New job stirred with hurricane

It's been two months since I last recorded my life here on Sixties Shorties. I apologise to all four of my fans. It's been busy. August 16th was my first day at my new job -- I'm now the Chief Information Officer for the Peace Corps. It was fate -- in 2006 John and I had, after six months, achieved the "nomination" step -- that's Peace Corps speak for being accepted as a volunteer, but not medically cleared to serve. We were looking at more months to plow our way through the medical review process and then be matched with a specific program assignment in an eastern European country that might be able to use our skills. Before all that could be finished, John received an offer from Fed Ex in Memphis. Weighing a bird-in-the-hand vs. more waiting, we chose Memphis. Now, I'm working on technology and redesigning that very application process. It's come full circle. The Peace Corps is a fabulous organization full of enthusiastic people with great skills. I'm honored to be trusted with the majority of their IT and management information systems.

In the communications job I took to get us out of Memphis and back in DC, I worked in the guts of an organization. It was a great gig where I easily performed minor miracles. However, as I told the guys at my going away party -- "It's a hell of a job to lead from the bottom." Now I'm leading from the top, responsible for the welfare of over 90 people and tasked with performing major miracles. It's time to put my "money where my mouth is" as my dad used to say. I'm loving it, solving a puzzle with many moving parts.

Just as I'm settling into the new job and John is settling into being a committed sailor (he's taken docking lessons and has become the champ at maneuvering the boat in close quarters), we are faced with the threat of hurricane Earl. We're driving to j-bird tomorrow night to clear the decks (take down dodger & Bimini, stow the rolled up dinghy, etc.) and reinforce the docks lines so she doesn't get smashed up against the dock in big winds. For sure the labor day weekend sail won't happen or will be not what we planned.

The kids visit

June 2nd the kids came to visit. Despite light winds, we went for a sail on Friday. Ian, the youngest, enthusiastically embraced sailing once he got over the problem of getting on the boat from the dock. Jeremy, the fifteen year old, ventured on onto the deck without his cell phone--he was separated from it for a full 20 minutes. We weren't sure he would survive.

It was so hot the second day that we all went to the marina pool for the day. We ended the visit we a crab cake dinner at the local Calypso restaurant. A fun time wa had by all.

Fred and JoeJoe at their best

On Sunday, our friend Susan, armed with her killer camera, captured Fred and JoeJoe aboard j-bird as we've never seen them before. Exquisite and perfect is all we can say. What do you think?

Day 16 - one last sail

Sunday brought fair winds (translate 10-15 knots and no more), partially sunny skies and cool air. My former business partner, Susan, joined us for a day sail. She kept JoeJoe from shivering as we headed out across the Bay toward Tilghman Island. It was chilly, but delightful. Not a dog threw-up and the seas were quite bearable. Our j-bird isn't a fast boat (top speed is 4-5 knots), but she's reliable and easy to handle. What more could a sailor ask for?

This ends our two week shakedown cruise. As the sun set over the harbour, a crescent moon and Venus blessed our experience. We've learned a lot and experienced enough to know we work well together and can handle whatever the Bay and j-bird bring us. As John surmised, "This sailing stuff isn't easy, but it's a whole different world that is wonderfully seductive."

We'll be on the water for many years to come. The only question is whether we do with our little 33 feet or go for something more substantial is several years. Who knows? It's what keeps life interesting.

Rough seas

On Saturday morning, John and I were ready once again to test our sailing skills. We left our home dock to venture out into the Bay with 20 knot winds and "small craft warning" seas of 2-3 feet with white caps. I was confident. John was nervous. We reefed to main and put out the jib. We banged against the waves. The dogs threw up. Luckily is was not projectile vomiting.

After an hour, we agreed that it was time to head back to dock. John was less nervous and I was proud that my instincts were still good. By the time we settled into the dock, John and I were too tired to make lunch. We piled the pups into the back seat of the car and made the short trip down the road and over the first bridge into Deale for crab cakes at the "Happy Harbour" cafe, sitting amidst the charter fishing boats. (I think I have John's birthday present in mind!)

In our home slip safe, warm and dry!

John returned to j-bird sans pain and $25 in taxi fare this morning. He didn't see a doctor, but walking around seemed to cure his aches (at least temporarily). At 10:57am we caste off from Bert Jabin's Yacht Yard for the last time. It was chilly, but the rain held off and so did the winds. I put on two pair of socks, double pants and a sweat shirt under my jacket. John seemed fine without all the layers, but JoeJoe and Fred needed covers to keep the shivers away. Luckily, our friend J supplied us with several loaner doggy towels and I dug up an extra pillow sham to wrap around the little guy. Problem was is that he kept getting up when he spied a bird sweep across the water and we had to wrap him up all over again.

With no wind, we were forced to motor south for three hours. It was pleasant enough. We captured a great shot of Thomas Point Light and practiced setting and sailing to waypoints. We lunched on a bit of salad and roasted potatoes (left overs!)

The channel into Herrington Harbour North is very narrow so we carefully navigated it with great success. I backed j-bird stern first into the slip. We then spent over an hour figuring out how to do the dock lines -- the slip is almost twice as wide as j-bird. I walked the dock to see what other boats had done and then we tugged and rearranged the dock lines 3 or 4 times to get them right. We're still not sure they are right, but by Sunday when we leave, we will know more (crossing fingers).

This home slip is the top bar of a T shaped dock so most of the other boats in the marina are behind us. There is a boat on each side of j-bird, but our view is the break water and surrounding shore. It's like being at anchor with no one around. No one is blocking our view of the Herrington Harbour. We've settled in to our new "home".

Days 10-13 Rain, rain and more cold rain

The weather gods have not been kind to us. This second week of the shakedown cruise is pretty much a sailing bust--since Monday its been wet and rainy. There were enough breaks in the rain to deflate the dinghy and put it away at the bow in its tidy bag, but beyond that it's nothing but gray skies. Lucky for us we have a well-functioning heating-air conditioning system, so we are dry and warm below decks.

Our plans were to sail to St. Michaels on the Eastern Shore today (Thursday), then head over to Herrington Habour North on Friday to get settled into our new slip. We shopped for provisions one last time, then yesterday drove the car to Herrington Harbour North (Deal, MD). We were able to set up our dock lines on the slip before the Tidewater shuttle brought us back to Bert Jabins Yacht Yard here in Annapolis so we are now carless.

Last night, John's left leg/hip area ached so much that he spent most of the night groaning. This morning he ordered and taxi and is off in search of an urgent care center to get some inkling as to what is going on with it. He's done more climbing and stretching in the past week than he's done in months. I canceled St. Michaels. Once he gets back, we're heading south to Herrington Harbour North so we'll have our car and beat out tomorrow's weather which is predicted to be rainy, wet and cold with thunderstorms.

Day 9 - Christening j-bird

After a weekend of ferocious winds that kept us at the dock, Monday brought calmer air and the service guy to correct a few "bugs" on the boat. But, most importantly, our dear friend, J, after whom we named our boat, came to officially christen j-bird to ensure the blessing of the sailing spirits. Even though we bought a "scored" bottle of champagne to make the christening easy, it took us five swats (three by J and two by me) of the bottle against the anchor channel before the bottle finally cracked, spilling champagne on her bow. It was all environmentally safe as the glass bits fell into the protective gold mesh bag surrounding the bottle.

It took some courage for J to do the christening. She gets sea sick just looking a boat. She went above and beyond the "call of duty", but, then not everyone has a boat named after them. We love her for it!

Day 7 - Our first all day cruise

My friend, Paige Ireland, a woman of some experience as foredeck crew on race boats, joined John and me for a full day of cruising. She's also a photographer who captured a some sweet moments during the day. We started out about 10am under sail, but before long had to roll'em up and motor south to get around Thomas Point, then head to our luncheon destination -- the South River. The wind god had decided to stay closed for the morning. She's cranky that way sometimes.

We found what we thought was a nice place for lunch then promptly went aground, not a 100 yards off of a duck blind. We easily got ourselves free, anchored (another first for us) and lunched on tomato and cheese sourdough sandwiches. I had planned to prepare a salmon salad, but there was no can opener aboard and had to improvise. We relaxed for a bit then decided to head home as the wind was picking up and the air was cooling.

For the rest of the day, there was a goodly amount of cooperating wind and we were able to sail all the way home into the harbor under sail. Only after we rounded the last green mark did we roll in the jib and mainsail. John and I, thanks to Paige's help feel very comfortable on the boat, working together. We'll be ready to head for our own slip on Thursday or Friday.

During this day, we had a number of firsts. They included:

• John getting on deck to adjust the clew of the jib and get a few trimming tips from Paige
• Going aground and getting off
• Anchoring
• Sailing all points of sail, including a few jibes as we played around the parked tankers
• Sailing into harbor with both sailing up

We've become a grand sailing family.

Day 6 - Dinghy Day

When you are anchored in a creek instead of resting in a slip at the dock, a dinghy is a life line that gets you to land and back; therefore, for any sail boat necessary accessories inlcude a dinghy and outboard motor.

While John worked at the computer attempting to finish a laste minute work assignment (the ump-teenth one), I spent the morning preparing the dinghy for launch--rolling it out on the dock, blowing it up with 12 volt air pump and finishing with the foot pump, applying the registration numbers, and attaching the lines. All John had to do was launch the little floater and take us for a test run. He launched the dinghy with grace and dignity.

With Fred and JoeJoe zipped into their yellow life jackets, we piled into TTJB (tender to j-bird) and Johon started the engine and took us out into Back Creek. I assumed that he knew how to use an outboard motor since he's always talking about how he worked on cars as a youth. He also dropped quips about parts and necessary liquids as if he were some kind of expert. But, it was an OMG experience when,several times, he unexpectedly down throttled and killed the engine as the wind pushed us into the grassy shore. Fred and JoeJoe started barking, I began coaching and John reached for the oars. That was when I learned he only rowed a boat once in his life.

We avoided disaster when he rowed us far enough away from shore to restart the engine without the prop getting stuck in the mud. As we put-tputted around the creek, he told me he'd never been in such a small boat, nor had he ever operated an outboard motor. I laughed and asked if I might take the helm of TTJB. He readily agreed. As I steered us around, the engine lost power. What had happened? We limped back to the dock speculating on possible causes and cures.

Once back at the dock, a passing sailor saw our deliberations and suggested we check the gas tank. I opened the gas tank. It seems that John didn't fill tank quite full enough. It was dry as a bone. We laughed, we sighed. Another learning experience, but a good one.

Day 5 - Pups and perfect sailing weather

Fred and JoeJoe arrived at the dock full of energy, smartly groomed with summer cuts, ready for their first sailing adventure. For safety, we put the boys in doggy life jackets before we left the dock a bit after 3pm for another practice sail. The sky was an azure clear blue, the temperature a mild 75 degrees and the winds a light 10-15 knots. Just enough to fill the sails, but not enough to put you on guard for a "tip you over" gust.

Fred has turned out to be the super water dog -- able to take one look at what is happening and then lie down to enjoy the ride. In the mean time his hyper active brother paced the cockpit to find the perfect spot for "nose into the wind". It was better than any car with an open back window could provide. He split his time with that and hanging his head out the stern to watch water bubble out from under the boat as we sliced through the water. All the sail went out today. John took the helm. I relaxed and all is well with the world.

On our return we gave j-bird her first wash down. It made us both proud to see her in Bristol condition at our own hands. Tomorrow we begin waxing the deck--a labor of love -- at least for this first time.

We were too tired to inflate the dinghy as planned so it goes on tomorrow's list of things to do. Fred and JoeJoe need to get used to getting in and out of the dinghy. Enjoying the "putt-putt" ride in the little craft will be a breeze for them.

It's late, almost 11pm. It's a cool and windy night. The boys are asleep on the settees in the salon while John and I diddle at our computers. Living in fresh air before the heat of the summer is heavenly. It's a lifesyle that just calms me down.

Day 4 - We keep on practicing

Morning brought sunshine and fresh breeze. I took action on several items that only a sailor could appreciate so I won't go into the details. John worked through the morning (as only the Internet and broadband can allow).

Our sail this day was focused on learning how to reef the main (aka learn how to adjust the sails so you can sail more upright in strong winds) and learning how to dock using this really great technique of driving backwards. Both were successful. John was much more comfortable. He even took the helm to motor us home into Back Creek. He's smiling!!! Both of us are happy.

We also installed our outboard engine (aka dinghy engine) holder. Next is inflating the dinghy so we can take the dog boys for a cruise tomorrow night.

Dinner was scallops in butter, shallots and lemon with a bit of Old Bay with steamed garlic and toasted walnut broccoli. Cooking simple does not mean cooking dull! It was fabulous.

Day 3 - Our first sail

The sky was cloudy, but the air was warm and the winds moderate (10-15 knots with gusts to 20). Our boat broker, Bob, walked us through all the on deck systems, then directed us away from the dock and took us out for our maiden voyage.

This picture says it all! I'm enthralled and my husband is trying with all his might to enjoy the ride. John is new to sailing and his one boating experience as a teenager was trying to swim around an anchored power boat with other kids when he couldn't swim and they could. So, we're talking about it. He's working through the panic many people feel when a sail boat heels 10-15 degrees in a burst of wind-- which j-bird did on Monday as we took a beam reach (wind across our middle) out to some tankers parked in the bay, awaiting orders to steam into Baltimore harbor.

j-bird is a swift little 33' wonder. She's stable, well equipped and easy to maneuver. We go out again tomorrow. The sun is supposed to shine!

Day1 and 2 - Systems and Stowing Stuff

We arrived at Bert Jabin's Boat Yard on the backside of Annapolis in Eastport Saturday at 10am sans dogs. They are in camp (aka kennel) until Wednesday as we thought it wise to learn the boat without them scampering and whining about. In two short hours we toured j-bird's innards -- the engine, pumps, water and fuel systems, head and holding tanks and the finish flurish -- a quick overview of electrical systems. I know more about innards of a sailboat then I ever really wanted to know. And, I really don't "know" anything. Only after reading the manuals and trying to change one of the several filters will I actually know something.

today, Sunday, Day 2, was organization day. As the saying goes, we've stowed 10 pounds of stuff in a 5 pound box. Galley (aka kitchen) is now fully stocked and organized. Our clothes are still in duffel bags, but head (aka bathroom) has all the basic health and beauty aids and fully operational. Cockpit and deck stuff is stowed in bins in the cockpit and I'm writing from the cockpit as the rain drizzles all around (it's Monday morning). Luckily we have a great Bimini and dodger (aka porch) to keep us dry.

After our second trip to West Marine (aka hardware store for boats), lunch and grocery store run, we relaxed, sipped wine at the bow (aka pointy end) looked west across Back Creek with its many boats nestled in slips lined around its edges. The setting sun made the creek sparkle on the rivulets made by a light breeze blowing across the water.

John cooked up some steam shrimp. I mixed some cocktail sauce. Our first meal on j-bird in the cockpit under a starless but pleasant sky. We turned off the dockside air conditioning, and opened the hatches to sleep in the open air. As we climbed into the V-birth (aka pointy end master cabin) we discovered we'd forgotten to buy sleeping pillows. Guess it's time for a new shopping list!

The month of anticipation

In one week, we begin our sailing life. J-bird has her name emblazoned on the stern and she's got a lovely marine blue coat of bottom paint. Her hull above the water line has been waxed to a mirror shine. She goes into the water on Monday.

We succeeded in putting a trunk full of equipment and supplies on the boat in March, only to learn from our broker in a moaning and groaning voice that the shipwrights were going to tear the interior apart to install the fans, electronics and anchor wash tubing. Now everything is scattered about, buried among tools, cushions and hoses. However, in the true shopping spirit, we've continued to acquire the essentials -- everything from sunglasses to binoculars, bedding and wax for the deck. Our small trunk is, once again, full to the brim and the dinghy and outboard motor for it are still sitting in the guest room along with charts, a Chesapeake Cruising guide, Chapman's, knot books, and cook books for boaters. My sister generously returned the ones I gave her years ago--she heats more than she cooks.

We can't get all this stuff on the boat until the outfitting is complete and she is sitting in the water. Last weekend, we managed to install our federal id numbers above the door to the aft cabin on the inside. The regulation 3" numbers MD 3922 BX are firmly displayed and painted over with polyurethane. The feds require that the numbers be attached in such a way that if they are removed, it will be obvious.

As we wait for j-bird to be readied, we attended three different courses offered by our marina -- one on safety, one on diesel engines and the last one on navigation. We are ready! We've even carried the boys up the ladder (j-bird sits on sticks right now) so they could walk around her to get acquainted the environs. Fred immediately scooted down the companion way stairs, circled the salon, plopped down on floor and sighed, glad that he was home. This is a good sign. JoeJoe found j-bird to be a curious and strange place. He sniffed and scurried everywhere, never reaxing. Luckily we've got doggy life jackets so he'll float until he calms down and gets the idea of living on the water.

Back at the condo, we are preparing to remove the vertical living room and bedroom blinds that close across sliding glass doors. They'll soon be replaced with graceful draperies that complement the soft gold walls. We're also getting estimates on a built-in bookcase for John's office. He's been working for FedEx for three years (my how time flies) and instead of retiring again, he's staying. He's been promoted and is starting to travel more. Guess he can't say no to such a good thing. I'm still working as an independent communications consultant here in DC. The good news is that I approval to to take Friday's off for the summer and fall. More time to sail. It's been a good month for both of us. Hooray!

Cherry blossoms

I escaped from work at one to join John, my New York buddy, Carol and her daughter Allison who now lives and works in DC, for lunch at a favorite restaurant, Zaytinya's. It's at Gallery Place, on 9th across the street from the National Portrait Gallery. Refreshed and replenished, we made our way downtown to the Mall where crowds milled about walking, trailing after kids, pushing babies carriages, lunching and lounging on blankets, and biking. From the sky, they probably look like a million ants scurrying about. We were the ants with the determined march to the south east and the Tidal Basin.

The weather today could not have been more perfect -- little humidity, high 70's temperature and a light, but fresh breeze. As we closed in on the basin the crowds became throngs and started closing in around us. But we pushed on, taking deep breaths as we scooted around the unending picture taking. We even joined in.

As we continued to make our way around the basin past the boat dock, Carol reminded us about how few people there were when, a few years ago, we came for our walk at 8 in the morning as the sun peaked out above the trees. We heartily agreed that our timing was not the best, although the weather was. Both Allison and I were reaching our "people pushing limit".

We'd been walking an hour when we finally settled on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial to give our legs a rest and discuss our options to avoid some of the crowds. Carol, always at the ready, pulled out her handy visitor map. Allison circled all the metro stops within striking distance and we analyzed each as if the president had ordered the most effective and efficient decision from our little team. There was certainly enough brain power, degrees and analysis experience among us for the job.

And succeed we did -- we stood, adjusted sun glasses, knapsacks and shoulder bags and set off down the granite Jeffersonian steps. We strode around to the backside of the basin to where the path divides -- one fork going to the Roosevelt Memorial at the basin's edge and rimmed with cherry trees and the other fork going to a sidewalk, with fewer cherry trees, along the Potomac. Our decision was confirmed correct as we turned left and found ourselves pleasantly almost alone. Well, at least there were fewer fellow walkers to contend with as we walked north to the Memorial Bridge that butts up again the Lincoln Memorial. We could hear each other talk so we had a find time chatting about the origins of polo which, I believe, is still played in that area occasionally.

By the time we reached the bridge, John declared a rest stop in the shadow of the great bronzed and gleaming lion that guards, with his brother, the entrance to the bridge. John wiped his sweaty brow and cleaned his sun glasses while Allison and I did a few leg stretches and Carol mused about sweets with a grin on her face. In minutes, we were walking again into the setting sun with the Custis home in view, headed toward the Metro stop in front of the Arlington Cemetery.

We're home now. Windows are wide open. Breezes continue to blow freshly as the sun sets leaving a pink sky, a sailor's delight, behind. John sleeps on the couch, recuperating from our venture around the Tidal Basin. Tom Jefferson continues to overlook the visitors taking in the blossoms in the evening air. A petal snow falls lightly now and then. The special time will be over in just a few days.

Spring came Sunday

Even though a cold wind blew through the naked trees Saturday night when I took the boys for their last walk, the air felt different. There was a bit of warmth hidden there and the sky was clearing. Sunday dawn brought 50 and 60 degree weather, the rain had cleared the sidewalks and the last of the snow piles had melted away. John's brush with pneumonia had passed and he was no longer a grumpy ol' man. Spring had definitely arrived. I celebrated by switching out my winter for spring clothes, taking inventory of the stuff to be taken of to Good will, and opening all the windows and letting the dust blow in and not caring a bit.

It's onto Cherry Blossoms. I just hope the weather stays warm so when my friend Carol comes April 2nd, we can walk the basin surrounded by thousands of tourists and soft pink and white blossoms.

Nightmare at the matinee

John and I settled into our seats in the middle of the some fifty patrons scattered about the traditional theatre seating. It was the 2:40 Saturday afternoon showing of Young Victoria. After the advertisements finished, the lights were dimmed and we watched the previews. Then lights were doused, we put our cell phones on quiet, and the main feature filled the screen before us. Just minutes into the story, late arrivals shuffled across the back of the theatre, popcorn in hand, talking over the film voices.

"Well, where are you going to sit?"
"I don't know, let's look down here."
"I don't want to sit that far forward."
"Let's look over there, then."

Who are these people? Kids mouthing off? In unison with others around us, we turned in our seats to see, to our amazement, five puffy, gray haired women in thick parkas with assorted scarves dangling around their necks.

"Be quiet!" someone said from the seats.
"Shhhhhhhhh" said others.
But one intruder refused. "We have a right to get to our seats!" she demanded. Someone ducked and went for an usher.

Gripping the arms of my seat with white knuckle strength, I seethed. I was about to jump up, raise my hands in the air, turn my back to the screen and yell straight into their faces, "Shut the (*&^% up!" But, before I could act, my anger turned to fright. Those ladies weren't even ten years older than me. Was I trapped in a time traveler nightmare? Was I in the future --surrounded by retirement home escapees? --surrounded by rude, demanding people? John saw the look on my face. He turned to me, squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, "It's OK, Honey. That won't be us."

I calmed myself as the theatre finally settled into a hushed quiet, but all the things my mother did like that -- so unaware of the impact on others -- flashed through my mind. The pointing with her cane from her wheel chair with demands to "take me over there" without a "Please" or "Thank you" bubbled up only to be quickly replaced with her the loud complaints about the food service during dinner and her callous remarks after a third double vodka. Will I become my mother? I shuttered. I whispered to John, "Just shoot me if I get like that, please?" "Guaranteed. Now watch the show," he said sweetly.

45th class reunion

The post card came in the mail two days ago. "Save the date for the NCHS 45th class reunion" it said. I immediately put the date on the calender. I will not miss it. We were the class of '65, the first big baby boomer class -- the rebellious, disco dancing, dope smoking, love making, risk taking kids, rebelling against our parents rules and expectations. For some reason, our class is special, we've reconvened every five years since '65. Something always draws me back.

At the 40th, Diana rented a convertible--we envisioned ourselves as Thelma and Louise willing to drive off the cliff. If reality we just drove through our home town -- now more than gown up, trying to remember what was there before the restaurants, the Gap, William-Sonoma and the rest of the upscale shops that had woven themselves into the fabric of the old town. The stone library and red brick YMCA building still face Washington Street , deying modernity to take them. But, the old department store and 5&10 cent store have been obliterated. The bank is now a happening now cuisine restaurant. It is could not be different, but we remember and tell stories.

At the 40th, twelve of us girls stayed at Dottie's for the weekend, sleeping in beds, bags, sofa beds and anything else Dottie could conjure up. As we sat on the deck in the morning after the initial get together at the VFW the night before, we nursed our coffees, acting as if we'd just gotten together the weekend after the graduation parties. Time had not passed despite that fact that time had passed and had taken a toll on our lives. We've been married and divorced, lost husbands to heart attacks, grandmothered, reinvented ourselves and played out our fantasies or not. We couldn't believe how the years had passed. We looked at each other as we were, not as we are. It gave us great pleasure to once again smoke cigarettes without guilt, tell wild stories, drink too much wine, and make each other double over in laughter.

Those years of wanting to be popular and never quite being on the A list have given way to a pleasant acceptance of who I am. What was important then, no longer matters. Nerdy guys have become handsome. Cool guys have lost themselves to invisibility. Average guys have become outstanding and class clowns have become powerful capitalists. We'd like to think any success was was our choice, but mostly it was a matter of luck. Who knows why one of us fell into depression and lost his future or another who saw no future became a dynamic success. Who knows why, after 40 years, I still wished Billy had kissed me when I crawled up the tree in his front yard and only at that reunion could tell him what a crush I had on him.

Everyone has a story to tell, a story that is worth listening to whether it's sad or happy in the end. It's a nice place to be. Most of us still refuse to admit to our encroaching elder status, but we gain strength from knowing each other, for what we were to each other and what we continue to be. I hope to see so many classmates on the weekend of July 30 and 31st.

Watching the Olympics

I've never been an athlete. In grammar school, I was almost always embarrassingly last picked to play dodge ball. The words said with great sighs by team captains, "Well, I guess we'll take Dorine", will ring in my ears for eternity.

In junior high it got worse. I sprouted above most of my peers in 6th grade, making me clumsy as well as not very swift. Defensively, I became the girl who, in gym class, always claimed to have cramps so I could sit on the sidelines and keep from getting sweaty. I hated the dumb blue one piece gym suits we had to wear and the even dumber "girls" rules for so many of the sports, like basketball where you could only dribble the ball for so many steps before you had to throw it. I couldn't stop breaking the rules.

In high school, sports went outside and I tried but failed again. I was too short (everyone grew taller suddenly) and still not swift, so track and field hockey were out. Tennis was a bust as well when I discovered my depth perception sucked. Balls curved around me, over me and far away from me. My racket was everywhere except where it was supposed to be. Then, in high school, one gym teacher took me aside after watching me lead my classmates in warm-up exercises. Running her right hand through her short bleached duck tail of a haircut, she stepped on the stair with her leg with its scarred knee, looked at me like a disappointed mother and said, "You just don't have what it takes to be a leader. You let the girls joke around too much." That was it. I was never going to enjoy any kind of organized athletics.

I'm not one to sit around lumping my fate, so, I turned to unorganized sports, things I could do outside of school without teachers or having to be picked by a team. I learned to ice and roller skate. I wasn't too bad either -- after many falls and bruises, I twirled and skated backwards through a crowd. There were were no rules and I was happy just messing about. In my twenties, I beat guys twice my age with bad knees at racket ball. I compensated for my lousy depth perception because the walls were close and it was a short hop to reach the ball as it came whizzing toward at me. Then, I picked up on running in my thirties, surprising enjoying pushing myself, alone, for the first time -- until I went to cross the street just a block from home and got hit by a car that was trying to beat the light. The bastard hit me and drove away, leaving me lying on the blacktop in the sun's glare on his review mirror.

So watching the winter Olympics -- is, well, nice watching handsome young men and women compete and risk serious bodily harm -- but after a while, it fades into background noise. Can you blame me?

Sunday Afternoon

The afternoon sun blasts its way through the sliding glass doors into the living room, heightened in its intensity by reflections off the snow covered roofs we can see from the balcony. The light exposes every dust bunny and piece of glass streaked with doggy nose smears. But, today the sun light can't intimidate me because, in a frenzy of energy, John and I cleaned the house Saturday afternoon. We couldn't take it anymore. We couldn't wait for the snow to melt. It was starting to look like the home of a recluse with no cleaning lady to visit regularly. There were dirty dishes stacked on the counters, toys strewn about the house and dirty clothes litering the floors. The towels and sheets were starting to take on lives of their own. All of this, very unlike us. Guess the four days locked in at home and sloshing through two feet of snow every six hours with the dogs took a toll on us.

Our cleaning work paid off. We woke to spend a lazy day at home. The dogs are sleeping on the floor (instead of the furniture for some strange reason). John just finished a bunch of expense reports and is getting ready to cook a lucious Sunday dinner -- a whole chicken roasted with root vegetables. He's trying to outdo himself after a mouthwatering, aroma room-filling herb and mushroom suffed pork roast served with lemon buttered asparagus. It's tough to admit, but we are foodies--we live to eat.

I'm watching the Olympics while I do my "social media" thing--uploading pictures from our trip to NYC last weekend, posting messages and pictures of my grandchildren on Facebook pages and making dinner dates with friends using Facebook chat. What ever happened to the telephone? I'm going to try that old fashioned device to reach my girl friend in Connecticut later today. I don't know which is worse -- that I'm adapting to the new digital world and actually liking it or that some of my friends are stuck in email or, god forbid, the telephone as their major source of communications. I even have one sister who is still on dial-up.

It takes effort for me to be this lay-back. I'm itching to get out to Annapolis and the sailboat. But I can't get excited about working out in our exercise room downstairs -- something is my body is saying, "Oh no, not when you walk up and down those many frigin' stairs going back and forth to work on the metro." I know better -- I've got sagging arms to prove it; but the exercise fairy has not touched with me her magic wand. I'm such a bad girl! Whip me!

Winter Wonderland

We left home Friday morning, February 5th, just hours ahead of the weekend blizzard. We missed it all while we indulged ourselves at the Friend's of the Groundhog (Fog) party. It's an annual bash thrown by our dear friend Ed. (His wife Carol just smiles and lets him do it). This year's party is very special -- it's the 40th year of the party.

New York City sparkled all around us from the 12th floor of a warehouse on west 31st street. Sixty of Ed's closest friends mingled drinking wine, scotch and margaritas while eating bits of Asian delicacies amongst white leather couches, glass tables, and white decor. Antique chandeliers splashed soft light on everyone--the men in their tuxedos and the women in silks. Afterwards small groups of us retreated to a very euro west side hotel in the fashionably hot meat packing district for story telling, more libations and baskets of pom frits. The morning came too soon as John and I woke to see, through our toes, crystal blue skies stretching across the horizon framing the sky scrappers on the Jersey side of the half frozen Hudson River. It was a quintessential New York kind of weekend. I wanted to stay the princess I felt like, but fantasies don't last forever.

Early Monday, after eggs benedict in "The Grill", we packed our fancy clothes, put on our sun glasses and drove home on cleared roads, refreshed and pleased that we had so successfully escaped the weather. I was ready to dive back into work, confident that the federal government would be open on Tuesday. But it was not to be. Before Tuesday was over, a second blizzard, as predicted, beat our area relentlessly. Hurricane force winds made the sky white, blinding our view from the balconies. It left us stranded, blanketed.
( John's video)

The snow is now higher than Fred and twice as high as JoeJoe. They must jump and plow themselves through the snow to take a pee. Down the street, there's a bunch of five-foot icicles hanging from the eaves of one building. They arch out toward the street, bent by the winds. Others drip onto the sidewalk laying down a layer of sheer ice, waiting for unsuspecting walkers to slip and fall. The saying "Nature is cruel" is certainly true in this case.

It's been four days now that the federal government has been closed. But there is hope for tomorrow. Men with snow blowers have cleared the sidewalks of the drifts. Men driving front loaders (every little boy's dream job) have made the street passable by pushing the snow into mountains that surround the buildings.

This weather takes me back to Chicago and those winter mornings when I threw a coat over my jammies and ran out into the snow packed parking lot to start the ol' Chevy Malibu so it could warm up while I finished getting ready for work. That's why I left the Midwest--to get away from all that.

Oh, well, this will all go away soon. I will keep focused on the spring. It's time to dress the boys in their sweet little monogrammed coats and take them out into the cold night air for that last pee of the day. Tomorrow is another day.

Naming our treasure

Naming a boat is not a simple matter. It's like naming a child. You want a name that's meaningful. I was named after my grandmothers. As the first born, it was important for my parents to honor their mothers. Luckily, I liked my name. My dad had a first name he hated, so he changed it from Colin to Andy, a take-off on his last name Andrews. But a boat name can't really be changed while you own it. It's appliqued on the transom declaring to all the world what matters to you. If it's silly, people will think you're silly. If it's dower, people will think you live surrounded by black clouds. You can't blame your parents either, because you choose the name.

A boat name must also be pronounceable and not embarrassing. When you call a boat over the radio, you say it's name three times over radio channel 16 and if someone calls you, you acknowledge the call by saying "This is [boat name]". "Sweet pea, Sweet pea, Sweet pea" sounds wimpy." "Ebenkinezer, Ebenkinezer, Ebenkinezer" has too many syllables to say both quickly and clearly. And, "Hot times, Hot times, Hot times," well, just shouldn't be said over a public radio channel. A guy who shouts, "Honey Bunch" over the radio will certainly blush.

Lastly, a boat name should not cause you to yawn. It should have a story to tell and make you smile. There must be thousands of "Rum Runners", "Just for Fun" and "Retirement" rocking in their slips. It doesn't have to be the only one around, as you always add your hailing port to it to make it one of a kind, but the name should surprise a bit and cause people to ask, "How'd you decide that name?" A name should not leave people saying, "What the hell is that all about" and walk away scratching their heads.

My first boat carried the name an Atlanta sailing club gave me. They thought I, a perky little blond, was amazingly brave to join a pack of strangers for a ten day charter sail in the Caribbean, sight unseen. I was mysterious even if it was pleasantly so. Six months later, I married one of the guys (it was a really good sail!). We christened her Mystery Woman. I still smile and remember those beginnings. And, I've never came across another Mystery Woman.

John and I chose our boat's name the day we bought her. Our choice was inspired by our dear friend who loves lower case text. It's only two syllables, easy to pronouce, and once you hear it, you'll never forget it. There's even a story that will make you smile. The sounds you hear when you say it will fill your mind with visions of soft blue skies, fresh breezes and full sails. Take a guess, but we won't reveal it until the christening in early May.

Slip #C52

Last summer during our hunt for a sail boat, we toured marinas in and surrounding Annapolis. Picking a marina is a practical decision for us. We don't have a bottomless pit of money and, because we are just getting back into sailing after many years as land lubbers, we want a place that won't be totally stress inducing every time we set sail.

We chose a marina in Deal, about 20 miles south of Annapolis. Deal is a bit less expensive than Annapolis, has a full service boat yard, and provides direct access to the bay across from St. Micheal's and the Choptank River. The grand kids will like it because of the pool. We'll like it because of it's lay back attitude and friendly service folks. It would be nice to be in Annapolis with all its city creature features, but, if you're sailing on weekends, the water traffic is akin to driving interstate 95 between DC and New York city. If you're sailing during the week, it's the ideal location.

So we woke to a steady drizzle and foggy gray skies this Sunday morning. But the rain didn't deter us from what we had to do -- procure slip for our new sail boat. The good slips go fast and since we're newbies, it takes some effort not to end up in too little water or with very little protection from the weather that whips across the bay.

A good slip is a slip that's not too wide, is deep enough so the keel doesn't drag in the mud, has a decent size finger pier so getting yourself and belongings aboard is not a major balancing act, and is easy to "slip" into and out of without banging into the neighbors.

This is pre-contract time for getting a slip. It is time to act. So with rain and wind a blowing, feeling like Goldie Locks in the house of the Three Bears, we walked the piers, list in hand, looking at available slips. One slip was too close to the shore for our liking. In a big storm enough water can be drawn away from the shore to leave a boat hard aground. Another slip was too wide. Our slim 11.6' bean could be difficult to tie up in its 18' width. Two other slips had short finger piers and we envisioned Fred and JoeJoe having panic attacks trying to get on and get off the boat. Then, we shuffled down to to slip #C52 splashing through puddles. C pier slips face out to the bay, but are protected with a bulkhead. It was just right! We will sit on deck with an unobstructed view, looking out across the creek out into the bay. We have a full length finger pier and an angled access with loads of free water behind it to make maneuvering easy. Our boat will have a lovely home starting this spring. We celebrated our find with a beer and crab cake lunch while we watched the Vikings - Dallas play off game. Today proves that a dreary day can have a silver lining.

My hero is Meryl Streep

What makes a sixties something-woman appealing? Most of my curves have migrated to places where they can best be defined as roll bars. Even if I had curves, my wrinkled skin telegraphs my age. If I had a face lift to get rid of the wrinkles, the moddled brown age spots on my hands and arms would give do the same. I can't wear a revealing swimsuit because moles dot the geography of my back, mid-drift and chest. I can't wear form shaping shirts and the best fitting pants I own are Not My Daughter's Jeans. What's a girl who reveled in her youthful perky blondness for so many years to do? Do I just accept a new image as lump in the corner of the room?

Well, ladies, there is hope. See the movie It's Complicated starring Meryl Streep. Here's a woman who took on a role where she defines what it means to be appealing in our fifties and sixties. The visible crow's feet around her eyes and mouth don't distract from the twinkle in her eye and the welcoming smile on her face. She wears well-fitting, but softly shaped clothes that subvert her heavier frame, but give her an alluring look when she walks into a room without embarrassing her grown children. She's energetic and athletic without trying.

Watching Meryl lightened my heart as I watch the youthful me slip away, never to be seen again except in the photo album. Instead of lamenting the loss, I now have the strength to look forward to the next phase, the phase where I can be attractive without trying to go back in time. I'm reassured that I don't have to turn into a woman who shrinks as I age--the woman who wears too much make-up, sits with shirt buttons popping across my swollen breasts or walks around in polyester knit stretch pants with with sagging ear lobes from wearing too heavy earrings. I know I'll look much more like my great grandmother - a small feisty woman who gloried in her white hair braided and placed around her head like a crown. She lived to 89 and always kept the twinkle in her eye.

Happiness - another perspective

As I put the final touches on last week's the blog entry, The Happiness of Daily Routine, I looked up at the TV occasionally, sneaking a view at the NPR program, This Emotional Life, which takes a scientific look at the source of happiness in humans. I learned my daily routine happiness runs contrary to what research is clearly telling us--the single, largest source to human happiness is the positive relationships we share with people. The largest contributor to sadness and depression is isolation. In other words, our network of friends and family have the ability to bring us more happiness than intelligence, fame, fortune or sex.

I slapped my forehead with my hand and sighed -- Am I wrong? Isn't the inner contentment I feel from the routine I've brought to my life happiness? Or is it something else? I sighed again, looked down at Fred who lay beside me. He raised his head and made a noise that could only have been a belch. Obviously, for a dog, the source of happiness is not a concern. He has a dog's life -- regular meals, regular walks and a warm bed to sleep in every night. Is my emotional state equal to that of a dog? I shook my head and went to bed.

As I fluffed my pillow last night and thought about a blog comment, I remembered my first day in first grade at Ellsworth school. I was seven and had just moved north from Alabama. It was recess. I didn't know anyone. I was the outsider who talked funny. But, Holly and Susie took my hands in a game of Hi Diddle Dill and I was happy. It was the beginning of the network of friends I have today. I've had my share of humorless and hurtful experiences (aka marriages) have come close to breaking my spirit--my ability to feel happy. But, when that happens I often a friend or a sister. A Joycean stream of consciousness on my part and a good listen by a her always works to calm my churning stomach, restore my confidence, and start me on the road back to happiness.

There are times when I've found myself reaching out beyond my network to find other supportive relationships. When I found myself in a marriage to an alcholic who didn't think he was one and was not about to do anything about it (It was my problem, he declared!), I went to Alonon meetings. Through a network of positive relationships I was able to sooth my broken heart, make the tough decisions, find joy in being alive. I was not alone, obsessing in isolation. My confidence returned as I discovered that I don't have to live in chaos, crisis and conflict.

My conclusion -- Happiness is not about laughing a lot. Happiness is about feeling good about yourself and others. The two go hand-in-hand for me. And, my happiness from daily routine comes my ability to get rid of the negative drama that comes into my life now and then and knowing that I have a deep network of friends and family upon which to rely.

The happiness of daily routine

Home with my boys -- Fred and JoeJoe -- while John is working in Memphis this week. Although we miss John, we're enjoying our days together as we repeat the routines of waking, walking, cooking, eating, and snuggling together.

For those of you picking yourself up off the floor in shock because you know I'm a person who never does anything the same way twice, I say "Even old' girls can learn new tricks." When John is home helping with the boys and cooking and serving up interesting conversation, I still enjoy my daily hike up the hill to the Metro, the crowded commute to work, and the computer work in my cubical. It's something I can count on. I'm not bored a bit -- well, not hardly .

This week's been icy cold and windy morning through night. It's the kind of cold that reminds me why I left the mid-west in 1972. I had to put my Santa Fe "Chinese" bells on the balcony floor. The gonging was keeping me awake at night. With this climate change extreme, my first reaction was to stay inside until the boys jumped up and down with crossed legs thrusting me into action. But that's not what's happening. Each morning I rise early, slip the boys slip into their matching light blue cable-knit sweaters, bundle myself up in a white snow-bunny parka, multi-colored stripped mittens, red scarf and mohair hat and then, together, we head off into the dawn as it creeps over the horizon. We are energetic fashion statements as we bound out the door.

The wind whips Fred's and JoeJoe's ears back as we march up the hill to their favorite potty spots. It's amazing how much they like taking the same route every morning. If I try a different route, Fred gives me the evil eye, saying, "Mom, that's not the way we usually go. What's the problem?" I relent and let him lead. Little blond JoeJoe follows, dancing along, oblivious to what is going on as he scarfs up acorns along the way.

When I go off to work after feeding them and eating my own bowl of cereal and blueberries, I turn on the music and wish them a good day. They wink at me from their perches on the sofa, perfectly content to have me out of their hair for a while. When I walk down the hill after work, they greet me at the door with jumps and kisses as I read the note from the mid-day doggie walker. The note reassures me that the boys had a wonderful walk and were wonderfully fun to be with. It makes me giggle. We dress up again, just like in the morning, and off we go marching up the hill. However, now I get my way -- a longer walk that takes us around the around the area. The last walk at 10 pm is short and fast, and then we all jump into bed. I pick up a cross word puzzle, put glasses on the end of my nose, and begin to fill in the spaces as I listen to Native American music softly playing. Before I'm half way through, they're snoring and I'm guaranteed to join them in just a wink of the eye.

This daily routine makes me content and inner contentment is happiness. It's all I've ever really wanted. The boys have always known how important it is. Don't faint, but I'm learning!

Will eyebrows make a difference?

One way to age is to fight it with a frontal attack on the body--Botox, skin abrasion, and "procedures" that start with cutting the skin away from your face bones or sucking the fat from under your skin with what resembles a vacuum cleaner. I admit that I enlisted for the battle and got my PFC stripe, but I'm coming to the conclusion that it is a war that will not be won and that I should seek an honorable discharge before I get seriously wounded.

Why? It's too much effort for too little return. It's expensive and short-lived and, in many cases, painful. I've had Thermage (radio signals shot into your face stinging what collagen's left into rigid attention), Botox (needles in the forehead and eyes wrinkles to relax the muscles), and Juvederm (bigger needles that push fake collegen into cheek lines and leave big puffy bruises for a week). Some of the stuff is made from horse urine or something else disgusting. The treatments lifted my wrinkles and sags for a bit, but in the end, the only solution is the big bad invasive face lift surgery now that gravity is winning out over skin elasticity.

Instead of war, I've decided to work with what I've got--to paint instead of construct (or reconstruct as the case may be). Like highlighting my hair to easily keep the gray at bay, I am highlighting my facial features. It's all done with a tried and true technique used by sailors and studs for centuries -- tattoos. Only instead of tattooing pictures in empty spaces, I am filling in the spaces that make-up once filled using tattoos.

Why even bother with make-up anymore or permanent make-up (that's what they call these tattoos)? I've been with my husband for 17 happy years? I achieved what I set out to achieve in business and life. And, we've got a plan for retirement that should engage us for some years. One simple reason -- make-up gives me definition and helps me project my personality. Without make-up I am invisible. My face disappears. I am a person who, without makeup, is a person without features. With a make-up free face, friends and strangers often say things to me like, "Are you OK? Have you been sick? You look a bit tired." All my life, I've been a person who "lights up a room". I want to keep it that way, even with wrinkles!

The first step is eye brows. The procedure hurts less than getting an upper lip waxing (yes, mine is blond, but it's still a post menopausal mustache) and takes less than a week to heel). Today, I lost the last of the little scabs and, instead of scars, I have perfectly arched light brown eyebrows that won't disappear when I wash my face or sweat a wee bit.

I love them! Never in my life have I had eyebrows that look like eyebrows instead of misaligned pencil marks over my eyes. How have they changed my face? To quote a friend who saw them, "My but you look happy. What a great hair cut." You can draw your own conclusions, but I think it's the eyebrows that make my hair look so right.

I'm going for the eyeliner next. Imagine sailing this summer and not having to worry about big brown smears around my eyes at the end of the day.

Conclusion -- eyebrows do make a difference. Tattoo make-up doesn't get rid of wrinkles, but helps me look as good as I feel, is not expensive, doesn't torture, and last for years.

This is the year my father dies

One late spring day in 1979, Dad slumped across his desk, crossing his arms in front of him to hold his head. He was waiting for my mother to come home from grocery shopping. "I don't feel good. Better take me to the hospital." He'd had a heart attack and would recover; but to be safe he agreed to stay in the small town hospital for observation and recuperation as the docs called it for a few days. By the end of the first week he was getting "cabin fever" as he called it and wanted to "get back to work". He started walking the halls, ate the tasteless meals put in front of him with gusto, and irritated the nurses and my mother. But, as he sat on toilet ready to prove to everyone he was ready to go home, reading the Wall Street Journal and wishing he had his smokes, he suffered a fatal blast. After 16 unconscious hours, his heart stopped and caught up with his dead brain. His aorta had become a sold out condo community for cholesterol. He was 63. I am 63. Need I say more about how I feel about my mortality?

Dad didn't drink (not because he didn't want to, but because he got horrific headaches). He wasn't overweight (he's the only person I ever knew who could loose weight just thinking). He hated fatty meat and ate all protein, from chicken and eggs to beef, shoe-leather dry. I drink (and get those headaches sometimes), have a BMI over 25, and lust after fatty almost raw red meat.

But Dad was also a control freak and work alcoholic (why else would he be at his desk on a fresh sunny Saturday afternoon and never let my mom contribute to the family income?). He smoked from sun-up to sundown (I remember waking to the click of his engraved silver WWII anniversary lighter as he grabbed a cigarette from the top of the dresser as he walked from his bed to the bathroom). He hated exercise. A favorite line was, "My idea of exercise is walking to the couch for a nap".

Can I overcome this behavioral and genetic heritage? Will I succumb to the same fate? I've got a few things in my favor. I stopped smoking in 1986 (thanks to a previous husband who didn't smoke -- one of his few attractive traits. The other one was sailing.) I've been fanatically exercising at least every other year and just bought a boat to return to sailing--a great source of exercise. I sold my last business to get off the rat race and even tried retiring several times since in the past ten years. My blood pressure is that of a teenager--no blood pressure drugs for this old girl! I've only got 5-10 pounds to loose depending upon how you define "slim" at my age. And, I swallow a Lipitor daily to keep my arteries from clogging up.

But, will that be enough? I keep wishing to get back into my athletic mode (I'm not sure hiking a hill to the metro five days a week counts as exercise). I cut the fat off my meat (except, of course, for grilled lamb chops which just aren't the same without that crispy rim around the edge). I've got a great job that has absolutely no responsibility associated with it, yet gives me a creative outlet.

I've got until November 19, 2010 to beat the odds and live to 64.