Surfing Safari with Princess Rosebud

Or not.

I had high hopes of a RAD surf vid starring ME — hanging ten, claiming a gnarly barrel — something more exciting than always being my tugboat man’s Surf Bunny sitting on the beach taking pix and video of HIM.

I’m not sure why I thought that my third-time-only on a surfboard would miraculously “Matrix”-me the ability to stand up on a moving board of fiberglass — I guess it’s ‘cos my tugboat man, my son, and my DIL all make it seem so easy, so effortless.

You paddle out, you turn the board around, jump up, and ride the wild surf.

Easy, right? Wrong. Not easy.

I was a naive sixteen-year-old the first time I thought I could channel Gidget. My high school boyfriend handed me his board and said, “Go for it!”

Bikini-clad (string bikini), I walked the surfboard out from the shore. I was up to my knees in foamy white water when the first wave hit my board, causing it to fly up and hit me in the mouth, splitting open my lip. I turned around, walked out of the water, threw the board down, and spent the rest of the day icing my fat lip. Total surf time: less than two minutes.

Fast forward thirty-plus years…my second try at surfing wasn’t much of a success, either. My tugboat man took me out in the water and stood right next to me holding down his 9’6″ Bear longboard so the tip wouldn’t fly up and cause a repeat injury.

As a fresh wave was forming, he turned me around, promised NOT to let go, but guess what?  The force of the wave pushed me away from him too fast and he couldn’t hold on.

HE LET GO. Oops.

The last thing I remember was hearing, “Don’t let go and damage my board!”

The nose of the board pearled, which means the tip of the board went underwater, I went underwater, the board rolled over, I rolled over, the board was on top of me, I hit the ocean floor with the force of one thousand Gidgets and was dragged for a time over big rocks and small rocks.

Thump, thump, thump. NOT a graceful sight.

I finally resurfaced on the shore like a beached whale, still gripping that stupid Buick-sized longboard. With bits of seaweed clinging to my hair and my bathing suit bottom mostly OFF, with sand in my mouth, my ears, my nose — everywhere that COULD be filled with sand WAS filled with sand.

I stood up, shook the water out of my eyes and looked around for that damn tugboat man. He was still in the water behind me, running to me as fast as he could — in slow motion —  his mouth agape, trying to not laugh, and then he said, “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

I squinted at him, spit out a mouthful of ocean, and marched my microdermabraded body back to our towels, studiously avoiding eye contact with dozens of spectators lining the shore.

As he recovered his precious and undamaged board and took it out for a successful surf sesh, I was occupied by watching the blooming of bruises from my hips to my ankles. I was a mass of purple and black and blue. Total surf time: less than two minutes.

You would think that I’d never want to recreate that humiliating scene again, and you’d be right. Well, sort of. For ten years, I refused to enter the ocean at ALL, but a couple days ago, I decided to face my fear AGAIN and give it a try.

I thought it would be different this time but I was clearly not thinking straight.

surfergirlhawaiian

 

This vintage poster adorns our bedroom — maybe it’s been subliminally infiltrating my subconscious —  embuing me with a foolish and misguided perception of my surfing ability. The truth? I possess NO water skills. I’m not a very good swimmer — I don’t like to put my head in the water.

 

 

What. Ever. Here I am at our Carlsbad beach. It’s a lovely, lovely day.

mebeach

I should have quit while I was ahead, that’s all I can say.

Notice the pretty aqua board to my right? A 9’6″ Ernie Higgins.

mebeachhair

Time to surf! I took off my earrings, changed into another bikini top, and pulled on hub’s extra spring suit. The water temp’s about 72-ish, but way too cold for me.

What a vision, huh?

surfmeAnd that’s my very last smile.

It was a rerun of my previous venture to emulate the life of a wahine.

Hub stands next to me holding the board. Hub says, “Do you want to take this wave?” and pushes me forward. I fall off the board IMMEDIATELY and exfoliate all exposed body parts as I’m dragged back to shore.

Once again, I spit out a gallon or two of sandy seawater and hobble back to our towels. Total surf time: less than two minutes.

I give up, I took out my beach read and my camera to snap pics of hub heading out to show me how it should be done.

Yes, he wears a surf hat. Don’t laugh.

surftugmanHunting for rocks and seashells is safe.
surfrocks

Not every attempt is a success, but it wasn’t exactly a failure either, because I overcame my fears and gave it a try. Will I do it again?

Maybe. ‘Cos you miss all the waves you don’t try, right?

Perhaps this is what I need. Hee hee. Chanel surfboards

 

 

“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.

The Penis in Repose…

…is not very imposing.

COVER YOUR EYES NOW. COVER YOUR EYES NOW!

(Sorry in advance if this is gross.)

Today I was scarred for life.

I cannot UNsee what I have seen.

The disturbing and appalling vision is still imprinted on my brain. I’m trying to blur it, to drown it, in Craftwork chardonnay, but it’s not WORKING. Get it? CraftWORK, WORKING.

Forgive me, I am traumatized. Wholly and completely.

Vienna-SausageThere it was in all of its unappealing glory.

Right in my face.

It was  a flippin’ and a floppin’ every which-a-way. It really was.

It flipped up. It flipped down. Up and down. It flopped. To the left. To the right. And if my eyes did not deceive me, there was some diagonal flipflopping action as well.

Everthing was moving in different diretions. All at once. In the blink of an eye.

All by itself, it was doing the “Hokey Pokey” and turning itself around.

A VERY indecent exposure.

Let me disclaim here and now: I am the mother of a male. I am the daughter of a nurse. I’ve seen my fair share…

I say all that to explain that I am not UNfamiliar with male anatomy. And yes, I’m married too, so this is not virgin territory. I AM a bit naive about a lot of things, I’ll admit that. No problem. I’ve never seen porn, not EVER, and don’t really ever want to. I’m the lover of Hello Kitty, remember? Kitties, puppies, butterflies — that’s what’s floating around in my head at any given time.

But this.

THIS was a seminal event in my life.

The backstory:

My tugboat man and I were running around doing errands preparatory to leaving for our Yellowstone journey. We had to go to REI and Target and a few other places. Our day ended quite literally at the beach. We stopped to get a much-deserved shave ice at our favorite place, JR’s Shave Ice in Oceanside.

As we headed south towards Carlsbad, hub wanted to stop at the beach to look at the waves (not very good btw) for a potential evening glass-off sesh. We pulled in behind a black truck. (Important story point.)

It was starting to get a little chilly so I sat in the car while he walked over to the cliff to check out the surf at Terramar.

It all happened so fast.

In the blink of an eye.

A surfer, obviously done for the day, was the owner of that black truck in front of us. He put his surfboard in the truckbed and proceeded to peel off his wetsuit.

COVER YOUR EYES NOW. COVER YOUR EYES NOW!

If only someone had yelled that at me, I would be writing about something else, not attempting to purge this horrendous vision from my soul.

He appeared to be in his mid-to-late forties and weighed 350 pounds or so, if my calculations are correct. The towel he wrapped around his waist was NOT large enough to completely cover his girth and…and his male reproductive parts.

There was a gap in the meeting of the towel.

A triangular gap that exposed private things. Can you picture that?

I was NOT looking, not actively, but it was in my field of vision; the periphery.

Hub started to walk back from the precipice of the cliff. He’s coming to me — he’s my savior — he’ll take care of this I know, and prevent me from seeing what no one should see.

But then…

The wetsuit is peeled all the way down his Orson Welles-ian gigantic stomach and then…

And then — because he’s too obese to bend down and pull it all the way off –HE KICKS the wetsuit OFF HIS FEET onto the sidewalk

At that moment, that precise moment that I was telepathically beseeching my tugboat man to save me, the wetsuit was kicked, the obese man gave a little hop as he stumbled just a bit, unable to balance with all that extra weight (he really needs some yoga training)…

The towel opened wide, and that’s when I couldn’t help but be exposed to all that…

flipping and flopping of his (unimpressive) out-of-control rudder. (I’m reminded of that Seinfeld episode where they’re all at the seaside and George is the victim of the cold, cruel ocean and what effect it has on…things. You know the one I’m talking about, right?)

A penis in repose is not a good look for anyone.

Not George Clooney. Not Johnny Depp Not Tom Brady.

Not even Ryan Gosling (OK maybe him).

There’s something of a nightmarish quality in seeing oftentimes proud, standing at attention, and imposing genitalia in all of its glory — reduced to its sad and listless self.

That’s my opinion. On a serious note, what if, instead of it being me, it was a child who saw that? I think surfers who change in public in full view of everyone need to be more circumspect.

We drove away, hub apologizing over and over on behalf of all men everywhere,

“You shouldn’t have had to see that. I know, I know. You poor dear. It must have been so terrible for you.”

Here’s my public service announcement to all surfers who change in public:

SURFER PSA

Surf poncho. Changing robe

Surf poncho. Changing robe.

P.S. Here’s a cover-up that completely solves this problem. It’s a great investment.

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.}

_________________________________________________________________________

  • 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).

Princess Rosebud And Her Tugboat Man

Nope, I don’t surf, but if I did, this is what I’d look like, and I’d be blonde, too!


Vintage-surfing princess rosebud

While he’s surfing, I’m cleaning the house and doing massive loads of his laundry that came home in the biggest black plastic garbage bag I’ve ever seen.

It’s so big, I could fit inside of it.

They have a washer/dryer on board; I suppose it’s much easier for him to stuff it in his suitcase and know that his live-in maid/laundress/cook will wash, dry, fold, and put it all away while he’s riding the wild surf. 

Or maybe it’s a primitive vestigial trait just like the way a kitty brings a dead rat home and lays it at your feet.

Yeah, it’s just like that.

His laundry = dead animal prize.

No problem, Tugboat Man, you worked hard and deserve a little R & R.  I saved my pilgrimage to South Coast Plaza for that perfect wedge ’til you came home so you could enjoy spending the day following me around the mall, too!

Payback and all that, right?

Male Menopause: How I’m Supporting My Midlife Husband

OldageDwfsFSI want my husband to have a healthy midlife and beyond.  I believe that’s one of the building blocks to lifelong happiness and I certainly don’t want to think of a life without him.

On our radar now…

  • Paying more attention to news reports like this…A fifty-something man died while paddleboardering at one of my husband’s favorite surf spots. They think he possibly had a pre-existing heart condition.
  • A friend of mine complained to me about her husband’s purchase of that stereotypical flashy sports car and his attempt to squeeze his midlife manbelliy into skinny jeans.
  • Another friend laments the death of a sex life with her newly grumpy fifty-something husband.

How can I help him?

I’ve been throwing myself into a tizzy worrying about how my husband’s admission into the land of midlife is going to affect him AND me.  Always the Preparation Princess, I’m attempting to anticipate any issues so I can deflect and deflate them before his issues become my problem.

Cure-for-hair-loss-man-hair-lossIs he losing his hair?


The very first inkling that some shift had occurred was during this daylong conversation thread that started first thing in the morning.

“Hey Rosebud, come here. “(Pointing to his pillow) “Do you see the hair on my pillow? See it? That’s my hair.”

And a bit later in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, “Do you see my hairline? Doesn’t it look different to you? Is it actually receding? Find a picture of me from five years ago and let’s compare.”

Five hours later, “ Feel my hair. It used to be really thick, right?  And now it feels thinner. Feel it again.”

Watching television in the evening, “Get on the internet and find out what’s going on.”

“Am I sick?”

“Why is my hair falling out?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

You know how you see someone every single day and you don’t really notice minute little changes in their appearance? Well, that’s the way it was with me.

When I looked at my husband closely, I had to agree that he was right. His forehead was bigger. A LOT bigger. Wow.

Age has begun to ply its sneaky tricks on my handsome tugboat man.

He didn’t want to start using Rogaine, but I found a thickening shampoo he likes and he’s begun to grow his hair out a bit longer in front to conceal his expanding forehead.

Not a comb-over – not yet anyway. (Hee hee.)

willworkDoes he need glasses OR maybe that little blue pill?

He’s been paying a lot more attention to those erectile dysfunction advertisements (not that it’s an issue — yet) and it seems that he’s having a harder time reading the newspaper or a telephone book (who reads telephone books anymore anyway?)  but he claims it’s just ‘cos the light’s not bright enough — Riiiggghhtt. Sure, that’s the problem. You need a brighter light. AND READING GLASSES!

Denial, denial, denial.  It ain’t just a river in Egypt.

Anxiety about our financial future
Another change that’s popped up in our conversations is his interest in retirement planning with IRA and 401K talk.  We’ve invested and strategized and hopefully created a blueprint over the years for a stable retirement, but the fifty-year threshold definitely heralded a more imminent need to save for the future when that future is closer than it used to be.

Staying healthy

Knowing that other changes might be lurking on the horizon, I’ve commenced implementing lifestyle changes like a drill sergeant.

We’re already vegetarians – I’ve been one since high school and he came on board since before we were married.

But now I’m uber diligent with the amounts of food he’s allowed to eat.

The most difficult challenge I’ve had so far is convincing him that he can’t eat the same way he did in his twenties.

For instance, I dole out twenty raw almonds instead of allowing him to eat the whole bag, one cookie instead of a dozen, and try to transform baked goods to include mostly only healthy recipes –like  Lentil Cookies, Black Bean Brownies (click HERE for the recipes), and my piece de resistance…Wheatgrass Flaxseed Smoothies.

I purchased a digital blood pressure machine to record our BP every now and then. High blood pressure is a silent killer; it can sneak up on you, and it makes sense to be aware of your baseline numbers.

Support his hobby

My tugboat man has no desire for a flashy sports car – his midlife cravings tend to be focused on surfing. He has three longboards, two shortboards, and a standup paddleboard. It seems as if he buys a new board about as often as I get a designer handbag.

With his SUP, no wave is too small, so I don’t have to hear him whine about the lack of good surf when he comes home from being out to sea.

lipstickInfidelity

I don’t envision my husband’s midlife crisis to include a wandering eye — at least I hope it doesn’t happen.

Many people have referred to us as two peas in a pod – except for surfing, we have the same interests and stay active working out together, hiking, camping, skiing, bicycling.

As a merchant mariner tugboat captain, he’s often away from home on assignment for up to two months — sometimes longer. When he’s here, we’re mostly inseparable. It’s not an ideal lifestyle, but we made the decision together when he was offered the opportunity to go back out to sea instead of working in our local harbor as he had done for most of our twenty-plus years.

Open communication is our key  to success
I believe we’ll get through his male menopause the same way we deal with everything – our marriage motto is “full disclosure”.

We share everything and we have complete trust in each other.  We’re a team, we’re in this together, in good times and bad — including his midlife crisis.

Do you have a marriage motto? What works for you? Do you work as a team?

Holla! to Pinterest

Of late, I’ve been shamefully neglectful of my Pinterest boards. I know you’re all out there, organizing and pinning and repinning and following and liking.

He's soo dreamy!

He’s soo dreamy!

I even know what you like best about my own Pinterest site (click to visit) and that would be  my NUMBER ONE pin: Ed Westwick, who so briliiantly portrayed Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl – and Owls.

Saw-whet owls

Yes, owls are a fave amongst my pinning pals! And animals in general, which makes me happy, ‘cos I’m a huge animal lover.

Pinterest now has created Group Boards that one can be invited to join and pin to, but what kind of freaks me out in a slightly squinchy way are my MALE pinners. I just don’t get the appeal for a guy. I’m not at all sexist, but the two males I asked — my tugboat man and my son —  said they would never in a zillion years have any interest in Pinterest. Sorry for all you guys that do, but in my own little world, the answer is NO WAY. All I got was a “let me see those In the Tube surfingsurfing pics” and then they walked away, shaking their heads.

Although…I got a little snarky comment under his breath from my tugboat man, something along the lines of…”must be nice to have so much time to waste on crap” but when I demanded that he repeat what he said, he changed it to, “That was a delicious dinner, my love” but don’t you worry, I heard it. Yes, it’s a waste of time. I agree. But it’s also very addictive.

Click on my Chanel board. Very aspirational, don’t you agree?

Chanel surfboards

OMG, this is an amazeballs seashell wedding cake, isn’t it?

Unique-Beach-Wedding-Cake-IdeasDoesn’t it make you want to get married all over again? Hmmm. Ya know, I’ve been thinking about planning a vow renewal for our big #20 wedding anniversary next February. Pinterest is the perfect place to organize themes and ideas.

Now if I could only PIN my tugboat man down to actually being at the same latitude/longitude as me, maybe it’ll happen!

This isn’t my mariner nor his tug, but it’s a good example of the kind of work he does. 

Tug and barge

Grudge match: the pissed off surf widow versus the good wife (guess who won)

That wily vixen beeyotch was in rare form today.

Madame Beeyotch has been elegantly restrained lately except for an errant episode or two. Today, however, she wielded the POWER…

The day started out in an innocuous fashion. We woke up, had coffee–hubs had his portion controlled breakfast of homemade granola and low carb high protein flakes of some sort.

We went to the gym to take a Boot Camp/weight training class. So far, so good. On the way home, we ran a few errands–Trader Joe’s, Target, and stopped to get my glasses adjusted.

Still serene–planets in alignment–all is good. Madame Beeyotch, still restrained,  is singing a sweet, calming, and repetitive tune in her head.

Then…Captain Dorko decided we he needed to do a surf check. Stupid ocean. Obviously the waves were looking pretty good as evidenced by the grunts and snorts and exhalations of pleasure that emanated from the driver’s side.

Standup Paddleboard

Standup Paddleboard

Hubs just got a standup paddleboard (SUP) and now that there’s no wave small enough to keep him out of the water, he’s gone ALL THE TIME, and right about now it’s kind of getting on my last nerve.

I know what you might be thinking–cut the poor guy some slack; he’s out to sea a lot and he deserves a little r & r. Blah, blah, blah. That’s what I think!

My inner beeyotch can be held back no longer.

lastnervecatI’m thinking of all kinds of painful tortures to inflict upon the surf-obsessed hubs when I realized that he had been talking for quite a while. I only picked up the last part of it.

Him: “… and it’s so cool, I paddled all the way from the power plant past Old Mans and Warm Waters past the jetty to Tamarack. The waves weren’t big, but with that SUP I can have a lot of fun anyway.”

Crickets-Silence-More crlckets.

I’m thinking to myself. He can’t be talking to me. He just couldn’t be sharing all that stupid surf stuff with me.

Him again: “Look” he said, pointing west as we were stopped at a light, “I caught a wave there, and there, and there and…”

lastnerveyourcardPicture this. I’m sitting in the passenger seat. He’s driving. As he’s droning on and on and on AND on about the fun waves he’s been catching every damn day since he got that hateful SUP, I twist all the way around to look in the back seat. I look to the left-I look to the right– I stretch my body as far as it will go and look down with exaggerated movements to see the floor on the back seat.

Him: “What are you doing?”

Me: “I was looking for whoever you were talking to that must give a shit–’cos I don’t!”
(Whom/who–at that point I didn’t care to be correct.)

Him: {Laughing} “You’re really funny, you know that?”

(He honestly thinks I’m funny, he wasn’t kidding.)

Me: “I mean, I heard your lips flapping, waves, blah blah blah—fun, blah, blah, blah– and I thought to myself, he couldn’t possibly be talking to me because he should know that I don’t give a shit about his stupid surfing experiences!”

“You’re lucky I’m so agreeable to all the time you spend playing in the water and ignoring me.”

“But now that you mention it, you’re really getting on my last nerve, so you should prolly think about cutting back on your playtime in the water or I might just have to run up to South Coast Plaza and see what’s new for Spring. Chanel says tweed and feathers are trending right now.”

“Do we understand each other?”

Him: “Are you threatening me with shopping?”

Me: “How perceptive of you. You didn’t need a crystal ball to see where that was going…do we have a deal?”

Him: Arms folded, giving me that look of having tasted defeat…”Where do you want me to install those shelves?. Muttering half to himself as he walks in the garage, “I know when I’ve lost.”

surfwidowHowever, it is now almost 5pm and he ran off to the beach with a surfboard this time for an evening glass off session.

He will pay. Oh yes. He will pay. The beeyotch has spoken. Meow.

So the question remains. Who won? Who lost? Surf widow or nice wife? I think you know the answer…

The secret of a successful marriage

What is marriage all about? Based upon my personal research, experimentation, and analysis, I have the answers to your questions.

This is for all you young’uns who’re on the cusp of searching for a mate or for the older and hopefully wiser female who perhaps wants to dip a toe back into the dating pond.

Where’s Harry? A Wet Republic pool party in full swing

Do you want a life partner with whom to share your laughs, your tears, your bout with intestinal flu, your pillow and cat-laden bed, and to assist in the breeding of your offspring?

What’s the secret to my long lasting (twenty-two years together, nineteen married) relationship?

The secret is…COMPROMISE. 

Not really. I’m only messing with your head.

What works around here is torture and retaliation.

That’s it. Simple. Torture and retaliation.

It works like magic.

Case in point: My tugboat man goes out to sea for quite a while-usually two months or so at at time. When he returns, all he can think about (other than THAT) is surfing. Yes, he’s a big old surfer baby. Right now there are big winter waves pounding our coast.

sufingdragger-san-diego

This is not my captain because he’s not a dick dragger. That is NOT my term. I didn’t think of it but I wish I had. It’s what the young folks call a boogie boarder. Very descriptive, right? Think about it…

dog_surfing_01

This isn’t him, either. He’s not that cute but thank goodness, he’s less hairy.

sunset_cliffs_05

This isn’t him either, but this is how big the waves were at Sunset Cliffs.

A couple days ago he left at 5:30 a.m. to surf in La Jolla. In case you’re a surfer yourself, waves were mostly six feet with an occasional eight foot set. I was just about on my last nerve with this surf obsesh, so I blocked the driveway with sawhorses and trash cans so he couldn’t pull in the driveway.  Hee hee.sawhorse2C11TrashCanOld.jpg2F5B174A-5A60-43AB-8E0F6CCF2434E2ED.jpgLargerHe had to get out of his truck, move the obstacles, and then pull in.

After that, I used my wiles to torture him into building four more shelves for my lovely collection of shells and rocks.

And that brings us to today. Sunday. I guess the honeymoon’s over.

I was out in the garage chatting up the hubs about tonight’s dinner menu: freshly baked French bread, Caesar salad with my signature dressing, and thought I’d make some Frico at the same time that I make the croutons. I asked him:

“Have you ever had Frico? Do you know what it is?”

“Yeah, I know what a Frico is, I’m married to one.”

How RUDE. HOW RUDE!

This is Frico, I am not Frico.

This is Frico, I am not Frico.

I was being the  best wife ever; I brought him lunch on  a tray while he was working on restoring his rowboat and building yet another shelf (I love shelves, OK?) and THIS is the attitude I have to deal with!? After I brought him a wheatgrass smoothie, fresh pear cut in half and filled with nonfat cottage cheese dusted with cinnamon–blueberry-smiley-face-berries-pixmac-photo-75642785and to make it extra-special, a smiley face out of fresh blueberries–he retaliates with a comment like that? Oh, he’ll pay all right, oh yes he will. We’ll see who’s FREAKY when he takes me to South Coast Plaza tomorrow. We’ll test the limits of his stamina and endurance throughout the huge shopping center. We’ll whet our whistle at one end with Bloomingdales as we march determinedly toward my personal holy grail, (do you hear the trumpets sounding?) as we round the corner to….Chanel–Chanel, the holder of my bliss.

Torture and retaliation-the stuff of which great marriages are made.

Frico, not Freako

Preheat oven to 375°F.

Using largest holes on a 4-sided grater, coarsely shred enough cheese to measure 1 cup. Line a large baking sheet with nonstick liner. Stir together cheese, flour, and pepper. Arrange tablespoons of cheese 4 inches apart on liner, stirring cheese in bowl between tablespoons to keep flour evenly distributed. Flatten each mound slightly with a metal spatula to form a 3-inch round.Bake frico in middle of oven until golden, about 10 minutes. Cool 2 minutes on sheet on a rack, then carefully transfer each crisp (they are very delicate) with metal spatula to rack to cool completely.

Seashell insanity–Episode #452

Well…my tugboat man spent pretty much the entire day surfing. He came home at 2:00 p.m and said he had been trying to catch a wave in to shore for over an hour or he would have been back sooner. RIGHT.

Does he think I just fell off the turnip truck? Do I look stupid? I know that trick–the old “I couldn’t get in so I just had to stay surfing until the sun went down and the tide changed” lie.

I was so mad at him for abandoning me that I had to devise a painful retaliation to convey my displeasure. I decided that we were going to go walking in our little village of Carlsbad and go in and out of EVERY shop. That is absolute torture for my hubs, which meant it was perfect. And since I’ve gotten my Chanel, she hasn’t really had a good outing and begged to come along and see and be seen by all the tourists and locals in our little town.

We went to every single store including one where I bought some beautiful seashells, ‘cos, you know, I just don’t have enough seashells. I made him go into antique stores, sandal shops, shoe stores, clothing stores–up and down State Street and Grand Avenue without a moment to rest. When I felt he had been punished sufficiently, we went home and he installed a shelf that he made for my new shells and my seashell box we created together.

There’s more surf tomorrow, so I’ll be thinking of more ways to make his life miserable.

shelf1shelf2