5 Reasons Why I Would Not Make a Good Boater

Living on Long Island, it is no coincidence that we have many good friends who are boaters.  For the purposes of this post, I will call them boat people - they are the people with boats.  Though I love these people dearly, I do not share their passion for boating, and I have come to the conclusion that I will most likely never be a boat person.

Look at these boats... they're beautiful, and it's a beautiful setting.  Who would not want to spend lots of time out here on one of those lovely boats, communing with nature?   For the past week or so, Long Island has been in the middle of a heat wave, which means it's been above 90 degrees and humid as a sauna.

1.  The heat.  When it's 90+ degrees and humid as a sauna, the LAST place I want to be is out in the blazing sun.  My boat people friends were out there walking around looking fresh and sunny and I was melting like an ice cream cone on the hot pavement.

2.  All that moving of stuff - onto and off of the boat...  the food, the bathing suits, the towels, the sunscreen...  Am I making too big of a deal out of this?  And what if I forget something?  My husband makes fun of me sometimes because I would forget my head if it wasn't attached to my shoulders.  With a boat, you're carrying stuff into your car, then from the car to the boat, then the boat to the shore, then back into the boat, then back into the car, then back into the house.  Seriously though, all this movement reminds me of the futility of making my bed - why should I make my bed every morning when I'm only going to get back into it again in a bit more than 12 hours?  Does everyone not feel this way about making the bed?

3.  The sunscreen.  Sunscreen works well when you use it.  Mr. Golden Sun may look friendly, but don't let him fool you - when you're not paying attention he will sneak up on you and fry you like a slice of crispy bacon.  There is no time off for good behavior - you may have used sunscreen all of your life, but he's just waiting for that ONE time you forget (ask me how I got THIS particular piece of wisdom) to give you sunburn lines that make you look like a human version of Rudolph, and remind you in not so subtle ways of the EXACT length of your shirt sleeves that day.  If you think that's bad, in a few days you'll be peeling like a snake.  Fun stuff.

4.  Salt and Sand.  Under my toes - awesome.  In my hair - not so much.  Don't get me wrong, when I was a little kid, I used to put sand in my hair because I liked picking it out.  I'd swear that people with dreadlocks start their dreads with a trip to the beach.  Personally, when I want to say goodbye to the salt and sand with a nice fresh-water shower, the thought of swaying to and fro with the tide while attempting to rid myself of the cup of sand I've accumulated during the day sounds like it requires a little too much coordination.  

5.  Which brings me to...  my lack of sea-legs.  My mother-in-law states that she got sick on the tea-cup ride at Disney World.  Well, I am right there with ya, Mom, and a day of swaying to and fro is probably more than my eustachian tubes can bear.  See the boardwalk in the picture below?  There are some days when I feel like that on dry land.  (By the way, wavy boardwalk courtesy of Hurricane Sandy)

In the same way that my husband can go to a party, be the life of said party, and then, somewhere are around midnight (you would swear he was Cinderella) be seized with the need to go home RIGHT NOW because he's grown tired of socializing, I can go to the beach, enjoy the sun, sand, etc, and then somewhere around sunset, become VERY GLAD that I don't own a boat which would require me to stay a few minutes longer.  So boat people I am more than willing to spend some time visiting you at the beach. I will totally enjoy the atmosphere and your company.  But when it's time to go, it's time to go!  Until next time on the water!

Love, the Landlubber!

One of MY best teachers

I imagine that great teachers are defined differently by different students at different times in their lives.  I can say that I certainly had a good share of wonderful teachers, as well as a few not so wonderful ones.  It is my belief that the key point is not what the teacher can force into the student's head; rather, it's how the student feels about learning in that classroom... what the student believes he or she can learn.

In my freshman year of college, I considered several options for my major.  None of them would guarantee me a job, but then, the real job market was still four years away.  I toyed with the idea of Psychology, Human Relations (what IS that?  I never bothered to find out) and English. I secretly wanted to be an English major, but I had heard from various sources that it was a difficult major wherein the student read and analyzed loads novels written in other centuries, and in their senior year wrote a 50 page thesis.  Yes, that's 5-0 pages... with endnotes and an extensive bibliography.   I nourished my secret hope until I got to Freshman English class.  Having been a student in high school who did relatively well in English, I did not realize what a surprise I was in for in this class.  Our first papers were returned to us with virtually no sentence untouched by the red pen.  The phrases, AWK, PASSIVE! and WHAT?  were written extensively in the margins.  I remember going home one afternoon, clutching my C+ paper in my hand and wondering if I would have to give up on the English major idea.  How was I going to be an English major when I was clearly unable to write a sentence worthy of Freshman English?  I slogged through my assignments until one day, Sister Loretta assigned this as our next paper topic:

"Write a paper supporting one of the following statements:

The purpose of education is to obtain a high paying career.

The purpose of education is not for careers."   

Now, I was not stupid.  I knew all of my college professors would be in favor of the second statement and not the first.  But the paper had to be backed up with supporting evidence in either case.  Still, even though I was not the typical liberal-minded college student (I later on wrote a paper supporting Reagan's economic policy - the "trickle-down" effect), this was the argument I fully believed in.  

At the beginning of the following class, my professor, Sister Loretta began the class session by telling us that overall, our essays had been abysmal.  "I gave them to a friend of mine, Brother Benilde, to grade, and as you may or may not know, he's a tough critic..."

The papers were handed out...  red marks and indecipherable doctor-like handwriting decorated every paper.  My heart sank.  I received my paper and there were marks, but not TOO many.  I read them carefully, and then, on the back page, this stunner:

"a well-written, logical argument...  AT LAST!"     

It was like the heavens had opened, and choirs of angels had serenaded me with their joy!  Brother Benilde thought I had a logical argument!  There was hope!!

Next, I took Classical Literature. Does any non-Literature major have any idea what Classical Literature even IS?  Try this on for size:  it's basically literature from the time when men walked around with olive branches on their heads and white robes and sandals were THE fashion statement. The Iliad, not to be confused with the watered-down, high school version of the much more entertaining Odyssey.  The Iliad (better known as, "... and the blade sliced through his throat, and fluids burst forth, and his head, still speaking, hit the dust") is about a very long, gory war, and this was before the movie version with Brad Pitt.  This time my professor WAS Brother Benilde, who was intimidating in class, but anyone could tell he was extraordinarily intelligent.  He had no tolerance for bullshit.   If you wanted an A, you had to write three papers.  Write two papers and you would get no better than a B.  One paper = a C, and that's if it's a good paper.  I worked my BUTT off just to read and understand the Iliad (one guy who sat next to me argued about why we got a quiz at the beginning of every class asking us, "how many toenails does Achilles' horse have") but I was stymied in understanding what he wanted for his papers.  I got my first draft back all marked up, with a curt, "see me"  written on the bottom, and I was forced to ask him for help.  I'll never forget walking up to his desk and asking that question.

"All you have to do is...."  (I don't remember the details, all I remember is the next part...) 

"Look, you can do this."  

And so I did.  I did Classical Literature, with the catalogue of ships and the endless bodies dropping into the sand, culminating with Hector and Achilles doing laps around the fortress until finally Hector, even with his noble heart, was defeated.  I had Brother Benilde for other classes - The Comedies of Shakespeare, "the quality of mercy is not strained...," The Tragedies of Shakespeare, in which even though I was born and raised a Roman Catholic girl, I heard the only explanation of confession that EVER made any sense to me, 

"... What was Romeo's mistake?  What was Juliet's mistake?  They didn't take it to the community... They isolated themselves from the community.  If they had joined in the FABRIC of HUMANITY (one of his all time favorite phrases - I loved it - doesn't it create a nice visual for you?  The Fabric of Humanity?  Like a beautiful, colorful quilt. ) If they had taken their PROBLEM to the COMMUNITY, they would not have killed themselves.  You see, the community SHARES the problem, lessens it.  Just like in confession.  In confession, you take your problems to the community - you unburden yourself, and the problems become smaller and more manageable."    

Did you ever have a time in your life when you could almost feel your mind expanding?  This teacher truly taught me how to think... not WHAT to think, but how to think... how to reason logically, create a hypothesis and follow it through to its conclusion with supporting evidence... in writing.  I underestimated the importance of that time in my life.  Sometimes you don't understand the importance of things when you are in them... that you can almost literally do anything you want to do.   When you have that feeling, you need to spend some time wallowing in it.  If you get that feeling, most likely you can thank some sort of teacher.  Sometimes you just need someone to back you up.  Someone to say, "Look, you can do this."

Wishin' it was still summer...

We are in the middle of one clammy, nasty week, weather wise.  It's dark, dreary, and misty (somehow Stephanie Meyer made this weather fashionable in her Twilight series, but Edward/Jacob or not, I still hate it)  The humidity is so high, my hair looks like a giant puff-ball, and it's that in-between temperature that makes you alternate between feeling hot and feeling cold. 

I've been wanting to post pictures, but last time I attempted such an endeavor, my picture was horribly fitted to the page, and I couldn't figure out how to fix it.  For this (I think, fairly successful attempt!)  I've chosen a picture I took at a local beach a little over a month ago.  The weather was great and the beach wasn't too crowded.  I was relaxing while the kids caught fiddler crabs in a bucket when  my daughter suddenly said, "Mommy, LOOK at those seagulls!"  I took loads of shots but somehow every time I managed to miss the seagull on the right sticking his head right into the beach bag and fishing out potato chips.   What a riot!  I probably should have shooed them away, but it was way too funny, and I was too busy trying to take their picture...  Ah, I miss summer, don't you?

Groin Strike - YIKES!

First, I want to say that I really like karate.  Maybe you’re wondering what kind of karate I’m talking about so I’m going to state for the record that I started out doing Kempo, and now it’s Shoren Ru or some other such name like that, but for all I care, it’s just Regular Karate.

Regular Karate is the kind where you learn how to punch and kick people, and you feel like you’re TOUGH.  You can kick some ASS.  You can take someone out (Not that you would, but technically, you could.  Although, I’m not sure I could, but that’s the theory.) It’s especially cool if you get to wear the black gi pants, but if you have to wear the white ones (let’s face it, what girl really prefers to wear white pants, especially baggy ones, unless you’re getting paid lots of money to do a Tampax commercial?) you will still feel cool when you do things like roundhouse kicks and elbow strikes.  I’m noticing, though, that the further I get into this, the more I run into things that strike fear into my heart.  Things like:  BREAK FALL.  TWO MILE RUN.  And most recently…

GROIN STRIKE

Oh my GOD!  Am I actually going to have to hit someone in the groin? Worse, is someone going to groin strike me??  You know, not that we actually hit each other hard when we’re practicing, but when you’re doing a chin strike for example, you make contact with the chin.  GROIN STRIKE.  YIKES!!

When the sensei was demonstrating, I paid careful attention.  How was he handling it? Although, could I even use him as an example?  He’s the SENSEI, for crying out loud, of course he can handle a groin strike with aplomb! Ah, I saw that he pretended to strike, but stopped just short, which was convenient for the other person (in this case, the victim, or was that the attacker?) who then had to grab the wrist to prevent the groin strike. 

Oh, did I tell you that I have personal space issues? 

I have personal space issues.

And my partner for the day was a young man.  Oh my.  I could do this.  I was not a wimp. The drill began with a two handed bear hug (personal space!) by the attacker to pin down the victim’s arms.   I stood in front of my partner, ready to pin down his arms.  Suddenly, a pair of black belts (conveniently, a young man and a young woman) came to our rescue.  Whewww…  I don’t have to pretend to grab the groin of a young man, but you know, pretending to grab the groin of a young woman is just as bad (worse?  Just as bad in a different way?).  Now, boobs were an issue.  I don’t want to hug someone with boobs unless it’s one of my sisters or a really good friend and one of us is really happy or having an emotional meltdown (Did I tell you…?  Nevermind.)

I got past the awkwardness by concentrating on remembering the next step and feeling awkward about that instead. Those black belts – in addition to having mastered all sorts of ways to kick ass, they have also mastered the issue of personal space.    

I’ve done this drill a few more times since that first time, but it’s still not my favorite.  I’d rather pretend to chop someone in the bicep, hyperextend their arm, or even bend them over and get them in a headlock while they turn and pretend to bite my leg.  The next time the bear-hug-then-groin-strike drill comes up, I’m going to try and concentrate only on the fact that I’m learning to kick ass.

DISAPPOINTMENT - 11 year old style...

     My son is extremely disappointed that his game, Halo Reach, didn’t arrive in the mail today, as scheduled.  We special ordered the game from Costco.com for his birthday, which was last week on the first day of school (the poor kid).  In spite of playing video games way too often (is this the case with most 11 year old boys?) he wanted this game like kids in the early 80's wanted Rubic's cubes... Smurfs... Cabbage Patch dolls, oh you know, he HAD TO GET IT.  According to my son, this stupendous, miraculous game had its world wide release TODAY, September 14, 2010. (Is he SURE it’s today?  I think it must be tomorrow.)  But when he got home from dischool, he checked the mailbox.  Nothing.  Checked the front porch, where the UPS man usually leaves packages.  Nothing.  There were no Post-It-like notes stuck to the front screen door, ala, Fed Ex. Man.  This being the case, I ask you, what is a newly-turned-11-year-old boy to do?  He’s been pacing the floor since he got home from school.  He did his homework in a microsecond, anticipating the delivery of the videogame package, knowing I wouldn’t let him open it until the homework was done.  All for nothing.  (Who cares about education?  Not my son!)  His life was a total disappointment, he informed me.  (Yeah, who cares about the bike he got this summer, and all the great things we did in the past two months?)  I joked with him, "Yeah, it's the end of the world.”  “It IS,” he tells me.  He starts a negative rant about Costco, telling me he’ll never buy another thing there again (… which is no big loss for Costco, since it’s really ME that does the shopping there, and I have no intention of boycotting.)  As a matter of fact, he’ll never even set FOOT in Costco again.  I imagine him standing just outside the wide open doorway of our local Costco, arms folded in front of his chest, and chin up in the air, as a few employees try to coax him inside to no avail.   I chuckle. “My life is over.” He informs me.   We are sitting in the parking lot at his karate dojo when he tells me this.  He’s flopping around the car, venting his disappointment and frustration.  "Ok, It’s time for karate," I tell him.  He gives me a joking glare and states dramatically, “I’m not going in there until my video game is delivered!” but when I glare back at him he knows I’m serious and he heads inside. 

     In my boring, adult mind, I keep thinking, I can't believe he's making such a big deal out of this, but you know, tomorrow, when the game does arrive, he's going to be the happiest little man in the world, and I'll be marveling (and appreciating) the pure simplicity of boys.

         

Wimp, or Just a Pint Low?

I donated blood the other day.  I've been meaning to do this for years, but I've managed to avoid actually doing it until just last week.  The karate dojo I attend was having a blood drive, and I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to try donating again.  I haven't donated blood since I was about 25 and all I remember from that experience is: 1. In the time it took me to donate my one pint of blood, three other people donated their pints, 2.  the needle was frighteningly large, and 3.  I was sick for two weeks after that.

Anyway, I am now older, wiser (not to mention, heavier) and most of all, long overdue to try this again.  I signed up for a spot. 

When I showed up, I felt totally ready.  I had hydrated myself well all day, and I had just eaten a big plate of pasta for dinner.  Ready to go, I thought.  Ready to bleed for the good of mankind.  I filled out my questionnaire, talked to the nurse, and passed the iron test.  My blood pressure was pretty low, though (100/60).

Is that too low, I worry?  How low was too low?  What if taking away a pint of blood lowers my blood pressure even more - will I pass out?  That would be embarrassing.  I sit on the bench to wait my turn and try not to think about it.  I watch the black belt nearby play with his cell phone as he donates his pint.  The automatic blood-slosher tilts the bag of his blood back and forth, mixing it constantly.  (Why?  So it doesn't clot in the bag?  IEWWW.  Think about THIS when you dream about Edward Cullen, girls.)  I drink my bottle of juice before my donation, as the nurse has suggested.  Is this stuff really going to make a difference? I guess I should have drank more water today. I look around.  Wow, this is just a modified camper trailer.  What if someone actually passes out? The aisle is so narrow they'll take half of these tubes and equipment with them on the way to the floor.  I look up the aisle.  One of the senseis is done, and she is holding her arm in the air, pressing on the bandage.  They never have you do that when they just take a vial of blood for tests.  I wonder if that's because the damn needle is so big and it makes a big hole?  GOD, It's hot in here!  And why are the windows are covered with dark tinting?  Is that really necessary?  When is it going to be my turn?  Another nurse has me recline on one of the bench/tables.  I watch the black-belt's blood continue to fill up the bag and slosh around.  460ml.  Slosh. Slosh. God, that really DOES look like a lot of blood.  470.  slosh.  Mine is going to look like that, too.  Glad it's so close to the table I won't be able to see my own.  490.  Slosh.  500.  His monitor starts beeping, and the nurse comes over.  She tells me I'll have to wait a minute, because she has to unhook him first before she hooks me up.  No problem, I say, but secretly, I just want to go NOW, cause I want to this to be over.  Finally, she turns to me. She sets everything up and when she takes the needle out of its packaging, I steal a glance at it.  It's BIG.  I can clearly see the hole in the end of it, and I can even see up the inside of the hole a few millimeters.  Ugh. I looked away from it, toward the tubes she's filling.  Are those for testing my blood?  I ask.  Yes.  Then she takes out a small bag and hooks it up to my tube.  First, you'll fill up this small bag before you give your main donation.  Ok.  She hooks it up and walks away.  This is going to be way more than a pint, I think to myself.  I try not to move my arm.  I don't want to jolt the big pipe she has shoved into my vein.  That's all I need... the blood stopping, and her coming back here to move it around, the way I think it happened last time I donated blood.  UGH!  Is it hot in here, or is it just me?  She removes the small bag and connects me to the main donation bag.  I don't feel so well.  I think of my husband, who practically passes out when they draw a couple of tubes of his blood.  I think I'll just lie down here, he tells them.  Wheew, that seems like a good idea right about now...

"Are you alright?"  one of the nurses asked me.

If they have to stop this blood donation in the middle, I bet they're going to have to throw my blood out, and I'll be damned if my blood's getting wasted.

Tell me now if you're not feeling ok because we don't want your blood to go to waste.  If you can finish the pint it won't go to waste.   Exactly!  I think.

While I was trying to decide if I was alright or not, she was walking over to me, at the same time asking another nurse to help her flatten my bench.  In about 10 seconds, I was lying flat on my back and another nurse was putting ice packs behind my neck.  The other one added an ice pack to my forehead for good measure. 

"You're going to give her brain-freeze,"  the one nurse said to the other.

I felt like a baby, but I was glad to be lying down. 

Soon, (but not soon enough) I was done.  A nurse disconnected me and brought me another juice and some salty crackers.  I drank it and tried to sit up.  Whoah, not yet.   I reclined again.  I watched them putter around.  Someone should tell them not to say things like, "there's blood all over the place," for a multitude of reasons.  They escorted another donor to the back of the van, telling her to walk sideways or so she doesn't knock over the blood bag from the slosher of the new donor next to me. 

"Imagine??!"  

I imagined.  It wasn't pretty. 

Finally, FINALLY, I was able to sit up without feeling woozy.  I was able to leave the donation van an hour and a half after I had entered it. As the sensei who had organized the blood drive walked by me, while I waited in my chair, she told me we got 30 pints. 

"How many pints in a quart?"  I asked.  "Two, right?"

"What?"

"I was wondering how many gallons that is.  30 pints.  How many gallons is that?"

She grimmaced.  "Ugh. I never thought of it that way."  she said.  "Ugh.  You just skeeved me out." 

We both laughed. 

I watched the next karate class, and then my friend drove me home.  I'd like to say for the record that my blood donating career has officially ended.  If, in another 10 years or so, I feel the need to be heroic in this particular manner, someone, please talk me out of it.    

Take my glasses, PLEASE!

     I am at the age where, sadly, I need reading glasses. I had been hearing for years that this need for reading glasses would suddenly sneak up on me – give or take a year or two (or, three?) but the general consensus was that it happened sometime around age 40. As if 40 isn’t enough of an issue. Anyway, the glasses took me quite by surprise. One year I was teaching English, reading extensively every day and not having a problem, and the next year, I was teaching preschool, naturally holding the books like Goodnight, Moon, and How to Be a Pirate, far away from me as I read so that the kids could see the pictures. Then suddenly, I was teaching high school and I discovered that somewhere in the last year, I had gone blind. I got a pair of glasses and it was a miracle – I could read again! Just in time, too. I had been holding the books farther and farther away from my face, and I realized that soon my arms would be too short.

     They were terrific until my husband started “borrowing” them for his sessions on ebay… and for reading the newspaper… and for… well, let’s just say that he borrowed them for everything. And he left them everywhere. On his nightstand. On the coffee table in the living room. In the garage. In the bathroom. He needed his own pair, because he was destroying mine… throwing them around, stretching them out on his big head. He did get his own pair (from the dollar store) but still he continues to borrow my glasses. He says he’s going to buy twenty pairs from the dollar store, and leave them all over the house so that he can always find a pair, but he really doesn’t have to do that because somehow, I have become the Designated Person in Charge of Eyewear. Now he actually gets ANNOYED with me when I forget the glasses, or I want to use them first. He’s used my long-arm trick, but his vision is a bit worse than mine (he’s further past 40) so his arms aren’t long enough anymore.

     A funny thing has been happening lately, though. I’ve noticed that EVERYONE needs glasses. Everyone in my age bracket, that is. We go out to dinner with friends and I notice THEM holding their menus too far away. “Do you wear reading glasses?” I’d ask casually. No, he or she would say, “I don’t need them.” Haha, I snicker to myself. Sure you don’t.

     I discovered a very good friend of mine needed glasses as well when, after handing her an article to read, she took it and held it at arm’s length.


     “Do you need reading glasses?” I asked her.

     “Probably.” She said.

     “Here, try these.” I handed over mine.

     “Wow.” She said, impressed and at the same time, slightly disgusted. “What a difference!”

     If you recognize yourself in this situation, you may be embarrassed, but don’t be. We’re all in the same boat together. We’re not getting old. Really. I’m not the only one who suddenly needs glasses, and neither are you. I won’t tell if you don’t want me to. But next time someone shows you something with tiny print, or lots of little details, just take the glasses, please.