This is the life of a tugboat captain’s wife…

My tugboat man departed mid-September for what was supposed to be a six-week assignment.

In the world of the merchant mariner, that’s easy; a piece of cake.

He’s still not home and what’s today’s date?

November 22.

Will he be home for Thanksgiving?

Nope.

Will he be home the week after?

Hopefully, but no guarantees.

Am I complaining?

Only kinda, sorta, cos I’m pretty much used to this by now.

During the first fifteen years or so of our marriage, he worked in our local harbor as a tug captain and also as port captain of a tug company, and then with the downturn in the economy in 2008, he was offered an opportunity to return to his roots of long distance towing.

Not only is he a maritime academy (won’t tell which one) graduate and a high ticket tug captain, he’s a tow master.

Being a Master Towboatman is highly specialized and a difficult and often dangerous job.

Which is why if I don’t hear from him every day, I get a little (OK, a LOT) crazy.

Even though we do have limited satellite email, I haven’t actually SPOKEN to him in a few weeks, but tomorrow he’s going to bring one 800-foot-long barge into a port and exchange it for another one to take offshore and do whatever it is that he does (can’t tell you) and the highlight of my day is a PHONE CALL.

A TELEPHONE CALL.

Which makes me very, very happy!

So, in spite of my bestie not being here on this Sunday where Princess Rosebud (me) can make him his fave buckwheat pancakes, I am very thankful that I’ll be able to hear his voice tomorrow.

Gratitude…Take it wherEVER you can find it.

gratitudetexlagoon

 

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WTF WordPress. Not AGAIN…

Have you noticed that I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for a few days?

2015-11-19 02.01.38-1

Were you wondering what’s happened to Princess Rosebud?

Did I go on a shopping spree that spiraled out of control?

Nope, no out-of-control purchases, although I did attend a Chanel trunk show and walked away empty handed, but only because the earrings I desired were clip on and not meant for my pierced ears.

Oh well.

The truth is that I was/am joining forces with other like minded community activists to FIGHT a mega mall development that would, if allowed, forever destroy our precious sensitive wetlands.

And more.

With help, I rescued a cat from a boarded up, condemned home.

I wanted to write a post about all of this, but when I opened WordPress, I was greeted with YET ANOTHER CHANGE TO WRITING, EDITING, PUBLISHING TOOLS.

WordPress, I simply cannot take these changes right now.

It’s not necessary to tweak the format.

HONEST.

And where’s the button to SAVE my work?  That teensy little word with the blue line under it isn’t USER FRIENDLY.

The whole format is NOT user friendly.

WTF, WordPress?____________________________________________________

P.S. To add insult to injury, tugboat man is again delayed; won’t be home until AFTER Thanksgiving. UGH.

 

I Met Vice President Al Gore at the Apple Store

This is a repost from a while ago because I felt the need to produce factual documentation to prove to a few people in my little town that I did indeed meet Al Gore and I told the truth! 


 

Hey, that rhymes, doesn’t it? Al Gore at the Apple Store

Of all the days to run out of the house dressed in ratty Lululemons — constructed from the WORST fabric in the entire world. They’re a powerful magnet for all the lint and dust in Southern California and seem to attract more grime than my vacuum.

I stopped wearing them as workout garments ‘cos they’re not very comfortable and they have a nasty X-rated propensity to outline my reproductive parts for everyone at the gym. NOT a flattering look. At least they weren’t the see-though kind. Click here to read my post about THAT.

Now that you know more TMI that you probably needed to  —  picture me in those Lululemons and an oversized “I Hiked Angel’s Landing at Zion National Park” t-shirt with a black hoodie wrapped around my waist. Oh, and my hair was tied up in a scrunchie — yes, you heard me.  A SCRUNCHIE. Shhh. Don’t. Don’t say anything. I’ve heard it all before, “Ring, ring…1983 is calling.” Heard it a zillion times. In my defense, I have longish, very curly hair and a scrunchie is the best method to tie up my hair, OK?

I had MacAirApplea 1:00 p.m. appointment at the Genius Bar of my local Apple Store in La Costa at the Forum because my MacAir was on life support with the dreaded black screen of death —  basically flatlining —  and it needed a major resuscitation. And in case you’re wondering (and marveling) at my handiwork, I most certainly lovingly applied each and every sparkle to the darling apple with my own little fingers.

Keep reading; this story really is going somewhere, albeit in a meandering kind of way. Stick with me, OK?

Did I mention that I didn’t have on any makeup? I was in a rush to get there because how can you live without a computer — a rhetorical question, ‘cos of course it’s impossible.

I checked in with one of the many blue-shirted Apple employees and was directed to take a seat at the Genius Bar to await my personal technician. There were several available stools and I chose the second one from the end. THIS WILL BE VERY IMPORTANT SOON.

apple-genius-bar-nyc

Note how close together the stools are.

Hello Kitty computer caseI settled in and took my Mac out of its totes adorbs Hello Kitty case (I hear you snickering and I don’t care. I’m proudly 13 going on 60).

My tech, Clinton, came out for a moment to discuss my issues — well, not MY issues exactly, I mean, my MacAir haha —  and whisked my laptop off to the mysterious Back Room with the invisible silver doors.

Leaning against the sharp-edged corner of the Genius Bar with the ubiquitous badge around her neck defining her status as “Manager”, I overheard her whisper to another employee, “I’m saving this seat”.

She placed her iPad down on the round stool to emphasize her statement.

“Saving it for whom?” I thought to myself. Is this like junior high where we saved seats for our BFFs? Was that the best seat? Should I have demanded to sit there? Is there anyone more important than Princess Rosebud? All these questions were swirling around in my brain.

A couple of other employees gathered around the manager and exuded nervous anticipation. “He’ll be here soon”.

My radar began to pick up on the buzz. Hmm. Who were they saving a seat for? A celebrity? An Apple bigwig? A VERY IMPORTANT PERSON?

I sniffed the air. I smelled a story. One of my former incarnations was as an investigative reporter wannabe and my curiosity was aroused.

Something was going on.

A man and a woman were ceremoniously escorted to THE SAVED SEAT.

The man sat down next to me.

His stool was so close to my stool that I could feel body heat emanating from his softly worn jeans-clad thigh.

The woman stood next to him at the end of the Genius Bar. They were both casually dressed, nothing too remarkable about jewelry — no huge diamonds or Rolex watches — just a couple of regular people.

They both shook hands with the manager. She thanked them for coming into the store. WTF was THAT all about? This was certainly different than my experience. Not that I wasn’t treated courteously, but this was a bit overly polite and way more attentive.

Now there were three employees plus the hovering manager. The woman took her iPhone out of her handbag and handed it to the manager. I noted (with my laser focused investigative powers) that her phone was encased in a J.Crew leopard print cell phone cover. Nice, but not Chanel or anything. I could see that because another employee appeared from the mysterious back room and snapped off the case, enabling me to sneak a peek of “J.Crew” printed on the inside.

Too much detail? I’m building up to the good part. Don’t leave me now!

The man was doing a lot of talking and I was only half paying attention to WHAT he was saying because I was trying to place the voice. It was a very distinctive voice, something that I KNOW I’ve heard before — a bit of an elegant and classy Southern kind of drawl, a deeply resonant sound that I found to be VERY SEXY.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out who it was. I ran through all the names and faces of celebrities  in my head – nope, nope, nope.

At this point, I was openly staring at him. He has beautiful eyes. I think they were blue, but I’m not sure even though, I swear, I was inches away. Poor guy, he prolly thought he had a stalker next to him. He could prolly smell my bad breath as I thought to myself, did I even brush my teeth that day? and surreptitiously opened my handbag and slipped a cinnamon Altoids between my lips.

I totally blanked (senior moment, perhaps?) and decided it must be someone who worked at Apple, maybe someone from San Francisco or something. Whatev. No biggie. I looked around. No one else seemed to be staring in our direction, no one was taking pics or coming up for an autograph.

Except for the voice. I KNEW that voice. Was it driving me crazy? You bet it was. I told you how close we were. I could have reached out and caressed his unshaven cheek and stroked his dark blonde/silvery hair. Nice hair.

Do you wonder who it was? Can you guess?

Finally, my tech came back with the good news/bad news that my laptop needed to be purged and the OS reinstalled and all would be better, but it would take a few days. Best news of all, the repair was free.

Mostly though, I wasn’t paying attention to anything he said ‘cos I was going nuts trying to figure out who was practically sitting in my lap, but I gathered up my stuff and prepared to walk away, still puzzled.

I hopped off the stool, turned, and walked a few steps away. I really did.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Another Apple employee walked up to me, laughing. She said I should see the look on my face. Huh? Oh, I guess I looked perplexed.

She said, “Don’t you know who that is?”

I replied, “I know the voice, but my brain won’t come up with the name to match it.”

She whispered, “Al Gore.”

Damn. OF COURSE. Stupid me.

AL GORE. Vice President and almost President but for a few hanging chads; Nobel Prize winner, author, and filmmaker.

What would you have done? Kept walking out the door? Missed an opportunity?

Not THIS girl. No way.

I turned and walked  back to the stool where AL GORE and his girlfriend were still chatting with the manager.

I interrupted their conversation as I stuck out my hand to shake his, and told him I couldn’t believe I was sitting there all that time and I hadn’t said anything and it must have been because I didn’t think I was seeing correctly and that he was who he was (brilliant conversationalist, right?) because I just had laser surgery to repair a torn retina and he was like (I said “like” a LOT). Don’t you like like how speedily I turned the conversation to my favorite subject, ALL ABOUT ME?)

His GF was really nice and asked me all sorts of questions about the surgery and seemed to know quite a bit about it, and then we were talking about how I had to go through that pain all by myself ‘cos my tugboat captain husband who was a PROUD AMERICAN MERCHANT MARINER was out to sea. Finally, we talked about my broken computer, and Al (see how I call him Al now that we’re besties?) asked me if I was being treated right at the Apple Store and duh of course I said yes, but secretly I was thinking to myself, “not half as good as you were treated”, and there wasn’t much else to say after that, so we shook hands again. My parting words were something stupid like, “I hope you’re enjoying my little town of Carlsbad”.

So lame.

And so lame that I didn’t snap an Al Gore-Princess Rosebud selfie, but I thought it wasn’t appropriate — so alas, no photo.

But I swear it’s true.

He’s lost a lot of weight and I think that’s why I had a hard time identifying his voice.

Wow. Now I’m thinking if I had actually touched him, the Secret Service would have had me down on the floor and I’d be writing this from a federal prison OR you’d never hear from me again.

Did I ask him about climate change? Nope. Did I thank him for inventing the internet? Nope. Did I mention that my Yale professor son would really like a tenure-track position at Stanford and could he help make that happen? Nope. Did I mention that I voted for him (which I had)? Nope. I talked about ME. ME. ME. ME.

Me in my ratty camel-toed Lululemons with zero makeup and my hair in a curly scrunchie ponytail. Good one, Princess. Good one.

Yes, I met Al Gore, also famous or infamous for that kiss to his then wife, Tipper, at the 2000 Democratic Convention.

Whatever anyone might think of his politics and/or personal life, I can verify that he is VERY SEXY up close and that’s really all I cared about at that moment. And he smells good, too! Yum.

His girlfriend is Liz Keadle and in an interesting it’s-a-small-world-six-degrees kind of thing, Liz Keadle was formerly married to Lyle Turner, founder of Invitrogen, a huge biotech company in Carlsbad, famous for their vertical integration. My son used to intern at Invitrogen (when he went to UCSD and initially majored in Molecular Biology) and met Lyle Turner on several occasions.

Crazy random connection right?

P.S. I learned my lesson. When I went back to pick up my now functioning MacAir, I wore white skinny jeans and a tunic top with just a hint of cleavage and four-inch wedges. Makeup perfect, hair blown straight. Didn’t see anyone at all. I was in and out of the Apple Store in less than five minutes. A total waste of time.

*Sighs*

Let me introduce my new best friends, Liz Keadle and Al Gore.

al-gore-laurie-david-affair

 

#AppleStore #AlGore #Famouspeople

 

I don’t know what’s wrong with me! Am I suffering from grandma-itis?

Sorry once again for posting the same thing on both blogs, but until I find a way to marry the two, I might be doing it a few more times!

1328928449733_1980393I was NEVER one of those moms or mothers-in-law that nagged at the kids to have a baby. You never heard these words spill from my lips,

“I need a grandchild.”

“When are you going to give me a grandchild?”

I’m not getting any younger, aren’t you EVER going to have children?”

I figured after ten years of being married that they had decided (privately) that it wasn’t part of their five-year plan (obviously) or even their ten-year-plan and it was their business and I might be obnoxious about MANY MANY things (I admit it) but I wasn’t the stereotypical Jewish mom in THAT way.

I was 100% totally OK with it, too.

So it came as a shock to no one more than myself how excited I was when my son and DIL told me they were expecting a child, and in our lovely TMI way—providing me with all the who-what-where-when details of the actual conception (my son is SO proud of himself; my son the overachiever lol.)

First, I screamed.

Then I said, “It’s about time!!”

And then because that’s the way I roll, I make everything all about ME.

Since that day, I’ve become OBSESSED with all things baby—I swear, hand to heart, it’s as if I’m the one who’s carrying this boychild and I know that sounds weird , REALLY weird if you think about it, geez, that’s my SON, but that’s how invested I am.

If everyone thought I was a helicopter mom before, all I can say is LOOK OUT.

I actually tell people I’m having a baby.

I mean I’ve told absolute strangers that I’m having a baby, and when they look at me skeptically—medical miracle and all that, plus my belly with no discernible bump- (well, there are definitely lumps but no bumps) I clarify that it’s my son and his wife who are having a baby, and they inevitably say,

“Ohhh, so you’re a first-time grandma, now I get it. Been there, done that. Best time in your entire life. Congratulations!

I’m a shopper.

I’m a shopaholic.

I’m obsessed with retail therapy.

I love shopping for myself.

I really, really do.

But there’s something wrong with me!

I drive to all my favorite stores and run my fingers through silk blouses and sparkly jewelry and high-heeled winter boots; and NOTHING.

I buy NOTHING. Not a thing. Nothing sparks my desire.

However, I find myself magnetically drawn to the baby department where I analyze and scrutinize newborn onesies, the softest little socks, nursery bedding, high chairs, and strollers.

Apparently the only stroller worth having in 2015 is a Bugaboo, which costs as much as a used car.bugaboo-buffalo-stroller-BK2015-BA-RBB-0

When my son was born, we had this pram, similar in design to this Milson used by the royal family, with big wheels and shock absorbers guaranteed to provide Angel Boy with a smooth ride. We found it at an antique store and I’m pretty sure no one else in San Diego County pushed their child in this kind of luxury.231265080

I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.

In the past, I’d be happy because the office is near Anthropologie, J Crew, and Bloomies.

But now? 

I’m excited as can be because I can stop at Buy Buy BABY.

What the heck is wrong with me?

Have I been infected with that grandmother-itis I’ve been hearing about?

The high chair is used but very clean and only needs a new insert.highchair

Who could resist this sailboat onesie with matching hat?
highchair2

Yes, there’s most definitely something wrong with me.

And the winner is…XX or XY?

I’m bursting to tell, but first…

(I seem to repeat myself on both blogs and a big sorry to those who follow both cos you’re reading things twice, so I need to sit myself down and figure out how I can have both topics in one location cos this is driving me crazy. Well, crazier than I was, and now that the mothership (me) is obsessing about this baby, well, I’m at a whole new level of cray.)

And now we return to today’s post…

how-to-have-a-baby-girl

Don’t hate but here’s a truth; when my son was in elementary school, I’d pick him up every day after school and we’d walk home while he chattered away about what what happened during the day, what he learned, and sometimes this:

“Mom, Mom, guess what? I have EXTRA CREDIT!”

Yes, my Angel Boy looked at additional schoolwork as a gift —and why would anyone want to rain on his bliss?

Always the overachiever, it’s not surprising that he performed over and above in this category too, because he and DIL are having a…

wait for it

wait for it

oh, I can’t wait.

IT’S A …

BOYseashells

*Squeeeee!!*

Can you hear me screaming for joy?

DIL’s already referring to him as Angel Boy 2.0…here’s a pic.

He looks exactly like the Original Angel Boy with that big head!

AB2.0 BLOGpic

The first thing this yummy grandmummy did was to rush out and SHOP!

babygifts1

Next on the list is painting the nursery a lovely vintage yellow. I’ll decorate with an animal/nautical theme.

Lots of animals.

Nautical + animals but NOT a Noah’s Ark vibe.

Of course lots of love.

Cos that’s really all you need.

All you need is love. heartconstellation

To Pee or Not to Pee

bath5

The walls are NOT this shade of green lol ; they’re more of a ferny green, not so neon!

THAT’s the question.

(I’m so sorry, Mr. Shakespeare)

Here’s the story:

When tugboat man was still here and we were having our house re-roofed, one of the guys slipped and stuck his foot through the ceiling in our upstairs office.

I’m happy to say he wasn’t hurt at all.

Later on that day, the roofer’s drywall friend came over to do the repair.

Hub requested that I cover all the furniture and the rug in the vicinity of the hole to protect it from dust and stuff ‘cos he knows how freaky OCD I get about dirt, and the whole roofing experience triggered all THOSE issues.

After I found some old sheets and draped the area, I went downstairs to wash dishes while hub chatted with the repairman.

Hub came down to the kitchen to get a glass of ice water and my bat ears (that’s what I’m called cos I hear EVERYTHING) picked up the sound of the upstairs toilet flushing.

I looked at hub in horror.

“That wasn’t the drywall guy flushing the toilet, was it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you mean that he USED OUR BATHROOM?”

“Yup, why?”

“Did he ask you if he could use our bathroom?”

“Yes, why?” As he’s looking at me quizzically.

“And did you say yes?”

(Now I hear the sound of running water.)

“Yes, why?”

I’m hyperventilating, my mind’s eye scanning each and every surface this person must have touched; the toilet seat, the flushing handle, the water faucet, a towel (a TOWEL!), and the light switch. Oh, and the door knob. Both of them.

I’m seeing germs, I’m seeing hoards of stranger germs (stranger danger STRANGER DANGER!) multiplying and spreading all over the bathroom and overflowing down the stairs to invade each and every corner of our house.

I’m thinking of the horror stories I’ve heard about stuff being stolen—or OMG WHAT IF HE WENT NUMBER TWO?

I’m not really a snob (I’m NOT!) but this was not someone we hired; it was a friend or acquaintance of our roofer and we didn’t know his name or anything about him.

What if he had some kind of disease?

I couldn’t even handle that.

Not even.

Whew.

In a very controlled voice, I asked…”Don’t you know that as a general practice, one never allows strangers to use our personal bathrooms?  I mean, we don’t even really have a guest powder room or anything. This is private.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Do you mean that in the twenty-five or so years that we’ve been together, you didn’t know that that was one of the things I just cannot abide?”

(Did I just hear him whisper to himself that right now It feels like 40 million years?)

“No really, I didn’t know that, but why not?”

“WHY NOT? Because it’s just not done, that’s why!”

“Well, what was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know, what I say is either, I’d prefer that you didn’t, or It’s not something I’m comfortable with or maybe, I have a crazy wife, so you probably shouldn’t.”

I mean, here’s the thing…there are two kinds of people; those who don’t care if strangers use their toilets, and those who think it’s not appropriate for a stranger, especially one who’s there to do a job, to use the customer’s facilities.

Most contractors bring their own porta potty for jobs that take a few days, or they leave to use the restroom at a restaurant or anywhere else but here.

When he finished the small job of fixing the ceiling, I donned my ubiquitous yellow rubber gloves, a respirator mask (not really), and a gallon of bleach, and rushed into the now possibly-infected-with-stranger-danger-germs bathroom.

To add insult to injury, do you know what I found?

HE LEFT THE SEAT UP.

Yup. He left the seat UP.

I yelled that to hub, “HE LEFT THE SEAT UP!!”

I could hear hub muttering to himself; I don’t even want to know what he said.

Ick. Yuck. I spent the next hour totally disinfecting every surface.

Don’t think I’m like this when friends or family visit; of course not, not if I know them, their genetic makeup, their social security number, their address, their medical history…JUST KIDDING!

According to a discussion of this very topic on Angie’s List, here’s one contractor’s thoughts: David Webber, who owns David’s Home Cleaning in Raleigh, N.C., says he would never think of using a client’s bathroom except in a dire emergency, even though he can sometimes be on a job for eight hours.

“It’s like a personal, private space,” Webber says.

On long jobs, he’ll take a break to use a restroom off-site.

Kristopher Toth, owner of Toth Painting Solutions in Parma, Ohio, says he doesn’t expect to use his clients’ bathrooms.

“I think it’s a courtesy; I don’t think we can just assume we can use their bathroom,” Toth says.

What say YOU?

Do you let repairmen use your bathroom? What is YOUR criteria?

PS Had a date/publish issue with WP so I’m reposting.

To Pee or Not to Pee

bath5

The walls are NOT this shade of green lol ; they’re more of a ferny green, not so neon!

THAT’s the question.

(I’m so sorry, Mr. Shakespeare)

Here’s the story:

When tugboat man was still here and we were having our house re-roofed, one of the guys slipped and stuck his foot through the ceiling in our upstairs office.

I’m happy to say he wasn’t hurt at all.

Later on that day, the roofer’s drywall friend came over to do the repair.

Hub requested that I cover all the furniture and the rug in the vicinity of the hole to protect it from dust and stuff ‘cos he knows how freaky OCD I get about dirt, and the whole roofing experience triggered all THOSE issues.

After I found some old sheets and draped the area, I went downstairs to wash dishes while hub chatted with the repairman.

Hub came down to the kitchen to get a glass of ice water and my bat ears (that’s what I’m called cos I hear EVERYTHING) picked up the sound of the upstairs toilet flushing.

I looked at hub in horror.

“That wasn’t the drywall guy flushing the toilet, was it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you mean that he USED OUR BATHROOM?”

“Yup, why?”

“Did he ask you if he could use our bathroom?”

“Yes, why?” As he’s looking at me quizzically.

“And did you say yes?”

(Now I hear the sound of running water.)

“Yes, why?”

I’m hyperventilating, my mind’s eye scanning each and every surface this person must have touched; the toilet seat, the flushing handle, the water faucet, a towel (a TOWEL!), and the light switch. Oh, and the door knob. Both of them.

I’m seeing germs, I’m seeing hoards of stranger germs (stranger danger STRANGER DANGER!) multiplying and spreading all over the bathroom and overflowing down the stairs to invade each and every corner of our house.

I’m thinking of the horror stories I’ve heard about stuff being stolen—or OMG WHAT IF HE WENT NUMBER TWO?

I’m not really a snob (I’m NOT!) but this was not someone we hired; it was a friend or acquaintenance of our roofer and we didn’t know his name or anything about him.

What if he had some kind of disease?

I couldn’t even handle that.

Not even.

Whew.

In a very controlled voice, I asked…”Don’t you know that as a general practice, one never allows strangers to use our personal bathrooms?  I mean, we don’t even really have a guest powder room or anything. This is private.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Do you mean that in the twenty-five or so years that we’ve been together, you didn’t know that that was one of the things I just cannot abide?”

(Did I just hear him whisper to himself that right now It feels like 40 million years?)

“No really, I didn’t know that, but why not?”

“WHY NOT? Because it’s just not done, that’s why!”

“Well, what was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know, what I say is either, I’d prefer that you didn’t, or It’s not something I’m comfortable with or maybe, I have a crazy wife, so you probably shouldn’t.”

I mean, here’s the thing…there are two kinds of people; those who don’t care if strangers use their toilets, and those who think it’s not appropriate for a stranger, especially one who’s there to do a job, to use the customer’s facilities.

Most contractors bring their own porta potty for jobs that take a few days, or they leave to use the restroom at a restaurant or anywhere else but here.

When he finished the small job of fixing the ceiling, I donned my ubiquitous yellow rubber gloves, a respirator mask (not really) and a gallon of bleach and rushed into the inow possibly-infected-with-stranger-danger-germs bathroom.

To add insult to injury, do you know what I found?

HE LEFT THE SEAT UP.

Yup. He left the seat UP.

I yelled that to hub, “HE LEFT THE SEAT UP!!”

I could hear hub muttering to himself; I don’t even want to know what he said.

Ick. Yuck. I spent the next hour totally disinfecting every surface.

Don’t think I’m like this when friends or family visit; of course not, not if I know them, their genetic makeup, their social security number, their address, their medical history…JUST KIDDING!

According to a discussion of this very topic on Angie’s List, here’s one contractor’s thoughts: David Webber, who owns David’s Home Cleaning in Raleigh, N.C., says he would never think of using a client’s bathroom except in a dire emergency, even though he can sometimes be on a job for eight hours.

“It’s like a personal, private space,” Webber says.

On long jobs, he’ll take a break to use a restroom off-site.

Kristopher Toth, owner of Toth Painting Solutions in Parma, Ohio, says he doesn’t expect to use his clients’ bathrooms.

“I think it’s a courtesy; I don’t think we can just assume we can use their bathroom,” Toth says.

What say YOU?

Do you let repairmen use your bathroom? What is YOUR criteria?

A Whole Bunch of Dirt, Sand Dollars, and a Riddle

This is a riddle of sorts but there are no clues.

Sorry…

In fact, this probably makes no sense at all right now, but all will be revealed, and even then what’s going on in my head that makes perfectly logical sense to me will still have you scratching your collective heads.

Trust me.

Before he left, tugboat man built this beautiful raised bed so I can plant healthy veggies.

raisedbed

A nice friend stopped by with all of these sand dollars!
sandollar1

If only you could plant a sand dollar so they’d multiply!Sand dollar2

One particular sand dollar is being chased by a several other types of seashells.

sand dollar3

This means *something*.

I promise.

Lessons Learned From Blogging

I’ve been blogging since 2012 and have come to the conclusion that I don’t know much about a lot of things, but I’ve learned a few things about myself…

  • I’ve learned a lot about HOW to blog; how to set up a WordPress account and all the other socializations necessary for my words to obtain that all important reach: Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Google+, and Instagram (although I don’t have a smartphone so I can’t access that.)
  • I’m more tech-savvy than the average mid-lifer.
  • I’m not a joiner of tribes or any group that is inclusionary or exclusionary. I tried, but failed, to join various groups and even attended a blogging convention, but alas, I tap my six-inch stilettos to the beat of a different drum…
  • I like to go rogue; be myself, be maverick-y, express my own views, and not blindly agree with anyone.
  • I’ve learned to become more confident (not that I was ever a shrinking violet lol.)
  • I’ve discovered that there aren’t a lot of vegan, animal defending, Jewish princess-y fashionista, workout junkie, empty nest midlife bloggers, so I fit a very narrow demographic.
  • I don’t write about my sex life (or lack of it.)
  • I don’t write about uber cringy personal topics. It’s not that I don’t HAVE any problems or issues to face and endure, but I keep things mostly private (the opposite of what makes a blog go viral).
  • I don’t husband-bash, except for gentle teasing, and that’s only after I’ve asked tugboat man whether he minds if I make him the topic of humor.
  • On a positive note, blogging has helped me sharply define what I DO care about: protecting and defending animals, standing up for what’s right and being extremely vocal about what I believe is WRONG. Like fur and hunting. WRONG WRONG WRONG.
  • And shopping. I dearly love to shop. And Chanel. I love Chanel, I really do. I’m an enigma.

a-little-confession-on-confession-day

For the last few months or so (or maybe even longer) I’ve noticed that my blog numbers are way down like half of last year!!…readership and interest seems to be dwindling and not building to that overwhelming tipping point where I become the next break out star like Arianna Huffington or Jenny Lawson.

Things aren’t supposed to go this way, right?

But I’m being completely honest, confessing as befits my blog title.

“Why”” I wonder to myself…

Why do you no longer love me?

Too princess-y?

Too tugboat-y?

Not enough seashells?

Too BORING?

Maybe none or maybe ALL of the above?

Anyway, it’s the perfect time for CH-CH-CH-CHANGES even though I don’t like change — I like when things stay the same — but not too much of a transmutation ( I LOVE that word.)

I’ve been working on creating a new blog with a slightly different format; it’s almost ready to hit the light of day!

Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife won’t disappear, but my focus will be directed more specifically to this fresh and shiny blog.

You’ll see soon enough.

WINK.

Changes  (David Bowie)

“…pretty soon now you’re gonna get older
Time may change me
But I can’t trace time
I said that time may change me
But I can’t trace time.”

Happy New Year 5776!

shana-tova

The Jewish New Year marks the beginning of ten days of repentance culminating with Yom Kippur.

That’s about all I remember from attending a few years of Sunday Hebrew school until we moved to sunshiny SoCal, where I could concentrate all of my brain cells on yummy tanned surfer boys.

Even though my grandfather was a rabbi, the whole religious thang didn’t have much of an impact on me, other than the Jewish princess aspect because I am a VERY devout Jewish princess-y type.

Although you wouldn’t think so if you had been around yesterday, when I was tugboat man’s helper as we blew sixty (SIXTY!) bags of eco-friendly insulation in our attic.

I would allow no photos of me in a respirator, safety goggles, and work gloves, so you’ll just have to use your imagination.

It was NOT a pretty sight.

More like Cinderella than Princess.

But now we’re pretty much done with our whirlwind month of home improvements; new roof, insulation, termite spraying, and the removal of five trees so we can plant fruit and palms.

This leads us to my secret (had you forgotten?) that I promise to reveal next week.

Until then, Happy New Year and eat some apples and honey (although I’ve forgotten why it’s relevant.)