Shark Week

Shark Week is on the Discovery Channel. It's been on for two weeks now and I think they're just going to turn it into Shark Month. Many other channels have followed suit and are running their own versions of Shark Week: "How To Know If A Shark Is About To Strike Week;" "Colors That Attract Sharks;" "How To Know That A Shark Is Really Dead Without Sticking Your Hand In It's Mouth To Check For Reflexive Bite Week;" "Foods That Make You Smell Like Sautéed Seal To Sharks."

The "sharks are our friends" experts are running shark specials like: "Sharks: The Misunderstood Killing Machines;" "Sharks Only Bite Humans Because They Think We're Seals;" "The Innocent Shark; They Won't Even Eat You While Dressed in Chain Mail and Smeared With Fish Guts."

The "sharks are our misunderstood friends" experts swim among chum, swirling with sharks, and the sharks ignore them. They insist on catching sharks and shoving a chain mailed arm in their mouths to prove that they are "actually shy" creatures. They act mystified as to how these innocent fish can be so villianized-surely it's something the humans are doing to provoke them, like being in the water.

On the other hand, there's the "Sharks innocent? Are you outta your mind?" group, of which I am one. There are countless eyewitness reports from half eaten people reporting sharks as the aggressors. The story of the USS Indianapolis alone should end the debate. Most recently, is the excellent book, Albatross, that tells the story of how a family of sharks swirled under and around a group's life raft, waiting for any opportunity to pounce. One member, who had gone crazy from drinking sea water, hung his legs over the side and was immediately pulled in and eaten inches from the raft. Somehow, I don't think wearing chain mail would have saved him. I don't think those were the shy sharks. They must have lost their boat among the "We don't care who you are, we're eating you" sharks.

I have two theories as to why the sharks don't eat the experts, but they eat anyone else in the water. Theory One: Since the experts are swimming under the water with the sharks, the fish may regard them as other fish and simply view them as competition for the food that's in the water. But what about all the attacks on divers? Well, that does present a problem, but I handle it like the real experts and simply ignore it because it runs akimbo to my theory. Theory Two: Sharks really are smarter than we know. We all know they can smell blood and sense vibrations in the next hemisphere. I say they send little shark messages in those vibrations, like; "If you get this message and are anywhere on the Atlantic Eastern Seaboard, there's a new leaky raft with six dinners near Montauk." Or, "Boat wreck off Kittery, three warm dinners, seven cold ones." Or, "Two hot lunches, already sautéed in white wine off of Shelter Island."

Of the two theories, I think Number Two is correct. If they can't get to the food, they courteously tell the other sharks where the groceries are. I was sharing this theory with a friend who said, "But there's no sharks around Shelter Island," All of the record breaking Great White Sharks have been caught just off our neighbor, Montauk, and the Island is surrounded by a channel that is 98 feet deep. Nah, no sharks in these waters. Besides, who wants to wear a chain mail suit over a bikini-it could really chafe.

BBQ Grill : Cave Men vs. Modern Man

I get such a kick listening to men discuss and debate how to barbecue - charcoal, propane or wood, controlling hot spots, "seasoning" the grill, the best barbecue tools to use, how women just never get grilling right. Listening to the secret barbecue sauce recipes alone is hysterical. "And I add a pinch of gun powder, gives a real smokin' chokin' flavor and just a pinch won't hurt nobody."

Scientists now agree that our ancient ancestors probably had the same level of intelligence and problem solving ability that we have now, they just didn't have the same technology. I don't think there's much difference between the early man on Shelter Island and the modern Shelter Island man today.

Mugette: "Bumba, are we still going to Umba's for dinner?"

Bumba: "Yup, Jumba. Umba's got a new stone pit we have to break in."

Mugette: "Well, whatever you're hunting today, try to kill something casual for me to wear, I can't wear this doeskin again."

Bumba: "What's wrong with it? I just killed that for you last moon."

Mugette: "Right, last moon, and I've worn it to at least seven group dinners, I can only accessorize a skin so many times honey, then I just need something new."

Bumba: "Fine, I'll see what runs by."

Mugette: "And stop by the beach and pick me up a bag of scallop shells, try to match the pattern's a little better this time."

Bumba: "Your brother brought you two bags of clam shells already, what's wrong with them?"

Mugette: "Please, he only gave them to me because his mate rejected them. Nobody wears clam now. And she only wears conchs, be happy that I am not asking for conchs."

Later that night around the new stone pit at the Umba place:

Jumba: "I been marinating this baby boar in dill and brine for three days, this meat's gonna fall off the bone."

Bumba: "Only three days? I always do a dry rub of rosemary and corn pollen on my pig or deer, and then I wrap it in seaweed, then long grass and sink it in the brine for five days. Best marinade ever."

Logbog: "Only five days? I stuff mine with onion grass and dill, rub honey all over the meat, then a seaweed wrap, tie it in a bag and bury it for seven days. I stopped using brine marinade, the sodium in the meat is off the chart, man. A Cro-Magnon reaches our age, he's gotta take care of himself. Any time you get over 30 seasons is a gift, you know. You get older and slower, takes longer to recover from being gored, the aches and pains get worse and we have to wait another 30 or 40,000 years before the Egyptians show up and invent beer. Meanwhile, all we got for pain relief is nutmeg and the priests have locked that up for religious ceremonies. It's hard out here for a caveman."

Mugette: "Is that meat ready you guys? We got hungry kids here!"

Bumba: "It's coming. You can't rush this, Mugette."

Mugette: "Fine, Loofa and I are taking a few skins and the kids down to Foofi's and getting some McSquirrelettes."

Bumba: "You're not spending my skins at Foofi's, this meat will be ready soon enough."

Muggette: "Okay, you come in this car and entertain six hungry kids."

I'm tellin' ya, Island men haven't changed in thousands of years.

Movin' & Groovin'

There's lots of moving going on all over Shelter Island and in many of the resort/vacation areas across the US. This always happens around this time of year - the snowbirds are starting to mentally plan their move to Florida, Arizona and places all along the Southern Sun Belt. I think nearly a third of our Island residents spend the cold months in Florida. I identify them by the pink flamingos they usually have, on key chains, tee shirts, sunglasses and flip flops.

But it seems that no matter how well you plot, plan and pray, moves never go smoothly. It seems like no matter how hard you try, the most important little things keep escaping you. I have a little zipper pocket in my purse for tiny important things, and when I put tiny important things in there, they still disappear. I think they slip through that tiny fracture in the space-time continuum where socks and earrings go. Somewhere in a parallel universe there is a woman who looks just like me, except her eyebrows are perfect because she has my best tweezers.

Then there is the great debate: professional movers or U-Haul. I've used professional movers three times, and each experience was excellent, all in all. I sat back and they systematically cleared each room to the walls.

We choose U-Haul only when we can't afford the pros or need to control everything because we don't trust professionals. No matter how I try to organize everything, I still end up with "surprise boxes."

"Well, what's in that box? See if the coffee pot is in there."

"No coffee pot. Socks, Gone With the Wind DVD, picture of the Dalai Lama and a bottle of aspirin."

"Okay, try that box over there."

"Alright! My old matchbox collection! I haven't seen this in three moves! Where did you have it?"

"I dunno. I haven't seen it in three moves, either. I didn't know we still had it. I thought I left it in the goodie pile the last time we were here."

"Well, honey, the moving gods returned it to me. Maybe they'll give back the Roy Rogers tea set you've had since you were five.

"What about the coffee pot?"

"We'll buy a new one. It's the only way to make sure the first one will come back to us."

"That's true. If you lose something, the fastest way to find it is to buy a replacement, wait 24 hours, and then the original item shows up. It never fails."

"Can we have Mayflower movers next time?"

"No, they cost too much. Plus all your stuff gets mixed up and it takes months to find things."

"As opposed to the system we're using now?"

"Organized chaos. It's a mess, but at least we only have each other to blame."

Talking Trees of Autumn

"Bob, could we do a theme this year?"

"What do you mean, theme? We're maple trees, Margaret, we don't have to have a theme, we just stand here and turn colors, that's it."

"No, that's not just 'it', Bob. We're Shelter Island maple trees, we try to do things tastefully. A color scheme is always a better idea than letting our leaves change color all helter-skelter like somebody dumped confetti on us."

"You got this idea from Trudi, didn't you Margaret?"

"Trudi who?"

"Don't give me 'Trudi who?' You know who I mean. That mature maple tree that was put in at the end of the street this spring. You've been sending messages by messenger bug all summer. She's a young, firm, designer tree in front of a designer house. That's not you, Margaret."

"Gee, thanks, what a nice thing to say to someone who has stood by your side all your life, Bob."

"Don't get irked, you know what I mean."

"Oh, yeah, I know. It's fine for her to turn her leaves colors in a nice designer pattern, but, oh, not me, I'm too old, too plain."

"I never said that. Look, what do want to do, Margaret?"

"I want to start with a nice gold area on our left, facing the road. Then, behind them, a broad swatch of dark orange leaves, leaving the rest green until the final color burst in November. How does that sound? I was thinking of coordinating with Jack and Tina across the street. They're organizing the whole street on both sides. We thought, we'd all turn in order. The trees at the corner would start first by turning gold first, then that lovely young couple next to the restored home would start to turn gold, like a wave. By the time the last tree is gold, the first tree will turn orange, and repeat the pattern. Doesn't that sound nice, Bob?"

"I didn't stand here for 30 years to join some stupid color cooperative. We've always done our own colors and I've never heard any one complain."

"But Bobbie, if we join the co-op more people might take pictures of us in our beautiful fall foliage."

"AH HA! There it is, Margaret! I was wondering when that was going to show up..."

"Oh, Bob, c'mon, all the people take pictures of their kids in front of every tree on this block but ours. I want to get in the people pictures! Is there anything wrong with that? Every tree on this block has gotten photographed but us, Bob. Just us. And why is that, huh? Did you ever once ask yourself why?"

"If you have a point, make it Margaret, I've got a bird picking bugs off my left branch and it itches like hell."

"It's the knot."

"My family has big knots, we all have them, you knew that when you planted with me."

"But Bob, nobody has a big knot like that now. The tree surgeons today can do wonders. Just talk to one, for me, pleaaaaasssse?

"All right, if I talk to a tree surgeon and he says the knot is harmless, it stays and I don't have to join this color coop you found."

"And if he says the knot should go, you'll have it removed, right?"

"If it bothers you that much, Margaret."

"You know it does."

"It doesn't bother me."

"That's because it's behind you and you don't have to look at it all day like I do."

"That tears it! I'm starting to turn colors tonight, Margaret. You can turn colors with me or not, I don't care.

"Fine, I'm staying green till the last minute."

"Fine. Stay green, you'll look ridiculous with snow on green leaves."

"I'm not speaking with you 'til spring, Bob."

Halloween! Oh Baby...

Do you remember when your mother made you a costume for Halloween? Or, if she didn't have time, she bought you one from the store that only lasted one season and the elastic band on the mask snapped one hour into your Trick or Treating? Remember when it was safe to go to strangers' houses, up and down one street after another? Two or three moms would herd small groups of kids in the cold darkness for hours. It seemed like Trick or Treating lasted all night. Remember being afraid of the groups of teenagers who always dressed like characters from horror movies and you feared they would steal your candy?

Of course the best part was getting back home and assessing the bounty you hauled home in your pillowcase. Yes, I said pillowcase. Any professional Trick or Treater knows that pillowcases are better than any designer printed paper bag with handles. In the first place, the handles, which are only glued on, always come off under the strain of half a bag of candy. A pillowcase has no handles to break. Also, a paper bag cannot be swung over head several times to build speed and force before being used as a weapon to remove slow kids or annoying little brothers who stand between you and your path to mini Butterfingers.

Prioritization of candy is very individual. Everyone had his or her own method for candy triage. Once you had your booty spread out on the table, you threw out the apples and oranges immediately, then you grouped all the gum, then the Bit-O-Honey and other chewies went together. But the "A" group was, of course, the group with the chocolate anything. Some people ate their "A" group first, some ate everything else first and saved the best for last. However, if you saved your "A" group for last, you needed to have really good hiding places or the siblings who ate their "A" group first would turn your room inside out; it would look like "CSI: Halloween".

Shelter Island is one of the last places I know on Long Island where house to house Trick or Treating is still safe. With 250 kids from kindergarten to high school seniors, there are only about 50 kids in the Trick or Treating age range. There's no sense in passing out poisoned apples to the irritating kids because it would be too easy for the cops to figure out whodunit - you'd be arrested by 9 p.m. You just can't pull it off like you could if you lived in a big crowded town like Patchogue. It's one of the few disadvantages of living in a small town.

Shelter Island always has a wonderful costume parade for the kids and whole families get into it. Many families costume in "theme" drag. One of my all time favorite groups was the family that dressed up like McDonald's characters. The dad was "The Hamburglar" - and I can still see those red and white striped tights on his skinny legs. What a crack up! It's a blast to watch the parade as it snakes its way through all 100 feet of downtown Shelter Island.

I don't know what happened to the social innocence and overall sense of decency that characterized neighborhoods all over Long Island, when the thought of putting razor blades in apples never occurred to anyone. I don't know when it went from a fun family time to a commercial bonanza for Toys R Us. I'm just so grateful it hasn't happened here - yet.

The Thanksgiving that Was ... But Wasn't Rockwell

What I've always wanted is a Rockwell Thanksgiving, just like in the painting. The food is perfect, all the people seated around the table look kind and polite, all the kids are clean and sitting patiently and perfectly behaved. My mother always wanted that too, and come to think of it, every woman I know wants that - a Rockwell Thanksgiving - just once.

But, it can't be. First of all, nobody, unless you have a chef in the family, can organize all the dishes so that everything is perfect and ready to serve all at the same time. We always have the nutty expectation that we can turn an ordinary kitchen into a culinary palace required to create a feast. We all watch the short cuts on Rachel Ray and it sure looks easy when she does it. But my dinner always looks like a 12-year-girl scout was earning her cooking badge that day. I try to spend extra time on table decorations. A large paper fanned out turkey casts a big shadow on the table to hide the burned pieces in the turnips. I have an orange painted hammer and chisel now on the table to help me serve the stuffing and anything else I overcooked. I also try to serve lots of cheap wine in advance of the dinner, it lulls the victims into a stupor and through the haze of alcohol, even my food is edible.

Then, there's the whole problem of the family members being all together at once. While the alcohol mellows them for the meals, it also seems to jog loose old memories and suddenly I can hear old fights being re-fought. Isn't it amazing that time does not erode grudges? Time erodes love, rusts cars, levels mountains - but wreck a relative's car, and 20 years later, they still bring it up. In those moments, I wonder, WHY do we think being together is a good idea ever? When you spend time with one relative, you can trash the rest of the family, but when everyone is together, you can't say anything bad about anyone... and you even start to wonder if they talk about you when you're not around, nah, that would never happen....

Finally we eat and everyone is well behaved for the five minutes it takes to consume the meal you spent hours to make. After that, somebody at the table says to someone else, "You know what you should do..." It never goes over well, whatever it is, and then everyone starts giving their opinions on how everyone else should live their lives and before you know it, you're running to get the desserts on the table to bring the momentum of the advice monsters lobbing verbal assaults back and forth to an end.

Finally, it's over. Everyone says what a nice time they had and you collapse in your chair swearing you will never host another Thanksgiving dinner again. And that vow always lasts for me until the next October, when the cooking shows give me new hope on how easy it really is to put on a turkey dinner.

Happy Thanksgiving to ALL!

Autism - My Son, Mr. Spock

for Dan's Papers
Mar 27, 2009

Autism; Problem? What Problem?

Having started from a severe level of autism, my son, Jacob, now functions at a very high level. Thanks to the incredible Special Education team and teachers at Shelter Island School, he graduated with a Regents Diploma last year. Slowly, he is acquiring the life skills needed for independence. I couldn't be happier. Recently I was wondering, with the advent of corrective genetic procedures, what if I could have changed him to a "normal" child before he was born? Would I do so? Hard to say. But if I could know in that moment, what I know now, I wouldn't change a thing about him. I have son who is completely obedient, never lies (because he doesn't expect to be punished for telling the truth), never jams me for money or to drive the car, not a rebellious bone in his body. He is completely at peace with himself and his view of the world. Now that autism is happening 1 in every 150 births, we're going to have a society chock full of these people. We keep trying to get them to socialize more, to learn to tell polite white lies instead of blurting out the truth all the time, and in general, to be more normal, like us.

Then, I came upon this website: isnt.autistics.org. This website is authored by a high-functioning autistic who maintains there is nothing wrong with autistics being as they are and society needs to make room for them instead of trying to change them. He diagnoses normal people as "Neurologically Typicals", i.e., "NT's". From his site:
"What Is NT? Neurotypical syndrome is a neurobiological disorder characterized by preoccupation with social concerns, delusions of superiority, and obsession with conformity. Neurotypical individuals often assume that their experience of the world is either the only one, or the only correct one. NTs find it difficult to be alone. NTs are often intolerant of seemingly minor differences in others. When in groups NTs are socially and behaviorally rigid... NTs find it difficult to communicate directly, and have a much higher incidence of lying as compared to persons on the autistic spectrum. NT is believed to be genetic in origin. Autopsies have shown the brain of the neurotypical is typically smaller than that of an autistic individual and may have overdeveloped areas related to social behavior."

You know what? There's a truth here I never saw before.

Autistics don't lie. It doesn't bother them to be perceived as rude or crude. What a timesaver that is! Never to worry about how to say something just the right way because you could care less what the listener thinks. Wow! I think I like it!

Autistics save a fortune on psychotherapy. They don't go to therapists to analyze their relationships because they're not interested in maintaining anything other than most minimal relationships with only their most essential people. For instance, I provide food, shelter, clothing, internet connection, and x-box games, therefore I am an essential person and worthy of the occasional acknowledgment as he passes by me.

Autistics are introverted and prefer isolation in general. They never worry about forgetting somebody's birthday, they save money never buying gifts. They only want friends with the exact same passions as they have, but they're fine on their own regardless.

They hate to travel because it disrupts their routines, that saves a bundle too! They never have to cope with reservations, rental cars, buses, since everything they need is home, they prefer to stay home.

They all have strict limitations on foods. They eat the same things over and over. What a time and money saver! Their grocery list looks the same every week! I used to obsess that Jacob has never had a piece of fruit or even a bite of Thanksgiving turkey - these foods are not on his list. He has 12 foods, that's it since he was about 11 years old. It bothers me, but not him. I'm what bothers him - me and my Neurologically Typical need to conform to my group which says you will die without a varied menu.

Autistics has a tremendous economy of emotion, as I call it. They only get upset about breaches in their routine or rituals, which are well known to the people who know them. They never get upset about the news, or what's going on in someone else's life, or medical problems, or anything outside of their immediate control. Imagine only getting upset about the things that you actually control - Wow.....that would reduce my verbal output by 90+ percent... my whole worry for the day might be finding an earring!

Autistics have phenomenal memory skills. Ask anyone who knows one. When we play Trivial Pursuit Screen Edition at home, we all fight to have Jake on our team because he accurately recalls any dialog from any movie that he has seen. I can't remember what I wore yesterday...

Jacob says, "I'm the Mr. Spock in your life, Mom." He's right. So now, when I look at him, I just imagine him with pointy ears, and suddenly, I rather like him just the way he is.

Christmas Shopping

All right, it's officially on. The Christmas Season has started and shopping is the first order of business. By now, we've all read several magazines describing how to make inexpensive, made-with-love, gifts. But does a homemade wreath or fruitcake say, "I love you" as much as a new DVD player or expensive jewelry? Of course not, you fool! Therefore, I offer my rules for Christmas shopping

1. Re-gifting is fine as long as you make absolutely certain you are not re-gifting to the person who gave it to you in the first place.

2. All's fair in love, war and shopping. Don't hesitate to use Photoshop to create a handicap parking tag to hang from your mirror or put on your dashboard. This reduces the time it takes to cross the parking lot to the store, and it really helps at the end of the day when, whipped, you're using your shopping cart like a rolling walker.

3. There are no calories in Christmas or Hanukah foods. None. God sent you these treats because he loves you and doesn't want you to pass out in K-Mart for lack of nourishment.

4. When shopping, learn how to cleverly hide the item you're just thinking about behind an unrelated item until you can decide. For example, hiding the last Hollywood Barbie (complete with a play syringe for Botox injections and inflatable breasts) behind a display of men's nail clippers in zippered cases is brilliant!

5. She who hesitates will cost. If you find a good item on sale, don't "over shop," comparing its cost in three other stores. If you find it on sale, and it fills the bill, just buy it - the recipient can always re-gift it later.

6. If it fits you, it's on sale and it's in your color, buy the damn outfit. Don't come home without the pants that match the jacket! You are never going to get back to that store for the pants, so give someone else on your Christmas list a cheaper gift and get the outfit.

7. When faced with a choice of getting someone what she actually wants, or purchasing something else she might like that looks far more expensive than it really costs, go for the second option. She'll think you spent more money on her than she did on you, which ups the ante for next year.

8. Keep a red pen in your car. If you overspend (and you know you will) mark the prices down on the price tags in the car. This way you can show your significant other how much money you saved.

9. If you overspend and you'd feel deceitful marking down the prices, there's another option. Simply bring in only half the gifts you bought. Bring in the smallest boxes, they seem less expensive to the casual observer looking over his shoulder at you from the couch. Big boxes are scary, so leave them in the trunk.

10. Never put together a wagon or bicycle if you have been drinking. You'll never find your bag of nuts and the rinky-dink tools they include in the box will irritate you.

11. If you have to put together a wagon or bicycle, and the instructions are in Chinese, go ahead and get drunk first, the instructions might make a little more sense. If they don't, you won't care!

12. Guys: Don't propose to your girlfriend on Christmas. You can't double up and use the engagement ring as a Christmas gift. Getting you for a husband isn't a sufficient gift either. I don't care what part of you has a bow on it. You are not a Christmas present!

Taking Down the Christmas Tree

"It's time, Joe."

"No, Margaret, not till after the Super Bowl."

"We go through this every year. I'm sick of it."

"Well, I'm not. I'm sick of you nagging me about it, Margaret, so stop."

"We only do it once a year and you promised me we'd do it after the New Year."

"But I hate doing it. It's so depressing."

"You have to have a good attitude about it, Joe. I don't look forward to it either, but it has to be done. Everyone has to go through it. Try to think of it in a positive light.

"It takes a whole afternoon, Margaret. That's too long!"

"We can do it faster than that, Joe. We can do it in an hour."

"You mean we used to be able to do it in an hour, when we were a lot younger. Now it takes forever which makes me feel that much sadder about it."

"But it's just once a year Joe, please. We do it and get it over with and everything goes back to normal. You'll feel even worse if we wait 'til after the Super Bowl."

"Why?"

"We're having people over, the guys will laugh at you."

"No they won't. They're probably waiting 'til after the Super Bowl too."

"C'mon, Joe, I'll start stripping..."

"No, don't strip! I can't take it!"

"Joe! Grow up! You're not 12 anymore."

Okay, Margaret. Look, we'll do it before the Super Bowl, but just not today. Let me have just a few more days to prepare myself."

"You're killing me, Joe."

"Yeah, but you love me."

"You promise me? Before the Super Bowl?"

"Yes, I promise, before the Super Bowl."

"Say it, Joe, say the whole thing out loud so there's no backsliding later."

"Okay, fine. I promise we'll take down the tree and put away all the decorations before the Super Bowl. THERE! Are you happy now?"

"Yes. Thank you! You'd understand if you had to vacuum all those needles. It takes at least two months to get every last one."

"Well, I guess a clean house is much more important than my happiness..."

"It won't work, Joe. After 32 years of marriage, my brain is Teflon-coated against guilt."

Cookbooks Lie!

My brother, Joe Beaudry, gave me Good Housekeeping's Best Home Cookbook for Christmas. Joey used to be a chef, so he really took the time to select an easy to use cookbook with terrific recipes. This spiral bound cookbook lays flat when you use it, has coated pages that wipe clean, and an "Emergency Substitutions" page telling you what you can use instead of an egg, for example. It tells you how to set up a kitchen, how to set a formal and informal table, what wines work with what foods, just everything. There's probably even a page with a recipe for picking the right lotto numbers.

The book puts a heart symbol next to recipes that are heart-smart, there are symbols for sugar free recipes, Low Cal, Low Carb and such. I appreciate the little extras, but there is one area in which all cookbooks lie: "Preparation Time."

"Preparation Time" supposedly represents the average amount of time it takes to prepare the meal. But the clock starts when all the ingredients and equipment are gathered and ready. THAT'S the lie! They need to give estimated "Pre-Preparation Time."

"Has anybody seen my measuring cup? The little Pyrex glass one?" the mother calls out from her lonely kitchen. She hopes to prepare "Easy to Make Swedish Meatballs with Mushroom Gravy and Cranberry Chutney - Prep Time: 20 min."

"I think Katie's using it for her paints, Mom," answers a disembodied voice from somewhere in the house.

"Okay, how 'bout the bigger one? I need a measuring cup with a pour spout if I'm going to make gravy for this recipe."

"I think Dad has it in the garage," answers the voice.

"JOE!" mother yells through the garage door. "Do you have my one quart measuring cup?"

"Yeah," responds Joe from somewhere in the garage, "I used it to put oil in the car. You want it now?"

"Yes please."

Cleaning off the cup, she wonders how the Penzoil will taste mixed in with the olive oil and will these people even notice considering the way they bolt down food like condemned men?

"Where's my ladle?" she calls out.

"Grace has it in the sandbox outside," calls out another disembodied voice.

Mom retrieves the ladle, washes it and opens the refrigerator.

"Who ate the hamburger meat?"

"Jerry made burgers for his breakfast, Mom," comes the response.

"Tell your father I went to George's to get hamburger," yells Mom as she grabs her handbag and schlepps out the front door.

Finally dinner is served and everyone likes it.

"This is great, honey," says himself. Mother smiles and decides to try it with 30-weight Penzoil next time.

"Easy to Make Swedish Meatballs with Mushroom Gravy and Cranberry Chutney - Prep Time: 20 min; Pre-PrepTime: 1.5 hours."

There are blank pages at the end of the Good Housekeeping Cookbook to write in your own recipes. Someday I'll fill it with the phone numbers of places that deliver food to Shelter Island. Prep Time: 30 min., Pre-Prep Time: 0 min.

Someday I hope to write my own cookbook, from my "Good Luck with Housekeeping" book series. Most cookbooks boast recipes that are kitchen tested and terrific. I'll have a book of kitchen tested recipes that aren't necessarily terrific, but good enough to feed the unwashed, nagging, and unworthy masses. I'll call it the You've Had Worse Things In Your Mouth So Shut Up cookbook.

Love is Sharing Your Crabs

St. Valentine's Day is different on Shelter Island. All over America, women receive traditional gifts of candy and flowers, but on the Island, other things have greater value.

Here, if a man calls his sweetheart and says he has crabs, it's a good thing. If he calls and says he has mussels, even better; if he calls and says he has crabs and mussels, get ready for a great night. That doesn't mean take a bubble bath and put on sexy lingerie - not here. It means boil some water and put the beer on ice 'cause Daddy's got the goods.

"Hi Mom. George has mussels and crabs. I'll pay you a peck of mussels and two crabs to take the kids tonight."

"Make it three crabs and it's a deal. But why don't you let them stay and turn it into a family dinner?"

"I'm not sharing my crabs with my kids, Mom, they don't deserve it and besides, I want to actually sit down through my whole meal and enjoy it."

"Remember when a private Valentine's Day dinner meant flowers, chocolates and sex?"

"That was before kids, Mom. Now a perfect evening to us means an uninterrupted dinner and "Happy Hour" means a nap."

In mainland America, a woman would not give a man his own slip unless he's a transvestite. On the Island, giving your fella a slip is a good thing. He now has a private parking spot for his boat. If he doesn't have a boat, he'll love getting a slip even more because now he has an excuse to buy a boat, and I know of no better gift for an Island man than an excuse to buy a boat.

"Joe, when are going to fix your roof? You got pots all over the place."

"Can't buy a roof Craig, gotta buy a boat."

"Get real. You need a roof more than you need a boat. If you buy a boat with the roof money your wife will kill you!"

"Craig, she got me a five-year lease for a slip half a mile from this spot."

"You need a new roof and your wife got you a slip? That's beautiful, man. We gotta get you a boat."

"It's big enough for a ketch."

"You better never divorce your wife, Joe, if you do, I got dibs next."

"Are you kidding? This is Shelter Island. A woman who lets a man buy a boat instead of a roof could be auctioned for thousands."

Of course some Islanders still like to go to the mainland for that special Valentine's dinner.

"He's taking me off Island for dinner, so I think the relationship is getting serious."

"Oh Loretta, that's great! Where are you going?"

"Does it matter? I told him I wanted to go off Island for a romantic dinner and he said he made reservations AND he's going to use one of his own ferry tickets."

"Whoa, that is a definite sign of love. Jerry always conveniently forgets his tickets and we have to use mine. It's a trick they all do to save their tickets."

"I know. That's why I think this is a significant step for us."

"Just don't read too much into things, Loretta. Remember when I told Jerry it was our three months anniversary? It reminded him that he needed an oil change. Men just don't think like we do. You have to be very specific about what you want or they just do the minimum needed to keep you in the relationship. What's the name of the restaurant anyway?"

"Claudio's."

"Loretta, that's in Greenport, you can see it from the ferry."

"Greenport? I'll kill him."

"Well, technically, it is off Island. I told you, be specific, especially with the Island boys. Next time tell him you want to have dinner in someplace substantially far away, like maybe, Water Mill."

"He hasn't been farther than Sag Harbor in ages."

"I'm just saying, it's worth a try, Loretta. Tell him that's what you want for next Valentine's Day. That way he'll have lead time to get used to the idea."

First Ladies

First Lady is the highest unpaid job in this country. How unfair. These women should be remunerated for all that they do. In addition to being scrutinized for every domestic change they make in the White House and having their parenting styles micromanaged by the public, they have to give White House tours to guests and oversee State dinners; lecture on their husband's policies (whether they agree with him or not); appear on talk shows - all while maintaining a perfect face and figure or suffer the wrath of merciless comics and political satirists.

It started with Eleanor Roosevelt, who is one of my personal heroes along with Mother Theresa and the founder of Lane Bryant. Eleanor was an old soul, full of compassion, wisdom and humility. She was also overweight with an unattractive face - weak chin, substantial overbite, crooked teeth. She'd never make it as a political wife for any ambitious man today, and certainly would be a liability to any man running for president.

But what a loss this nation would have suffered without the woman who made it possible for the black Tuskegee Airmen to serve their country in battle in WWII and become the most decorated flight unit in our history. She used the throwaway job assigned to her to represent the U.S. in the new United Nations to author the Human Rights Amendment that still stands as the moral compass, guiding the actions of many nations and compelling them to unite for a common good. What would we have lost if Eleanor stayed home like all her predecessors?

On the other hand, her aunt by marriage, Mrs. Teddy Roosevelt, had no public duties at all and was, in fact, "just a housewife." There's a famous photo of her standing behind the White House, hanging laundry while a few kids ran through the freshly hung sheets. The Roosevelts had an unruly tomboy daughter, named Alice, who was always in trouble, dropping out of trees and throwing frogs at visiting heads of state and such. The Roosevelts were criticized in the press for not controlling this adolescent terror, prompting Teddy to respond, "I can run this country, or I can watch Alice - I cannot possibly do both."

Why did Eleanor step out of that role and ruin the private life of every First Lady to follow her? Imagine her converastion with Franklin.

"And I'm just supposed to sit behind you with my mouth shut?"

"And knit, Eleanor, or embroider. Wait, mend my shirts. That would send the perfect message."

"But I'm a college educated woman, I want to do something besides mending."

"Yes, but most of the women in the country haven't gone past sixth or seventh grade. You don't want to make them feel bad. They should see that you are just like them, it's really the best political image we can project."

"Well perhaps I'd like to be an inspiration to women, to show them that there's nothing wrong with being educated, that they can be educated and still be domestic and feminine."

"I didn't marry you so you could create a platform for social change, Eleanor."

"Of course not, you married me for my rich family and the opportunities they could provide."

"Naturally. But, women in the U.S. are blissfully happy in their God given role of homemaking."

"No Franklin, women resign themselves to homemaking because all other avenues of social advancement are denied to them."

"And what should we do? Let you work in the factories today building airplanes and warships?"

"Is that such a bad idea, Franklin?"

"Wait a minute, we could pay the women a fraction of what we pay men, and since 'Last Hired is First Fired' is the rule, we can send you all home at the end of the war. Plus, putting women in the workplace will make my administration look progressive and put an end to your yammering. Eleanor, go make some sandwiches, I'm calling up three cabinet members for a late meeting."

For the record, the fastest construction time for a battleship from scratch to launch was 28 days. The construction crew was entirely female including all foremen and supervisors. Daycare was provided on the job site. Some think it was a huge incentive for the women to stay at work.

I agree. Given the choice of spending all day with colicky baby or teething toddler, I take an air driven bolt driver or welding torch any day.

Spring Cleaning, Shelter Island Style

The TV is full of shows right now about spring cleaning and the popular new trend of getting ever more organized. Seems like the more we develop technological wonders to save time and make our lives simpler, the more receipts, warranties, statements, extended warranty agreements, credit score status print-outs, rental agreements, dental agreements, medical records, insurance payments records, insurance appeals copies, home addresses of insurance executives, Do-It-Yourself Network's "Pipe Bombs You Can Make In Your Kitchen" instructions, we have to keep track of.

If you live on Shelter Island, there's even more to accomplish after a thorough spring cleaning. After you've done all the cleaning the rest of America has done, and marveled at how many potato chips can live in the cushions of a couch, and collected all the change, now you have the Island stuff.

1. Beach sand. Where does it come from, how does it find you even if you haven't been to the beach in six months? Personally, I think it's Gary the Sand Fairy. That's what I've named him. Since no one locks their cars here, Gary goes from car to car at night and pours a half a cup of sand in each car each week, that way, the build up is slow and you hardly notice it until you drop something edible on the floor, pick it up, realize it's covered in sand, and say, "My God, it's covered in sand! How did I get all this sand in my car?" You didn't, it's Gary the Sand Fairy I'm telling you.

Shelter Island beach sand it different from normal sand. Island sand has magnetic properties that allow it to attach to any item of clothing and travel into your house without you knowing it. That's why when you drop an earring or a screw on the carpet and you go digging for it, you discover a secret sand layer deep in your carpet. No vacuum known to man is capable of getting all the sand out of a rug on Shelter Island. You have two choices, you can obsess and struggle to get it all, or you can just say that your house is "green" now and capable of returning to the earth, and if fact, is getting a head start.

2. Home office supplies. Pens, tape, scissors, all disappear at an alarming rate here. Everyone is involved in some community group and travels with these items in their purses, or their wives' purses, and office items that go to a group meeting never seem to find their way home again.

3. Replenish bathing suits and Topsiders. I think my daughter's bathing suits evaporate at the end of each summer. She never seems to have one in spring. Island kids don't wait for summer, my daughter hits the water on the first warm day we get.

4. Ferry tickets. Like air, ferry tickets are everywhere all around us all the time. At least once a year, you have to purge your home of ferry tickets or they'll take over. They're in your handbag, car, all pockets, diaper bags, tool boxes, under all couches, hiding in the cushions of the Lazy Boy, just all over. If you have a business where you can deduct ferry fees for travel, then ferry tickets are deduction gold for you. I can't deduct mine, but I save them all and give them to people who can deduct them - the IRS can't tell who used that ticket, so anyone can use it for a receipt for travel. But, before you throw or give them away, you have to check the back of the tickets. Show me what an Islander writes on the backs of their ferry tickets, and I'll show you their life. I have used mine for grocery lists, phone numbers, directions, school excuses, things I heard on the radio in the car that I want to remember, lunch orders and more. I bet there is not one person on Shelter Island right now who doesn't have with them at this moment a ferry ticket with a note of some kind on the back.

5. Crab, clamming and fishing gear. All crab, clamming and fishing gear is checked in the spring. Anything that must be replaced may be replaced as a priority family item. All gear that must be let go does not go to the Recycle Center - oh no my friend, all crab, clamming and fishing gear, must be taken out to sea, at least 30 feet off shore, and given a proper maritime funeral and burial at sea. It's a tender moment for Island men who must say farewell to a favorite fishing pole, or clam rake. But these are Island men and they are tough. The wakes are traditionally held at the Dory and are very solemn occasions, at least until the third round anyway.

Graduation Day!

Graduation Day is coming, June 28th on Shelter Island. There will be wild celebrations, excessive drinking, lewd conduct, and that’s just the parents. Who knows what the kids will do....

For the graduates, I have this advice:
1. There are many ways to serve your country. Don’t put profit ahead of patriotism. Support your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.
2. Don’t worry, your parents will get smarter as you get older.
3. People can always handle the truth better than a lie. And a lie always gets found out, and usually at the worst possible moment.
4. Pay your own way, pick up your own things, and don’t make excuses; your enemies don’t believe them and your friends don’t need them.
5. Pack your own chute. I saw an interview of a sky diver years ago. The interviewer asked him why he wasn’t afraid to jump out of airplanes, his simple response, “I pack my own chute.” I thought that was a great axiom for many things in life. When it is important, when you are the one most affected by the decision, pack your own chute. Take responsibility for what needs to be done and personally see that it is done right. If your parachute doesn’t open, you’re the only one who pays the price.
6. God exists. And things do have a way of balancing out. Have a little faith.

For the parents I have this advice:
1. Luggage is an appropriate graduation gift. But pre packed, with a plane ticket attached is going too far.
2. Shredding the birth certificate will not help. Even though they move out, they never really move on. They’ll always call for money.
3. Painting the room - you MUST wait for the child to move out so you can do a proper cleaning and defumigation of the room. If you’re in a hurry, try to do a controlled burnout of the room - it worked for the Roman’s when they cleared lepers out of a dwelling, it could work for funky teenage rooms.
4. Before you can have a small bonfire and burn posters, old sneakers, raggy clothes, video games, and other teenage items, you have to obtain a special permit from the Town, a $35 “Parental Mental Health Reclamation Permit”.
5. Hide the vacation brochures and the “101 Ways to Blow Your Kids Inheritance” handbook until after the little darlings leave.
6. Don’t get carried away with your first post graduation food shop. It is a bit of a shock not to have to buy Tostino’s, Mystic Pizza, tortilla chips and guacamole, the four teenage food groups. It takes a period of adjustment to realize you can spend your money on what YOU like to eat and not make do with what you had to buy for them. I’m looking forward to buying fruit instead of single serving frozen pizza’s that taste like cardboard.
7. Music ; Crank up the oldies station and glue the dial in place. Not only will you get to hear your music again, but the sound of good music will drive the kids out of the house even faster.
8. Books : soon you will be able to read books again because you are not constantly cleaning. A wiped table stays nice all day because there is no one there to leave cereal bowls and glasses, scattered papers, keys, and other little messy tidbits for you too clean up when you get home. You will have time to read things longer than a reader’s digest article!
9. Money in your pocket -your money in your pocket! It will be a strange sensation at first, looking in your wallet and seeing $10’S and $20’s in there. And later the same day, the bills are still there - and the money is still there the next day! It’s wild, but so welcome!

Port-a-Potty Blues

PA. crews rescue nude man stuck in portable potty AP Fri Jun. 6, 6:24 PM ET
Rescue crews had to cut apart a portable toilet to rescue a man who got stuck naked inside the potty. Authorities say the 31-year-old man used his cell phone to call 911 on Sunday from inside a portable toilet. Police say the man had been drinking and had taken off his clothes. Somehow, he immersed himself in the holding tank.
Deputy fire commissioner Chris Miller told WPMT-TV, "I've been on the job in one form or fashion for 21 years, and this is the first port-a-potty rescue I've ever had."

We have porta pottys all over Shelter Island, any where where there is construction, which seems to be everywhere these days. And I think everyone has had a memorable porta potty experience at least once.

You’re at an event, or a visitor on Shelter Island, and you’ve got to go, and the only place to go is into the dreaded porta potty. As you try to open the door without touching anything - or letting anything touch you- you are met with that unmistakable smell of industrial strength anti microbial mysterious blue water and raw sewage. As you step in, the porta potty shifts. It doesn’t matter if you’re thin or fat, it shifts and you immediately think, “Oh gawd, don’t let this thing tip over...”. You make your way to the seat. You would’ve put down a paper liner, but they're all gone, or for some reason, the whole tear off pad of liners has been thrown in the tank. So you sit on your hands because you can wash them later.

You can hear people talking about you outside because everyone seems to forget you can hear just fine in a porta potty, matter of fact the sound reception is often enhanced. Someone ought to do a study of the acoustics inside modern marvels.
“Is she STILL in there?”
“Geez, how long does it take?”
“You think she got lost in there?”

I was at a Renaissance Faire once, with two friends. We were having such a nice time until I heard this from inside the blue box.
“Her ice cream cone is really dripping. I’m gonna finish for her, she’s taking too long.
“Are you holding her purse?
“Look inside and see if she has any tissues.”
“Oh wow, look at this. The condoms I understand, but handcuffs?”
“Handcuffs? Her?”

Inside the blue box of humiliation, I called out, “Get out of my purse! The handcuffs are for a play, I’m dropping them off tonight. The condoms are my friends, she’s with her mother and she didn’t want her mother to know she has a boyfriend.”

Outside the blue box of humiliation, they heard, “Mmmmlllllooommmuuummmtaumblah!”

I finally exited the box. The six people in line, all of whom knew what was in my handbag, looked at me suspiciously as I tried to step out with dignity. But I tell you now, there’s no believable explanation you can offer for the combination of condoms and handcuffs in the same location.

Shelter Island Summer Reminders

Just a few notes to start off the summer on Shelter Island.

Watch out for early morning commuter traffic > Happens all over the Island when two work trucks, traveling in opposite directions, stop in the road to converse. They stay there talking until each truck has three beeping cars behind it.

Dare Devil Entertainment > Coming out of Fedi’s, balancing two or more cups of piping hot coffee and Danish's, dodging cars to get to your car parked on the opposite side of the road.

Morning News > Have breakfast at the Pharmacy or Pat & Steve’s to get all the up to the minute news.

Sound bite > No time to stop and get news, but you just need a sound bite of the latest item? Drive slowly past Crissy Gross the Crossing Guard with your window down and yell on approach, “Crissy, what’s the latest?” She’ll give you three updates by the time you roll past her.

School Rules > Please remember that the school stubbornly insists you take home the same child you dropped off. You can’t trade to upgrade in the parking lot, I know, I’ve tried.

No ganging up on treaders > When you see someone treading for clams in the water, you cannot call friends and organize an attack strategy to get the bag as they exit the water. Shelter Island is very strict about this. If you want to steal freshly tread clams, you have to do it yourself, mano a mano. I generally approach the treader as they’re coming out of the water and say, “I think your car is on fire! I’ll hold your bag, you go check the car. I’ll wait right here.” They hand me the bag and run to their vehicle. By the time they realize their car is fine, I’m home melting butter.

Car Notification Program > As I’ve said before, all the men on Island know you by your car. When you get a new, or just different, car, in addition to NYS registration, inspection and all that other stuff, you have to tape a big note to your drivers side door for 15 days announcing that this is your new vehicle.

Cyclist Crunch Limit > All Islanders are limited to running over three cyclists per tourist season. More than three, you need a special permit from the Board.

Honor the Honor System > Most of the little farm stands on the Island have a coffee can for you to leave payment. If you’re a tourist, don’t screw this up. Whether you’re a local or tourist, if you can’t put $5 in a coffee can for fresh veggies or flowers, get the hell off the Island.

No Pointing > One complaint tourists have, and they are right, is that the Island does not provide enough public restrooms. So, when you see a tourist heading into the woods from the roadside, no staring, pointing or laughing please.

MapQuest > When a tourist asks for help as they stand there next to their car with an open map of the Island, resist the urge to get them lost on purpose or tell them that the last boat is at 6 PM and they’d better get in line now.

Island Selective Hearing > There are official periods of time when all Islanders are deaf. At the annual tree lighting in the village square. Despite the variety of keys being sung, you will only hear one key. School Concerts, they are good for the kids and no matter what you hear, it’s Mozart.

Mooning > Mooning tourists is limited to mooning the last boats that leave the docks on summer nights. Underwater mooning, so popular last year, must be reduced. Mooning snorkeling tourists, when we all know things look bigger under water, is mean. They think they’re being chased by a giant soft shell clam.

Sycophant Classes > There’ll be a class held this summer for those who need to polish up their kissing up skills in order to gain access to a boat. What will be covered? How to identify someone who has a boat. How to help them realize how much better their boating experience will be with you on board. Beer selection. Making club sandwiches. Dealing with people who have identified you as a mooch; ways to throw them overboard.

Memorial Day and Clams

Memorable Clams

Most Islanders had a nice Memorial Day, a fun day. I had a terrible day. I was alone and clamless. Usually on Memorial Day, I have the first two pecks of clams (4 pecks in a bushel) in the refrigerator waiting for consumption. But not this day. My brother, whose indian name is Mollusko, failed to wade waist deep in the cold water and bring forth clams. He was full of excuses; the water was too cold, he was tired from a long work week, it wasn’t like I was paying him, why don’t I get my own damn clams, and on and on with lame excuses.

Nothing changed the fact that the house didn’t reek of steamed clams like it should have on Memorial Day. No steamers waiting for their little butter baths, no clam dishes, no new clam shells in the driveway attracting the first shiny green horse flies of the season. Actually, I’m just disappointed, not mad. I can’t be angry with Mollusko the Clam Hunter. I know that soon, clams will appear.

There’s so much more to catching clams than people know. It’s not like you stand in the water with a clam rake and they jump into the basket. It takes planning, strategy, patience. One must wade softly and carry a big rake.

We know that clams herd together for protection. Seldom do you find a single, lonesome clam, a rogue. It’s just too hard to live alone as a clam, to find food, to watch for predators swimming overhead (since they have no eyes), to avoid starfish who pry you open and eat you, no, it’s just too dangerous for a rogue clam.

Mollusko finds them in beds, hiding just under the silt trying to avoid detection by his big experienced feet with genetic clam detecting devices in every toe. Once he finds the edge of a clambed, he triangulates it’s location from above the water so he can find it over and over, until the clams become aware of him and start to migrate. Mollusko slowly rakes off the clams at the back of the pack first. Like a herd of running gazelle, it’s the old and sick animals that lag behind. The same is true of clams, it’s the old and lame that live on the edge of the bed. Mollusko is helping the natural selection process when he scoops them up in the rake basket. By eating the old and lame first, we allow the younger, healthier clams to mate and reproduce through the summer before we go after them in September.

I steam the first load of clams first, strain and save the clam broth to cook pasta in later. You can dip the clams in melted butter, or cocktail sauce and eat them with any side dish at all. My Aunt Olive once ate so many steamers, she had to lay on the couch for two days until her stomach ceased rising and falling with the tide.

The second meal we usually make is a clam fetticini. I cook the pasta in the saved clam broth for flavor and add chopped clams bits to a white sauce. Add any green side dish and the meal is complete.

The third meal I make, which is very rare because there’s usually no clams left at this point, is clam fritters. Using a standard pancake batter, I add clambits and deep fry the clam pancake in bacon grease. Only bacon grease will do, it has that smokey flavor and tiny bits of bacon for added texture. This is how my grandmother made them and this is the only way I make them. It should be noted that my grandmother’s clam fritter recipe has been officially condemned by the American Heart Society since 1970. My Aunt Ruth Krsnak of Sayville eats the fritters with maple syrup on them. She’s the only person we know who eat fritters with syrup. We don’t know why she eats them with syrup, it’s just something the family accepts, like the fact that my mother thinks garlic is not necessary for cooking italian dishes. Personally, when I cook italian, I start with garlic and build from there. My mother has had the same clove of garlic in her cabinet since I was in high school. I think she thinks when she opens that particular kitchen cabinet when she’s cooking spaghetti, fumes from that old dried up garlic clove waft out of the cabinet and into the sauce, anything more than garlic fumes will be too much and overwhelm the sauce. Well, that’s what happens I guess when irish people try to cook italian.

The weather is warming now. Soon, Mollusko will wade and invade the local clambeds like Godzilla through Tokyo. I have cocktail sauce and tiny fondue forks ready for battle.

How to Get Your Man to LISTEN!

Wait honey, let me ax you something...

Driving to work this morning, I heard some morning show host giving advice on how women can really get men to listen to them. They advocated three rules: 1. Sit beside the man, not in front of him. Eye contact can be intimidating for men. They are more likely to open up if they are sitting beside you. 2. No distractions. Try to talk to him without any radio, TV, or any other distractions. The reason is that men can’t multitask well. 3. Get to the point. When women build up to something, his mind wanders until he thinks you’re getting to the point.

I think all three of these suggestions are excellent. Especially the third one about getting to the point. I find that more women over explain things to men. They don’t care. They just want to know what you want and when you want it. I recall wanting my ex to paint a room for me. I tacked the color I selected to the wall with a note giving the deadline. I also made a note of the consequences; first no cooking, then no marital privileges, then I would take his fly fishing equipment hostage. The room was painted the color I wanted and on time, without any nagging. I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t nag, they don’t hear it, threaten their toys instead.

There are some other suggestions I have for communicating with men.

Lasagna; learn to make an excellent lasagna. Feed him a big garlicky piece and he will listen to anything you say. Remember that the second piece usually puts them to sleep, so if you need to ask for money or for a relative to visit, wait until you’ve got him in that pasta stupor, you know, when he’s pasta all caring....

Gift Certificate to Lowe's or Home Depot: If you need him to take you somewhere and he doesn’t want to go, get a Lowe’s or Home Depot gift certificate and a sale catalog. Explain to him, that after he takes you to your appointment or event, you and he can go to Home Depot on the way home and he can stay as long as he likes looking at all the lawn tractors, and Barbecue equipment and new tools. I have never met a heterosexual man who can resist this. Tool shopping for them is like shoe shopping for us. There’s always room for a new tool.

Sleep deprivation: I have friend who liked to wait until she had her hubby alone on their boat to let him have it about some issue she had. She was getting nowhere, and he was putting in early rather than listen to her. I suggested she reverse course. Make those day cruises a love-fest and not mention anything unpleasant. Just sail away on a sparkling sea. After you get home, I told her, let him catch you crying softly on the edge of the bed. He’s had a great day and he’s tired from the salt air. He’ll agree to anything to stop the crying so he can get some sleep. And he did.... she said it worked like a charm every time. Find a way to have a great day and then slip in a crying jag at the end. He has to “fix” the problem so he can get to sleep. I love it when a plan comes together.....

My mother has been known to remove men’s car batteries and hide them in the kitchen when she absolutely had to talk to one of my brothers. Very effective, it worked every time. My grandmother wanted a refrigerator. She still had a ice box when I was in grade school. One day, she took an ax to the ice box, threw the ax in the middle of the living room floor where my grandfather was watching TV and announced “Ervin, NOW I need a refrigerator.” I recall we all held out breath, certain he was going to kill her. But there must be something about a woman wielding an ax that melts a man’s heart. He quietly, meekly rose from his lazyboy and got in the car. The next day, Gram had her first refrigerator, it was 1965.

So remember, when you want your fella to listen to you, reduce his distractions, use lasagna if needed, and if all else fails, use an ax.

Beer Can Coffin - PUHLEEZ!!!

Illinois man orders custom beer-can coffin
Sun May 4, 11:13 PM ET

Bill Bramanti will love Pabst Blue Ribbon eternally, and he's got the custom-made beer-can casket to prove it.
"I actually fit, because I got in here," said Bramanti of South Chicago Heights. The 67-year-old Glenwood village administrator doesn't plan on needing it anytime soon, though. He threw a party Saturday for friends and filled his silver coffin — designed in Pabst's colors of red, white and blue — with ice and his favorite brew.
"Why put such a great novelty piece up on a shelf in storage when you could use it only the way Bill Bramanti would use it?" said Bramanti's daughter, Cathy Bramanti, 42.


At the gates of Heaven:
“Louie, just go get St. Peter.”
“But he’s in a meeting with, you know, Mr. Big.”
“Louie, go to the door and tell him we just got a guy delivered in a beer can.”
“Geez, how short is he, Gabe?”
“The can is big, never mind, just go tell St. Peter.”

An hour later:
“Gabe, St. Peter said just use your best judgment and handle it. He’s trying to influence Pres. Bush to take the billions he wants to use to build missile sites in Europe with and use the money instead to rebuild New Orleans. He said he’ll back your decision.”
“He can’t get Bush to do anything right, you’d think he’d stop trying by now.”
“Yea, that’s true. You think Bush knows he’s got the Number One seat in Hell waiting for him?”
“Nah Louie, the guy’s a moron. A Yale frat boy. There’s a whole contingent of his Skull and Bones Society buddies there. He’ll be right at home.”
“So what are we gonna do about this guy in the can, Gabe?”
“Well, first, ah, we gotta get him out! He’s in a big can Louie, walk around it and see if it’s a pop top or if we need a can opener.”

Five minutes later.
“Okay, Gabe, I walked around the whole thing. Who knew they now sell beer in giant cans? When I was there, the biggest thing we could get was a keg.”
“A keg is still the biggest container, Louie. I just got word that this guy had this beer can coffin custom made.”
“Cool. Can we put it in our Coffin Hall of Fame?”
“Definitely. Go find Mario. Tell him bring a propane torch. We gotta cut this guy out.”

Two hours later:
“It’s okay Mr. Bramanti, come out. I’m Gabriel, this is Louis. We’re covering the front gate for St. Peter.”
“Wow! I wasn’t sure where I’d end up really.”
“Well, it wasn’t the best idea to be buried in a giant beer can. The guys in Hell would kill for a cold beer, you almost got kidnapped on the way and if they had opened this can and found you instead of beer, oh man, I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Well, I’m glad you guys got me. Listen, is there beer here in Heaven?”
“Yes, but you can’t get drunk. All the beer tastes like earth’s but there’s no alcohol content.”
“How come?”
“Because alcohol does strange things to people minds, like giving them the idea to be buried in giant beer cans. Any more questions, Bramanti?”
“Nope, I’m good.”

Farewell My Kitty....

Last week we lost a dear, most precious friend, Murray, our fifteen year old, seventeen pound tuxedo cat. He was a beautifully marked black and white tuxedo cat with a white mask and green eyes outlined in what looked like black eyeliner. At a visit last year, the vet proclaimed him, “officially the nicest cat on Shelter Island.” That’s because Murray, ever the cool cat, laid there like a lump while he was poked and prodded. He never protested. He was always too cool.

They say that losing a pet is like losing a child. I hesitate to make that analogy because nothing compares to losing a child, and yet, the elements of loss and pain are all there, just in a weaker concentration.

Murray and his sister Missy, were rescued from a woman who was going to have them put to sleep at age six because her new baby was allergic to cats. My brother took them. They had never been outside. For some reason, the previous owner had them declawed front AND back! Why the back claws? They couldn’t even scratch their ears!

With us, clawless though they were, they ran free. They caught, but couldn’t even hold butterflies. And they spent hours sharpening their toes on the corners of the couch. I tried many times to tell Murray, this was a pointless activity, but he never listened and stubbornly tried to sharpen those phantom claws. Murray took up permanent residence on my son’s bed. I know the electric blanket had nothing to do with it. Murray spent hours with his big head in my son’s lap, being petted and loved. They were best friends.

We will miss the way he sat on catnip. We never quite understood this particular method of absorption. He’d eat some, then sit on the pile. Maybe it’s a cat thing, maybe he was guarding his kill? He was always slow moving, but on catnip, he ran like a gazelle. Crashed into furniture, but still, like a gazelle would crash into furniture.

A few years ago, a gray kitten was added to the group. She attacked Murray, all 8 ounces of her, and she’d dig her claws into his fur and hang on like a lion cub trying to bring down an adult water buffalo. Murray would walk all over the house wearing this kitten, it was hysterical! He’d lay down and she’s attack from all angles. He never lost his temper. And up to the end, “Two Socks” as she came to be known, could still attack him and sit on his head without any protest. I think it was a May-December thing they had going on, there’s no other reason for a mature cat to share his catnip.

He was playful up to the the last few days. Then, his great little cat heart, just gave out. The vet gave us a very nice coffin shaped strong cardboard box for him. We wrapped him in a towel and had a proper Irish wake. The body was displayed in the box on the dresser. My son put in Murray’s favorite toy, a penlight. Murray loved to chase the little spotlight on the floor. My brother put in one of his deerskin slide on slippers. Murray loved to put his front paws inside the slippers and sleep. He looked like he was sledding. I’m not sure why my brother only put in the one slipper - what can he do with the other one? I found a rosary with a St. Francis medal (patron saint of animals) and we looped it around him. We wept, we laughed, we toasted him with Ovaltine. We inscribed his name and a celtic cross on the top of the box with a personal note from all of us.

He was a good cat all in all. Never drank or smoked. Never killed a mouse. Was good to his sister, unless Pounce treats were involved. He never threw up in the house. Could have done a little better covering things with litter, but let’s not speak ill of the dead.

Farewell my dearest pretty boy, Murray.

Marriage: The Good, The Bad, The Compromises

I found this charming collection of advice from kids about marriage and I had to share it as we enter bridal season; forewarned is forearmed.

The Question: What do you think about getting married? (written by kids)

You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
-- Alan, age 10 (spoken like a true man’s man)

No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with.
-- Kristen, age 10

You can tell if two people are married if they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
-- Derrick, age 8

What do my Mom and Dad have in common? Um, both don't want any more kids.
-- Lori, age 8

Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
-- Lynnette, age 8 (isn't she a treasure)

On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
-- Martin, age 10 (great strategy kid, truth is over rated)

If your date is going bad, I would run home and play dead. The next day I would call the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
-- Craig, age 9 (what happened to Hop on the bus, Gus?)

When is it okay to kiss someone? Oh that’s easy, when they're rich.
-- Pam, age 7 (a girl after my own heart)

The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It's the right thing to do.
-- Howard, age 8 (so, Republican are BORN, not made after all)

It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys have to get married because they need someone to clean up after them.
-- Anita, age 9 (from the mouths of babes)

The important thing to do if you got married, is to tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a dump truck.
-- Ricky, age 10
 
 The kids aren’t so far off the mark. If you’re getting married for the first time this Spring, here’s some things they don’t tell you in the bridal magazines.

“The Romance Stops Here”, should be a sticker on the back of the marriage license. Men engage romantic gestures for only three purposes in life: 1. to get you in the sack 2. to get out of trouble 3. on Valentine’s Day, but only if you remind them, and only because they have to, otherwise they view Valentine’s Day as a costly nuisance.

Whatever household chores they were able to perform pre-nuptuals, they lose the ability to perform post-nuptuals. Before marriage, men were able to live independently. They could cook, clean, do laundry, and even remember to take out the garbage. Within six months of marriage, they lose the ability to do any of these things. Something in way the wedding band constricts their finger cuts off blood flow to the part of their brain that knew how to do chores. They become eight year old boys again. Suddenly they can’t do anything but watch TV. It happened to all my friends husbands too. Suddenly, we, the liberated women of the 70’s, were doing all the work our unliberated mothers of the 50’s did, plus we got to work full time jobs. Just once, it would have been nice to come home to a nice dinner already made - take out doesn't count - but in 18 years, it never happened to me. I don’t know of any women, unless married to a chef, who ever came home to a home made dinner.

Fence Mending - it’s all on you. Prior to marriage, there is a chance he’ll accept 10, maybe 20%, of the blame for something he did. After marriage, HA! Once married, it’s either your fault, or we don’t discuss it. And regardless of whose fault anything is, it is you, the wife, who must be the first one to make the peace. All fence mending is done by you, period. Men can’t admit they are wrong, or apologize because it burns a hole in their tongue, otherwise, I’m sure they’d be happy to admit error for that prenuptial 10% of the time.

Lastly, your handbag. Once for your personal items, it must now carry his wallet, sunglasses, reading glasses, important papers, cigarettes and lighter, keys, garage remote and cell phone. Don’t believe me? Look at a single woman’s purse, look at a married woman’s purse. I rest my case.

 

Polygamy, the game the whole family can play!

The Old Testament is full of polygamy, but it worked then because so many women died in childbirth, having a back-up wife made sense. I believe that’s the reason Mormonism thrived on the American Frontier where one in four women died in childbirth. Having a back-up wife, or two, could literally make the difference in survival. Islam allows a man four wives, so long as he can support each one equally, which creates a self leveling system. The four wife limit also created a stop to a man marrying throughout his life to feed his lecherous ego. I recall reading that Brigham Young, the leader of the Mormon Church in the west, had seventy three wives, the youngest being 13 years old when he married her in his seventies. That’s not a survival marriage, that’s legal rape.

As I watch the events unfold in Texas, all I can think is what great system this is for a man. You get to acquire new sex partners throughout your life - with your church’s blessing - and none of them are allowed to complain. If I were a man and there was a religion where women were raised to be silent and compliant and I could have as many as I wanted, I’d sign up so damn fast...

The men made all the rules and they make all the decisions. The women aren’t allowed to wear make-up or cut their hair, and they all have to wear the prairie dresses and they are all indoctrinated that to disobey in any way will cost them their immortal souls. Wow! I’ve got to hand it to Jeff's, he has managed to acquire complete control over hundreds of people who think he talks to God. Amazing.

Clearly, a woman has to be born into this cult. I don’t think any of us who had a brain could check it at the gate before joining this cult.

Penny, age 30 (who joined the cult a year ago): “George, are you gonna mow the lawn today?”
George, age 48: :”Not today, sweetcakes, I’ve got to get Lucy pregnant, God’s commandments come first.”
Penny: “Not Lucy, she’s your daughter, remember? I think you’re supposed to plow Jennifer today. But how long can that take? You can still get the lawn done.”
George: “Have one of the boys do it.”
Penny: “Can’t, they’re at the Temple studying Polygamy 101: Don’t Bother With Names, Call Them All Sweetcakes.”
George: “Well, you do it then and stop bothering me. I command you to mow the lawn and forbid you to bring it up again.”
Penny: “Okay, then you’ll need to order someone else to make spaghetti for 37 kids for dinner.”
George: “Oh, were you on for dinner tonight?”
Penny: “Not anymore, I’ll be doing something I can’t mention.”
George: “37? Are we up to 37 kids now? How did that happen?”
Penny: “Well, I could give you a clue. But instead, how about you just count your total kids once a week. You know how many chickens you have, right?”
George: “142.”
Penny: “I’m not sure where it’s written in the Bible, but I bet a man is supposed to keep track of his children at least as well as his livestock. Something like, “Counteth not thy children before they hatch.””
George: “I know being the leader of this family looks like fun and games to you, but I work hard for all my twenty one wives, you know.”
Penny: “Twenty wives, you said you married me to replace Constance.”
George: “Constance? Where did Constance go?”
Penny: “She cheated on you with Bill. She’s his seventeenth wife now.”
George: “Well that makes us even, I stole Susan and Patrice from him.”
Penny: “Constance left her kids, seven kids.”
George: “Left me with seven kids? I’ll have her shunned for that!”
Penny: “They’re your kids too, George, aren’t they?”
George: “Who knows? I’m so busy trying to keep everybody pregnant, if one slips by me, how am I gonna know?”
Penny: “On the outside, they’d say, “it’s tough out here for a pimp.”

Those Annoying TV Pop-up Ads!

“Night of the Hurdling Curdling Death Tues. Apr 6 8 PM”

It started about ten years ago. TNT began placing its logo in the lower right hand corner of the TV. A sheer, onion skin logo. I remember being annoyed when I first saw it. It distracted me from the program. But I let it slide, figuring that Ted Turner needed to label things that are his, the same way Trump has to label everything that belongs to him.

Soon after, other networks decided to put onion skin labels in the corner too. We all got used to it and trained our eyes not to notice them.

Then some network got the idea of announcing the title of the program you were watching on onions skins in the left lower corner. “You are watching Night of the Living Dead on the SciFi Channel”. I figured that was to benefit people who fell into three categories: 1. People who were distracted by someone for a moment and turned back to the TV having completely lost track of what show they were watching. 2. People who were walking behind the couch while someone else channel surfed and the show title would cause them to say, “Wait, I wanna see that a minute.” 3. People who had fallen asleep in front of the TV and upon waking would need to know immediately what program they were missing.

The next phase of the onion skin pop-up labeling was to advertise what the next show would be. Prior to this, the onion skin labels were just identifying the channel and the show, now they were advertising the next show before I was through watching this one. It wasn’t enough that I had to mute through eight minutes of commercials every six minutes, now they were cheating by adding thin strips of advertising for Flavor of Love right over kids’ face who was crying at the height of a dramatic scene.

Then, another Ad Exec thought, well hell, why just advertise the next show? Let’s advertise upcoming shows! I have a clear memory of watching a Christmas special on USA and while the chorus was singing, there was a strip ad for the movie “Race with the Devil at 8 PM Next Tuesday”. I really don’t want to see ads for satanic movies in the middle of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. It just proves that the strip ads appear according to a time schedule without regard to how incongruent they may be to the program they are defacing.

Recently, I have seen ads for programs that are on at the same time as the one I’m watching. “Now Showing: Gomez vs. Alverez on HBO Boxing”. This confuses me. Do they want me to stay with the show I’m watching or turn to another one on a different channel - is it better than what I’m watching now? Do they want me to turn back to this channel for the next show on this channel, or should I stay with the other channel?

Apparently people are not paying enough attention to the onion skin ads, so now they have to animate them.

Case in point. This past weekend I was watching a 1940’s movie with Barbara Stanwyck and John Payne. She’s very short. He was holding her by the shoulders, her eyes were smoldering in that film noir way and he began to lean in for the big kiss, when a small airplane shot out from her ear and circled the screen, heading towards the bottom left corner where the image of King Kong on the Empire State building had appeared. The plane zoomed him and he batted it away as another plane came from behind her head, now kissing John Payne, and flew towards King Kong with little machine guns flares shooting at him all the way. The strip ad told me King Kong was showing on that channel at 9 PM, obviously something I needed to know at exactly that moment.

If TV execs are trying to get us to watch more of their programming, they need to throttle back on these ever increasing pop-up ads. I never watch TNT, USA or BET anymore because they load their programs with so much pop-up advertising, it really ruins your ability to get lost in the story, which is why you turned it on in the first place.