Monthly Archives: June 2010

Oh. Shit.

So, get this- the ever lingeringly, tantalizingly, just out of reachingly song that I’ve been scraping my mind about and making myself psycho about for the last week bobbed back to the surface on Saturday, grinning up at me.

Only this time I recognized it and having recognized it, shuddered.

Sadly and amazingly, the song that’s been tormenting me for the last week or so, the tune thats played it’s self out over and over again in my mind with maddeningly almost clarity is/was- get this- Missundaztood by Pink.

I kid you not.

When I heard it I was, like, whoops.

How’d that happen? Here I’d thought I’m, like, Mr. Really Cool Rock Guy- I don’t listen to that shit.

I found it while scrolling through my iPod. I’d like to say I heard on a radio station or in a bar or blaring from the speakers of a daytripper’s car cruising by, but I can’t. It was on one of my playlists.


So. I ran upstairs and put on my panties and squealed like a little girl, and then I listened to it and it wasn’t nearly as good as my fragmented memory and I kept cutting it with REAL rock-and-roll so’s not to become a total pussy.

But, yeah. Missundaztood. Pink.


What’s happening to me?

She is cute, though.

Vacation redux.

Okay, let me try this again.

I realize now that I sounded pretty whiney in my last post about going on vacation and that maybe I hadn’t made myself and my thoughts clear.

If I see one more Waaah e-mail I’m gonna do what Dooce does, or used to do, and print it out and run it over with MR.GREENE.

I mean it.

Deep breath.

Ok. I’m lucky. I’ll be the first to admit it. Miss Carol and me aren’t rich, but we’re not poor either. We work hard and try and save and sometimes we can afford a vacation.

This is one of those years. We haven’t done a trip like this in seven years. We’ve been making payments for the last eight months leading up to vacation time. It’s not taken lightly.


Unfortunately for Miss Carol, who loves travel, I’m really happy in our little life here at home. Sure, I bitch and moan about stuff, but overall?, I’m lucky to be living the life I live and I know it and I don’t mind just stayin’ put. I’m perfectly happy to watch Anthony Bourdain visit places I’ll never visit and eat foods I’ll never eat.

Hey. Living vicariously ain’t  but so bad.

And as vacation looms over me, it’s dark wings gently enveloping, I can’t help but already yearn for the things I’ll miss while we’re gone- ya know- like the twice daily walks with Cutter and Tug yanking me every which-a-way, and the endless work in the endlessly stifling heat, and maybe even, the Tourons.

So, ok, maybe I’m a retard.

But I’m a really happy and happy-to-stay-at-home retard and really, that was the only point I was trying to make.


Don’t make me run over your e-mail, bitches.


Miss Carol’s talked me into another vacation.

We’re gonna be going to the BVI’s and bareboat charter a big ‘ole catamaran and sail around and tan and drink and try not to be touron turds.

I’m sure it’ll be fun. I’m pretty sure I need a vacation. I’m sure it’s gonna be lots of stuff.


I’m also sure I don’t want to go.

There. I said it.

I don’t want to go. It’s not the trip. It’s not the friends we’re goin’ with. It’s not like I won’t love the sun and the bikini’s.

It’s me.

I hate leaving.

I’m convinced each time we fly out that this time will be the last. That there ain’t no way I’m coming back. That the dog’sll just sit and wait, staring out the window and endlessly wonder where we went and why we didn’t come back.


In the lead up, not that it helps, while I walk ’em I talk to ’em and tell ’em we’ll be back, that it’s just a week and don’t worry and then I’ll kiss Cutter and Tug goodbye and gaze up at our house wistfully and wonder why I have to leave.

And then I’ll head out.

Bits and Pieces.

It’s the first day of summer and just like last year and the year before we went from winter right into summer. From chilly and damp to hot and humid.

Way hot.

And workin’ outside in it is a lot like havin’ a hammer beatin’ down on you shattering your thoughts into splintering shards that scatter every which away.

Which’ll hopefully explain this post-

Firstly. The song is gone. It tucked it’s tail and crawled up somewhere in the dark and dead recesses of my brain, gave me the finger, and just disappeared.

I think I’ll miss it, for what it’s worth.

Secondly. We watched The Hurt Locker on Saturday. Miss Carol and me are really bad about keeping current with movies and even when we get them it takes weeks for us to watch ’em. But watch them we do.

And honestly? The Hurt Locker pissed me off. It made me wonder why the FUCK we’re over there throwing our kids up against the stone wall that is Iraq and, dare I say it?, the muslim religion? Whether you are for or against the “war”, get it and watch it. It made my poor heat splattered brain think.

Thirdly. Miss Carol and me spent the weekend up on the beach letting the heat hammer pound us into sunburnt, toasty, mind dead muffins.

So maybe that’s where the song went.

And maybe that’s what ticked me off about the movie.

And maybe that’s what made this post so disjointed- just little bits and pieces of nothing.

Maybe it’s the heat.

Or maybe it’s me.

New Toy.

Boy howdy, life is good.

Real good.

I’ve wanted one of these babies ever since I saw them at a boat show, like, four years ago.

It’s the new Hobie Adventure Island trimaran. It’s lightweight. It’s way cool and way expensive which is why I wouldn’t buy one. Four grand for a toy was not passing Miss Carol’s fun test.

So I started saving, putting away a little money here and little money there, thinking that if I bought one from saved funds it’d be different from just going out and buying one.

I was close three times. The first time I had $3500 saved and Miss Carol wanted the hot tub. Then I had $2500 and we needed it for bills. Then I had about $800 and had just about given up for this year when I did some work for an older, retired couple and noticed they had one under their house.

I asked them how they liked it and they told me they’d sell it to me for $1500. I asked if they’d accept $1100 and I’d do their work for free and they said yes and now I got me one.

Hobie calls it a sailing kayak but I call it a ton of fun and I think I’m gonna call her Skeeter.

Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas to me.

(And no, I STILL have not figured out what the song is running through my brain- it’s making me mental)


Ever had a song running through your head, chewing at you, and you can’t think of the title or even the artist so you’re stuck with the endless loop of it trippin’ around in your head?

That’s where I’m at.

I’ve got this song coursing through me. I can hear it crystal clear in my head and I want to download it and listen to it ’til the end of time but I can’t ’cause it’s right there, just beyond my grasping memory.

I know it’s a chick singing and I know it’s a pop tune and I know I want it desperately enough to try and hum it to Miss Carol while I was making dinner tonight in the hopes she’d recognize the song and save me.

Instead, she punched me and told me to stop making the funny noises.



The title, Continental Drift, confused me for most of the book. Here I’m thinkin’ continental drift in geologic terms like, well, you know, tectonic plates and continents drifting, um, apart? Or whatever?


I’m reading Russell Banks book, waiting and watching for the continent drifting thingy and wondering why the whole book’s about a guy moving his family to Florida and a Haitian chick trying to get to America and I’m wondering why I’d want to read about continents drifting anyway.

But it’s good so I kept going.

Come to find out, in the postscript at the end, Russ was talking about the demographic drift of people from their homes to someplace different in the hopes of a different, and hopefully better, life.

And all the sudden it became clear.

I’m a turd and probably shouldn’t read anything more challenging than Reader’s Digest. And maybe keep to the short stories.


Continental Drift is about the convergent stories of Bob Dubois and Vanise Dorsinville and their separate journeys to Florida. His from Catamount, New Hampshire fleeing boredom and predictability and middle age, and hers from Allanche, Haiti fleeing certain arrest after she and her family eat a ham her nephew has stolen from a hurricane wrecked truck.

It’s an alarmingly parallel story of similar hopes and dreams played out over the cultural differences that separate them.

But more importantly it’s a story about what happens when their sadly ordinary lives collide.

‘Nuff said.

I don’t want to ruin it for you.

Run to the store and get and forget that I’m too stupid to understand the title.

Coming next- The Girl Who Played With Fire by Stieg Larsson.