I've been struggling with something for a while now, but I think perhaps my struggle has finally started to wind down. It isn't anything like good versus evil or whether I should save my mother or my father from a towering inferno (I hate heights, so if it were a true towering inferno they would both be totally screwed), but it's been a struggle nonetheless.
You see, several years back I had this hideous marriage to a less-than-wonderful man. I was, simply put, pretty numb. When I stopped being numb I got miserable. Either feeling (or lack thereof) is not one I care to recreate. I finally left the marriage, but for the past seven years I've been petrified of accidentally ending up numb or miserable again. So much so that I've avoided anything remotely resembling my old life.
In many ways, that's good. I'm in a much better career (for me) and I'm doing things I enjoy now (instead of things other people expect me to enjoy, or things people I love enjoy but I secretly can't stand) and I'm more in tune with what makes me happy.
But for years I lived in this black and white existence where things were either Like My Old Life or Not Like My Old Life. And that worked. Pretty much. As long as I didn't THINK about my old life.
Because I don't want it back, not even a little bit. I don't even want anything remotely like it. But not wanting it back doesn't mean I have to change completely, which is what I did for a long while. I mostly wore flip-flops because before I mostly wore dress shoes. I didn't get dressed up because before I got dressed up all the time. I wouldn't be in a traditional relationship because before tradition almost choked the life out of me.
Slowly -we're talking seven years slow-I've realized that there can be shades of gray in my life. I can sometimes wear shoes with closed toes that aren't gym shoes, and putting on a dress doesn't mean I want to join the Junior League. I can admit that I love someone and don't mind us spending more than one night a week together without surrendering to some sort of suburban hell with deed restrictions and parties with Chex Mix and cheese balls.
I credit this to the people with whom I've chosen to surround myself. I suspect that what went wrong the first time wasn't the black leather heels (and really, they were supple and lovely) or the muted lemon Egyptian cotton sheets (440 thread count, and worth every penny they cost, which was substantial, even for my income back then) but the man I chose to be with and the people I called "friend."
My friends weren't bad people, but they weren't my people. They didn't get me. Neither did my husband. Is it any wonder that when I met a man who really did get me I charged into him headlong, without looking back, and ignored the whole circle who, honestly, didn't seem to notice I was gone? I'm not kidding; by the time my divorce was final my ex was talking about remarrying and I'm almost positive it was easy enough to slot his new wife in at dinners-- and, if I were being brutally honest here, which is my goal, she probably was a infinitely better match at those dinners. My mind was always at the beach or a boat or back at home, snuggled between yellow layers of Egyptian cotton, watching MST3K.
As for me? I was single and loving it. There was no one to tell me what to wear or what not to mention at dinner or what to cook or what color to paint the walls. I was my own person which, at the time, I took to mean I wasn't part of my old life anymore.
But if there is a danger in losing oneself because you are identified as part of a life to which you don't belong, there is an even greater danger in identifying yourself by what you aren't. I wasn't a wife; I wasn't middle class suburban Chex Mix bourgeois; I wasn't corporate America; I wasn't a lot of things.
I WAS happy, yes, but I was always scared that I would lose that happiness if I admitted that yes, I missed those sheets or hey, those heels are sexy and I would look good in that dress. I truly believed that if I admitted I missed certain luxuries--and everything I've mentioned is, indeed, a luxury-- it was like that one sip the alcoholic takes that sends her over the edge and ultimately leads her to the gutter, where her friends will find her face down, clutching a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. I was scared of ending up in a committee meeting that adjourned to my husband waiting to go to little Johnny's preschool interview.
I was, of course, missing the crucial point: I wasn't missing the life. I wasn't missing the social circles or the job or the husband. I was just missing things I liked. I also failed to realize that perhaps the problem I had with committed monogamous relationships had more to do with who I was allegedly committed to than the idea of monogamy.
And then I met someone. Someone who I, out of nowhere, wanted to look good for. I bought lipstick (This was a huge concession for me; after the divorce I swore off lipstick and stuck to the gloss.) Someone who, I'm now starting to realize, maybe doesn't think that love means surrendering everything he likes just to feel like he's doing what the world expects. Someone who I care about enough to try and make sure he doesn't have to pay for my past. After all, wasn't that decade of my life payment enough?
Before I get too carried away on the moonbeams of love, don't misunderstand. It wasn't just him. It was having friends that don't care if I ever wear heels (although I am a little afraid to wear Crocs around Leah) or if I ever live somewhere with a separate bedroom. It was rediscovering the friends that didn't pass the muster of my marriage, and finding new ones who didn't care who I used to be and I don't have to censor myself around. It's a very freeing feeling.
And with that freedom came not only the freedom NOT to be a Chex Mix corporate American woman but also to love some of the nicer things without the fear of anyone pointing their finger at me and saying, "A-HA! We KNEW it... you're a Junior League, born again Republican with Christian sympathies, aren't you? AREN'T YOU? ADMIT IT!" and then forcing me to drink the Kool-Aid and move to Stepford. That freedom allows me to admit that sometimes I like to drink wine that you can't get at Publix or that I really, for no good reason, want those strappy bronze Santana heels at Macy's.
I've started to see that with this freedom comes the idea that I can look past the moment and see the big picture and understand that liking parts of what used to be my life doesn't mean I miss my old life.
I've come to understand the notion that I can define myself by who I am and what and who I love rather than by what I will never again be.
I've gained the knowledge that every moment matters too much to live in the past. With that freedom comes permission to set aside what I am not and live instead in the now.
I've realized that looking past the moment doesn't mean I have to stop living in the moment, and that love doesn't have to be a ball and chain that sucks me under the water; it can be a lovely way to just keep swimming.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Sunday, October 04, 2009
A Letter From Scuppers
Hi Aunt Leah,
I think I've forgiven you for not letting me live with you because I like the beach, but don't think that means you can get away with anything while SHE is gone. Here are my rules, and don't even think about breaking them. Unless you give me catnip. I love catnip.
1. Feed me. This is not negotiable. There is dry and wet food under the kitchen sink. SHE will tell you to leave out dry food and give me a tin of wet food if you think I deserve it, but here's what you really do: Open the bag and leave it out on the floor. Really. I swear. That's TOTALLY what SHE does.
2. Clean out my litter. Preferably you will station yourself in the bathroom for the entire duration of HER absence since you've laid the food out on the floor for me and would have no reason to leave the bathroom. Bags are under the kitchen sink and extra litter will be left out for you on the toilet seat. Until I knock it over. I never make a mess but SHE keeps a dustpan and handbroom under the bathroom sink and a Dustbuster charging on the wall under the bulletin board.
3. Dog and I share water, but Dog won't be here. Dog's water is on the yellow and blue stepstool next to the oven. I like Perrier with lime but if it doesn't look like a good year, I will accept a Pelligrino with a fresh lime. Please remove the seeds before squeezing the lime into my bowl. I also like a lime twist, which the bourgeois would call excessive since I have the squeezed lime already, but rest assured this is how Cats did it in ancient Egypt. Please take care to remove the pithy part of the twist; it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste.
4. Comb me. There is a red flea comb in the basket of toys next to the bookshelf. I usually don't have fleas but if I like the way it feels when the comb runs under my chin and along my cheeks. SHE will tell you there is a blue brush in the toy basket so I don't leave cat hair everywhere, but don't listen to HER. Also, if you try to brush my tummy I will try and bite you. You can rub my tummy, though, if you've recently moisturized your hands with goat's milk lotion that has lavender added. Otherwise please refrain.
5. Give me catnip. Look, I can quit any time I want. SHE won't tell you where it is but I've seen it and it's in the cabinet above the stepstool. There's a pink Kong and a white seal in the toy basket; you can stuff it in either of those. In fact, as with the cat food, just open the lid and let me at it. Really. I swear. That's what SHE does, true story.
OK, if you have any other questions please ask me directly. Don't listen to HER and her "rules."
S.
I think I've forgiven you for not letting me live with you because I like the beach, but don't think that means you can get away with anything while SHE is gone. Here are my rules, and don't even think about breaking them. Unless you give me catnip. I love catnip.
1. Feed me. This is not negotiable. There is dry and wet food under the kitchen sink. SHE will tell you to leave out dry food and give me a tin of wet food if you think I deserve it, but here's what you really do: Open the bag and leave it out on the floor. Really. I swear. That's TOTALLY what SHE does.
2. Clean out my litter. Preferably you will station yourself in the bathroom for the entire duration of HER absence since you've laid the food out on the floor for me and would have no reason to leave the bathroom. Bags are under the kitchen sink and extra litter will be left out for you on the toilet seat. Until I knock it over. I never make a mess but SHE keeps a dustpan and handbroom under the bathroom sink and a Dustbuster charging on the wall under the bulletin board.
3. Dog and I share water, but Dog won't be here. Dog's water is on the yellow and blue stepstool next to the oven. I like Perrier with lime but if it doesn't look like a good year, I will accept a Pelligrino with a fresh lime. Please remove the seeds before squeezing the lime into my bowl. I also like a lime twist, which the bourgeois would call excessive since I have the squeezed lime already, but rest assured this is how Cats did it in ancient Egypt. Please take care to remove the pithy part of the twist; it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste.
4. Comb me. There is a red flea comb in the basket of toys next to the bookshelf. I usually don't have fleas but if I like the way it feels when the comb runs under my chin and along my cheeks. SHE will tell you there is a blue brush in the toy basket so I don't leave cat hair everywhere, but don't listen to HER. Also, if you try to brush my tummy I will try and bite you. You can rub my tummy, though, if you've recently moisturized your hands with goat's milk lotion that has lavender added. Otherwise please refrain.
5. Give me catnip. Look, I can quit any time I want. SHE won't tell you where it is but I've seen it and it's in the cabinet above the stepstool. There's a pink Kong and a white seal in the toy basket; you can stuff it in either of those. In fact, as with the cat food, just open the lid and let me at it. Really. I swear. That's what SHE does, true story.
OK, if you have any other questions please ask me directly. Don't listen to HER and her "rules."
S.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Why I Cannot Write Any More
So I’m losing the ability to write and I should probably be bummed about it but I don’t seem to care. You see, I’ve met a man. Now, I know that sounds trite, mostly because it sounds that way to my own ears, but it also happens to be true. I’ve met and started dating an absolutely wonderful man and I am, to pepper this with clichés, over the moon about it. My friends are sick of my mooning and talking about it. I fall asleep thinking about him and when I wake up he’s already on my mind.
He does all the right things, like opening car doors, calling the day after the morning after, and on top of all that he is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And, yes, I do mean biblically. The first time he ever touched me I felt an instant chemical reaction and I knew right then: I was in big trouble.
And I am, but not in the way I expected. Not just yet. You see, the problem isn’t how very attracted I am to this man or how much he seems—for whatever reason—to really, really like me, too. The problem isn’t that he kisses like a Greek god or makes good coffee or seems to anticipate what I want or need. The problem isn’t that our work lives cross paths and we mutually and adamantly agree that no one needs to know. The problem isn’t that he’s looking for what I’m looking for and none of that seems to involve actually seeking but finding. The problem isn’t even that I’m more than a little terrified at how much I like him and could so very easily just fall into him and not look back.
No, the problem is that the better it gets, the worse my writing gets, and I’m afraid that unhappiness has been my muse and I didn’t even realize it.
I spent so many years yearning for what I could almost touch but knew on some level I never would again that I got comfortable in my longing. No, scratch that, I got beyond comfortable; I got good at it. I wrote passionately—perhaps because none existed elsewhere in my life. I wrote funny things—perhaps because so comparatively little in my life made me laugh. I wrote heartfelt essays, compassionate articles, and thoughtful features—perhaps because I had to turn my attention outward from my own heart to avoid and squash down the moldy taste of disappointment and unrequited living.
I spent so many years like that and now I find myself unprepared and untrained when I don’t have those things to ignore or deny. I am happy; truly and eerily joyous. I feel like a fundamental Christian who’s just been saved. I feel like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just gotten a new bike and an xBox. I feel like a woman who maybe, just maybe, could be falling in love.
In light of these recent developments it seems my muse—the fickle foul-weather bitch—has moved on to blacker pastures. And I have no clue how to get by without her. I try, I do, but my rhythm is off and the humor is gone and the pathos—let’s not even go there. I am a talentless hack and the whole world will see it very soon.
And the bitch of it, the absolute worst part that I cannot admit to anyone other than myself, is simple and unexpected to all but me:
I do not care as long as this high continues. Let me feel this feeling as long as possible and I never, ever need to write again, my heart begs.
If only she could pay the bills.
He does all the right things, like opening car doors, calling the day after the morning after, and on top of all that he is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And, yes, I do mean biblically. The first time he ever touched me I felt an instant chemical reaction and I knew right then: I was in big trouble.
And I am, but not in the way I expected. Not just yet. You see, the problem isn’t how very attracted I am to this man or how much he seems—for whatever reason—to really, really like me, too. The problem isn’t that he kisses like a Greek god or makes good coffee or seems to anticipate what I want or need. The problem isn’t that our work lives cross paths and we mutually and adamantly agree that no one needs to know. The problem isn’t that he’s looking for what I’m looking for and none of that seems to involve actually seeking but finding. The problem isn’t even that I’m more than a little terrified at how much I like him and could so very easily just fall into him and not look back.
No, the problem is that the better it gets, the worse my writing gets, and I’m afraid that unhappiness has been my muse and I didn’t even realize it.
I spent so many years yearning for what I could almost touch but knew on some level I never would again that I got comfortable in my longing. No, scratch that, I got beyond comfortable; I got good at it. I wrote passionately—perhaps because none existed elsewhere in my life. I wrote funny things—perhaps because so comparatively little in my life made me laugh. I wrote heartfelt essays, compassionate articles, and thoughtful features—perhaps because I had to turn my attention outward from my own heart to avoid and squash down the moldy taste of disappointment and unrequited living.
I spent so many years like that and now I find myself unprepared and untrained when I don’t have those things to ignore or deny. I am happy; truly and eerily joyous. I feel like a fundamental Christian who’s just been saved. I feel like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just gotten a new bike and an xBox. I feel like a woman who maybe, just maybe, could be falling in love.
In light of these recent developments it seems my muse—the fickle foul-weather bitch—has moved on to blacker pastures. And I have no clue how to get by without her. I try, I do, but my rhythm is off and the humor is gone and the pathos—let’s not even go there. I am a talentless hack and the whole world will see it very soon.
And the bitch of it, the absolute worst part that I cannot admit to anyone other than myself, is simple and unexpected to all but me:
I do not care as long as this high continues. Let me feel this feeling as long as possible and I never, ever need to write again, my heart begs.
If only she could pay the bills.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
How to Bury a Loved One
Notes on my death:
When I die, please do not:
1. Talk about how wonderful I was. Tell the truth. I was a bitch, but I loved you all, so it was OK.
2. Pay a priest or other man (or woman) of the cloth to either a) act as if they knew me or b) tell my "loved" ones that even though they didn't know me at all, they're sure I was wonderful. Please see #1; odds are I would not have liked the priest and he would have thought I was a bitch.
3. Allow anyone in my family to tell you what I wanted. Here's what I want: burn my ass and scatter it in water that stays above 70 degrees all year long. I have a savings account; take the money you don't use and have a lot of drinks. Oh, and Stace, get yourself wild berry gummy lifesavers.
4. Argue over what to do with my ashes. I will haunt all your asses, Poltergeist-style. Don't try me, people.
5. Do not, under ANY circumstances, attempt to have any sort of service or mass or what the FUCK ever. I have a clause in my will that the person who suggests this gets my bills and my extended family. You can handle my Visa but I assure you my uncles are a force all to themselves.
6. Do not call anyone not on this e-mail thread. You may all post a status on Facebook informing people of my untimely demise resulting from someone choking the living shit out of me (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's how it's going to go down) but that is all. Any tweets or phone calls with result in an Amityville-style mess of bullshit; real wrath-of-god type stuff.
When I die, please do:
1. Make certain my dog and other animals who live with me are cared for.
2. Refuse flowers, condolences, cards, e-mails, tweets, FB messages, letters, and donations from ANYONE who hasn't seen me in the past year. I cannot budge on this one, people.
3. Get the fuck along. I don't care if you all need to drink, everyone WILL make nice and love each other and hug and whatever. Anyone arguing gets the family, who I love but also have a genetic attachment to. See if you love them as much without the common DNA.
4. If anyone wants to disregard any of these wishes, go the hell along. Do NOT fight. I'll get their asses; I promise.
When I die, please do not:
1. Talk about how wonderful I was. Tell the truth. I was a bitch, but I loved you all, so it was OK.
2. Pay a priest or other man (or woman) of the cloth to either a) act as if they knew me or b) tell my "loved" ones that even though they didn't know me at all, they're sure I was wonderful. Please see #1; odds are I would not have liked the priest and he would have thought I was a bitch.
3. Allow anyone in my family to tell you what I wanted. Here's what I want: burn my ass and scatter it in water that stays above 70 degrees all year long. I have a savings account; take the money you don't use and have a lot of drinks. Oh, and Stace, get yourself wild berry gummy lifesavers.
4. Argue over what to do with my ashes. I will haunt all your asses, Poltergeist-style. Don't try me, people.
5. Do not, under ANY circumstances, attempt to have any sort of service or mass or what the FUCK ever. I have a clause in my will that the person who suggests this gets my bills and my extended family. You can handle my Visa but I assure you my uncles are a force all to themselves.
6. Do not call anyone not on this e-mail thread. You may all post a status on Facebook informing people of my untimely demise resulting from someone choking the living shit out of me (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's how it's going to go down) but that is all. Any tweets or phone calls with result in an Amityville-style mess of bullshit; real wrath-of-god type stuff.
When I die, please do:
1. Make certain my dog and other animals who live with me are cared for.
2. Refuse flowers, condolences, cards, e-mails, tweets, FB messages, letters, and donations from ANYONE who hasn't seen me in the past year. I cannot budge on this one, people.
3. Get the fuck along. I don't care if you all need to drink, everyone WILL make nice and love each other and hug and whatever. Anyone arguing gets the family, who I love but also have a genetic attachment to. See if you love them as much without the common DNA.
4. If anyone wants to disregard any of these wishes, go the hell along. Do NOT fight. I'll get their asses; I promise.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Ode to John Hughes
This is one of the best blog posts I've read and I wish I had written it.
As for me? I didn't care when Michael Jackson died and, while I feel bad for Ed McMahon's family, well, whatever. Walter Cronkite is a different story. He was a legend and an icon and there aren't any more like him, which is sad.
But John Hughes? I'm 36 years old and those teen angst movies are still among my favorites. You know, the kind you'd take to a desert island to watch over and over again.
Maybe it's a generational thing to say (read: Cathy's getting old) but they don't make movies like The Breakfast Club or St. Elmo's Fire anymore. Everything's about bigger, louder, more impressive instead of story and plot and theme. The one exception? "Art films" that people in brown turtleneck sweaters and dark jeans talk about at length while sucking on unfiltered cigarettes, wearing dark lipstick, and bemoaning their bourgeois station in life and the bad luck they have not to have been born with more angst in their life.
Nobody makes happy-funny movies anymore. Hughes knew his format and his dialogue and timing. He knew that life has enough sadness and pain an angst all on its own without having to show it to people in movies, too.
Goodbye, Mr. Hughes. Thank you for the laughter.
As for me? I didn't care when Michael Jackson died and, while I feel bad for Ed McMahon's family, well, whatever. Walter Cronkite is a different story. He was a legend and an icon and there aren't any more like him, which is sad.
But John Hughes? I'm 36 years old and those teen angst movies are still among my favorites. You know, the kind you'd take to a desert island to watch over and over again.
Maybe it's a generational thing to say (read: Cathy's getting old) but they don't make movies like The Breakfast Club or St. Elmo's Fire anymore. Everything's about bigger, louder, more impressive instead of story and plot and theme. The one exception? "Art films" that people in brown turtleneck sweaters and dark jeans talk about at length while sucking on unfiltered cigarettes, wearing dark lipstick, and bemoaning their bourgeois station in life and the bad luck they have not to have been born with more angst in their life.
Nobody makes happy-funny movies anymore. Hughes knew his format and his dialogue and timing. He knew that life has enough sadness and pain an angst all on its own without having to show it to people in movies, too.
Goodbye, Mr. Hughes. Thank you for the laughter.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
10 Rules For Sailing
OK, so it's late and I'm cranky (how many of my posts start with that line?) but I feel like we all need to come to jesus about something here. Namely, appropriate behavior while you're on a sailboat on which I am lucky enough to work as crew. I know it seems unnecessary. I once thought so, too, but trust me, it is not. So here are ten simple rules that will keep me from kicking your touristy ass back to Nebraska while you're on my boat:
10. At no time whatsoever are you and your significant other to make your way to the bow of the boat and re-enact any scene from Titanic. Why? Well, three reasons: one, it's a stupid scene; B, it's bad joujou to pretend you're on the Titanic while you're on another boat; and three, you are on a way cooler boat than the Titanic. Namely because we don't hit icebergs and kill people, but there are other reasons, too.
9. Do NOT shit in the head. Why would you do this? Are you not in control of your bodily functions? Remember that rule, the one where I have to flush the head, not you? Let me clue you in on something: There's a reason I do not now and never will have children- I don't deal well with other people's shit. I would really rather see you shit yourself than flush after you. If you must defecate, please remember to tip the crew at least $30. That is our minimum fee.
8. Harness your children. No, I am not speaking metaphorically, I would love to see them tethered to you at all times while on a boat. This includes anyone under the age of 13 and few spring breakers. If you can or will not harness your spawn, we reserve the right to do so for you.
7. Please do NOT offer to help me. Serial, people, do you know how angry it makes me to see you sitting there, sucking down a Miller High Life, offering to help me raise the main on a 50+-foot mast? You don't look like you're in prime condition, Tubby, and just because you have a penis does not necessarily guarantee that you will do any better than I am at hoisting the main. Yes, I know I'm a girl. Yes, I know I'm short. Yes, I know it looks hard. That's because I am, I am, and it is. But I'm at the gym a minimum of five days a week. When's the last time you went? Back off, Bucko. I don't need your help. You wanna help me? Tip me. Generously.
6. Don't assume the captain and I are married. While, on many trips, we poke at each other relentlessly and seem like we can't stand each other and I can understand how many of you would mistake this relationship for wedded bliss, rest assured that the only way we do NOT kill each other is by going home to our respective lives at the end of the day.
5. Here's a suggestion quasi-related: do not ask me why I am not married, as I will likely answer "because I'm not stupid" and that will probably just piss you off. Along those lines, please don't ask me any personal questions. My marital status, my children or lack thereof, and how much money I make on the boat are really not any of your business. I will lie if you ask these questions, and the lies I tell will be geared at getting the most tip money out of you, so, really, why bother?
4. Here are the answers to some questions I know you will ask, so let's get them out of the way now because if I must answer them one more time I will scream: yes, it really is the best job in the world (despite my bitching here) and no, it isn't enough to live on but we all make trade-offs as we go through life, don't we?
3. I don't know where the dolphin are. We have no fucking clue. It's a bloody miracle when we find them at all.
2. No, they're NOT playful creatures, they're actually pretty vicious. They have good publicists, though, so we're not really allowed to tell you about how they sometimes rape their females or kill other species of dolphin.
1. PLEASE don't try and help us sail the boat. I don't care if your uncle had a sunfish when you were three. You really don't know what you're doing and if you touch our lines we are completely justified in killing you. It's the law of the sea. Really.
10. At no time whatsoever are you and your significant other to make your way to the bow of the boat and re-enact any scene from Titanic. Why? Well, three reasons: one, it's a stupid scene; B, it's bad joujou to pretend you're on the Titanic while you're on another boat; and three, you are on a way cooler boat than the Titanic. Namely because we don't hit icebergs and kill people, but there are other reasons, too.
9. Do NOT shit in the head. Why would you do this? Are you not in control of your bodily functions? Remember that rule, the one where I have to flush the head, not you? Let me clue you in on something: There's a reason I do not now and never will have children- I don't deal well with other people's shit. I would really rather see you shit yourself than flush after you. If you must defecate, please remember to tip the crew at least $30. That is our minimum fee.
8. Harness your children. No, I am not speaking metaphorically, I would love to see them tethered to you at all times while on a boat. This includes anyone under the age of 13 and few spring breakers. If you can or will not harness your spawn, we reserve the right to do so for you.
7. Please do NOT offer to help me. Serial, people, do you know how angry it makes me to see you sitting there, sucking down a Miller High Life, offering to help me raise the main on a 50+-foot mast? You don't look like you're in prime condition, Tubby, and just because you have a penis does not necessarily guarantee that you will do any better than I am at hoisting the main. Yes, I know I'm a girl. Yes, I know I'm short. Yes, I know it looks hard. That's because I am, I am, and it is. But I'm at the gym a minimum of five days a week. When's the last time you went? Back off, Bucko. I don't need your help. You wanna help me? Tip me. Generously.
6. Don't assume the captain and I are married. While, on many trips, we poke at each other relentlessly and seem like we can't stand each other and I can understand how many of you would mistake this relationship for wedded bliss, rest assured that the only way we do NOT kill each other is by going home to our respective lives at the end of the day.
5. Here's a suggestion quasi-related: do not ask me why I am not married, as I will likely answer "because I'm not stupid" and that will probably just piss you off. Along those lines, please don't ask me any personal questions. My marital status, my children or lack thereof, and how much money I make on the boat are really not any of your business. I will lie if you ask these questions, and the lies I tell will be geared at getting the most tip money out of you, so, really, why bother?
4. Here are the answers to some questions I know you will ask, so let's get them out of the way now because if I must answer them one more time I will scream: yes, it really is the best job in the world (despite my bitching here) and no, it isn't enough to live on but we all make trade-offs as we go through life, don't we?
3. I don't know where the dolphin are. We have no fucking clue. It's a bloody miracle when we find them at all.
2. No, they're NOT playful creatures, they're actually pretty vicious. They have good publicists, though, so we're not really allowed to tell you about how they sometimes rape their females or kill other species of dolphin.
1. PLEASE don't try and help us sail the boat. I don't care if your uncle had a sunfish when you were three. You really don't know what you're doing and if you touch our lines we are completely justified in killing you. It's the law of the sea. Really.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
How to Waste a Day
So, after a week-plus of nonstop rain, during which time I rail against, in no particular order, god, the flying spaghetti monster and the Klystron 9 radar at Bay News 9, how do I spend the first day of sunshine along the beaches in this fine, fine county?
I'll give you three guesses and any of them involving something sensible, such as "going outside so I lose the vampire-like pasty sheen my skin has developed, scaring young children and making dogs quiver with primal fear" do not count because, as I believe we've established, I don't always make the smartest choices.
No, no, no... I go in search of two things that I have decided I needed. I search for reusable ice cubes and a Terry's Chocolate Orange.
The resuable ice is easy to understand. I live in a broom closet. Granted, it's a broom closet with fantastic light situated two blocks (ish) from the Gulf of Mexico, but no amount of paint or fancy wordsmithiness changes the fact that the place under the stairs where Harry Potter slept in the first book would give this place a run for its money, square footage-wise.
As part of my concession to this spatially-challenged domicile, I do not have what most might call a full size refrigerator. Don't misunderstand, it's bigger than dorm room refrigerators, but I'm not fixing Thanksgiving dinner out of this little bitty Kenmore anytime soon. It lacks a proper freezer, which is to say it has a metal box inside the fridge itself. This itsy bitsy metal box has a separate door (which is a generous way of describing it, as it neither latches nor closes completely) and can fit an ice cube tray and, if I get creative and employ some of the higher laws of physics, a bag of Publix shrimp.
The problem? I can only make six cubes at a time IF I put another empty tray on top of the ice cube tray, and even then only half the bottom tray freezes.
So I'm looking for reusable ice cubes. Wal-Mart, Publix and the Dollar Store can't help me. If anyone out there knows where I can find some, please let me know.
Now, onto the chocolate orange.
Friday night the rain cleared ever-so-briefly and C, Calypso and I went down to the beach for a bit, after which we decided ice cream sounded good. Because I was too tired to think about what I wanted and because I was very cognizant that C had his ice cream outside with Calypso, who won a gold medal in begging and stealing food, I defaulted to a chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles. It was quick and easy and when I returned Calypso was NOT covered in ice cream.
C, however, opted for an interesting combination: orange sherbet and chocolate. That got me thinking about the Terry's Chocolate Oranges we used to get my future ex-father-in-law at Christmas. They were milk chocolate shaped like an orange and they tasted like orange flavored chocolate and I loved them so very, very much.
So Saturday morning dawned, bright and beautiful, and I did some cursory grocery shopping when a teeny tiny rainstorm blew through. Almost as an afterthought, I went to the candy aisle in Publix to get a chocolate orange. After all, I used to see them everywhere.
Nada. Nope. Nothing.
The sun comes out. Do I notice? Hell, yes, I notice, but I really want a chocolate orange, so I drive to Candy Kitchen on Madeira Beach, where you can find all kinds of candies, ranging from those little red fish to wax Coke bottle candies, but no chocolate orange.
Then I try Wal-Mart, CVS and another Publix and before I know it I have to be back at work. I call my mom and get her to check at Target.
Nothing.
First sunny day all week and I spend three hours driving around looking for a chocolate orange. Given the history of diabetes in my family, some might say this is indicative of a problem.
I like to think I just possess great focus.
I'll give you three guesses and any of them involving something sensible, such as "going outside so I lose the vampire-like pasty sheen my skin has developed, scaring young children and making dogs quiver with primal fear" do not count because, as I believe we've established, I don't always make the smartest choices.
No, no, no... I go in search of two things that I have decided I needed. I search for reusable ice cubes and a Terry's Chocolate Orange.
The resuable ice is easy to understand. I live in a broom closet. Granted, it's a broom closet with fantastic light situated two blocks (ish) from the Gulf of Mexico, but no amount of paint or fancy wordsmithiness changes the fact that the place under the stairs where Harry Potter slept in the first book would give this place a run for its money, square footage-wise.
As part of my concession to this spatially-challenged domicile, I do not have what most might call a full size refrigerator. Don't misunderstand, it's bigger than dorm room refrigerators, but I'm not fixing Thanksgiving dinner out of this little bitty Kenmore anytime soon. It lacks a proper freezer, which is to say it has a metal box inside the fridge itself. This itsy bitsy metal box has a separate door (which is a generous way of describing it, as it neither latches nor closes completely) and can fit an ice cube tray and, if I get creative and employ some of the higher laws of physics, a bag of Publix shrimp.
The problem? I can only make six cubes at a time IF I put another empty tray on top of the ice cube tray, and even then only half the bottom tray freezes.
So I'm looking for reusable ice cubes. Wal-Mart, Publix and the Dollar Store can't help me. If anyone out there knows where I can find some, please let me know.
Now, onto the chocolate orange.
Friday night the rain cleared ever-so-briefly and C, Calypso and I went down to the beach for a bit, after which we decided ice cream sounded good. Because I was too tired to think about what I wanted and because I was very cognizant that C had his ice cream outside with Calypso, who won a gold medal in begging and stealing food, I defaulted to a chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles. It was quick and easy and when I returned Calypso was NOT covered in ice cream.
C, however, opted for an interesting combination: orange sherbet and chocolate. That got me thinking about the Terry's Chocolate Oranges we used to get my future ex-father-in-law at Christmas. They were milk chocolate shaped like an orange and they tasted like orange flavored chocolate and I loved them so very, very much.
So Saturday morning dawned, bright and beautiful, and I did some cursory grocery shopping when a teeny tiny rainstorm blew through. Almost as an afterthought, I went to the candy aisle in Publix to get a chocolate orange. After all, I used to see them everywhere.
Nada. Nope. Nothing.
The sun comes out. Do I notice? Hell, yes, I notice, but I really want a chocolate orange, so I drive to Candy Kitchen on Madeira Beach, where you can find all kinds of candies, ranging from those little red fish to wax Coke bottle candies, but no chocolate orange.
Then I try Wal-Mart, CVS and another Publix and before I know it I have to be back at work. I call my mom and get her to check at Target.
Nothing.
First sunny day all week and I spend three hours driving around looking for a chocolate orange. Given the history of diabetes in my family, some might say this is indicative of a problem.
I like to think I just possess great focus.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Conversation From the Gate of Heaven
Scene: Gate of Heaven, exterior, day. God sits at pearlized desk in flowing robes, reader glasses on the bridge of his nose. He's wearing red Converse high tops and a Devil Rays cap.
God: So, what gift did I give you?
Me: You gave me the ability to craft words.
God: Ah, yes, I remember now. That's a lovely gift, isn't it? And so many ask me for that one. They have such dreams... so sad that I can't give it to everyone. There was this young lady- Emily Dickinson. She used to ask me every day for talent. But it wasn't in the cards for her. So many people write... novels, poetry, investigative pieces, they're all out there for the taking and so many people try to write these things. But they, unlike you, don't have the talent.
Me (shuffling feet): Yes, you were quite generous with me.
God: Now, that's what I like to hear. Tell me what you wrote; tell me how you used this gift to make people smile or weep.
Me (edging toward gate of heaven): Ah, well, see, here's the thing... I never actually finished anything like that. (Quickly) I wanted to, but, uh, see, you gave me such a gift that I was able to make a living writing, and I always felt guilty writing things that I thought were just for me. Indulgent, really. You, uh, don't like too much indulgence, do you?
God: Well, don't let this out (chuckles at own joke) but, well, indulgence has its place. And, of course, you know those things you didn't write because you were making money writing other things--they would have been lovely and I would have helped you get them published.
Me: Really? I mean, you know agents and stuff? (Catches self, stops, clears throat) What I meant was, oh. Thank you. And I'm sorry.
God: Oh, no need to be sorry. You wrote; you used the gift. What did you write?
Me: Uh, I wrote for a weekly paper.
God: (claps hands together eagerly) Oh, a journalist! The fourth estate! How lovely. I bet you did investigative pieces, didn't you? You probably saved lives with an expose of the sausage industry or something like that, didn't you? Oh, how noble to sacrifice your personal writing to turn in pieces that changed the world around you. Did you save any babies? I love it when reporters save babies with something they've written!
Me (sweating now): You're toying with me, aren't you?
God: Pardon? Didn't you save people?
Me: Er, not exactly.
God: Well, what did you do with this gift I gave you?
Me: I reported on local news.
God: You mean, local investigative pieces? Oh, well, not to worry. Many small-town reporters don't feel like they made a difference, but trust me, they do. I mean, I do kind of know most everything.
Me: (chuckles nervously) Heh. Glad you think so.
God: So tell me, what's the last thing you wrote?
Me: Erm, uh, well, I was working on my column when, uh, I died.
God: (claps hands as a child would) Oh, goody. I love opinion pieces. I bet you were well-thought-out and logical and made points that changed people's way of seeing the world.
Me (under my breath): I'll take that bet.
God: What was the column about, anyway?
Me: Well, I'm not really comfortable discussing a work in progress...
God (sighs): Writers. OK, what was the last one about?
Me: Mooring fields and boats.
God: Boats?
Me: Uh, yeah. (Gets excited) I talked about people who didn't like boats and how they should move out of Florida.
God: And, um, what did you expect to change with that column?
Me: Um, it was more of a venting thing.
God: Could I see a copy of last week's paper, please?
Archangel enters stage left, hands God newspaper, exits stage right. God thumbs through paper.
God: I see you discuss moving the city's kayak launch and reviewed Little Mary Sunshine.
Me: Um, yes.
God: OOOH! And here's something really riveting- a photo of two musicians eating cheese. (clears throat) Would you care to explain, Miss Salustri, exactly what you did with your me-given talent?
Me: You're looking at it, sir.
God: This is IT? Emily Dickinson, Chelsea Handler, David Sedaris--they all would have killed for your talent. And what do you do with it? Review community theatre? Write about kayak launches? Tell people to move?
Me: I'm going to hell, aren't I, sir?
God: No, not exactly. I'm sending you back to write for Fox News.
God: So, what gift did I give you?
Me: You gave me the ability to craft words.
God: Ah, yes, I remember now. That's a lovely gift, isn't it? And so many ask me for that one. They have such dreams... so sad that I can't give it to everyone. There was this young lady- Emily Dickinson. She used to ask me every day for talent. But it wasn't in the cards for her. So many people write... novels, poetry, investigative pieces, they're all out there for the taking and so many people try to write these things. But they, unlike you, don't have the talent.
Me (shuffling feet): Yes, you were quite generous with me.
God: Now, that's what I like to hear. Tell me what you wrote; tell me how you used this gift to make people smile or weep.
Me (edging toward gate of heaven): Ah, well, see, here's the thing... I never actually finished anything like that. (Quickly) I wanted to, but, uh, see, you gave me such a gift that I was able to make a living writing, and I always felt guilty writing things that I thought were just for me. Indulgent, really. You, uh, don't like too much indulgence, do you?
God: Well, don't let this out (chuckles at own joke) but, well, indulgence has its place. And, of course, you know those things you didn't write because you were making money writing other things--they would have been lovely and I would have helped you get them published.
Me: Really? I mean, you know agents and stuff? (Catches self, stops, clears throat) What I meant was, oh. Thank you. And I'm sorry.
God: Oh, no need to be sorry. You wrote; you used the gift. What did you write?
Me: Uh, I wrote for a weekly paper.
God: (claps hands together eagerly) Oh, a journalist! The fourth estate! How lovely. I bet you did investigative pieces, didn't you? You probably saved lives with an expose of the sausage industry or something like that, didn't you? Oh, how noble to sacrifice your personal writing to turn in pieces that changed the world around you. Did you save any babies? I love it when reporters save babies with something they've written!
Me (sweating now): You're toying with me, aren't you?
God: Pardon? Didn't you save people?
Me: Er, not exactly.
God: Well, what did you do with this gift I gave you?
Me: I reported on local news.
God: You mean, local investigative pieces? Oh, well, not to worry. Many small-town reporters don't feel like they made a difference, but trust me, they do. I mean, I do kind of know most everything.
Me: (chuckles nervously) Heh. Glad you think so.
God: So tell me, what's the last thing you wrote?
Me: Erm, uh, well, I was working on my column when, uh, I died.
God: (claps hands as a child would) Oh, goody. I love opinion pieces. I bet you were well-thought-out and logical and made points that changed people's way of seeing the world.
Me (under my breath): I'll take that bet.
God: What was the column about, anyway?
Me: Well, I'm not really comfortable discussing a work in progress...
God (sighs): Writers. OK, what was the last one about?
Me: Mooring fields and boats.
God: Boats?
Me: Uh, yeah. (Gets excited) I talked about people who didn't like boats and how they should move out of Florida.
God: And, um, what did you expect to change with that column?
Me: Um, it was more of a venting thing.
God: Could I see a copy of last week's paper, please?
Archangel enters stage left, hands God newspaper, exits stage right. God thumbs through paper.
God: I see you discuss moving the city's kayak launch and reviewed Little Mary Sunshine.
Me: Um, yes.
God: OOOH! And here's something really riveting- a photo of two musicians eating cheese. (clears throat) Would you care to explain, Miss Salustri, exactly what you did with your me-given talent?
Me: You're looking at it, sir.
God: This is IT? Emily Dickinson, Chelsea Handler, David Sedaris--they all would have killed for your talent. And what do you do with it? Review community theatre? Write about kayak launches? Tell people to move?
Me: I'm going to hell, aren't I, sir?
God: No, not exactly. I'm sending you back to write for Fox News.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Forever Days
You know how when you're a kid you think everything lasts forever? You have no sense of termination. It was forever until Christmas, a day without your best friend lasted forever, and if you got grounded for a weekend (as I frequently did), it was the end of the world because a weekend was forever.
It worked the other way, too. There was no sense of anyone you loved going away. Your parents, grandparents, your family--they would all be around forever. In an eight-year-old mind, no one dies, no one goes away, and everyone stays friends forever. That's what all that "best friends forever" stuff meant.
I want to be eight again. Or ten. Ten was a really, really good year. Just because I work with people who have aged less years than there are between me and ten years old doesn't matter, I remember being ten.
Ten was way before boys and cars and anything like that. Oh, there were boys, but they were mostly something to be giggled over instead of fought over. Ten was a pretty good age to sit around and play games and ride our bikes and have sleepovers and stay up late. I think by the time I was ten I had met all the girl friends I would stay in touch with over the years.
I'm not so much for girl friends. After I discovered boys it seems like all my girl-girl relationships grew increasingly bogged down by jealousies, competition, and who had the biggest chest. I turned my focus to boys and squeezed my girl friends in between crushes and boyfriends.
Those of you who know me well, truly well, know that I don't have a good history with girls. In fact, most of the women I was close to in high school and college I want nothing to do with. I had eight friends in high school that I talked to every day, ate lunch with, slept over at their houses, cried over teenage tragedies with, and grew up with. Some of them have gone way too far upriver (I mean Colonel Kurtz kind of stuff) and some have just fallen away. After a series of hideous falling outs I decided that women were just evil and I was better off without them.
A few years ago I met Shelly and cautiously--very cautiously--we became friends. I figured that since she was gay it wasn't technically like having a girl friend. Which is about the stupidest thing you can think, because Shelly's actually better at being a girl friend than most women I've met, straight or gay. She is, in fact, such I good friend that I start to hang out with her and, on occasion, her friends and her girlfriend.
Since I judge people instantly (I'm not proud, just honest) I assumed they were... well, let's just say I assumed they were the sort of people they most assuredly are not. I spent a few years on the fringes, but the more I got to know them the more I really, really liked them.
And the more time I spend with them the more I can't believe that there are girls like this in the world. First off, you must know this: Shelly has the most beautiful friends. Leah, Stacey, Maria and Amanda look exactly like the girls at the cool table in high school and they dress like Sex in the City. They've all known each other since, apparently, infancy. They're warm, genuine, funny women and I feel honored that they so readily include me.
I'd pretty much given up on the whole girlfriend thing, too, but spending time with them made me miss people I'd written off and it got me thinking about that word, forever. People I thought would be around forever when I was a kid... aren't. People I love die. People I love get old. In the past year I've watched people die that, even as an adult, I assumed would be around if not forever, well, then, for a good long while.
Let me tell you about my friend Dee. I met Dee when I was nine and we were going into 5th grade at Belleair Elementary. No, dinosaurs did NOT roam the earth back then, but electricity was still pretty new. Anyway, I digress... Dee lived with her mom and her sister, but no dad. Dee's dad was so long ago out of the picture that Dee didn't remember him. She didn't know where her dad was. Her mom never dated, never--to my knowledge--even looked at other men.
When Dee grew up she hired a private investigator to find her dad, which I believe her mom was not at all happy about. Dee and her dad started talking and eventually her dad came to visit. Dee's mother was less happy about this.
Here's where it gets really interesting: The moment Dee's mom and dad saw each other--the very INSTANT--it was like nothing had ever happened. From all I've heard it was love at first sight all over again. To make a long story short, they remarried and lived happily ever after.
But "ever after" isn't the same as forever after. After a lifetime apart and a scant ten years together, Dee's dad died this year. I can't even comprehend what it would be like to not grow up with a dad or to lose your love and then find them again only to have him taken away after such a short time.
I can, however, imagine losing people I love.
When I turned 30 my future former sister-in-law told me that women spent their twenties focusing on men and their thirties focusing on themselves. I agree with her but she left something out: the older I get the more I need my girl friends. It's a wholly selfish need.
I have a friend from the "forever days" that I had a falling out with about ten years ago. She wronged me and, god help me, it must be genetic, I have hung onto that for near a decade, like it was a badge or excuse for everything that followed. I was the injured party, I was the one hurt, I was the one who deserved some sort of reparations.
The problem was that I missed her so damn much. Things would happen and I'd want to pick up the phone and then I'd remember that I didn't know where she was and, oh, yeah, that's because I'd cut her out of my life.
Except I hadn't. There are people you can cut out of your life and it doesn't matter. Trust me; I am by now an expert. But there are people--usually from those "forever days"--that you can't slice out of your life so easily. You've grown up together, you've made mistakes together, you've been stupid and smart and fat and thin and married and divorced and whatever together, and sometimes you have people so enmeshed in your life that when things happen to you, they affect them, too, and when things happen to them, they impact you just as much.
So when she called me last year I did not, as I often swore I would, hang up. I listened and she talked and she listened and I talked and after we hung up I went over to Shelly's house. Without naming names I told her about the falling out and the phone call. And Shelly didn't tell me what to do, not even a little bit, but she did, gently, suggest that it wasn't a horrible thing to forgive somebody. She offered that it cost more to hold onto things than it did to let them go.
Gradually this friend and I started to talk again and I still held on to a little bit of the past. No harm in remembering, right? All along, I'm still a little bit wronged, a little bit the one hurt, a little bit hanging on.
My aunt was supposed to be around forever. She died a few years ago, way, way too young.
Tom Merrifield died just a few months ago. He wasn't even 60.
Dee's dad was gone for years and years and he came back and they had him for ten years, but he died this year.
So I think about the people I've cut out of my life and picture hearing that they'd died and by and large I've made the right decisions. But this one friend--this friend from the "forever days," I can't see it. The idea of just getting a phone call when she dies, of not knowing her, not being her friend--I can't do it. I don't want to do it.
In the face of forever, I don't care if I'm right or she is or who did what to who. I really, really don't. Because as I get older I start to realize what matters isn't being right, it's being happy. I say that a lot; it's a quote I love: I'd rather be happy than right any day. I could die tomorrow, or she could, or anyone I love could be gone, and then what? There will always be time to regret what I could have done. I most certainly will regret things in my life; I already regret a whole host of things. But I refuse to regret this.
I do not wish to remarry and I do not want children of my own. I have no brothers or sisters. Men are nice--don't get me wrong, men are very nice, quite lovely--but there is something irreplaceable about a girl friend.
A group of us celebrated my birthday last night, and I looked around the table and it was just... nice.
Laura. Dee. Sandi. Amanda. Shelly. Maricris. Leah. Stacey. There's no competition anymore. As you hover around 40, no one wants to have the biggest chest, because really, that's just a liability. Jealousy? Of what? We've all carved out the lives we want. No one wants my life but me, and I don't want any of their lives, but that doesn't mean we're not happy for each other.
Have we hurt each other? I'm sure almost everyone at that table last night has hurt someone else at that table in some way, but I think everyone there understands that having and being a friend is like riding a bike: you might fall, you might get hurt, but you keep at it because at the end what matters isn't that you fell but that you had a wonderful ride.
It worked the other way, too. There was no sense of anyone you loved going away. Your parents, grandparents, your family--they would all be around forever. In an eight-year-old mind, no one dies, no one goes away, and everyone stays friends forever. That's what all that "best friends forever" stuff meant.
I want to be eight again. Or ten. Ten was a really, really good year. Just because I work with people who have aged less years than there are between me and ten years old doesn't matter, I remember being ten.
Ten was way before boys and cars and anything like that. Oh, there were boys, but they were mostly something to be giggled over instead of fought over. Ten was a pretty good age to sit around and play games and ride our bikes and have sleepovers and stay up late. I think by the time I was ten I had met all the girl friends I would stay in touch with over the years.
I'm not so much for girl friends. After I discovered boys it seems like all my girl-girl relationships grew increasingly bogged down by jealousies, competition, and who had the biggest chest. I turned my focus to boys and squeezed my girl friends in between crushes and boyfriends.
Those of you who know me well, truly well, know that I don't have a good history with girls. In fact, most of the women I was close to in high school and college I want nothing to do with. I had eight friends in high school that I talked to every day, ate lunch with, slept over at their houses, cried over teenage tragedies with, and grew up with. Some of them have gone way too far upriver (I mean Colonel Kurtz kind of stuff) and some have just fallen away. After a series of hideous falling outs I decided that women were just evil and I was better off without them.
A few years ago I met Shelly and cautiously--very cautiously--we became friends. I figured that since she was gay it wasn't technically like having a girl friend. Which is about the stupidest thing you can think, because Shelly's actually better at being a girl friend than most women I've met, straight or gay. She is, in fact, such I good friend that I start to hang out with her and, on occasion, her friends and her girlfriend.
Since I judge people instantly (I'm not proud, just honest) I assumed they were... well, let's just say I assumed they were the sort of people they most assuredly are not. I spent a few years on the fringes, but the more I got to know them the more I really, really liked them.
And the more time I spend with them the more I can't believe that there are girls like this in the world. First off, you must know this: Shelly has the most beautiful friends. Leah, Stacey, Maria and Amanda look exactly like the girls at the cool table in high school and they dress like Sex in the City. They've all known each other since, apparently, infancy. They're warm, genuine, funny women and I feel honored that they so readily include me.
I'd pretty much given up on the whole girlfriend thing, too, but spending time with them made me miss people I'd written off and it got me thinking about that word, forever. People I thought would be around forever when I was a kid... aren't. People I love die. People I love get old. In the past year I've watched people die that, even as an adult, I assumed would be around if not forever, well, then, for a good long while.
Let me tell you about my friend Dee. I met Dee when I was nine and we were going into 5th grade at Belleair Elementary. No, dinosaurs did NOT roam the earth back then, but electricity was still pretty new. Anyway, I digress... Dee lived with her mom and her sister, but no dad. Dee's dad was so long ago out of the picture that Dee didn't remember him. She didn't know where her dad was. Her mom never dated, never--to my knowledge--even looked at other men.
When Dee grew up she hired a private investigator to find her dad, which I believe her mom was not at all happy about. Dee and her dad started talking and eventually her dad came to visit. Dee's mother was less happy about this.
Here's where it gets really interesting: The moment Dee's mom and dad saw each other--the very INSTANT--it was like nothing had ever happened. From all I've heard it was love at first sight all over again. To make a long story short, they remarried and lived happily ever after.
But "ever after" isn't the same as forever after. After a lifetime apart and a scant ten years together, Dee's dad died this year. I can't even comprehend what it would be like to not grow up with a dad or to lose your love and then find them again only to have him taken away after such a short time.
I can, however, imagine losing people I love.
When I turned 30 my future former sister-in-law told me that women spent their twenties focusing on men and their thirties focusing on themselves. I agree with her but she left something out: the older I get the more I need my girl friends. It's a wholly selfish need.
I have a friend from the "forever days" that I had a falling out with about ten years ago. She wronged me and, god help me, it must be genetic, I have hung onto that for near a decade, like it was a badge or excuse for everything that followed. I was the injured party, I was the one hurt, I was the one who deserved some sort of reparations.
The problem was that I missed her so damn much. Things would happen and I'd want to pick up the phone and then I'd remember that I didn't know where she was and, oh, yeah, that's because I'd cut her out of my life.
Except I hadn't. There are people you can cut out of your life and it doesn't matter. Trust me; I am by now an expert. But there are people--usually from those "forever days"--that you can't slice out of your life so easily. You've grown up together, you've made mistakes together, you've been stupid and smart and fat and thin and married and divorced and whatever together, and sometimes you have people so enmeshed in your life that when things happen to you, they affect them, too, and when things happen to them, they impact you just as much.
So when she called me last year I did not, as I often swore I would, hang up. I listened and she talked and she listened and I talked and after we hung up I went over to Shelly's house. Without naming names I told her about the falling out and the phone call. And Shelly didn't tell me what to do, not even a little bit, but she did, gently, suggest that it wasn't a horrible thing to forgive somebody. She offered that it cost more to hold onto things than it did to let them go.
Gradually this friend and I started to talk again and I still held on to a little bit of the past. No harm in remembering, right? All along, I'm still a little bit wronged, a little bit the one hurt, a little bit hanging on.
My aunt was supposed to be around forever. She died a few years ago, way, way too young.
Tom Merrifield died just a few months ago. He wasn't even 60.
Dee's dad was gone for years and years and he came back and they had him for ten years, but he died this year.
So I think about the people I've cut out of my life and picture hearing that they'd died and by and large I've made the right decisions. But this one friend--this friend from the "forever days," I can't see it. The idea of just getting a phone call when she dies, of not knowing her, not being her friend--I can't do it. I don't want to do it.
In the face of forever, I don't care if I'm right or she is or who did what to who. I really, really don't. Because as I get older I start to realize what matters isn't being right, it's being happy. I say that a lot; it's a quote I love: I'd rather be happy than right any day. I could die tomorrow, or she could, or anyone I love could be gone, and then what? There will always be time to regret what I could have done. I most certainly will regret things in my life; I already regret a whole host of things. But I refuse to regret this.
I do not wish to remarry and I do not want children of my own. I have no brothers or sisters. Men are nice--don't get me wrong, men are very nice, quite lovely--but there is something irreplaceable about a girl friend.
A group of us celebrated my birthday last night, and I looked around the table and it was just... nice.
Laura. Dee. Sandi. Amanda. Shelly. Maricris. Leah. Stacey. There's no competition anymore. As you hover around 40, no one wants to have the biggest chest, because really, that's just a liability. Jealousy? Of what? We've all carved out the lives we want. No one wants my life but me, and I don't want any of their lives, but that doesn't mean we're not happy for each other.
Have we hurt each other? I'm sure almost everyone at that table last night has hurt someone else at that table in some way, but I think everyone there understands that having and being a friend is like riding a bike: you might fall, you might get hurt, but you keep at it because at the end what matters isn't that you fell but that you had a wonderful ride.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Tom Merrifield: A Celebration of Life
I hate funerals. Even when people call them "a celebration of so-and-so's life," you can't hide what's going on: someone has died and some people are sad, some people feel guilty, and some people feel guilty that they don't feel sad.
Tom Merrifield died last month. October 25, to be precise. I'm going to go ahead and assume that most of you don't know him by name, which is OK. He was the guy who owned the banner towing planes that puttered up and down the Pinellas beaches for the past 30 years.
God, he could be a jerk.
What, you want me to lie? Have we MET? The guy was harsh with people at times.
A local beach paper ran a short article about Tom and made him sound like a friggin' saint. Why can't people just stand up and say, "Man, the guy was kind of an asshole, but that's what I liked about him. He was a decent guy who happened to be human, he had a scary need for companionship, he often spoke derisively to his friends, and once he pissed me off so badly I threw him out of my car, but you know what? The world needs more people like him, because at least he was real and not some bullshit chex mix/soccer mom/bridge playing motherfucker?"
In case you're wondering, yes, we had words on more than one occasion. The last time he and I spoke he got made at me, but then he calmed himself down and we talked for about an hour. And one of the very last things he said to me was that he wanted people to sit around at his funeral and talk about "One time, with Tom..." and remember him that way.
His friends "celebrated his life" a month after his death (today) so here goes...
One time, with Tom, we drove out to an airfield in Kissimmee and I backed the trailer over part of a gas pump.
One time, with Tom, we rented a boat and went fishing one of the artificial reefs. It was the first time I saw flying fish, and dolphin rode our bow wave.
One time, with Tom, we went kingfishing and we ended up bludgeoning the kingfish so badly--it would NOT die--that if FWC saw our boat we would have gone to jail for murder while they launched a massive search for the body. Note on that one: after we beat the hell out of this fish it still flopped around in the cooler for a full five minutes.
More than one time with Tom, we went fishing every week out of Tierra Verde. He loved to fish; he obsessed over fishing. He would buy different line and it wasn't enough that he had it, he'd put it on our lines, too. He'd fish off the seawall at the end of 18 at SPG; he'd fish off the dock at Tierra Verde while we waited for a boat. Of course, on at least one occasion I had to take the fish off the hook for him, but he loved the fishing part.
One time with Tom he bought Tom (another Tom) a crab trap and we put it out while we fished and then pulled it out later... and got a cowfish and spider crabs.
One time, because of Tom Merrifield, I had the coolest summer job in the world: banner towing ground crew. Without sounding too hippy-dippy, he understood what it meant to "follow your bliss."
As usual, now that he's gone people will realize what they couldn't appreciate while he was alive (I think sometimes his mouth didn't help, either, which is what I loved about him so much, I recognized a kindred spirit): he was a good guy. He was an asshole, he was a moody sonofabitch, but he was a good guy, and I am a better person for having known him. He helped me be who I am right now, and for that alone I should have told him while he was alive how much I appreciated him. He treated his friends well and when he liked you, you would not want for anything and he would work his brain double and triple time to find a way to solve your problems. Since he was a very, very smart man, he usually came up with a pretty viable solution.
I'm not saying this well and I'm not saying it very eloquently at all, but let's leave it at this: he used to hassle me about not dressing up and wearing high heels and a dress and makeup. Not only did I go to his funeral, the only one I've been to in almost ten years, I wore a dress, makeup, and high heels, just because it would have made him happy, and he would maybe have understood that I valued knowing him. I really, really wish I'd done it while he was alive.
Of course, he would have made some incredibly insensitive remark that would have just pissed me off and we would have fought, but, ah, such is life.
Tom Merrifield died last month. October 25, to be precise. I'm going to go ahead and assume that most of you don't know him by name, which is OK. He was the guy who owned the banner towing planes that puttered up and down the Pinellas beaches for the past 30 years.
God, he could be a jerk.
What, you want me to lie? Have we MET? The guy was harsh with people at times.
A local beach paper ran a short article about Tom and made him sound like a friggin' saint. Why can't people just stand up and say, "Man, the guy was kind of an asshole, but that's what I liked about him. He was a decent guy who happened to be human, he had a scary need for companionship, he often spoke derisively to his friends, and once he pissed me off so badly I threw him out of my car, but you know what? The world needs more people like him, because at least he was real and not some bullshit chex mix/soccer mom/bridge playing motherfucker?"
In case you're wondering, yes, we had words on more than one occasion. The last time he and I spoke he got made at me, but then he calmed himself down and we talked for about an hour. And one of the very last things he said to me was that he wanted people to sit around at his funeral and talk about "One time, with Tom..." and remember him that way.
His friends "celebrated his life" a month after his death (today) so here goes...
One time, with Tom, we drove out to an airfield in Kissimmee and I backed the trailer over part of a gas pump.
One time, with Tom, we rented a boat and went fishing one of the artificial reefs. It was the first time I saw flying fish, and dolphin rode our bow wave.
One time, with Tom, we went kingfishing and we ended up bludgeoning the kingfish so badly--it would NOT die--that if FWC saw our boat we would have gone to jail for murder while they launched a massive search for the body. Note on that one: after we beat the hell out of this fish it still flopped around in the cooler for a full five minutes.
More than one time with Tom, we went fishing every week out of Tierra Verde. He loved to fish; he obsessed over fishing. He would buy different line and it wasn't enough that he had it, he'd put it on our lines, too. He'd fish off the seawall at the end of 18 at SPG; he'd fish off the dock at Tierra Verde while we waited for a boat. Of course, on at least one occasion I had to take the fish off the hook for him, but he loved the fishing part.
One time with Tom he bought Tom (another Tom) a crab trap and we put it out while we fished and then pulled it out later... and got a cowfish and spider crabs.
One time, because of Tom Merrifield, I had the coolest summer job in the world: banner towing ground crew. Without sounding too hippy-dippy, he understood what it meant to "follow your bliss."
As usual, now that he's gone people will realize what they couldn't appreciate while he was alive (I think sometimes his mouth didn't help, either, which is what I loved about him so much, I recognized a kindred spirit): he was a good guy. He was an asshole, he was a moody sonofabitch, but he was a good guy, and I am a better person for having known him. He helped me be who I am right now, and for that alone I should have told him while he was alive how much I appreciated him. He treated his friends well and when he liked you, you would not want for anything and he would work his brain double and triple time to find a way to solve your problems. Since he was a very, very smart man, he usually came up with a pretty viable solution.
I'm not saying this well and I'm not saying it very eloquently at all, but let's leave it at this: he used to hassle me about not dressing up and wearing high heels and a dress and makeup. Not only did I go to his funeral, the only one I've been to in almost ten years, I wore a dress, makeup, and high heels, just because it would have made him happy, and he would maybe have understood that I valued knowing him. I really, really wish I'd done it while he was alive.
Of course, he would have made some incredibly insensitive remark that would have just pissed me off and we would have fought, but, ah, such is life.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
My Machiavellianity
I'm not proud, people.
Last night *someone* told me my attitude about younger men and sex (bad idea, don't do it, go with an older guy because the sex is better) and my little story about younger men floating on their back (sexually, stay with me) and thinking they're swimming while the older men actually swim was Machiavellian. Mind you, that wasn't said as an insult, but I didn't agree that my ideas about sex and the older man (the marathon runner of the sex olympics, if you will) fell under the "Machiavellian" heading. So, because I let things go easily and don't worry things OVER and OVER and OVER in my mind, what's the first thing I did this morning?
That's right, I woke up, took a breath of God's beautiful air, closed my eyes, and let it go.
Oh, wait, that doesn't sound like me at all. Ah, yes, I remember now. I Googled Machiavellian, and because the internet is a wondrous, amazing thing, I found, of course, a quiz that will assess your Machiavellianness. Since we all know that internet quizzes are amazingly accurate and always groundtruthed by competent mental health professionals, I went ahead and took it.
Conclusion? My attitudes about sex and the younger man, NOT Machiavellian, but I did score a 76/100 on the Machiavelli scale.
And also, I cannot say "Machiavellian."
Last night *someone* told me my attitude about younger men and sex (bad idea, don't do it, go with an older guy because the sex is better) and my little story about younger men floating on their back (sexually, stay with me) and thinking they're swimming while the older men actually swim was Machiavellian. Mind you, that wasn't said as an insult, but I didn't agree that my ideas about sex and the older man (the marathon runner of the sex olympics, if you will) fell under the "Machiavellian" heading. So, because I let things go easily and don't worry things OVER and OVER and OVER in my mind, what's the first thing I did this morning?
That's right, I woke up, took a breath of God's beautiful air, closed my eyes, and let it go.
Oh, wait, that doesn't sound like me at all. Ah, yes, I remember now. I Googled Machiavellian, and because the internet is a wondrous, amazing thing, I found, of course, a quiz that will assess your Machiavellianness. Since we all know that internet quizzes are amazingly accurate and always groundtruthed by competent mental health professionals, I went ahead and took it.
Conclusion? My attitudes about sex and the younger man, NOT Machiavellian, but I did score a 76/100 on the Machiavelli scale.
And also, I cannot say "Machiavellian."
Friday, October 17, 2008
Fucking Tourists.
If there were a draft right now I would move to Canada rather than defend some of these sorry-assed people who call themselves Americans, so disgusted am I with what I witnessed this afternoon.
So, I'm heading over to the beach for the afternoon sail when traffic stops on the Bayway. Now, the bridge isn't up, doesn't appear to be going up, and I can't quite see why we need to stop, but whatever. Stuck over Boca Ciega Bay on a day like today... there are worse places to get stuck. It's only after I've been at a dead stop for about five or ten minutes that I get curious and step out of the car just in time to see two or three people dragging a guy out of his car, get him on the pavement, rip open his shirt and start CPR. When I learned CPR they told us that you should always let the rescuers know that you know it as well, because once you start CPR you cannot stop until professional rescuers arrive and, well, you get tired. So I run over and tell them I know CPR if they want assistance.
That's when a guy behind me says, "Good, good for you, why don't we get the professionals in here and clear a fucking lane?" and, at first, I think he means to let the ambulance through. Turns out that was a little too optimistic about the human condition, because right on my heels is a woman who says, "I'm a nurse, can I help?", whereupon this waste of carbon starts swearing about needing to get his car through and we should all just stop and wait for rescuers so we can clear a path for him to get his car through.
Uh-huh, you read that right. Fat tourist (checked the license plate, he was) wants trained rescuers to stop CPR and move the fibrillating man off to the side of the road so he can get his polo shirt and khaki Boston ass over the bridge. Funny, too, cause his silhouette indicated to me that he may, in the very near future, need some sort of medical assistance himself, so you would think he'd be more understanding. I diverge, though. Back to our regularly scheduled programming...
"Hey, show a little respect!" another guy says, which apparently upsets Fat Tourist even more, because he now starts calling that guy names and--I am SO not making this up--next thing you know they're swinging at each other over the two people giving the dying guy CPR on the Bayway.
I threw up a little in my mouth just remembering this.
Of course, the paramedics showed up, Fat Boston Man took off (which makes me wonder why he was so damn concerned about it before) and three passers-by (two nurses and a random guy from Guam) helped the paramedics as they worked on this guy for a few minutes.
Here's what's messed up: most of the people who got out of their cars wanted to help, from giving CPR to holding the IV bag once the pros got there. That part is all very touching, but then there's this guy, this interminable asshole, this absolute jerkoff of a human being who just wanted to get his car through, and then I find myself looking down at Mr.-Almost-Dead and wondering if, had the situations been reversed, he would be the guy giving mouth to mouth or the utter waste of sperm and egg and life and freedom who didn't care if another human being died as long as he could get over the bridge.
THAT is almost enough to make me want to worry about nothing else but getting my own car through.
Almost.
So, I'm heading over to the beach for the afternoon sail when traffic stops on the Bayway. Now, the bridge isn't up, doesn't appear to be going up, and I can't quite see why we need to stop, but whatever. Stuck over Boca Ciega Bay on a day like today... there are worse places to get stuck. It's only after I've been at a dead stop for about five or ten minutes that I get curious and step out of the car just in time to see two or three people dragging a guy out of his car, get him on the pavement, rip open his shirt and start CPR. When I learned CPR they told us that you should always let the rescuers know that you know it as well, because once you start CPR you cannot stop until professional rescuers arrive and, well, you get tired. So I run over and tell them I know CPR if they want assistance.
That's when a guy behind me says, "Good, good for you, why don't we get the professionals in here and clear a fucking lane?" and, at first, I think he means to let the ambulance through. Turns out that was a little too optimistic about the human condition, because right on my heels is a woman who says, "I'm a nurse, can I help?", whereupon this waste of carbon starts swearing about needing to get his car through and we should all just stop and wait for rescuers so we can clear a path for him to get his car through.
Uh-huh, you read that right. Fat tourist (checked the license plate, he was) wants trained rescuers to stop CPR and move the fibrillating man off to the side of the road so he can get his polo shirt and khaki Boston ass over the bridge. Funny, too, cause his silhouette indicated to me that he may, in the very near future, need some sort of medical assistance himself, so you would think he'd be more understanding. I diverge, though. Back to our regularly scheduled programming...
"Hey, show a little respect!" another guy says, which apparently upsets Fat Tourist even more, because he now starts calling that guy names and--I am SO not making this up--next thing you know they're swinging at each other over the two people giving the dying guy CPR on the Bayway.
I threw up a little in my mouth just remembering this.
Of course, the paramedics showed up, Fat Boston Man took off (which makes me wonder why he was so damn concerned about it before) and three passers-by (two nurses and a random guy from Guam) helped the paramedics as they worked on this guy for a few minutes.
Here's what's messed up: most of the people who got out of their cars wanted to help, from giving CPR to holding the IV bag once the pros got there. That part is all very touching, but then there's this guy, this interminable asshole, this absolute jerkoff of a human being who just wanted to get his car through, and then I find myself looking down at Mr.-Almost-Dead and wondering if, had the situations been reversed, he would be the guy giving mouth to mouth or the utter waste of sperm and egg and life and freedom who didn't care if another human being died as long as he could get over the bridge.
THAT is almost enough to make me want to worry about nothing else but getting my own car through.
Almost.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
My Breasts Runneth Over
Why do bra designers hate me?
As those of you who know me well may surmise, yes, I went shopping this evening. I didn't have to sail tonight but didn't get that confirmed until too late to do anything worthwhile, so I found myself with some free time on my hands. What do I do with it?
Do I:
A) Catch up or *gasps* get ahead on any number of freelance projects that urgently need my attention?
No, I do not.
B) Go for a bike ride along the beach or a stroll in the sand?
No, I do not.
C) Head to the library and attempt to do some research for any one of a number of projects that call out to me with the increasing demands of a spurned yet psychotic lover?
No, I do not.
No, I, dear friends, chose Secret Option D, Torture and Feeling Bad About My Body.
Now, let me say that, by and large, I like my body, so much so that I posed naked for a calendar a few years back. I have no desire to look like... well, a more pop-culturally aware person could give you the name of a supermodel here, but not I. You know what I mean; I don't want to be a twig. I have a good body; it does what I want (and, on occasion, what others want, but that's another entry for a blog that my mom DOESN'T read. Hi, Mom!) I quit smoking (several times, but one finally took quite a bit back), don't drink to excess, shovel leafy green things down my throat on occasion, and, most importantly to my particularly family history, watch my sugar. I ride my bike many miles a week, crew on a sailboat, and generally move around. I weigh just over 140 pounds and, while I'd like a flatter stomach and a rounder ass (if I didn't have the Salustri hips my jeans would just slide right to my ankles, a carpenter could use my butt as a level), meh. What can I do? Starve myself? I like food way, way, WAY too much for that nonsense. Plus I have the willpower of a dog on a meat wagon.
Anyway, my point is this: I'm OK with how I look. If I could change one tiny thing, it'd be my breasts. OK, that's not tiny, but you know what I mean. I went from a carpenter's dream (flat as a board) to my current size in about a month or so in 6th grade. My current size is actually "38 Hindenburg" which, if you walk into any Victoria's Secret, is incredibly difficult to fit.
It was my mistake to try to do just that this evening. Hey, here's a handy little tip for all you salesgirls working at any shop that sells bras: if you can go braless without endangering those around you when you break into a brisk jog, please do not try to help me buy a bra. Find the hefty matron in the back (you know who I mean, the manager who transferred from Lane Bryant) to assist me. I have a lot of rage and, as I may have mentioned, I don't like bra shopping. You, blondie with the 24-year-old A cups, are merely a target. Serial. I see you and I see the little red concentric circles over your head. Back away from the DD-cup, please.
Honestly, it's not their fault. Really. Bra designers apparently never reached puberty and want to punish those of us capable of fully developing. I mean, come on, why spend all your time designing bras for those women who don't actually need them? Why not, instead, channel your energies into creating bras for those of us who want -nay, need our breasts held up above our navels?
Serial. I was looking at bras that cost $56 this evening. Do you have any IDEA how many idiot tourists I need to pander to on these sailboats or how many stories about city council I need to write to earn that money? Here's the kicker: I would GLADLY have parted with it had ANY of these bras that cost as much as a monthly water bill come CLOSE to containing my breasts in a fashion that didn't make me look like Maxine from the Hallmark line of greeting cards.
I mean, come on, here, people. My breasts are big (I think by now we've established that I'm not bragging), and I'm OK with that (they've served me well), but what's the big deal (no pun intended) in SOMEONE designing a few bras that actually fit me? Why must every shopping foray end in tears? Is this some sort of punishment for something I did in a past life? Is THIS what they mean by karma?
As those of you who know me well may surmise, yes, I went shopping this evening. I didn't have to sail tonight but didn't get that confirmed until too late to do anything worthwhile, so I found myself with some free time on my hands. What do I do with it?
Do I:
A) Catch up or *gasps* get ahead on any number of freelance projects that urgently need my attention?
No, I do not.
B) Go for a bike ride along the beach or a stroll in the sand?
No, I do not.
C) Head to the library and attempt to do some research for any one of a number of projects that call out to me with the increasing demands of a spurned yet psychotic lover?
No, I do not.
No, I, dear friends, chose Secret Option D, Torture and Feeling Bad About My Body.
Now, let me say that, by and large, I like my body, so much so that I posed naked for a calendar a few years back. I have no desire to look like... well, a more pop-culturally aware person could give you the name of a supermodel here, but not I. You know what I mean; I don't want to be a twig. I have a good body; it does what I want (and, on occasion, what others want, but that's another entry for a blog that my mom DOESN'T read. Hi, Mom!) I quit smoking (several times, but one finally took quite a bit back), don't drink to excess, shovel leafy green things down my throat on occasion, and, most importantly to my particularly family history, watch my sugar. I ride my bike many miles a week, crew on a sailboat, and generally move around. I weigh just over 140 pounds and, while I'd like a flatter stomach and a rounder ass (if I didn't have the Salustri hips my jeans would just slide right to my ankles, a carpenter could use my butt as a level), meh. What can I do? Starve myself? I like food way, way, WAY too much for that nonsense. Plus I have the willpower of a dog on a meat wagon.
Anyway, my point is this: I'm OK with how I look. If I could change one tiny thing, it'd be my breasts. OK, that's not tiny, but you know what I mean. I went from a carpenter's dream (flat as a board) to my current size in about a month or so in 6th grade. My current size is actually "38 Hindenburg" which, if you walk into any Victoria's Secret, is incredibly difficult to fit.
It was my mistake to try to do just that this evening. Hey, here's a handy little tip for all you salesgirls working at any shop that sells bras: if you can go braless without endangering those around you when you break into a brisk jog, please do not try to help me buy a bra. Find the hefty matron in the back (you know who I mean, the manager who transferred from Lane Bryant) to assist me. I have a lot of rage and, as I may have mentioned, I don't like bra shopping. You, blondie with the 24-year-old A cups, are merely a target. Serial. I see you and I see the little red concentric circles over your head. Back away from the DD-cup, please.
Honestly, it's not their fault. Really. Bra designers apparently never reached puberty and want to punish those of us capable of fully developing. I mean, come on, why spend all your time designing bras for those women who don't actually need them? Why not, instead, channel your energies into creating bras for those of us who want -nay, need our breasts held up above our navels?
Serial. I was looking at bras that cost $56 this evening. Do you have any IDEA how many idiot tourists I need to pander to on these sailboats or how many stories about city council I need to write to earn that money? Here's the kicker: I would GLADLY have parted with it had ANY of these bras that cost as much as a monthly water bill come CLOSE to containing my breasts in a fashion that didn't make me look like Maxine from the Hallmark line of greeting cards.
I mean, come on, here, people. My breasts are big (I think by now we've established that I'm not bragging), and I'm OK with that (they've served me well), but what's the big deal (no pun intended) in SOMEONE designing a few bras that actually fit me? Why must every shopping foray end in tears? Is this some sort of punishment for something I did in a past life? Is THIS what they mean by karma?
Thursday, October 09, 2008
There's a First Time For Everything
Our two Florida Studies program chairs, Ray Arsenault and Gary Mormino, are notorious for their research, their intelligence, and their unfailing ability to capsize a canoe. Seriously.
Last fall I wrote an oral history of Jeff Klinkenberg. After we talked for about ninety minutes, Jeff said, "So, you're a student of Ray and Gary's?"
I affirmed that I was.
"They're great guys. I love them, I do." That's a pretty close approximation, I think, to what Jeff actually said, but I remember with vivid clarity what he said next. He looked into my eyes and dipped his head down a bit as though he was going to tell me a secret.
"Don't ever," Jeff said "get into a canoe with either of them. They go over every time."
Turns out Jeff knew of what he spoke. These guys are legends for going over in a canoe in more bodies of water than the average person can identify. I laugh at them whenever the subject comes up. In fact, I think I laughed about their capsize-abilities as recently as Sunday morning.
Let's make that, laughed. I think we all know what's coming next.
Oh, yes I did. In a kayak I've owned for five years.
Was it in rough water? Why, no, it wasn't.
Was it in fast water? Why, no, it wasn't.
Was it in a crisis sort of situation where I flipped trying to save a drowning baby? Why, no, it wasn't.
*sighs*
I was putting in. Calypso was already in, as was I. Yes, I flipped my kayak with only part of the boat in the water. In my defense, the entry slope was really steep. Poor Calypso, she didn't know what hit her. One minute she was in the cockpit, looking out at the Alafaya, sniffing the air for recent swamp bunnies or whatever the hell she sniffs for, thinking, "hey, life is pretty good."
The next minute she is under the water in a kayak that she, not thirty seconds ago, trusted implicitly, thinking something, I imagine, that is a cross between "What the--?!" and "{sigh} so this is how it's going to be."
I experienced a cross pollination of thought between "I am NOT capsizing, am I?" and "Oh, shit, get the dog!" 'Cause, you know, there are gators in the Alafaya (and, used to be, manatee, who I like to think of as the unsung villains of the Florida waterways. Vicious creatures, those manatee. One tried to kill Shelly just a few months ago. OK, well, it hissed at her. She said. Which is, as we all know, completely believable and not at all delusional.)
I got out, saved Calypso (poor little puppy, it's hard to be my dog, it really is), rescued my dry box (with camera and keys dry and happy inside), sponged a couple of gallons out of my cockpit, plopped a slightly nervous and very wet Calypso back in the kayak, and shivered my way up the river.
THAT is how the universe repays you for laughing at other people.
Last fall I wrote an oral history of Jeff Klinkenberg. After we talked for about ninety minutes, Jeff said, "So, you're a student of Ray and Gary's?"
I affirmed that I was.
"They're great guys. I love them, I do." That's a pretty close approximation, I think, to what Jeff actually said, but I remember with vivid clarity what he said next. He looked into my eyes and dipped his head down a bit as though he was going to tell me a secret.
"Don't ever," Jeff said "get into a canoe with either of them. They go over every time."
Turns out Jeff knew of what he spoke. These guys are legends for going over in a canoe in more bodies of water than the average person can identify. I laugh at them whenever the subject comes up. In fact, I think I laughed about their capsize-abilities as recently as Sunday morning.
Let's make that, laughed. I think we all know what's coming next.
Oh, yes I did. In a kayak I've owned for five years.
Was it in rough water? Why, no, it wasn't.
Was it in fast water? Why, no, it wasn't.
Was it in a crisis sort of situation where I flipped trying to save a drowning baby? Why, no, it wasn't.
*sighs*
I was putting in. Calypso was already in, as was I. Yes, I flipped my kayak with only part of the boat in the water. In my defense, the entry slope was really steep. Poor Calypso, she didn't know what hit her. One minute she was in the cockpit, looking out at the Alafaya, sniffing the air for recent swamp bunnies or whatever the hell she sniffs for, thinking, "hey, life is pretty good."
The next minute she is under the water in a kayak that she, not thirty seconds ago, trusted implicitly, thinking something, I imagine, that is a cross between "What the--?!" and "{sigh} so this is how it's going to be."
I experienced a cross pollination of thought between "I am NOT capsizing, am I?" and "Oh, shit, get the dog!" 'Cause, you know, there are gators in the Alafaya (and, used to be, manatee, who I like to think of as the unsung villains of the Florida waterways. Vicious creatures, those manatee. One tried to kill Shelly just a few months ago. OK, well, it hissed at her. She said. Which is, as we all know, completely believable and not at all delusional.)
I got out, saved Calypso (poor little puppy, it's hard to be my dog, it really is), rescued my dry box (with camera and keys dry and happy inside), sponged a couple of gallons out of my cockpit, plopped a slightly nervous and very wet Calypso back in the kayak, and shivered my way up the river.
THAT is how the universe repays you for laughing at other people.
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