Then All (Spider) Hell Broke Loose and That’s Why I Needed Some Retail Therapy

Suggestion for the day: Use Grammarly’s plagiarism check because if anybody copies anything that my brilliant Yale Professor Angel Boy writes, they are gonna have to deal with ME, the fiercest Mommy Monster EVER. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

BLOG WARNING: If spiders freak you out, pour your favorite adult beverage and take a sip or two before you continue. Keep refilling as needed.

Last night in the middle of the night; was it a dream or was it real?

I don’t know what sleep state I was in, but I FELT something crawly on my arm.

You know how sometimes dreams can be SO real?

Like when you have to pee but you’re not sure if it’s just a dream or for reals and your subconscious says if you don’t wake up RIGHT NOW YOU ARE GOING TO PEE THE BED and then you’ll remember next time that you should have listened?

No? Just me?

Too much? 

Well, this time I dragged myself out of whatever level I was in and woke all the way up and saw that I was holding my left arm with my right hand, which was pretty amazing in its own right, right?

I ever so carefully turned over and flipped on my bedside lamp with my left hand all the while holding firm with my right hand to my left arm. Get the picture?

Can we say awkward?

Slowly, ever so slowly, I cautiously spread apart my fingers  – which by now had a major death grip on my left bicep.

OH HELL NO.

YUP,  IT WAS A SPIDER.

IT WAS A MOTHERF***ING SPIDER.

BIG AND BLACK  WITH EIGHT NASTY HAIRY BLACK LEGS.

www.outback-australia-travel-secrets.com

http://www.outback-australia-travel-secrets.com                                           It wasn’t this big, but that’s how big it SEEMED.

(Thank goodness it wasn’t a black widow, but I wasn’t thinking about that at that moment.)

ALL HELL WAS BREAKING LOOSE IN MY HEAD.

A SPIDER WAS ON ME.

How did he get there?

What would have happened if I hadn’t awakened?

What if it bit me? OMG.

What do I do? What would YOU do? I didn’t know what to do.

With the tugboat man out of town for the week at some stupidass seminar, I couldn’t  punch him out for — well, who cares for what– just for being there, I guess. Of course it was his fault somehow. ‘Cos that’s the way it works. No matter what, he gets blamed for it ha ha.

I had to deal with this by myself. Alone.

My heart was beating so hard that I thought it was gonna pop out of my ribcage and I simultaneously started swearing and hyperventilating.

I only had two arms and two hands and they were still clenching each other and trying to contain the dinner plate-sized SPIDER from moving anywhere. (It wasn’t that big, but you know, that’s how it FELT.)

I mean, what the hell do you do in that situation?

If I took my hand away, he would continue on his merry way up my arm to who knows where, and if I smashed it ON my arm, I’d have a dead spider with spider juices all over my arm.

Quite the dilemma I was in, don’t you agree?

With my agile toes, I grabbed the tissue box that was on the floor conveniently nearby ‘cos I’d been having allergies and was sniffly.

With my right hand still virtually superglued to my left arm, all those years of ballet training came into play as I plucked a tissue from the box with the toes of my right foot and very gracefully (NOT) brought my toes and my mouth to meet, kind of contorting in a forward fold OVER my arms.

Envision a human quesadilla.

Good to know I’m still as flexible as a twenty-year-old, I noted to myself with pride…

With the tissue secured in my mouth, in the blink of an eye, I lifted my right hand, grabbed the tissue, and scooped up the probably by now brain damaged spider where I believe he’d been paralyzed in terror, ran to the bathroom, threw the spider-filled tissue in the toilet, and flushed.

Bye-bye spider. On to the afterlife for you.

Who could get back to sleep, right? I was traumatized. I grabbed my laptop, Tweeted about the incident and composed a list of things to do the next day, which always calms me down. List making is like that.

Which brings us to retail therapy.

Because my tugboat man’s been home for a while, I’m out of practice– and like any sport, it’s imperative to drill on a regular basis and stay in tip top shape with consistent training to hone and sharpen skills.

I’m gearing up for a daylong shopping excursion to South Coast Plaza (OMM) and thought it’d be good idea to start with a little local therapy.

I mean you wouldn’t run a full marathon without first trying out a half marathon, right?

After Boot Camp, I hit all of the local spots in an impromptu training sesh  - Target, Michaels, World Market, Tuesday Morning, Marshalls —  flexing my shopping muscles and getting my groove back.

I was pleased not to have lost my quick reflexes; whipping out the plastic in 2.5 seconds, tying my former record.

A couple of necessities, a tray adorned with roses (how could I resist), pink push up bra, cutest ever flip-flops, card for our anniversary…not too bad, nothing spectacular, nothing major, even a couple of one dollar books from the library.

No Chanel, no Louby heels, no jewelry…baby steps, baby steps.

It felt good, though…real good — to get back in the saddle.

It really is just like riding a bicycle, you never forget.

And the retail therapy successfully helped to erase the psychological trauma of sleeping with a spider. 

shoppingtrip

annivcardThe inside text: “Listening and Understanding…The key to every good relationship. Happy Anniversary.” Pretty funny, huh?
My tugboat man’ll like that. 
flipflops Who could resist gold + sparkles + a bow? Not me.

Next time, watch out! South Coast Plaza, here I come.

(FYI I get a $20 gift card for using Grammarly.)

“Bitch, Stay Away From My Husband”

So, here we are at Villas de Cerritos in our little palapa covered bungalow, having a great time, hablamos un pequito Espanol, and this single girl arrived last night and decided my tugboat man was gonna be her little surf buddy.

She hung around on our patio last night while were were relaxing after dinner, checking Magic Seaweed with my hub and regaling us with tales of how she just broke up with her fiancé BLAH BLAH BLAH.

She looks to be in her thirties, is (was) kinda pretty, longish hair, athletic body as you’d expect for a surfer.

She finally left.

This morning, we got up early, had coffee, and hub went surfing. I can’t upload the pics yet ‘cos of slow and intermittent internet, but there are some photos of twelve foot faces and EPIC conditions.

About half an hour after he left, SHE came by sniffing around, looking for him. I told her he was gone.

Now, honestly, after twenty-plus years, I am not a jealous person; he’s given me no reason to be jealous, but I was picking up on some vibes, and you know what they say about women’s intuition, right?

I had a leisurely second cup of coffee and some fresh figs; straightened up before slathering myself with sunscreen and heading down to the beach.

I had a premonition that she was going to be standing right next to my tugboat man staring at the waves, and guess what?

I was right.

I watched her for a minute, observed her body language, and had to hold myself back from kicking the shit out of her. Literally. For reals. No. REALLY.

I continued toward the beach and took a left so that i was south of where they were standing by about one hundred feet, unrolled my towel and sat down.

Finally, hub scanned the beach and saw me.

He waved.

I did not.

She waved.

I did not.

Instead, I called upon every ounce of self control and impulse control in my powers.

Smoke was pouring out of my ears, my nose, any and all orifices were roiling and boiling.

Shit was about to hit the proverbial fan.

More later. Gotta go.

Pap Smear With Benefits (#Midlife Version)

V-jayjay Exam.checkmark

Botox.

Check and double check.

Time management at its finest.

Just like most females who endure that yearly gynecological wellness check, which may or may not be another sip of the Kool-Aid that we’ve been conditioned to believe is essential for good health and cancer detection, I too brave the silvery stirrups every twelve moons or so, although at my advanced #midlife status, it’s acceptable to wait a couple of years between these physically invasive exams.

My pre-check routine is to bathe and shave (this might be oversharing, but I don’t wax ‘cos I’m allergic to it and I really have an aversion to strangers hanging around “down there”) and make myself and my lady parts as camera-ready as possible.

If I could bedazzle or drape a scarf around it, I would, as I do loves me some accessories, so I attempt to spruce it up all up for the big reveal. I mean, you never know when you’re going to be discovered, right? Always ready, that’s my motto. As Norma Desmond said, “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close up.”

A momentary pause for a brief rant:

 I gotta comment on the feelings of being post-menopausal and sitting in the same waiting room with full-to-bursting, fecund, FERTILE women.

It doesn’t feel very good. To be past — as in beyond — childbearing age.

It’s not that I want to have another baby even if I could– I’m no Michelle Duggar — the truth is that I only wanted one perfect child (which I have), but to be sitting amongst those who still have functional baby makers made me feel kind of dried up and old.

“I’m in the club”,  I whispered to myself. “I was just like you guys. I puked for four months and then ate my weight in blueberry pancakes and endless jars of gefilte fish (and I mean eating them straight from the jar and even drinking that disgusting jelly-like liquid) and couldn’t see my feet for the last two months before I went through the hell of a twenty-four hour labor and eventual Caesarean section delivery.”

I wanna pull up my shirt and pull my pants down just enough to proudly display my C-section scar, those battle wounds, my daily reminder of  the painjoypainjoy I endured to become a mom, which is all I ever really wanted to be when I grew up.

“My memories might be thirty-two years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Screw it. The solution should be separate waiting rooms. I can’t deal with the assault of fruitfulness slapping my aridity in the face.

Rant status: OVER.

Just like we all have to do whether we are the elite or the hoi polloi or even Kim Kardashian or Kate Middleton, I changed into the most unflattering shade of pure and blinding white scratchy paper gown with the narrow plastic belt/tie/thingy. The great equalizer. It was barely long enough to execute a proper bow. Or maybe it was a hairband? Now I’m not sure. Whatev. Is white paper the new black? The new orange? Nope. It’s still nothing that will ever be trendy or urban chic.

Great, the next step is the inelegant hop up on the also white paper-covered exam/lounging table. I must admit I’ve become so spoiled by 800-thread count sheets that I was quite offended by the scratchy but slippery texture. At least it’s sterile — and that pleases my OCD.

The doc finally sauntered in with a pleasant smile and bouncy hair, switching on that godforsaken bright light that serves to highlight each and every darling cellulite dimple that I’ve accumulated over the last few decades. ILOVEMYCELLULITEILOVEMYCELLULITE. NOPE. SERIOUSLY. I HATE MY CELLULITE.

“How often do you do a self-exam breast check?” Doctor Z asked as she was doing just that. “Never” I said, with my most winsome smile. “There really isn’t enough there to check…” She laughed at my little attempt at levity to lighten the atmosphere while she’s kneading and pinching and probably thinking about what she’s going to be drinking later on that evening — anyway, that’s what I was doing. White wine? No. Pinot Noir? No. Straight vodka from the bottle? Winner, winner, winner! 

That wasn’t soooo bad, but then we reached  the dreaded part of the visit where the doc always says, “Can you scoot down a little more?” And then, “How about a little more?”

Ignominy. That’s the only way to describe it.

Quack quack

Quack quack

A Pap smear, also called a Pap test, is a procedure to test for cervical cancer in women by collecting cells from the cervix. That first involves the insertion of an instrument of torture called a speculum. FYI, the modern speculum was invented (by a man, of course) in 1845.

I can share with you after having gone through about a dozen gynos over the years, Doctor Z is the BEST. And I prefer a woman gyn. I don’t think a man can understand what our issues are, no matter what. Only a woman knows what another woman feels and experiences.  Doc Z has perfected a painless method of scraping the cervix and she’s never accidentally pinched that very sensitive area that makes you want to convulsively kick their faces across the room. FYI, that’s the real reason why the have those little wheeled stools so they can roll away FAST before they get punched out by a valiant v-jayjay.

The most dreaded part of the exam is over; time to stuff the paper gown in the trash and get dressed.

But this visit’s not quite over because Dr. Z has joined the ranks of a new breed of doctor; combining a medical specialty with the value added option of a little cosmetic rejuvenation in the form of Botox and fillers.

Ergo the Pap smear and Botox.

I consider it my reward for enduring the humiliation of exposing my inner workings. While we chat about being vegan and a new vegan restaurant in Encinitas called #Native Foods,  Doc Z prepares the botulism that will be injected into my face; to paralyze the correct muscles and stem the flow of aging —  if only for a few brief months.

But that’s good enough for me.

Maybe I can no longer have babies growing in my belly –but my glass is still half full; I no longer have to worry about “that time of the month” and my empty nest (and womb) affords me the opportunity for a little well deserved pampering.

What’s your experience with your OB-GYN (if you care to share, that is!)
Do you have a male of female doc?

Duct Dynasty, Not DUCK Dynasty

Nope. That’s not a typo.

I meant to say “duct” and not “duck” but I can’t take credit for the wit — well, I sorta can take credit ‘cos I  gave birth to it, but the actual cleverness came from my witty wordsmith son when I was telling him about hub’s newest project: tearing out and replacing ALL of the heating ducts.

For the record, I’ve never watched a single episode of “Duck Dynasty” and I’m repulsed by any TV show that’s based upon killing animals. Yes, even ducks. I don’t agree with ANYTHING they believe in, especially the killing. And the homophobic and racist rants.duck-dynasty-season-31

Do you ever wonder what a globe-wandering professional mariner does when he’s home for a couple of months?

If there’s no surf, that is?

Well, this tugboat captain of mine restores boats like Princess Rosebud (click on it to read about my namesake) or conjures up major house repair projects like replacing all of the heating ducts. This house was built in the early 1970s; I’ve lived here since 1985 and from the looks of the original ducts, they still carry forty years of dirt and dust and germs.

t’s just like when he’s out to sea, creating projects for the crew to keep busy as well as helping to maintain the vessel. Only now I’m his only crew member ha ha!

duct dynasty

Because this is a tri-level, it has not been an easy job and the access to the “bones” of this old house is kinda tough for a guy who’s bigger than a jockey (ha ha).

ductdynasty3

It’s taken about a week, including several trips to Home Depot to purchase-return-repurchase things. Hub’s been roaming around in the attic and the walls with a vacuum cleaner and all the parts.

ductdynasty4

Duct Dynasty1There’s only been one little accident where he slipped on a beam, and you can see the cracked ceiling in the laundry room that will need to be patched and painted.

I’m waiting for him to emerge so we can have a glass of wine, homemade vegetable soup, and flaky biscuits — fresh and steaming hot from the oven.

ductdynasty3

My own Duct Dynasty will soon be fresh and clean.

No ducks (or ducts) were injured in the process, but I’ve got a few hours work to put everything back in the laundry room/linen closet/home for old rugs and blankets.

ductdyansty5

Best Christmas Decorations EVER-Haters, Line Up! Yoo Hoo, Pinterest, I’m Calling YOU!

 I hope you enjoy a repeat of one of my most clicked on posts of 2012 while I spend a little time with my tugboat man and my son, Angel Boy.
…..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     …..     

It was last year that I was inspired by other topnotch decorators who so kindly blogged about their DIY Christmas tree masterpieces.

In fact, I was so inspired and so thrilled to be stuck here all alone for the millionth time during the holidays that I created a masterpiece of my own, just for you, my loving internet family.

As I looked around my house, the elliptical seemed like it had the best “bones” to adorn.

Plus, it had a ready-made beverage holder!

I didn’t have any Maxi-pads or other feminine hygiene products–’cos THAT ship has sailed–if you know what I mean. (Hey cool, a nautical reference jauntily tossed in. Damn, I’m good!)

I added a toilet paper garland, a couple of Sophie Kinsella novels, two glittery seashell ornaments, a bottle of wine in the beverage holder, a white plastic poinsettia, a few EMPTY gift bags, and a festive plush Hello Kitty toy.

You can’t really see it very good, but there’s a chocolate bar too, which I don’t have to share with anyone! I’m such a lucky girl! This is the best use I’ve found for the elliptical. Hanging freshly ironed shirts hanging on it is a close second.

Now you can carry on with your day; just take a moment to let it all sink in.

The moral of the story is that it might not be a good idea to leave Princes Rosebud alone for long periods of time.

Don’t HATE…Emulate.

Decorated for Christmas elliptical

Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife

decorated elliptical

Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife

Breaking News: See-Through Yoga Pants From Lululemon. Get ‘Em While They’re Hot!

This is one of my most searched for and read posts. I’m re-posting due to Lululemon’s  wonderful new marketing campaign targeting female thigh size, and I wrote it just prior to the resignation of the CEO.

***I would like to apply for the probably newly opened position in public relations at Lululemon. I’m sure that I could think of fourteen thousand zillion OTHER ways to get your company some attention.

On another subject, I’m busy baking and cleaning and perfuming and ironing sheets for the imminent arrival of my MASTER CAPTAIN, also known as the most wonderful husband in the world.  

ENJOY!
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Listen up, ladies!

Do I hear a WTF? A what-what?

Even in the midst of body conscious Suthern Caly-forn-eye-A, we who aspire to the “forever young” mantra know what yoga pants mean. They mean we don’t have to always think about holding it in, they mean we can EAT, they mean it HIDES imperfections and flaws while we are in pursuit of perfection, they mean we can — for the duration of the wearing of yoga pants –NOT be self-haters or ashamed of our silhouette in the reflection of a shop window.

At least that’s what yoga pants did for me. Until now, that is.

see through yoga pantDid you think that all the attention you were getting at the gym or the grocery store or running errands was because your beauty was shining though and the universe was responding to your inner goodness and wit and intelligence?

WELL…maybe that’s true, but it could also have been this. Lululemon is recalling some of their yoga pants because of a teensy weensy transparency “issue”.

Yup, you can see through ‘em.

yogapantrecallYour (and my own) overpriced and overhyped little Lululelmon logo embellished workout wear lets it all hang out for the world to see.

According to a Lululemon company statement, the recall is due to “the coverage… resulting in a level of sheerness in some of our women’s black Luon bottoms that falls short of our very high standards.”

LOL.

The transparent pants, which resulted in a recall of 17% of product, are the fourth quality-control issue that Lululemon has had this year.

For the outrageous price of a Lululemon product, would it be too much to expect that they’re well-made?

Seventy percent of their clothing is manufactured in third-world countries with factories in China, Taiwan, South Korea, South America, Israel, Indonesia, Thailand and Vietnam.

The Lululemon website explains, “Global economic forces…have shifted manufacturing to more cost-attractive locations and resulted in closures of some domestic factories.”

Good times, y’all!

Instead of using the goddess-given benefits of Spandex to crunch and smash together all my cellulite into one hot tight mass of “muscle”, everything I DON’T want the world to see is OUT THERE. I’ve been OUTED.

Hell, even I don’t want to see that cottage cheese on the back of my legs. Now I have to be stressed out that YOU can see it, too?

And what’s worse? My confession? I don’t wear underpants under my workout gear. I hate  panty lines; they just bother me. Now I learn that it’s all on display and I never knew it.

Apparently I’ve been giving it away for free, as my mom would have said. Not only my butt, my cellulite, and my C-section scar, but — oh joy –you can discover whether I’ve had a full Brazilian OR NOT.

i’m ashamed to say that I bought into the hype –which is huge in SoCal — and I’m gonna march myself right on to the Lululemon shop in La Costa at The Forum and hand them back so I can get my $79.00 plus tax put back on my credit card and hippity hop over to Target and buy several new very densely packed yoga/workout pants for about $25.00 each. A much better bargain and my girly parts and cellulite will stay private.

www.funnymail.co.

I don’t want to be indelicate, but I discovered that Lulus demonstrate an embarrassing  explicitness in the female genitalia area that most would wish to avoid — unless you’re like Miley Cyrus or something.

image-via-funnydictionary.com_-300x213I read online about several different girls who attempted to return a pair of pants at Lululemon and were forced to wear them and bend over to show that it was sheer to the employee.

That is so crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy.  I think you prolly have a very good picture of what would happen if a salesperson insisted I bend over.

CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT! 

Lululemon blames the manufacturere who says in response..”All shipments to Lululemon went through a certification process which Lululemon had approved. All the pants were manufactured according to the requirements set out in the contract with Lululemon,” [Eclat Chief Financial Officer Roger Lo.]

christine Day, CEO LululemonLululemon CEO Christine Day replaced Lululemon founder Chip Wilson in 2007. Before that, she was an executive at Starbucks. She has been criticized for growing the company too fast with a resulting loss of quality.

I don’t want to put the hate on a woman at the helm of anything, but I think women in positions of ultimate power have a tendency to model themselves after males in similar positions and forget the wonderfulness of our gender.

Don’t try to mimic a male; instead, be the best HUMAN you can be.

A Sure-Fire Cure for the UnFreshly Pressed Blues

Dear WordPress, What Am I, Chopped Liver? received  a lot of views and commentary, and for that, I’m grateful.

I think that my slighly whiny, sour grap-y, mini-chip-on-my-shoulder rant resonated with the great un-Pressed in our blogging community.

A wise and wonderful new friend who blogs at SERENDIPITY Marilyn Armstrong -Seeking Intelligent Life on Earthused her magic fingers and creative mind to design an award that I’m ecstatic to be able to share with those I deem worthy, and that’s mostly EVERYBODY.

Read her post: Not So Freshly Pressed? Help is on the Way for more details.

I’m hopeful that we can start the ball rolling until everyone — everywhere — will feel appreciated and special!

The simple beauty of this award is that you don’t have to perform any task or answer any questions; YOU ARE SPECIAL JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE, and I like that a lot!

Please pass it on and share the love but…here’s a reminder from the creator of this award:

You can accept this and you do NOT have to give it to anyone else unless you want to. You can also do it eventually, when you have time. Don’t get stressed over it.  :-)


Here ya go for my first group of deserving bloogers.
I won’t stop until everyone is a recipient and we all feel like a winner.

 

Serendipity: http://teepee12.com
The Fur Files http://thefurfiles.com
She Walks Softly  http://wp.me/pfQBz-5wF
Our Growing Paynes http://wp.me/p2GO4t-va
Michelle at Play  http://wp.me/p1UOvK-2ac
Benzeknees  http://wp.me/p21uAA-WE
The Presents of Presence
Cowboys and Crossbones  http://cowboysandcrossbones.wordpress.com
Thematticuskingdom  http://wp.me/p2DEqM-Am
sagedoyle

YOU ARE A WINNER

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Stop Wolf Hunts Now

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”
Ghandi

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You’ve Made Your Bed, Now Lie In It.

Making the bed

                             Making the bed. Perfect, right? Yes, those are Hello Kitty slippers.

What goes on behind closed doors at Casa de Enchanted Seashells?

Besides seashells and glitter and the constant repositioning of my Princess Rosebud tiara, here’s an accurate recollection of a recent conversation between me and my Tugboat Man.

I’m not promising you that it’s at all funny or witty or full of banter — it’s like a Seinfeld episode — a whole lotta nothing.

Backstory: I change the sheets on our bed every week. That day is referred to as “Sheets Day.

Me: I’m gonna change the sheets today, it’s Sheets Day!

Tugboat Man: Do you want some help?

Me: I think I can do it myself, but thank you for offering.

Tugboat Man: Don’t be a martyr. Let me help you with your broken wing.

Me: OK, but you have to follow my orders and do everything MY WAY. Can you promise to do that?

Tugboat Man: No.

Me: Well, then I don’t want your help, cos that’s not helping at all. Helping is doing everything I say. THAT’S helpful. Otherwise it’s just called pissing me off.

Tugboat Man: OK OK. Don’t get your panties in an uproar. Let’s do this, c’mon, I need to go surfing while the tide is right.

Me: Well, excuse the hell out of me. Don’t let me hinder your surfing lifestyle, Gidget. Geez.

Tugboat Man; {Pointing to the clock by the bed} Tick tock.

Me: Pick up this end of the mattress and lift it so that the fitted sheet will completely surround the corners and be as taut as possible.

Tugboat Man: Let’s just get it done. Really, Rosebud, you are such a micromanager. Why are you such a control freakazoid?

Me: Well, I told you I could do it by myself, but since you insisted, you have to do it my way. There’s a RIGHT way and a WRONG way to do this. MY way is right, YOURS is wrong.

Me: Now I’ll teach you how to do a hospital corner with the top sheet, mitering the sides as we tuck it under and smooth it out. That’s how Mommy taught me. It’s called a “hospital corner”. You know she was an RN and that’s the way I learned to do it and that’s how I’ve done it and that’s how I want it done.

****If you don’t know how to make a “hospital corner”, click on the link.
It’s a perfect tutorial!   
http://www.wikihow.com/Make-a-Hospital-Corner

Me: Why are you acting like such a baby? You are really messing with my bliss here.

{Tugboat Man sloppily pushes the sheet under the mattress and moves on to the other side} 

Tugboat Man: There. It’s done,

Me: No, no, no, not like that. Sigh. You can’t simply shove the sheet under the mattress! It has to be perfect. Remember that story, The Princess and the Pea? That’s me. I can feel it if it’s not right.

Tugboat Man: OK, how’s this?

{He threw all the blankets on the bed and rolled himself up like a burrito, laughing maniacally}

Me: Oh-Em-Gee. You are worse than having a kitty around when I’m making a bed. Get up. Get off the bed. Geez. I thought you wanted to go surfing. Stop rolling around.

Tugboat Man: Why did you put the sheet on upside down?

Me: It’s NOT upside down. It’s only printed on one side, right?  You like it when the top sheet is one way and I like it this way, so when the printed top is folded over, the pretty side shows.

Me: Anyway, why does it matter to you?

Tugboat Man: I don’t know, I just like it the other way.

Me: Next time I’ll do it your way, ‘k?

Me: Now let’s take the bedspread — NOT LIKE THAT — fold down your side the exact same width mine is folded, OK?  Now it’s perfect. Thank you for your help. {Eye roll} Leave the pillow arrangement for me to do. You can’t just throw them up there — they each have a specific location.

Tugboat Man: Can I go now?

Me: You are soooo annoying. Why are you always so passive aggressive? If you didn’t want to help, you shouldn’t have offered. Yes, please go. NOW.

{We kiss goodbye. He leaves, and I rearrange everything MY way, and NOW I’m happy.}

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  • Do you and your significant other agree or disagree about which side of the sheet is revealed — or do neither of you care at all? 
  • And how about toilet tissue? Are you an over or an under? Hubs and I do agree on that (over).

Deja F***ing Vu — Hello and Goodbye

Welcome to my world…

smelltugGuess who’s leaving again? You win! Easy to figure this one out. Yup. Another captain got sick and had to be flown home, so the company just called my tugboat man and off he goes on Wednesday.

I don’t think that’s very funny; I hadn’t planned for this — he was supposed to be home for at least a month — however, since I’m a glass half full kinda gal, I found a couple of tugboat jokes and a poem to share.

I hope you get a chuckle out of the jokes, even if they are a bit lame.

Tug humor, gotta love it.

Tugboat Joke #1

Once upon a time there was a famous sea captain. This captain was very successful at what he did; for years he guided merchant ships all over the world. Never did stormy seas or pirates get the best of him. He was admired by his crew and fellow captains.

However, there was one thing different about this captain. Every morning he went through a strange ritual. He would lock himself in his quarters and open a small safe. In the safe was an envelope with a piece of paper inside. He would stare at
the paper for a minute,then lock it back up. Afterwards, he would go about his daily duties.

For years this went on, and his crew became very curious. Was it a treasure map? Was it a letter from a long lost love? Everyone speculated about the contents of the strange envelope. One day the captain died at sea. After laying the captain’s body to rest, the first mate led the entire crew into the captains quarters.

He opened the safe, got the envelope, opened it and… The first mate turned pale and showed the paper to the others. Four words were on the paper; two lines with two words each:

Port Left
Starboard Right

Tugboat Joke #2

Way down the Mississippi River, two tugboat captains who had been friends for years, would always cry, “Aye!” and blow their whistles whenever they passed each other. A new crewman asked his boat’s mate, “What do they do that for?”

The mate looked surprised and replied, “You mean that you’ve never heard of an aye for an aye and a toot for a toot?”

 …and a poem

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song

and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face
and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again,
for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call

that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume,
and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again
to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way
where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream
when the long trick’s over.

John Masefield, 1878-1967

tugboat

640px-Tugboat_diagram-en_edit1a

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no…

way I’ll ever go on BART again. No. Way.

That comes a bit later in the chronology of Princess Rosebud and her tugboat man’s most recent adventure.

If you’re going to San Franciscooo, be sure to wear some flowers in your hairrr…
There are sad vestiges of the Era of the Hippie; parts of Berkeley were a huge time warp. I bet hubs if I walked down the wrong street, I’d be pulled back and disappear in a pot-smoky haze of tie-dye and dreads and he’d never find me. 

The tugboat man had a business meeting in NorCal (that’s Northern California) and I decided to tag along.

I packed heavy; my motto is “you never know” and I might need to have an appropriate outfit for lots of different occasions.

Here’s what I brought along for a couple of days. You’ll notice an absence of dresses and heels, and that’s because I knew we’d be doing a lot of walking and it could rain at any time.

  • Black skinny jeans
  • Denim skinny jeans
  • Two pairs of workout pants
  • One long cashmere sweater
  • One short Free People sweater
  • Four t-shirts, including a Yale t-shirt since I’d be in Cal country and felt the need to represent
  • One nice silky blouse
  • Black boots, tall
  • Ugg type boots
  • Athletic shoes
  • Leopard print flip flops
  • Black raincoat
  • Warm fuzzy dressing gown
  • ***A pair of “he might get lucky” silk pajamas
  • ***My Hello Kitty, “I’m tired and going to sleep–don’t even try it” pajamas
  • Chanel handbag, of course
  • Backpack
  • Three scarves
  • And just in case we stopped to hike, I packed all my hiking gear, including my hiking poles.

Rose Garden InnSearching online, I found a place in Berkeley called Rose Garden Inn.

How could we NOT stay there?
I know, right?

We drove up Tuesday morning, had a late lunch with a cousin of mine that lives nearby, and checked in.

It’s a bit funky, a complex of old Victorian homes that’ve been transformed into rooms and suites. The first thing I make hubs do is check for bedbugs before I put anything down. I’m happy to say we were bug-free. (That silly Chanel loves to photo bomb every pic!) I wear flip flops in the shower; I wouldn’t let my bare skin touch any surface unless I cleaned it with a gallon of bleach. (Soz for the bad pic)roomatrosegardeninn

The courtyard is very inviting and quaint.Courtyard

Tuesday night we walked up the street to eat at an Indian/Nepali restaurant called Mt. Everest. It was an absolute treasure. Every dish we had was filled with flavors and fragrance, including the most amazing Naan bread.

His meeting on Wednesday was gonna take a few hours so I was on my own.  The concierge told me about a shopping area called Elmwood that was about ten blocks away, not enough to call it a hike, but a pleasant walk. It was chock full of the cutest little shops and bakeries and cafes.

I bought a couple prezzies for hubs and DIL,  whom we planned to meet for dinner near where she works in the city.

BART = HELL ON WHEELS

Bay+Area+Commuters+Hampered+Second+Day+Bay+zzz3mLm0DmKlHere’s where this BART thing comes in. Bay Area Rapid Transit.  We didn’t want to drive ‘cos there’s tons of traffic and no place to park in the city.  I never took BART, even tho I’ve spent a fair amount of time in SF on family visits — and I never will again. Never. Ever.

As you might surmise, I’m not an aficionado of public transportation — I’ve only been on a handful of buses even, but hubs grew up in the Bay area and I felt safe navigating BART with him.

We had one EXTREMELY unpleasant encounter with a gentleman who was UBER hostile and aggressive and threatening because we wouldn’t give him money; quite a few others appeared like they needed to be in locked facilities rather than freely roaming around.

BART SURVIVAL TIP: NO EYE CONTACT NO EYE CONTACT NO EYE CONTACT

Poor hubs arm is  probably still full of bruises the way I was hanging on for dear life. Our BART needed to go under the water – UNDER THE WATER to take us from Oakland to downtown San Francisco.

It was way too stressful for me;  I swear I’ll never take the Chunnel after this experience, but the worst part was that the stupid train STOPPED half way through its journey — STOPPED UNDERWATER and all I could think of was the millions and millions of tons of water pressure on top of us. I was THIS CLOSE to having a MAJOR MELTDOWN. After dinner and a few very necessary glasses of wine, we took the ferry back, which was a stress-free and quite pleasant voyage.

Chanel photobomb ferry SFMy tugboat man agreed: it’s better to be on top of the water than under it.
See that silly Chanel. Always with the photo bomb, even on the ferry…what an EGO, right?

The Oakland-Bay Bridge is adorned with a beautiful light show that totes made up for our scary ride at the bottom of the bay.Check out the amazing light show.

LA traffic

A loud party at the Inn kept us awake and we got a late start driving home — had to endure rush hour through LA.


A deep sigh of relief at our first glimpse of the ocean near Trestles. Almost home!Trestles

Dorothy was SO right, “There’s no place like home.”