Valentine's Day Revenge

I wrote this column for Valentine's Day 2000. My friend Patty, who is a very bad influence on me, insisted that I put this column up with the newer one behind it. Hope you all laugh as hard as she did.

Valentine's Day 2000

It's interesting how tragedies and misfortunes in our lives sometimes become laughable events in retrospect. I am clearly the stupidest women I know when it comes to men. In the Parade of Fools, my face is on the first three floats.

I hate Valentine's Day. On Valentine's Day in 1981, on our second Valentine's Day as a married couple, my ex-mistake gave me a dozen beautiful long stem roses. I love roses and as I recall, this was an exceptionally beautiful bouquet. I set the vase on the table and sat down to look at my roses. As I filled with feelings of love for my spouse, he chose that exact moment to confess a ten month affair with a co-worker.

In the Guide to Being a Lousey Husband Handbook, Chapter 7, is called "If She Don't Ask, Don't Tell". This chapter explains the many benefits of not confessing affairs that your wife has no clue about. I don't think my spouse read that chapter. I stayed with him of course because he swore he'd never do it again and he meant it because he gave me expensive jewelry.

Fast forward four years, Valentine's Day again. I am putting the finishing touches on an 18 month project for my degree in Hospital Administration. I am exhausted to the bone. I must completely focus on this project. My spouse had been hammering at me all day to go to a fertility clinic because he wanted to start a family and he was angry that I wasn't pregnant. I suggested it might be HIM. He chose that exact moment to tell me about another affair with another co-worker oh, and by the way, the woman he told me about four years earlier had gotten pregnant and aborted. I thought I was in a Woody Allen movie. Anyway, he was sorry again and I got more expensive jewelry to prove it.

In the Guide to Being a Lousey Husband Handbook, page 87 clearly states, "When attempting to induce your wife to become pregnant, resist the urge to cite the number of other women you have gotten pregnant since your marriage began."

Since I came back to Shelter Island two years ago, I've been asked out three times, by married men. Well, I'm fat does but not desparate. I can't imagine putting another woman through what I went through.

I thought I'd share some more tips from the Guide to Being a Lousey Husband Handbook.
Don't charge flowers for your girlfriend on your wife's credit card.
Don't charge your girlfriend abortion on your wife's credit card! (How fucking stupid can he be?)
Don't ask women out in the grocery aisles, your wife could could be in the next aisle - dummy.
A strange hairbrush in the bathroom with short blond hair will be noticed by a wife with long auburn hair.
We both know you don't shower before you come home from a poker game.
Don't call out the wrong name in bed.
Since when did you start buying new clothes for yourself? Especially new underwear...
All of a sudden you're eating healthy?
Just when did you realize you should've seen the dentist years ago?
You bought yourself a gold neck chain? Right....
You saw it on Oprah? When did you start watching Oprah?
Why should we get a new unlisted number? Who are we evading?
Why can't she call a plumber? How come you have to go look at her sink?
When caught "en flagrante" don't even bother trying to talk your way out of it. Do not say,
"Hey, who ya gonna believe? Me or your lyin' eyes?"


My ex begged me not to file for divorce. He said he believed marriage was forever. I admit to being a bitch. I wanted to go for counsuling and I kept demanding he give up the girlfriend...

On December 25, 1996, he gave me a faux mink coat from Neiman Marcus to die for. Most real looking fake I have ever seen.

On December 26, 1996, I filed for divorce .... and I wore the coat when I filed....

Hey Honey, I gotcha Valentine right heah....

Valentine's Day - Oy Vey!!!

Valentine’s Day: ICU means I Love You

Valentine’s Day. The day when all men must answer the question, “how much do you love me and why isn’t it more?”

I feel sorry for men on Valentine’s Day. They know they have to get it right, but they are so lost on how to do it. When men are courting, they truly want to get it right because they want to build the relationship. But after the foundation of the relationship, and you, have been laid, Valentines Day becomes a nuisance to them. A maintenance task like mowing the lawn or changing the oil.

Men struggle to find the cheapest and easiest gift they can get you that will still fulfill the female need for yet another protestation of love. Courting men try to choose the cheapest gift they can get that will still make her feel obligated to show her appreciation. Married men no longer hope for any intimate access for their efforts, they just don’t want to get in any trouble. THey don’t want their woman slamming kitchen cabinets the next day and finding the single fake rose they bought stuck to the cabinet with a steak knife through it. Please don’t feel bad if that happened to you, all men in a long term relationship make the mistake of buying the last minute fake rose with a crappy card once, but just once. If they make that mistake twice, we move them into the divorced, or soon to be divorced, man category.

All of the flower and candy companies have a range of gifts for men to select from. I recall a male friend looking at a FTD type newspaper insert that showed all the different flower & gift combo’s he could choice from. His eyes scanned back and forth in desperation, finally he slapped the table and said, “Well hell, I don’t know what to pick.”
“How much gratitude do you want?” I asked. “This tiny rose plant in a coffee cup you’re looking at will get you a hug and a kiss on the cheek.”
“You mean, there’s a system?” the fool asked incredulously.
“Yes,” I said nonchalantly.
“How would you know?” he asked, mistakenly thinking that a middle aged woman who looks like a PTA mom, has no past (let me tell all you guys right now, we all have a past).
I gave him that well practiced icy stare that all women have. The one that shrinks them to the size of a bug. “Ask the crew of the Nimitz,” I said very quietly.
“Ouch! I’m convinced. Will you tell me how this works, please?”
“Absolutely. There’s a direct correlation between the amount of thought and money spent on a gift and the amount of appreciation we feel obligated to show you to insure that we’ll get another great gift next year as well.”
”Okay. How much appreciation could I get for a dozen red roses?”
“You could get a decent make out session.”
Well, what if I, if I, ah, would like a little more appreciation?”
“Depends on the vase. Send the roses in a plain glass vase wouldn’t get you any extra points. But send them in the murano glass vase, you could get a lot of appreciation for that,” I answered.
“Is there anything in this flyer that could get me anything ah, exotic appreciation?”
“Sorry, there’s no kinky sex bouquet. You have to add jewelry to roses and candy to get anything like that.”
“Did your husband know about this system?”
“Yes, he did. I got a pair of emerald and diamond earrings totaling 4 carats one Valentine’s Day.”
”Wow, what did you have to, I mean, I guess you had to show a lot of appreciation for that.”
“Oh yes, he was well appreciated that night. He didn’t complain once the whole next week when he was in the Intensive Care Unit.”

So, for all you guys shopping for the Valentine’s gift this week, get real flowers or real (sterling or 14kt) jewelry. Buy a nice card, I don’t care if it costs you $5, you don’t want to see your card with a steak knife through it, do you? And if you get a really spectacular gift, you too, could wind up in ICU.

Rich Bitch & Boy Toys

Bait and Switch

“For the mature woman who has everything: a boy toy.
By Robert Campbell (AP Jan 30, 10:49 AM ET)
Wanted: rich older women interested in hot younger guys. Applicants must be over 35, earn at least $500,000 a year or have a minimum of $4 million in liquid assets, entrusted assets or divorce settlement.
That's the basis of a speed-dating event organized by a New York entrepreneur bringing together 20 "sugar mamas" and 20 "boy toys" vetted by an elite New York matchmaker. "Symbiosis has allowed ugly rich men to attract young, gorgeous, money-hungry women for centuries; it's now the women's turn," proclaims pocketchangenyc.com.”

“Sally, you’ve cooked up some crazy ideas before, but this one is crazy enough to actually work.”
“I think it has a shot. All the single women on the Island complain all the time that there’s no one new to date. Dating on Shelter Island is like playing musical chairs. Everybody is somebody else’s ex. All the men have been recycled.”
“That’s true, I’ve cycled through the available Island guys twice. So, the plan is, we send some real rich Island women to this event as bait to lure some of these hot guys back.”
“I know two gals, stinkin’ rich. They’ll go to the event if I tell them that the guys are shoe designers who select the women whom they think are attractive enough to wear their shoes. You know rich people can’t handle rejection. These women will bribe the guys to come to the Island with their goods to see if the shoe fits....”
”How do we get rid of the rich women after they get the guys here?”
“Simple, we tell them the truth. The men don’t have any designer shoes and worse, they have no money. They’ll drop them like a ferral cat at the dumps.”
“How do we keep the guys on the Island, Sally?”
“Ah, that’s where my true genius comes in. We are on an Island after all. We bribe, threaten, or blackmail the ferrymen to ban these new guys from the ferries. Next, we find married men with boats to patrol the Island and stifle any escape attempts.”
“Married men with boats?”
“Of course, they are constantly looking for any excuse to get out of the house before She Who Must Be Obeyed can assign any chores. And any excuse that gets them on their boat is welcome. By patroling the waters around the Island and preventing any escapes, they get out of the house and in their boats. If we add beer, it will be perfect.”
“What about if the captives call for help on their cell phones?”
“We’ll frisk them for cell phones, or any communication devices, but if one of them manages to make any off-island contact, we’ll just stonewall whomever comes. We don’t know anyone by that name or description.”
“I love it.”
“I’m telling you, it can work. I figure we can keep them here for at least a year. We’ll put them on a rotation list so everybody gets an equal shot at each new guy. If we don’t like them, we just let them go.”
“Just like that? What if they report us to the authorities?”
“Who’s going to believe them that they were held captive on a tiny Island by wild single women? The cops will think they just swallowed too much sea water, or they might get committed, either way, they’ll never sell the story.”
“Gosh, a new man on Shelter Island, wow, it doesn’t happen very often, Sally.”
“Yep. I almost feel sorry for the poor slobs. One rotation with the Island gals, won’t be nothin’ left of these boys but their shoelaces.”
“Serves them right for trying to marry women just for their money.”
“Remember the old saying, when you marry for money, you earn every penny of it.”

I Got More Rolls Than a Bakery...

The Scarlett C

Apparently I struck a real chord with last week’s theme about society’s tacit approval of TV shows that humiliate overweight people; shows like How to Look Good Naked and Biggest Loser, that are sold to the public as “entertainment”. But, we fatties can’t hog the spotlight. Television goes after anyone with a problem and calls it ‘entertainment’.

For a society that allegedly values privacy, we have completely sold out. The new thinking seems to be, I’m entitled to privacy, but you’re not. And the more problems you have the less privacy you’re entitled to (Brittany Spears, case in point). It wasn’t so bad when we just invaded the privacy of celebs, because the money we pay to see their movies and listen to their music entitles us to have them hounded, harassed and hunted for our additional entertainment. But now, with shows like Intervention, we are going after anyone whose humiliation we can watch. The Networks say they broadcast this crap ‘to inspire others to get help’, oh please, like the Networks care about you. I think these shows encourage the exact discriminatory and judgmental attitudes they portend to discourage.

“Sally, what are you doing sitting here? When the hell did Shelter Island get punishment stocks and start locking people in them? And why are you in your red mink?”
“Hi Joyce. New orders from Suffolk County. I’m the first person to be put into the Town’s new Mea Culpa, Youa Laugha program. You know last week when I walked through town in my underwear and the Town bought me this mink for a cover up?”
“You made the front cover of the local paper.”
“Well, the PETA people found out that I like to wear fur so I have to do public penance because a group with media coverage says so. And of course, because I let it all hang out, the Town says I have to put it all back in, so I have to hold out this cup while I sit here and beg for money to go on Jenny Craig.”
“That’s outrageous! Nobody can tell somebody else what to do, this is still a free country!”
“Apparently not. SlimFast, TrimSpa, Weight Watchers, and other diet companies are coming by to take picture of me. I won the “Before” Picture of the Year award and they all get to use me in their ads. But Dr. Phil will be by around 3 to do a show on why the diet people shouldn’t exploit me. After him, around 4, Barbara Walters is coming by to ask me if I feel exploited by Dr Phil.”
“This is nuts, Sally! How long does this go on?”
“Just 9 am to 6 pm daily until the Town stops getting offers on me. They’ve almost made enough to put a new roof on the school. The Town has me signed up for the show Intervention, they get me last.”
“But that’s a show for drug addicts.”
“Right, Dateline NBC was here this morning filming me for their new expose, Carbohydrates are the New Crack. They’ll establish the addictive properties of carbohydrates and by the end of the week, 98% of the country will be classified as addicts, they call us Carbies.”
“Now I feel terrible. I brought you coffee and a buttered roll from Fedi’s.”
“Oh, thanks! I haven’t had a thing to eat since they locked me in these stocks at 7 am this morning.”
“I thought you said this punishment started at 9 am?”
“Yes, the appointments do, but the driveby humiliation starts early so people can point and laugh on their way to work.”
“You don’t seem upset.”
“Nope. I caught a glimpse of whom the Town is locking up in the coming weeks. Do you how many druggies, drunks, carbies, smokers, tokers, cheaters, liars, chocoholics, caffiends, and nail biters this town has?”
“Sally, I fit two of those categories!”
“I know, you’re scheduled for a week in May. The weather should be nice. I’ll come sit with you. I’ll bring my Yatzee game.”
“NO! Not fair! Everybody in town fits into one of those categories!”
“Don’t panic, the Town is building more stocks. The new ones will have cup holders and little canopies, very chic, the latest in public humiliation.”
“What this hacksaw on the ground?”
“Oh, that’s if you can’t stand it anymore. You can pick up the hacksaw, a sensor in the handle triggers a camera somewhere and it records you sawing off your legs for freedom. They put the footage in a movie and you get residuals.”
“Oh my gawd, I need a drink.”
“Join the club, babe.”

How to Look Good Naked - NOT!!!

That Touch of Mink

Let me start off with a disclaimer that I have lots of gay friends, so I don’t want anyone writing any letters that I'm gaybashing. However, I reject the assumption that being gay means you automatically have better taste than a straight person. Style, taste and decorum are not linked to sexual preference.

With that said, I’m going to kill Carson Kressley. He’s so far over on the ego dial, the next click starts over with Mother Theresa. He’s so far over on the gay dial, the next click starts over again at Russell Crowe. I know he has periods, because he obviously has PMS as we see from all his hissy fits. "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" was bad enough for embarassing straight people, now he’s gone too far with his new show, "How to Look Good Naked".

Somehow he has convinced otherwise intelligent and socially appropriate women to appear on camera in their underwear. I think he does it to gross out straight men and increase the gay population, and I bet it’s working.

You see, there’s a reason for clothes. People weren’t naked in Prehistoric times for very long. Our ancestors were content as gatherers until the first scarry hairy female cromagnon girls sat naked across the camp fire from the boy cromagnons. They took one look at things they never wanted to see and promptly decided to find something for the girls to wear, even if they had to steal the skins off of animals! In the process of separating the skin from the meat, some meat fell into the fire and that’s where they got the inspiration for Barbeque. If those first female cromagnon girls hadn’t shown up, we’d all still be vegetarians today and none of us would have any nice furs.

Ever since then, it’s been a fact that people look better with their clothes on. The only exception is the very young, or the very nipped and much tucked. The rest of us know better and we also know it’s only a matter of time before those perfect people end up in sweats with the rest of us.

Now Carson is swimming upstream. Under the guise of “freeing themselves” he’s getting women who are far from perfection to face full length mirror’s in their underwear which is A} cruel to the woman B} brutal on the film crew C} unthinkable as entertainment. He even got a group of them to march in the street in bras and panties. They should have surrounded and eaten him.

This would never have happened on Shelter Island.
“Stop where you are Ms. Flynn, we’ve got you surrounded!”
“You’ll never make me put on my clothes again, Officer! I’m free of shame, I’m proud of who I am, I love my body!”
“You are alone in this pursuit, Ms. Flynn. Don’t move. We have weapons drawn. Now, Officer Smith is going to hand you a tarp.”
“NO! No tarp! As a matter of fact, I’m taking off the bra and panties! Carson is right! I want to feel the air touch my skin!”
"Who the hell is Carson?"
"Carson Kressley, the gay man who is devoted to setting straight fat girls free!"
"We don't give a damn what the takin' it up the butt boy says! Don’t take anything else off, Ms. Flynn! Officer Johnson went blind and two of my other officers are throwing up in the bushes. You have to stop! Okay, Ms. Flynn....Sally.... I just got a note from the Town Board, they’ve got a real mink coat being helicoptered in now. The note says it’s dyed red, your favorite color. Now won’t you be a nice lady, Ms. Sally, and take the mink so we can all go home?”
“You think I’d sell out my authentic existential awakening for a fur?”
“Okay, we’ll send it back.”
“Well, you’ve already gone to trouble of getting it..... what size?”
“Tall girl, half acre, just like your shirt tag said.”
“I am feeling cold. Oh it’s here! It’s gorgeous!”
“Okay, I’m handing it to you on a stick. That’s a good girl, you just put on that mink and go home.”
“Do I have to pay the Town back?”
“No, Ms Flynn, it fit the criteria for the Emergency Disaster Relief Fund.”

Check Memo, I mean check memo!

Take a Memo

AP PA. Man Apologizes for Vulgar Check Sun Jan 13, 2008: A man who wrote a vulgar message on the memo line of a check he used to pay a $5 parking ticket has apologized in writing, leading police to drop a disorderly conduct charge against him....The lawyer for David Binner, 45, said his client would have prevailed if he went through a trial. "The F-word isn't what it used to be," attorney Keith Williams said. It doesn't have a sexual connotation anymore and so can't be considered obscene, he said.

I completely relate to this man. I have written obscene messages in the memo lines of checks myself. I don’t worry because I notice that the checks get cashed just the same. No one ever sent a check back to me with a request to remove my note in the Memo line since that is arguably protected by my First Amendment Right to express myself as long as whatever you write in the memo line doesn’t impede the recipients ability to negotiate the check.

I had a lovely woman in my shop this past summer who was being outrageously held up by some renters in her city apartment. They got an attorney and went after their security deposit, which did not begin to cover the damage they did to the apartment. Rather than face a costly battle, my friend bit the bullet and wrote a big check returning their security deposit to them. She has a good heart and anguished over whether or not to write ‘extortion’ in the memo line. I encouraged her to write something in the memo line, but it wasn’t ‘extortion’. I was thinking more along the lines of “I wish you a long and painful death” or “May you live long enough to see your children die”, neither thought is obscene, but does convey one’s displeasure.

I received a check one time from a friend of mine with a dangerous sense of humor. He wrote me a check and put “pipe bomb instructions” in the memo. I laughed and deposited it, completely forgetting the limited humor capacity of people who work in banks. I had to come into the bank and explain the check. It was the first time I ever got to speak to a Bank Manager.
“You think this is funny?” he asked without any expression.
“Yeah, it is funny since it was actually for computer tutoring. He asked me - as a joke - if he could look up building a pipe bomb on the internet.”
“Well, we don’t think it’s funny. We’ll let you deposit the check this time, but make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He wore a wedding ring, but he looked like one of those men who pays women to chain him up and whip him. I confess, I’ve always wanted to meet and date that kind of man. It’s so much easier to get the wallet of a man who is chained up versus the ones who are loose and can hide their money from you.

Then there was the time I ran into a crazy eBay customer. She bought a pair of earrings from me. She then crushed them with a hammer and returned them to me because she insisted I had installed government listening devices in them. I tried to explain to her how ludicrous that accusation was, listening devices are too big for earrings, I only put them in pins. Anyway, In order to prevent a negative feedback report from her, I had to send her a refund check. I probably shouldn’t have written, “FBI Case on (her last name) in the memo. Strangely, she never cashed the check. I guess it’s the thought - or memo - that counts.

The Minivan from Hell!

Whoop-whoop

My minvan broke down on Dec 19th. I had to have my kids at Dulles Airport in D.C. on Dec 20th. I called all the local car rental places and Steve Lobosco at Corrigans/Hertz in Water Mill came through for me big time with a brand new minivan at a fantastic price. I had a few other concerns though.
“Steve, I’ll need instructions on how to operate the van. My knowledge stops with my 1990 minivan.”
“Don’t worry. These new cars are a cinch to drive.”
“Steve, I’m a big gal, I’m worried about fitting into a Japanese minivan.”
“Don’t worry, I got plenty of WD-40 and a crowbar, I’ll get you in.”
“Geez, what a guy,” I thought to myself.

Arriving at Corrigans, Steve gave me a fifteen minute review of all the controls. There seems to be many changes in minivan technology since 1990 and the control console has apparently been modeled after the one in the space shuttle. I was terribly distracted by time pressure while Steve spoke, and I hesitated to let him out of the van because I missed everything between, “Let me show you how this works” and “you’re all set.” For some reason, the van didn’t have an instruction manual which was greatly missed as the trip progressed.

Pulling into my driveway at 5 pm, I hurled bodies and luggage into the van and we were on the road by 6.

The first problem was the heater. There was no way to turn it off or control it. My son stripped to his pants in the back seat and I had made some kind of adjustment that now blew hot air on my head and freezing air on my feet. In desperation, I turned on the air conditioning for my son and I struggled to put my window down. But apparently the driver’s window zooms completely down or up in a flash, but you can’t have anything in between. So I spent eight hours using the radio like a timer, after each song, zoom down to cool during the commercials, then zoom up for the songs.

We arrived at my mothers in Pennsylvania and she was so excited to drive in a brand new car the next morning, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the car was possessed by Satan.

We all left the next morning for the airport. On the way, we picked up my 20 year old daughter. She was full of divine wisdom. Within seconds of being in the heat, she said, “Mom, the back has separate controls for the heater, up here above the door.” She was able to turn off the heat in the back which enabled my son to put his shirt back on. I asked her if she could help with the heater in the front, but she was laughing at me, an evil laugh that told me the car had possessed her too.

Mother and I dropped off the kids at the airport. It was tricky because I couldn’t get any of the doors to open for about two minutes. The traffic monitor came by, because you can’t be in the drop off lane unless you are dropping people off, and I was trying to explain to him through the window that I couldn’t get the doors open. He made a ‘turn the key’ gesture, so I turned the car on, zoomed the window down and he reached inside my van and tapped one button, a magic button, somewhere on the door console that opened all the doors and hatch at once. But he got away before I could ask him where that button was.

Once the kids we gone, Mother and I headed back to her house, she sat in the back for comfort. She wanted me to redirect the music through the front speakers, which I was convinced were just for show because I’d already tried to redirect the radio and like the heater, it was controlled by satanic forces.

I hit a button somewhere and the sliding door next to Mother opened. That was a nice feature to discover, but not while driving 65 mph on an interstate. The McDonald’s garbage was sailing past her face as she screamed. I was pressing all the buttons I could find around me. Finally the sliding door closed. However all the windows were down, there was a police chopper above us, and from somewhere in the car, a woman’s voice said, “State your destination, please.” I didn’t know who she was, or where she came from, but I shouted, “Home, take me to my mother’s house!” I figured she was an angel sent to combat the devil in this car.

“What state, please?” asked the woman’s voice. I answered her and she kept asking more questions that progressively ended up with her knowing the way to my mother’s house from where ever we were in West Virginia. Now, for those of you who are thinking, ‘how did she get from Dulles to West Virginia if she’s heading for Pennsylvania?’ you’re only asking that question because you’ve never driven with me before.

The disembodied voice guided us home. I thanked the angel and left a cookie on the dashboard as an offering and in the hope she might reappear the next time I got in the car.

Over the week that followed, I had many adventures in that minivan. I returned it to Steve Lobosco unscathed but for my trauma. I told him all about the devil car and the angel that comes to help the poor unsuspecting driver. He kept a straight face until I told him about the whoop-whoop being broken. I know that new cars make a whoop-whoop sound when you use the remote to lock or unlock them. The remote that Steve gave me didn’t make the whoop-whoop sound, so it was necessary for me to make the sound myself so the car would hear it at a distance and be able to unlock. I did a demo for him because I was very proud of how precisely I could imitate the pitch of the car remote whoop-whoop. As I left, I could hear Steve crying, or was he laughing? And saying something like, “Mother of God, make her stop!”

Santa, My Hero!

Don't Give Up The Sleigh!

In 1999 I wrote an article called, “Don’t Give Up the Sleigh!” It’s my most requested reprint article from fellow Islanders and even some off-Islanders. I’ve updated it a few times as I have this year. I’m dedicating this article to the Lion’s Club of Shelter Island. I think they should be called the Lions from Zion, because they are a godsend to many people on this Island. The Lion’s Club and the Churches here on Shelter Island are the most community dedicated groups you can imagine. If you want to know where the Spirit of Christmas lives all year long, it lives here.

I believe there are certain people, things, and ideas that belong to the entire world. Mother Theresa, Gandhi, Einstein, Michaelangelo, Piaf, Pavorotti, all the greats in science and art, are people who belong to the world. The Pyramids, the Statue of Liberty, the Great Wall of China, the Wailing Wall are some things that belong to the world. The Bhagavad-Gita, the teachings of Buddha, the Torah and Talmud, the New Testament, and all venues of positive spiritual enrichment belong to the world. Kwanzaa with it’s focus on family, Chanukah with it’s theme of renewed dedication to that which is holy, Christmas with it’s message of hope, all belong to the world. And I believe, Santa Claus, the person and the idea, belongs to the world too.

We learn about Santa very early. Someone who loves us and brings us a present. We grow up a little and figure out the Santa conspiracy. As teens, we denounce our precious childhood belief. We become “cool” and pretty much know everything by the time we're twenty. It's beyond our comprehension how our dumb relatives can lead such screwed up lives. We'll never repeat their mistakes.

Through our twenties, we shun our families for our friends and lovers. We don't need Santa, or any holiday mishmash. We don’t need any family members enough to overlook their flaws.

We spend our thirties backtracking and correcting all the mistakes we made in our twenties. Most of us are married with children and suddenly we hear our parent's words coming out of our mouths. We worry a lot because there’s way too much month at the end of the money. We have discovered we are flawed. It seems to be easier to forgive others when we need forgiveness ourselves. Some old tape that says, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”, seems to be playing in our heads a lot lately.

Our forties are great, aside from the fact that body parts start heading south. We know we have all of what we need and much of what we want. We realize that money ebbs and flows in life. Money only increases choices. And money doesn't insulate anyone from pain, loneliness or despair. Possessions are just “things”, and things come and go. Forgiveness is easier now, in part from maturity, in part from middle age forgetfulness. It’s hard to keep hating the brother who smashed your car twenty years ago and never paid for it. Yes, he’s still a moron, but he’s the family’s moron and besides, the kids love him.

After we pass the half century mark, what we value most is time. The days are long but the years are short. We can never have one minute of our lives back, ever. There's not always a "next time". We might as well do what we like while it’s still legal. Old dreams come off the shelf. Restore the old car, write the book, see Europe, drink better wine.

You know you’ve grown up when your own opinion is what matters most, finally! Is it really going to matter what someone else thought of anything we did in a hundred years? Nope. You've matured enough to know that you're not better than anyone else, but damn if you ain't just as good.

You rediscover your very own amusing and annoying family. Suddenly the fact that Aunt Ida still uses that cracked, chipped teapot she got in Arizona on her honeymoon in 1942, doesn't bother you like it used to. That she gave her daughter the pretty new teapot you gave her is now understandable. What’s familiar has more value than what’s new.

By now Santa has made a dramatic comeback in your life and you meet him again for the first time. He doesn't dye his hair. He stays married to the same wife. He's fat and wears red. He’s aware of the new movement to reinvent him as a fit and trim man in a red suit. He says you can take your political correctness and shove in your stocking. He’s been fat and jolly since he first opened shop at the North Pole and he is exercising his right as a legendary figure to stay that way.

Santa’s not impressed with technology, he's keeping the sleigh and his way of doing things. You find you need Santa more as an adult than you ever did as a child. You’ve seen enough injustice and tragedy and not enough kindness and miracles.

But Santa is an annual miracle you can depend on. As soon as we hear Bing Crosby sing "White Christmas", we hear the sound of our own back door from childhood, the smell of our own pillow, echoes of our parent's voices. We’d give anything to be eight years old once more and bound down the stairs on Christmas morning and see our disheveled parents in rumpled robes sitting on the couch watching us through a flurry of flying ribbons and paper. Through believing in Santa, we keep those precious memories alive and well. Santa lives in our children’s eyes, in old wrinkled faces, in fat wiggly puppies, good hot chocolate, and unexpected much needed gifts, although not much you need now can be brought down a chimney in a sack.

As for me, I will always believe in Santa and though I no longer need Santa's presents, God above, how I will always need his presence...

God bless us, everyone!

God Bless Joe Horn !

Just a note to say God Bless Joe Horn!
I'm SICK of the pandering to illegal aliens in this country. I'm SICK of the law giving them every break for fear of being labeled 'racist' - how does race figure into this anyway? I'd be just as upset if 20 million Germans were here illegally.
Joe shot two illegal aliens DURING the commission of a crime! HOORAY!!!

Fruitcake - More Than Just A Doorstop

Fruitcake Defense

Every year I hear it, “I hate fruitcake!” “It’s a terrible gift!” “This thing could be a doorstop.” And the ultimate fruitcake insult from Johnny Carson, “I’m convinced there’s only one fruitcake in the world and it just gets passed along from person to person, year after year.”

The earliest reference to fruitcake comes from Roman times when it was used as a wedding cake packed with figs and pomegranates. Fruitcake was popular as a holiday cake and a wedding cake in the Middle Ages.

In the Middle ages, it was a custom for single people to take a slice of the wedding cake home and put it under their pillow to sleep on and the sweetness of the cake would seep into their dreams and reveal the one they would marry, hence the expression, “sweet dreams”. Sounds like a charming tradition to me, except of course for the ants that would come after the cake, but hey, no tradition is perfect. Besides, what’s a ear full of ants when you’re about to dream of your beloved. I’m not sure how the fruitcake revelations squared with the arranged marriages of the time...
“Father, I can’t marry Elmore. I dreamt of a better man coming for me.”
“It’s Elmore you’ll marry daughter, and that’s final!”
“But I don’t love him!”
“This is the middle ages, daughter! We have a life expectancy of 35 years and you’re already 20! I’m 37 and your mother is already gone. Now, Elmore is giving me 2 cows and 6 chickens for you. It’s a good trade. You’re a 2 cow maiden if there ever was one. Think of your little brothers and sisters. Think of the milk and cheese they’ll have if you forgo your existential bid for happiness and simply live a miserable life and succumb to plague like the rest of us.”

In the 1700’s fruitcake survived as teacake in England. Delicious tiny fruitcakes were served with tea. Experimenting with different fruits, spices and shapes for the little cakes was a leisurely pastime and there were even contests and prizes for Best Teacake.

Fruitcake made it to Ireland, again as a special occasion cake for holidays and weddings. Of course, my people added a special ingredient to the fruitcake, to help preserve the fruit of course. One of the earliest recipes for Irish Wedding Cake, from the 1400’s, begins with currants and berries soaked in whiskey for three days. The same recipe ends with pouring “2 ladles of whiskey o’er the cake for flavor and to well preserve it.”

My family still adheres to the adding of a ladle or two of a flavored spirit to a fruitcake just to soften it and of course, to preserve it. I can honestly say no fruitcake has ever spoiled in my home. Matter of fact, I age them for years and they just get better. Of course, you can’t drive after you’ve had my fruitcake.
“Which fruitcake are you serving this year, Sally?”
“I’m thinking of serving one of the 1982’s. That was such a good year.”
“Sounds wonderful. Serve that to the family, give the non-family the 2001.”
“OK. Here, let me open the 1982. Care to smell the cake tin?”
“Ahhhh...... an excellent year.”

Shopping for Rotten Little Kids

Naughty or Nice?

It’s that time of year when we all ask our loved ones, “What do you want for Christmas?” Kids under the age of 12 hand you a detailed list of at least 20 items, plus the stores that sell the items, and give you Map Quest printed directions if you need them. Teenagers only want one thing, but it has to be the most expensive advanced tech thing available and you must sell one of their younger siblings to get it. Adults want a lot of things, mostly practical, but hesitate to say what they want because of the pervasive assumption we all have, that if we can’t afford to get it for ourselves, you can’t afford to get it for us either.

Adults are the ones with the money, so - brace yourself for a radical concept - we can control how much we spend on gifts and for whom. We constantly buy into advertising and get our kids things we’re certain they’ll love, only to watch them make a fort out of the big box it came in, leaving the gift for another day. During a particularly poor Christmas for me, I made my kids a train from series of five progressively smaller boxes. I painted the sides to look like train cars and they absolutely loved it. They rode in the first two cars and their stuffed animal friends rode in the smaller boxes with a beanie baby in the caboose. I gave my daughter a box of ‘dress up’ things that year. She had hats, high heels, boas, and the works. Combined with the train, I think she was the first drag queen railroad conductor. Don’t read this and think, ‘Wow, what a great Mom,’. I wasn’t great at all. I was poor and creative, but it was a really fun Christmas.

Then one year, like watching a snowball getting larger, it hit me. Why are we spending so much hard earned cash on these rotten little kids that drive us nuts all year? If they can be satisfied with a cardboard train, let them have it. This way you can save money for something you actually need, like a new mattress or dresser. Now, I know what you’re thinking, you can’t save enough money just from kids toys savings to get an expensive item like a new dresser. That’s true. That’s why you also shouldn’t buy expensive things for arrogant and unappreciative teenagers.

Teens are smart and they know you have money, so you have to be really clever with them. Nothing will deter them from their goal UNLESS they think the desired item is now ‘uncool’ or a better version is coming out very soon. So look right into their eyes and lie to them, remember turnabout is fair play, tell them the newer version is coming out January 10th. Then ask if they’d rather wait for the newer version (more cool points). They will certainly answer yes. After the holiday, you can say, “Aw gee, guess I was wrong, do you still want the iphone with the golden cover?” When they answer yes, you can get it at a discount in the after Christmas sales thereby saving a lot of money - enough for the one thing that you, as the only hard working and truly deserving person in the house, deserve.

So, make what toys you can for the little ones, finesse the older ones and you can finally get four matching chairs for the dining room. It may sound cold hearted, but come June, when you’d enjoying your matching chairs, or new recliner, you’ll thank me. The alternative is to find yourself in June, sitting on an unmatched chair at the dining room table, looking at the Mastercard bill you’re still paying from Christmas 2007, and asking yourself, “What the hell did I buy?”

Christmas Shopping Procrastination

Tarry Ho’

Thanksgiving, the training wheels holiday for Christmas, is over. Oh, I know Chanukah and Kwanzaa are coming to, but neither of those lovely holiday can compare with the commercial and cultural juggernaut that is Christmas. Retailers put up the Christmas, Chanukah, and Kwanzaa decoration in October. Personally, I hate the mixing of holiday decor when they bunch up and rush the holidays like that. I hate seeing skeletons next to a menorah or a manger, it just ain’t right. But now it’s official, shopping season is open, bring on the fruitcake, eggnog and credit card debt. I’m buying only American made products this year.

A lot of people don’t get their shopping mojo in gear until the 24th of December. They always say they’re procrastinating, dawdling, or puttering until the last minute. These words are not interchangeable and I need to straighten everyone out.

First, on the time misusage continuum, we have ‘puttering around’. Puttering is done first thing in the morning. It is not done by “morning” people because they wake up oriented as to who they are, where they are, and what they have to do that day. Puttering is only for those of us who are night owls and are forced to rise in the morning. We putter around getting dressed, grooming, drinking coffee and struggling to remember what the hell it was that we have to get done today. I generally putter for an hour, after which, I go to work, or if I’m not working that day, I begin a session of lallygagging.

Lallygagging isn’t the same as dawdling or procrastination, that comes later. Lallygagging is having a second cup of coffee and reading magazines, books, or watching a morning TV show. Lallygagging is the cadillac of time misusage. You could be doing something productive, like working on a project, but instead, you indulge yourself. After lallygagging, you might be ready to do some Christmas shopping. But if you’re not quite ready, you can commence dawdling.

Dawdling is a fine art. My ex was a dawdler. Dawdling involves getting ready to leave the house, but finding some bizarre problem to fixate on at the last minute that prevents you from leaving. My ex was the best. Once, we were both dressed up to go out to dinner and a movie. It was a movie I picked, because I got to pick every third movie, and I was on high dawdle alert. I had my purse on my arm and we were exiting the house when he decided to check his wallet for money and he suddenly noticed his social security card wasn’t in his wallet. I knew the night was over. I pleaded with him that wherever the card was, it was going to stay there until we got back and he could obsess about it then. But, no, it had to be found immediately. He had downshifted from going to see Moonstruck to dawdling. I went alone, leaving him as he tore up his desk searching for a card he hadn’t seen in years.

Now dillydallying is doing tiny things to hold everyone up. It’s not as annoying as dawdling and takes less time. I dillydally and hold up my family every single time I get in the car, because my car won’t start unless I have lipstick on. Family members have suggested I put on lipstick before I get in the car, but then I might forget to dillydally long enough to check my makeup in the mirror on the visor. So you see, dillydallying can have a constructive purpose for the dillydallyor.

Procrastination is when you definitely have something you must do and you must find a way not to do it. You putter, lallygag, dawdle, dillydally and even goof off, and the good news is, you only have to procrastinate till 3 PM. Three o’clock is too late to begin anything. So, after 3 PM, you can stop procrastinating and advance straight to loafing which you can do till bedtime.

Since it is Christmastime, I like to upgrade my time misusage to ‘tarrying’. Tarrying is loafing and lallygagging with an english accent, fits in perfectly with this time of year.

Thanksgiving and Football > A Bad Mix

I love Thanksgiving. I love the colors of the trees, the snap in the air, the warm up for the big holidays. I miss the family I grew up with at Thanksgiving. My whole family lived within 20 miles of each other and we all gathered at my grandparents house in Sayville for Thanksgiving; 8 adults, 17 first cousins; tons of chaos, it was great. Now, the family is all spread out and so many members are missing, having gone on to their reward. There is no central gathering place anymore. There are no long term married couples anymore, everyone is either between spouses, or with a new one. And what divorce didn’t destroy in the family for Thanksgiving, football did. I remember the men smoking and drinking outside on the back porch while us kids played in the yard after the feast. I remember everyone coming in, all chilled with icy fingers, for dessert of hot chocolate and pumpkin pie and the traditional listening to family stories retold. Now, men grab a plate of turkey dinner, and head for the living room to watch football while they yell at the women to keep the kids quiet and out of the living room. Try as we might to force the family to sit together, at least for a blessing, the men are straining at the bit to get into that living room and get that damn game on.

“Oh gosh, Sally, what have you done to the living room?”
“I’ve adapted, Patty. I covered all the furniture with plastic drop cloths and put a trough on the coffee table in front of the couch. The men don’t want to sit with us and the kids, so I’ve stopped fighting it. I’m no longer making a “kid’s table”, I’m making “men’s table.””
“What are you serving them?”
“Traditional Thanksgiving foods. I’m putting a small turkey I made just for them in the center, with big bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy, and all the remaining space I’m filling with nachos.”
“Where’s the plates and silverware? I just see big serving spoons and a carving knife.”
“They don’t need or deserve plates. They can just grab a big spoon and shovel the food in their mouths from a common bowl.”
“What about carving the turkey?”
“I figure one guy will carve the white meat and they’ll just rip the bird apart after that.”
“Eeeew! That’s so primitive!”
“I disagree. Ripping meat apart and ladling mashed potatoes and gravy into their mouths is how their ancestors ate. They can all feel like cavemen while they watch a grueling game of football and grunt and shout.”
“After you gonna give them napkins at least?”
“Nah. Napkins are too civilized. I’m leaving disposable baby wipes around. They can throw them on the floor, which is covered with a plastic sheet and when they’re gone I can just gather the whole thing and ditch it.”
“Don’t you think some of them will be insulted by the idea of eating from big bowls in a trough?”
“You’re an only child, right Patty?”
“Yes.”
“I have four brothers. Men always attack food like they haven’t eaten in a week. They’re pigs anyway, I’m just accommodating the reality. Wait and see.”
Four hours later. Patty walks into the living room during the game.
“Hi guys. How is everybody? Can I get you anything? Anybody need a knife or fork? How’s the food?”
Men on couch, “Everything’s fine. You’re blocking the TV. Everything’s fine. We’ll call you if we need anything.”
“Well Patty, are you satisfied? Did I do the right thing setting up a men’s table?”
“They didn’t even notice they were eating from a trough.”
“I rest my case.”
“Unbelievable.”
“More pumpkin pie? I pulled out the good china just for us. Isn’t this a beautiful pattern? It was a Neiman’s exclusive. I just love it.”

Flying Cow Lands on MiniVan

Udderly Implausible

SPOKANE, Washington (Reuters 11/7/07) - A cow plunged from a 200-foot cliff onto the hood of a minivan on a highway in central Washington state, according to police. The police estimated the animal weighed 600 lbs., the average size of a mature cow. It had been missing for two days and wandered 5 miles from home near the popular Lake Chelan tourist area.

“I swear to God, Carol, the cow just fell outta the sky on the van.”
“You talked me into letting you use my van to go deer hunting again - you swear not to mess it up this time but, nooooooo, you destroy it! Now I’m supposed to believe that - not only was it raining cats and dogs - oh no - it was raining cows! Are you kidding me? How am I going to get my insurance to cover that? Is a falling cow an Act of God? Why don’t you call the agent, ask what the deductible is for airborne bovine collision!”
“Carol, I’m serious, babe. Look, call Johnny, it nearly scared him to death, he’ll tell you, it’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Stop it! I’m so sick of this! You make up any excuse you can to go hunting as much as possible so you can avoid spending time with me and the kids! You always come home hungover and deerless, my van stinks of beer and doe urine for weeks, and now, somehow, you’ve crushed the roof of the van, and the best you can come up with is some cow and bull story about being attacked by flying cows in the night in search of hapless deer hunters in minivans. Tell the truth, you got blitzed and you have no idea what happened to the van.”
“Look, we were sober. I was driving. Johnny was opening up a bag of chips when, WHAM! There’s this huge crash on top of the van. I coulda had a heart attack - ever think about that? And then we hear something go ‘thud’ on the ground behind us. We turned around and saw the cow on the road and Johnny called 911.”
“You hit the cow.”
“NO! The cow hit US! The cops said it fell off a cliff.”
“A cow was wondering around and rather than face certain capture and deportation back to the farm, it decided to commit suicide by jumping off the cliff, and it just happened to hit you.”
“Yes.”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“You’re not stupid, Carol, you married me didn’t you?”
“I think I just answered my own question.”
“Look, I’ll take the van in for repair first think tomorrow. You can drive my Chevy this week. I’ll get a ride to work with Carl.”
“I can’t drive the Chevy.”
“Why not?”
“The left side is crushed in.”
“You had an accident with my car?”
”No. We were driving home from the IGA when we were sideswiped by a rhinoceros.”
“Geez, Carol that’s not even close to a good lie. How the hell did a rhino get on a highway and sideswipe the car?”
“I don’t know, ask the cow, she should’ve had a good view from up on the cliff.”
“Good night, Carol, I’m going to bed.”
“My bed?”
“I guess not. I’ll get some sheets and take the couch.... hey, what’s with these sheets, they smell funny.”
“It’s my new cleaning agent for removing the smell of beer, cigarettes, doe urine, and campfire smoke.”
“Smells like kerosene.”
“Nope. Lighter fluid. Have a good night.”
“You’re killin’ me, Carol, you’re killin’ me.”
“Don’t tempt me......... flying cows.......”

iPod, iPhone, idontcare

Time, time, time, is on my side, yes it is

I have a memory from when I was a very small child of my great grandfather, Clancy Seaman, standing in the kitchen in his LIRR conductor’s uniform, with a vest that had a chain draped from a button hole to a small pocket on the vest. Clancy used a pocket watch as was the custom for his generation. I always thought he looked so proud and dapper in his railroad uniform. I think I fell in love with pocket watches because of that memory.

Pocket watches are novelties now, except for the real antiques, no watchmakers make them and no one uses them. A pity. The wristwatch came into existence in the 1920’s, courtesy of Tiffany’s who made them for the Army and called them tank watches, and we’ve had time on our hands ever since.

If you ever need to know if someone is right or left handed, and you don’t want to ask them, look at their wrist. Right handers wear their watches on their left wrist and vice versa. And if someone forgot to wear their watch on any given day, you know that by the fact that they look at a blank wrist and curse every five minutes all day long.

I noticed that many young people don’t wear watches at all. I asked my daughter why not, and she said, “Cell phones and iPods, Mom. You can set your screen to always show the time. Wearing a watch is for old people, it’s the sign of a TC, Technologically Challenged, that’s you Mom.”
“Yeah, but when you want to know the time, you have to find your phone or peapod in your purse first.”
“No, that’s what phone chains are for,” she said as she showed me her cell phone on a tiny tether to the strap of her purse.
“What’s the little seahorse and beads for?” I asked, observing that they were also attached to the phone.
“Phone charms.”
“Phone charms?”
“Jewelry for your phone. Should be a natural concept for you, oh Mother with whose breathalyzer test would show a blood glitter level of 2%.”

Using your phone as a timekeeper, jewelry for the phone, a leash for the phone, apparently an entire subculture centered around cell phones and their new role as timekeeping devices has been blossoming without my knowledge or consent.
“Maybe I should get one of these iPhones on TV,” I said.
“You don’t even have a cell phone, Mom, you aren’t ready or qualified to own an iPhone. You know they play music, right?”
“In your ear, while you’re talking? That’s terrible!”
“No, it combines a cell phone with an iPod, you know, the thing you call my ‘pea pod’.”
“Does it have a clock in it too?”
“Yes Mom. Not only does it tell time, you can set an alarm, and there’s a mini program that sends a signal to your coffeepot to start brewing and turns your TV on to a preprogrammed station.”
“Well, that’s convenient.”
“No, Mom, I’m joking.”
”Oh, it doesn’t tell time and play music?”
“Just forget it, Mom.”

Not long after that conversation, my daughter started a job and all of a sudden, started wearing a wrist watch.
“What happened to wrist watches being old fashioned?” I asked.
“Mom, be practical, I can’t look at my phone all day.”
“So, does this mean I’m smart after all?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mother.”
“Admit it, I am smart sometimes!”
“Keep it up and I’ll start talking about CD burners and wireless remotes and Bluetooth! Then we’ll see how smart you are!”
“Oh yeah? I got a hundred embarrassing pictures of you from childhood, they’re going up on YouLube.com today! What’s so funny?”

Eliot Spitzer Gives Licences to ILLEGALS !!!

I campaigned and voted for Eliot Spitzer because I believed he was listening to the citizens of New York. Now he is giving Driver’s Licenses to people who are here illegally and creating (from CNN.com) an "enhanced driver's license [for citizens] that will be as secure as a passport and can be used for voter ID. It would be voluntary and available for a small extra fee.” . Eliot is giving illegal aliens drivers licenses despite polls running 87% against it from New Yorkers. He is completely ignoring the voters he represents and is catering to a group he does not represent, can’t tax, can’t make accountable for anything. He has completely restored my belief that there isn’t a decent politician in this country.

As long as Spitzer is going to make regular citizens pay extra for an “enhanced” license that can still be used for voter ID purposes, I thought.... Shelter Island is always looking for revenue generating ideas....we have our own vanity license plates, maybe we can charge for an “enhanced, enhanced license” to drive on Shelter Island! I even thought of a test.

The Shelter Island Written Driving Test

In addition to all the standard Drivers Test questions, you must answer these.

1] Spell the name of the preserve that covers one third of the Island.
2] Translate the following: 1bdrm/1 bthrm apt. $900/mo OS, $6000/mo MD-LD.
No pts, no smkg, no chldrn. No util; No plyng ld msc; no prtys; no sx on frnt lwn.
3] How many pecks in a bushel? How many clams can you get without a permit?
4] If you own a truck, how many people per month do you have to help move something?
5] How many bottles of water and how much food is recommended to take with you if you’re going to be in the North
Ferry line on a Friday during the summer?
6] What is the minimum amount of nice, reusable, items you have to have left at the dump in order to live here year round?
7] On a map of SI, can you point out where the unmarked road is to Shell Beach?
8] Are you prepared to commit to having a magnetic map of SI on the back or your car or a SI Vanity plate?
(You have to have one or the other, or no license for you!)
9] Are you prepared to help defend Shelter Island against an invasion from Ram Island, in the event that global warming
raises the water on their side first?
10] Are you prepared to beat the residents of Greenport or Sag Harbor with beach chairs, or whatever you can grab, in the
event they try to build a bridge here?
11] Name three big Island families and at least 36 ways they are interrelated.
12] If you own a boat, how many times per month can you use it for your own selfish pleasure without inviting anyone else
along? (Just remember, making payments on the boat, renting the dock space, buying all the deck equipment, does not necessarily make it “your” boat.)
13] If you’re traveling north from the South Ferry at 32 mph, and your friend is traveling south from the North Ferry
at 27 mph, what will the weather be in China next Tuesday?
14] In the event of any reason we all have to gather at the school overnight, what are the most important things to bring?
(Blankets, beer and cigarettes are a given, what else is important?)
15] When driving by the library and you see a really annoying child tied to the tree in front of the library do you;
A} Report the parent for child abuse.
B} Point out the child to your children and say, “See what happens?”
C} Go up the the child and study the knot that is holding him so well.

Thank you for taking the Shelter Island Driving Test. Please remit a fee of $55 to Shelter Island in care of the Sally Flynn Jewelry Fund. Thank you.

Meerkat Manor Flower Power!

A Mom, by any other name.....

I’m a movie person, I don’t watch many network TV shows. I’ve never seen Seinfeld or Cheers or Raymond, but I’m nuts over Animal Planet’s show, “Meerkat Manor”. The star of the show is the dominant female, Flower.

Cambridge University has been studying meerkats in the African Kalahari desert for over ten years. Meerkats are unique in that they are one of the most cooperative mammals on the planets. There is so much we can learn from them.

#1 They share babysitting duties, only the dominant female has pups, and all the adult females in the gang (a family of meerkats is called a gang) lactate with her to share the nursing detail. Damn fine idea if you ask me. I don’t know how many times I wished I could go somewhere without the baby or a breast pump.

#2 Flower ran a gang of forty, all her and her partner Zaphod’s offspring. Like elephants, dolphins and lions, all the females in the group are related. Males are driven off when they mature. Only selected non-related males are allowed in the gang for breeding purposes. There’s another fine idea from the meerkats, once young males are mature, bit them on the tail until they leave the burrow. If you don’t they’ll just make trouble.

#3 Every morning, Flower designated a babysitter adult to stay with the babies, and then led the gang out on a foraging trip for food. That’s right - why take those annoying kids with you when you food shop? Leave them in the burrow with a sitter and get out there and get that IGA foraging done in half the time.

#4 Nutritional awareness; Flower would bring the young meerkats along and teach them what to eat. Once, while six weeks pregnant with her next brood, she worked hard to catch a fat millipede and held it in place while the kids gnawed on it. What mother can’t relate to that?

#5 Love in the afternoon; I have to say there was when Flower disappointed me. She had a thing for Carlos, a renegade male from the Zappa gang. A couple of times they met for a tryst in the the scrub. It’s clear to me that some of her pups were his. I don’t think she ever told Zaphod. And if he knew, he was too much of an upstanding meerkat to let on. I guess all females have a weakness for those bad boys in the bush.

#6 Move it! Flower moved the gang over thirty times last year whenever the burrow got over run with parasites and meerkat droppings. How smart is that? Why clean the house over and over? Get up, grab the babies by the scruff of the neck and move to another burrow. While you’re gone, the dung beetles will completely clean out you home and you can rotate back to a clean burrow in a few months. I love the way meerkats think!

#7 No means NO! Whenever Flower had a rebellious daughter, she booted her out of the gang. In order to get back in the group, the daughter would have to go to extreme measures to show submission and obedience to her mother. Like bringing her fresh scorpions and grubs, and biting all the fleas and ticks off of her back. I’m telling you, Flower had it going on.

#8 I’m only telling you ONCE. Flower gave the call to come or go and nipped anyone who had to be told twice. Seems harsh, but with forty children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, it’s a really good policy. Who has time to individually chase the stragglers? If the kids don’t come when called and get picked up by an owl for dinner, they have no one to blame but themselves.

Sadly, last week, Flower, the mighty and daring dominant female of the Whiskers gang died after being bitten by a cobra while defending her pups. What a meerkat, what a Mom. Rest in peace Flower.

Leave the Kids in the Cave !!!

Parental Time Off for Good Behavior

“AUSTIN, Texas - Three students rescued after spending 30 hours inside a cave they were exploring gave searchers a guide to find them: a trail of leaves they deliberately left behind.”

“Ms Flynn, great news! We found your kids. They’re in a cave, they left a trail of leaves for us to follow to get them. You must be so relieved!”
“Oh, sure Sheriff. Of course I’m thrilled. It’s been so quiet and peaceful here this weekend without them though..... Are you sure they’re all right?”
“Yes. The rescuers left food and drinks, flashlights, at key locations in the tunnels during the search and they disappeared, so I’m sure they’re fine.”
“That’s nice that you got some food to them. So, now that they’ve had a little snack, maybe they’d like to do some more exploring before they come home. I mean, it must be a lovely cave, they went to a lot of trouble to find it.”
“I thought you went in a panic about them being missing - isn’t that why you called 911?”
“No, that wasn’t me, must have been one of the other parents.”
“What - you’re not worried about your kids being lost in a cave?”
“But that’s just it, they’re not really lost. We know where the cave is and you said they left a trail of leaves to show them the way out of the windy cave, and gee, what could go wrong there?”
“Ms Flynn, I’m getting the impression you don’t want them home.”
“Well, not so much that I don’t want the little darlings home as I’d just like a little more time off. I read in National Geographic that people can get very adapted to living in the dark. I was thinking, if I leave food at the entrance, they could play in the cave for another five, six days...I could really get the house cleaned without them traipsing around, plus get into their rooms and route out whatever it is that is living under their beds and eating socks.”
“Most parents would be thrilled to have their children home with them.”
“Most parents don’t have my children. Have you met them? My daughter could make Mother Theresa homicidal. And my son? Stubborn, rigid - concrete slabs are less rigid than my son. They could use a few days in a cave.”
“But surely you miss them?”
“I have pictures.”
“Don’t you miss hearing their voices?”
“Neither of them speak to me.”
“Maybe you could work on being a better parent so they would speak to you.”
“I got a thousand dollars says you can’t spend 24 hours in that cave with two teenagers without losing your mind or using your gun.”
“I’ll take that bet, and I’ll leave my gun here.”
“Trust me, take the gun.”

The next day.
“How did it go Sheriff? How was it?”
“How can your daughter complain about the way the rocks are arranged in a cave?”
“She’s a teen, she can complain about anything. It’s some kinda gift.”
“Your son knows every species that lives in the cave.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He knows what they eat, where they live, what their mating habits are, what music they live - and he tells you. And if you interrupt him, he starts over at the beginning. He starts over and over until you listen to the entire lecture without interruption. And your daughter complains in the background. She refuses all suggestions and just keeps complaining. I’m so glad I didn’t take the gun.”
“Hey, listen, thanks for giving me an extra day of peace. I’ll go pick them up later.”
“No, you can’t get them later. It’ll take at least a day for the rescue crew to dig them out of the cave in. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Cave in?”
“I was running away from your daughter when my shoulder brushed against the main support beam and caused a slight collapse.”
“Wow! ‘bout time I caught a lucky break.”

Sex in the Men's Room

No Moon for the Misbegotten

I’m so happy I could burst. Thanks to Senator Craig, I now know that there is free, anonymous sex available in bathrooms through the land! You just have to memorize the signals in the right progressive order. I am all over this...

“Sally, what are you doing in here? This is the Men’s Room.”
“Hey, Joe, I’m here for the anonymous sex. I know the signals, I’m tapping my foot, see?”
“This is Shelter Island, Sally, we all know you. You can’t have anonymous sex here. As a matter of fact, it’s going to be all over the Island that you were in the Men’s Room.”
“But I already cleaned out and decorated a nice stall, look.”
“Okay, it’s nice that you painted the inside of the stall to cover the graffiti, but the pink isn’t going to work.”
“And the toilet seat, see, new.”
“A lucite toilet seat with sea shells in it, very nice. But really, I think you’re missing the point. You don’t want anonymous sex with some stranger.”
“Of course not. I thought, if I could just get a man in here, I could throw the latch and maybe we could talk a little, I have some wine chilling in the bowl in a big ziplock bag, you know, just to keep it sanitary. Then, if things go well, I could fix a little dinner by the sink. We could sit by the window over looking the parking lot and watch who leaves with whom.”
“Very thoughtful. But the bathroom sex thing, it’s gay sex.”
“Well sure, almost any kind of sex makes you happy!”
“No, the other gay.”
“Can’t homosexual people use the word homosexual? I want gay to mean gay again, I get confused otherwise.”
“Well, you’re the only one. Now what’s this out here by the window?”
“I told you, I could make a little dinner. I set up these folding chair and this little table. Nice fabric tablecloth, matching napkins. Simple, but nice. And look, I covered all the urinals with the same fabric, looks like a row of canopies. Gives the place a little cafe atmosphere, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but what if a man comes in and wants to use the urinal?”
“Oh, he can pee outside, you all do anyway.”
“That’s true. But I just think all this effort is not going to have the effect you want.”
“Oh yeah? Just watch, first, I get in my stall.”
“Sally, what’s this note on the outside of the door that reads, “Please look inside, are any of the $100 bills yours?”
“It’s bait.”
“It’s entrapment.”
“No it’s not, not unless I use the handcuffs and chain them to me.”
“So, it’s true then, it’s that bad out there for middle aged women?”
“Finding a available, straight, breathing man now? Like a finding a honest politician. But I have run across one possibility on Island. He’s handsome, pretty beat up, but still looks good in his wheelchair.”
“And that’s a catch?”
“Oh sure, it’s a great advantage to have a man in a wheelchair. If you hide his chair, he has to sit and listen to you plus, and at this age, and this is the biggie, he has a handicap parking sticker.”
“I understand. At my age, I’m happy if she looks good, but home cooking is a turn on. Plus conversation.”
“Ah yes, amazing isn’t it, it takes us all this long to realize what a treasure intelligent conversation is.”
“Well, there you go, Sal, you can offer intelligent conversation.”
“No, I’m too dense for that. I get them with linguini and lasagna.”
“But not in a bathroom.”
“Oh, all right... not in a bathroom. I guest I’ll pack up and leave.”
“I’ll help you carry this stuff out.”

The next day in the grocery store;
“And I saw Sally and Joe coming out of the Men’s Room together. I just think a hotel room would have been more romantic, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Yeah, but you know her. She’s always been a little odd.”
“No, nuts. She’s always been nuts. But Joe? Geez, I thought he had taste...”

Better Living Through Chemistry and Vicodan

The Trifecta of Pain

Three of my four brothers work in construction and like all construction guys, they minimize any injury and ailment to the point of the ridiculous. If a construction guy saws off his leg, he’ll throw it in the cooler, duct tape the stump, and keep working, that’s the expectation. I see it all over the Island, all the time. I don’t know if any of the workmen on Shelter Island know that duct taping a wad of insulation over a gash isn’t sanitary. They all have fractured fingers now and then and they all splint the broken finger by duct taping it to the next strongest finger. They don’t even go to the doctor for an xray anymore.
“Hey, Donnie, sawed off your leg?”
“Yeah. No biggie. I’ll swing by the doc’s after work. But I still got my knee, so I can finish the flooring before I leave.”

You can imagine my shock when one of my macho brothers started missing work because of crippling migraines. I knew they were crippling because nothing less would keep him from going to work. I suggested going to the doctor several times. But construction guys only see the doc for traumatic amputations and possibly if they missed with the nail gun and now cannot remove their hat or other articles of clothing. Pain is not discussed because they are impervious to pain. Pain is only felt by the weak. Pain is in the non-construction world. No mere headache pain could possibly be enough reason to see a physician!

Finally, after battling these migraines for about five months, he gave in and went to the doctor. Turns out, our systems change with age and for some people, certain foods and combinations thereof, trigger migraines. Who knew?
“So, how did it go at the doctor’s?” I asked.
He listed the top ten foods most likely to trigger a migraine and said, “I told the doc, of the top ten Avoid foods, I ate seven of them this weekend. And the doc just said, “Well, there’s your headache.” “.
I looked at the list and sure enough, everything he loves is on the list.

As the oldest and wisest sibling in my family, I should be mature and always lead by example. Kind words should waft from my lips like gently falling autumn leaves.

“What a moron! I can’t believe you ate all the foods that make a migraine! Especially the cheese, liverwurst, chocolate, you ate the trifecta of pain!”

“Thank you for the support.”

“Look at all the foods on this list! Coffee cake, sourdough bread, corned beef, beer, bacon, pickles.... you could open a restaurant with all this. We could call it, Migraine Cafe, or how about Chez Migraine?”

“Not funny.”

“Good evening, Mr. Flynn. I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to start with something to give you light sensitivity and mild nausea? We have some excellent specials this evening for three day pounders. We also have a dieter’s plate for just a half day headache.”

“You’re sadistic. If I wasn’t so mellowed from the pain shot, I’d get up and beat you.”

“And we have the Crippler’s Platter, our special; featuring bacon, sausage, hot dogs, smoked and aged cheeses, all kinds of nuts and super rich chocolates. Our chef developed this dish himself and says it will give you a migraine to remember and you won’t be able to go out in the sun for six months.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.

“Remember that time you blew pollen in my face on purpose and I had a terrible asthma attack? And you and laughed because I couldn’t even talk?”

“No.”

“How could not remember? You tried to kill me.”

“We were always trying to kill you. That was out job. We were the creepy little brothers.”

“Ah-hah! Not so funny now, eh, Mr. “Give Me Vicodan, or Give Me Death!” Not so funny to be in distress and have your siblings make it worse.“

“I was seven when I did that to you.”

“No excuse.”

“That was forty years ago!”

“Forty, schmorty! I’m ripping the blinds off your windows and taking my revenge!”

“Is this what you women call an ‘issue’? Can’t you dump this on some talk show somewhere and leave me alone? Can’t you see I’m in pain?”

“Ohhhhh, please, I’m just gettin' warmed up....”

I HATE School Concerts !

I hate school concerts. To me they are sheer torture, hours of it. Yet, if I didn't attend those horrible concerts, I'd be branded a bad parent.

Take our Shelter Island School Concerts, please. Each and every concert is four hours of indescribable sounds and is always an experience one never forgets. I have indelible memories of those concerts. I frequently sat near another parent named James, our kids were in the same grade.
“Sally, I can see the earplugs. Take them out. That’s cheating. We all have to listen to every note that is played or sung.”
“Please, I need them. Just for the second grade portion, then I promise to take them out.”
“No. There’s a tolerance curve involved here. Getting through the first graders makes the second graders sound better and the effect is progressive. If you skip a grade, then, when you do take the earplugs out, your brain will explode.”
“Alright. But don’t leave me.”
“We’re all here, Sally. This whole auditorium is filled with parents and grandparents, whose devotion I think is exceptional.”
“Oh, don’t let those grandparents fool you. They’re all turning off their hearing aids. Watch. See how they discreetly reach up like they’re scratching their ears? They aren’t kidding me.”
“What song are the third graders singing, James?”
“I can’t make it out. Just smile, damn you.”
“What key are they in?”
“All of them, now smile!”
“How long do I have to hold this smile, my cheeks are starting to hurt.”
“When you have to rest from smiling, look down slightly, and dab an imaginary tear from your eye. That’s allowed. Your kid will think you were so moved you cried.”
“That works?”
“Oh yeah. Works great. My kids think I’m the greatest Dad in the world.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with giving them money and spoiling them?”
“Nah. It’s the tear thing. They think you really love them if you cry when you watch them.”
“Well, I’m always crying by the end of these concerts.”
“Yeah, but Sally, it’s not the same. You run for the exit screaming, “Let me out! Please God, I’ll do anything.” It took four parents to stop you the last time and frankly we’re tired of it. If we have to stay, you have to stay. We don’t want to cause any psychological damage and have these kids appear on Jerry Springer complaining about us.”
“I bet Perlman parents don’t have to go through this.”
“Sure they do, but with speeches added on the front end.”
“Oh no, not speeches!”
“Yep. Be glad for what you have. Besides, someday, these kids will grow up, have kids of their own and they’ll have to sit in these very seats and go through this too.”
“Poetic justice.”
“And we’ll be the grandparents sitting behind all the parents.”
“With our hearing aids off.”
“And iPods in.”
“Listening to the Moody Blues.....I love it.”

Heat and Homicide 101

If You Can’t Take the Heat, Move to Alaska

It happens to all of us at one time. The power fails, the air conditioner goes out and somewhere in the back of our minds, we think, “How did people survive without air conditioning? What did they do?” When I was kid, we went swimming while our mothers parked in front of fans, or we all went to the movies to sit in a cool for two hours. But what did they do a hundred years ago?

I pondered this for a while. And then it hit me. Guns. Gun ownership was common and everyone had basic firearms knowledge and skill. My own grandparents who left Los Angeles after the big earthquake of 1932, crossed the United States in a Model T Ford (top speed 40 mph), with my six month old mother in a laundry basket, a cat named Heiny Wertzschitzel, a rifle, and a Colt .45. They shot and ate game along the way. Grammie carried the Colt when she had to improvise a privvy behind a tree.

Gram had to use it once, when she and a bull startled each other behind some sagebrush. Makes you really appreciate the advantage of indoor plumbing; you worry about kids barging in, but rarely livestock. I never complained about my kids disturbing me in the bathroom in front of my grandmother. Any woman who has shot at a bull from a squatting position cannot be beat in the bathroom complaint department.

July 12, 1876

In a courtroom, somewhere on the American Frontier

“Mrs. O’Malley, will you please tell the court why you shot your husband in the leg?”
“Yes, yer Lordship. Well, sir, it was Tuesday, me candle and soap makin’ day. Hot enough to make Hell seem cool, it was. There I was yer Honor, bent over the tub dipping candles, halfway done I was, when Himself comes up behind me and tries to exercise his due, if you take my meanin’”
“Yes, Mrs. O’Malley, the court understands. But why was it necessary to shoot him?”
“Well, he’s a very insistent man, he is.”
“Wouldn’t a simple “no” suffice, Madame?”
“I gave him a simple “no” yer Lordship and he stopped.”
“Well then WHY did you shoot the man?”
“He doesn’t like the “no” yer Honor, sir. And to spite me, he brought down a whole line of washin’. Down into the dirt. Half days work, lying in the dirt and sun. I was already half crazy from the heat. Then he looked over at the rope where me finished candles hung... I knew what he was thinkin’ so I thought I’d better give him somethin’ else to consider. And that’s when I shot him.”
“Mrs. O’Malley, this is the third summer you’ve shot your husband. Don’t you ever worry that you’ll miss him?”
“Never, yer Honor. I’m a good shot. I take care to aim low and I haven’t missed him once.”
“We are frustrated with you, Madame. Every summer you shoot your husband and every summer we send you to jail. Your sentence will be three weeks this time since your husband wants to drop the charges and is begging for any early release, something about not wanting to be alone with your eight children.”
“Couldn’t you sentence me to a full month, yer Lordship? 30 days is a nice round number. I’m sure I deserve it.”
“Now, why would you want to be in jail another whole week?”
“Well, yer Honor, Maureen Murphy started her sentence last week for winging her Joe, and tomorrow you’ll be trying Kathleen O’Doud. She’s hoping to get at least three weeks in jail, but I told her not to get her hopes up, it’s only her first shot at her man and you can’t get much for a grazin’. Anyway, we’d all like to have some time together to finish a wedding quilt for Moira Kinney, she’s to wed Henry McGill in the fall. So you see, yer Honor, you’d be doing something lovely for them.”
“I suppose she’ll be before me next summer for shooting at her husband.”
“No, Sir, we’re not giving Moira a gun for her shower, or as a wedding gift.”
“Oh, pray tell, why not Mrs. O’Malley?”
“She’s not like the rest of us, yer Honor. She’s a got bad temper. We’re all worried about how she’ll be in the heat when she’s got a husband and young ones tuggin’ at her.”
“SHE has a bad temper? Thank you, Mrs. O’Malley. Thank you for helping me decide to accept a position in Maine.”
“Not a’tall, yer Honor, not a’tall.”

God Bless America!

What a Difference a Date Makes..

Many of the Fourth of July fireworks and celebrations have been scheduled for the weekend of the 7th and 8th of July, just like many St. Patrick’s Days parades were held the following weekend. This is annoying the hell out of me.

Here’s my beef. I can allow the observation of holidays like Washington or Lincoln’s birthdays to be attached to a weekend because there’s no specific activity linked to these holidays. But holidays that have activities attached to them are date specific, not time released and it is not okay with me to push their celebration to the closest weekend to insure that retailers make maximum sales.

For instance, the FOURTH of July should be observed on the FOURTH of July. Call me old fashioned, but whenever I think of the Fourth of July, I think of a day in July occurring between the 3rd and the 5th. I looked at my calendar closely and I see that there is not a second 4th in July, there’s just the one. Say what you will, St. Patrick’s Day parades do not feel the same on the 20th and Fourth of July fireworks do not feel the same on the 7th. I know these observances are moved to extend weekends and increase retail sales, but honestly, it detaches us from the soul of the day.

“When are you getting Joe from the airport, Betty?”
“On Tuesday.”
“Isn’t that Christmas Day? The airport will be hell.”
“Well, it is the 25th, but we’re observing it on Friday the 28th. Kwanzaa celebration starts the next day and goes through till New Years Day which will fall on the 4th of January the following Monday. It’s really smart and just easier to have the holidays line up to start on a Friday and go straight through till the whole week and end on a Monday.”
“But why not celebrate Christmas on the 25th?”
“Because you can’t tell where the 25th is going to fall from one year to the next and you don’t want your holidays starting in the middle of a week. This way, we all know the holidays will start on the last Friday of the year regardless of the calendar date. Besides, it’s the spirit of the thing that counts.”
“It’s the spirit of the thing I’m talking about. Christmas won’t feel the same on the 28th.”
“Sure it will. A day is just a day. It’s just numbers on the Gregorian calendar. You know that the years and months were adjusted by Pope Gregory and Pope Leo centuries before him. No one know what day Jesus was born. Experts say it was probably in October.”
“But the 25th is traditional.”
“Traditions change. There is a first time for all things. Like the Fourth of July, it gets celebrated on the first Saturday following the 4th now, with the following Monday off and everybody likes it. You’ll get used to the new tradition. The super sales start the weekend before, perfect for shopping.”
“I don’t like it. It’s just not right. I want “the night before Christmas when all through the house” to be on the 24th. I want Christmas morning on Christmas morning and I want fireworks for the Fourth of July to occur on the day of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, which we can prove was on the Fourth of July because they all signed and dated the document.”
“That’s what the signers claim, but was it notarized? Don’t you think a document important enough to start a country should have been notarized?”
“No. I don’t even think they had notaries then.”
“See? No legal validation for the Fourth of July at all. No reason we can’t move it where we want on the calendar.”
“This whole thing feels like a pine cone in my pants. No matter how I shift, I just can’t get comfortable.”
“Here drink this eggnog. The liquor store had a great Christmas sale on rum and this is delicious.”
“I’m not sure if inebriation will solve this dilemma, Betty.”
“Nonsense! Inebriation will definitely solve this. Just stay plastered until New Year’s Day and you won’t feel a thing.”
“Maybe I should just stay drunk till Valentine’s Day on the 14th of February?”
“Actually, we’re observing that on Friday the 16th.”