Daddy is a pain... Worse than the rain...

Well it happens to be a delightful Saturday morning here in the Keys and there are but a few scattered clouds in the sky. A cold front has made its way down this way and a pleasant cool breeze has blown the prior days' muggy weather away.

In any event I've tired of reading through a Continuing Education Course that I have to take in order to renew my CPA license and don't care to scrape barnacles off the hull of the boat at the moment and instead find myself once again messing around with my laptop.

While mindlessly checking a few files in my laptop I came across a writing of mine describing a family moment some ten years ago and am reminded of how living aboard a sailboat certainly isn't any better than those kind of moments.

So... I've included that writing in my blog for your amusement and it goes as follows:

While driving home with my wife and two young daughters one weekend morning a few summers ago, my youngest cheerfully thought up a few chants to pass the time away and poke a good measure of fun at her dear 'ol Dad at the same time.

It didn't take long for the wife and older daughter to soon join in with a few amusing yet disparaging chants of their own at my expense.

Soon enough I was subjected to hearing a chorus of goofy chants directed my way.

While some chants rhymed and others didn't they all nevertheless concluded with "Boooo Daddy!!... Boooo Daddy!!" followed by a collective outburst of boisturous laughter.

It wasn't long before my youngest proceeded to exclaim, "Daddy is a Pain!! Worse than the Rain!! Boooo Daddy!!! Boooo.. Daddy!!! followed once again by uncontained merriment at my predicament.

It soon became readily apparent to all that if I were to salvage a bit of my dignity that I'd then have to think up a chant of my own real quick.

No sooner had we cruised on past a distant cow pasture alongside the interstate highway when a burst of inspiration suddenly struck me. I proceeded to loudly intone, "Mommy is a Sow!! Worse than a Cow!! Booo... Mommy!! Booo... Mommy!!"

After the immediate outburst of uncontained laughter by all I was swiftly slugged in the arm by the wife, nevermind whether or not the chant had any validity to it.

For the rest of the drive home all I heard from the kids seated in the back was, "Ooohhh Daddy... You're In Trouble!!... Ooohhh Daddy, You're in Trouble!!"

We continued laughing all the way home.

Reminiscing After Getting a Haircut...

 

It had been some six or seven weeks since I last got a haircut back when I was on Marco Island. My hair now had somewhat of a ragged look about it and I was once again in need of another so-called buzz cut.... number two clippers all around the sides and back, tapered and blended with a little length on the top... military style not that I was ever in the military which is neither good or bad.

Anyway, I think it's a good look for me since I'm on the verge of having to acquiesce to the "double-nickle". Yes indeed... the double-nickle as in the number fifty-five... as in the total number of points that Michael once laid on Spike Lee's beloved Knicks.

I suppose it's a good look especially since I've started to gray on the sides but even more importantly because the cut requires little maintenance and because "I'm on a boat" to reiterate a familiar phrase used here in the Keys.

One recent Sunday morning while seeking out a local Cuban diner for a breakfast sandwich and a "taza de cafe colao", I happened to notice a nearby barbershop. I therefore made a mental note of its location because my hair could certainly use a trim... and the sooner the better. ("Incidentalmente, a mi me gusta el cafe tal como me gusta a las mujeres... caliente, dulce, y prieta"... ooopps.. I didn't really mean to say that.)

Upon entering that barbershop the next day, I am taken a-back by what is certainly some sort of monstrosity mounted up on the wall. I collect myself before realizing that it's not some Mako shark that someone valiantly hooked and reeled in after a four hour struggle at sea, but rather a moose of all things...

Mounted up on that wall was Bullwinkle... as in Bullwinkle the moose featured on many a Saturday morning cartoon show from back in the day when I was a little kid.

Yes, a dumba*s moose... the docile, vegetarian creature described by Bill Bryson as dumber than a cow in his book, 'A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail.". Dude... yes you dude... you with all the ridiculous looking tattoos... you need to read this book or else have someone read it to you.

Anyway, all this random chatter about a haircut and of some unfortunate moose mounted up on the wall brings to mind the time when I had first moved to Ennis, Texas some eleven, twelve years ago and was in dire need of a haircut back then as well.

It had been somewhat of a cold winter week by Texas standards when I first ventured into a town barber shop that could best perhaps be described as "old-school". It happened to be a Saturday morning and it seemed as if every gun-toting local senior citizen was in town waiting for their turn to get their hair trimmed... not that they had much hair to begin with.

Upon entering that barbershop I take a seat and then look up to survey my surroundings and sure enough, mounted on every wall of that shop is some sort of critter or another.

Prominently displayed upon every surface of 'dem 'der walls was a bob-cat, a rattle-snake skin, a beaver, a trout, a few Bambi's, a falcon, and quite possibly somebody's pet cat that had gone missing awhile back.

There was even a bass fish mounted up on the wall that could somehow turn its head and talk to you if you happened to walk on by. Nevertheless I'm not convinced that that particular bass came from a real lake. I'm more inclined to believe that it was a fake bass-look-a-like and was made in China to humour all the short-bus Dubya Bush admirers.

Well I happen to be in dire need of a haircut and resign myself to the fact that I'm in for a long Saturday morning wait while I reach out for one of the many dated and worn-out magazines randomly scattered about on a coffee table.

I peruse some old gun magazine and its many gun show advertisements including one from the NRA. I'm then suddenly reminded of what is surely their new slogan... "Guns don't kill kids, Kids kill kids"...

I soon set that magazine down but not before having a sudden urge of wanting to wash my hands. I don't want to lose my chair so I remain seated and instead find myself reaching out for another magazine.

Only this time I happen to pick up an old issue of Car & Driver... I seem to recall getting instant "tired-head" after reading but a paragraph or two of carburetors, brakes and suspension systems and whatever so I set the "Car & Driver" mag down as well and reach out for yet another magazine.

I'm not the least bit interested in picking up a dated issue of "Hunting" and I quickly flick that one aside and instead pick up an old issue of "Fishing" or some-such...

At least this magazine has some alluring pictures of streams in Idaho and Montana where fly-fishing is an understandable passion. I'm reminded of the captivating movie with Robert Redford, "A River Runs Through It".

(Note to all you under-achieving, confused adolescents perpetually gulping down obesity sodas and wandering throughout cyberspace... watch this movie and get a perspective of some sorts of a time and place that only your grandparents can readily recall... Hold on a sec while I pop open another brewsky... sploosshh)

The fishing magazine holds my interest for a short while when to my surprise I happen to uncover an old yellow issue of "National Geographic" from underneath a pile of "Popular Mechanics" magazines.

No sooner had I thumbed through the first few pages of that old issue of National Geographic when I'm suddenly captivated by what was no more than a half page article about a town with the lowest zip code number in the US Postal Service database.

It is an article describing in some detail the remote and mountainous region of Adjuntas in Puerto Rico. The article goes on to describe the annual patron saints festivities and how the region was long ago regarded as the "Land of the Gods" by the local Taino natives prior to Columbus making landfall and proclaiming the island and all its possessions as belonging to the King of Spain.

I question whether the local Taino chieftains had any comprehension whatsoever of what might Admirante Cristobal might have proclaimed at the time and find myself distracted yet again of the topic at hand and can't help but think back to a purported incident early on in the NASA space exploration program.

After conducting simulated lunar landing tests one day on a remote and rocky tract of Arizona terrain, NASA technicians approach two Navajo natives who had been observing the proceedings from a discrete distance.

When the elderly of the two natives was asked in jest to record a message for NASA astronauts to deliver to the residents living on the moon, the old Navajo recorded the following in his native Navajo tongue... "Beware of the white man, for he comes to take your land"....

In any event I find myself mesmerized after reading and re-reading that half page article in National Geographic. It's somewhat cold inside that barbershop and I'm wearing an all weather-proof jacket to keep the cold out.

Yet somehow I'm suddenly transported back to a time and place in that mountainous town of Adjuntas that I previously had an opportunity to visit. In my mind I can vividly recall the sheer beauty of the surrounding mountains and of the dense tropical foliage. I can distinctly recall the sweet scent of the earth after an early morning rain shower and the rich aroma of a nearby coffee plantation.

You see, I had jumped at the opportunity to participate in the first national chess tournament ever to be held in that remote town. It is a town now somewhat accessible by the recently constructed "autopista" and a town that I had never previously visited before in spite of the fact that I had lived on the island for a number of years.

It also happened to be a special moment for me because earlier that evening, I had played and won a hard fought game that had lasted a grueling four hours versus the top rated competitor in the event.

My opponent was a highly esteemed three-time island champion who has since gone on to achieve the title of International Chess Master.

It goes without saying that I was immensely elated at having won earlier in the day and it made that beer taste all the better while I and other fellow competitors from that event all joyfully watched the pasofino horses and their attractive female riders parade on by.

In addition to cheering on the parade participants, we spent most of that evening ogling all the hot young ladies wearing their tight fitting jeans and short skirts while dancing to the rhythms of salsa and merengue in the town plaza.

Occasionally a fellow competitor would high-five me yet again and loudly intone my last name... "SSHHAAFFEERR!" Damned that made me feel good.

I've got my eyes closed reliving those special moments when I hear the barber calling out to me. "Your next." I seat myself in the barber's chair while still relishing those not so long ago moments of that special evening in the festive town plaza. The elderly barber proceeds to tie an apron around my neck and perfunctorily asks "well, is it cold enough outside for you"?

I had hardly had a chance to respond when he launches into an endless ramble of how he had once been a sheriff out in some remote, barren region of Wyoming and how I had never experienced what cold weather truly is since I had never been there before.

He goes on to ramble on about how isolated the place is and how bone numbing cold the place can be and how cows and horses and buffalo would literally freeze solid while standing on all fours out on the prairie and how damned cold it was and on and on and on and on and endlessly on...

All the while I've got my eyes closed doing my best to tune him out and I'm clinging on to the last images in my mind of that magical evening in the town plaza all the while wishing that the gentleman would simply just stop rambling on about cold weather. I kept thinking to myself... "please be quiet... please be quiet... please be quiet... would you please shut up already"!

I finally relent on trying to relive that memorable moment and I come to terms with the fact that I'm in Ennis, Texas getting a haircut from some ex-sheriff endlessly rambling on about the cold weather in Wyoming and how I didn't know squat about bitter cold weather.

That ex-sheriff chewed a good portion of my ear off with his mindless monologue that day... now I know how Evander Holyfield must have felt after Mike Tyson took a bite out of his ear.

(Memo to the producers of History Channel's, MysteryQuest television program... Bullwinkle has been located and can be found mounted on a wall inside the "Village Barbershop" on mile marker 50 in Marathon, Florida.)

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/data/2001/10/01/html/ft_20011001.7.html

Blondie-Dog, Hence the Name of My Boat...

If you've been reading this blog for awhile you perhaps might have wondered how in the heck did I come up with a name like "Blondie-Dog" for a sailboat and why not some lofty sounding name like "Sea-Adventure", or "Starlight", or "Serenity", or some-such.

Well, it was a pretty simple choice. The yellow trim on my newly purchased boat certainly wouldn't have been my choice of color and I certainly wasn't going to spend the money for a new paint job so I did the next best thing and accepted the color for what it was and named the boat after my blond Labrador that I previously cared for.

Blondie was indeed the name I had given to a blond Labrador retriever that I "kind of" adopted from a neighbor back in Ennis, Texas and since family pets are deserving of a middle name, I'd call my dog Blondie-Dog on occasion just to remind her that she was indeed a dog and that she had been adopted and that there was a limit to her house and car-ride privileges.

But "Blondie" hadn't always been her name. My quite elderly and frail neighbor who previously cared for Blondie, had for some odd reason named her "Lady" of all things which was somewhat perplexing because there wasn't a lady-like bone in that dog from day one.

"Blondie" seemed to me to be a much more appropriate name because of her pretty color and because she reminded me of the Dagwood-comic strip character, Blondie who was in my judgment decidedly attractive yet a complete ditz.

Yet I had other ulterior motives for making a concerted effort to endear myself to my neighbor's dog which I'll explain further along.

You see... "Blondie" suddenly showed up on the scene one afternoon upon me pulling into my driveway after my daily commute from Dallas when I was once gainfully employed.

Out in the driveway were my wife and two daughters who were being introduced by my elderly and frail neighbor to her new dog... a blond two year old Labrador retriever who'd just been rescued and adopted from the local dog pound.

Well you can say that I wasn't the least bit excited to meet my neighbor's new dog. It hadn't been but a week or so that her previous dog... an obese, squatty, ugly brown mutt and had finally croaked and died much to my delight. This after the obese mutt had once again relieved herself on my front lawn for the millionth time much to my chagrin.

That obese, squatty, ugly brown mutt had a name... "Daisy". But I'd always refer to her dog as "Tick-Dog" because of her striking resemblance to a big, fat, happy tick.

I well remember that one Saturday morning when I look up from my morning paper only to see "Tick-Dog" once again taking a dump in my front lawn with my frail neighbor non-challantly looking on.

I am silently seething while peering through a window at that dog all the while thinking, "Die dog", "Die dog", "Die!". Well I must have untapped mental powers because a week later Tick-Dog had to be put down and had croaked.

I've now parked my car and am now meeting my neighbor's new dog for the first time. The dog is somewhat guarded at first as I approach to say hello. I meet "Lady" and gingerly hold out my palm so that she can sniff me and get to know me and not bite me on the ass when I'm least expecting it.

I'm dismayed to think of all the poop that dog will surely be dumping out on my front lawn from here on out when it occurs to me not to get mad at the dog but to instead steal that dog's affection... and that is what I precisely set out to do.

I'd get home in the evenings and after a quick shower head on out to the garage, grab a cold one out of the fridge and head on outside to shoot a few hoops. Well Blondie could undoubtedly hear that ball bouncing from next door and assuredly made enough of a dog-fuss that my frail neighbor had no choice but to let her out so she could go run about outside and join the fun.

It didn't hurt that I always treated Blondie to a few milk bones that I secretly kept stored inside the garage either. Soon enough Blondie and I were best buds... I'd throw a rubber ball which she would chase down and then run all throughout the adjacent driveways defying anyone to catch her.

After awhile when she had tired of all the running about she'd get adventurous and roam the neighborhood and get herself into mischief. Neighbors were soon enough commenting about Blondie roaming throughout the neighborhood and I'd grin and shrug my shoulders and explain, "She's not my dog" and leave it at that.

On one occasion Blondie could be seen dragging an enormous prize down the street. Clasped in her mouth was the paw of a pink, four-foot tall, stuffed bear that she had claimed out of some body's garage... in pursuit was a small child wailing away like only an unruly kid in a grocery store can wail.

To my frail neighbor's dismay, I always would make it a point to call out to her dog as "Blondie" and not "Lady". Blondie would come bounding to me in a heartbeat while my neighbor's feeble attempts to call out to "Lady" went unheeded.

Yeah, you could say that I was most successful in stealing that dog's affection and better yet, Blondie for whatever reason would never poop in my yard.

Somewhat thereafter I couldn't help but notice that Blondie was no longer to be seen running about and playing in the evenings after I'd get home from work. Blondie had unknowingly to me been confined to inside my neighbor's house. I kinda missed not having Blondie running about and playing chase yet I had to remind myself that Blondie wasn't my dog.

I was only much later to find out that a number of neighbors had banded together and filed a legal complaint against my elderly and frail neighbor. The court had already mandated on two prior occasions that Blondie be confined at all times and that if the dog were to be seen roaming about the neighborhood one more time, my frail neighbor would be held in "contempt of court" and who knows what kind of a dire jail sentence would have been imposed upon her.

Some three or four years later one weekend afternoon, I happen to observe an obese, blond dog waddle out of my neighbor's garage. A delivery truck had shown up at my neighbor's house to make a delivery of some sort and her kitchen and garage doors had been left open.

It broke my heart when it dawned on me that that obese dog waddling aimlessly about in the driveway was Blondie. The dog was as fat as an ugly tick and had a sad and lethargic demeanor about her. Once again I had to remind myself, "She's not my dog."

Soon thereafter my elderly neighbor was confined to a hospital bed and later a nursing home after taking a fall on her kitchen floor and breaking both hips. She had reportedly been on that kitchen floor for a good three days before a family member finally showed up to check up on her.

Blondie had now been living alone in that house for a good three months or so with the sliding glass doors wide open to the back yard so that she could go in and out. Family members would periodically come by to feed the dog and fill her water bowl.

I too unbeknown'st to anyone else would occasionally check up on the dog as well to make sure she had plenty of water. I'd simply unlatch the picket fence gate out in the back and let myself in. There was a gawd awful stench emanating from inside that house not that I ever wanted to venture in there anyway.

At first, I'd hear a low growl from inside that house but after calling out to Blondie a few times, she'd come waddling out to greet me. It was obvious that she was no longer as morbidly obese as before as she was now being fed regular dog food and not a steady diet of sliced baloney.

One weekend afternoon while out driving, my wife tells me... "You like that dog... don't you?" and then proceeds to tell me to stop off at Wal-Mart for a few purchases and that I'm not to make any fuss nor am I to object to anything.

We enter the store and my wife proceeds to load up the basket with a large leather dog collar, a leash, two metal dog dishes, a box of milk bones, and a huge bag of Purina dog food.

Once home I'm told, "Now go get your dog" and as I once again sneak inside that picket fence gate to let myself in, my wife places a phone call to a family member of my neighbor and to inform him, "By the way, we have claimed Lady as our own dog so you now won't have to worry about feeding her anymore".

It is a brief phone conversation, one that I did not partake in but could somehow hear a huge sigh of relief from the other end of the line when that call ended. Blondie now had a new home.

Months later I take Blondie to the vet at the insistence of my wife. Surely Blondie hadn't had her shots in awhile and could possibly use a medical checkup as well. She was most certainly a part of the family now and had to be properly cared for.

Once inside the vet offices, I explain that I had only somewhat recently gotten the dog after the attendant had commented that she looked familiar. I go on to further explain that Blondie previously belonged to my neighbor and that she use to be called "Lady".

Soon enough the attendant is back with the dog's old medical records and is marvelling at how fit and gorgeous the dog is now. Blondie was previously recorded as weighing 90 pounds at one point and now weighed in at a fit 60.

I was asked what I had done to get her weight down and I responded, nothing... just feed her regular dog food and take her on long walks in the evening. The attendant couldn't help herself and had to call in all her fellow staff members to see first-hand Blondie's transformation.

You could say that I miss my wife and my daughters and my dog for that matter.

Incidentally not that anyone has asked but the picture shown above was of me and Blondie-do​g attending a poochie-do​g promotion night at the Ballpark in Arlington, Texas.

This was a fun Petco sponsored event. An advance ticket purchase entitled one to bring their poochie-do​g to the ballpark and join in a dog parade along the perimeter of the playing field before game time. Also included in the purchase of the tickets were two gift bags with an assortment of doggy treats.

Upon entering a stadium gate reserved for those parading their dogs, I was singled out by an attractive female television reporter and asked whether I'd be agreeable to a brief interview.

No sooner had I said yes, when that reporter asks what had brought me and my dog out to the ballpark that evening. And with that I turn to Blondie-Dog and feign asking my poochie-dog the question just asked of me. I then proceed to tell the reporter, "I think she said that we're both here tonight because we're both single and we're both looking!"

The reporter along with the cameraman immediately crack up as she responds, "Well you've certainly come to the right place tonight!" And with that I grin real big into the camera and exclaim "bye!!" before striding off in search of my ballpark seat.

A few days followed after that event when my youngest daughter confronts me to tell me that I had been seen on TV and that all her classmates along with their parents were now having a good laugh at my expense. She proceeds to emphatically inquire, "Dad! What did you say??!! And what did your shirt say??!!. All my friends are laughing at you!!"

(btw.. My shirt is a small fib.. if you're female, sensible and attractive​, then I'm interested​!)

Getting the gear stowed away...

Made my first pot of coffee for the first time in some six weeks since leaving Dallas... too bad the coffee maker couldn't run on DC current after plugging it into the inverter... had to cart the thing up to the marina offices and plug it into one of the outdoor AC outlets. The effort was nevertheless worth it. Especially since I didn't have to go chase a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

It was nice and relaxing to be able to sip on some coffee while seated in the cockpit contemplating the early morning.

I later got busy sorting through all the stuff I had retrieved from the storage unit back in Ennis. I got motivated once I put on some Bob Marley and UB40 tunes. The tote boxes are worth their weight in gold... pots and pans, canned goods, cleaning items, tools each have their own tote box to go into. Nope... there won't be any cans of rolling about in the bilge if I can help it. I even have a small tote box set aside for my cell phone, wallet, watch and car keys so that they are all in one place.

Drove to good ol' Walmart up in North Fort Myers and purchased a sundry of pantry items... stuff one buys once in a blue moon... olive oil, red wine vinegar, hot sauce, powdered lemonade, dry pasta and beans, rice, seasonings etc. ... couln't find powdered milk in packets.

It's time to get serious about the hardware on the boat... tomorrow will be a good time to perform a thorough inspection of all the wiring... a cursory look shows just too many splices in the wiring throughout the boat. I also need to check out the alcohol stove and make sure that it works. It's way past time that I start cooking my own meals.

Quick trip to Ennis, Texas and back....

July 16, 2010

Made the dreaded drive to Ennis, Texas to collect my personal belongings out of the storage unit that I was renting by the month... also made arrangements for an old friend to claim the furniture... she was only too happy to claim what she described as a winning lottery ticket and I was happy not to have to mess around with the stuff any more. I couldn't have thought of a more appreciative person to give my stuff to.

I loaded up the car with my tools, kitchen ware, photo albums, and an assortment of other personal items. None of that furniture was going to fit onboard the boat.

The drive was a brutal 2,650 mile ordeal in total... all done in 53 hours. Thank goodness for the rest stops along the interstate.