Just Keep Swimming

A Letter From Scuppers

2009-10-04T15:26:00.000-05:00

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.

Why I Cannot Write Any More

2009-09-23T22:26:00.002-05:00

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.

How to Bury a Loved One

2009-09-19T23:31:00.001-05:00

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.

Ode to John Hughes

2009-08-07T12:34:00.002-05:00

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.

10 Rules For Sailing

2009-06-21T21:00:00.002-05:00

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.

How to Waste a Day

2009-05-24T21:48:00.003-05:00

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.

Conversation From the Gate of Heaven

2009-05-04T17:50:00.001-05:00

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.

Forever Days

2008-12-13T08:51:00.004-05:00

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.

Tom Merrifield: A Celebration of Life

2008-11-29T18:32:00.002-05:00

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.

My Machiavellianity

2008-10-28T07:07:00.001-05:00

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."

Fucking Tourists.

2008-10-17T15:53:00.003-05:00

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.

My Breasts Runneth Over

2008-10-15T20:28:00.002-05:00

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?

There's a First Time For Everything

2008-10-09T21:56:00.004-05:00

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.

Miss Kitty, Chinsegut, and the Big Sugar Band

2008-10-05T15:41:00.005-05:00

I climbed Mount Chinsegut, faced a woeful bull, and had a drink at Miss Kitty's Hilltop Lounge, one of Brooksville's finest establishments.

But first, Chinsegut. We arrived yesterday, had a tour of the hill and then the house, and wandered about the property. Brooksville itself is a whole different world when compared to St. Petersburg, and Chinsegut is even more of a world away. The hill was beautiful, but it's a pity USF is essentially practicing a tacit demolition or, as our tour guide/ orange pie chef/ Chinsegut historian Andy Huse put it this weekend, "demolition by neglect" with the main house. It's a three story wood manor house built in 1849, the oldest house in Hernando County, and a husk of what it must have been 100 years ago: the paint is peeling, the third floor is structurally unsound so we couldn't go up to it, and the house is falling apart. Thank god that wasn't the case with the cabins.

And, oh, a word about those "cabins": when someone tells you you'll be staying there in a cabin with no stove or microwave, what level of luxury do you expect? None, right? I'm thinking that we'll have shelter but probably have to rough it.

If "roughing it" means "the icemakers won't have door dispensers," then, yes, I "roughed it" this weekend. It was tough, let me tell you. I had to open the freezer door to ice beverages down.

Despite the rough conditions--it took almost ten whole seconds for the hot water to come up in my bathroom this morning--I had a GREAT time. I want to go back. So here are the top ten best things about Chinsegut Hill:

10. Rocking chairs on the cabin and manor house porches.

9. How dark it gets out in the country.

8. The slasher film mood of the Hill just after sunrise and in late afternoon.

7. Crumbling outbuildings dotting the landscape.

6. The steps that lead up to a platform in an oak tree.

5. Brahma bulls lurching about the property.

4. "What happens at Chinsegut, stays at Chinsegut."

3. Sandhill cranes, deer, and spiders.

2. The Inuit word Chinsegut means a place where lost things are found, and I believe it is so.

1. The Chinsegut Blues, a blues song Andy and Roy apparently composed last night around the fire. Quite lovely, all at once bluesy and soulful and fueled almost entirely by rum. Theresa, Emily and I joke about starting a girl band: The Three Marjories and the Big Sugar Band. T's on Facebook right now, telling everyone she found Big Sugar.

I think the Inuit name has some truth to it, I really do.

What to say about Miss Kitty? Miss Kitty's is all the glorious, deep-fried, bleached blonde, camel-toe, tooth-missin', two-stepping, stetson-hat-wearin', tobacco-dippin'reasons I am so glad I no longer work at a country radio station.

I loved it there. I could have sat and watched the whole thing for hours. I actually DID sit and watch for hours. The women outweighed and outnumbered the men and everyone seemed OK with that.

Top 10 Reasons I Love Miss Kitty's:

10. Dan Story and the What's Your Problem Band. OK, I don't remember the name of his band but I swear to you that it was very similar to that.

9. Dan Story wore tight Levi's, a big ole' white belt, and his shirt stayed unbuttoned while he sang.

8. Any band that can go from "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" to "You Shook Me All Night Long" is OK with me.

7. There's something beautifully tragic about middle aged women line dancing.

6. Similarly tragic and beautiful in its own right, I love the hopeful look the men get around closing time as those same women all start to dance in a circle around one guy.

5. Going to a red state backwoods bar with a college professor who was up for a Pulitzer for his book on the freedom riders and just being relieved when our group gets in the front door of that bar without any of the patrons noticing the Obama bumper sticker on that professor's Volvo.

4. The look on the same professor's face as he tries to reconcile his academic experiences with the bar scene at Miss Kitty's on a Saturday night.

3. The look on the same professor's face when we ask our barmaid what the red drinks in the hurricane glasses are and she says they're called "Knock me down and fuck me."

2. That professor and the other grad student (both male) order one of these drinks. I sip my rum and coke, feel a little bit like a longshoreman amidst some H. R. Pufnstuf sorority formal, and briefly wonder where all the men have gone. This feeling intensifies as the two men talk about how you can't really taste the alcohol. I flash on Grapefruit, Juicy Fruit:

Girl: "You can hardly taste the alcohol!"

Buffett: "That's the plan, baby... What you don't drink we're gonna pour on ya!"

I sigh, and go back to watching people line dance to urban music.

1. Miss Kitty's Hilltop Lounge has a My Space page.

Altitude Sickness

2008-10-02T07:17:00.003-05:00

This weekend I, along with a group of other intrepid travelers, will travel to Chinsegut, the second highest point in Florida with an elevation of 269 feet.

I'm a little fuzzy on the details but, as I understand it, this used to be a working plantation, a rarity this far south in Florida (most of our glorious, sexist, racist past involves the panhandle and points north of Jacksonville; all we can claim down here usually is pirates and malaria.) USF got the land through some sort of donation and uses it for retreats (this weekend is a Florida Studies retreat, which may or may not involve mechanical bulls and a place called Miss Kitty's.)

If I don't succumb to altitude sickness I shall report from base camp.

Thought For The Day

2008-10-02T07:16:00.001-05:00

"Matthew is a reporter. He's not qualified to change a light bulb." --Jimmy James, Newsradio

Well, At Least She Was Monogamous

2008-09-25T22:08:00.002-05:00

Apparently this woman and I graduated at the same time, from the same high school. Go Tornadoes! I have no idea who she is and, in fact, wouldn't have known this had another friend not pointed it out.

I'm so proud of my alma mater. We did such a good job with everybody. Too bad wild horses couldn't drag me to the next reunion (really, when you've got Facebook, why bother?); it should be fun. I mean, not for me, hell no, but somebody.

Is sex with a 15-year-old that the woman didn't herself teach really that bad? I mean, I know we're conditioned to think it is, but really, what harm is she doing here?

I'm just sayin...

SNL Quote

2008-09-16T09:37:00.001-05:00

"I invite the media to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine."
-"Hillary Clinton", SNL, 9/13/2008

An Open Letter to Bagboys Everywhere

2008-09-11T19:54:00.004-05:00

Dear Bagboy (or Bagperson),

I know I've had a rough couple of months here. I understand that I may, perhaps, be a little cranky as a result, and I apologize most sincerely if this letter comes off as bitchy.

That said...

PLEASE, for the love of GOD and all that is holy, sweet FRIGGIN Jesus, stop quadruple bagging my box of pasta!

I mean, come on here. I can't even walk in the store without seeing the big signs reminding me to bring my own bags and feeling guilty for forgetting mine in the car but walking in anyway. So here's a quick, environmentally friendly, petroleum-efficient math lesson: when I purchase a box of elbow macaroni, a wedge of horseradish cheese, a deli quiche, milk--which, by the way, has its own handle and DOES NOT need a bag of its own!--and a bottle of chardonnay, how many bags do I need or want when I say "Please put that in one bag, even if it must be paper"?

You take your time. Really. This is important.

Ooooh, no, sorry, the answer was not three. I can understand why you would think that, what with... well, OK, no, I really can't. I asked for one bag; every square inch of signage around every register screams at me about the damn environment and bags and how if I use one of your cheap-ass plastic bags the rain forests will wilt and marmosets will go extinct and we'll never find a cure for cancer and the ozone will evaporate and we will all die in a fiery explosion resulting pretty much directly from gamma radiation. What the hell makes you think three is appropriate?

Here are some tips for bagging my groceries. Feel free to print these out for reference; I know that might slow down your bagging time, but trust me, I'm not the only one who will thank you later.

1. Milk has a handle. As such it neither needs to be bagged in a plastic bag of its own nor double bagged.

2. This also applies to many laundry detergents, six packs of beer, peanut oil, corn oil... dude, pretty much anything that has its own handle doesn't need a bag. I know this is a tough one, but trust me on this.

3. When I--or any customer--ask you to fit something in one bag, that does not mean to put things in bags inside of other bags so I only have to slip my fingers through one handle. It means I only want to walk out of the store with one bag. Even if it hurts, do not try to trick me with double-bagging shennanigans or bagging my meat separately. Yes, I know about the dangers of e. coli, and I'm OK with the risk. I'll even sign a waiver or pay extra or whatever it takes.

4. My vegetables can mingle. Really. Should my avocado touch my plantains, it'll be OK. Really. If I don't feel the need to sheath them back in the produce section, I'm OK with them going commando for the ride home.

5. Please don't make faces when I ask for paper bags. More stuff fits in the paper bags and--this is your fault--it's so clearly a pain in your ass to open up a new bag, I know there's very little danger of me ending up walking out with five paper bags when I purchase three items. Think of paper bags as punishment: you abused the privilege of plastic bags, now take your medicine without being Mr. Pouty Face.

6. Look at me. I'm in your store wearing a t-shirt advertising to all the world that I crew for sailboats. My nails are not manicured; I smell like the Gulf of Mexico. Do I really look like I'm going to collapse under the weight of having my quiche in the same bag as my pasta? Really? I can take it; a midget with an iron deficiency and advanced osteoporosis could take it.

7. As long as I have your attention, let's be clear here: I, like the rest of the world, worked in a grocery store as a teenager. I know how mind-numbing it can be to work in a supermarket. But I had a manager who enforced the notion--some now call it silly--that the customer comes first. That meant we couldn't make obscene gestures with the customer's zucchini, ignore the customer to talk with the cashier about the blow job she gave her boyfriend last night, or complain about the management. Look, I've been in your shoes. I know how tempting the zucchini joke is, and I'm sure the head she gave your older brother was fantastic, really. Management does suck and, yes, they probably don't have a life outside the store.

But you know what? I'm 35 and that's my zucchini. If anyone's going to violate it, it's going to be me or someone I know a lot better than you know that cashier. I can promise you that, should there ever be such a contest, I could outperform and expose the cashier for the rank amateur that she is, fellatially speaking. Finally, management was right: I do come first. I work too damn hard to spend my money at a store where the bagboys treat me like anything less than fucking royalty. I know it sucks and it seems unfair--I mean, I'm a writer and sailboat crew, which is really just a notch and half above "drunk who lives under the overpass"--but if you don't like it get another job. Until then, or until such time as your board of directors stops charging me five bucks for a gallon of milk, suck it up, smile at me, and when I say one bag, give me one fucking bag.

Most sincerely,

A loyal customer.

The Happy Tostone

2008-08-31T20:03:00.004-05:00

I should have taken a picture, I really should have. They were that beautifully golden-perfect.

So, I'm just on the front side of 40, sleeping on a couch--albeit a very comfortable couch, and that's just 'cause there's no bed in the place--and I don't know what I'm going to do about my house in the hood, but I don't care.

Because I love tostones. Yes, that's right, I'm having an enduring and satisfying meaningful experience with twice-fried green plantains. It's like the Cuban form of the Italian biscotti, another excruciatingly gratifying food that also requires cooking two times over, except they're not nearly as sweet.

Dinner this evening: rice (I call it Puerto Rican because that's what Maricris makes and she's Puerto Rican, but it's just medium grain white rice that will ultimately lead to adult-onset diabetes for me), black beans with sofrito (the black beans recipe kind of comes from Berta Maria's mother, and the sofrito is a mixture of Maricris and Emilio, so it's a cross-cultural meal: Cubano y Puertoricano), shrimp cooked in olive oil, garlic and merlot, and, of course, tostones.

I'm addicted, I admit it. Tonight we had to go to the Publix downtown because I knew from last night that the Sweetbay by the house didn't have un-ripe enough plantains (I bought Goya frozen, which were good but just not the same). Thank god I froze half of what I bought this evening; we'd be Miami-bound tomorrow evening if I hadn't.

Am I in denial? Is it weird that, for all practical intents and purposes, I don't have a home yet have no desire to find one, need to move my furniture to my parents house but instead spend all my spare time cooking and seeking the perfectly fried tostone? Should it bother me that I need to clear out my house but instead obsess over the best recipe for am authentic Cuban sofrito?

Meh.

OK, so I'm quasi-homeless. I'm actually happier than I've been in a couple of years. I don't have to worry about my dog when I'm not home, can sleep without fear of a break-in, and I have relative assurance that when I wake each morning my poor pink scooter (which has admittedly seen better days) will be in the same place I left it the night prior. Apparently that whole "shelter" thing in Maslow's hierarchy of needs factors in more heavily than I gave it credit for.

Tostones, of course, are an even more basic need. I can live with that.

Yellow--er, Red--Submarine

2008-08-28T08:07:00.002-05:00

Ever since I saw the Russian Red Army Choir and the Leningrad Cowboys perform Sweet Home Alabama, I'm sort of addicted. I found this on YouTube last night, and it made me so happy.

It doesn't take much, really.

Great Guiness Commercial

2008-08-25T08:03:00.004-05:00

Not only does it drink like a meal, they have a great sense of humor.
Since I don't actually watch--or even have the ability to watch--broadcast or cable television, I can only assume that Guinness isn't shipping this out to the networks for prime time slots. No matter, it probably gets more play on the internet anyway.

Scooter Education

2008-08-25T08:02:00.002-05:00

Note to self: Do NOT "fall" off scooter on drawspan. Feels like giant cheese grater.

Scratch that, it IS giant cheese grater.

Trying to Reason with the Hurricane Season

2008-08-20T15:51:00.003-05:00

An open letter to my loved ones...

Dear Northerner,

Sigh.

Let's get a few things straight about hurricanes. Again. (Don't we do this every year?)

1) Hurricanes, also known as tropical cyclones, are very intense summer storms. I take the threat of a hurricane very seriously and do not expect my life would remain unchanged in one's wake. A category five storm would forever change my life as I know it.

2) That said, let's all be real here, OK? Simply naming a storm does not imbue it with hurricane-strength winds. I am sick to the teeth (what does that MEAN?) of the civilized (and I use that term VERY lightly) world stumbling all over itself every time the National Hurricane Center (NHC) names a storm. The NHC, a division of NOAA (the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) names any storm that has winds of 35 mph. There is a big- and I'm talkin' HUGE- difference between 35 and 135. So you'll understand why a named storm doesn't necessarily send me scurrying into the nearest bathtub with all my worldly good wrapped in Ziplocs. 35 isn't a storm; it's an EXCELLENT day sailing.

3)Maybe, perhaps, POSSIBLY the guys at Bays News 9 and every other Florida news station need to keep us watching with dramatic predictions that they exaggerated for their own ends, like selling ads and boosting ratings.

4) Also, the local news guys chief qualifications may just be "looking good in front of the camera" and they PROBABLY dosn't know as much as the NOAA scientists.

That said, I went to Disney yesterday and got so rainsoaked that I'm just now drying out. But it was COOL, no lines at the Magic Kingdom. We literally walked on to every ride. The only down side is that it seems as though my Crocs were not designed to play nicely with some Disney concrete (very slippery). What's a broken leg worth at the Lawsuit - I mean Magic - Kingdom?

Boxes All 'Round

2008-08-07T21:20:00.004-05:00

I don't even fool myself into thinking this time will be the last. I picture myself at 83 years old, arthritis twining around my bones, packing a banker's box with books, muttering to myself "simplify, simplify" and trying to decide if I really need to keep that trashy historical romance about Sleepy Hollow (I will, of course). I'll be as crazy as my grandmother (it doesn't matter which one, they were both a bit nuts in their heyday, although my mom's mom definitely made the cast of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest look like a kindergarten class off their Ritalin) but I will have enough a grasp on reality to know that I need more boxes, much like I do now.

As you may surmise, I am planning a move. Uh-GAIN.

This time it's because having a cracked out middle-aged man come running up to me and start screaming at me for calling the police on him doesn't make me feel like, to paraphrase the ancient knight in the third Indiana Jones movie, I have chosen wisely. Also because the St. Pete Police's Narcotics guy responded to my complaint about the related drug problem on the alley by my house was the first he'd heard of a drug problem on the alley. Apparently he doesn't hear much, what with his head buried in the sand and all. 'Course, since our mayor has his head firmly up his ass about the crime problem in the south side of the city, I guess the officer's only following suit.

I no longer feel safe alone in my home, and I am done. So much for the naive liberal of three years ago. I guess it's easier to be open-minded in a safe neighborhood. Ah, well, we all gotta go sometime...

But the good news is that the fine folks at R. W. Caldwell Realty (who have yet to trudge into the new millenium with a web site or else I would gladly link to it here so that all three of my readers could click on it) have agreed to manage the property as a rental for me and, should someone be more daring than I, sell it). They've been incredibly helpful, stopping just shy of letting me store my piano at their office until I settle somewhere else, even though one of their property managers plays (come on, Poul, I KNOW you read this, it'd be a great fun on a Friday afternoon, or you could celebrate every closing with a little song. No OTHER Realtor in town does that, I'm pretty sure).

As per usual, I'm not real sure where I'm going or when I'll get there, but I'm amazingly OK with that. I think I'm part nomad, happier wandering.

It's just hard to fit all the boxes on my back.