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.

Answer Me!

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

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

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

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

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

Where Heroes Come From

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

They come from Texas with attitude.

They come from the sweltering South with stubborn determination.

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

They come from New England with patriotism and ingenuity.

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Red Rover, Red Rover, I Ran the Plover Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mothers and Daughters

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

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

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

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

All My Mishegas

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

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

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

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

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

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