“Let’s give them something to talk about....”
According to last week’s Shelter Island Reporter, the Republican primary for Island Supervisor will be decided by 50 absentee island votes, of which 20 have been challenged. So the three candidates, Al Kilb, Jr., Art Williams and Hap Bowditch, sit and wait...
But does this election really have to be decided by absentee votes? There are other ways to decide these things, for instance...
How about a swimsuit competition? The Lion’s Club could sell tickets and donate the proceeds to charity. It would certainly be a memorable event! The photographs of the guys in Speedos could be used to blackmail them for years...
How about taking a page from “Fear Factor” and see who can eat disgusting things the fastest? Peanut butter and fish sandwiches downed with a clam broth and chocolate milk cocktail, but with a twist of lemon so as not to be too cruel...
How about a tolerance test? The Town Supervisor has to be able to tolerate a lot of anger without using napalm as a response. How about having the candidates sit at the school playground, surrounded by Moms, while wearing a sign that says, “I think you are a lousy mother!” Hell hath no wrath as a mother criticized...
What about a Dr. Phil competition? Have all the candidates sit in chair while holding handguns and listening to endless inane whining. The candidate who doesn’t shoot himself or the designated whiner, wins!
An Oprah test could be interesting. The three candidates would sit on her couch and listen to supermodels complain about their hard lives. How hard it is to keep their hair nice on a beach shoot, how no one understands the burden of beauty and how people prejudge them because of their incomparable faces and bodies. The first candidate to tie one of the supermoaners into a pretzel and jam her face into the backfold of the couch wins!
We could always do a Jerry Springer competition. The candidates, with ALL their collective relatives on the island in the audience, could debate absolutely any issue. It could be “Is a Gnat the same as a No See Em?” Within ten minutes it will be a donnybrook with full audience participation, chairs flying and everyone taking pictures with their cell phones for the lawsuits later.
How about a wheelbarrow race like they do in Ireland? Each candidate gets a partner and a wheelbarrow. Starting at Sweet Tomatoes, the candidate drinks a beer and the partner pushes him in the wheelbarrow to The Old Salty Dog, where they switch, and now the partner downs a pint and pushes the candidate in the wheelbarrow to the next bar, etc., until they reach the last bar or until they are the last one standing, whichever comes first. Some may say that a drinking tolerance test isn’t the best way to select a supervisor, but I say it is, because if the candidate isn’t a drinking man when he starts his term, he probably will be by the end, so we might as well see who can handle it now.
“A Queer Eye For the Straight Guy” test? The three candidates could be locked in a room with the Queer Eye boys, and ....nope...that will never work. The winner wouldn’t even be in office before he was up on charges for assault.
I’d enjoy a Mapquest test. Give each candidate a blank map of the island and see who can draw in the most roads from memory. Then, who can list who lives on each road, who they are related to, and what kind of car do they drive? Extra points if they know what kind of dog they own and mega bonus points if they know the dog’s name.
The Shelter Island Phone Book test would be excellent. Each candidate puts a dot next to the name of everyone he knows. The dots can be connected to form a network and the best connected person wins! Why? Because the island is all about connections. The term ‘dial-up connection’ doesn’t refer to the Internet here. It means you called in a favor.
“Desperate Housewives” Test: This is an excellent way to choose a Supervisor. Each candidate lists how many island secrets he knows and how many bodies he can locate, and the one with the longest list wins.
But then of course, the whole town will know who knows too much...
Friday, September 30, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
Self Help...Shoot Me Now...
They Call Me Mellow Yellow...
Shelter Island is home to many authors. Betty Crowson, a famous life coach from the island, recently published a terrific book called, “The Joy is in the Journey, A Woman’s Guide Through Crisis and Change”. It takes you through her “Eight Practical Solutions of; Self-Acceptance, Balance, Embracing Spirituality, Letting Go, Healing, Paying Attention, Taking Action, and Living Consciously”. “The Joy is in the Journey” is available through book stores or you can visit www.thejoyisinthejourney.com.
I read it and I have some additional insights that may help women through times of change as well...
Self Acceptance: This is very important. I accept the fact that my life is a train wreck. If you need me, I’ll be laying across the tracks in Greenport.
Balance: Critical to your well being is balance. I have achieved this by evenly stacking all my bills onto the four corners of the dining room table. I added a pile of rice in the center of the table for that feng shui effect. Additionally, for more emotional balance, I am limiting phone calls from relatives to fifteen minutes a call. That way I worry about everyone evenly. Some get a little more of my worry than others, but with my new system, I am definitely feeling more emotional balance. They say Knowledge is Power, but I say knowledge is anxiety producing, better you should live by the axiom Ignorance is Bliss....
Embracing Spirituality: I hug any pastors, priests, rabbi’s, nun’s, monk’s that I find. They all seem to be very nice people and say nice things to me. So I can clearly recommend embracing spirituality.
Letting Go: This is the hardest step for me. It’s not so much that I’m a controlling person, it’s just that I like to be in charge of everything. I can armchair quarterback just about anyone else’s life. And it’s certainly more fun than taking the time to effect positive change in your own. Breaking habits is time consuming and disruptive to your Zen state of mind. Unless your habits are life threatening, like making grenades at home for fun and profit, just let your habits go...
Healing: I keep an excellent first aid kit in my house for physical healings. I have chocolate and macaroni and cheese on standby at all times for emotional healings. I have an encyclopedia of adages and advice in my head at all times for intellectual healings. The most important thing to be able to distinguish when you are the shaman in your own home, is to know who needs to heal versus who is a heel.
Paying Attention: This I do all the time. I pay attention to my roots so I know when to color. I pay attention to my mascara so I buy a new one before the old one gets dry. I pay attention to the person who signals where I should go on the ferry so that I don’t look like an idiot for getting in the wrong lane because I forget the signal in the six feet I drove since I got it. I pay attention to how many eggs are left whenever the carton comes out of the fridge. I pay attention to a thousand things a day, who doesn’t?
Taking Action: As soon as I get everything I’m paying attention to, balanced and under control, I plan to let go and take action about something or other I want to change. I’ll work out the details later...
Living Consciously: This part of Betty’s book really spoke to me because it’s the hardest thing to do as a parent. I try to live unconsciously because reality is not only a bummer, it’s a nuisance. Living consciously requires that I deal with my eighteen year old daughter and her inane life choices. If I live unconsciously, I can believe that she is attending school in Europe, learning and having fun. If I live consciously, I must face that fact that although intelligent, she is so emotionally dense that light bends around her. I think I’ll just remain unconscious till she gets back from Europe in four years.
Thanx for a great book, Betty! The joy really is in the journey, or as we flower children used to say, life is a trip...
Shelter Island is home to many authors. Betty Crowson, a famous life coach from the island, recently published a terrific book called, “The Joy is in the Journey, A Woman’s Guide Through Crisis and Change”. It takes you through her “Eight Practical Solutions of; Self-Acceptance, Balance, Embracing Spirituality, Letting Go, Healing, Paying Attention, Taking Action, and Living Consciously”. “The Joy is in the Journey” is available through book stores or you can visit www.thejoyisinthejourney.com.
I read it and I have some additional insights that may help women through times of change as well...
Self Acceptance: This is very important. I accept the fact that my life is a train wreck. If you need me, I’ll be laying across the tracks in Greenport.
Balance: Critical to your well being is balance. I have achieved this by evenly stacking all my bills onto the four corners of the dining room table. I added a pile of rice in the center of the table for that feng shui effect. Additionally, for more emotional balance, I am limiting phone calls from relatives to fifteen minutes a call. That way I worry about everyone evenly. Some get a little more of my worry than others, but with my new system, I am definitely feeling more emotional balance. They say Knowledge is Power, but I say knowledge is anxiety producing, better you should live by the axiom Ignorance is Bliss....
Embracing Spirituality: I hug any pastors, priests, rabbi’s, nun’s, monk’s that I find. They all seem to be very nice people and say nice things to me. So I can clearly recommend embracing spirituality.
Letting Go: This is the hardest step for me. It’s not so much that I’m a controlling person, it’s just that I like to be in charge of everything. I can armchair quarterback just about anyone else’s life. And it’s certainly more fun than taking the time to effect positive change in your own. Breaking habits is time consuming and disruptive to your Zen state of mind. Unless your habits are life threatening, like making grenades at home for fun and profit, just let your habits go...
Healing: I keep an excellent first aid kit in my house for physical healings. I have chocolate and macaroni and cheese on standby at all times for emotional healings. I have an encyclopedia of adages and advice in my head at all times for intellectual healings. The most important thing to be able to distinguish when you are the shaman in your own home, is to know who needs to heal versus who is a heel.
Paying Attention: This I do all the time. I pay attention to my roots so I know when to color. I pay attention to my mascara so I buy a new one before the old one gets dry. I pay attention to the person who signals where I should go on the ferry so that I don’t look like an idiot for getting in the wrong lane because I forget the signal in the six feet I drove since I got it. I pay attention to how many eggs are left whenever the carton comes out of the fridge. I pay attention to a thousand things a day, who doesn’t?
Taking Action: As soon as I get everything I’m paying attention to, balanced and under control, I plan to let go and take action about something or other I want to change. I’ll work out the details later...
Living Consciously: This part of Betty’s book really spoke to me because it’s the hardest thing to do as a parent. I try to live unconsciously because reality is not only a bummer, it’s a nuisance. Living consciously requires that I deal with my eighteen year old daughter and her inane life choices. If I live unconsciously, I can believe that she is attending school in Europe, learning and having fun. If I live consciously, I must face that fact that although intelligent, she is so emotionally dense that light bends around her. I think I’ll just remain unconscious till she gets back from Europe in four years.
Thanx for a great book, Betty! The joy really is in the journey, or as we flower children used to say, life is a trip...
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Timing, Speed and Prayer
Maya Angelou said, “I’ve learned I can tell a lot about a person from how they handle these three things; a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights.”
How true. I’ve thought of a few other situations to add to her list. I can tell a lot about a person from how they handle:
Getting lost while driving to a timed event, like a baseball game or a play. You can really tell a lot about a person by how they handle getting lost on the way to the airport. And if you really, really want to see their coping skills, stick around and watch how they handle missing their flight. And if you really, really, really want to see their worst coping skills, stick around till the police come because they punched out the person at the ticket counter.
You can tell a lot about a person from how they handle being around other people’s rotten kids. We love our own offspring, but no one else seems to discipline their children right. I was fixing a friend’s sewing machine when her five year old squirted maple syrup into my sewing basket; my threads, bobbins, scissors, notions, everything.... If there hadn’t been witnesses present, that kid would have been launched out of that second story window like a surface to air missile .
When you run out of toilet paper at a family or friend’s house, you can call for help. You have to suffer through a short series of tired jokes, but you’ll get the roll pitched at you through the door after a minute. Ever have it happen in a strange place, like a job interview at someone’s home office?
If you live on Shelter Island, you’ve faced this situation many times: you’re in the ferry line and you or a child has to use the bathroom. You try to wait till your car is close enough to the restroom that you can make the run there and back before the boat gets back. Timing, speed and prayer and the three things needed to pull this off. If you don’t make it back in time and as cars go around yours, you get annoyed looks from tourists, but never from locals who just just smile and wave, unless it’s a friend - they point and laugh.
Every woman can relate to this: You’re all set to go, dressed to the nines, he’s waiting impatiently in the living room. You just need to check your hair, do a final spray, and put on your earrings. And one earring, of the two perfect earrings for this outfit, has apparently disappeared into the parallel universe of the lost socks....if you go berserk, he’ll get angry and say incredibly stupid things like, “What is the problem? Just put on another pair of earrings!” Like any old pair of earrings could replace the ones you searched for to perfectly compliment your eyes and the outfit at the same time!
One of the biggest shocks in my adult life was realizing that men don’t give a rat’s behind about the earrings we so carefully chose to attract them. They don’t care about necklaces, pins, bracelets or anything except whether or not the woman is wearing a wedding ring. Do you know how much money I’ve spent on jewelry? Neither do I.
Many Islanders like to watch how tourists handle having their car alarms go off on the ferry when someone else’s bumper touches theirs. It’s sort of a learning experience for the newbies. They get the idea that it isn’t really necessary to lock their cars on the ferry while they walk six feet TO THE RAILING!
Another fun coping situation for Islanders is how you handle being on the ferry and realizing you forgot your ticket and now you have to pay full fare...my mother taught me to beg for mercy and offer to bring them fast food. Shelter Island is one of the few places in America where McDonalds can be traded like coin of the realm.
One of the toughest things to handle is a beach or boat outing canceled due to weather. There’s wailing and whining, laying on the floor kicking feet, punching the couch, refusing any kind of compensatory activity - like going to the movies, cursing the weather and just hours of fruitless temper tantruming. And the kids act even worse than the adults...
I’d like to close with another quote, from my daughter when she was in fourth grade. When asked to finish this sentence, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and.....’ She wrote, “Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and somebody yells, “SHUT UP!” “
How true. I’ve thought of a few other situations to add to her list. I can tell a lot about a person from how they handle:
Getting lost while driving to a timed event, like a baseball game or a play. You can really tell a lot about a person by how they handle getting lost on the way to the airport. And if you really, really want to see their coping skills, stick around and watch how they handle missing their flight. And if you really, really, really want to see their worst coping skills, stick around till the police come because they punched out the person at the ticket counter.
You can tell a lot about a person from how they handle being around other people’s rotten kids. We love our own offspring, but no one else seems to discipline their children right. I was fixing a friend’s sewing machine when her five year old squirted maple syrup into my sewing basket; my threads, bobbins, scissors, notions, everything.... If there hadn’t been witnesses present, that kid would have been launched out of that second story window like a surface to air missile .
When you run out of toilet paper at a family or friend’s house, you can call for help. You have to suffer through a short series of tired jokes, but you’ll get the roll pitched at you through the door after a minute. Ever have it happen in a strange place, like a job interview at someone’s home office?
If you live on Shelter Island, you’ve faced this situation many times: you’re in the ferry line and you or a child has to use the bathroom. You try to wait till your car is close enough to the restroom that you can make the run there and back before the boat gets back. Timing, speed and prayer and the three things needed to pull this off. If you don’t make it back in time and as cars go around yours, you get annoyed looks from tourists, but never from locals who just just smile and wave, unless it’s a friend - they point and laugh.
Every woman can relate to this: You’re all set to go, dressed to the nines, he’s waiting impatiently in the living room. You just need to check your hair, do a final spray, and put on your earrings. And one earring, of the two perfect earrings for this outfit, has apparently disappeared into the parallel universe of the lost socks....if you go berserk, he’ll get angry and say incredibly stupid things like, “What is the problem? Just put on another pair of earrings!” Like any old pair of earrings could replace the ones you searched for to perfectly compliment your eyes and the outfit at the same time!
One of the biggest shocks in my adult life was realizing that men don’t give a rat’s behind about the earrings we so carefully chose to attract them. They don’t care about necklaces, pins, bracelets or anything except whether or not the woman is wearing a wedding ring. Do you know how much money I’ve spent on jewelry? Neither do I.
Many Islanders like to watch how tourists handle having their car alarms go off on the ferry when someone else’s bumper touches theirs. It’s sort of a learning experience for the newbies. They get the idea that it isn’t really necessary to lock their cars on the ferry while they walk six feet TO THE RAILING!
Another fun coping situation for Islanders is how you handle being on the ferry and realizing you forgot your ticket and now you have to pay full fare...my mother taught me to beg for mercy and offer to bring them fast food. Shelter Island is one of the few places in America where McDonalds can be traded like coin of the realm.
One of the toughest things to handle is a beach or boat outing canceled due to weather. There’s wailing and whining, laying on the floor kicking feet, punching the couch, refusing any kind of compensatory activity - like going to the movies, cursing the weather and just hours of fruitless temper tantruming. And the kids act even worse than the adults...
I’d like to close with another quote, from my daughter when she was in fourth grade. When asked to finish this sentence, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and.....’ She wrote, “Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and somebody yells, “SHUT UP!” “
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Lock, Cock and Barrel...
I just want everyone to know that I tried desperately to completely ignore this story for fear of breaching good taste. But Jay Leno has brought it up four nights in a row and my resolve is gone....When I worked as a psych nurse, I roomed with a surgery nurse and an Emergency Room nurse. The ER stories were always the best.
"Portsmouth Herald News By Adam Dolge
BRENTWOOD, NH ...On Saturday, July 30, at about 3:40 a.m., Brentwood police assisted ambulance and rescue personnel with a 39-year-old man with a padlock on his testicles. According to police, the man, who police are not identifying, was intoxicated when they arrived on scene. The man reported that the padlock had been on his testicles for two weeks. ... the man reported that a friend put the lock on his testicles. He was allegedly severely intoxicated and passed out. He told police that when he woke up the padlock was placed around top his scrotum and his friend was gone....The man reported to police that he allegedly attempted to remove the padlock with a hacksaw after the key broke off inside the lock. He was taken to Exeter Hospital, where a locksmith was called to remove the lock.”
And whose job was it to call the locksmith?
“Hi, is this Exeter Locksmith? This is Judy Smith, I’m a nurse at Exeter Hospital. You guys are available 24 hours a day right?
No, we have keys for all our locks. The cleaning staff have masters, it’s not for the hospital itself. We have a patient who has a problem. He has a padlock... around his, um, his testicles.
No! This isn’t a crank call, I’m serious. I’m a nurse in the ER. I was elected to call and see if you could come as soon as possible.
I don’t know how he did it....... Was he drunk? Yeah, I’d say that was a safe bet...
No, he’s not a teen, he’s 39. Yeah, a 39 year old man. He says his friend did it while he was passed out.
Hey, I don’t know why, okay? I don’t know what kinda friend it is, or was. ........ You're right, maybe it’s a sex thing. Could you just come over here? Yes, that’s him screamin’ in the background. He’s pretty swollen, he’s experiencing some pain and discomfort....
No, he’s being seen by a female doc. Our male doc ran out of the room. He’s in the office with me right now, laughing and crying in the corner with his hands between his legs....completely useless.
When? It happened two weeks ago....I AM serious.....yeah two weeks, please stop laughing, you’ll make me laugh and I’ll get in trouble...... Yeah, about the size of a grapefruit.....now don’t YOU cry!
He’s got the key! He broke it off in the lock.....well, I don’t know how...... maybe he was drunk when he tried to unlock it and used too much pressure. I think it’s a moot point. We need to get this off of him and get the swelling down so we can stitch him up....
No, the lock didn’t cut him, the hacksaw did....... The hacksaw he tried to use when the key snapped off. Oh please sir, you gotta stop laughin’ and help me.
Well, maybe he should’ve asked the friend who did it in the first place, but the question, “Could you come over with a hacksaw and work on my testicles?” was probably a little awkward to slide into everyday conversation.
Yeah, we have little cranial saws, but they can’t saw through steel...... Nope, there’s no way to get a lock popper through the loop. We’re really stuck.
Bill it anyway you want to. If his insurance doesn’t pay you, we’ll take up a collection........sure, if you wanna keep the lock, keep it. Ah c’mon, who’d buy that on ebay?
No, that’s not the patient, that’s the doc throwing up in the waste basket. He didn’t know the part about the hacksaw....”
"Portsmouth Herald News By Adam Dolge
BRENTWOOD, NH ...On Saturday, July 30, at about 3:40 a.m., Brentwood police assisted ambulance and rescue personnel with a 39-year-old man with a padlock on his testicles. According to police, the man, who police are not identifying, was intoxicated when they arrived on scene. The man reported that the padlock had been on his testicles for two weeks. ... the man reported that a friend put the lock on his testicles. He was allegedly severely intoxicated and passed out. He told police that when he woke up the padlock was placed around top his scrotum and his friend was gone....The man reported to police that he allegedly attempted to remove the padlock with a hacksaw after the key broke off inside the lock. He was taken to Exeter Hospital, where a locksmith was called to remove the lock.”
And whose job was it to call the locksmith?
“Hi, is this Exeter Locksmith? This is Judy Smith, I’m a nurse at Exeter Hospital. You guys are available 24 hours a day right?
No, we have keys for all our locks. The cleaning staff have masters, it’s not for the hospital itself. We have a patient who has a problem. He has a padlock... around his, um, his testicles.
No! This isn’t a crank call, I’m serious. I’m a nurse in the ER. I was elected to call and see if you could come as soon as possible.
I don’t know how he did it....... Was he drunk? Yeah, I’d say that was a safe bet...
No, he’s not a teen, he’s 39. Yeah, a 39 year old man. He says his friend did it while he was passed out.
Hey, I don’t know why, okay? I don’t know what kinda friend it is, or was. ........ You're right, maybe it’s a sex thing. Could you just come over here? Yes, that’s him screamin’ in the background. He’s pretty swollen, he’s experiencing some pain and discomfort....
No, he’s being seen by a female doc. Our male doc ran out of the room. He’s in the office with me right now, laughing and crying in the corner with his hands between his legs....completely useless.
When? It happened two weeks ago....I AM serious.....yeah two weeks, please stop laughing, you’ll make me laugh and I’ll get in trouble...... Yeah, about the size of a grapefruit.....now don’t YOU cry!
He’s got the key! He broke it off in the lock.....well, I don’t know how...... maybe he was drunk when he tried to unlock it and used too much pressure. I think it’s a moot point. We need to get this off of him and get the swelling down so we can stitch him up....
No, the lock didn’t cut him, the hacksaw did....... The hacksaw he tried to use when the key snapped off. Oh please sir, you gotta stop laughin’ and help me.
Well, maybe he should’ve asked the friend who did it in the first place, but the question, “Could you come over with a hacksaw and work on my testicles?” was probably a little awkward to slide into everyday conversation.
Yeah, we have little cranial saws, but they can’t saw through steel...... Nope, there’s no way to get a lock popper through the loop. We’re really stuck.
Bill it anyway you want to. If his insurance doesn’t pay you, we’ll take up a collection........sure, if you wanna keep the lock, keep it. Ah c’mon, who’d buy that on ebay?
No, that’s not the patient, that’s the doc throwing up in the waste basket. He didn’t know the part about the hacksaw....”
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Ice Cream: It's What's for Dinner!
I figured out that there’s no holiday’s in August simply because it’s just too hot to do anything.
The August Excuse: This is the official excuse of August and it is acceptable in any situation: “I can’t. It’s just too hot.”
August Sex: “Fugettabowtit! We’re not having sex unless it’s in front of an air conditioner and neither of us has to move.”
The August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees, the humidity was 94 percent, I was up to my eyeballs in cramps, I had to go off island on a Friday to replace a dead hamster, we had to go to three places to find a girl hamster and when the kids and I got back at 8:30, he was in his chair askin’ me what’s for dinner. So, I grabbed the frying pan, intending to sauté a lovely vegetable medley and make a fritata with homemade salsa, sour cream and garnish with scallions, when suddenly his head ran into the pan. ..........Yes Your Honor, yes it did, he ran into the pan six times. I was right there, I saw the whole thing.”
The Hair of August: We wash our hair. We fix it nice. We reach up to scratch an itch and say, “Oh Gawd... I still have sand in my hair?”
The Cars of August: Having vacuumed our cars twice since summer began we are now resigned to let the sand stay there till autumn. Furthermore, you can identify those who will not be cleaning their cars till autumn by the new line up of shells along the dashboard. In addition to shells, I have a crab on my dashboard. With his multi directional eyes, he is my navi-crab. I think everyone on Shelter Island in August has some of a beach in a car...
August Shoes: All cute cheap shoes bought in July look like crap in August. But there’s no point in buying new sandals now, so we wear them no matter what they look like because it’s too hot to care. In July I bought cutsie thong sandals with big daisies and big sparkling stones in the center. One of my sparkly stones fell off, I glued it back on, but the heat took it off again, and half my pedals are missing, but enough about my mental health...
August Parenting: In July we tell our teens, “I’m serious. You can’t go off island without checking with me first. It’s not about control, it’s about safety. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care.” In August we tell our teens, “Listen smartass, depart from this island one more time without telling me and I’m gonna depart ya teeth from ya head!”
The Four Basic Food Groups of August: Ice Cream, Ice Tea, Barbecue, Ice Cream.
August Reading: It’s too hot to read.
August Housekeeping: Unless someone contracts tuberculosis or typhoid, the house is clean enough till September.
August Make-up: Someone needs to invent a make-up for August that will not melt off your face. Until then, it is acceptable to wear the largest wraparound sunglasses you can find, indoors and out, and lipstick.
The Dog Days of August: Clean up after your dog. Neighbors can handle your dog pooping in their yard in Winter, Spring, and Autumn, but not Summer and absolutely not August. August is hot and steamy enough without stepping in anything similar. If you fail to scoop the poop and someone beats you into a coma, you deserve it. And they won’t be punished because they’ll use the August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees and the humidity was 94 percent.....”
August clothes: A cotton gauze tent is the only intelligent attire for August, but in lieu of that, you may wear as little as possible as long as you are clothing/age/weight proportionate. Please remember that somethings don’t mix, for instance; stretch marks and a belly ring, saggy boobs and a tube top, viagra and a speedo.
Tribal Markings of August: It’s nice in August to see what new lawn chair patterns appear on the back of everyone’s legs. Makes for a nice conversation starter; “Oh, I see you’re wearing the Martha Stewart lawn collection, very nice.” For those of us with cellulite, it presses nicely into almost any pattern. I’ve been enjoying a lovely, deep relief, Waverly toile pattern all summer.
August Marriage: I believe marriages improve greatly in August. It’s just too hot to fight, too hot to pack and move out, too hot file for divorce. I know spousal homicides increase in August, but that’s not the same as divorce. Overall, you leave your spouse alone, unless they're acting like and idiot and it’s 94 degrees and the humidity is 94 percent.....
The August Excuse: This is the official excuse of August and it is acceptable in any situation: “I can’t. It’s just too hot.”
August Sex: “Fugettabowtit! We’re not having sex unless it’s in front of an air conditioner and neither of us has to move.”
The August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees, the humidity was 94 percent, I was up to my eyeballs in cramps, I had to go off island on a Friday to replace a dead hamster, we had to go to three places to find a girl hamster and when the kids and I got back at 8:30, he was in his chair askin’ me what’s for dinner. So, I grabbed the frying pan, intending to sauté a lovely vegetable medley and make a fritata with homemade salsa, sour cream and garnish with scallions, when suddenly his head ran into the pan. ..........Yes Your Honor, yes it did, he ran into the pan six times. I was right there, I saw the whole thing.”
The Hair of August: We wash our hair. We fix it nice. We reach up to scratch an itch and say, “Oh Gawd... I still have sand in my hair?”
The Cars of August: Having vacuumed our cars twice since summer began we are now resigned to let the sand stay there till autumn. Furthermore, you can identify those who will not be cleaning their cars till autumn by the new line up of shells along the dashboard. In addition to shells, I have a crab on my dashboard. With his multi directional eyes, he is my navi-crab. I think everyone on Shelter Island in August has some of a beach in a car...
August Shoes: All cute cheap shoes bought in July look like crap in August. But there’s no point in buying new sandals now, so we wear them no matter what they look like because it’s too hot to care. In July I bought cutsie thong sandals with big daisies and big sparkling stones in the center. One of my sparkly stones fell off, I glued it back on, but the heat took it off again, and half my pedals are missing, but enough about my mental health...
August Parenting: In July we tell our teens, “I’m serious. You can’t go off island without checking with me first. It’s not about control, it’s about safety. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care.” In August we tell our teens, “Listen smartass, depart from this island one more time without telling me and I’m gonna depart ya teeth from ya head!”
The Four Basic Food Groups of August: Ice Cream, Ice Tea, Barbecue, Ice Cream.
August Reading: It’s too hot to read.
August Housekeeping: Unless someone contracts tuberculosis or typhoid, the house is clean enough till September.
August Make-up: Someone needs to invent a make-up for August that will not melt off your face. Until then, it is acceptable to wear the largest wraparound sunglasses you can find, indoors and out, and lipstick.
The Dog Days of August: Clean up after your dog. Neighbors can handle your dog pooping in their yard in Winter, Spring, and Autumn, but not Summer and absolutely not August. August is hot and steamy enough without stepping in anything similar. If you fail to scoop the poop and someone beats you into a coma, you deserve it. And they won’t be punished because they’ll use the August Defense: “Because Your Honor, it was 94 degrees and the humidity was 94 percent.....”
August clothes: A cotton gauze tent is the only intelligent attire for August, but in lieu of that, you may wear as little as possible as long as you are clothing/age/weight proportionate. Please remember that somethings don’t mix, for instance; stretch marks and a belly ring, saggy boobs and a tube top, viagra and a speedo.
Tribal Markings of August: It’s nice in August to see what new lawn chair patterns appear on the back of everyone’s legs. Makes for a nice conversation starter; “Oh, I see you’re wearing the Martha Stewart lawn collection, very nice.” For those of us with cellulite, it presses nicely into almost any pattern. I’ve been enjoying a lovely, deep relief, Waverly toile pattern all summer.
August Marriage: I believe marriages improve greatly in August. It’s just too hot to fight, too hot to pack and move out, too hot file for divorce. I know spousal homicides increase in August, but that’s not the same as divorce. Overall, you leave your spouse alone, unless they're acting like and idiot and it’s 94 degrees and the humidity is 94 percent.....
Monday, August 08, 2005
Catch and Filet Fishing
One Saturday a few summer back, my brother David, took me and my two perfect children fishing under a bridge on Shelter Island. David is one of those rare men who actually likes children - he really thinks they're fun. Just as our familes taught us to fish, we now pass this important knowledge down to the next generation. As I told my daughter, "Feed a man a fish and he'll come around everyday. Teach a man to fish and you can get rid of him when your friends visit."
Within five minutes of arriving at the fishing spot, we had the soda and beer in the water, poles baited, and I was dragging my lawn chair into knee deep water. The bait in my pocket would wiggle a little and give me a cheap thrill. I unfolded my chair, sat down and commensed "serious fishing".
My exhusband was a "Catch and Release" Fly Fisherman. He spent more time fiddling with his fly (and that's whole other column) than he ever spent fishing. More over the concept of catching fish and letting it go is as foreign to my family as a liberal thought to Sen. Jesse Helms.
My family are Catch and Filet Fisherman. Under the docks all over Shelter Island, the fish have put up posters of my family's legs at local Sand Bars with the caption, "Warning from the Sturgeon General; Clams scram when you see these legs. Don't let your Flounder founder. Make your Scallop gallup. Get your Striper hyper. Make your Mussel hussle. Otherwise your Bass is grass, you'll be Crab on a slab, Snail in a pail, a Snapper in the crapper, Eel on a reel, Pike on a spike, a dorsal morsal, in other woirds, You're splatter on a platter.....".
My son, Jacob, has autism. He was eight at the time and this was his first time fishing so we were all prepared for anything. His auditory comprehension was very poor, but his visual comprehension was and is, amazing. We call him, "One Take Jake". After ten minutes of fruitless verbal instruction on casting, Uncle David just showed him just once. Jake took the pole and cast a perfect line up and over in a beautiful arc and did it over and over. Yup, over and over. Obviously the lesson about leaving the line in the water until a fish bites is for another day.....
My then eleven year old daughter sunned herself and together we gave directions to tourists who stopped on the bridge and called down to us. Now, I get lost when I turn around in a phone booth. Asking me for directions is like asking Stevie Wonder to drive...... the people we directed are probably still lost.
When my son was through casting, he went to the bottom of the bridge to talk to the hermit crabs. He was reciting word for word the lecture on the 'Life of Crustaceans' he had memorized from a CD-ROM. We all listened because we know from experience that if you interrupt him, he'll start over and over until he completes the sequence. There is a way to stop him, but we left the duct tape in the car.
Suddenly the lecture stopped, there was a splash and then the words, "I got ya". I looked over to find my son and brother gone. As fast as a beached orca can move, I made my way to the base of the bridge just as David was emerging from the swift moving current with a boney eight year old wrapped around his head. He lost his thongs in the process of swimming to get Jake. We gave Jake a new nickname, "Swifty", 'cause now you see him, now you don't...
We left shortly after that heart stopping experience. I gave David my new orange thongs that I had just gotten from K-Mart for four dollars. I know I was going overboard with my generousity. But what the hell, he saved my son's life. I always tell my son he's my "special boy". Once he told my friend , "My mother got me from the hostipul because I was on special." .
Within five minutes of arriving at the fishing spot, we had the soda and beer in the water, poles baited, and I was dragging my lawn chair into knee deep water. The bait in my pocket would wiggle a little and give me a cheap thrill. I unfolded my chair, sat down and commensed "serious fishing".
My exhusband was a "Catch and Release" Fly Fisherman. He spent more time fiddling with his fly (and that's whole other column) than he ever spent fishing. More over the concept of catching fish and letting it go is as foreign to my family as a liberal thought to Sen. Jesse Helms.
My family are Catch and Filet Fisherman. Under the docks all over Shelter Island, the fish have put up posters of my family's legs at local Sand Bars with the caption, "Warning from the Sturgeon General; Clams scram when you see these legs. Don't let your Flounder founder. Make your Scallop gallup. Get your Striper hyper. Make your Mussel hussle. Otherwise your Bass is grass, you'll be Crab on a slab, Snail in a pail, a Snapper in the crapper, Eel on a reel, Pike on a spike, a dorsal morsal, in other woirds, You're splatter on a platter.....".
My son, Jacob, has autism. He was eight at the time and this was his first time fishing so we were all prepared for anything. His auditory comprehension was very poor, but his visual comprehension was and is, amazing. We call him, "One Take Jake". After ten minutes of fruitless verbal instruction on casting, Uncle David just showed him just once. Jake took the pole and cast a perfect line up and over in a beautiful arc and did it over and over. Yup, over and over. Obviously the lesson about leaving the line in the water until a fish bites is for another day.....
My then eleven year old daughter sunned herself and together we gave directions to tourists who stopped on the bridge and called down to us. Now, I get lost when I turn around in a phone booth. Asking me for directions is like asking Stevie Wonder to drive...... the people we directed are probably still lost.
When my son was through casting, he went to the bottom of the bridge to talk to the hermit crabs. He was reciting word for word the lecture on the 'Life of Crustaceans' he had memorized from a CD-ROM. We all listened because we know from experience that if you interrupt him, he'll start over and over until he completes the sequence. There is a way to stop him, but we left the duct tape in the car.
Suddenly the lecture stopped, there was a splash and then the words, "I got ya". I looked over to find my son and brother gone. As fast as a beached orca can move, I made my way to the base of the bridge just as David was emerging from the swift moving current with a boney eight year old wrapped around his head. He lost his thongs in the process of swimming to get Jake. We gave Jake a new nickname, "Swifty", 'cause now you see him, now you don't...
We left shortly after that heart stopping experience. I gave David my new orange thongs that I had just gotten from K-Mart for four dollars. I know I was going overboard with my generousity. But what the hell, he saved my son's life. I always tell my son he's my "special boy". Once he told my friend , "My mother got me from the hostipul because I was on special." .
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Erection? Don't leave home without it....
There's a link on my blog to my blog about parenting an autistic child. Most of it is serious, but I decided to add some of the funny stories too. Here's one of my classics.
Autistic child are forever innocent. They see the world without prejudice, without assumptions, without malice. They get into situations that can make you can laugh or cry, so you might as well laugh.
One day Jake and I were grocery shopping. He was about ten. I was choosing coffee and he was a little further down choosing which hot chocolate with mini-marshmellows he was willing to try. Suddenly a woman brushed past me and shot me a look. The look was one I have become very familiar with, it said, "Is that your son? Do you know what he's doing?"
Turning to face Jake I saw that he was standing in the aisle with his sweat pants and briefs fully extended at the waist band. He was staring down into his pants totally fascinated with something.....
"Mom, look at this," He said in his characteristic monotone.
Fearing the worst, but being a dutiful mother, I peered in. Of course, he had an erection. Then he said, "Watch this." And he made it bounce....
"That's very nice Jake," I said, "but you know what... that's kind of a private activity for a boy. It's okay to play with your peety in private, but not in a store. Okay?"
Being ever obediant he responded, "Okay Mom. But you don't understand because you don't have a peety, all you have is a fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks...."
I laughed so hard, I thought my pants would never dry....if he only knew the all tricks this fluffy has done!
So, there you have it folks, my existentialist angst has been solved ... I don't have a peety, I just have this big fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks. The mystery of life has been solved, even in the autistic world, it all comes down to peety's and fluffy's... and just for the record, Fluffy's Rule!
Autistic child are forever innocent. They see the world without prejudice, without assumptions, without malice. They get into situations that can make you can laugh or cry, so you might as well laugh.
One day Jake and I were grocery shopping. He was about ten. I was choosing coffee and he was a little further down choosing which hot chocolate with mini-marshmellows he was willing to try. Suddenly a woman brushed past me and shot me a look. The look was one I have become very familiar with, it said, "Is that your son? Do you know what he's doing?"
Turning to face Jake I saw that he was standing in the aisle with his sweat pants and briefs fully extended at the waist band. He was staring down into his pants totally fascinated with something.....
"Mom, look at this," He said in his characteristic monotone.
Fearing the worst, but being a dutiful mother, I peered in. Of course, he had an erection. Then he said, "Watch this." And he made it bounce....
"That's very nice Jake," I said, "but you know what... that's kind of a private activity for a boy. It's okay to play with your peety in private, but not in a store. Okay?"
Being ever obediant he responded, "Okay Mom. But you don't understand because you don't have a peety, all you have is a fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks...."
I laughed so hard, I thought my pants would never dry....if he only knew the all tricks this fluffy has done!
So, there you have it folks, my existentialist angst has been solved ... I don't have a peety, I just have this big fluffy and it doesn't do any tricks. The mystery of life has been solved, even in the autistic world, it all comes down to peety's and fluffy's... and just for the record, Fluffy's Rule!
Monday, August 01, 2005
Beach Blanket Bingo!
The Art of the Beach Blanket
It’s the middle of summer and the stores are already rushing us to buy ‘back to school’ stuff. I think retailers hate August because there’s not a single holiday in it, that’s why they have to push Back to School stuff. How about a bill that says retailers can’t push holiday or season related items till three weeks before the event? That way we could all slow down and breathe and not feel so rushed. How ironic, that the more technology we create to save time, the more time we lose. I want to enjoy summer without having to crowd my mind with getting ready for school!
I went to the beach recently and enjoyed practicing a fine art that technology can’t teach you and can’t improve upon. It requires patience, skill, control and grace. It is an Island skill, a coastal skill. The Art of the Beach Blanket.
Beach blankets stake out your turf by the surf. Like an Indian graveyard, everyone knows you never walk across someone else’s beach blanket. When you arrive at a beach, you must select an area that is roughly equidistant from all others there. Unless you are one of the first two arrivals in which case you can put your blankets anywhere and all others have to orient according to your blankets.
Laying down and gathering up your beach blanket takes years of practice to do well. You have to bring a blanket big enough for your whole party, but not so bulky that you can’t spread it out by yourself. You find that certain spot. You gauge where the edge of the blanket should be, and standing with your back to the wind, you unfurl your old bedspread in it’s final incarnation as an island in the sun. Sometimes the wind shifts and your blanket cigarette rolls. But experts wait for the updraft and in one gesture, unfurl and loft the blanket, lowering it slowly with the dying breeze into a perfect square shape. You enjoy that moment of accomplishment as you go around and secure all four corners with sand. You then add all the beach accouterments you schlepped. Next you cover all the kids with tee shirts or sunscreen, you give instructions on free range limits, and finally sit in your chair. With your hand you punch a cup holder pocket into the blanket that is half the height of a coke can, anything less and I can guarantee, somebody will tip over that drink.
No matter how crowded the beach, you must keep a walkway of sand between blankets. No matter how crowded, you must pretend that you cannot see or hear anything that is going on on any other blanket. Even though it may be possible to grab your little cooler with one hand and bash the head of the young man next to you, who is blasting obscene rap music, it is frowned upon. The rules are, if it bothers you, you have to get up and move or leave. However, there is nothing in the rules that says you can’t crack his windshield with your little cooler on the way to your car.
Sometimes young couples get a little too amorous on their beach blanket and you’re supposed to look away. But lately I decided, if they didn’t bring enough for the whole class, then they have to stop. So if things get a little too steamy, I look right at them. This tends to cool their ardor and often elicits their question, “What are you lookin’ at?” My response, “You’re the ones puttin’ on the show... why don’t you get a car?”
At the end of your stay comes the true test of your beach blanket expertise... the lifting of the blanket. By now your blanket has acquired a layer of sand from kids running on and off, sand kicked up by passing feet and fine sand that came in on the breeze. The rules are, you have to get this blanket up without redistributing your sand onto other blankets. Some people start at one edge and gently shake the sand down as they go. The sand still flies onto other people, but they can see that you are trying, so you don’t have to apologize. But almost always a gust of wind comes up and somebody get a face full of your sand, then you have to apologize and they have to say, “It’s alright.”. Novices just get up and shake their blanket, coating everyone around them and we all say, “Thanx....” with our distinctive New York intonation that let’s them know that we know how to wrap a body in a beach blanket and position it for the outgoing tide...
Sitting on a beach blanket, listening to seagulls, hearing the rush of wind and waves, is as close to heaven as I need to be in this life. I always say the salt air blows goes in one ear and out the other clearing out all the chafe. Within the imaginary boundaries of my beach blanket I can focus on what’s important, like making a list of back to school things my son needs and looking at my calendar and figuring out that there’s only nine paychecks till Christmas...
It’s the middle of summer and the stores are already rushing us to buy ‘back to school’ stuff. I think retailers hate August because there’s not a single holiday in it, that’s why they have to push Back to School stuff. How about a bill that says retailers can’t push holiday or season related items till three weeks before the event? That way we could all slow down and breathe and not feel so rushed. How ironic, that the more technology we create to save time, the more time we lose. I want to enjoy summer without having to crowd my mind with getting ready for school!
I went to the beach recently and enjoyed practicing a fine art that technology can’t teach you and can’t improve upon. It requires patience, skill, control and grace. It is an Island skill, a coastal skill. The Art of the Beach Blanket.
Beach blankets stake out your turf by the surf. Like an Indian graveyard, everyone knows you never walk across someone else’s beach blanket. When you arrive at a beach, you must select an area that is roughly equidistant from all others there. Unless you are one of the first two arrivals in which case you can put your blankets anywhere and all others have to orient according to your blankets.
Laying down and gathering up your beach blanket takes years of practice to do well. You have to bring a blanket big enough for your whole party, but not so bulky that you can’t spread it out by yourself. You find that certain spot. You gauge where the edge of the blanket should be, and standing with your back to the wind, you unfurl your old bedspread in it’s final incarnation as an island in the sun. Sometimes the wind shifts and your blanket cigarette rolls. But experts wait for the updraft and in one gesture, unfurl and loft the blanket, lowering it slowly with the dying breeze into a perfect square shape. You enjoy that moment of accomplishment as you go around and secure all four corners with sand. You then add all the beach accouterments you schlepped. Next you cover all the kids with tee shirts or sunscreen, you give instructions on free range limits, and finally sit in your chair. With your hand you punch a cup holder pocket into the blanket that is half the height of a coke can, anything less and I can guarantee, somebody will tip over that drink.
No matter how crowded the beach, you must keep a walkway of sand between blankets. No matter how crowded, you must pretend that you cannot see or hear anything that is going on on any other blanket. Even though it may be possible to grab your little cooler with one hand and bash the head of the young man next to you, who is blasting obscene rap music, it is frowned upon. The rules are, if it bothers you, you have to get up and move or leave. However, there is nothing in the rules that says you can’t crack his windshield with your little cooler on the way to your car.
Sometimes young couples get a little too amorous on their beach blanket and you’re supposed to look away. But lately I decided, if they didn’t bring enough for the whole class, then they have to stop. So if things get a little too steamy, I look right at them. This tends to cool their ardor and often elicits their question, “What are you lookin’ at?” My response, “You’re the ones puttin’ on the show... why don’t you get a car?”
At the end of your stay comes the true test of your beach blanket expertise... the lifting of the blanket. By now your blanket has acquired a layer of sand from kids running on and off, sand kicked up by passing feet and fine sand that came in on the breeze. The rules are, you have to get this blanket up without redistributing your sand onto other blankets. Some people start at one edge and gently shake the sand down as they go. The sand still flies onto other people, but they can see that you are trying, so you don’t have to apologize. But almost always a gust of wind comes up and somebody get a face full of your sand, then you have to apologize and they have to say, “It’s alright.”. Novices just get up and shake their blanket, coating everyone around them and we all say, “Thanx....” with our distinctive New York intonation that let’s them know that we know how to wrap a body in a beach blanket and position it for the outgoing tide...
Sitting on a beach blanket, listening to seagulls, hearing the rush of wind and waves, is as close to heaven as I need to be in this life. I always say the salt air blows goes in one ear and out the other clearing out all the chafe. Within the imaginary boundaries of my beach blanket I can focus on what’s important, like making a list of back to school things my son needs and looking at my calendar and figuring out that there’s only nine paychecks till Christmas...
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
A Crab's Tale
It was a fine day last week when my handsome single brother David bought a new crab net. He took it the nearby dock to test it. He scooped up two crabs who were ...busy.... threw the female back (the one with the earrings) and brought the male home to my kitchen sink and left it there.
After my two perfect children, the three things I love most in life are; old movies, the look of new snow at dawn, and crabs in the sink....
I love any crustaceans in the sink, but crab is my favorite. This one had "sandwich" written all over him. He reached his claws high up to threaten me as he ran back and forth across the rubber mat on the bottom of the sink in a pitiful attempt to attack the pot that was being filled with water.... his eyes were wildly rotating in different directions while his crablife passed before him. I looked him right in the eye that was looking at me and laughed sinisterly, " Arr, harr, harr...". And then it happened.
My beautiful daughter (then just eleven), came into the kitchen. She sized up the situation and began intervine to save marine life.
"Oh, Mom, he's so cute. You can't eat him. That's too cruel! You can't boil him alive! What did he ever do to you ?"
I pleaded my case. "He's part of the food chain, and tonight he's coming in just ahead of franks and beans."
Hey, I am sensitive to the preservation of marine life... I give money to Greenpeace, I always cut up the plastic rings that hold soda's so that mantees won't get them wrapped around their noses. I pointed out to her that no manatee has EVER drowned in my kitchen!
She engaged every eleven year old strategy she had. She would brush her teeth everyday without being nagged, she'd stop calling the Pound to come and put her brother to sleep, she'd shower using soap and the coute d'gras - she'd clean her room ! She was good...very good, but I held my ground as I decided whether to eat him on white or rye.
She stood at the sink between me and my crab. Like a Greenpeacer between a humpback and a harpoon. In the reflection of her steely blue eyes, I saw every crab salad I ever made. Every softshell sandwich, every cracked crab, crab cake, the Blueclaws and the Dungeness, the gallons of melted butter, it all came back to me in an overwhelming rush of memories. Surely, she implored, for all the crabs I have eaten, I could let this one go.
I was alone in a house with a nagging pre-teen. I held on as long as I could. But the parental mind can only take so much, then, like a crabshell, it cracks. Without another adult to help me hold onto reality, I lost it.
I reached for a tupperware container. Using a nearby sneaker I gave this very lucky crab something to hold onto while I lowered him in the container. He began to speak to me. He told me he was recently separated from his mate. She was special because it was his first female since Lois. Lois was a young lobster he loved. They tried to make a go of it. Their families objected because crabs walk sideways and lobsters walk straight and what of the offspring, they might walk diagonal... it was a moving moment.
I watched my girl put him in the basket of her bike and take off down the road to the boat launch to free him. I made some tea and sat down to collect myself after the ordeal. Then I heard the sound of a pickup truck in the driveway and shortly thereafter the sound of a man's boot's in the kitchen and the words, " Hey Sissy, where the hell's the crab ?"
Since then, I've gotten one letter from the crab. He's doing well. He has written a book about being the only crab to have ever escaped a kitchen. He has a new job as spokescrab for the new Adjustomatic Kelpbeds. Disney has purchased rights to his story and is planning a summer blockbuster movie. The titles being considered are ; Claw Wars, or maybe The Man Who Caught Liberty Crab, or my personal pick, Gone With the Tide.
After my two perfect children, the three things I love most in life are; old movies, the look of new snow at dawn, and crabs in the sink....
I love any crustaceans in the sink, but crab is my favorite. This one had "sandwich" written all over him. He reached his claws high up to threaten me as he ran back and forth across the rubber mat on the bottom of the sink in a pitiful attempt to attack the pot that was being filled with water.... his eyes were wildly rotating in different directions while his crablife passed before him. I looked him right in the eye that was looking at me and laughed sinisterly, " Arr, harr, harr...". And then it happened.
My beautiful daughter (then just eleven), came into the kitchen. She sized up the situation and began intervine to save marine life.
"Oh, Mom, he's so cute. You can't eat him. That's too cruel! You can't boil him alive! What did he ever do to you ?"
I pleaded my case. "He's part of the food chain, and tonight he's coming in just ahead of franks and beans."
Hey, I am sensitive to the preservation of marine life... I give money to Greenpeace, I always cut up the plastic rings that hold soda's so that mantees won't get them wrapped around their noses. I pointed out to her that no manatee has EVER drowned in my kitchen!
She engaged every eleven year old strategy she had. She would brush her teeth everyday without being nagged, she'd stop calling the Pound to come and put her brother to sleep, she'd shower using soap and the coute d'gras - she'd clean her room ! She was good...very good, but I held my ground as I decided whether to eat him on white or rye.
She stood at the sink between me and my crab. Like a Greenpeacer between a humpback and a harpoon. In the reflection of her steely blue eyes, I saw every crab salad I ever made. Every softshell sandwich, every cracked crab, crab cake, the Blueclaws and the Dungeness, the gallons of melted butter, it all came back to me in an overwhelming rush of memories. Surely, she implored, for all the crabs I have eaten, I could let this one go.
I was alone in a house with a nagging pre-teen. I held on as long as I could. But the parental mind can only take so much, then, like a crabshell, it cracks. Without another adult to help me hold onto reality, I lost it.
I reached for a tupperware container. Using a nearby sneaker I gave this very lucky crab something to hold onto while I lowered him in the container. He began to speak to me. He told me he was recently separated from his mate. She was special because it was his first female since Lois. Lois was a young lobster he loved. They tried to make a go of it. Their families objected because crabs walk sideways and lobsters walk straight and what of the offspring, they might walk diagonal... it was a moving moment.
I watched my girl put him in the basket of her bike and take off down the road to the boat launch to free him. I made some tea and sat down to collect myself after the ordeal. Then I heard the sound of a pickup truck in the driveway and shortly thereafter the sound of a man's boot's in the kitchen and the words, " Hey Sissy, where the hell's the crab ?"
Since then, I've gotten one letter from the crab. He's doing well. He has written a book about being the only crab to have ever escaped a kitchen. He has a new job as spokescrab for the new Adjustomatic Kelpbeds. Disney has purchased rights to his story and is planning a summer blockbuster movie. The titles being considered are ; Claw Wars, or maybe The Man Who Caught Liberty Crab, or my personal pick, Gone With the Tide.
Clams: Friend or Foe?
Happy as a Clam!
[A.P. July 24; BRANFORD, Conn. - An 82-year-old man who went clamming in the Long Island Sound says he made the ultimate catch: the wedding ring he lost two years ago. Stewart Petrie says he found an encrusted ring mixed in with his clams Tuesday while he was clamming at the same spot where his ring slipped off his finger in July 2003. After his wife, Mary, scrubbed it with jewelry cleaner, they were able to read the inscription: "MPS to SJP 9-10-67." Her husband's eyes began to tear, she said.
"It was an absolutely stupendous feeling," Stewart Petrie said.
....The Petries say they eventually plan to have jeweler restore the ring. But in the meantime, it isn't leaving his finger.
"I treasure that ring," he said.]
For years I have maintained that clams are smarter than people think. I believe they can communicate, herd, migrate and act like any other intelligent group of beasties. They plot and plan against us and that's why they deserve t be eaten alive with a dab of cocktail sauce! And if this story about them stealing Mr. Petrie ring doesn’t prove my point, then I give up.
Two Year Earlier, the morning of July 24, 2003...... a clambed in Long Island Sound...
“It’ s just that we’ve changed Clarice....”
“Changed nothin’! It’s that scallop isn’t it? Her ruffled shell, huh? What’s her name? Dawn?”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Is it because I’ve gotten so wide? Gee, I’ve only given you a few thousand seed clams! I’m a Mama Clam, and now that the kids are grown and caught, you’re just gonna move on?”
“How’d it go Joe?”
“Ah, Lou, she didn’t take it well. I left her crying in her silt. But she a tough old chowder, she’ll get over over it. Meanwhile, you gotta help me get a ring for Dawn.”
“Okay buddy, anything for my future brother in law. What’s the plan?”
“Can you pump yourself up on top of that conch to get a good look over the clambed?”
“Geez Joe... I dunno, that conch’s gotta be.. two....maybe three inches high...I’ll do my best.”
“You up there okay, Lou?”
“Joe.. I can see your old spot from here!”
“Watch for legs.”
“Hey, lucky day! I see a pair comin’.”
“What’s the hair pattern? I brought the Blue Claw Book for Long Island Legs.”
“Legs are bright white..... with patches of blue streaks. Look’s like a little hair around calf and shins, not much towards the ankles. Knees....movin’ slow...old and arthritic.”
“That’s a classic set. Blue Claw Book value of one gold ring likely. Get down now Lou. When he reaches down I’m gonna open wide and he’ll think he reached into muck, then I clamp down with imperceptible delicacy and hold the ring while he pulls back. Watch.”
“WOW! He didn’t even pause. He doesn’t know you got his ring. He’s still reaching around!”
“Tell Dawn to meet me by the Smirnoff bottle on the sand bar at high tide.”
That evening at the Stewart Petrie home:
“I don’t know where it is. Must’ve come off in the shed. I’ll go look out there.”
“Well you better find it, Stew.”
“I’m 80 years old, what are you worried about?”
“Viagra and that new widow down the street....it ain’t over till it’s over babe....”
The evening of July 23, 2005
“So, she left you for a big oyster with an nine millimeter pearl did she? And you got nothin’ that’s nine millimeters, do ya? So you wanna just wiggle your way home. “
“I brought you a gold ring.....please Clarice, I’m begging you. I wasn’t happy with that scallop. You were right, mixed mollusks don’t work.”
“Isn’t that the ring you gave her? Oh... I don't think so mister..... you ditch that thing where you found it. I want something better than that!”
The morning of July 24, 2005
“I can’t believe it! It IS your ring Stewart!”
The morning of July 25, 2005
“How’d it go, Joe?”
“Ah, Pauly , I think it’s gonna be okay. But you gotta help me her a ring.”
“Okay buddy, anything for an old friend. What’s the plan?”
“Listen, Pauly, you’re a razor clam, can you pump yourself up on top of that conch to get a good look over the clambed and watch for legs?”
“I see a pair comin’ already, moving fast.”
“What’s the hair pattern? I got the Blue Claw Book right here.”
“Legs are tan. Look hairy all over. Knees....fast and flexible.”
“That’s a newer model. Blue Claw Book value of one thick gold ring with a big stone and writing. Watch this, I’m gonna use the old clamp and grab trick.”
“WOW! He didn’t even pause. He doesn’t know you got his big ring!”
“Check this out Pauly! It’s got a faceted stone, ooooo.....lobster red, her favorite color. Got the year... 2005 right around the stone...that will be our new anniversary year. Ohhhh, she’s gonna love this!
[A.P. July 24; BRANFORD, Conn. - An 82-year-old man who went clamming in the Long Island Sound says he made the ultimate catch: the wedding ring he lost two years ago. Stewart Petrie says he found an encrusted ring mixed in with his clams Tuesday while he was clamming at the same spot where his ring slipped off his finger in July 2003. After his wife, Mary, scrubbed it with jewelry cleaner, they were able to read the inscription: "MPS to SJP 9-10-67." Her husband's eyes began to tear, she said.
"It was an absolutely stupendous feeling," Stewart Petrie said.
....The Petries say they eventually plan to have jeweler restore the ring. But in the meantime, it isn't leaving his finger.
"I treasure that ring," he said.]
For years I have maintained that clams are smarter than people think. I believe they can communicate, herd, migrate and act like any other intelligent group of beasties. They plot and plan against us and that's why they deserve t be eaten alive with a dab of cocktail sauce! And if this story about them stealing Mr. Petrie ring doesn’t prove my point, then I give up.
Two Year Earlier, the morning of July 24, 2003...... a clambed in Long Island Sound...
“It’ s just that we’ve changed Clarice....”
“Changed nothin’! It’s that scallop isn’t it? Her ruffled shell, huh? What’s her name? Dawn?”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Is it because I’ve gotten so wide? Gee, I’ve only given you a few thousand seed clams! I’m a Mama Clam, and now that the kids are grown and caught, you’re just gonna move on?”
“How’d it go Joe?”
“Ah, Lou, she didn’t take it well. I left her crying in her silt. But she a tough old chowder, she’ll get over over it. Meanwhile, you gotta help me get a ring for Dawn.”
“Okay buddy, anything for my future brother in law. What’s the plan?”
“Can you pump yourself up on top of that conch to get a good look over the clambed?”
“Geez Joe... I dunno, that conch’s gotta be.. two....maybe three inches high...I’ll do my best.”
“You up there okay, Lou?”
“Joe.. I can see your old spot from here!”
“Watch for legs.”
“Hey, lucky day! I see a pair comin’.”
“What’s the hair pattern? I brought the Blue Claw Book for Long Island Legs.”
“Legs are bright white..... with patches of blue streaks. Look’s like a little hair around calf and shins, not much towards the ankles. Knees....movin’ slow...old and arthritic.”
“That’s a classic set. Blue Claw Book value of one gold ring likely. Get down now Lou. When he reaches down I’m gonna open wide and he’ll think he reached into muck, then I clamp down with imperceptible delicacy and hold the ring while he pulls back. Watch.”
“WOW! He didn’t even pause. He doesn’t know you got his ring. He’s still reaching around!”
“Tell Dawn to meet me by the Smirnoff bottle on the sand bar at high tide.”
That evening at the Stewart Petrie home:
“I don’t know where it is. Must’ve come off in the shed. I’ll go look out there.”
“Well you better find it, Stew.”
“I’m 80 years old, what are you worried about?”
“Viagra and that new widow down the street....it ain’t over till it’s over babe....”
The evening of July 23, 2005
“So, she left you for a big oyster with an nine millimeter pearl did she? And you got nothin’ that’s nine millimeters, do ya? So you wanna just wiggle your way home. “
“I brought you a gold ring.....please Clarice, I’m begging you. I wasn’t happy with that scallop. You were right, mixed mollusks don’t work.”
“Isn’t that the ring you gave her? Oh... I don't think so mister..... you ditch that thing where you found it. I want something better than that!”
The morning of July 24, 2005
“I can’t believe it! It IS your ring Stewart!”
The morning of July 25, 2005
“How’d it go, Joe?”
“Ah, Pauly , I think it’s gonna be okay. But you gotta help me her a ring.”
“Okay buddy, anything for an old friend. What’s the plan?”
“Listen, Pauly, you’re a razor clam, can you pump yourself up on top of that conch to get a good look over the clambed and watch for legs?”
“I see a pair comin’ already, moving fast.”
“What’s the hair pattern? I got the Blue Claw Book right here.”
“Legs are tan. Look hairy all over. Knees....fast and flexible.”
“That’s a newer model. Blue Claw Book value of one thick gold ring with a big stone and writing. Watch this, I’m gonna use the old clamp and grab trick.”
“WOW! He didn’t even pause. He doesn’t know you got his big ring!”
“Check this out Pauly! It’s got a faceted stone, ooooo.....lobster red, her favorite color. Got the year... 2005 right around the stone...that will be our new anniversary year. Ohhhh, she’s gonna love this!
Monday, July 18, 2005
We Need A Bigger Boat...
Some people think a boat is private property on the mere basis that if a person pays for the boat, gas, mooring, license, insurance and beer, they own the boat and can make all the rules, but it just ain’t so. If a man owns a truck, he knows before he gets that truck, that he has to help his relatives move things. Because we all say, “Well, Gerry has a truck. He can haul the old refrigerator to the dump.” If a man owns a boat, he knows before he gets that boat, that he has to take relatives out. Because we all say, “Call Gerry, see if he’s going out today.”
Last week I shared that one of the ways to tell if one of your relatives has gotten a boat but they’re holding out on telling you is to check for sunburn under their arms or chin, places where the sun reflects up off the water and finds new skin to burn. But there are some other ways to tell if they’ve gotten a boat:
Have you spotted them a little too often at the ice machine very late at night, or very early in the morning?
Have you noticed any changes in their parking techniques? Do they park normally, or do they cut the car engine and coast in at a shallow angle until the tires bump the curb?
When your cousin visits, does she instinctively jam her purse between your couch cushions?
When you have them to dinner, do they all hold onto their drinks and never put them down until the drink is drunk?
When they go down your hall to the bathroom, are they reaching for handrails that aren’t there?
Any there any linguistic changes? When your cousin is doing a few dishes in your sink and her hubby comes up behind her, as all men do when we are washing dishes, does she firmly tell him, “Honey, you better throttle back....”.
Have any of your relatives shown a sudden interest in UFO abductions? Are any of them claiming that they are “missing time” ? Some of you are thinking, “How stupid. Who wants to thought of as a nut just to avoid telling their family they got a boat?” Answer: It all depends on how nice the boat is. If I had a gorgeous mahogany launch, I’d want my relatives to think I was serial killer who used my victims for chum...
Did any of your relatives give you the JAWS 3 DVD set for a gift recently? Are they sending you clippings of all the sharks attacks they can find? Do they like to cite the fact that all the record breaking Great Whites are caught off of Montauk? Any reason they’d want you to fear salt water?
When you have lunch at their house, do they serve you a smashed sandwich that smells like fish, but it’s ham salad?
When you take the ferry with them, do their children ask, “How come we don’t have to wear preservers on this boat? You said we have to wear preservers whenever...” and you turn to see someone has jammed three oreo’s into that kid’s mouth.
Is your male relative is wearing a St. Christopher medal (Patron Saint of Mariners), but he’s not Catholic?
You look out into his backyard and the garden hose isn’t looped carelessly over a hook on the garage, it’s coiled neatly on the ground.
You go with your female cousin to Jack’s Marina & Toy Emporium (on Shelter Island) for some new games and toys, and you notice that she’s tied off her cart to the counter with a jump rope in a half hitch knot. And for some reason she’s now wandering around in the marina section...
If you’ve figured out someone has a boat, do what I do. Get to their dock early with a cooler of beer. I like to drape my body over the cooler, clutching my crabnet and breathing shallow. When they see me, they’ll see I’m wasting away to practically nothing and sometimes take me out fishing for pity sake. Or the man will just throw the cooler in the boat and not notice the cord from the cooler to my ankle. When he pulls out, I let myself flop in the water, then I use the crabnet to catch to some rigging and pull myself up and in. By the time he makes speed, I’m in like Flynn...
Last week I shared that one of the ways to tell if one of your relatives has gotten a boat but they’re holding out on telling you is to check for sunburn under their arms or chin, places where the sun reflects up off the water and finds new skin to burn. But there are some other ways to tell if they’ve gotten a boat:
Have you spotted them a little too often at the ice machine very late at night, or very early in the morning?
Have you noticed any changes in their parking techniques? Do they park normally, or do they cut the car engine and coast in at a shallow angle until the tires bump the curb?
When your cousin visits, does she instinctively jam her purse between your couch cushions?
When you have them to dinner, do they all hold onto their drinks and never put them down until the drink is drunk?
When they go down your hall to the bathroom, are they reaching for handrails that aren’t there?
Any there any linguistic changes? When your cousin is doing a few dishes in your sink and her hubby comes up behind her, as all men do when we are washing dishes, does she firmly tell him, “Honey, you better throttle back....”.
Have any of your relatives shown a sudden interest in UFO abductions? Are any of them claiming that they are “missing time” ? Some of you are thinking, “How stupid. Who wants to thought of as a nut just to avoid telling their family they got a boat?” Answer: It all depends on how nice the boat is. If I had a gorgeous mahogany launch, I’d want my relatives to think I was serial killer who used my victims for chum...
Did any of your relatives give you the JAWS 3 DVD set for a gift recently? Are they sending you clippings of all the sharks attacks they can find? Do they like to cite the fact that all the record breaking Great Whites are caught off of Montauk? Any reason they’d want you to fear salt water?
When you have lunch at their house, do they serve you a smashed sandwich that smells like fish, but it’s ham salad?
When you take the ferry with them, do their children ask, “How come we don’t have to wear preservers on this boat? You said we have to wear preservers whenever...” and you turn to see someone has jammed three oreo’s into that kid’s mouth.
Is your male relative is wearing a St. Christopher medal (Patron Saint of Mariners), but he’s not Catholic?
You look out into his backyard and the garden hose isn’t looped carelessly over a hook on the garage, it’s coiled neatly on the ground.
You go with your female cousin to Jack’s Marina & Toy Emporium (on Shelter Island) for some new games and toys, and you notice that she’s tied off her cart to the counter with a jump rope in a half hitch knot. And for some reason she’s now wandering around in the marina section...
If you’ve figured out someone has a boat, do what I do. Get to their dock early with a cooler of beer. I like to drape my body over the cooler, clutching my crabnet and breathing shallow. When they see me, they’ll see I’m wasting away to practically nothing and sometimes take me out fishing for pity sake. Or the man will just throw the cooler in the boat and not notice the cord from the cooler to my ankle. When he pulls out, I let myself flop in the water, then I use the crabnet to catch to some rigging and pull myself up and in. By the time he makes speed, I’m in like Flynn...
Monday, July 11, 2005
But What If Sunscreen Causes Cancer?
I read recently that the American Cancer Society recommends you use sunscreen if you are going to be exposed to the sun for more than four minutes. So it’s down to walk around with an umbrella like Michael Jackson, or stay in your house and live like a mole. You wanna see the sun? Turn on the nature channel.
Sunscreen is in everything; chapstick, make-up, anti-bug spray, body lotion and, oh yeah, in bottles of sunscreen. Sunscreen is saturating our society and having a negative impact on our culture that no one is talking about.
Stone Age man did not have sunscreen, nor Iron Age people, nor Bronze Age, nor Classical, nor Roman, nor the Dark Ages people (heck they got a break since the dark ages actually were dark), nor the Medieval people, nor the Renaissance folks, nor Industrial Age people, nor the Tupperware Age people, and they all lived. But all of a sudden, in the Microchip Age, we’re all gonna die if we go outside without sunscreen...The makers of sunscreen and ‘Tan in a bottle’ stuff are making a fortune!
Sunburns have a place and purpose in society. You went to the beach, you got a sunburn, you went to a barbecue, you got a sunburn, you went boating, you got a bad sunburn.
When you went to work on Monday with a sunburn, it showed everyone that you actually did something that weekend. It shocked your boss to realize you had a life outside of work. It made an old office love wonder who you were with when you got the burn. You got lotsa extra attention.
“Man, you are fried....”
“Yea, but I had a great time. We went to the beach.....”
Sunburn has the side effect of severe exhaustion. Your pajama’s on your skin never felt as soft and wonderful as when you come home toasted from the beach, take a cool shower, lather on the Noxema and get in your jammies. You slide into bed and are asleep before your head hits the pillow. Try that with SPF 50.
If you had an enemy at the office, there was nothing better than knowing they had a sunburn. Not only could you enjoy each little “ouch” and whimper as they sat down and tried to move around without pain, you could increase their pain with a little careful planning. It might take you awhile to think of something you could congratulate them for, but you’d come up with it eventually. Then, as you’re on your way to get coffee, you come up behind them in their chair and pause to give them a good natured slap on the back, right at the epicenter of their burn, and say, “So, Jerry, heard you got a new electric stapler. Cool. Wish I had one.” And as they look up at you with eyes of agony that ask, “Are you are the anti-Christ?”, you walk your victory lap to the coffee pot.
Sweet.....
In boating communities, sunburn analysis is part of our forensic technique to determine if a relative is lying about having gotten a boat just to keep it to themselves.
“So when were you going to tell us you got a boat, Herb?”
“I don’t have a boat.”
“You have a boat sunburn, you have a boat.”
“Nah, I was at the beach.”
“Nope, I saw you and Janet in the grocery store parking lot. Her hair looked like she stood behind a jet engine.”
“Okay, we went camping.”
“Nope, she walked right by me and didn’t smell like smoke and she wasn’t scratching any bug bites.”
“Look, I didn’t buy a boat. And if I did, I wouldn’t have to announce it to the world!”
“Uh huh. So..... you bought a big boat....”
“There’s no boat I tell you!”
“Hold up your arms, Herb.”
“Ow!”
“You’re sunburned under the arms, that’s a boat burn.”
“Do I look like I have money for a boat?”
“And when you walked by me in the parking lot Herb, you smelled like spilled martini and had dried pimento on your tee-shirt. You wanna continue with this charade, or come clean and tell the family?”
“It’s a very small boat, just fits two people and a cooler. It’s just a floating bathtub really. It folds up and fits into the backseat of the car. You’re not going to tell everyone are you?”
“What’s the boat’s name?”
“It’s..... it’s.... damn......it’s ‘The Grand Poobah’.”
“You are soooo busted..........”
Sunscreen is in everything; chapstick, make-up, anti-bug spray, body lotion and, oh yeah, in bottles of sunscreen. Sunscreen is saturating our society and having a negative impact on our culture that no one is talking about.
Stone Age man did not have sunscreen, nor Iron Age people, nor Bronze Age, nor Classical, nor Roman, nor the Dark Ages people (heck they got a break since the dark ages actually were dark), nor the Medieval people, nor the Renaissance folks, nor Industrial Age people, nor the Tupperware Age people, and they all lived. But all of a sudden, in the Microchip Age, we’re all gonna die if we go outside without sunscreen...The makers of sunscreen and ‘Tan in a bottle’ stuff are making a fortune!
Sunburns have a place and purpose in society. You went to the beach, you got a sunburn, you went to a barbecue, you got a sunburn, you went boating, you got a bad sunburn.
When you went to work on Monday with a sunburn, it showed everyone that you actually did something that weekend. It shocked your boss to realize you had a life outside of work. It made an old office love wonder who you were with when you got the burn. You got lotsa extra attention.
“Man, you are fried....”
“Yea, but I had a great time. We went to the beach.....”
Sunburn has the side effect of severe exhaustion. Your pajama’s on your skin never felt as soft and wonderful as when you come home toasted from the beach, take a cool shower, lather on the Noxema and get in your jammies. You slide into bed and are asleep before your head hits the pillow. Try that with SPF 50.
If you had an enemy at the office, there was nothing better than knowing they had a sunburn. Not only could you enjoy each little “ouch” and whimper as they sat down and tried to move around without pain, you could increase their pain with a little careful planning. It might take you awhile to think of something you could congratulate them for, but you’d come up with it eventually. Then, as you’re on your way to get coffee, you come up behind them in their chair and pause to give them a good natured slap on the back, right at the epicenter of their burn, and say, “So, Jerry, heard you got a new electric stapler. Cool. Wish I had one.” And as they look up at you with eyes of agony that ask, “Are you are the anti-Christ?”, you walk your victory lap to the coffee pot.
Sweet.....
In boating communities, sunburn analysis is part of our forensic technique to determine if a relative is lying about having gotten a boat just to keep it to themselves.
“So when were you going to tell us you got a boat, Herb?”
“I don’t have a boat.”
“You have a boat sunburn, you have a boat.”
“Nah, I was at the beach.”
“Nope, I saw you and Janet in the grocery store parking lot. Her hair looked like she stood behind a jet engine.”
“Okay, we went camping.”
“Nope, she walked right by me and didn’t smell like smoke and she wasn’t scratching any bug bites.”
“Look, I didn’t buy a boat. And if I did, I wouldn’t have to announce it to the world!”
“Uh huh. So..... you bought a big boat....”
“There’s no boat I tell you!”
“Hold up your arms, Herb.”
“Ow!”
“You’re sunburned under the arms, that’s a boat burn.”
“Do I look like I have money for a boat?”
“And when you walked by me in the parking lot Herb, you smelled like spilled martini and had dried pimento on your tee-shirt. You wanna continue with this charade, or come clean and tell the family?”
“It’s a very small boat, just fits two people and a cooler. It’s just a floating bathtub really. It folds up and fits into the backseat of the car. You’re not going to tell everyone are you?”
“What’s the boat’s name?”
“It’s..... it’s.... damn......it’s ‘The Grand Poobah’.”
“You are soooo busted..........”
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Some of a Beach......
Beach Baskets - Back to the Future
If you decide to live anywhere on the New England coast, you must learn about beach baskets, not to be confused with the high tech “beach carriers” of the west coast. The west coasters have trollies for all their beach stuff with cup holders, picnic tables that fold to the size of a paper plate and somewhere on all their stuff is a digital clock that will work till the first drop of water hits it. No, I'm talkin' good old fashioned wicker beach baskets.
The rule in my family was, if you’re going to the beach, you have to let everyone else know so they can join you if they want. I don’t recall ever being at the beach with just my mom and brothers, there was always assorted family members that showed up and everyone brought their official beach basket or cooler.
The 1950’s: My grandmother had a big wicker beach basket with sides that flipped up. The contents were always the same: sandwiches in tin foil; Peanut Butter and Jelly (P&J's) for the kids, baloney for the men, Noxema, Entenmann’s Crumb Cake, YooHoo’s, floppy hats, Brownie camera, and a bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. My grandfather packed the cooler, contents: beer and bait. Whether or not we were going fishing, the bait always stayed in the cooler. Bait served a dual purpose as bait and a biochemical beer protection barrier to keep the women and children from opening that stinky cooler, and worked every time.
The 1960’s: My mother had a nice wicker beach basket too. She was a single mother of four. Her contents were: sandwiches in unmanageably clingy saran wrap; just P&J’s, Noxema, Entenmann’s Crumb Cake, YooHoo’s, sunglasses replaced floppy hats, kodak camera, tee shirts for sunburn protection, plastic shovels, old kitchen spoons or plastic scoops from the Chock Full of Nuts cans, a magazine for reading which could also be used for shooing flies, swatting children - which could be your kid or some stray kid who wandered into your strike zone, and a bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. The men brought the cooler, contents: beer and bait.
The 1970’s: My mother got remarried and had another child. As teenager, I convinced her to ditch the old basket for a new insulated plastic beach tote with a flower power design by Peter Max and an easy-tear plastic lining..... The contents were: sandwiches in fold over sandwich bags; P&J for Mom and kids, yogurt for me, sunglasses, sunscreen replaced Noxema, baby oil for me (so I could roast my skin in my string bikini), a transistor radio so Cousin Brucie on 77WABC could turn me over every 15 minutes (all I needed was skewer going through my body), Kodak 110 slim camera, and a can of Bactine spray to replace the bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. It worked just as good, only modern and more expensive. My stepfather packed the cooler, per instructions he received, with beer and bait. But he used to sneak in cokes for my mother which wasn’t really allowed, but the men in the family looked the other way because he was new.
The 1980’s: I had left home, but on my return visits to New York to renew my attitude and accent, I noticed that mother had backslid. The flower power beach tote was mysteriously missing and she had a new wicker beach basket. The contents were: sandwiches in unsealable zip lock bags that could be sealed if you had an extra half hour to line up two skinny white lines and slowly compress with two fingers from one corner to the other; P&J for kids, baloney for men, fruit roll ups, juice boxes, orange drink, sunscreen, sunglasses, a crossword puzzle magazine, Polaroid camera, and Solarcaine spray for jellyfish stings. My stepfather packed the cooler with beer and bait - he was with the program now....
The 1990’s: I returned home as a single mom. I bought a wicker beach basket. Why? Because I understood the wisdom of the New England woman.... you can shake the sand out easier, it’s sturdy, it floats and has enough weight to it so you can discreetly bump your kids along as they walk back to the car. The contents: sandwiches in zip lock bags with "blue and yellow make green" color stripes; P&J for kids, baloney sandwiches for brothers, gummy bears, juice boxes, bottled water, polarized sunglasses, sunscreen spray and tee shirts, some light reading; "101 Ways to Axe Your Ex for Beginners", Noxema, and vinegar for jellyfish stings. Vinegar’s cheaper and effective and you can locate your child by smell, just like a mother seal, which makes you feel closer to nature in case sand in your bathing suit crotch isn’t close enough. The men brought coolers, contents: beer and bait. I had a discussion with my brothers about bringing soft drinks instead of beer but they said, “Then what’s the point of going to the beach?” I had one of those, “If I had testosterone, I’d understand this”, moments, so I left it alone.
The 2000’s: My daughter is grown and gone, so now I’m only one kid away from 'Empty Pest Syndrome'. I bought a sturdy wicker beach basket with sides that flip up. The contents - My new classics: delicious sandwiches in zip lock bags, Noxema, Entenmann’s Ultimate Crumb Cake, YooHoo’s, Sobe’s, sparkly visor, book of crytogram puzzles, digital camera and a bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. Gee, I wonder what my brothers will bring.....
If you decide to live anywhere on the New England coast, you must learn about beach baskets, not to be confused with the high tech “beach carriers” of the west coast. The west coasters have trollies for all their beach stuff with cup holders, picnic tables that fold to the size of a paper plate and somewhere on all their stuff is a digital clock that will work till the first drop of water hits it. No, I'm talkin' good old fashioned wicker beach baskets.
The rule in my family was, if you’re going to the beach, you have to let everyone else know so they can join you if they want. I don’t recall ever being at the beach with just my mom and brothers, there was always assorted family members that showed up and everyone brought their official beach basket or cooler.
The 1950’s: My grandmother had a big wicker beach basket with sides that flipped up. The contents were always the same: sandwiches in tin foil; Peanut Butter and Jelly (P&J's) for the kids, baloney for the men, Noxema, Entenmann’s Crumb Cake, YooHoo’s, floppy hats, Brownie camera, and a bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. My grandfather packed the cooler, contents: beer and bait. Whether or not we were going fishing, the bait always stayed in the cooler. Bait served a dual purpose as bait and a biochemical beer protection barrier to keep the women and children from opening that stinky cooler, and worked every time.
The 1960’s: My mother had a nice wicker beach basket too. She was a single mother of four. Her contents were: sandwiches in unmanageably clingy saran wrap; just P&J’s, Noxema, Entenmann’s Crumb Cake, YooHoo’s, sunglasses replaced floppy hats, kodak camera, tee shirts for sunburn protection, plastic shovels, old kitchen spoons or plastic scoops from the Chock Full of Nuts cans, a magazine for reading which could also be used for shooing flies, swatting children - which could be your kid or some stray kid who wandered into your strike zone, and a bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. The men brought the cooler, contents: beer and bait.
The 1970’s: My mother got remarried and had another child. As teenager, I convinced her to ditch the old basket for a new insulated plastic beach tote with a flower power design by Peter Max and an easy-tear plastic lining..... The contents were: sandwiches in fold over sandwich bags; P&J for Mom and kids, yogurt for me, sunglasses, sunscreen replaced Noxema, baby oil for me (so I could roast my skin in my string bikini), a transistor radio so Cousin Brucie on 77WABC could turn me over every 15 minutes (all I needed was skewer going through my body), Kodak 110 slim camera, and a can of Bactine spray to replace the bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. It worked just as good, only modern and more expensive. My stepfather packed the cooler, per instructions he received, with beer and bait. But he used to sneak in cokes for my mother which wasn’t really allowed, but the men in the family looked the other way because he was new.
The 1980’s: I had left home, but on my return visits to New York to renew my attitude and accent, I noticed that mother had backslid. The flower power beach tote was mysteriously missing and she had a new wicker beach basket. The contents were: sandwiches in unsealable zip lock bags that could be sealed if you had an extra half hour to line up two skinny white lines and slowly compress with two fingers from one corner to the other; P&J for kids, baloney for men, fruit roll ups, juice boxes, orange drink, sunscreen, sunglasses, a crossword puzzle magazine, Polaroid camera, and Solarcaine spray for jellyfish stings. My stepfather packed the cooler with beer and bait - he was with the program now....
The 1990’s: I returned home as a single mom. I bought a wicker beach basket. Why? Because I understood the wisdom of the New England woman.... you can shake the sand out easier, it’s sturdy, it floats and has enough weight to it so you can discreetly bump your kids along as they walk back to the car. The contents: sandwiches in zip lock bags with "blue and yellow make green" color stripes; P&J for kids, baloney sandwiches for brothers, gummy bears, juice boxes, bottled water, polarized sunglasses, sunscreen spray and tee shirts, some light reading; "101 Ways to Axe Your Ex for Beginners", Noxema, and vinegar for jellyfish stings. Vinegar’s cheaper and effective and you can locate your child by smell, just like a mother seal, which makes you feel closer to nature in case sand in your bathing suit crotch isn’t close enough. The men brought coolers, contents: beer and bait. I had a discussion with my brothers about bringing soft drinks instead of beer but they said, “Then what’s the point of going to the beach?” I had one of those, “If I had testosterone, I’d understand this”, moments, so I left it alone.
The 2000’s: My daughter is grown and gone, so now I’m only one kid away from 'Empty Pest Syndrome'. I bought a sturdy wicker beach basket with sides that flip up. The contents - My new classics: delicious sandwiches in zip lock bags, Noxema, Entenmann’s Ultimate Crumb Cake, YooHoo’s, Sobe’s, sparkly visor, book of crytogram puzzles, digital camera and a bottle of vinegar for jellyfish stings. Gee, I wonder what my brothers will bring.....
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Dances With Clams...
For many people, a bathing suit is just something you're almost wearing in front of strangers on a beach. For people who live near salt water, it's alot more than that.
My grandfather, Ervin Flynn, was a bay clammer in Sayville, New York. From early childhood I learned from my family that all bathing suits have a second purpose in life, to hold clams....
I come from a family of big Irish peasants. I can still see my family, waist deep in water treading clams. My Aunt Carol's bathing suit could hold 2 pecks (1/2 buschel) of clams in addition to Aunt Carol. My Aunt Olive could hold 2 pecks of clams, 2 bottles of beer and a churchkey, small bottle of tobasco and a clamming knife. She always loved lunch on the water..... My Uncle Walter (by marriage) was a lifeguard, he liked to wear a red speedo...useless in my family. Speedos have a four clam limit, 2 in front, 2 in back (think of that visual). My grandfather had the big boxer style swim trunks - with pockets. He always wore a tee shirt in the water and tucked it into the trunks. He could put a peck of clams in the Tee shirt, another in the trunks and fit "conks" (snails) into the pockets.
Now that I live on Shelter Island, I am proud to pass this old world knowledge onto my children. My mother, step-father, me, my two perfect children and sometimes a few of my brothers go treading clams in our favorite spot whenever possible.
We wait till the tide is low to go out to the clams. We pick a spot, about waist deep and begin the Clam Dance. You wiggle your feet a few inches into the slimey mud and feel with your toes for clams. Experienced toes can tell a stone (smooth) from clam (ridged). Articulate toes can grip the clam and pass it up to your hand for deposit in your bathing suit. The first few clams pass virtually undetected to your crotch. Since you're in waist deep water, the bouyancy of the salt water keeps the crotch from sagging and the clams from escaping. For men, things can feel a little crowded, for women, well, just don't lose a clam. You tread, talk and tread, for a few hours. Two to three hours of clam dancing should give you a 2 peck yield, roughly clams to the bustline.
Then we wait for any cars to pass that can see us exit the water. The hardest thing about treading clams is getting out of the water with all these clams in your bathing suit. The additional twenty pounds of mollusks shifting and banging together in your suit makes you ambulate very slowly to shore. Each step out of the water, draws the suit down lower and lower. As soon as you're in knee-deep water you reach down to hold in clams that are starting to fall out of your crotch. For people driving by who are from, say, Montana, this can be a frightening site. Islanders only slow down enough to memorize the location of the clambed.
Islanders can tell from your bathing suits if there are any clams left for them. A one bathing suit haul means, there's plenty of clams left. Two bathing suits, enough clams left for one dinner for two of steamed clams, three bathing suit haul means there's enough left for dinner for one, lastly the dreaded four or more bathing suit haul - forget it, these people cleared the bed of all the legal sized clams.
Finally, you make it to land. You tie the sleeves of all available shirts closed, up-end the shirt to act as a sack and start reaching down into your suit for the clams. When you can't reach them from the top, go up from the bottom. Its best to tread clams with family as you will undoubtably expose some personal parts of your body in the de-clamming process. Only family should see the parts of you that you've never seen.
My brother Brian once caught a flounder accidently while dropping a clam in his trunks. Picture a 6'3", 260lbs man emerging from the water. Trunks weighed down with clams and a three pound live one flopping around in the front of his trunks. He was steppin' lively! Our Shinnecock ancestors would have given him the same name we did that day. He was, Dances With Clams......
My grandfather, Ervin Flynn, was a bay clammer in Sayville, New York. From early childhood I learned from my family that all bathing suits have a second purpose in life, to hold clams....
I come from a family of big Irish peasants. I can still see my family, waist deep in water treading clams. My Aunt Carol's bathing suit could hold 2 pecks (1/2 buschel) of clams in addition to Aunt Carol. My Aunt Olive could hold 2 pecks of clams, 2 bottles of beer and a churchkey, small bottle of tobasco and a clamming knife. She always loved lunch on the water..... My Uncle Walter (by marriage) was a lifeguard, he liked to wear a red speedo...useless in my family. Speedos have a four clam limit, 2 in front, 2 in back (think of that visual). My grandfather had the big boxer style swim trunks - with pockets. He always wore a tee shirt in the water and tucked it into the trunks. He could put a peck of clams in the Tee shirt, another in the trunks and fit "conks" (snails) into the pockets.
Now that I live on Shelter Island, I am proud to pass this old world knowledge onto my children. My mother, step-father, me, my two perfect children and sometimes a few of my brothers go treading clams in our favorite spot whenever possible.
We wait till the tide is low to go out to the clams. We pick a spot, about waist deep and begin the Clam Dance. You wiggle your feet a few inches into the slimey mud and feel with your toes for clams. Experienced toes can tell a stone (smooth) from clam (ridged). Articulate toes can grip the clam and pass it up to your hand for deposit in your bathing suit. The first few clams pass virtually undetected to your crotch. Since you're in waist deep water, the bouyancy of the salt water keeps the crotch from sagging and the clams from escaping. For men, things can feel a little crowded, for women, well, just don't lose a clam. You tread, talk and tread, for a few hours. Two to three hours of clam dancing should give you a 2 peck yield, roughly clams to the bustline.
Then we wait for any cars to pass that can see us exit the water. The hardest thing about treading clams is getting out of the water with all these clams in your bathing suit. The additional twenty pounds of mollusks shifting and banging together in your suit makes you ambulate very slowly to shore. Each step out of the water, draws the suit down lower and lower. As soon as you're in knee-deep water you reach down to hold in clams that are starting to fall out of your crotch. For people driving by who are from, say, Montana, this can be a frightening site. Islanders only slow down enough to memorize the location of the clambed.
Islanders can tell from your bathing suits if there are any clams left for them. A one bathing suit haul means, there's plenty of clams left. Two bathing suits, enough clams left for one dinner for two of steamed clams, three bathing suit haul means there's enough left for dinner for one, lastly the dreaded four or more bathing suit haul - forget it, these people cleared the bed of all the legal sized clams.
Finally, you make it to land. You tie the sleeves of all available shirts closed, up-end the shirt to act as a sack and start reaching down into your suit for the clams. When you can't reach them from the top, go up from the bottom. Its best to tread clams with family as you will undoubtably expose some personal parts of your body in the de-clamming process. Only family should see the parts of you that you've never seen.
My brother Brian once caught a flounder accidently while dropping a clam in his trunks. Picture a 6'3", 260lbs man emerging from the water. Trunks weighed down with clams and a three pound live one flopping around in the front of his trunks. He was steppin' lively! Our Shinnecock ancestors would have given him the same name we did that day. He was, Dances With Clams......
I HATE President Bush
I'd like to say I hate President Bush, but that's too mild. I detest and despise the beady eyed idiot. Now he's got it all going:
1} He started a war to gain access to the second largest oil field in the Middle East. Halliburton is administering the operations while Chevron, Exxon and Mobil pump out the oil and I presume are storing it here somewhere since all of a sudden we seem to have run out of room at our oil refineries.... gas prices will go up to $4 a gallon, then Bush will command them back down to $3 a gallon, which was his goal when he took office. We'll all be glad we're not paying $4 a gallon, and he and his Texas Oil boys will make billions.
2} He's thrown the borders wide open and is encouraging easement of immigration laws. This is succeeding in flooding the country with cheap labor which will break the unions, another big business goal met. Bush's "plan" to stem the tide of illegals can't be implemented until 2008, the year he leaves office... isn't that convenient?
3} With the recent Supreme Court decision to grant private corporations 'eminent domain' over private property, three of the deciding Justices being Republicans, Bush clears the path for big business, especially the oil business, to build wherever it wants to.
I don't understand how America can listen to his 'pro-life, pro-family' rhetoric while he sets up America for a depression more terrible than the 1930's. Unemployment and abortions have soared since he first became president. It's only a matter of time before he implements a draft. He's breaking every campaign promise. He's not in Iraq-Nam for their freedom. We're stealing their oil, that's why we're there. Iraq didn't have a navy or air force, they were never a threat to us. What were they going to do...strap a bomb on a camel and send it by cargo ship? Iraq was as much threat to the US as a fart in a windstorm. If we were fighting for freedom, we'd be in about 4 African countries right now....too bad Africa doesn't have oil...
And I believe he was part of the bombing of the World Trade Center, go check out www.septembereleventh.org, 911Truth.org, oilempire.us. When you look at the film, frame by frame, you can see for yourself that something shoots out from under the plane just before it hits the tower. There was a reason why Bush sat in that classroom and continued reading about the little goat after he was notified of the first crash....he knew the second one was coming. Please don't take my word. Go look at these and other websites like them and decide for yourself.
1} He started a war to gain access to the second largest oil field in the Middle East. Halliburton is administering the operations while Chevron, Exxon and Mobil pump out the oil and I presume are storing it here somewhere since all of a sudden we seem to have run out of room at our oil refineries.... gas prices will go up to $4 a gallon, then Bush will command them back down to $3 a gallon, which was his goal when he took office. We'll all be glad we're not paying $4 a gallon, and he and his Texas Oil boys will make billions.
2} He's thrown the borders wide open and is encouraging easement of immigration laws. This is succeeding in flooding the country with cheap labor which will break the unions, another big business goal met. Bush's "plan" to stem the tide of illegals can't be implemented until 2008, the year he leaves office... isn't that convenient?
3} With the recent Supreme Court decision to grant private corporations 'eminent domain' over private property, three of the deciding Justices being Republicans, Bush clears the path for big business, especially the oil business, to build wherever it wants to.
I don't understand how America can listen to his 'pro-life, pro-family' rhetoric while he sets up America for a depression more terrible than the 1930's. Unemployment and abortions have soared since he first became president. It's only a matter of time before he implements a draft. He's breaking every campaign promise. He's not in Iraq-Nam for their freedom. We're stealing their oil, that's why we're there. Iraq didn't have a navy or air force, they were never a threat to us. What were they going to do...strap a bomb on a camel and send it by cargo ship? Iraq was as much threat to the US as a fart in a windstorm. If we were fighting for freedom, we'd be in about 4 African countries right now....too bad Africa doesn't have oil...
And I believe he was part of the bombing of the World Trade Center, go check out www.septembereleventh.org, 911Truth.org, oilempire.us. When you look at the film, frame by frame, you can see for yourself that something shoots out from under the plane just before it hits the tower. There was a reason why Bush sat in that classroom and continued reading about the little goat after he was notified of the first crash....he knew the second one was coming. Please don't take my word. Go look at these and other websites like them and decide for yourself.
Monday, June 27, 2005
We Need a New Constitution!
Happy Fourth of July!
The American Manifesto
Such a big fuss this week just because the Supreme Court gave the government the right to bulldoze your house to build a tax generating shopping mall that would spark the local economy. Republicans, Democrats, Conservatives, Liberals, not nobody, nowhere, no how, seems to like this decision.
Thomas Jefferson said: “The right to procure property and to use it for one’s own enjoyment is essential to the freedom of every person, and our other rights would mean little without these rights of property ownership.” “The true foundation of republican government is the equal right of every citizen in his person and property management. ....a right given by nature to all men,...that of rescuing their own property wrongfully taken.”
But what does Tom know about today’s America? I’m sure if he knew we export $3 billion dollars a year worth of scrap metal and raw materials to China and we import $30 billion a year worth of manufactured goods from China, sold thru giants like Walmart, he’d understand that a Walmart anywhere would bring a lot more money to the local coffers than some old houses.
Of course, exporting all that scrap metal does bother me a bit. We sold thousands of tons scrap metal to Japan in the 1930’s. Do you think? Nah...it couldn't happen again.
President Theodore Roosevelt said: “In every civilized society property rights must be carefully safeguarded; ordinarily and in the great majority of cases, human rights and property rights are fundamentally and in the long run identical.”
But what does Teddy know about today’s America? It’s because of him we’re stuck with all these huge National Parks. When I think of the profit loss from all that wasted real estate....
The Fifth Amendment to the Constitution says:
“No person shall be ....deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.” (Traditionally, eminent domain has been utilized to facilitate transportation, the supplying of water and power, et.al..)
Here’s the crux of the whole problem. This old document, the Constitution. We should tear it up and start over. It was written for ordinary people. Who cares about them? We need one written for the new America...Corporate America. Why, we could use this handy old document I found on the internet, it’s perfect!
From the Communist Manifesto: “Private property must, therefore, be abolished and in its place must come the common utilization of all instruments of production and the distribution of all products according to common agreement – in a word, what is called the communal ownership of goods. In fact, the abolition of private property is, doubtless, the shortest and most significant way to characterize the revolution in the whole social order which has been made necessary by the development of industry – and for this reason it is rightly advanced by communists as their main demand.”
We could call it the American Manifesto. I like the sound of that....manifesto rhymes with pesto and we all like that, so I think it has a chance to get through congress. That oughta work good for corporations like Microsoft who makes software for Communist China, IBM who sold their PC division to China, and Walmart who puts China to work (Were you wondering where China got the money to bid on Union 76 Oil?).
The five Justices who decided that the government can take your home away and give it to corporate developers whenever it wants to: John Paul Stevens (Republican), Anthony M. Kennedy (Republican), David H. Souter (Republican), Ruth Bader Ginsburg (Democrat), Stephen G. Breyer (Democrat).
But I wonder if these five can really override these fifty: NEW HAMPSHIRE: Josiah Bartlett, William Whipple, Matthew Thornton. MASSACHUSETTS: John Hancock, Samuel Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry. RHODE ISLAND: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery. CONNECTICUT: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott. NEW YORK: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris. NEW JERSEY: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark. PENNSYLVANIA: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross. DELAWARE: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean. MARYLAND: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton. VIRGINIA: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton. NORTH CAROLINA: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn. SOUTH CAROLINA: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton. GEORGIA: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton.
Remember what Abraham Lincoln said: “The people will get as good a government as they are willing to work for and as bad a government as they are willing to stand for. “
Manifesto rhymes with pesto, which has a good chance as long as people don’t use their noodles for thinking.
The American Manifesto
Such a big fuss this week just because the Supreme Court gave the government the right to bulldoze your house to build a tax generating shopping mall that would spark the local economy. Republicans, Democrats, Conservatives, Liberals, not nobody, nowhere, no how, seems to like this decision.
Thomas Jefferson said: “The right to procure property and to use it for one’s own enjoyment is essential to the freedom of every person, and our other rights would mean little without these rights of property ownership.” “The true foundation of republican government is the equal right of every citizen in his person and property management. ....a right given by nature to all men,...that of rescuing their own property wrongfully taken.”
But what does Tom know about today’s America? I’m sure if he knew we export $3 billion dollars a year worth of scrap metal and raw materials to China and we import $30 billion a year worth of manufactured goods from China, sold thru giants like Walmart, he’d understand that a Walmart anywhere would bring a lot more money to the local coffers than some old houses.
Of course, exporting all that scrap metal does bother me a bit. We sold thousands of tons scrap metal to Japan in the 1930’s. Do you think? Nah...it couldn't happen again.
President Theodore Roosevelt said: “In every civilized society property rights must be carefully safeguarded; ordinarily and in the great majority of cases, human rights and property rights are fundamentally and in the long run identical.”
But what does Teddy know about today’s America? It’s because of him we’re stuck with all these huge National Parks. When I think of the profit loss from all that wasted real estate....
The Fifth Amendment to the Constitution says:
“No person shall be ....deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.” (Traditionally, eminent domain has been utilized to facilitate transportation, the supplying of water and power, et.al..)
Here’s the crux of the whole problem. This old document, the Constitution. We should tear it up and start over. It was written for ordinary people. Who cares about them? We need one written for the new America...Corporate America. Why, we could use this handy old document I found on the internet, it’s perfect!
From the Communist Manifesto: “Private property must, therefore, be abolished and in its place must come the common utilization of all instruments of production and the distribution of all products according to common agreement – in a word, what is called the communal ownership of goods. In fact, the abolition of private property is, doubtless, the shortest and most significant way to characterize the revolution in the whole social order which has been made necessary by the development of industry – and for this reason it is rightly advanced by communists as their main demand.”
We could call it the American Manifesto. I like the sound of that....manifesto rhymes with pesto and we all like that, so I think it has a chance to get through congress. That oughta work good for corporations like Microsoft who makes software for Communist China, IBM who sold their PC division to China, and Walmart who puts China to work (Were you wondering where China got the money to bid on Union 76 Oil?).
The five Justices who decided that the government can take your home away and give it to corporate developers whenever it wants to: John Paul Stevens (Republican), Anthony M. Kennedy (Republican), David H. Souter (Republican), Ruth Bader Ginsburg (Democrat), Stephen G. Breyer (Democrat).
But I wonder if these five can really override these fifty: NEW HAMPSHIRE: Josiah Bartlett, William Whipple, Matthew Thornton. MASSACHUSETTS: John Hancock, Samuel Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry. RHODE ISLAND: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery. CONNECTICUT: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott. NEW YORK: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris. NEW JERSEY: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark. PENNSYLVANIA: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross. DELAWARE: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean. MARYLAND: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton. VIRGINIA: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton. NORTH CAROLINA: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn. SOUTH CAROLINA: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton. GEORGIA: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton.
Remember what Abraham Lincoln said: “The people will get as good a government as they are willing to work for and as bad a government as they are willing to stand for. “
Manifesto rhymes with pesto, which has a good chance as long as people don’t use their noodles for thinking.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Barbecue and the Meaning of Life
Like everyone else, I miss things from my youth. I miss the body that I used to hate because I thought I was so fat at size 16. I miss gravity defying breasts. I miss perfect eyesight. I don’t think it’s a function of age that our eyesight weakens with time. It is a gift from G-d. The soft focus of myopia keeps our mate’s face youthful and attractive forever, or until we put on our glasses - whichever comes first. I’ve learned that the best way to take ten years off of my face is to knock the glasses off of his, or accidentally place them under the rear tire of any parked vehicle.
But what I miss the most is energy. The Aztecs called it “the age of never.” When suddenly you think to yourself, moving was never this hard before. Cleaning the whole house never took this much time before. Walking to the store was never so far, and uphill both ways!
One night you’re at a party. It’s 1 a.m. and suddenly you think to yourself, “I gotta get outta here. I gotta be at work at eight.” A few years go by and on the way to another party you say to yourself, “No matter what, I’m leaving by midnight.” A few more years go by and you find yourself saying to your host, “I gotta leave by 11 PM. If I don’t get at least 5 hours of sleep, my whole day will be shot.” Next you’re asking on the phone, “Well, what time does the party actually start?” You’re asking because you’re thinking, “I’ll take a nap before I go then I won’t be tired tomorrow if I stay late.”
For men, here’s where the big shift happens. Here’s what separates the Hard Working Joe from the Good Time Charlie, the young bucks from the warriors. One day a Good Time Charlie who has worked exhausted one time too many, begins to notice something that other men around his age are starting to do.
He notices that men gather in broad daylight on weekend afternoons. They roast raw meat which attracts women and children who praise them for their ability to roast meats of all types. Just like a night time party, they can drink beer and tell stories. Good Time Charlie has discovered another gift from G-d, fire...or, as modern man calls it....barbecue.
Fire in the form of barbecue is the warrior’s party time. He discovers he likes barbecues better. They end earlier and he can get a whole night’s sleep! Plus, barbecues are far more manly than parties. At parties, women put out tables of fancy dishes with lots of noodles, a hungry man needs to eat three plates to feel satisfied. Not so at a barbecue. The women still bring the noodle dishes, but he gets to eat slabs of meat marinated in garlic, onion, peppers and every available gas generating vegetable on the market. Combined with the beer and the baked beans, he learns never to turn his back to the barbecue flames.
Barbecue’s appeal to a man’s primitive soul. He must gather a bag of special black rocks. His hands become soiled as he piles the stones into the pit he has dug or purchased from Sears. Only he, the firemaker, can stuff tinder between the stones just right. Only he, the firemaker, can douse the magic stones with the water that ignites. All the women and children must stand at a safe distance, for they are only allowed to watch. The firemaker ignites a small stick with fire and then he tries to light the tinder around the black firestones. But he forgot to say the magic words, words so magical that women must cover the ears of small children. So he lights another small stick, says the unrepeatable magic words and tries again. This process is repeated until the fire god has heard enough already of the unrepeatable magic words and unleashes a burst of flames.
The fire must be nursed into a controlled blaze. When the stones are hot enough, which can only be judged from the thermostat that is genetically coded into the palms of all men, the flesh of the slain animals and fishes can be placed over the blaze by the firemaker. When enough time has gone by, and the firemaker has heard enough praise of his mastery of the fire pit, and he has heard enough begging and pleading from the starving women and children, he announces the food is ready. Everyone lines up, holds their plates humbly, eyes down, as they entreat the firemaker for sustenance.
The warriors know that microwaves are bad magic used by women. It is barbecue, which contains fire given to man by G-d, that is the good magic. As one of my brothers, whose nickname is Mongo, once said at a barbecue, “Nuker bad. Mongo no like nuker. Fire...fire good. Mongo like fire...”
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Age is Just a Number, and Mine is UP!!!
One of my best buddies just turned 50 and she was having a terrible time with it. So I thought I’d cheer her up by telling her not to think of her body as 50, but just think of her boobs as 25 years old apiece. It didn’t have the elevating effect I had hoped. As she cracked the seal on the bottle of Amaretto, I thought I’d point out some other advantages of age. I might need these pointers myself someday, very far in the future of course.....
As a mature woman;
* You have the ability to talk to authority figures without having to picture them naked in order to avoid feeling intimidated.
* You’re not afraid if the school calls about your child. Teachers and Principals no longer scare you because you know you can take ‘em.
* You know if you date or marry someone 20 years younger, you look like a fool. 43 year old Tom Cruise, jumping on Oprah's couch professing his love for 26 year old Katie somebody, is a prime example. He's 19 years older and could in fact, be her father. Somehow I don't think he'd have the same chance with her if he was Tom at the gas station......
* You can fully assess a person by looking at their shoes. Are they bachelors in crappy sneakers that they think they can wear with anything? Are they young gals who can still face the pain of high heels? Are they in those awful orange orthopedic shoes because they gave their lives (God Bless 'em) to waitressing? Are they in Birkenstocks? I gotta tell you about Birkenstocks... it's true what their ads say, "If you knew how comfortable they were, you'd be in them now." Birkenstocks are sneaky.. I started with one pair..they mated in my closet and now they even have grand children.
* You can talk about how moronic men are in their presence, because you know they aren't listening anyway.
* The risk of being kidnapped goes down 50% more with each additional year of age.
* People no longer view you as a hypochondriac.
* Male doctors no longer want you to undress completely, just uncover whatever is absolutely necessary...
* Pharmacists treat you so much nicer now that you are a source of increasing revenue.
* Your secrets are safe with your friends because they can't remember them either.
* No one expects you to run into a burning building to save anything.
* You too, can command family members from a recliner.
* There's not much left to learn the hard way.
* Your joints are more accurate than The Weather Channel.
* In a hostage situation, you’ll probably get released in the first group.
* Forget Estee Lauder, you know that all the beauty you need is only a light switch away.
* You know if it has tires or testicles, you're going to have trouble with it.
* Cooking with wine doesn’t mean it goes in the food.
* You’ve been the peacemaker long enough, from now on, whatever shit hits the fan will be evenly distributed.
* One of the advantages and disadvantages of menopause is that your photographic memory is running out of film, allowing you to forget what you got arrested for in 1968 - dancing topless in Central Park.
* And that picture of you dancing topless in Central Park in 1968 with your boobs painted like daisies used be to hidden in a drawer. Now it’s on the mantle just to remind you that inside that mature body is a radiant seventeen year old girl who still knows all the words to ‘Mellow Yellow’.
* You’ve learned not to leave the store without the pants that match the jacket.
* Not only can your boobs no longer pass the pencil test, they can't even pass the same test with a laptop...
* Your Drivers License picture is starting to look good.
* You know that bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of checks.
* You can live with the fact that some days are a total waste of makeup.
* The bad news is, by now everyone has a bad back. The good news is, you’re just one more back injury away from qualifying for that handicapped parking permit.
* Now, losing a pet is like losing a child. But losing a man is like losing a pet used to be. You know you can always pick up another if you really want to go through all that training again....
* Screw Women’s Lib, you have to take a man with you for any conversations with car repairmen or the repair costs will go up 25%.
* You know if a man starts a conversation with, “I never wanted to hurt you....” , he can just stop there because you know it’s shorthand for, “I want to be with this other woman but I don’t want you to cry and make me feel guilty for being a schmuck”. But at this age, even if you cry him a river, you know how to build a bridge and get the fuck over it.
* You know the three biggest lies a woman hears in her life are: 1] I swear I’ll pull out in time; 2] The check is in the mail; 3] I’m from the government and I’m here to help you.
* You’re ready for a woman president because you know when women get stressed we shop, we don’t invade other countries.
As a mature woman;
* You have the ability to talk to authority figures without having to picture them naked in order to avoid feeling intimidated.
* You’re not afraid if the school calls about your child. Teachers and Principals no longer scare you because you know you can take ‘em.
* You know if you date or marry someone 20 years younger, you look like a fool. 43 year old Tom Cruise, jumping on Oprah's couch professing his love for 26 year old Katie somebody, is a prime example. He's 19 years older and could in fact, be her father. Somehow I don't think he'd have the same chance with her if he was Tom at the gas station......
* You can fully assess a person by looking at their shoes. Are they bachelors in crappy sneakers that they think they can wear with anything? Are they young gals who can still face the pain of high heels? Are they in those awful orange orthopedic shoes because they gave their lives (God Bless 'em) to waitressing? Are they in Birkenstocks? I gotta tell you about Birkenstocks... it's true what their ads say, "If you knew how comfortable they were, you'd be in them now." Birkenstocks are sneaky.. I started with one pair..they mated in my closet and now they even have grand children.
* You can talk about how moronic men are in their presence, because you know they aren't listening anyway.
* The risk of being kidnapped goes down 50% more with each additional year of age.
* People no longer view you as a hypochondriac.
* Male doctors no longer want you to undress completely, just uncover whatever is absolutely necessary...
* Pharmacists treat you so much nicer now that you are a source of increasing revenue.
* Your secrets are safe with your friends because they can't remember them either.
* No one expects you to run into a burning building to save anything.
* You too, can command family members from a recliner.
* There's not much left to learn the hard way.
* Your joints are more accurate than The Weather Channel.
* In a hostage situation, you’ll probably get released in the first group.
* Forget Estee Lauder, you know that all the beauty you need is only a light switch away.
* You know if it has tires or testicles, you're going to have trouble with it.
* Cooking with wine doesn’t mean it goes in the food.
* You’ve been the peacemaker long enough, from now on, whatever shit hits the fan will be evenly distributed.
* One of the advantages and disadvantages of menopause is that your photographic memory is running out of film, allowing you to forget what you got arrested for in 1968 - dancing topless in Central Park.
* And that picture of you dancing topless in Central Park in 1968 with your boobs painted like daisies used be to hidden in a drawer. Now it’s on the mantle just to remind you that inside that mature body is a radiant seventeen year old girl who still knows all the words to ‘Mellow Yellow’.
* You’ve learned not to leave the store without the pants that match the jacket.
* Not only can your boobs no longer pass the pencil test, they can't even pass the same test with a laptop...
* Your Drivers License picture is starting to look good.
* You know that bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of checks.
* You can live with the fact that some days are a total waste of makeup.
* The bad news is, by now everyone has a bad back. The good news is, you’re just one more back injury away from qualifying for that handicapped parking permit.
* Now, losing a pet is like losing a child. But losing a man is like losing a pet used to be. You know you can always pick up another if you really want to go through all that training again....
* Screw Women’s Lib, you have to take a man with you for any conversations with car repairmen or the repair costs will go up 25%.
* You know if a man starts a conversation with, “I never wanted to hurt you....” , he can just stop there because you know it’s shorthand for, “I want to be with this other woman but I don’t want you to cry and make me feel guilty for being a schmuck”. But at this age, even if you cry him a river, you know how to build a bridge and get the fuck over it.
* You know the three biggest lies a woman hears in her life are: 1] I swear I’ll pull out in time; 2] The check is in the mail; 3] I’m from the government and I’m here to help you.
* You’re ready for a woman president because you know when women get stressed we shop, we don’t invade other countries.
Monday, June 06, 2005
PC = Fascism with good manners
“...and they’re all made out of ticky tacky, and they all look just the same.”
I was thinking of all the poor smokers who stand around outside the bars just to have a cigarette. They smoke outside in the cold, the rain, the heat. It’s just not right. I can’t recall who said it, but I agree, political correctness is just fascism with good manners.
I’m not a smoker. I can’t stand it. But I think it’s deplorable that smokers have become second class citizens. They have to apologize for having a lousy cigarette. They pay outrageous taxes for their little pack of smokes. I know it’s a bad habit, but who’s perfect? We all do things that are bad for our health. If I were a smoker, I’d organize other smokers and restaurant owners to repeal the law that prohibits smoking in bars and add a law for ventilation. What’s next on the PC hit list? No drinking in bars?
Now that the PC Machine has gotten away with beating up smokers, they’re coming after overweight people. All of a sudden, the whole country has to lose weight. Some people, like me, really do need to lose weight. But most people are being made to feel terrible about an extra twenty pounds, it’s ridiculous. There are other things to worry about, like Jay Leno said, “you can’t take nail clippers on an airplane, but 10,000 illegal aliens can cross the borders every day. So much for Homeland Security!”
Based on what the PC Machine did to the smokers, I predict this for the future of my kind...
Fast Food staff will not to sell anything to us but salads.
We’ll have to stand outside of Dunkin' Donuts to eat our apple fritters where everyone can see us and know that we are bad.
Doctors will save time diagnosing us by attributing all ailments to weight.
Obesity will be an allowable cause to file for divorce.
The on screen warnings in the movie theaters will be: No smoking; Remember to turn off your cell phones; No talking during the picture; No eating unless you are height /weight
proportionate.
Stores will add a hefty fat tax at the register for any sweets or snacks being purchased by a chubby.
Someday I’ll be in the car with my skinny friend Charlotte who eats so frequently, she even keeps food in her car! My luck, I’ll be the one driving when the cops are doing spot checks for carb abuse. If you’re caught illegally eating, you get put in the tank overnight. But you don’t get bread and water, you get celery and water.
“Quick, Charlotte! Peel off the label from the Krispy Kreme box and give it to me.”
“What for? Why are you sticking it on your forehead?”
“Shhhhh............ Yes officer?”
“Good evening ma’am,” the officer says as he shines a flashlight in my face. “You appear to be a carbo. Have you had any illegal carbs tonight?”
“No officer, as you can see, I’m on the patch.”
After the chubbies, I predict the PC Machine will go after the computer people. They are too sedentary and that’s not healthy! Studies will suddenly hit the media about clots in their legs from sitting, eye fatigue from Solitaire, heart stress from excessive coke/coffee intake, social devolvement from working with the same small group who get excited by a new screen saver. Anything linked to sitting in front of a computer will become a crisis. Soon they will have to work on a treadmill with their computers in front of them. They’ll have to get a physician’s note to sit more than one hour per shift. Workers who continue to sit in a comfortable chair to do their work will get the fish eye, like a smoker with a cigarette or a chubby with a donut.
After the computer people, it will be people who commute too many hours in a day. Their increased stress aggravates their medical conditions. They fatigue and cause accidents. They get road rage and kill people. They use more than their fair share of gas which drives up prices, and they produce extra pollution from their long commute. OnStar will track your movements and notify DMV if you are a commute abuser, afterall, it’s for your own good....
Laugh now, but everyone’s turn will come. Something you’re doing right now is not PC approved, and you will have to stop it or face legislation to protect you. If we tried, we could stop the PC Machine by heightening our esteem for personal freedom. It would be like...uh....like living in America!
I was thinking of all the poor smokers who stand around outside the bars just to have a cigarette. They smoke outside in the cold, the rain, the heat. It’s just not right. I can’t recall who said it, but I agree, political correctness is just fascism with good manners.
I’m not a smoker. I can’t stand it. But I think it’s deplorable that smokers have become second class citizens. They have to apologize for having a lousy cigarette. They pay outrageous taxes for their little pack of smokes. I know it’s a bad habit, but who’s perfect? We all do things that are bad for our health. If I were a smoker, I’d organize other smokers and restaurant owners to repeal the law that prohibits smoking in bars and add a law for ventilation. What’s next on the PC hit list? No drinking in bars?
Now that the PC Machine has gotten away with beating up smokers, they’re coming after overweight people. All of a sudden, the whole country has to lose weight. Some people, like me, really do need to lose weight. But most people are being made to feel terrible about an extra twenty pounds, it’s ridiculous. There are other things to worry about, like Jay Leno said, “you can’t take nail clippers on an airplane, but 10,000 illegal aliens can cross the borders every day. So much for Homeland Security!”
Based on what the PC Machine did to the smokers, I predict this for the future of my kind...
Fast Food staff will not to sell anything to us but salads.
We’ll have to stand outside of Dunkin' Donuts to eat our apple fritters where everyone can see us and know that we are bad.
Doctors will save time diagnosing us by attributing all ailments to weight.
Obesity will be an allowable cause to file for divorce.
The on screen warnings in the movie theaters will be: No smoking; Remember to turn off your cell phones; No talking during the picture; No eating unless you are height /weight
proportionate.
Stores will add a hefty fat tax at the register for any sweets or snacks being purchased by a chubby.
Someday I’ll be in the car with my skinny friend Charlotte who eats so frequently, she even keeps food in her car! My luck, I’ll be the one driving when the cops are doing spot checks for carb abuse. If you’re caught illegally eating, you get put in the tank overnight. But you don’t get bread and water, you get celery and water.
“Quick, Charlotte! Peel off the label from the Krispy Kreme box and give it to me.”
“What for? Why are you sticking it on your forehead?”
“Shhhhh............ Yes officer?”
“Good evening ma’am,” the officer says as he shines a flashlight in my face. “You appear to be a carbo. Have you had any illegal carbs tonight?”
“No officer, as you can see, I’m on the patch.”
After the chubbies, I predict the PC Machine will go after the computer people. They are too sedentary and that’s not healthy! Studies will suddenly hit the media about clots in their legs from sitting, eye fatigue from Solitaire, heart stress from excessive coke/coffee intake, social devolvement from working with the same small group who get excited by a new screen saver. Anything linked to sitting in front of a computer will become a crisis. Soon they will have to work on a treadmill with their computers in front of them. They’ll have to get a physician’s note to sit more than one hour per shift. Workers who continue to sit in a comfortable chair to do their work will get the fish eye, like a smoker with a cigarette or a chubby with a donut.
After the computer people, it will be people who commute too many hours in a day. Their increased stress aggravates their medical conditions. They fatigue and cause accidents. They get road rage and kill people. They use more than their fair share of gas which drives up prices, and they produce extra pollution from their long commute. OnStar will track your movements and notify DMV if you are a commute abuser, afterall, it’s for your own good....
Laugh now, but everyone’s turn will come. Something you’re doing right now is not PC approved, and you will have to stop it or face legislation to protect you. If we tried, we could stop the PC Machine by heightening our esteem for personal freedom. It would be like...uh....like living in America!
Monday, May 30, 2005
Graduation, Greyhound, Gone!
Sometimes a Great Notion...
This is what’s happening in my house this week, I bet this is happening all over America. It proves that you need incredible strength to raise a teenager; strength to handle their crisis, strength to get through sleepless nights of worry, and strength not to laugh in the face of their moronic logic.
My daughter opened the huge gift wrapped box and stared at her graduation gift in horrified disbelief.... “Luggage? You got me luggage? What did I ever do to deserve luggage for a graduation gift? I need a car!”
““What did I ever do to deserve luggage for a graduation gift?”" I repeated silently in my mind. “Oh, let me count the ways,” I thought, “you have aggravated me to the breadth and depths and height's my soul can reach... You have tested every limit, broken every rule, manipulated every situation you could, lied, gotten your friends to cover your lies in exchange for covering theirs, dated and attempted to bring into my home men I would have scraped off the bottom of my shoe, just to spite me.” That’s what I was thinking, and after all, it’s the thought that counts...
So I said, “It’s a very nice matching six piece set! Monogrammed no less. It wasn’t cheap. 10 year warranty. It will last you a long time. What’s not to like?”
“It’s luggage! LUGGAGE! I’m your child, why are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Wait, I’m confused,“ I said, stifling a giggle, “for the past four years haven’t you said “I’m NOT a child anymore stop treating me like one!” and “I can’t wait to graduate and get away from you! You are such a control freak!” Wasn’t that you?”
“I was a kid. What did you expect me to say?”
“So you’re still a kid and I can expect you to obey me, or you’re not a kid and you’re responsible for yourself just like an.....adult?”
“I’m not a kid, but I’m still your child and your responsibility till I’m 18 and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Suppressing my laughter and employing years of discipline to keep a straight face while talking to a teenager, I said, “You’re eighteen in 27 days. Adulthood, you know.....that big nasty thing in the rearview mirror of your life I’ve been warning you about...will be here in 28 days. Since you’re not planning on college anymore, you’ll have to make plans, which will include moving out. I thought the luggage would help. It’s not a car, but hey, each piece has wheels like a car and can hold all your clothes like a car, and if you make a ‘broooom, brooom’, sound, you can pretend it’s a car. Luggage is how people moved before cars were invented. I know I’ve said this before, but maybe you’re in a mental space to hear this now....If you got a JOB, you would be paid MONEY which you can use to buy a CAR.”
“Look, I just want to have my Senior summer off, okay? I want have fun with my friends. I’m so stressed out I can’t even think!”
“You finished classes in January. You worked a job three days and quit. Since then, you’ve done whatever you wanted. You’re here once a week to do laundry, eat everything in the kitchen, fight with me, get money and leave. Exactly what stress are you under?” I am now covering my mouth with my hand to help keep from laughing out loud because if I do, she’ll get furious that I’m not taking her seriously and then we’ll have to have this conversation again next week.
“You don’t know anything about my life.”
“So tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Okay don’t. It’s your life.”
“But if I told you what was going on, you’d understand me a lot more and have more sympathy.”
“So tell me.”
“I can’t. It’s too complicated. I have to please everyone, my boyfriend, all my friends, and you too.”
“You don’t please me. You have no plans for your future and you're dating a bum.”
"You are so judgemental! Why can't you give him a chance? Why do you hate him?"
"Well, let's see...he's a high school drop out, 21 years old, did a year in prison for drugs, has a five year old illegitimate child he doesn't pay support for, unemployed, sleeps on bean bags on the floor of his best friends apartment who deals drugs, no car, no money, and uses my daughter for sex and money.... you're right! What's not to like?"
“You see? No one can please you!
“Okay, so if you move in with the guys you’re essentially living with now, you won’t have to please me at all and you’ll have less stress, right?”
“You see how controlling you are? You know I can’t move in with them until I can pay them rent. You always get all up in my business! That’s why I’m never home. I CAN’T LIVE WITH YOU!”
“Wait.....wait.....wait...... I have this really great idea......”
This is what’s happening in my house this week, I bet this is happening all over America. It proves that you need incredible strength to raise a teenager; strength to handle their crisis, strength to get through sleepless nights of worry, and strength not to laugh in the face of their moronic logic.
My daughter opened the huge gift wrapped box and stared at her graduation gift in horrified disbelief.... “Luggage? You got me luggage? What did I ever do to deserve luggage for a graduation gift? I need a car!”
““What did I ever do to deserve luggage for a graduation gift?”" I repeated silently in my mind. “Oh, let me count the ways,” I thought, “you have aggravated me to the breadth and depths and height's my soul can reach... You have tested every limit, broken every rule, manipulated every situation you could, lied, gotten your friends to cover your lies in exchange for covering theirs, dated and attempted to bring into my home men I would have scraped off the bottom of my shoe, just to spite me.” That’s what I was thinking, and after all, it’s the thought that counts...
So I said, “It’s a very nice matching six piece set! Monogrammed no less. It wasn’t cheap. 10 year warranty. It will last you a long time. What’s not to like?”
“It’s luggage! LUGGAGE! I’m your child, why are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Wait, I’m confused,“ I said, stifling a giggle, “for the past four years haven’t you said “I’m NOT a child anymore stop treating me like one!” and “I can’t wait to graduate and get away from you! You are such a control freak!” Wasn’t that you?”
“I was a kid. What did you expect me to say?”
“So you’re still a kid and I can expect you to obey me, or you’re not a kid and you’re responsible for yourself just like an.....adult?”
“I’m not a kid, but I’m still your child and your responsibility till I’m 18 and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Suppressing my laughter and employing years of discipline to keep a straight face while talking to a teenager, I said, “You’re eighteen in 27 days. Adulthood, you know.....that big nasty thing in the rearview mirror of your life I’ve been warning you about...will be here in 28 days. Since you’re not planning on college anymore, you’ll have to make plans, which will include moving out. I thought the luggage would help. It’s not a car, but hey, each piece has wheels like a car and can hold all your clothes like a car, and if you make a ‘broooom, brooom’, sound, you can pretend it’s a car. Luggage is how people moved before cars were invented. I know I’ve said this before, but maybe you’re in a mental space to hear this now....If you got a JOB, you would be paid MONEY which you can use to buy a CAR.”
“Look, I just want to have my Senior summer off, okay? I want have fun with my friends. I’m so stressed out I can’t even think!”
“You finished classes in January. You worked a job three days and quit. Since then, you’ve done whatever you wanted. You’re here once a week to do laundry, eat everything in the kitchen, fight with me, get money and leave. Exactly what stress are you under?” I am now covering my mouth with my hand to help keep from laughing out loud because if I do, she’ll get furious that I’m not taking her seriously and then we’ll have to have this conversation again next week.
“You don’t know anything about my life.”
“So tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Okay don’t. It’s your life.”
“But if I told you what was going on, you’d understand me a lot more and have more sympathy.”
“So tell me.”
“I can’t. It’s too complicated. I have to please everyone, my boyfriend, all my friends, and you too.”
“You don’t please me. You have no plans for your future and you're dating a bum.”
"You are so judgemental! Why can't you give him a chance? Why do you hate him?"
"Well, let's see...he's a high school drop out, 21 years old, did a year in prison for drugs, has a five year old illegitimate child he doesn't pay support for, unemployed, sleeps on bean bags on the floor of his best friends apartment who deals drugs, no car, no money, and uses my daughter for sex and money.... you're right! What's not to like?"
“You see? No one can please you!
“Okay, so if you move in with the guys you’re essentially living with now, you won’t have to please me at all and you’ll have less stress, right?”
“You see how controlling you are? You know I can’t move in with them until I can pay them rent. You always get all up in my business! That’s why I’m never home. I CAN’T LIVE WITH YOU!”
“Wait.....wait.....wait...... I have this really great idea......”
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