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.

See Dick. See Jane. See Bridget!

This sweet young princess makes Grandpa proud.  Everyone got together at her Aunt Patricia's last Wednesday to spend some time with Bridget, now 13 months old.  She had Grandpa wrapped around her finger so tightly that they collapsed together for a nap after a busy day of playing at the park, swimming in the baby pool and eating pizza.  It reminded us all of how simply beautiful family can be and how hugs and kisses make you feel like a million dollars.

Bridget is a seasoned walker now; however, walking on grass makes her worry.  It's just not like wood floors or cement sidewalks of Queens.  But she pushed through to get onto the horsey-on-a-spring ride at the park.  Gnats swarmed in the afternoon sun in the Harper's Ferry park, so after a big swing and the horsey ride, we headed back to the house for a swim.



Celebrating 40!

You know you are getting old when your daughter turns 40. For our family it was a time of much celebration, of life achievement and of a job "well done".  She's a Jersey Girl through and through -- lay back but ready with a sharp retort if needed.  A lover of the ocean and boardwalk who can sit on the beach under the umbrella posting on face book, twittering away all the while watching her youngest play with his friend at the ocean's edge.    He's a tall skinny 13, aspires to be a rapper complete with with almost shaved head, over sized baseball cap and pants that hang off his hips revealing six inches of plaid boxer shorts.  I shake my head, but my daughter and her husband keep quiet, knowing he'll eventually grow out of it.  As long as he stays off drugs, all is okay.  At the other extreme is their oldest is a thoughtful baseball player who is morphing into a nicely handsome young man.  He's a studious high school senior with serious intentions for college, focused on business school.  Go figure. 

We surprised her at 11:30 Friday night at their beach house just blocks from the ocean. Despite the off and on again rain and humid air, we enjoyed the ocean, at boardwalk pizza and watched the sophomoric movie "Watch".  Happy Birthday to my daughter! 

We're back in the sailing scene!

It took two weeks but our battery charger problems are resolved.  The engineers found another blown fuse so we believe that the problem was not all my fault (remember, I forgot the flip on the charge battery switch in June).  The humongous thunder storm that took out the electric power on the docks most likely sent a surge through the system the confounded the charger problems.  We now have a completely new 40 amp charger, a replacement as the old one was still under warranty, and an meter so we can monitor inflow and outflow from the battery itself (see picture).  Now we sit and wait for the overcast sky to clear.  It's raining again. 

Sailing vacation - What sailing? What vacation?

Just when we thought our battery charger problem was solved, we woke after an extremely hot night on the hook in the South River to find that our engine didn't seem to recharge the battery as it should.  Determined not to give in to these electrical problems without a good fight, John and I decided to push toward north toward Rock Hall as we had originally planned.  Just a few changes -- no wind to fill our sails nor reliable battery to power our frig or electronics (that includes the water pumps, GPS and autopilot).  So we went to conservation mode.  Turned off the freezer. Put the frig on a on-off cycle schedule.

We did get close to Thomas Light on our motor north and did a great drive by of five ships anchored off Annapolis harbor.  Hot and tired, we went aground once at the entrance to Rock Hall, but managed to turn and push off with the engine (Thank the angels for a soft mud bottom). 

"Why," you might ask, "would you put yourself through such torture when a vacation is all about relaxing and laying back?" John thinks it's because I am crazed.  I beg to differ.  It's the adventure, being on the water hanging out with the Osprey, the challenge, the doing, the problem solving.  However, at this point, the problem solving is getting the best of me. 

Three days later -- it's all about the battery charger

It was sunny and hot, but 5-10 knot winds were promised and it appeared that our batteries were recharged. We set off about noon motoring toward the north to the South River (strange but true), expecting our batteries would continue to charge. The GPS, autopilot and bow thruster worked as they should so we thought all was well.

About two hours out, the wind died and the heat was starting to weaken our resolve to keep pushing north. In short order we decided to return to the dock where we could spend the night with air conditioning. We are not going to be bloodly fools! And there as we turned, suddenly we had wind. It took us east across the bay to Bloody Point, but we didn't care as the diesel was silenced and the sails were filled. After several tacks and wind changes, we arrived home in the late sweaty afternoon. Into swim suits we jumped and off to the pool for an hour to drop our body temperatures. While cooking dinner we spied that the battery charge was dropping. We sighed and went to bed hoping the sea gods would miraculously make it all better.

Monday morning: Freezer and frig are "dead meat". I hurried to transfer food into the reliable rubbermaid ice chest with bagged ice. Phone calls and exploratory work in the boats bowels revealed a possible problem source - the battery charger was not functioning -- not a peep from its annoying little motor! It wasn't the batteries, it was the battery charger. Call in the surgeon! Three hours later a deft electrical blond hottie with lamp on forehead, diagnosed the problem to be a blown 10amp250volt fuse. With tweezers and plyers he removed the offending part from the battery charger and replaced it. The good news is that the fuse protected the batteries from exploding. The bad news is such a small, hidden, and inexpensive device can confuse the hell out of us. For John's birthday, I'm getting him a "Zantrec Lite" amp meter. Forever in the future we will read our battery charge and draw down from a small meter at the chart table, just like a gas guage in the dashboard of a car.

Tomorrow we sail -- not north necessarily, but whereever the wind takes us -- probably southeast into the Choptank or north east into the Eastern Bay. The goal is to watch spendid fireworks from the deck of Forte Vento while listening to the Sirius radio play rousing, patriotic music.

You can't get there from here

John and I arrived at the boat this Friday night to find our batteries depleted and the food in the frig rotted. I had forgotten to flip the "charge battery" switch on the main electrical connection two weeks ago when we were on the boat. Undaunted, we cleaned, flipped the swtich to recharge the batteries and settled into the air-conditioned envrions ready to leave in the morning for our week's vacation on the boat. However, no good or forgetful deed goes unpunished. At 11 PM the skies opened up with a storm that blasted the electical grid for most of the Baltimore-Washington DC metropolitan area. It was a horrible night -- rocking and rolling in the slip from the 35-40knot winds from the west, the marina going dark, and the heat melting into our minds. I couldn't sleep worrying about our provisions and if we could leave for the week's long sail. Morning broke, skies cleared, but our batteries were not happy. We tried taking off, but the more we motored, the more the battery was depleted. Exactly opposite of what should be. We are not defeated. Power has been restored. The boat's batteries are recharged. After some testing in the morning, we hope to set off on our holiday sail.

Aunt Jean has died,

My sisters and I make last visits to Aunt Jean. Elaine and her husband visited, then last week Karen and I flew in to say goodbye. Flight delays made us three hours late. We battled rush hour taffic to get from the airport (IAH) north to Conroe. Finally, we arrived and Aunt Jean knew we were there. She smiled then went back into her morphine induced sleep. She wanted to leave this world as she was in this world -- quietly, gentley and with dignity. That night we visited with Uncle Bob. After 59 years together he was losing his best friend and life partner. How do you deal with that? A bit of denial ("I keep hoping she'll pull out of this last stroke") and a bit of recognition ("She doesn't want life if this is all that is left.") We listened. We empathized, knowing that in no time, we'll be facing the same issues. I flew home that afternoon. Aunt Jean died that night. How priviledged Karen and I were to say good-bye--to be with her in those final hours. I would hope she knew how much we cared and how much we will miss this gentle, yet strong and caring woman.

It's all in the family

My Aunt Jean, wife to my Uncle Bob (my mom's only sibling), is fighting off a recent and unexpected stroke while she struggled with a surprising attack of lung cancer.  She was doing fine, the chemo treatments had put the cancer at bay for at least a while.  At 86, none of us thought such a thing could happen to her.  Her mom is 104 and Jean's hardly had a sick day in her life. Her attitude is down to earth, reflective of her Missourian upbringing.  "You know, I've had this great blessing of a happy life with my husband and children.  I feel lucky and if this is what the end is like, I accept it.. I just look at all the good  years I've had."  We should all have such an attitude -- us baby boomers, the me generation, who expect to live forever.

To express our support, I ordered plants for both of them (Uncle Bob is still at home and Aunt Jean is in  a rehab nursing home). Us girls always split the cost of our family gifts, it's been our tradition for about 25 years.  I, as the oldest and the responsible one, stepped up to make the order, declared the total to let everyone figure out their share. So, my middle sister, the accountant and detail specialist, sent a check for exactly her 1/3 share, right down to the penny.  My youngest sister, who's made enough money to retire at 55, sent a check about $5 over her share.

It was a perfect reflection of our characters -- the youngest deals in round numbers, the middle deals in details, and I don't really care about the money.  This is my family -- it's a wonder we came from the same gene bank.  Our mom told John one day, "My girls are so predictable about money.  The oldest know how to spend it, the middle knows how to save it, and the youngest knows how to make it."  She grew up in the east--land of the astute analytic.

The very merry month of May

We had returned from London the week before, but we felt we were still there that first Saturday morning (May 5). Eerie fog draped the docks as we peered up the companion way.  In two hours, the sun broke through to give us a perfect California day.  We put our backs into opening Forte Vento for its second season on the Bay.  The chores broke into its natural assignments -- John went off to West Marine for small parts and back up cleaning supplies.  Dorine got out the scrub brush, rags and bucket and began to wash away the winter's sooty scum on the deck.  Soon we started waxing the gel coat.  Six hours later we collapsed having only accomplished half of what we expected. 

Sunday brought perfect breezes and brilliant sun, we hoped to be sailing by noon.  We missed that goal, but did complete our work by two.  The foresail (jib) was hoisted on the self-furler, the navy canvas Bimini was reconstructed, and the interior below was ship shape.  The only problem was that we were once again exhausted.  If we sailed we'd be an accident waiting to happen.  Somehow, when you're in your sixties, the stamina of ten years ago has evaporated.  Safety ruled so we stayed in dock, went to the Tiki Bar at the Calypso to savor the evening.

During May you haven't heard from us because we sailed every weekend, sleeping overnight on the hook in the Wye River and Broad Creek off the Choptank River. We go the way the wind let's us sail. Sometimes it's to the northeast and sometimes to the southeast.  You can't fight the wind.

It's been a sailor's orgasm -- the month of May.  Rain during the week clears to reveal a sailor's delight for the weekend.  We've tacked and jibed in light and strong winds.  We've heeled at 10 degrees, gritted our teeth and reefed the main.  It doesn't get better than this!  We look forward to a season that more than meets our expectations.

So what's the big purchase this year for our baby, Forte Vento?  It was a tough decision, but we passed on a glass-tiled kitchen back splash for an electric outboard motor for the dinghy. No more gasoline, agonizing pulls on the starter, lifting 38 pounds over the aft into the dinghy and yelling over a noisy engine.  The new outboard divides into two ten pound parts that are easily passed down to the dingy and up again.  A push of a button starts the quiet motor that is just as powerful as its gasoline cousin.  It plugs into any 110 outlet to recharge.  We can dinghy again!

A boat, like a house, has its issues -- John is greasing the winches and learning  auto pilot maintenance.  As June opens we discovered as leak in the the waste system (yes, that system!) and our self-furler has unfurled (so we're stuck at the dock). The good news is that all of this is under warranty.  The bad news is that it couldn't be fixed by today.

Bridget walks!

The laughing young girl on the left is very pleased with herself.  It's pure joy -- the walking is.   At 10 months, she started pushing toys and trotting along furniture all on her own.  Now, she's stepping out into the middle of the room with some regularity.  Of course, her legs aren't quite strong enough to stand tall.  She walks like Grandpa John -- those short Italian legs are a bit bowled.  Luckily, Bridget doesn't have baggy shorts like her grandpa.  Mom keeps her diapers trim and tight. 

Unexpected vacation reaction

 It's not that we didn't enjoy the time off to visit with our dear friend who lives in the burbs just north of London.  He took great pains to arrange an event filled week.  Nothing was left to chance.  We "tubed" our way around London, ate at posh restaurants, pulled a pint at pubs, attended the theatre and opera and enjoyed the company of his friends and family.  I rode the eye and was a guest at Lord's, the most famous and prestigious cricket club in the world, I dare say. We even had a day to shop by ourselves in London's Oxford, Picadilly and Regent Street shops. It's all on my face book page.

So what was my problem? Was it the weather --the incessant grayness of London's springtime raindid keep us damp and chilly.  Before the end, I caught a head cold and cough. What is staying outside of the city -- maybe, but our friend was delightfully accommodating, provided comfy lodgings and was pleased that we visitedhim as we were pleased with seeing hime again.  We've couldn't have planned such a trip ourselves.

So what is it?   I'm a savvy traveler --but I think that's the problem. Unlike people who spend their careers in one place and yearn to explore in "their older years", I spent most of my career traveling.  I've been east and west, in Asia, Australia, Europe, South America and now, most recently, in Africa. I respect and wonder at the different cultures, conditions and styles of living. 

At the root, I think I'm just tired of being other places. I'm tired of long airline flights.  I want the familiar, the local scene, the settled life.  A big trip now is a drive up to New York City .  But, I like it there.  We can visit family and friends and we know the city.  We don't tire being there.  It energizes us.   It is familiar, it is part of our local scene.

Is this surprising?  I thought I would never tire of the travel adventure -- of seeing new places, meeting new people and doing new things.  Will I grow out of this crummy attitude?  I don't know.  I'm just going to live with it for now.  It fits. 

Maybe it's my itch to be on the water.  It's almost sailing season -- next week we reassemble the bimini canvas and hoist the jib.  Forte Vento has been recommissioned for the season and we're looking foward to taking her sailing again.  That's the kind of travel adventure I look forward to -- the wind in my face and the sun on my back.

Jersey nails

Several weeks ago, we trekked North.  I was to receive the Women's Leadership Exchange award engineered by my daughter.  It was the highest complement a daughter bestow on her mother and I was thrilled to receive the award. 

To prepare, I dutifully reviewed the questions that might be posed in the panel discussion following the award ceremonies and I learned all I could about the WLE so I would not appear ignorant nor arrogant.  However, my real obsession was to get my three week old manicure replaced --- my nails resembled well worn bear claws. My daughter agreed, so off we tromped in the rain to the local New Jersey salon.  I asked for what I always asked for-- a french manicure. It's a nice, conservative look -- a pale nail with a narrow white tip.  That is what I expected but that is not what I got.

Oh, my goodness.  I walked out of the salon with thick white tips. My claws had been turned into paws. Sympathetically, my daughter mused, "At least they'll be able to see your manicure from the back row of the room, Mom."  We had a good laugh about my nails "Jersey nails" because in New Jersey most everything is "in the your face" and boy, these nails were in your face.