all souls' day

I was tempted to get done up again yesterday on the actual Day of the Dead, a/k/a All Souls' Day. I'm not Catholic, but came very close, and it never hurts to take a day to remember our loved ones who are gone. I told pup dog the story about the last time she saw my father. He had measured out individual ziploc bags of dog food for all her meals on a crazy road trip of me and pup driving alone across the country. On the larger bag he had put all the small ones in he had written a note: "For Buttercup, hand-packed with love by Grampa."

Here is a photo of my Halloween Sugar Skull Bride. Random strangers were coming up and taking photographs. The makeup took three hours and three glasses of wine, (twice I had to scrap it and start over because the white hadn't gone on as smoothly as I wanted), and I only had it on for three hours. The night was pretty much a bust and I never got where I was headed. C'est la vie.

I was trying to get to my local pub, where I probably could have won the costume contest. It should have been easy to make it there by 7pm, I only planned to stop for a quick, cheap, happy hour beer and pizza at Boatyard at 6pm. A friend and her new beau met me there and then my drinking crew got there, two guys I've only known three years but seems like we've known each other forever. Time started slipping away, but I figured we would get out of there soon. Then someone else ordered food and an acquaintance hijacked me on the pretense of introducing me to a friend who is a local attorney. I only left my friends thinking it'd be a quick intro and since I'm always looking for work I just wanted to make the connection. But instead they were trying to fix me up with some guy I wouldn't even be able to recognize if he walked past me right now. Zero chemistry, completely not my type. And I just hate people trying to fix me up. If they knew me at all they would know that. If I'm interested in a guy he'll know it. So I was wishing my friends would come grab me and rescue me from the hijacking but they headed outside to smoke. 

It seemed like they'd been gone forever and I worried they'd already headed to the next spot and a busser started clearing all their stuff away. I asked the bartender for my tab, and totally freaked out when I saw it was $60. After paying bills, I only have $50 until my next pay day around the 11th. So my Halloween drinking budget was $30, which was still more than I hoped to spend. A couple beers at the pub is all I really wanted to have since I wanted to get up early to run and didn't want to feel like hell. And since my cheap beer at the pub is $3 a pop, I could pretty easily have a $20 night out. My tab at Boatyard should have been a whopping $8 plus tax, so when I saw this huge tab I started freaking out. The first things I saw were a bunch of beers and one of my friend's margaritas, so I thought the bartender had put my friend's boyfriend's tab on mine. I told the bartender I don't even know the guy. He said it was my friend I had lunch with the other day and he put his stuff on my tab, we're friends, so he put it there. I looked farther down the tab and saw a pizza and shots he'd ordered. The extra beers were likely his, too. I guess they were right outside smoking but when I texted I didn't hear right back from him because he was on the phone with someone. The bartender just kind of shrugged rather than splitting off my stuff and I headed into the head to take a deep breath and get away from everyone. One of the people trying to fix me up came in and over my objection just snatched the tab out of my hand and someone in that group paid it. I didn't want to be some charity case, I just didn't want to be stuck with anyone else's tab since I'm so broke and literally couldn't have paid the whole tab. I always hate having my tab mixed with someone else's. I just want to be able to pay what I owe, not have to hassle with anyone over who owes what, and be able to leave when I want. After putting all that stuff on my tab without my permission and then just shrugging about it, hell will pretty much have to freeze over before I set foot in Boatyard again. I was frantic to get away from the acquaintaces trying to fix me up and wanted to get out of there right then. I should've just waitied, gone to find my friends so they could take care of their portion. But I was all flustered and just freaked out, needlessly. I guess being stuck in this noisy, crowded bar, trying to get away from these people, and then not being able to, being so broke, it just all wound me up into a panic attack. I washed all my makeup off there in the bathroom and rolled straight home to bed. So, Halloween fail. 

To make matters worse the acquaintance gave my phone number to the guy he was trying to fix me up with and showed him my boat, so the guy was banging on the hull when I was trying to sleep and came on the boat to drop a note with his number. High on my list of pet peeves is people just "dropping by" my boat. Just text me if you're in the neighborhood. If I'm up for company, I'll respond. I like my privacy aboard. I would never just show up at someone's house banging on the door. Even if I'm home that doesn't mean I want to see anyone. I might be sleeping, taking a shower, on the phone, screwing someone, or just not in the mood for company. I keep odd hours, so one night I might be up until 2am and another night I may go to bed at 8pm. I sound totally anti-social; maybe I am. I just think I have a right to be social on my terms, when and where I feel like it. 

The winds howled all night Saturday. I stood on the deck pulling a stern line, leaning back with all my weight, trying to get another inch or two off the dock. I forgot to take my sleeping pills so the wind and banging and rocking kept me coming in and out of sleep. But I worry about being too deeply asleep during a gale. I had a bad feeling the tides would be very, very low from the north winds, but it's only the beginning of November, it wouldn't be too bad, right? Then I accidentally caught a glimpse out a port light in the morning and saw how far below the dock we were. 

No way I could get off the boat without getting soaked climbing up to the wet dock, so donned my snow pants and foulie jacket. I thought I would have to untie the dog ramp from the deck and run it from the cabin top to the dock for pup dog to make it ashore, but she looked at the dock and looked at me and while I was adjusting lines she just jumped on up. I had to climb up on hands and knees. When we returned from our walk I figured I would have to get the dog ramp because jumping down is definitely scarier than jumping up. But pup looked at it and then looked back at me and then jumped right down. She turned back and gave me a look: "Mom, I got this!" I told her what a good pup she is, so brave. Then she kept climbing back to the side deck as if to help me. I had to sit on the dock, reach my feet down to the toe rail, and then launch myself over. But this was nothing compared to how low it will get and doing it in daylight without snow makes it much easier. Ah, living the dream.

The schlepp into DC for this project is a major drag, very hard on pup, and completely wrecks my running schedule. Gratefully, I managed to knock out 4 miles on Friday, 6 on Saturday, and 14 long, slow, cold, windy miles yesterday. I should have ran that 14-miler two months ago, so I am under major pressure to get my mileage up quickly without getting injured so I can make it through the 50K right before Christmas. I'm really good at procrastinating, but I'm also a machine when I'm down to the wire and something simply must get done. So, we'll be ramping up to 16 and 18, umm, immediately. The good news: I'm not even sore from the 14 yesterday. Everything else may be falling apart, literally and figuratively, but these legs are rock solid!

schmear

Not too long ago I met up with my friend Mike for brunch at Boatyard. (Be forewarned: their website has very annoying music that plays automatically; add that to the pet peeve list.) I had not had that particular bartender before but he executed my favorite Stoli O Mimosa perfectly (think four parts Stoli O, two parts champagne, and one part pulp-free orange juice). Mike had a Bloody Mary. Life was good.

I usually struggle with whether to have breakfast or lunch when out for brunch because breakfast usually leaves me hungry an hour later. But I think that morning it was early enough that lunch was not an option and I sort of felt like having an omelet; I went with a delicious combination of smoked turkey, avocado, and feta. The omelets come with breakfast potatoes and toast, but one can upgrade to a bagel. I checked with the bartender that they had everything bagels. And then came the all-important conversation...about schmear. This whole thing kind of cracks Mike up, though I think he has become a true believer.

The bottom line is this: I'm paying the restaurant to schmear the bagel for me. Period. I can go to the grocery store and buy a bagel and cream cheese; I'm paying for the service of the restaurant toasting and schmearing it. Why some restaurants and coffee shops fail to understand this, I simply cannot comprehend. The bagel needs to be schmeared in the kitchen, while it is hot, with ample cream cheese. (It's the same with buttering toast. Cold, dry toast with a couple of frozen butter pats; yeah, thanks for nothing.) The places that force me to schmear my own bagel are also chintzy...they never, ever give you enough cream cheese for even half the bagel. Bagel schmearing fails include virtually any cafe chain (like StarFucks, Au Bon Pain, etc), Main Ingredient (a surprising disappointment since otherwise good food), cafes at airports, and other places I have blocked from memory due to the mental trauma of the whole thing. Places that schmear like they mean it: Naval Bagels, Bagels and..., and virtually any place in New York or Boston.

So, back at Boatyard... I had this come-to-Jesus talk about the importance of pre-schmearing the bagel and the bartender assured me they do. My bagel came out schmeared with ample cream cheese, I think I managed to avoid walking around all day with poppy seeds in my grill, and life was good.

The next morning Mike, his mom and aunt, our friend Dave, and I met up for brunch and found ourselves back at Boatyard. Sunday mornings are extra-busy there and no seats were available at the bar. When I arrived I found the group at a table. I ordered my favorite Stoli O Mimosa but what arrived seemed to be nothing but an extra-pulpy glass of orange juice; yuck! It didn't seem like a bottle of vodka or champagne had even been near that drink. I've spent a good amount of time in hospitality so I am loathe to send something back, but that mimosa was an abomination. Rather than risk another failed mimosa I opted for a Fordham Helles (a/k/a Boatyard Lager).  I decided on a repeat performance of the prior day's breakfast, ordering my omelet with smoked turkey, avocado, and feta, and upgrading to an everything bagel with cream cheese. Unfortunately, what I got was this:

Yeah, as you may have noticed, there was no schmear. A couple sad butter pats and jellies accompanied the bagel. Let's just say I was apoplectic about the whole thing. And it took so long to get the waitress' attention and then get the most miniscule amount of cream cheese, which I had to schmear myself, that the bagel was completely cold by the time I could eat it. When Mike saw me snap the photo of my naked bagel he said "Oh, no; this is going to be on the blog, isn't it?" Umm... yep. I'll certainly be back and ordering my favorite mimosa and everything bagel, but I'll be at the bar, never a table, so I can make sure my mimosa has liquor and my bagel is schmeared. Is that really so much to ask?

Since I'm on a food rant, I'll just add this: if you aren't already following Thug Kitchen, do it post-haste.

Want to call out schmearing fails or give some props to the folks who do it right? Drop a comment so readers know who's a hit and who's a miss.

a chill in the air (and some pet peeves redux)

We had a few mild, pleasant days over the holiday weekend, but the heat kicked right back in. The boat was back to 85 to 90 degrees inside the past few days and yesterday topped 95. I'm running an oscillating fan and I've had the forward hatch open plus port lights open along the sides of the boat to get some cross ventilation. Worried about rain coming through the port lights, I draped a tarp from the cabin top to the life lines, secured with bungee cords, to keep any rain from coming through the starboard port lights and put a towel down to catch any rain coming in on the port side. 

I was planning to head out first thing Thursday morning to buy a portable room air conditioner despite the painful $300 price tag. It would take up space in the cabin and need its vent hose run to a port light, but setting it up would be something simple enough for me to handle. My friends on S/V Octopussy urged me to let them take a look at my old air conditioning unit before spending money on a new one, so I held off. Yesterday evening, we disassembled and inspected, not finding any obvious failure right off. But it turned out the problem was an incredibly simple one: the unit was overheating because I had kept the cover on. The cover is made from the same blue fabric as my bimini and dodger, but has mesh panels in the sides and back to allow the unit to vent. I had put the cover on for the winter and had not had any problem running the heater with the cover on. But when I was running the heater it was below freezing, so the unit was not likely to overheat. We removed the cover and instead of tripping the breaker after ten or twenty minutes, the unit just kept happily humming along. Within a couple of hours the temperature inside the boat dropped from about 97 degrees to 70. I feel pretty silly that it was such a simple solution that I should have been able to figure out myself. But I'm grateful for good friends, cold beer, and the opportunity to look at the guts of the unit so I won't be as nervous troubleshooting it next time. 

Here are some photos of my lovely rooftop RV air conditioner. It may not be pretty, but it works.

Before getting the air conditioning back online, I did a few "loads" (read: buckets on the deck with a hose) of laundry and gave the boat her first wash of the season. I think it will take a couple more washes and a lot of elbow grease to get her really sparkly clean, but she definitely looks better. When I started washing the decks there were no bird droppings on her at all. Within a minute of finishing, a bird had shit on the deck. Seriously? But I cleaned up the cockpit and removed the various non-matching door mats scattered around for the dog to have traction because she hates walking on the non-skid. In their place I put down the cockpit cushions I inherited from my friends at Life Afloat Archives and pulled out my striped cushions that happen to match my robin's egg blue decks perfectly. Once I get the propane tank mounted off the rail (meeting with my handyman this weekend to get the job started), I can remove the blue tarp-monster and the cockpit will be back to seating several people comfortably for entertaining. 

A few minutes ago I headed topsides to take the photos included in this post. I had heard some people in the marina, which is uncommon at this hour on a weekday since I'm the only liveaboard. I saw a powerboat and dink in the slip recently vacated by my neighbors. The guy was getting out of the dink and when we said hello he asked if I live aboard. I said yes, and he mentioned he lives across the creek and what type of boat he's on. I'm sure it sounded really weird, but I blurted out "Are you [so-and-so]?" He looked at me askance and said, "Yes." "I'm RunningRabbit!" I proclaimed, "I replied to one of your posts asking for marina information in Annapolis." Yes, from the type of boat he lives on and the hat he was wearing, I was able to correctly identify this guy I've never met but have briefly encountered on the boating forums.  It's a very, very small world we live in indeed.

I just have to revisit my earlier "pet peeves" post here for a bit. I don't think I'm overly touchy (i.e., sensitive) but I do think others are overly touchy (i.e., hands-y). After my earlier post, another guy at the pub was touching the faded tattoo on my arm, even as I kept sort of stepping back to avoid it. Then a guy at another bar kept mussing my bangs and hair, which I had meticulously flat-ironed straight. If I'd have been alone I'd probably have dumped my beer on him, but my friend seemed mildly amused by him so I tried to tolerate it. Then at work a guy was poking my side in a tickling-like gesture and later grabbed my phone out of my pocket (as I was reaching for it to pause the podcast I was listening to). At that point I actually did melt down and yell for everyone to stop fucking touching me. Maybe I'm being overly sensitive. I mean it's obvious that in having a great ass I am inviting every brother at a reggae show to grind his junk on me, right? Uh, no! Guys, if a girl wants you to touch her, she will make it very, very clear. Otherwise, keep your hands to yourself. I don't even pet a stranger's dog without first asking for permission. It's called basic etiquette. I also don't just "drop by" my friends' houses (or boats) unannounced. Before 3PM the likelihood I'm still in my jammies is about 95%. I guess I just value my privacy a lot more than most. Fences really do make good neighbors for a reason. At least I've got this huge attack cat to protect me.

pet peeves

Despite spilling my insides all over the internet through this blog, I actually value both my privacy and my personal physical space highly. When I write I choose just what, when, and how much to share. Although I don't sugar-coat things here, I can leave out names and places to protect myself, the innocent, and the guilty.  Unfortunately, when confronted in person or by telephone, it is difficult to escape when others are on a mission to interrogate or lecture. I remember a guy cornering me at a bar and opening his interrogation with inquiring what I do for a living, where I grew up, and how many siblings I have. Wow. Things of no importance and that will not tell you one iota about me. This is why I consider dating to be a form of torture worse than waterboarding. A date is a surefire way to ruin a good meal. So, without further adieu, below are a few of my pet peeves about invasions of my personal life and personal space.

I don't write much, (actually not at all before this post), about work. Work is just not something I think of as particularly important. Work is not an end in itself. It is a necessary task to generate money to pay bills. A few lucky people get paid to do something they love. Most people work to make money, and their personal time and hobbies provide relaxation, fulfillment, and the like. What one does for a living is not who that person is and does not define their intelligence, talents, interests, or abilities. I don't care how other people pay their bills and I detest when people interrogate me about how I pay mine. For the most part no one really cares what anyone else does for a living. What people actually want to know is whether you are of the right social status, too rich or too poor for them, possibly how old you are. I guess I should resolve to just ask people why they want to know how I make money. If it's just to make polite conversation, then how about talking about the weather or sports? If it's to glean some other information, then how about just asking for it directly? Oh, right, because that would be rude.

Worse yet is the unsolicited career advice. Why so many people feel the need to encourage (often nag) me to spend my days locked away in an office doing something I hate, I really don't know. I think people go down the path society tells them to go down and when anyone else veers off, charts their own course, it frustrates the ones who have convinced themselves that working for the man is some wonderful thing in itself. There are so many actually interesting things to talk about, but people are so wrapped up in work and money and telling others they need to focus on work and money, that people don't know how to have a conversation about anything else. If someone is happy about their work/job/career they will probably chatter on about it without solicitation. If you're prying it out of me then you're reminding me of my least favorite things when I am trying to enjoy myself, socialize, and relax. Yeah, thanks for that.

Another longtime pet peeve... never, ever, ever touch someone's tattoos without an explicit invitation. It is shocking the number of people who do this. Complete strangers come up and touch my tattoos, sometimes moving my shirt out of the way so they have a better view. Jesus. I think at least in a museum people know they can't walk up and "pet" the Mona Lisa. Some creeper at the pub tried to strike up a conversation with "I really like tattoos," which is bad code for "I think girls with tattoos are sluts." The tat is extremely faded and obviously in the process of removal, but he asks if it has any special meaning. (Can you feel my eyes rolling?) The only spot where I can squeeze into the bar to get a pint and I have to be next to some old creeper.  Now I'm not going to fault anyone for looking at my tattoos, I put them there and I no longer suffer through trying to keep them constantly covered as I did when I lived in Miami. While it is rude to stare, at least stick with "look, don't touch." Would you walk up to someone with a bizarre birthmark or a prosthetic limb and touch it out of curiosity? I hear pregnant women encounter this same phenomenon with random strangers rubbing their bellies without permission. Where do these people come from? Until invited, a "keep your hands to yourself" policy was something I thought was assumed in polite society. Apparently not.

Well, I could go on and on. But the bitch fest of venting is done for now; time to get out for a run. I think I just have to stop being "polite" and say what I really think right when I encounter these situations. People will probably think I'm a bitch, and maybe that's just fine.