Merry Christmas to All!

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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!

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

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....

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

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!

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...

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?

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...

"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......

“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 ????????????

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

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...

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!

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

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

“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

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

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

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..

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.