Am I a Salt Wife Yet?

So as many readers know - we have a sailboat.  She's a 30 foot Ericson, lovely boat. (this is me when we picked her up on Long Island - behind the sunglasses is complete surprise that we really went ahead and actually got a sailboat)  Most of you also know I am a very committed JAP - more likely to go into paradoxms of pleasure over a shoe sale at Bergdof's than over a weekend at sea.  But my lovely and patient WASP husband is a true boater - loving (almost) nothing more than being out on the water and as I really enjoy spending time with him, I try to find my way.  In my own fashion.

The sailboat has been a challenge for me and a blessing.  A challenge because I really am a know-absolutely-bloody-nothing, heaven helps us if he falls overboard, because while I am learning, right now I'm not sure I even know how to drop the sails and call for help,  and a blessing because she's an amazing entertainment platform - I can chill out, tan, get drinks, get hors d'oeuvers, play music, invite our friends for dinner...unlike our motorboat (did I mention my lovely and patient husband loves boats?) where I really can't do a damn thing but make squeaky noises whenever we hit a particularly nasty wake and sit there hoping we make it home alive once more.  So I like the sailboat better (it's like a play house underneath - there is a tiny little kitchen and a tiny little bathroom and a table that drops down to form the base of a bed) but over the last couple of days, it seems like she's been trying to see what it takes to make me say "Uncle."

Yesterday we had friends out and the ladder down to below came out of its fastenings (while I was on it!!!!) and collapsed to the floor.  Bumps, bruises and a bit of injured pride, but no real harm done.  We need to figure out a solution to hold it in place (since this is the second time this has happened to me) but this is a problem easily fixed.  We just have to get around to it.  Today, however was a whole 'nother story in our continuing adventures.

Today we had P's stepbrothers and kids out, along with his mom, we had such a lovely sail, P and I decided to stay out on the boat when everyone else went back.  It was the perfect summer day, felt like a little mini-vacation.  Sun, tunes, wine, lunch.  Both kids are busy - and even better busy elsewhere!  Life is good. We had been out for a good long while, luxuriating in no kids, no phone calls, no worries, when  P went down below to use the head (which is  a very silly name for toilet, but sailboats are full of silly names).  Now at this point in all fairness, I do have to mention that last night we both said we really ought to bring the boat into the work dock because it's probably about time to pump out the holding tank (gross but true, you have to go to a pump station and pump out the toilet's holding tank, which is still way less gross than just dumping it overboard, which people did for YEARS!!!!!) but it was a vacation day and we hadn't gotten around to it yet.

All of a sudden there was a lot of yelling, swearing and consternation coming from below decks, "Shit, shit, shit....paper towels!!!!! Do we have paper towels?"  Yes gentle readers, the holding tank was interrupting my perfect summer day by overflowing - so that was super, super, super gross, but P got the small overflow cleaned up and we decide we have to head in to the work dock to get this pumped out PRONTO.

So we do.  We get to the work dock and I manage to throw the line to the dock attendant without missing or hitting myself in the face with it, or any other sort of embarrassing mishap.  I'm feeling pretty good about this whole boaty thing.  I've got this.  P jumps on to the dock and tries to start up the Pump-A-Head.  He uncoils the hose, presses all the buttons in the order prescribed on the sticker, but nothing seems to be happening.  He asks me to go in to the head and flip the switch from dry bowl to intake, maybe that's the problem?  I try it, but no.  That doesn't do anything at all.   So I flip it back.  He's standing on the dock, holding the stupid hose, after pressing the buttons all over again, with nothing happening...so he says "Here, hold this.  I'll check the inside."  And shows me how to keep one hand on the boat and one on the suction hose that is supposed to be sucking sewage out of our tank.

He goes below and I swear, not two seconds later the pump decides to start working with great force and  an incomplete seal - covering our boat and me, (in my super-cute white and silver sequined bathing suit cover-up) with raw sewage.  Now, to be fair, not with a lot of sewage - the pump automatically shuts off when the seal is broken, but really how much sewage do you need?  "HONEY!!!!!!" was about all I could muster.  He came outside, looked at me, looked at the pump. looked at the boat, looked at me again and said, "OK, I'll take care of this, why don't you go up and shower."  So smelling horrific the whole way, I toddled up to our pool locker, showered, changed and came back to a sparkling clean boat and a sparkling clean head.  He'd gotten the pump fixed (better late than never?) gotten the boat hosed off, and gotten the floor (there's probably a silly boat word for that too, I just don't know what it is) next to the head cleaned up.  We headed back out to our mooring and continued on having a great lazy Sunday.  We were having a nice peaceful summer day together and I was damned if a little raw sewage was gonna get in the way of my enjoying the day.

I still love my boat even if she is testing me - but still once we got out there I sprinkled little bits of salt on every hatch and porthole (doorway and window) to shoo the evil spirits away - no sense taking any chances. I think I've proved myself as seaworthy now.  And I really hope she thinks so too.

The moral of my very long winded story?  When life throws poop at you, take a shower and move on as if nothing had ever gone wrong.  It's a beautiful day, what else can you possibly do?

I'm no longer trying to not be my mother

At 48 and a half I have decided I am no longer trying to not be my mother.  I am now trying to not be my grandmother.  Yesterday I plucked a quarter-inch long, black, spikey hair from my chin.  I do not have black or spikey hair.  I have no idea where that sucker came from, but I have a feeling he'll be back.  And he's going to bring friends.

The hair on my head still looks pretty good - of course, I've been highlighting it since I turned eighteen, so I'm not sure I would know if it was changing color.  But it still grows in with dark roots, so I think I'm OK.  As for any other hair, fortunately, my formerly flat (yes, even after two c-sections) belly now sticks out just far enough to make any other hair invisible.  Besides, my eyesight is shot, so I'd never be able to see anything that far away anyway. The crow's feet are close enough to my eyeballs so I get quite a nice view of them.  Having a son doing crew team at the High School means 4:15(AM!!!) wake-ups and that puts the facial wrinkles in stark relief.

This week I've been going through old pictures to put together a greatest hits album of all our adventures and it made me realize how old all my clothes are.  This isn't out of any sort of frugality or noble reasoning - it's because I steadfastly refuse to buy clothes in a size that fits me.  I'll go to the store, try on something cute, realize the only size that fits is one I won't wear and put it back. I'll go back to the store a month or so later to see if they have anything decent in any size under double-digits, but until they do - I'm not buying.  Did I mention I' currently unable to run or jog because of bursitis in my left hip?  Does anything sound older than bursitis?  Maybe my bunion does.

I now know why Chico's marks all its clothes 1, 2, 3 and 4.  It's to baffle you into not knowing that you don't want to wear something that big. Who know what sizes those actually translate to.  Is that an 8?  Recently all I've felt is chubby, old and wrinkly - not like me, but like some alternate universe version of me.  My mother.

This was my general mien today when I had to make a quick stop in Marshall's today to pick up a decent pair of dress shorts for my son who is going to need something to wear to regattas.  The line stretched on and the women in it chatted to pass the time.  I was at the short end of the line in between a young mom with an adorably grumpy toddler in her basket and a grandmotherly type holding a couple of baby and dog toys.  Our talk turned to the crazy weather  - as it often does in a crowd of strangers.  It was a typical March day today, 45 degrees and pissing down rain - but the beginning of the week had been mid-70s and beautiful.  I lamented my daughter's wearing of shorts to school this morning and how she must have spent the day freezing.  We all cooed over and agreed the toddler was lovely in his grumpiness.

The woman in front and her toddler moved up at the call of "register 6 is now available" and the grandmotherly woman and I were left alone.  "How old is your daughter?'  she asked.  "Sixteen."  I replied.  She looked genuinely shocked,  "Really, you don't look...I thought you were talking about a young child...."  And at that moment she became my very favorite person on the planet.

Maybe becoming a grandmotherly type isn't so bad if it allows you to see the middle-aged woman in front of you in line at Marshall's as an elementary school mom.  I might not want to drive too close to her, as I think she might be badly in need of an eye test, but I am ever so pleased I stood in front of her in line.  Now all I have to find is a magic eye cream.  And a team of old ladies to stand nearby.

A Meditation on the Sisyphean Nature of February - or you know, Groundhog Day and shopping.

The Sisyphean nature of life has just been too much for me lately - as it often is this time of year. Everything I do feels like the same damn thing over and over again.

I don't know if it's the lack of warmth or the lack of light (although I sure suspect the latter, since I have been reminded time and time again I have nothing to complain about given the mild nature of this winter in the Northeast.  Yet I persist.) but by the time Imbolc rolls around I am a full on mess.  Every new year, sometime in January, I develop a type of seasonal disorder.  I begin to notice how pointless it all seems, and how endless - fill the dishwasher, empty the dishwasher, fill the dishwasher, empty the dishwasher....same with the parade of dirty then clean laundry to the basement and back.   I seem to always be wearing the same clothes, making the same dinners,  checking the same homework, from the same (dark) time I get up every day to the same (dark) time I go to sleep every night, things are stuck in an autonomous loop, over which I have no control.

Even the nature of the disorder feeds into my sense of repetition.  Every year, it begins with a mild sense of unease, which moves to ennui, then heads on into sheer dissatisfaction, a lack of pleasure in the things around me, and a strong feeling that if only I could get myself to a Tiki Bar with a full view of palm trees and parrot fish all would be right in my world again.  I don't care that we've had more days in the 40s and 50s this winter than we have in the 20s and 30s - I still hate it. And I'm still going to complain.  I feel trapped in the house, trapped in the coats, hats and gloves.  Trapped in putting it all on every time I go out and taking it all off every time I come in.  I need sultry air, a warm breeze, a fruity drink in one hand and a trashy novel in the other.  (Which is not happening anytime soon.)

So today was not the day for my son to leave his clean laundry on the floor instead of putting it away - for the third time in two weeks.  Not the day for the dog to sleep on said (formerly) clean laundry - for the third time in two weeks.  Most definitely not the day for that son to then call from school, immediately after I'd dropped him off, to ask me to come back to school with his Giants helmet since he needed it for Chemistry.  (ok that was a new one) Yes, even after he explained to me that I didn't need to wash his clothes again because he didn't mind at all if they were doggy smelling.  And so not the day for having the finding and bringing of his helmet to school make me miss yoga.  Yet that was the day it was.

So I did the only thing that made sense to me.  I got back from school the second time, changed out of my yoga clothes, pointed my car toward the sun, turned the radio up way too loud and drove directly to the J. Crew Outlet where I bought half a new summer wardrobe.  A bright orange dress, a cute sweater, two t-shirts and a belt, all for under $130.00.  And you know what? I feel better.  Sometimes retail therapy is my only answer.

Holiday Cards/Yankee Swaps and other things that drive me nuts during December

Admittedly we have a complicated set of issues when it comes to holiday cards - we have Agnostic, Atheist, Buddhist, Christian, Jewish and Pagan friends and relatives (and that is just the alphabetical list off the top of my head!) all in various states of touchiness and often in the same household.  But we like to send out cards because we (OK, fine, I) like to show off how cute our kids are. (They really are totally freaking adorable! Seriously.)  But so do most Americans in the 21st century.

So I send out about 200 cards every year, and my normal note on the bottom of each card (since I'm not fond of stamped out cards with no handwritten touch) goes something along the lines of, "wishing you a happy holiday season and a wonderful new year."  If I know for sure the whole family is Christian I might say "Merry Christmas" instead of "happy holiday season"  except in those cases, where I know the recipients are way on-board the "persecuted Christians you have to say Christmas and can't celebrate any other holidays in December, I can't hear you unless you only mention MY holiday, la-la-la" bandwagon.

You  know the type I mean.  The ones that send out cards that say "Remember Jesus is THE reason for the season" (maybe your reason, but certainly not mine)  and put on bumper stickers like "It's OK to say Merry Christmas to me!" (are they really worried people are dying to say "Merry Christmas" but are scared to because Christians are such a small percentage of the population and non-Christians get so offended they might hit them with sticks for mentioning their holiday? - I don't think so.)

Now for those people, I take perverse pride in writing a generic happy holidays note, and especially in knowing they are seething, but can't yell at me because I grew up Jewish and then they'd just sound like assholes for being mad that I am wishing them happiness.  Which they are.  OK, maybe assholes is a little sharp.  How about self-absorbed babies who can only count their own religion as valid and want to make everyone celebrate theirs.  Don't believe me?  On Dec. 20th this year, when one of these types (look for the bumper sticker) says "Merry Christmas" to you, answer "Happy Hanukkah"  or "Blessed Yule"  (I don't care,whatever floats your boat) and watch what you get back from them. (I happen to personally enjoy confused sputtering.)

Now it will actually be Hanukkah and Yule and not Christmas on that day, but that won't matter to the Christmas bullies.  They want to own the whole month of December.  I feel badly for trolling them, but then again - they started it.  To be fair, I also send purely secular cards that might have pictures of trees, ornaments and/or reindeer to my crazy "I can't believe she married goyim" relatives as well, because I know it makes them crazy.

Yankee Swaps - fully grown adults literally taking candy from children - really?  Who decided that taking a present away from someone was a fun game?  I'm declaring myself allergic.

Best moisturizer in the observable universe

And I don't use the term lightly.  This is what my jar of ReVive Senstif looks like when I'm done.  See that little smugdy bit?  As soon as I noticed it in the picture I went back in and got the rest out. Won't leave a smidge.  And this is just the little bottle they give you in the gift with purchase when you buy the big bottle.  The little bottle lasted me 7 1/2 weeks.  I usually get about 6 months out of a big bottle.  Which is a really good thing.  Because yowzah is it pricey.

Admittedly this is a godawful expensive moisturizer, which is why I scrape out every little bit, but this stuff beats everything - high and low. And believe me, I have tried everything.  It beats La Mer, it beats Olay Pro X, it beats Prevage, SK-II, and every single thing my dermatologist has ever given me.  And as we approach our early, late 40s (what? 48 counts) especially those of us who won't stick botulism in our heads because, um, botulism......we need the best possible weapons in the war against looking our age.  This is my bunker buster bomb.

Since I can never keep a good thing to myself, I offer this recommendation to all of you who might be in the same sort of position, skincarewise.  Go get some, you won't be sorry.  Well maybe your credit card will be, but it's worth it.  You can get it at Neiman Marcus, Saks and Bliss - don't bother trying to find it cheaper in Canada - I've already tried.  Also I'm really hoping they send me some free stuff because of this blog post, the stuff rocks!

"Let's go out in the City Monday night"

Was what P very nicely proposed on Friday.  He had a client meeting downtown and we had an experimental theatre company cocktail party benefit we'd already paid for - why not make a night of it?  Or at least that was the thinking on Friday.  By Monday, the reality of why not, came crashing in. 

In my mind, on Friday I'd go to the city wearing something smashing, enjoy dinner and some cocktails with interesting folks and be squired home by my dashing hubby.

Here's how that looked on Monday.  "Shit, I have nothing that I can wear into the office (remember the office?) for a wind down pizza day lunch and out to dinner in SoHo and to a downtown cocktail party.  Fine, I'll deal with it later."  Go to work, get out early, rush home, get new dog licenses(remember the dogs?), pay a shiva call, see what the kids' homework is looking like (remember the kids?), get the kids to roam the neighborhood to get signatures on dog petitions because there is no freaking way I can do it, (dogs and kids, oh boy!) run upstairs and throw everything in the closet on the bed searching for anything that will make me look like a cool downtown city girl, realize that no amount of packaging is gonna make that happen, but have no time to cry about it, curse and bless the inventor of Spanx simultaneously, throw on a wrap dress, boots and too much eye make-up.  Now where are those kids?

Waiting for P to call to say what train I should catch and wondering if I should be bummed or happy if he calls it off to just come home.  Did I mention I have to get the girl child to school for 6:30AM tomorrow morning?

Someday I will write about the great doggie candy eating debacle.......

You have GOT to be kidding me

Please know that any food that is left in the refrigerator is not up for grabs. If there is food leftover from a meeting it does not mean that you can help yourself. Please only help yourself if an email goes out telling you it is okay to do so.

The 2nd floor refrigerator is very full. Please be considerate of what you put in there. Please remember this is a shared space.

Thanks.

Yes I actually received this email today, because evidently I work at a sit-com of some sort.  I would so love a laugh track - and better lighting.  Today I had to make fundraising calls to lots of people, including ones named Elizabeth Taylor, LaToya Jackson and Lana Turner.  None of them were the people you'd hope.  I also had to stop myself from giggling hysterically into the phone when the voice mail I got to intoned that I was being processed by IP VoiceNet (say it out loud - yes I am a twelve year old).

In the last two weeks I've been at this place I've had both stomach flu and the cold from hell (that no one will give me antibiotics for!!!!)  My throat is absolutely killing me from talking on the phone for four hours straight begging for donations and my ears hurt from, well I don't know - they just hurt!

All in all, I can't say this experiment is going very well, but I've only got three weeks left.  During those three weeks we're having an 80th birthday party for my dad, we have guests staying with us from Australia for a week, we're hosting a dinner party for a friend we haven't seen since college (shit must loose 10 pounds pronto!),  and there are three week days with no school.  You know it's bad when you're kind of wishing you get hit with just some small space debris so you can rest up in the hospital for  a few days.

Maybe I'll amuse myself my moving around the food in the 2nd floor refrigerator.