scheme.”
“Okay, just tell me the colors you want and we’ll only pick stuff in those colors, okay?”
“Mauve or a soft plum, sage, buff, and medium blue, but not a cool blue, a warm blue.”
“Pink, green, white, blue.... got it.”
“No, not pink, green, white, blue - mauve or a soft plum, sage, buff, and a medium warm blue. You see, you don’t know colors. Just let me get the decorations, all right?”
“Okay, so we have a deal, we get a real tree and you get to pick out new decorations and we burn the golden noodles.”
“The noodles stay.”
“Okay, the noodles stay, but in the back of the tree.....”
“Okay, Golden Noodles in the back of the tree, and you, your father and brother are responsible to water the tree and it goes out of the house the first weekend after New Years.”
“Tree goes out after the Super Bowl.”
“If the tree stays till the Super Bowl, the noodles go in the front, plus you sit next to your grandmother for at least one hour Christmas Day and talk to her, no watching TV from the corner of your eye, you have to make eye contact and conversation.”
“I was wondering why Dad sent me in to negotiate for a real tree. Guess I’m an amateur compared to you, Mom.”
“Honey, I had you at “Hey Mom”.”

When Christmas was Christmas

Well, here it is, a few weeks before Christmas and everyone is in a flurry of activity and anxiety to choose just the right gift. Was it really simpler when I was a child, or has time just eroded my memory?

Men, all men, either got a tie they didn’t want or a bottle of Old Spice. That’s all I recall the women in my family buying for their spouses, except for my Uncle Jimmy who was an Aqua Velva man.

Women got returnable jewelry from their men or some horrible black and red thing from Frederick's of Hollywood (but only if they were still very young). Once, one of my aunts got a football jersey, with her husband’s team on it of course. One Christmas, another aunt received a new iron from her husband for Christmas. I will never forget the look on her face as she opened the box and took out her new Sunbeam iron. It was the same look I’ve seen on the show “America’s Most Wanted”, the look the serial killer has before he reaches for the claw hammer. My uncle, clueless to the last, chimed in, “It has pulse steam.” Well, I know something was steaming that day, and it wasn’t the iron.

Christmas money went for the kids and dinner. We had real game back then that you could play right out of the box, no instructions or batteries needed. We had Rock Em - Sock Em Robots, Skittle Pool, Mystery Date game, and I always loved getting a jigsaw puzzle. Nobody got toys that needed batteries because that was a nuisance toy for the parent.

Naturally, we all wanted our parents to play with us, but by the time Christmas morning came, they were so burned out on us that they would force themselves to play with us for half an hour and then feign death on the couch. You could wrap their heads with paper and they wouldn’t even care. You could hide their cigarettes and they still wouldn’t make one move to stop you, that’s how tired they were.

One of my cousins picked the crumbs off the crumb cake on the coffee table right in front of at least seven adults and lived to tell the tale. That’s how you really knew you had them beaten to a standstill. Under any other circumstances, picking the crumbs off the Entenmann’s Crumb cake would have brought a swift slap to the back of your head. And this was in the day that no other adult would step forward to defend you from the child abuser, matter of fact, they got in line to yell or slap you.

Crumb cake etiquette was, and still is very exact, you may only pick your own crumbs off of your own piece. Crumb poaching is not allowed and has started many fights in many families. You didn’t want to get a reputation as a crumb poacher, because then everyone would keep an eye on you at all times, it was like being a drunk driver today. If you’ve gotten a DWI in the past, people watch what you drink at parties, unless you’re smart enough to drink before the party. Same with crumb poachers, best to eat some Oreo’s or Lorna Doones to take the edge off before the party so you aren’t tempted to poach.

Around noon, food would begin to appear. We had the usual fights about who could sit at the grown up table and who still had to sit at the kids table. The grown ups would eat and talk in code, spelling every other word as they spoke. Deciphering adult spelling codes created a steep learning curve for all of us. I attribute half my vocabulary to time spent trying to figure out what in the h-e-l-l they were trying to say. If they were spelling it, it was a curse word, or a really good piece of gossip, or worst of all - it was about you. There was no texting in those days, you learned to spell, or like a flattened fly, you got crushed between the pages of the dictionary of life. After dinner came the desserts, including whiskey cake and rum balls, and these were not dormant items. Our parents knew that the alcohol burned off in the baking process, so more whiskey was added after the cake came out to maintain it’s flavor. We were all allowed to eat rum balls and whiskey cake after dinner. And after that, I don’t recall anything but waking up the next morning in my pajama’s with a puck from my Skittle Pool game stuck to my face.

Dumb, Dumber, Art Form

Mon. Nov. 9, 2009 LONDON (Reuters) Kylie MacLellan – A British man on the run from police sent a picture of himself to his local paper because he disliked the mug shot they had printed of him as part of a public appeal to track him down. ... It appeared in the South Wales Evening Post, the 23-year-old sent the newspaper a replacement photo of himself standing in front of a police van. They obligingly printed it on the front page. The police thanked him for helping them in their appeal, saying: "Everyone in Swansea will know what he looks like now."

People do many stupid things in life, and we have all committed our share of stupid acts, but their are some people, such as the example above, whose stupidity is so profound, so unbelievable, so unimaginable to the average person, that we must regard it as an art form. For none, other than a true artist of the genre, could achieve it.

A man in New Jersey went into a drug store, pulled a gun, announced a robbery, and pulled a Hefty-bag face mask over his head - and realized that he'd forgotten to cut eye holes in the mask...

There was a woman in Virginia who was concerned that the cocaine she bought wasn’t real. So, she took it to her local police station to have it tested, and lo and behold, it was real. They promptly arrested her. She later sued the department for wrongful arrest claiming they didn’t have probable cause, because they probably didn’t know she had cocaine.

A guy going into a courthouse put his bag of marijuana into the pocket bowl before walking through the metal detector, according to the Abliene Reporter News.

In Rome, GA., A convenience-store thief broke into the store overnight, and tried to cover his tracks by burning the place down. He threw charcoal lighter fluid around and ignited a display and (bonus) set himself on fire! While in flames, he grabbed a roll of lottery tickets and fled. At the time of the story, police were looking for a man on fire, or smoldering, with facial, neck, and wrist burns.

A holdup man in Minnesota thought that if he smeared mercury ointment on his face, it would make him invisible to the cameras. Actually, it accentuated his features, giving authorities a much clearer picture.

ASHLAND, KY Police say Kasey Kazee entered Shamrock Liquors and attempted to rob the store. Employees were astonished that he had disguised his face by wrapping it in duct tape! The store manager chased him out with a baseball bat and an employee held him in the parking lot until police arrived. Police removed the duct tape after taking pictures...

Sao Paulo, CA: A psychiatrist was listening to a patient talk about her sex life when he pulled out a gun and shot her to death. As he explained to the court, "I just couldn't take those nut cases anymore."

Of course, nothing dumb has ever been done on the Island. Except for the time I backed up over my suitcase maybe. Or the time I hooked a swimmer by his shorts and kept reeling him in. It’s true I’ve done some dumb things, but it’s just me because here, all the men are brilliant, all the women are beautiful, and all the children are gifted. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it...

Fat Chance...

No Thanks, I’ll Take the Chance

It seems like everything we do is unsafe, fattening or illegal.

How did my generation ever survive? We, the Flower Power generation, grew up in extreme danger compared to kids today. We didn’t even have seatbelts. Our mothers developed strong upper chest and arm muscles as they slammed us up against the car seat when they hit the brakes. Babies rode on your lap. Toddlers stood between the driver and passenger with a bottle hanging out of their mouths. Everyone smoked, and if you sat in the back seat, you always stood a chance of being hit by hot cigarette embers being flicked out the car window by someone in the front seat. When seatbelts first started appearing, we ignored them. It wasn’t until it was made into a law, which I still disagree with by the way because I think it’s an invasion of privacy, that we used them. Now, if you’re short, you get sawed off at the neck by the cross strap, and if you’re bosomy, you get to have one boob sawed off as you drive. Ahhh, I miss the days when we lived on the edge...

Water? I remember we had clean water all the time. We drank from the tap and the garden hose if we were outside. Nobody carried around bottles of water, only themos’s of coffee or tomato soup. Now, we carry water around with us all the time like we’re nomads in a desert and we can’t be sure of when we’ll hit the next oasis! And how did we get conned into buying water? People bring water to work. Why? Isn’t there a faucet somewhere in the workplace where you can get a cup of water? How much plastic and labor is used to make a bottle of water? For a society that wants to go green, it’s nuts. Somewhere along the way we bought the concept that we have to have eight glasses of water a day or some body part will shrivel and fall off I guess. I grew up in a time when we drank water only when we were thirsty.

We survived without warning labels on everything and nobody got hysterical and passed a law based on singular occurrances. Did you know that after 9/11, a law was passed that all cell phones and laptop computers have a gps chip in them now - allegedly so that you can be found in the event you are missing. Another invasion of privacy wrapped in the “it’s for your own good” banner. Suppose I’m on the run from the law? I’ll have to use payphones, which aren’t a common sight anymore, and carry around a desktop iMac, that’s a damn inconvenience for life on the lam.

On-Star navigation can be a blessing, the cops can find you in the event of an accident. They can also find you whenever they please. I predict within five years, having an On-Star type of connection in your car will be law. It will be ‘”for your own good”. Won’t it feel good to know the authorities can locate anywhere, anytime? I’m sure that it won’t ever be abused. Men in authority wouldn’t ever abuse it to track their girlfriends movements, or other abuses like that, nah, that’ll never happen.

The invention I want to see is a gps with a small explosive charge put into men’s wedding rings. I’d pay good money for that. After all, I could track his movements - for his own good - and send him a little electric shock if he’s in a bar he shouldn’t be in. And if I located him at motel he should not be in, I could activate the explosive charge and blow off his finger, which I believe would derail him from any planned immoral activity.

Drumming

Fri. Oct. 16, 9:10 pm ET
SAN ANTONIO – San Antonio police are investigating the wounding of a man after his elderly father allegedly opened fire when the victim refused to stop drumming. Police said the son, in his 50s, suffered a non-life threatening head wound early Friday while at the home the men share. Police said his 83-year-old father was detained on an aggravated assault charge. Police said the son, who was grazed in the head, ran down the block to call for help. San Antonio police did not immediately provide further details Friday to The Associated Press.

I see that the Associated Press has put a negative slant on this story. I would like to speak up for this 83 year old father. I look at it this way; for twenty years this man raised this son and put up with God knows what.

You bring a kid home fresh from the hospital. He's cute and not mobile. You can swaddle them and prop them up anywhere. They fit neatly in the corner of any chair or couch and if you're traveling, they can fit in the overhead bin. That lasts for six months and then the little terrors learn to crawl. They get into everything and you can't punish them for whatever they break or ruin because don't comprehend that they've done anything wrong. You can swat them with a rolled up newspaper, and they still won't get it. So, you child proof your home as much as you can, making it difficult to get into your own cabinets and drawers and requiring you to unlock your own toilet every time you need to go. Okay, you survive that. I won't even discuss what you've paid in diapers, the sleepless nights of colic, or the fact that everything you own has been thrown up on; clothes, furniture, bedding, pets, babies don't miss anything.

Around one year they start walking. You can slow them down for awhile by pushing them down whenever they try to stand up, but eventually, they pop up and start furniture walking. Tying their feet together effectively keeps them from walking, but people get upset and make a big deal. Once they can walk, they are not only mobile, but fast! They get behind you all the time and you wrench your back trying not to step back on them. They have no concept of safety or respect for any property. Anything you value must be keep four feet above ground level at all times.

Soon they turn two, terribly two. Two is a year of tantrums, defiance, and diabolical plotting. They rely on the fact that they are adorable and they calculate how far they can push you before you try to trade them in for a nice beagle. They make big screaming scenes in store for things they want and you can't smack them without someone, who is not stuck with this little monster, taking umbrage and reporting you to the authorities. The authorities will give you a big lecture and threaten to take your child, however, that might not be such a bad offer depending on the kid.
Ages three, four and five are precious. They are a joy and in the euphoria of parental love you forget everything they've done to you. These few years lock you in for the next levels of hell to come.

From age eight to twelve, they are brats. Tons of attitude, nothing makes them happy, they don't want to be seen with you, they pretend they don't know you when you yell, "I love you, hunny, have a good day!" from the car as you drop them off at school. You get lots of reports about how their peers have nice parents who do things for them, as opposed to you, who does nothing for them.

Then, thirteen. At age thirteen, an alien entity sneaks into your house at night and takes away your child and leaves a teenage android, a teenoid, in their place. The teenoid drains you of all your money. They don't communicate with you at all, but blame you because you don't understand them. You look at them and wonder where your precious little child went. The teenoid ate them. There's no question in my mind that the son in San Antonio was a teenoid monster who probably hammered at his parents until he go everything he wanted, including a drum set. I believe that poor father listened to bad drumming for hours on end. And when he swore he was gonna kill the kid, the mother, threw herself in harms way to save the self centered teenoid from certain death.

Finally, the teenoid leaves their human body and around 21, your child reappears! It's so nice to see them again. And you spend your time and money helping them get started in life in the hope that they will remember your sacrifices and choose a nice nursing home for you someday.

But sometimes, the children, in adult form, return to the nest. This 50 year old son had come back home. And he was going to drum, just like when he was a teenoid. And mooch, I'll bet anything this 50 year old son is unemployed and he's mooching off the old man. Drumming, mooching, eating all the food, borrowing money again, no wonder the old man lost it...

The moral of this story is, if you march to the beat of a different drummer, keep marching and take your damn drums with you.