Furloughed!

We escaped Italy one day before the Italian government went into its annual crisis when Berlusconi's mad men withdrew from the Parliamentary coalition government.  We landed at Dulles airport only three days away from our own government crisis.  So, this morning, I found myself along with 58 of my staff saying goodbye to a skeletal crew of 11 who are charged with keeping the electrons flowing and the core systems operating.

I am now officially unemployed by Congressional decree. It's no longer an abstract issue for me.  It became personal today.  A surprisingly sad and eerie feeling overcame me as I walked to the elevator, watching myself leave as if I was having an out of body experience.  I have no idea when I might return.   I have a job, but then I don't.  Financially, I'm fine, but I do worry about the many staff who are single, or more seriously parents with no other sources of income to assist in keeping it together during the shutdown. 

I fear we are in for a long shutdown.  Neither Obama nor Boehner seem open to compromise, appearing to intensely dislike each other as evidenced by their adamant public pronouncements that make private discussions next to impossible.  When Newt and  Bill went head to head in 1995-1996, the government was out for three weeks -- and they talked with each other daily -- and were careful not to say anything publicly that might harm private discussions.  At our last senior staff meeting this morning, many including myself were not hopeful that an agreement would be reached  quickly and predicted that we will remain shut out until the debt ceiling is exceeded on October 17, pushing the economy back into a recession.

We are hostages in a game not of our own making.  We are the pawns in a grand chess match where  little adult leadership is evident.  Ours lives have been abstracted to the point that the impact of it all on our lives is neither visible nor felt to the game players.  It would have been better if the shutdown had included stopping congressional salaries, the mail and the distribution of social security checks.  Then, at least, the rest of the country would feel what I feel and there would be a realistic incentive to reach a workable compromise.

Where do I stand on the situation? The Affordable Health Care Act should be implemented.  It was passed by Congress and upheld by the Supreme Court. Every adult American should be required to carry health insurance, just like we are required to have auto insurance or homeowners insurance.  Is it a perfect solution?  No--but we need to give the law a chance to become reality and then modify it where the evidence says changes are needed.  Right now it's all about hurly opinions and conjecture into the air. 

The last shutdown cost the US economy $2 billion.  Enough said.  From Washington DC -- the land of much silliness.

Impressions: Bergamo

We've gone native. Instead of a sequestered hotel with maid service and concierge support, we've rented an apartment in the lower city (bassa citia) of Bergamo.  Faced with the reality  of no breakfast as part of the deal, we found the grocery store (billa) and picked our way among the familar yet unfamiliar aisles of products.  Try to find skim milk in Italian.  Luckily the tomatoes and eggs look like tomatoes and eggs.  However, they do not refrigerate eggs.

A big advantage of an apartment (Italians have not yet discovered the affordable Embassy Suites) is that you have lots of room to spread out.  We've strewn clothes and stuff all over the place without having to fill up the bed.  And, we eat breakfast in, brew coffee and tea, keep in touch via wifi,  and generally make ourselves at home.  The down side is that the studio is a renovated attic, four floors up from the street with only a tiny lift covering two of the floors.  The decor is ikea, young guy black and white modern sprinkled with an old wood chest, antique wash stand and hand carved doors to the bath.  It's clean, but like any young man's place, it is missing finishes and good reading light.  The TV is completely Italian.  The parking two blocks away in a centro underground parking lot.  We are making do and proving that living "Italian" is not as romatic as imagined.

Bergamo is a mid-size city, kind of like Baltimore without an inner harbour.  The upper city is accessed via funicolare or many steep cobblestone stairs.  There the buildings date back into the 10th -13th century. New buildings are 17-18th century.  We did our fill of tourists and catherdrals -- all quite maginificant -- a testament to the Catholic Church's role in keeping the economy alive for so many centuries.  There isn't a piece of sandstone or marble that is not carved or polished in some manner.

Food is bi-polar -- Italian pastas with Swiss meats and sauces.  Didn't know if I should yodel and just say "Grazie" at the end of the meal.  As long as you wash it down with the inexpensive but surprisingly good local white wine, all is well.

Impressions: Como

Saturday. Sunny day. We drive to Como, one of the most dense resort towns in Italy tucked into the crevices of mountains swooping down into the lake.  Insane. What were we thinking?  A leisurely lunch on the lake?  Impossible.

It was easy to escape.  Just follow the signs to Bergamo-Lecco SS342.  Almost two hours later and too many round abouts across the foothills, we arrive Bergamo, tired and hungry.

Impressions: Lake Orta San Giulio

If there is a heaven, then San Giulio could be what it is like.  The lake is nestled in the Italian mountains north west of Milan about one hour if you can follow directions.  We took a left when we should have taken a right on the A8 so we had to back track on local roads after stopping to ask directions.  An adventure as always as John drives the manual shift car and I navigate.

Our hotel is at the bottom of the San Giulio town square.  It overlooks the lake and the historic island on which nuns are cloistered in the Basilica.  We must park the car up in a lot outside the square.  Cars are not allowed except for residents and "drop off" like ourselves.  The streets are cobblestone  lined with the building walls that are full of scrapes.  I know it is like heaven for the following reasons:

• Four languages are spoken - Italian, English, French and German - without disdain by the locals.
• Out of our hotel room between our toes, we see mountains, the clear blue Orta lake and the Basilica isle overwhelmed with ancient structures that are now modern homes.  It is all reminiscent of Venice where the houses and water meet.
• In the center of the San Giulio peninsula is a mountain atop which, after a one hour completely 15 degree uphill walk is a world heritage site of 20 chapels built between 1597 and 1660.  Each has a piece of St. Francis' life depicted in statuary and  trompe l'oeil painted walls.  If I were Catholic I would have been on pilgrimage.
• The morning is crisp--easy for walking.  The afternoon - sunny and breezy ready for a cruiser ride across the lake to the isle.  The evening is cool again, ready for sitting out with a sweater to gaze at the mountains as the sun sets in the west and play rummy 500 while we drink our newest find -- blueberry grappa.
• The food makes you forget American cuisine -- we just finished lunch -- light tagliatelli with fresh slices of black truffles and a veal chop flattened "elephant ear style" so tender than it melted in my mouth.  This was preceded  a sea bass capriccio served with fresh peaches set in a bit on ever so fine olive oil.
• The local white wine is crisp, creamy yet dry if a bit tart.  It is also less than 15 euros a bottle in the restaurants.
• The streets are narrow, ancient, built into the mountain and speckled with shops and restaurants tucked into the stone and brick buildings.
• You can walk the perimeter of the peninsula after dinner on a stone walk that wraps the land.  If you stay out too lake, lamp post lights brightened the path so you do not mistakenly fall into the lake.

Yes, this could be what heaven is like, except we do have to pay for our Internet connection and sit in the hotel lobby to access it.  Maybe this is a good thing.  Ciao!

Impressions: Milan

The first thing you have to get over in Milan is the graffiti.  It is everywhere on walls from the outer suburbs to the downtown, except the Duomo, the great cathedral at the center of the city.  The graffiti is multi-colored Italian. -- tags, sentences (must the university crowd), words urging action or just univeral foul language.

Milan is an old city but a beige city.  Not colorfully grand like Rome, Florence or Venice.  It's caught somewhere between boring chic and financial gritty.   Our hotel is chic modern planted in an industrial district that is rising out of the dust of car repair shops and small manufacturing businesses.  It's an urban frontier full of new office and residential construction.  The 30 minute tram ride to city center brushed us up against the everyday Milano, a reserved but helpful sort.  At our Santa Rosa stop, a retiree smiled and made sure we didn't get on the #9 train.  He just knew we needed the #12 train -- and we did.  We must look and smell like Americans :-)

Fashion is Milan's calling card. I know you've probably read about that, but seeing Milanos walk and bike through the narrow cobble streets makes it real.  Whether you're a student of the Academy in low cost duds or a woman of a certain age who shops at stores where blouses start way above what I paid for my last suit, Milanos know how to dress.  And, they are slender.  Even if you discount the numerous really, really thin models  strolling about in the markets, 90% of Milanos are slender.  But slender doesn't capture the aura you fell as someone walks by. A better word is streamlined that come s from the cut of the clothes, the fabric and the way it fits each body.  Our waitress at the small outdoor trattoria where we ate fresh pasta  had the aura and all she wore was a white and black uniform.  The men are stunning.  Even the plain faced, bald ones.  Everyone is clean shaven.  America does not have men who look so fine and so stunning without even trying.  All this is what we are not and makes me suck in my gut and hope for the best.

There are sights to see.  The Duomo cathedral is magnificent.  On the outside gargoyles stretch ominously over the sides, perched everywhere protecting the edifice.  We've seen many grand churches on our travels, but this one takes the cake, or should I say is the cake! It reminds me of the drip sand castles I used to build at the Jersey shore with my daughter.

La Scala is worth the walk up the street. The opera is not playing this week so we settled for a tour of the house and the museum.  Close your eyes and imagine a giant horse shoe of red velvet orchestra seats surrounded with five tiers of box seats and then two more tiers of standroom only.  The gold paint around the hall was subtle but visible.  In the center was the president's box heavily draped and low lighted with a height of three tiers.  Manifico!

Back to the future

Jeremy's been a freshman for a week now.  We're looking forward to his arrival for Sunday brunch in just about 90 minutes.  Last weekend his parents, brother and I  moved him into his dorm room at George Washington University.  Made me remember when my folks took me Lawrence in Appleton WI, a small town outpost and home city of the infamous Joe McCarthy. Jeremy didn't want that kind of isolation.  He wanted a city school with lots of kids from all over the world.  Smart kid!

The furniture was as I  remembered my first dorm room, only older and greatly more used - basic ash wood single bed, desk and chest, no drawer pulls. I shared a room with one other young woman.  He's sharing with four other guys.  It should be interesting to see if any of them sleep well. It's a diverse group - one Asian with high style clothes, one Pakistani with the manners of a well trained prince, one apparently normal guy from Cleveland, and one skinny dude from Syracuse NY who brought the TV (yes, they have cable TV as well as Wi-Fi in the dorm.  Rounding out the gang is Jeremy, the quiet one from New Jersey.  They are all starting out as business majors, so I'm not sure just if they're really diverse.

The dorm building is old, but that's what he wanted.  He's on the 8th floor (we climbed the stairs three times because the lines for the tiny elevators was so long).  The parquet floors must have ten coats of varnish on them.  The walls are institutional beige, some smooth and some the remnants of original plaster walls.  There's a white fridge, insufficient ceiling lights, one bathroom with a door that doesn't shut real well, one huge and one small closet, but no cooking facilities. If you lay on Jeremy's bed and look out the niche window to the left there's a long view of the Potomac river south toward the airport. Makes you feel you are in the heart of something special!

He's happy.  It's a big step.  We're feeling old.   It was 1966 when I was a freshman, still a virgin and hankering to let loose. I shake my head in amazement that I survived it all.  I hope Jeremy not only survives, but thrives.  He's a good kid who is not afraid to make tough decisions.

Stopping the summer leak

August.  The summer is seeping out of the year like an pipeline leak - not enough to be alarmed, but enough to realize that  something is amiss.  With Forte Vento on "the ground" until the end of September, John and I are slipping from weekend to weekend letting the summer seep by.  There is no excitement and there will be no memories of it unless we get off our butts and take action.  So we did. 

We flew to Boston, stayed with our friends Bev and Rick and played tourist for four days.  We took the 31 bus and Green line "T" in the rain to  the Museum of Fine Arts (their American wing was very much a "must do");  walked in perfect sun and breeze around the North End and toured the US Constitution at Charlestown Harbor; were chauffeured by Bev and Rick to Salem where we toured the House of Seven Gables that Hawthorne made famous and  took a brisk late afternoon sail with 35 people on a replica of the privateer schooner Fame; and on Monday walked the Harvard Yard and ate lobster for the fourth time.

Our hosts had planned an informal small gathering with several neighbors in their building at 6PM the day we toured Salem.  However, because our sail would not return to dock until after 5:30, Bev called Larry to say we would delay the gathering until 7ish.  Larry was out.  She left a message.  He called back later to say that he had been playing tennis.  Nothing unusual, you might ask? Well, Larry is 88.  When we did finally arrive at his apartment (he decided he should host, not Bev and Rick), we spent several hours in rich conversation about politics and life. There is hope for our old age. 

It was a good trip.  Everyone should have such warm and welcoming friends.  Thank you Bev and Rick. The visit plugged the seeping summer.

I can't believe I spent the whole day...

We woke Saturday morning to low gray humid skies. There was no energy in the air, nor in me.  I dragged myself out of bed about 9AM.  John was up sitting in his favorite chair reading the NYT, coffee by his side.  He was wearing his Angry BIrds jammis bottoms with his ratty old sweathird zipped up to his neck.  His reading glasses were perched half way down his nose.  He was perfectly content.  He smiled as I slid onto the couch.  I pulled the waist band tie on my bathrobe and smiled back.  Obviously, I hadn't put my best face into it.

"You ok?  You look tired," he observed as he folded the large newsprint page in front of him.
"Don't feel like doing anything but laying around."
"It's a good day to do nothing."
"Nothing?  Do nothing?"
"Why not.  Sometimes you just need a bit of down time."
"I've never not done anything for a whole day."
"Maybe you should."

And so I did.  I fussed with a few papers.  Mailed some theatre tickets to friends.  Played with my Ipad.  Read the Times.  Read four articles in the latest New Yorker.  Read another chapter in the never ending "Team of Rivals" using my Kindle app.

For me, that's about as "doing nothing" as I can get.  It felt good.

One night with Janis Joplin

Remember what is was like in the 70's?  This play brought back those feelings that anything was possible; that life should be endless and could be lived without fear -- weekends of late night parties, loud throbbing music, mind numbing marijuana and overflowing liquor that culminated, if I was lucky and the guy could still function, in an fantastic sexual encounter.  I was sure that I could escape the lives of my unhappy and bored parents.  I was sure I could save myself from the future.  I was going to be different -- passionate, artistic, stunning, experimental!

Faced with the reality of the future - that nothing could be better than what Janis had on stage with her music.  No one could control her and she could feel so deeply.  However, no relationship or anything else could fill the emptiness she felt after the music was over. Janis Joplin killed herself with drugs and alcohol at age 37. 

Faced with the reality of the future, I feared the emptiness too so I married only to discover that I hated being entrapped  and having no options more than I feared the emptiness.  Above all else, I wanted control over my life -- what I did, who I was and who I would become - good or bad.  That meant I could never be the subservient wife or obedient employee. Striving overpowered the emptiness.  After seeing the play I realized that I had been determined to find what Janis found on stage in front of an audience -- the oneness and the ecstasy of completeness.

Flash forward 35 years.  It is the future.  I not only survived, I did well.  I didn't become my parents.  My life has never been boring.  I'm neither trapped nor empty.  I am content with myself, finally.  My work is my work -- creative yet sometimes boring; challenging yet sometimes so easy that I almost stop thinking; satisfying yet sometimes so exhausting that there is nothing left at the end of the day.  I've had a happy relationship for over 20 years.  However, never has the work or my partner brought me the oneness and completeness that Janis' music and audiences brought her. However, there are times when the breezes, sun, and water's soothing surface combine into a perfect harmony as I slice a path through the water. I find oneness and the ecstasy of completeness when I sail.

Relief

Try dragging yourself through the heat and clawing your way through the humidity for ten days.  It's a humbling experience - living without air conditioning.  DC is the south and July has been wet, hot, and heavy.  Ceiling fans and 15 minute spurts of cool every now and then from the wounded air conditioner kept us from fleeing to a hotel.  Last weekend, we went to two movies just to keep cool.  We were lucky -- they made us laugh.

There were parts ordered, installed and it still cut out after 30 minutes.  In the end, after $1,700 in repairs, frantic, angry discussions with the repair company owner and a 7 AM emergency return visit, I left for work with John watching over the repairman as he combed the equipment manual and starred into the abyss of the compressor.  

The good news is that he did find the culprit that morning.  It was a clogged drain hose. The water created by the compressor was backing-up to a "kill" switch that prevented the compressor from being flooded (or something like that).   I guess we really didn't need a new mother board and controller switch and whatever.  Sigh.

Now we can concentrate on the other problems that have plagued us this summer -- the multiple water leaks in the Memphis townhouse, the boat repairs and, our newest problem-- the tire we have to replace after I ran it up on a curve in a dark parking lot last week.  I feel like Linus carrying around a storm cloud over my head.  Sigh.

There is more good news.  Water leak repairs inside and outside of the townhouse are underway. However, another leak in main that brings water into the house was found in the process.  And the needed roof/eave work and bay window replacement still needs to be done.  I guess it's just our time.  We've gotten away with very few issues in the five years since we first rented the place.  Next year -- we sell!  The Memphis housing market lags at the bottom of the recovery chain, but we are told it is finally climbing out of the pits of foreclosures.  Sigh.

The boat front brings news of progress as well.  The mast and rigging have been ordered, hopefully, to arrive in August.  The fiberglass work begins this week.  Maybe by September we can sail.  Just a month before the end of the season.  Sigh.

 

Love your insurance agent

We can't seem to escape disaster this year.  First it was our sail boat rolling off its land stands in a big wind (update: parts are being ordered) and now its our rental property in Memphis -- that townhome we couldn't sell in the housing bubble burst back in 2009.  The house sprung a major water main leak of many gallons per hour somewhere between the street and under the house's slab foundation.  It's going to take a sonar search by a plumber on Monday to locate the leak and then fix it.  Can you envision digging a hole in the dining room through the slab to fix a leak?  Can you envision the dust, dirt, chaos and noise?

However, that's not all.  The third floor bathroom toilet intake valve was found leaking for the last 24 hours.  We now have damage all the way down through the walls to the master bedroom closet and down to the first floor dining room ceiling.  It's amazing how much pressure paint can take before it finally gives way.  It's stronger than drywall -- amazing!  The place is a mess. 

The insurance company authorized clean-up services last night (it's true - it was midnight, but they were on the phone with us).  Service master is on location this morning and we'll see what the repairs will cost in the next week.  I am a very strong believer in insurance.  Love your insurance agent.

By the way, did I mention that our air conditioning in the condo is out as well?  I'm writing in 80 degree air. The fans do help a bit, but really -- is this all really necessary.  All we ever wanted to do this summer was spend some time sailing.

Balcony Harvest

You would think that a balcony garden would be a scraggly little thing, but think again.  The May rain combined with June's great sunny days to produce a plethora of herbs and we're well on our way to several dozen tomatoes.  I give all the credit to John whose become quite the condo gardener.  It must be his Italian genes.  We have sage, thyme, rosemary basil and oregano.

The basil grew so fast that we had our first harvest last night.  We transformed the fresh herbs (we bought the parsley) into a garlic and roasted pine nut basil pesto-- about two pints of it.  The freezer is full and we are ready for winter.

Jersey Shore Coming Back -- one boardwalk at a time

Prior to the oldest grandson's graduation, we took a long weekend to visit the Jersey Shore.  It was a perfect -  two days on the beach, roasting gently to a golden brown and enjoying our family in their newly restored beach place in Seaside Park, NJ.  They were lucky.  They had the money to  repair and refurnish their cottage.  We kept the windows open to enjoy the evening breezes and even had to pull out a blanket or two.   

As we drove and walked around however, there is still much work to be done.  We saw huge ocean view homes and small cottages that had been ripped from their foundations and plopped down beside them.  "See all the empty spaces?" my daughter explained, "That's where they've cleared all the others away."  On the ocean side the peninsula, the houses were not flooded, but many were drowned in sand.  On the bay side, they were flooded, taking the fronts right off them.  In both cases, some houses survived and some were demolished.  "It's as if we had a whole bunch of small tornados cherry picking where to create disaster," said Kathryn as we finished up our disaster tour with the setting of the sun. 

The boardwalk is being rebuilt.  Down where we were the stores were open on refurbished boardwalk planks, but the rides will never return and restoration of the area to provide more beach instead of rides is taking shape.  There's only on grand carousel left. So much for Fun Town.  Even the pizza seemed a little sad this year.

Grandsons' Graduations

Coming to grips with wrinkling skin, bad memory and lumpy body is nothing compared to your grandsons graduating from high school (Jeremy) and middle school (Ian) all in the same week.  It was a proud but shocking moment last weekend when Jeremy marched across the platform to get his high school diploma.  If  you listen closely you can hear the announcement say his name.

 

The moment was even more prideful, because his mom, my one and only daughter, was able to present him with his diploma.  She had been on the board of education for many years and earned the privilege.  Ian, on the other hand, was just happy to get of middle school finally.  He's aching to grow up as I am sure he will. 

The shocking part is that I always think I'm about 42 years old.  Many colleagues at work are that age and we have much in  common (except maybe I have a bigger and more  retirement accounts).  At graduation, I looked  at my daughter who is 42 this year and I am quickly brought back to reality.  Everyone tells me "Old age is just a state of mind."  However, it's hard to escape when you can see it happening right before your eyes (and in your eyes for that matter). 

The Culture of Youth doesn't cut us any slack either.  Just this morning there was this New York Times article, "Republicans Paint Clinton as Old News for 2016 Campaign". My God!  She'll be 69 in 2016.  Such a scandal. My hope is that she runs and wins (Reagan was 69 when he won his first term).  I will ignore the hype and keep moving forward.  Forward to what is always the question!  Just ask Hillary.

New York City Adventure

It started out as a simple trip to NYC for the annual Friends of the Ground (FOG) party.  Normally held the first weekend in February, the party had been postponed until June 15 due to the death of one of Ed's very close friends, an original friend of the ground hog, I believe.  It was a great party for the 42nd or is it the 43rd time?  We're newbies to FOG.  We've only been attending for about twelve years.

Instead of just popping in for the party, we expanded our stay into a mini vacation.  The goal was to do things we had not done in some time or had never done before.  The adventure went something like this:

• Friday:  Arrived by train about 1PM.  Once settled in a hotel in the financial district next to South Street Seaport (we got on a great Priceline deal) and delighted in pizza and wine for
  
  lunch,  we walked over to the Staten Island Ferry for an after noon round trip ride.  Then it was off to Broadway for The Assembled Parties.
• Saturday: A morning walk of the High Line Park on the west side, then cross town and downtown to Little Italy and a first time visit to the Italian American Museum.  We took a break for a late lunch in Soho.  The pasta stuffed with lobster melted in our mouths.  It was memorable.  We met Diana and Bobby for drinks at 6:30 a their hotel in Gramercy Park, then walked over to Agave, a notable Mexican restaurant, in the Village for the FOG party.  We closed the place down.  Got Dan and Ed back to Ed's apartment before taxing back to our hotel.
• Sunday: Met the FOG survivors for brunch at noon back at Agave.  Took the subway from the Village to the Brooklyn Museum of Art to see fabulous exhibits -- the water colors of John Singer Sargent and the sculpture of El Anatsui, an African Ghanaian artist who works in
  
  Nigeria.  The man transforms metal trash such as tin can bottoms and bottle labels and tops into flowing and movable art.  We ended the day with dinner in Chelsea and a 2.5 mile evening walk back to our hotel.
• Monday: Began the day with a full course American breakfast.  John ate a mountain of Nova, cream cheese and whole wheat toast while I attempted consume bacon, two eggs over easy, a side of fried potatoes, and whole wheat toast.  At least the toast was healthy.  Then we hopped on the Lexington Ave subway to 103rd street and walked over three blocks to the Museum of the City of New York, one of the few open on Mondays.  Great exhibits.  Two hours later we found ourselves walking through the conservatory area of Central Park and down through the reservoir to 72nd street when the rain began to sprinkle down on us.  By the time we reached the 68th street station on Park Avenue, only the umbrella kept us from a good soak.  Once back by the hotel, the rain stopped and we found Fraunces Tavern in the Seaport area for a late afternoon cocktails with fresh oysters on the half shell and wild mushroom toast.  We did a quick change then took the 2/3 line to Soho for Ed's birthday dinner with Ed, Carol and Dan.  Another favorite Mexican restaurant, Dom Caminos.  Yes, it's Ed eating theme and it's the only time I eat Mexican -- because only  Ed picks the good ones.  No Tex Mex for that boy!
• Tuesday:  We woke to find ourselves exhausted, our feet achy from all the urban hiking and ready to come home.  So we passed on the trip to the Cloisters, packed up our belongings and taxied to Penn Station.  There, we changed our tickets for a mid day instead of late day departure, grabbed one last slice and hopped the train home. 

It was all very good time and the laundry got done by bedtime.  This morning, two days later, we leave for the Jersey Shore and our first grandson's high school graduation.  We need to retire.  Work is getting in the way!

 

Repairs can soon begin!

Joy to the world! We deposited a check for over $60,000 for repairs to Forte Vento.  Finally, repairs can begin.  John is organizing and becoming a project manager once again.  With luck, we'll get to sail in September.

Facing reality

I took several interviews with a private "executive" consulting company recently. This was the third opportunity in the last six months.  It too resulted in a "thank-you, but no thank-you." The first was a local non-profit where I was the "last man standing" but was dropped at the last minute when a new board member, an ex-face book executive, said I didn't have sufficient "social media" experience.  I can just imagine her saying to her new colleagues, "You don't need no friggin' CIO. All you need is a Social Media Maven."   In the second opportunity, I was one of the 15 presented to the head hunter's client, but was not selected for an interview.  I had no idea why that happened until this last opportunity revealed the answer.  "You have such a deep experience, but it's not exactly what we need right now" means "You are too old for us".  I have reached the magic point in my life when I'm older than everyone else.    That's me and all the other baby boomers, so, at least, I'm not alone.

Am I angry - yes!  Am I down about it - yes!  Do I have to come to grips with my situation - yes!  I working on it.   I've decided to  commit to my current gig at the Peace Corps for the next 27 months. It doesn't hold the excitement of the "turn around" situation I faced in the first two years; however, I'll make plain ol' everyday management work for me.  I'm still the "determined little dumpling" my friend Holly called me way back in 1972 when I left the Midwest for big city lights!  It's a mental thing-- I am turning my head around, setting the path and moving cleanly toward a retirement of sailing adventures with a smile on my face.  When we finish off the boat payments and get it all fitted out for living aboard, we'll be two of the 8,000 boomers who retire everyday.

The Dancers

My sister and her husband Harold enjoy the good life in their retirement.  They are not rich so they don't go off on exotic trips much nor indulge in expensive material objects.  They live simply, but they certainly aren't bored because -- they dance.  And dance.  And dance.  It's a passion.  They cruise to dance, drive to resorts to dance and just plain dance two to three nights a week right in the neighborhood.  Are they good?  It's like asking am I a good sailor.  The obvious answer is not really, but I do it well enough to stay afloat, am always learning maneuvers and techniques, and enjoy the time sailing together with John.  It's a passion so it doesn't matter.   I like passion, so let's here a round of applause for passion and the happiness it can bring into our lives.

Scarface

You would think, that at my age, I would learn to walk and chew gum at the same time.  Obviously, that is not the case as you can see from the accompanying picture.  When wearing running shoes and walking on living room wood floors, you should not attempt to walk in two directions at once.  If you do, as I did, your left foot will trip over your right foot that refuses to move when your body moves.   Result -- slam bam!

There was a goodly amount of blood, but no concussion as declared by John when he jumped into EMT mode. He flashed a small flashlight in my eyes. Eye dilation was good.

 The bruises blossomed this morning -- that is not make up around my eye.  I feel like a horse with a blinder on the right.  I went to work this morning, only to feel really, really tired and achy by 11 so I came home at noon.  I cancelled my personal trainer for this evening,  then fell into bed and slept like the dead for the afternoon.  It appears that my right shoulder is non too happy about being banged on the floor either.

Tomorrow is another day.  I will heal.  The scar will blend in with the wrinkles.  Ah, the advantage of old age.

Forte Vento Update

It's a month later. We received pictures of "the fall" this week from folks who were in the yard that morning. A boat out of water is not a graceful object to behold.  The term "beached whale" comes to mind.

We are hoping that this week all the estimates will be finalized.  Once the insurance company cuts a check the repairs can begin.  Memorial Day weekend is normally our first big sail of the season.  Obviously, this year we are in mourning, trying to make it through the holiday land locked.  There will be a baseball game on Saturday.  On Sunday, we'll clear the interior of the boat so the refinishing work can be done.  When she's done, Forte Vento will be good as new with no scars showing.  When that is, is still undetermined.

A grandson's prom

Jeremy and his sweet heart

Remember what it felt like to be 18?  Life's adventure was just beginning. I found myself looking at my grandson's prom picture this weekend remembering those feelings, the excitement and anticipation of what was to come.  Would I do it all over again?  Would I make the same moves? The same mistakes?  Would I have the same fears? What do you think?

Then, there's the little brother. He's in the wings, four years younger, hanging out, killing time, looking bored with all the fuss around his big brother. But is it all just a front?  I bet he has his fantasies about what he'll wear to his prom -- he the fashionista of the family.  Don't let that casual dress fool you -- Each piece of clothing was carefully selected and coordinated.  It takes work.

The prom -- an American life milestone.  Whether you are rich or poor or in the middle somewhere, prom is a rite of passage. Where did I spend my senior prom night?  With my two best girl friends, robbing dad's liquor cabinet.  The house was empty so we drank in my the bedroom upstairs, playing cards and telling stories.  Yes, we refilled the gin bottle with water.  No, we didn't exactly get away with it.   I really thought my parents believed me when I told them that Diana was holding the toilet bowl because she had a sudden flu. How did I know that sweet vermouth on top of everything else could do that.  For the first time that I could remember, my parents didn't yell.  I didn't get grounded. Dad made pancakes in the morning.  We recovered and, despite the 70's, ended up as responsible grown-ups and now wrinkling, almost retired boomers.  Jeremy will do the same, only better with much more dignity and, with luck, fewer mistakes.

Wedding by the Bay

It rained the day before and the day after, but on May 10th the clouds parted, the sun sparkled on the Bay, and the breeze blew for Alison and Hamilton's wedding by the Chesapeake Bay.  There was much laughter as we learned how they met and many a teary eye as they shared their vows.  Alison is yin to Hamilton's yang.  We were so pleased that our dear friend Ed was able to walk his daughter down the aisle.

No progress on repairs.

It was a bad dream that woke me at 3AM.  About being on a boat that couldn't sail.  But that's not a dream. It's our reality.  Not only did we lose the mast and boom, all the rigging, get scratches and holes in the hull, loosen a few fittings on the inside, but now we see that the metal arch over the cockpit lists to the starboard, a wound from the fall into the boat next to Forte Vento.

Three weeks and it's all talk about insurance companies.  I thought Herrington Harbour owners were going to take care of everything. They keep telling John they will, but there's been no progress.  I'm afraid we'll not sail again this season.  It's what literally is keeping me up at night.

Cherry Blossoms resist spring chills

It was her first metro ride.  Amid a packed metro car, stroller and all, we made our way from Courthouse to the Smithsonian stop on the orange line.  Miss Bridget loved it -- so many people and things to see.  We made our way down to the boat basin in a sea of people swimming in the fresh air and sunshine.  The crowds overcame Nana so we found a nice place to sit by the water for a bit.  Pop-pop gave a short botany lesson,explaining why the cherry blossoms were still buds.  Bridget, a good granddaughter, listened intently, pretending to understand everything he said.  Her Mom and I chuckled, proud that Pop-pop is near the top of her her A-list, right next to Mommy.

We walked some more, just missing the National Pillow Fight, up to the National History Museum where Miss B. got her first look at Henry the mighty elephant in the rotunda.  She was amazed at all the animals and dinosaurs. "Up! Up!"   she commanded.  Miss B. needs a better view.  In her eyes you could see what she meant, "I can't see a damn thing down here at knee level!  Help!"  And so Pop-pop and Mom did as commanded-- they shared her on their shoulders, first one and then the other.  Miss B. had a 5.5' + high view for the rest of the day.

In other news--Miss B. can say her last name -- all four syllables, and, as you know, that no small feat for a 20 month old kid.

Disaster in dry dock!

The call came about 9AM this morning.  It happened in the night, not at sea, but on land in slot J-2ww where Forte Vento had been hauled for a fresh cost of bottom paint to ready her for the coming sailing season.  What happened?  The braces on the port side of Forte Vento had slipped out from under sending her into the boat in the next lot.  Luckly, it was a slow fall, not a careening fall, or the damage would have been worse. 

The mast was bent almost 90 degrees and hung precariously until the marina staff  detached it and lifted it off with a crane.  On the ground, it looked and was declared dead, never to be repaired.  The rest we are told is repairable -- the scars and gouges in the hull on the port side and the interior dented and dinged teak from the flying   dishes and drinking glasses.  We were lucky -- it could have been much worse.

The marina managers were shocked, humbled and apologetic.  Matt said, "In 24 years of working in marinas, I've never seen this happen."  Hamilton confirmed, "This has never happened at Herrington Harbour before and we will make everything right -- even better than right."  Our frustration and anger evaporated with what he said.  Our insurance surveyer was sure it can all be repaired and should not cost us a penny.

Forte Vento will be sea worthy again as soon as possible. We are keeping our fingers crossed for a two week cruise starting Memorial Day weekend. It all depends how fast they can get the parts.  There's rigging, mast, boom, mainsail, electrical  wiring, lines and more to be acquired and assembled.  Do you know where we might pick up a $18,000 mast with a $6,000 furled main sail that perfect for a 2011 Hunter 39'? 

Getting off my butt to save my waist

I am in trouble. My waist is dying.  If I don't do something, not only will I loose it, I will never again zip up my slacks and still be able to breath.  It's a full blown crisis.  I caught my image in the mirror last night and found a lumpy old lady.  Even with great hair, make-up and slimming jeans I looked like slowly swelling balloon in my middle.  I'm halfway vain, but what "keeps me up at night" are thoughts of diabetes,  CPT, high blood pressure, and heart disease.  If I'm not careful, I'll become my mother.

For years I've been able to control the fat creep despite the death of my metabolism over the past five years.  But, after the shoulder surgery last November, following doctor's orders,  I stopped exercising to allow the left shoulder to heal slowly.  He even prohibited physical therapy for six weeks.  However,  he didn't give me any guidance on eating and drinking, so I merrily kept going at the old pace.  The results were predictable.  It's what  I saw in the mirror...I just groaned, turned my head and rushed away.

So what's the plan?  It started today...John left for San Francisco for the week so there's a chance I can dive in to develop a bit of discipline before he gets home.  The goal -- a waist line.  A shape that says, "Hey, she's looking healthy AND looking good!"  Wish me luck.

50 years later

Betty Friedan's book, "The Feminine Mystique" is 50 years old this week. It changed the course of American womanhood.  Most importantly, that book and others like it made my life possible. I knew what it was to be trapped in the home with few skills and the expectation of life long dependence.  My mother's life frightened me to the core.  She never really understood even though she tried. In 1971, when I showed her the name on my checkbook was, "Mrs. Robert Waskis".  She said, "Yes, so?"  With tears running down my cheeks, I screamed,  "I have lost my identity! I am Dorine Andrews, not his shadow!"  She sighed, returned to reading her paper in her recliner, and said, "I don't see the point. It's how things work."  

I saw what being Mrs. Colin Andrews did to my mother.  She ate her way through depression until he died in 1979 and she weighed near 250 pounds and would remain so for the rest of her life.  I promised myself never, never to let that happen.    I was scared.  I was insecure.  I scratched my way into a career zigging and zagging my way to financial security.  I made many, many mistakes; had three failed marriages; but I also raised a daughter, built many long lasting friendships with women over the years, married a guy who liked my independence, and have gained the recognition and contentment I always yearned for.

My daughter took her husband's name without a thought of loosing her identity.  She expects equal footing and she gets it.  I am proud.  Thanks, Betty!

New toys to help the winter pass

Forte Vento floats in her slip nicely.  Lines sag appropriately and tighten just enough against the breeze, protecting her from rubbing up against the dock.  Our babbler keeps the water moving around her so ice won't form.  But, it's not a happy place in the winter.  Even with the sun popping out from behind the heavy, fast moving winter clouds, the marina has an empty feeling.  It's almost makes me sad.  So many boats have been pulled and now sit on "sticks" looking like ducks out of water--elegant but not graceful.  We checked her out last Sunday.  Oh, how we miss sailing season.

To pass the time, besides organizing our tax papers, I'm testing a new toy -- Microsoft's new Surface tablet (It's on loan  from my work).  In fact, I'm creating this post using it now.  The good news it that it has Word, Excel and PowerPoint.  The basic keyboard doesn't work so well on a hard surface, but on my lap it delivers.  It's something between a normal key board and a sleep number bed in terms of design.  The pressure to touch the keys has some flexibility.  It is also like riding a bicycle. The more you use it, the better it gets.  It is amazingly better than the touch screen for someone like myself who is touch typist. 

It's just not the right thing

I got it in my head last fall that "wouldn't it be nice to sit on a board of directors or two" after I retired. Many small and mid-cap for profits boards pay anywhere from $60 to $200,000/year to its members. Always enjoying a conversion with myself (and not those strange voices that can whisper in your ear in the middle of the night), I said, "I've got lots of experience, and I certainly know a lot about a lot of industries after 30 years in the systems consulting business."

"Well," I responded, "how do I go about getting on a board?  My network is good, but not that good."  I pondered, but not for long.  My young neighbor, Liz, learned about a board member training program just for women.  It was  put together in 2011 by Women in Technology and they named it the Leadership Foundry.  "Ah, just the thing for me," I exclaimed.  And yes, I qualified for the program and paid my $3,000 for a year's training and networking opportunities with local companies.

This week I attended the formal two-day training program on board membership led by the National Association of Corporate Directors or NACD.  The course was actually riveting -- full of facts and stories about boards and situations where our instructors had served.  It was also a great opportunity to meet fifteen other successful women.  We spent the first evening at dinner together in constant conversation.  It is amazing what women are doing today and the fields they work in.  I was humbled by their experience and their presence.  And, as many friends know, I don't humble easily.

Today,as our training wrapped up, I came to a decision that surprised me.  I spoke to myself quite clearly and resolutely.  "Dorine,"  I said,  "You are not a good fit to be a board member."  The financial and governance responsibilities, if you take them seriously, are substantial, but that didn't scare me.  Even I can refresh my knowledge of the complexities of financial statements and learn the role of strategic oversight.  And, I can create a snappy elevator speech about what I bring to a board and chat up any number of corporate leaders with it.  What cinched my decision is the amount of patience and positioning it will take on my part to make an impact.  Moving swiftly is moving in three years!  It's not about "getting on with it" as one does in grilling a steak.  It's all about "letting things simmer and stirring occasionally"  as one does with making a pot roast to ensure all the flavors come together.  A new board member is someone who has served two years.

Be still my heart!  That is not who I am or ever will be.  But, I walk away with a great deal of knowledge and new insights.  Perhaps, some day, it will all be valuable and put to use.

Enveloped in fog

Dense, soupy gray warm air blankets my world this morning. I can't see the tree tops just outside our balcony.  We went to bed with it and woke up with  it.  They promise sunshine by noon.  Until then, I'm cozy, sitting on the couch watching Sunday Morning and typing away on my Ipad.

The Oscar nomination announcements this week sent hordes of people to the movies--kind of.  Our Saturday noon excursion to see "Silver Linings Playbook" turned into a group adventure.  Not a seat in the house was empty.  After we broke for a late lunch, then went to a second movie, "Hyde Park on the Hudson" where only one quarter of the seats were filled.  Good figure!  I thought both were good movies, but not exceptional.

My daughter made me proud recently.  She's accepted a new and challenging position that moves her into a new industry (from insurance to cable television).  It's also moved the family into a new tax bracket so theor concerns about money for the boys' college fees and repairs their shore cottage after Hurricane Sandy flooded the place with three feet of water have evaporated with the water.

I've made a decision that makes me proud.  On August 16, 2015, I will have five years in my job and it will be time to hang up my keyboard.  The CIO  job has turned out to be more rewarding than I expected, but it has  also helped me calm my career spanning itchy feet and helped me accept that there will soon be time for the next generation to take over the leadership.  It's even fun now.    My team and I have a bit more than 2.5 years to put in place technology that will alter our organization's operations culture.  We've just started and they'll keep it evolving after I leave. It's surprisingly exciting.  For the first time in my career, I'm not anxious to move on.  I'm staying put.  Hurray!

The New Year is upon us

The  fiscal cliff crumbled at the last minute -- no falling, just stumbling through the rubble.  We should feel good about this, but from what I understand, not much has been resolved.  Shall we carry on living the life that is thrown at us?  I suggest we do so with gusto! 

We greeted the new year as we have since 2000 by joining childhood friends and family in Severna Park.  Eating started at 7:30, after we gussied-up (That used to mean fancy clothes.  Now it means lipstick and a clean sweater).  There were sushi, grilled oysters, lobsters, truffle potatoes, salad, and dessert topped off with a champagne toast at midnight amid sparklers, flying confetti and much kissing and hugging amongst the nine of us.  There was a time we continued to party almost to dawn, but those days are long gone.  Proudly, however, we did rumpus about until 2AM. Not bad for a bunch of dudes their 60's and 70's.  It is a warm and comforting time.  Happy New Year!

My Daughter is Awesome!

How we look is exactly how we feel.  I need to say no more.

Merry Christimas in New York

With my arm sans sling and swinging at my side, we are are visiting family and friends in New York City this week.  Christmas Eve found us walking down 5th avenue amid twinkling lights, last minute shoppers and the bright lights of the empire state building.   Such a joy!  No pain in the hip for John and no blisters on the feet for me .

The day before, to celebrate 20 years together, we hopped the F train to Red Hook Brooklyn and walked against 30 knot winds to visit Steve Riley, an artist John discovered from searching the Internet before we left.  We picked out a square ring for me and three wood pieces for John.


Grandchildren are well. Kids are well. Friends are well.  A holiday with no drama, just chilly breezy weather!  Our plan to address the Christmas cards from the comfort of our hotel was shoved aside for walks up and down Manhattan.  We visited department stores to see the decorated windows (Lord & Taylor's is the best). 

Now, the day after Christmas, the weather threatens -- do we leave today or cross our fingers, hope the weather threats are exaggerated, and leave tomorrow as planned? 

On the mend!

I finally got a good night's sleep on Tuesday night and again last night.  I have even ventured to not wearing the sling for an hour in the morning and evening just to release the tension for the strap around my shoulders.

Recovery Blues

Ten days since the arm surgery -- I'm resigned to float above the reality of life -- an out of body experience.  Emails continue to trickle in from work, but my team seems to be handling it all quite well.  Am I irrelevant?  Does atree falling in the woods make a sound if no one is around to hear it?  I'm feeling like that damn tree. 

After watching every minute of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, I had to get off the couch or go bonkers. Despite John's commands to stay where I was and mend, I opted for getting off the couch to help with dinner preparations.  Result -- shoulder pain exploded on me last night despite having taken Advil and carefully wearing my sling all day and night.  This morning I popped a Percoset.  I was desperate.  It's time for another one!

I haven't been running around by any means.  I've tried to be a good patient.  In the past two days, I've read a mountain of magazines and newspapers.  I've blogged, sorted my four inch high in box, paid bills, talked with relatives and eaten my way through an abundance of tasty nibbles. I want to "getting moving" but I tire easily.  What happened to my Energizer Bunny?  I even napped after exhausting myself setting theThanksgiving Dinner table. 

What's the use in getting dressed when you can't go out, but that brings me to the simple tasks that bring me to tears. Ever tried to wash your right armpit with your right arm or hook your bra with one hand? The hair dryer is a banned appliance as it requires my left arm to rise up above my head.  My hair is early "mess". I can't lift my left arm to pull on a sweater or shirt.  I can only zip up a sweat shirt.  I can't wear my normal slacks or jeans- it takes two good arms to pull and zip them up. I've succumbed to sweat and yoga pants pull ups with elastic waists.  At least they are black and not the horrid pastel colors with matching sequend tops of those blue haired ladies standing in line at the 5:00 2 for 1 seating at restaurants.  Just thinking about them depresses me because I turned 66 on Monday.  I'm now beyond all the age categories - you know, the ones you have to check off on marketing surveys. I've become irrelevant to marketeers -- except, of course, to those hawking hearing aids, laxatives, adult diapers, scooters and denture gel.

Monday I go back to work, for which, I will be eternally grateful.  I'm ready to be back in the muck of the "reality of life".  I'll be easy to recognize.  I'll be the one with sling and sweats in heels.  Wish me luck. 

Surgery Plus 7 Days

Light typing is now allowed; however, I'm still sling bound and feeling like an elephant with a broken snout.  Our attempt to escape to the ocean for a week of R&R was a bust -- the weather was cold, gray and windy.  We couldn't get warm. On top of it all, John's cough is turning into a three week affair and I caught it.  What a way to spend a birthday!   After one night, we bagged it and drove home to blue skies and a cozy fireplace. 

I've got six little stitches scattered about the shoulder.  Swelling is minimal but the shoulder reminds me of a lamb roast after John's plugged it with garlic cloves and spinkled it with rosemary.  Am trying to stay off the "dizzy" drugs, but had to return to them last night.  My expectations about "getting back to normal" have been somewhat unrealistic. John just rolls his eyes when I complain that the sling is getting in my way.

48 hours later

Typing with one hand is required. That is a slow and error prone process. The good news is that both my rotator cuff and bicep in my left arm are repaired and in time, with rehab, should be better than new. The bad news is that my stomach doen't like percoset, so much of what I have eaten in the past 48 hours erupted from me.  Maybe I will lose a few inches around my ever expanding waist.

No reaching, stretching or lifting is allowed.  I am condemmed to pull-up pants and front zippered sweats. Nurse John is attentive and helpful. (He thinks my breasts are swingingly handsome.)

 I hate being or feeling helpless!  I don't think he is having a fun time with his patient.  :-)

Fixing the left shoulder

We survived hurricane Sandy quite well -- Forte Vento was unharmed as well was our condo.  Can't say the same for my daughter's family home (they were out of power for a week) or their sweet little summer place in Seaside Height Park across from Tom's River (they lost all the interior, but the place remained on its cinder blocks foundation).

My energy now turns to my left shoulder.  Tomorrow my rotator cuff will be repaired  After 10 days without a couple of Ibuprofen every night, pain rips across the my back and shoulders every time I move.  It's amazing what the drug was able to mask.  As all the birthday cards remind us -- getting old is not for sissies.  I have high hopes that repairs are possible and that I'll be able to pull lines without pain.  There's physical therapy after the surgery, but, as always, I'm determined.  If I can't have strength at least I want the lack of pain.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

I arrive at 5:30AM at the hospital, John at my side.  Surgery is scheduled for 7:30AM and I'll be home in bed sometime in the afternoon.  Hope I get good drugs!

Preparing for Sandy

I thought we'd get through the season without a hurricane.  Our last sail of the season was planned for Saturday and then on Sunday, we were going to prepare her for winterization and a Wednesday haul out.   Friday morning was a rude awakening as Sandy's track to announced to sweep up the Chesapeake and the Delmarva Peninsula.  The message was simple -- no sailing, just prepare for bad weather.  We hustled ourselves to the marina early Saturday morning to prepare Forte Vento.  We were too late to get on the haul out list, but the marina found us a more protected slip.  Six hours later we had completed our work  -- removed the jib and packed it away, removed the Bimini and dodger and packed it away, packed away the electrical, water hose and turned off the refrigeration and cleaned out the frig and freezer.  Only one small error -- a piece of the metal frame for the Bimini fell unexpectedly and slammed against the compass that is stationed about in the center of the cockpit.  It was completely smashed.  We'll replace it later.  No time to spare.

Our last task before moving the boat was to remove the lines in our slip.  John hung off the boat's  aft starboard corner  to untangle our lines from our neighbor's.  I maneuvered the other lines so he could reach the massive piling.  What a struggle!  Finally free, we motored to the pump out dock, an interim stop on the way to the new slip.  We double washed rinsed the waste tank, another winterization prep chore done. 

The wind was picking up so I over steered and missed the new slip first time around.  Determined, I took Forte Vento out into the main channel, turned her around, came back and tried again.  This time we made it.  John grabbed a line and leveraged her in and I kept her in a slow reverse to keep the wind from pushing us into the dock.  After another hour of adjusting lines we were settled.  I took a picture, crossed my fingers and hoped she'll pull through.

Luckily for us, it's going more northward through New Jersey. That's unlucky for the kids.  Their summer house is snuggled three blocks from the ocean and two blocks from the bay just over the bridge from Tom's River. It's taking a direct hit.

I hate Disney World!

This morning began smoothly.  The JetBlue flight was uneventful as all flights should be.  Even the perky guy sitting next to was quiet after he very enthusiastically introduced himself.  Hertz delivered my car promptly even though I'm not a Gold Member.  The drive over to the hotel was simple.

Then it all began -- I couldn't find the hotel.  I called Disney central booking and the directions were clear.  However, my reservation had been changed unbeknownst to me.  I got back in the car and drove to the new hotel, only to find out I was in the wrong section of the hotel -- I was not in Port Orleans French Quarter, but in Port Orleans Riverside.  Okay, I can deal with going up the street a bit.  As I was checking into the hotel, I noticed that I'd only booked three nights and not four, but Disney lived up to its reputation for service by calling central booking again after I asked.  One half hour later, I've got a second reservation for an extra day.  Somehow extending the first reservation another day was not possible.   The young lady handed me my check in package saying, "You're in 8547 Sweetie."  She gave me directions for driving around to section 85.  I unloaded my bags from the car and walked around the building to finally find the the door.  The key card didn't work.  I tried again. The red light glowed.  I tried again.  The key card didn't work.  I walked my bags back to car, then walked back to the lobby -- over the river, around the bridge and across the river entrance.  The young lady checked the card.  "It works. You should be fine, sweetie," she said.  I said "Ok. What will you do if it doesn't work."  She smiled, "Don't worry it will work."  I turned, then, to confirm, "It is 8547, right?"  "Yes," she confirmed then turned to another customer.

To understand how I was feeling now, it helps to tell you that it's 3:30PM and I've had half  a muffin and a bag of chips since the sun had risen.  I walked back to the door.  The card key did not work.  I tried again.  The light once again was red.  The card key did not work.  I took a deep breath.  I walked back to the car and drove to the lobby and asked for manager.  Within minutes and many apologies I was told my room was 8567, not 47 as was written on the map.

Once I deposited my bags in the room, I drove over to the Dolphin Hotel to check in for the conference.  I wasn't allowed to park and was briskly directed to a "over flow" parking lot three miles away.  There I took a bus back tot he Dolphin hotel.

It was a good afternoon and evening.  Met some nice guys.  Good discussions.  So, relaxed I headed back to catch the bus.  I caught the last bus back to the parking lot.  I was following the map, but somehow I found myself on a road named route 192.  I pulled over wishing I'd brought my Garmin and was almost in tears.  But I remembered that I'm a big girl, a grown up, so after turning the map around in circles a couple of times, I figured out where I was.  My 5 minute trip back to the hotel took 30.

All of this would never have happened in NYC. I would have grabbed a taxi with a driver who knew where I needed to go.  I really hate this manufactured Eden.

Trapped!

I've  watched the NCIS episode where Tony and Ziva can't get out and start sweating as Ziva climbs on Tony's shoulders and tries with all her might to push out the ceiling because the doors won't open, but I never imagined it would happen to me -- that I personally would get stuck in an elevator.

My colleague and I were just coming back from lunch this past Thursday.  We were both going to be late for meetings so we scurried through the building doors, flashed our badges at the guard, quickly swept through the badge gate and congratulated ourselves as we caught the closest elevator in the nick of time as it binged the "I'm closing now" alert.   I pushed three and she pushed seven.  The doors silently closed. We both whipped out our phones to check our email -- neither of us wanting to waste a minute of time.

We reached the third floor.  The elevator stopped, waited and then started up to seven.  The doors never opened.  I thought, perhaps, I hadn't actually pushed the button sufficiently, but when the doors didn't open on seven, we looked at each other, stunned.  It was an OMG moment.  I pushed "one".  Surely, that would work.  It didn't. And, then the damn thing took over our lives -- it started going to random floors stopping, but not opening its doors.  I reassured my colleage, "At least we are not in free fall" and she replied, "or in a 100 floor building."  We looked at each other wide-eyed.  Suddenly, we felt like kids. What to do?  We sprang into action -- I pushed the "talk" button - repeatedly until a distant voice said, "How can I help you?"  My friend yelled  "We're stuck.  The elevator doors - elevator #1 -- won't open."  The garbled reply, as best we could decipher, was that the elevator company would come soon.  We were two very impatient women wanting action.  We couldn't just stand by and wait.  My friend whipped out  her Blackberry and called  the front desk.  No reception.  I whipped out my iPhone -- same result.

We started punching the alarm bell.  It rang out.  We giggled.  Now we were kids again.  With a bell on each side of the elevator, we started a punching  in rhythm.   The alarm bell sang a staccato song.  We laughed again -- what a silly thing for two grown women to do, but we kept on doing it.  Then,  I started pounding on the doors and yelling through this steel box called an elevator. Pounding made no echo.  We looking at each other in disbelief again.  We lost all our dignity as we traveled up and down, and up and down, and up and down. We yelled and punched the alarm more -- action, always action.

It seemed like forever, but was actually less than ten  minutes, when we could hear people yelling on the other side of the doors as we passed from floor to floor.  We yelled our names.  We yelled "Help!"  The elevator kept traveling. "Hold on! We'll get you out1" yelled a familiar voice, "We've called the fire department.  They are on the way."  We looked at each other in amazement and busted out laughing again.

Then,  as if nothing was wrong, the doors parted on the 7th floor.  We jumped out and they snapped close behind us.  We stepped across the hall to another one going down.  We walked out on the 1st floor and surprised everyone -- especially the familiar voice who was talking into his walky-talky.  It was over.  All we could say was, "Lock that #1 up.  It's lost its mind!"

Listening to the debate

Obama and Romney are arguing.  I'm trying to pay attention, but am getting distracted by the retoric.  Right at this moment it's all about health care.  Both are attacking each other.  They are  like two bulls snorting and heaving and stomping the ground.  Luckily there's no steam erupting from their noses.  Bill Lerher can't get a question in sideways.  The crowd is civil.  The debaters not nearly so, particularly Romney.  I think I'll have another scotch.  I'm looking foward to the post debate analysis.  It will be much more logical.

They're off to banking regulation now.  Romney is trying to tell Bill what to do about the questions.  He wants to carry on.  He's looking like a bully.  Obama is not over talking Bill.  The difference is starting to show.  Time -- 60 minutes into the debate.  Romney is interrupting.  Can't tell whether that is good or bad.  Be still my heart -- what is a qualified mortgage?  Romeny says that because there is no clear definition, its hurting our marketplace.

Summer's gone

The air is chilly now and the sky fills with sweeping clouds with gray bottoms that regularly hide the sun.  The wind is unpredictable -- one day fierce and the next day cotton candy light.  So we motor when we must.  Each weekend becomes more precious as the autumn over takes us.  Today, we anchored at 3PM after motoring against a very light wind in the Rhode River.  John just finished the crossword puzzle my brain could not get its arms around.  I sit with my iPad writing a long due entry here in the blog.  To our starboard, three smaller sail boats are rafted together. Men's loud voices break the air. They sound more like power boaters than sailors.  Perhaps they'll get drunk early and fall asleep.  Otherwise, we may be in for a noisy evening.   No matter.  We enjoy what we can.  Come the end of October, we put Forte Vento up for the winter and return to spending our weekends among the city folk in Washington, DC.

Sun's gone now behind some thickening clouds.  We'll bury ourselves under the comforter tonight and rock gently as the water washes under the boat.  Good night!

Flies in the cockpit!

There are good sailing days and then there are the days that make you question your sanity.  Today was one of the those days.  We sit below decks on the hood in Plaindealing Creek across the Tred Avon river and the town of Oxford waiting for the sun to go down and cool the cockpit.

We left the dock this morning with gray clouds overhead and little wind in the air.  We motored Forte Vento across the Bay instead of attempting to sail in the very light wind. Bored and tired,  John retired to the V-berth for a nap while I listened to the humming engine and watched for crab pots.  Rained sprinkled and what little wind there was came across the back of the boat.  I was joined by a host of flies -- plain ol' flies you normally get at a picnic or hovering around a freshly baked pie set to cool in the window (does anyone do that anymore?)  With the wind pushing on your back instead of slapping you on the face as you cross the water, the cockpit becomes a free ride for these buggers.  Along with the ride, they decided to have lunch -- my legs and feet.  In self defense,  I armed myself with our purple fly swatter and went to war.  I killed 12 before John came back up on deck to take over the battle.

We did get to sail.  As we rounded the Green #7 bell upon to enter the Choptank River, the wind picked up to almost 10 knots and our heading allowed us a pleasant reach (wind across the beam). But, to our surprise, the flies liked the idea and stayed instead of taking off for clamer cockpits.  After sailing all the way  (3 hours of success!) into our anchorage, we discovered some of the buggers had inflitrated our living quarters below decks.  Up went our screens and out came the swatter again.  There were no pleasant deaths, just dead flies.  Let's hope tomorrow brings more wind, less flies and sunshine.