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.