Cathy Salustri

Thesis

2010-12-17T08:19:00.000-05:00

I'm done! I finished my graduate coursework and I am done! Well, OK, not done, but I don't have to take classes anymore. I do have to write a thesis and take comprehensive exams, but, hey, I'm done. Very pleased about this. There is, actually, no other point to this post other than to say I'm so happy about this.

Of course, the thesis itself is going to actually take some work and time. And then there are exams.

Best not to think about much of that now. Stomach acid is never fun before noon. Actually, it's not fun after noon, either...

Buffett video

2010-07-23T14:39:00.001-05:00

Most of my readers know me and therefore know that I live on the Gulf Coast; I have since I was seven years old. So when you watch this video, understand that yes, I teared up at the bit about empty trawler nets, but I lost it when I heard "The Gulf is in my body/the Gulf is in my soul."

Where I live there is no oil. We were very, very lucky. I do not expect our luck to hold, and I fear that one day Buffett will sing this song about our little piece of paradise.

My heart is with the fishermen and boat captains on the impacted areas of the Gulf.

My House

2010-07-05T12:44:00.002-05:00

The bank finally foreclosed on my house last month, and I couldn't be happier. Honest. I moved out almost two years ago when I realized my safety was more important than home ownership. I had a frank discussion with a lawyer, who had a frank discussion with my mortgage company, and, to make a long story short, foreclosure was my only practical option. Since I was pretty quick about contacting the bank and trying to turn in the house, I thought it would come to pass rather quickly. Nuh-uh. I moved out in July, 2008. They finally foreclosed last month.

I miss the house, with its wood floors and Shag-meets-Doris Day mural in the dining room. I miss the curved alcoves and the big yard and my great wood front porch. I miss the big kitchen and squat doorknobs and fireplace that never worked. I miss the 1925 architecture and big overhang and old-fashioned windows.

While I understand and accept that none of that is worth my life or safety, and while I am OK with saying "the bank took my house" because they did, and I wanted them to- actually, at one point, I begged them to, I remember how excited I was when I first found the place. I'd been looking and looking and looking and nothing was quite right, although much was affordable. But when I persuaded my Realtor to show me this little bungalow, I fell in love. Underneath brown shag carpet were wood floors in decent shape. The kitchen was big enough for a table, although it had a separate dining room as well. The yard would give Mad Dog plenty of grazing room.

I remember, too, a handful of neighbors who welcomed me despite my skin color. Nikki and I made conversation about live in general; Gail showed me how to make macaroni and cheese from scratch. The family down the street let me know I was always welcome at their cookouts.

It's hard sometimes to remember that after all that came the nastiness and thefts and changes in my world view. Sometimes I get carried away on blankets of memories. But then I remember, in weird snaps and glances, how I felt living there. I was never safe, never felt relaxed, never able to let go.

When people who saw me then see me now, they remark on how different I look. "Happy" is the word most commonly thrown about, but I think I know what they mean. I look like someone who isn't looking over her shoulder all the time. I look like someone who can doesn't have to religiously attend neighborhood watch meetings to create the illusion of safe. I get that.

But every now and then I'll talk to a friend who is still in a "bad" neighborhood. I have one in particular I spoke with last night; he's raising a family in such a neighborhood, albeit in another state. And I feel like a wimp, a privileged white chick who couldn't deal with reality. I didn't even have kids and I fled; he has young girls and he stays.

In my head, I know I did the right thing. In my heart, I am happier and my life is better. But also in my heart are those memories that I tuck away and rarely let out- my first Thanksgiving in the hood, with Gail's macaroni and cheese. The weekly smokers. The sense of community. The smells on the 4th of July. The dealers down the street who helped me find Mad Dog when she wandered too far. When I let this things too close to the surface, I miss my home. Not my house, my home.

Look at me; I am living the dream. I write for a living, and I live on the beach. I occasionally work on boats, and I am surrounded by people who love me. Not owning a house does not matter.

But, wow, do I miss that macaroni and cheese.

Tides of Change

2010-06-24T09:14:00.002-05:00

It's time for a change.

Oh, I love my job working on boats, I do. But events of late remind me that every job- EVERY job- is work, and, given the opportunity, it can be bureaucratic and oppressive. I don't want to badmouth a company that's given me, on the whole, a wonderful two years, so I won't. Let's just say it's time to move on before we all hate each other.

The past week evokes a quote that my friend Shelly taught me: At the moment of commitment, the Universe conspires to assist. That's from Goethe, who I always thought of as a sniveling little bastard. Turns out he had some good thoughts in between the romantic moaning.

No sooner did I decide I would give notice at the boats (which isn't, really, because I'll still be there, just not nearly as much) did I manage, through some sort of divine providence, to get work as a kayak guide. I'll be running kayak tours to Shell Key and other local points of interest, which is about one of the sweetest jobs I could ask for.

So, no humor here, no angst, just change. Which isn't a bad thing. I'm taking all the best parts of my boat crew job with me, and gathering up new ones, like little souvenirs from roadside tourist attractions, with me.

Nothing to See Here

2010-06-15T19:25:00.001-05:00

As I cross over the Matlacha draw bridge into Pine Island, the mangroves fall away to reveal a gulf coast fishing village peopled with artists, fishermen, and locals enchanted with old Florida.
If Sanibel is the prom queen of gulf coast islands, think of Pine Island as her mangrove-encrusted tomboy little sister. Instead of beaches, walls of state-protected red mangroves surround and prop the 34-square mile island up on green water, preserving the calm, slow lifestyle of the 9,000 folks who call Pine Island home.
There’s nothing to see here. Nothing on Pine Island calls to mind other Florida coastal towns; those root-heavy trees protect, too, the island’s roots from developers and droves of tourists seeking New York, Ohio, or Michigan-ified Florida.
This is the Florida that our ancestors tried to bury in the muck of shopping malls, time-shares, and miniature golf courses. These are the people mocked by our Yankee heritage. Here is the land we forgot to love and then just forgot.
Nothing to see here, really. Instead of "cuisine," folks serve platters of food, and you can get grits but not gourmet or pork in lieu of Pacific Rim. You can fish the World’s Most Fishingest Bridge but don’t even think about asking for sushi.
Here we now seek solace, the waters that calm the noise in our head and quench the thirst in our soul. Here is a dolorous souvenir of yesteryear’s Florida, a nugget of land we forgot to offer the highest bidder before the government hit the brakes on the dredge-and-sell dream.
Nothing to see here, not really. Go south and you’ll find Sanibel, Fort Myers, and Naples. You can take a boat west to Cabbage Key or head north to Sarasota and Venice. Go east to Palm Beach if you must, but Pine Island’s too far off the interstate to travel, especially since it foolishly lacks shopping malls, Holiday Inns, and putt-putt or other golf courses. Just a bunch of crusty fishermen and shopkeepers, not much else to see here.
Nothing to see here, nothing at all. Just the present the rest of us traded for the future, and the past we sold before we knew we had it. Green and red and aquamarine and silver explode around the island as the sunset lights the streets, palm groves, and trailers. Shrimp nets draped across the boats behind homes remind Islanders of their heritage and, hopefully, their future.
Nope, nothing to see here.

Hello, Springtime

2010-03-07T10:28:00.002-05:00

The dove has returned with the olive branch and it looks like, if we're good, god won't ever destroy the earth with winter again.

Or something like that.

Hooray, Springtime, with your chirping birds and gentle breezes and longer days. Next stop, Summer, with face-of-the-sun hot, trips to the Keys, and warm sunsets while I'm barefoot on the beach.

It's like seeing old friends you haven't seen since you sat up and talked for hours after a bad movie. You knew you wouldn't see them for a while but you didn't realize exactly how long they'd be gone.

I Want to be Outside

2010-03-04T10:25:00.003-05:00

I'm waiting for summer.

I'd like to say I've been patient, but I haven't, and I really can't take it anymore. If I don't get outside and feel the sun soon I may do something I won't regret, like move. South. As in, Belize, Honduras, or Ecuador. I really don't care as long as it's warm.

My parents moved to Florida when I was 7, and they were the type of people who embraced the state rather than complain about its heat or lack of good bagels. I took it a step further; I am essentially a Florida groupie. I swoon at the sight of a roadside attraction featuring a stuffed gator; ride with me through the Everglades on 41 and you'll learn more than you ever wanted to know about the men who died building the road, gator populations, and water levels. You want to know about how we chose Tallahassee for the capital or where The Creature From the Black Lagoon was filmed? Ask me. Just be prepared for the long answer.

And don't even get me started on our seasons. The one thing you do not want to say to me is that Florida doesn't have seasons. Oh, we have seasons. You just have to know what to look for.

Fall
Fall starts around October, although this year it arrived late. The only way you can tell it's fall is that you can turn off the air conditioning and leave your windows open. Trees in Florida don't lose their leaves in fall, so don't go by that. Instead, look at all the trees heavy with citrus, because it takes a little chill in the air for oranges to taste the way we want them to taste. The streets are largely bare of tourists, and you might bring a sweatshirt with you at night. Floridians- true Floridians- groan, because we know what's next and, as a people, we suck at it:
Winter
Winter generally starts sometime in December, although this year it came a little early. The sun sets early, you can start to get decent greens in the grocery store, and the citrus is abundant. It's chilly enough in December to think about Christmas, although some years shorts on Christmas Day isn't unheard of. The Gulf and bay waters are as clear as they get (too cold for algae) and the sunsets are at their most brilliant and the afterglow lasts the longest. Only problem is that none of us want to be outside to witness either. Eventually, though, the days start to stretch out a little more, and we know what's next:
Spring
Spring is strawberry season, and it usually starts a few weeks before today. By the time the state fair closes, it's generally warm enough to think about shorts, even if you don't actually wear them. Strawberries are in fruit, and they are big, juicy, and on sale at Publix. In Florida, many of our trees change leaves now, so you'll see more blooms on the streets and in yards than you do in the fall. The natives, to steal a phrase, are restless. To many of us, this isn't warm enough, but it makes us itch for the coming heat wave of...
Summer
Hot. That's all you need to know. Summer is hot in Florida and if you don't live along the coast, you're screwed. From about April through September we have these glorious days that sparkle with sunshine on hot pavement and lukewarm saltwater that sticks to our hair and seeps into our clothes. We move slower. We stare at sunsets and love the twilight that follows. Warm breezes at night follow the brilliant streaks of orange and yellow that light the sky after sunset, a bold change from the pinks and purples of winter. Summer in Florida is glorious, in spite of and because of the heat that presses against your skin and slows you down and makes you see, really see, the green, lush vegetation and feel the moist air of the subtropics. In the summer you can feel the state breathing, a deep, belly breath that starts in its limestone core and pushes out slowly, each exhalation a tiny wave rolling out to sea, carrying crabs, starfish, and sand along with it. The summer has a slow, sensuous rhythm that pulses through paradise with deliberate, meandering pace. If winter is big bands and classical music, summer is sambas and salsas and Motown and blues.

And it isn't here soon enough for me. I can taste it in the air some days, and I know it's coming, although for now I'm stuck with this bitter cold of winter that eclipsed the start of our spring. I hope we go straight through; I don't need a spring this year if I can have the feeling in my toes back anytime soon.

It's not just that I hate the cold, although I do. It's that I am like a child the night before going to Disney World: all wiggles in my seat, anticipating all the things I can do when we finally get there. I'll take my new kayak out to watch the sunset at Fort DeSoto; I can ride my bike along the beach again. I can start swimming at the city pool again. I'll be able to dip in the water, fish at sunset, walk along the beach... the possibilities are endless, and I am doing the equivalent of a four-year-old child's pee-pee dance, waiting to open my front door one morning and smell the summer air.

When almost everything you love involves the outdoors, winter is like a horrible punishment from a parent. And a particularly
harsh winter is like a Brothers Grimm fairy tale with a particularly wicked stepmother. All I want is to be outside and feel the sun on my face and the warm breeze through hair that becomes an impossible mass of curly humidity. I want to taste salt on my tongue. I want to be hot and sweaty from walking Calypso. I want to be immersed in artificial air conditioning after a day on a boat, dodging a sunburn with hats and gallons and gallons of sunscreen. I want to be hot at 8 a.m. and still hot when the sun goes down almost 13 hours later. I want to feel alive in the heat.

I want to be outside.

Jay

2010-03-01T10:42:00.003-05:00

I guess I should have written this a few weeks ago, but I’m not much for what I call Hallmark Holidays. My friends and I celebrate our own weird little set of holidays- last year we held the First Annual Spanksmas!, which is not nearly as kinky as it sounds- but commercial holidays fly right by me.

But enough about me and my strange holidays.

I don’t understand how the world has so many single people in it who desperately do not want to be single. I mean, I never particularly cared if I had a boyfriend (is that the appropriate term for me to use as I stomp into middle age?), but I’ve never been single for long. That’s not bragging; more of a curiosity, because it seems to me the world is riddled with singles who want, more than anything, a warm hand in the moonlight and a pair of lips on New Year's Eve.

Take my friend Jay and yes, that is his real name, largely because I’m too lazy to make one up but also because he doesn’t care. Jay is, by anyone’s definition, a Good Guy. By Good Guy, I mean the sort of guy who will hear you like Snuggies and go buy you one, or make you a mix tape of Christmas music because he thinks you will like it. He does not need to have a romantic interest in you to do these things, but it helps. When he does them, though, he tends to creep women out. I can’t explain it but I have watched it. I wish I could explain it to him, because it’s like watching a puppy go up to a really haughty cat over and over and over again. The best I can come up with is that Jay decides what he wants rather quickly and can be rather intense about it. Since this intensity strikes well before the object of his affection has had a chance to come to the same conclusion, they usually back off. Which, of course, perplexes Jay, who is a logical sort and accepts but does not understand irrationality.

What I don’t get is, yes, Jay is a computer type and yes, Jay is a little esoteric and snarky and often a little too intellectual in his cultural references, but he’s fun to be around and makes a decent living and, while he’s not exactly a hardbody (see "computer type,” above) he’s not about to collapse because his muscles have atrophied, either. He has no open sores and no ex-wives or children and doesn’t live with his parents. So why, then, is he still single? Is it because he’s so intense with his attentions?

I think it’s more because Jay simply doesn’t fit a woman’s expectation of what she’s going to get in a man. My single female friends almost immediately discount him as dating material. I’ve known Jay since I was 15 and he was quite a bit older, and he’s certainly never going to be mainstream, but I wasn’t aware that mattered as we all graduated from high school many, many years ago. So what’s up with Jay? Why do all of my single friends- many of whom desperately want to marry and reproduce at some point- eschew Jay and all men like him? Why will an otherwise sane and lovely woman spurn the Good Guy and go after the one who uses the back room of her apartment to build a meth lab?

Perhaps most women who date with the idea of a prize at the end (marriage, child, house on the water, whatever) also develop a picture in their heads of the person with whom they will share those things. Which I understand without subscribing to, but it’s a shame, because it leaves a lot of lovely women single and, ultimately, settling for less than what they want or remaining unhappy and single indefinitely. Very dangerous, this idea of placing your dreams in the hands of an imaginary man. I've always preferred to count on myself to make my dreams come true, but then I've never really had a desire to have children, so maybe I'm not being fair to those ladies whose uteri (is that the proper plural of uterus?) scream for motile, potent sperm. And in the process, while the Universe has passed several "creatively" successful men through my life, I've managed, eventually to ferret them all out and decide that I can go broke and make mistakes very nicely on my own, thank you.

Nice Guys, or Good Guys, really don’t finish last, I swear they don’t. After several decades of less than that, I stumbled upon a decent man, and I do mean stumbled; I’m so incredibly clueless about dating (I married young, back when flirting was more libido-based than intellectually so) that had it not been for Mr. Nice Guy Jay and a savvy girl friend, I would likely still be having adolescent fantasies and trying to figure out how I could get his attention. After a few decades of –let’s call it misguided- dating it’s divine to not be dating the guy who cleans out your checking account or steals your dog or cheats on you with your best friend and then yells at you for being mistrustful.

I wonder, too, if the women who always manage to end up with these great guys, or Good Guys, do so because they don’t have an image in mind about what the guy would look like or act like or do for a living. I wonder if these women, like me, focused more on how they felt when they were with that man. Oh, and forearms. Forearms and shoulders count, too. At least, to me. I have a friend who is all about the eyes and another who goes in for chests. But none of us ever, to my knowledge, sat down and said, “I will date a man who makes six figures and has blonde hair and wears Armani and is in a band on the weekends.” At least, none of my friends who aren’t into imaginary men said that.

And trust me, these women aren't ugly, unemployed, whiny losers. On the whole, they are thin, toned, gorgeous women with good careers, interests outside of makeup and shoes, and IQs higher than most. When I look at it that way, I’m not actually sure what they’re doing hanging out with me. Maybe I’m the funny one.

I don’t know how that career or thighs matter to much to men seeking partners, either. I suspect men care more about what women read and think than their career or hair color. I suspect they also find women who think about life, the Universe, and everything attractive as well, as they probably do women who find what they have to say scintillating. Of all my friends, you know who gets the most attention from guys when we go out? Shelly. Shelly, the lesbian, has more men paying attention to her than the rest of us put together. Shelly is beautiful, yes, but… how do I put this? No one finds out Shelly is gay and expresses shock. Stacey is supermodel thin; Leah has hair that would make Vidal Sassoon weep. Amanda has the bone structure of a Greek goddess. But Shelly… well, she’s not going to win any abs of steel contests, and she’s not going to be in a Victoria’s Secret catalog any time soon. Her favorite shirt in the world is a green checked thing that I think we’d all like to burn, and if you look up “cargo shorts” at Dictionary.com, you will see her picture.

But drop her in a nunnery and you will find Shelly surrounded by men almost instantly. Why? As far as I can tell, it’s because Shelly accepts people as they are and without expectation, which is, as a friend, about as good as it gets. If you have something interesting to say, she wants to talk to you. If nothing you say interests her, she will look for something about you that does. She doesn’t approach people with preconceived notions. Shelly, I think, would date Jay. You know, if she were attracted to men and they had anything in common but their mutual ability to snark.

None of this gets me any closer to finding out why Jay hasn’t found the love of his life who, in turn, returns his adoration. I still don’t get it; Jay is a lovable guy. He’s not Harrison Ford; he’s more of a cross between Rick Moranis’ character in Ghostbusters and Steve Jobs. Jay can be rude; he can be loud. He likes to sing karaoke. But I’ve dated men who thought Frasier was too intellectual. Hell, I’ve dated men who barely spoke English. How fussy do we have to be as a gender to turn down the Jays of the world? What lofty prize do we have in our heads that precludes a well-read, highly intellectual, fairly open-minded network engineer from our dating pool?

Because, you know, ladies, we have GOT to be running out of losers here soon.

The Ten Commandments for Writers

2010-02-27T16:43:00.006-05:00

The only response I got from the last entry (at least here, my friend Jay had a little snark for me in the land of Facebook) was from another friend who, like me, writes for a living. See comments of the last blog for more info, but it made me think... if we don't do our paid work because we're not able to express ourselves creatively while we're writing an advertorial on back pain or a guide to dog-friendly resorts in the Florida Keys, shouldn't we at least feel free to write whatever the hell we want on our own blogs?

I don't write here when I have nothing to say, which should be almost never; I'm chock-full of opinions. But I can't convince myself to publish crap, and I think most of what I start to write here (and subsequently delete) is crap, so many times I get two sentences in and delete the whole thing. I'd like to call it laziness but I'm more afraid that it's really chicken-hearted fear. Fear that when I'm this happy nothing's funny or eloquent. Fear that I might actually turn in a great blog post that I could have used instead as a column for Hard Candy (Hard Candy is a column I write for a local weekly paper. Blatant Plug: read more on HardCandyOnline.blogspot.com.) Fear that I might actually just plain suck and after a few more of these posts my mom will be the only one reading anymore.

Along those lines, I've thought about some things that seem universal to many writers. I've -I guess discovered is the word? OK, let's run with that- discovered these weird writing commandments over the past seven years. As far as I can tell, here's what Moses would have brought down for us :

10. Writers may or may not do their best work at the eleventh hour, but I've never met one who didn't do most of their work exactly then, so who knows how well we would do otherwise?
9. One drink makes most writers funnier while they're blogging. Several makes them stupid or eloquent, and which way it's going to go *this time* is the greatest crapshoot of the Writer's Universe.
8. No matter a writer thinks before it happens, once a writer starts getting hate mail or comments, the idea that "they're reading you and that's great! It just means you've rattled some cages! You're making people think!" or any other platitude goes pretty much out the window. In its place? Exactly what the hate mailer intended.
7.The prouder a writer is of something they wrote, the more likely it is that their editor/client/audience will hate it or demand a rewrite.
6. The more a writer thinks what they've written is unremarkable or total crap, the more likely it is that everyone will love it or, at a minimum, react incredibly passionately to it.
5. The sweetest and most horrific words a writer can ever hear are "We're going to give you an opinion column."
4. A writer is always astounded when they realize that people actually read what they write. Other than our closest blood relatives, we don't really expect that anyone gives a rat's red ass what we think, and why should they? We don't know what we're writing about an amazingly large percentage of the time.
3. A writer is not just astounded when they realize their boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/lesbian life partner (B/G/H/W/LLP) reads what they write, they immediate start editing as they write, wondering what B/G/H/W/LLP will think of what they've just written.
2. The shittier a writer is at her craft, the more she thinks she's just great at it.
1. Good writers- real writers- almost always feel like frauds. They lie in wait for the moment they walk into a client's office and hear, "You know, your writing is actually pretty terrible. We're letting you go." While waiting for this moment they indulge in a lot of self-flagellating fantasies where they end up living in a wet mildewy box under the interstate in the bad part of town, sipping box wine out of an old MD 20/20 bottle and trying to tie into the street lights for power for their MacBook.

The Post That Is Crap

2010-02-22T07:54:00.003-05:00

I am one of those lucky writers who people seem to read. Not just my friends, but people I've not met, old co-workers, and the contingency of people who will read me no matter what (this includes my mom, Shelly, and a few others) tend to check this blog.

And it's driving me crazy.

Because I've been so busy and lucky writing for pay that I feel like I have nothing left for this blog other than random thoughts. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to the "New Post" tab on this page and started a blog entry. Invariably, though, I get about three sentences in and realize, "Huh. I got nothin'!", at which point I delete the entry in frustration and soothe my ego by rereading one of my older posts from when I wasn't so busy with work and not quite so happy with life. And now I've created in my mind the monster that is that "Re-Breakthrough Blog Entry": the blog entry that will be so poignant, so funny, so thought-provoking that it will astound and delight even me. Energized by what I perceive as my success, I will start to post again regularly. I will write witty little things that make me laugh. I will recharge that part of a writer that gets recharged when they know they are writing not for money but the sake of writing.

As you may have surmised by now, that, has not actually happened. What has happened is that my personal writing has started to suck eggs trough a paper straw. And if that post exists, it's nowhere discernible in my subconscious.

The lack of such a post cripples me. The thought of such a post cripples me. If I were a soldier, I wouldn't even be able to get shot because I'd be lying in the back of the ranks, having a panic attack about losing the battle.

Well, today, that shall not happen, because I'm going to write a blog post that is absolute crap just so I can say that I've posted a blog entry. Hopefully, that will get me back in the saddle. But I do feel as though I have to apologize to any of you reading, because (if you haven't gleaned this from the title) this is that such post.

I could blog about moving, where Daniel P. and I decided to wheel a mostly empty 55-gallon fish tank down the sidewalk to my new apartment a mere three houses away. The wheels on part of the tank stand collapsed (turns out it wasn't meant to wheel down the street; who knew?) and Daniel P., with his ribs severely bruised from a recent kiteboarding "incident," opted to repair the tank on the fly. In the street. On his back, with the tank propped up over him. The poor guy down the street whose house it happened in front of got roped into helping, and I now feel obligated to take his spinning class at the gym, which really could be a funny entry. Me in spandex is always funny somewhere.

But that's the whole story and not a blog post in and of itself, so here it is, in the crap pile.

I could blog about trying to teach Luci and her two daughters how to knit. Luci has many gifts but knitting is not yet one of them. Her daughters- especially Jesse- caught on a little quicker, but I am not the best teacher. Of course, while I'm trying to explain how to cast on, in comes her husband, Randy. Who has multiple tattoos, fought in the first Gulf War, and used to drive a truck. Randy is what most would call a "man's man" and no one laughs at his recent affinity for cooking because, well, one does not laugh at a man who has many tattoos. Plus, he's not making petit fours. He's cooking red meat in lots of beer.

So, anyway, in walks this man's man who immediately gets the knitting and starts trying to coach Luci on how to cast on. They've been married almost 20 years, so they're comfortable enough in their relationship that Luci had no issues expressing her lack of a desire for his help. In short, Luci- no slouch in the tattoo department herself- did opt to let him live. Barely. For now. Actually, I haven't spoken to them in a while, so that's really just an assumption.

But, see, not that funny. At least, not as funny as it was in my head. So add it to the crap pile.

In the new place, Scuppers the Wonder Cat has taken to deep-throating the metal window cranks. He chews on them. Blog worthy? I think not. Crap worthy? Seems like it.

Somewhere along the way, I've transitioned into some strange version of a 1950s housewife. Every week, I plan out lunches and C. and I go shopping for the week. We then cook roasts and lasagne and chicken (not all at once) to make up the lunches for the week. While that all seems very Chex Mix in theory, somehow it works for me. Ahem, for us. And it, too, seemed a lot funnier than it does right now. Something about me donning a shirtwaist and pearls and making a meatloaf. But now? Into the crap pile.

I think that's enough crap for right now. I have no promises of it being out of my system. The best I can do- the very best- is tell myself it's OK to post crap and that I'll post again soon.

So, you know, stay tuned for more crap. It has to get better eventually.

The Struggle

2009-12-01T23:03:00.007-05:00

I've been struggling with something for a while now, but I think perhaps my struggle has finally started to wind down. It isn't anything like good versus evil or whether I should save my mother or my father from a towering inferno (I hate heights, so if it were a true towering inferno they would both be totally screwed), but it's been a struggle nonetheless.

You see, several years back I had this hideous marriage to a less-than-wonderful man. I was, simply put, pretty numb. When I stopped being numb I got miserable. Either feeling (or lack thereof) is not one I care to recreate. I finally left the marriage, but for the past seven years I've been petrified of accidentally ending up numb or miserable again. So much so that I've avoided anything remotely resembling my old life.

In many ways, that's good. I'm in a much better career (for me) and I'm doing things I enjoy now (instead of things other people expect me to enjoy, or things people I love enjoy but I secretly can't stand) and I'm more in tune with what makes me happy.

But for years I lived in this black and white existence where things were either Like My Old Life or Not Like My Old Life. And that worked. Pretty much. As long as I didn't THINK about my old life.

Because I don't want it back, not even a little bit. I don't even want anything remotely like it. But not wanting it back doesn't mean I have to change completely, which is what I did for a long while. I mostly wore flip-flops because before I mostly wore dress shoes. I didn't get dressed up because before I got dressed up all the time. I wouldn't be in a traditional relationship because before tradition almost choked the life out of me.

Slowly -we're talking seven years slow-I've realized that there can be shades of gray in my life. I can sometimes wear shoes with closed toes that aren't gym shoes, and putting on a dress doesn't mean I want to join the Junior League. I can admit that I love someone and don't mind us spending more than one night a week together without surrendering to some sort of suburban hell with deed restrictions and parties with Chex Mix and cheese balls.

I credit this to the people with whom I've chosen to surround myself. I suspect that what went wrong the first time wasn't the black leather heels (and really, they were supple and lovely) or the muted lemon Egyptian cotton sheets (440 thread count, and worth every penny they cost, which was substantial, even for my income back then) but the man I chose to be with and the people I called "friend."

My friends weren't bad people, but they weren't my people. They didn't get me. Neither did my husband. Is it any wonder that when I met a man who really did get me I charged into him headlong, without looking back, and ignored the whole circle who, honestly, didn't seem to notice I was gone? I'm not kidding; by the time my divorce was final my ex was talking about remarrying and I'm almost positive it was easy enough to slot his new wife in at dinners-- and, if I were being brutally honest here, which is my goal, she probably was a infinitely better match at those dinners. My mind was always at the beach or a boat or back at home, snuggled between yellow layers of Egyptian cotton, watching MST3K.

As for me? I was single and loving it. There was no one to tell me what to wear or what not to mention at dinner or what to cook or what color to paint the walls. I was my own person which, at the time, I took to mean I wasn't part of my old life anymore.

But if there is a danger in losing oneself because you are identified as part of a life to which you don't belong, there is an even greater danger in identifying yourself by what you aren't. I wasn't a wife; I wasn't middle class suburban Chex Mix bourgeois; I wasn't corporate America; I wasn't a lot of things.

I WAS happy, yes, but I was always scared that I would lose that happiness if I admitted that yes, I missed those sheets or hey, those heels are sexy and I would look good in that dress. I truly believed that if I admitted I missed certain luxuries--and everything I've mentioned is, indeed, a luxury-- it was like that one sip the alcoholic takes that sends her over the edge and ultimately leads her to the gutter, where her friends will find her face down, clutching a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. I was scared of ending up in a committee meeting that adjourned to my husband waiting to go to little Johnny's preschool interview.

I was, of course, missing the crucial point: I wasn't missing the life. I wasn't missing the social circles or the job or the husband. I was just missing things I liked. I also failed to realize that perhaps the problem I had with committed monogamous relationships had more to do with who I was allegedly committed to than the idea of monogamy.

And then I met someone. Someone who I, out of nowhere, wanted to look good for. I bought lipstick (This was a huge concession for me; after the divorce I swore off lipstick and stuck to the gloss.) Someone who, I'm now starting to realize, maybe doesn't think that love means surrendering everything he likes just to feel like he's doing what the world expects. Someone who I care about enough to try and make sure he doesn't have to pay for my past. After all, wasn't that decade of my life payment enough?

Before I get too carried away on the moonbeams of love, don't misunderstand. It wasn't just him. It was having friends that don't care if I ever wear heels (although I am a little afraid to wear Crocs around Leah) or if I ever live somewhere with a separate bedroom. It was rediscovering the friends that didn't pass the muster of my marriage, and finding new ones who didn't care who I used to be and I don't have to censor myself around. It's a very freeing feeling.

And with that freedom came not only the freedom NOT to be a Chex Mix corporate American woman but also to love some of the nicer things without the fear of anyone pointing their finger at me and saying, "A-HA! We KNEW it... you're a Junior League, born again Republican with Christian sympathies, aren't you? AREN'T YOU? ADMIT IT!" and then forcing me to drink the Kool-Aid and move to Stepford. That freedom allows me to admit that sometimes I like to drink wine that you can't get at Publix or that I really, for no good reason, want those strappy bronze Carlos heels at Macy's.

I've started to see that with this freedom comes the idea that I can look past the moment and see the big picture and understand that liking parts of what used to be my life doesn't mean I miss my old life.

I've come to understand the notion that I can define myself by who I am and what and who I love rather than by what I will never again be.

I've gained the knowledge that every moment matters too much to live in the past. With that freedom comes permission to set aside what I am not and live instead in the now.

I've realized that looking past the moment doesn't mean I have to stop living in the moment, and that love doesn't have to be a ball and chain that sucks me under the water; it can be a lovely way to just keep swimming.

Calypso Salustri | A Dog Named Christmas

2009-12-01T12:48:00.001-05:00

Calypso Salustri | A Dog Named Christmas

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A Letter From Scuppers

2009-10-04T15:26:00.000-05:00

Hi Aunt Leah,

I think I've forgiven you for not letting me live with you because I like the beach, but don't think that means you can get away with anything while SHE is gone. Here are my rules, and don't even think about breaking them. Unless you give me catnip. I love catnip.

1. Feed me. This is not negotiable. There is dry and wet food under the kitchen sink. SHE will tell you to leave out dry food and give me a tin of wet food if you think I deserve it, but here's what you really do: Open the bag and leave it out on the floor. Really. I swear. That's TOTALLY what SHE does.
2. Clean out my litter. Preferably you will station yourself in the bathroom for the entire duration of HER absence since you've laid the food out on the floor for me and would have no reason to leave the bathroom. Bags are under the kitchen sink and extra litter will be left out for you on the toilet seat. Until I knock it over. I never make a mess but SHE keeps a dustpan and handbroom under the bathroom sink and a Dustbuster charging on the wall under the bulletin board.
3. Dog and I share water, but Dog won't be here. Dog's water is on the yellow and blue stepstool next to the oven. I like Perrier with lime but if it doesn't look like a good year, I will accept a Pelligrino with a fresh lime. Please remove the seeds before squeezing the lime into my bowl. I also like a lime twist, which the bourgeois would call excessive since I have the squeezed lime already, but rest assured this is how Cats did it in ancient Egypt. Please take care to remove the pithy part of the twist; it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste.
4. Comb me. There is a red flea comb in the basket of toys next to the bookshelf. I usually don't have fleas but if I like the way it feels when the comb runs under my chin and along my cheeks. SHE will tell you there is a blue brush in the toy basket so I don't leave cat hair everywhere, but don't listen to HER. Also, if you try to brush my tummy I will try and bite you. You can rub my tummy, though, if you've recently moisturized your hands with goat's milk lotion that has lavender added. Otherwise please refrain.
5. Give me catnip. Look, I can quit any time I want. SHE won't tell you where it is but I've seen it and it's in the cabinet above the stepstool. There's a pink Kong and a white seal in the toy basket; you can stuff it in either of those. In fact, as with the cat food, just open the lid and let me at it. Really. I swear. That's what SHE does, true story.

OK, if you have any other questions please ask me directly. Don't listen to HER and her "rules."
S.

Why I Cannot Write Any More

2009-09-23T22:26:00.002-05:00

So I’m losing the ability to write and I should probably be bummed about it but I don’t seem to care. You see, I’ve met a man. Now, I know that sounds trite, mostly because it sounds that way to my own ears, but it also happens to be true. I’ve met and started dating an absolutely wonderful man and I am, to pepper this with clichés, over the moon about it. My friends are sick of my mooning and talking about it. I fall asleep thinking about him and when I wake up he’s already on my mind.

He does all the right things, like opening car doors, calling the day after the morning after, and on top of all that he is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And, yes, I do mean biblically. The first time he ever touched me I felt an instant chemical reaction and I knew right then: I was in big trouble.

And I am, but not in the way I expected. Not just yet. You see, the problem isn’t how very attracted I am to this man or how much he seems—for whatever reason—to really, really like me, too. The problem isn’t that he kisses like a Greek god or makes good coffee or seems to anticipate what I want or need. The problem isn’t that our work lives cross paths and we mutually and adamantly agree that no one needs to know. The problem isn’t that he’s looking for what I’m looking for and none of that seems to involve actually seeking but finding. The problem isn’t even that I’m more than a little terrified at how much I like him and could so very easily just fall into him and not look back.

No, the problem is that the better it gets, the worse my writing gets, and I’m afraid that unhappiness has been my muse and I didn’t even realize it.

I spent so many years yearning for what I could almost touch but knew on some level I never would again that I got comfortable in my longing. No, scratch that, I got beyond comfortable; I got good at it. I wrote passionately—perhaps because none existed elsewhere in my life. I wrote funny things—perhaps because so comparatively little in my life made me laugh. I wrote heartfelt essays, compassionate articles, and thoughtful features—perhaps because I had to turn my attention outward from my own heart to avoid and squash down the moldy taste of disappointment and unrequited living.

I spent so many years like that and now I find myself unprepared and untrained when I don’t have those things to ignore or deny. I am happy; truly and eerily joyous. I feel like a fundamental Christian who’s just been saved. I feel like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just gotten a new bike and an xBox. I feel like a woman who maybe, just maybe, could be falling in love.

In light of these recent developments it seems my muse—the fickle foul-weather bitch—has moved on to blacker pastures. And I have no clue how to get by without her. I try, I do, but my rhythm is off and the humor is gone and the pathos—let’s not even go there. I am a talentless hack and the whole world will see it very soon.

And the bitch of it, the absolute worst part that I cannot admit to anyone other than myself, is simple and unexpected to all but me:

I do not care as long as this high continues. Let me feel this feeling as long as possible and I never, ever need to write again, my heart begs.

If only she could pay the bills.

How to Bury a Loved One

2009-09-19T23:31:00.001-05:00

Notes on my death:

When I die, please do not:

1. Talk about how wonderful I was. Tell the truth. I was a bitch, but I loved you all, so it was OK.
2. Pay a priest or other man (or woman) of the cloth to either a) act as if they knew me or b) tell my "loved" ones that even though they didn't know me at all, they're sure I was wonderful. Please see #1; odds are I would not have liked the priest and he would have thought I was a bitch.
3. Allow anyone in my family to tell you what I wanted. Here's what I want: burn my ass and scatter it in water that stays above 70 degrees all year long. I have a savings account; take the money you don't use and have a lot of drinks. Oh, and Stace, get yourself wild berry gummy lifesavers.
4. Argue over what to do with my ashes. I will haunt all your asses, Poltergeist-style. Don't try me, people.
5. Do not, under ANY circumstances, attempt to have any sort of service or mass or what the FUCK ever. I have a clause in my will that the person who suggests this gets my bills and my extended family. You can handle my Visa but I assure you my uncles are a force all to themselves.
6. Do not call anyone not on this e-mail thread. You may all post a status on Facebook informing people of my untimely demise resulting from someone choking the living shit out of me (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's how it's going to go down) but that is all. Any tweets or phone calls with result in an Amityville-style mess of bullshit; real wrath-of-god type stuff.

When I die, please do:
1. Make certain my dog and other animals who live with me are cared for.
2. Refuse flowers, condolences, cards, e-mails, tweets, FB messages, letters, and donations from ANYONE who hasn't seen me in the past year. I cannot budge on this one, people.
3. Get the fuck along. I don't care if you all need to drink, everyone WILL make nice and love each other and hug and whatever. Anyone arguing gets the family, who I love but also have a genetic attachment to. See if you love them as much without the common DNA.
4. If anyone wants to disregard any of these wishes, go the hell along. Do NOT fight. I'll get their asses; I promise.

Ode to John Hughes

2009-08-07T12:34:00.002-05:00

This is one of the best blog posts I've read and I wish I had written it.

As for me? I didn't care when Michael Jackson died and, while I feel bad for Ed McMahon's family, well, whatever. Walter Cronkite is a different story. He was a legend and an icon and there aren't any more like him, which is sad.

But John Hughes? I'm 36 years old and those teen angst movies are still among my favorites. You know, the kind you'd take to a desert island to watch over and over again.

Maybe it's a generational thing to say (read: Cathy's getting old) but they don't make movies like The Breakfast Club or St. Elmo's Fire anymore. Everything's about bigger, louder, more impressive instead of story and plot and theme. The one exception? "Art films" that people in brown turtleneck sweaters and dark jeans talk about at length while sucking on unfiltered cigarettes, wearing dark lipstick, and bemoaning their bourgeois station in life and the bad luck they have not to have been born with more angst in their life.

Nobody makes happy-funny movies anymore. Hughes knew his format and his dialogue and timing. He knew that life has enough sadness and pain an angst all on its own without having to show it to people in movies, too.

Goodbye, Mr. Hughes. Thank you for the laughter.

10 Rules For Sailing

2009-06-21T21:00:00.002-05:00

OK, so it's late and I'm cranky (how many of my posts start with that line?) but I feel like we all need to come to jesus about something here. Namely, appropriate behavior while you're on a sailboat on which I am lucky enough to work as crew. I know it seems unnecessary. I once thought so, too, but trust me, it is not. So here are ten simple rules that will keep me from kicking your touristy ass back to Nebraska while you're on my boat:

10. At no time whatsoever are you and your significant other to make your way to the bow of the boat and re-enact any scene from Titanic. Why? Well, three reasons: one, it's a stupid scene; B, it's bad joujou to pretend you're on the Titanic while you're on another boat; and three, you are on a way cooler boat than the Titanic. Namely because we don't hit icebergs and kill people, but there are other reasons, too.

9. Do NOT shit in the head. Why would you do this? Are you not in control of your bodily functions? Remember that rule, the one where I have to flush the head, not you? Let me clue you in on something: There's a reason I do not now and never will have children- I don't deal well with other people's shit. I would really rather see you shit yourself than flush after you. If you must defecate, please remember to tip the crew at least $30. That is our minimum fee.

8. Harness your children. No, I am not speaking metaphorically, I would love to see them tethered to you at all times while on a boat. This includes anyone under the age of 13 and few spring breakers. If you can or will not harness your spawn, we reserve the right to do so for you.

7. Please do NOT offer to help me. Serial, people, do you know how angry it makes me to see you sitting there, sucking down a Miller High Life, offering to help me raise the main on a 50+-foot mast? You don't look like you're in prime condition, Tubby, and just because you have a penis does not necessarily guarantee that you will do any better than I am at hoisting the main. Yes, I know I'm a girl. Yes, I know I'm short. Yes, I know it looks hard. That's because I am, I am, and it is. But I'm at the gym a minimum of five days a week. When's the last time you went? Back off, Bucko. I don't need your help. You wanna help me? Tip me. Generously.

6. Don't assume the captain and I are married. While, on many trips, we poke at each other relentlessly and seem like we can't stand each other and I can understand how many of you would mistake this relationship for wedded bliss, rest assured that the only way we do NOT kill each other is by going home to our respective lives at the end of the day.

5. Here's a suggestion quasi-related: do not ask me why I am not married, as I will likely answer "because I'm not stupid" and that will probably just piss you off. Along those lines, please don't ask me any personal questions. My marital status, my children or lack thereof, and how much money I make on the boat are really not any of your business. I will lie if you ask these questions, and the lies I tell will be geared at getting the most tip money out of you, so, really, why bother?

4. Here are the answers to some questions I know you will ask, so let's get them out of the way now because if I must answer them one more time I will scream: yes, it really is the best job in the world (despite my bitching here) and no, it isn't enough to live on but we all make trade-offs as we go through life, don't we?

3. I don't know where the dolphin are. We have no fucking clue. It's a bloody miracle when we find them at all.

2. No, they're NOT playful creatures, they're actually pretty vicious. They have good publicists, though, so we're not really allowed to tell you about how they sometimes rape their females or kill other species of dolphin.

1. PLEASE don't try and help us sail the boat. I don't care if your uncle had a sunfish when you were three. You really don't know what you're doing and if you touch our lines we are completely justified in killing you. It's the law of the sea. Really.

How to Waste a Day

2009-05-24T21:48:00.003-05:00

So, after a week-plus of nonstop rain, during which time I rail against, in no particular order, god, the flying spaghetti monster and the Klystron 9 radar at Bay News 9, how do I spend the first day of sunshine along the beaches in this fine, fine county?

I'll give you three guesses and any of them involving something sensible, such as "going outside so I lose the vampire-like pasty sheen my skin has developed, scaring young children and making dogs quiver with primal fear" do not count because, as I believe we've established, I don't always make the smartest choices.

No, no, no... I go in search of two things that I have decided I needed. I search for reusable ice cubes and a Terry's Chocolate Orange.

The resuable ice is easy to understand. I live in a broom closet. Granted, it's a broom closet with fantastic light situated two blocks (ish) from the Gulf of Mexico, but no amount of paint or fancy wordsmithiness changes the fact that the place under the stairs where Harry Potter slept in the first book would give this place a run for its money, square footage-wise.

As part of my concession to this spatially-challenged domicile, I do not have what most might call a full size refrigerator. Don't misunderstand, it's bigger than dorm room refrigerators, but I'm not fixing Thanksgiving dinner out of this little bitty Kenmore anytime soon. It lacks a proper freezer, which is to say it has a metal box inside the fridge itself. This itsy bitsy metal box has a separate door (which is a generous way of describing it, as it neither latches nor closes completely) and can fit an ice cube tray and, if I get creative and employ some of the higher laws of physics, a bag of Publix shrimp.

The problem? I can only make six cubes at a time IF I put another empty tray on top of the ice cube tray, and even then only half the bottom tray freezes.

So I'm looking for reusable ice cubes. Wal-Mart, Publix and the Dollar Store can't help me. If anyone out there knows where I can find some, please let me know.

Now, onto the chocolate orange.

Friday night the rain cleared ever-so-briefly and C, Calypso and I went down to the beach for a bit, after which we decided ice cream sounded good. Because I was too tired to think about what I wanted and because I was very cognizant that C had his ice cream outside with Calypso, who won a gold medal in begging and stealing food, I defaulted to a chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles. It was quick and easy and when I returned Calypso was NOT covered in ice cream.

C, however, opted for an interesting combination: orange sherbet and chocolate. That got me thinking about the Terry's Chocolate Oranges we used to get my future ex-father-in-law at Christmas. They were milk chocolate shaped like an orange and they tasted like orange flavored chocolate and I loved them so very, very much.

So Saturday morning dawned, bright and beautiful, and I did some cursory grocery shopping when a teeny tiny rainstorm blew through. Almost as an afterthought, I went to the candy aisle in Publix to get a chocolate orange. After all, I used to see them everywhere.

Nada. Nope. Nothing.

The sun comes out. Do I notice? Hell, yes, I notice, but I really want a chocolate orange, so I drive to Candy Kitchen on Madeira Beach, where you can find all kinds of candies, ranging from those little red fish to wax Coke bottle candies, but no chocolate orange.

Then I try Wal-Mart, CVS and another Publix and before I know it I have to be back at work. I call my mom and get her to check at Target.

Nothing.

First sunny day all week and I spend three hours driving around looking for a chocolate orange. Given the history of diabetes in my family, some might say this is indicative of a problem.

I like to think I just possess great focus.

Conversation From the Gate of Heaven

2009-05-04T17:50:00.001-05:00

Scene: Gate of Heaven, exterior, day. God sits at pearlized desk in flowing robes, reader glasses on the bridge of his nose. He's wearing red Converse high tops and a Devil Rays cap.

God: So, what gift did I give you?
Me: You gave me the ability to craft words.
God: Ah, yes, I remember now. That's a lovely gift, isn't it? And so many ask me for that one. They have such dreams... so sad that I can't give it to everyone. There was this young lady- Emily Dickinson. She used to ask me every day for talent. But it wasn't in the cards for her. So many people write... novels, poetry, investigative pieces, they're all out there for the taking and so many people try to write these things. But they, unlike you, don't have the talent.
Me (shuffling feet): Yes, you were quite generous with me.
God: Now, that's what I like to hear. Tell me what you wrote; tell me how you used this gift to make people smile or weep.
Me (edging toward gate of heaven): Ah, well, see, here's the thing... I never actually finished anything like that. (Quickly) I wanted to, but, uh, see, you gave me such a gift that I was able to make a living writing, and I always felt guilty writing things that I thought were just for me. Indulgent, really. You, uh, don't like too much indulgence, do you?
God: Well, don't let this out (chuckles at own joke) but, well, indulgence has its place. And, of course, you know those things you didn't write because you were making money writing other things--they would have been lovely and I would have helped you get them published.
Me: Really? I mean, you know agents and stuff? (Catches self, stops, clears throat) What I meant was, oh. Thank you. And I'm sorry.
God: Oh, no need to be sorry. You wrote; you used the gift. What did you write?
Me: Uh, I wrote for a weekly paper.
God: (claps hands together eagerly) Oh, a journalist! The fourth estate! How lovely. I bet you did investigative pieces, didn't you? You probably saved lives with an expose of the sausage industry or something like that, didn't you? Oh, how noble to sacrifice your personal writing to turn in pieces that changed the world around you. Did you save any babies? I love it when reporters save babies with something they've written!
Me (sweating now): You're toying with me, aren't you?
God: Pardon? Didn't you save people?
Me: Er, not exactly.
God: Well, what did you do with this gift I gave you?
Me: I reported on local news.
God: You mean, local investigative pieces? Oh, well, not to worry. Many small-town reporters don't feel like they made a difference, but trust me, they do. I mean, I do kind of know most everything.
Me: (chuckles nervously) Heh. Glad you think so.
God: So tell me, what's the last thing you wrote?
Me: Erm, uh, well, I was working on my column when, uh, I died.
God: (claps hands as a child would) Oh, goody. I love opinion pieces. I bet you were well-thought-out and logical and made points that changed people's way of seeing the world.
Me (under my breath): I'll take that bet.
God: What was the column about, anyway?
Me: Well, I'm not really comfortable discussing a work in progress...
God (sighs): Writers. OK, what was the last one about?
Me: Mooring fields and boats.
God: Boats?
Me: Uh, yeah. (Gets excited) I talked about people who didn't like boats and how they should move out of Florida.
God: And, um, what did you expect to change with that column?
Me: Um, it was more of a venting thing.
God: Could I see a copy of last week's paper, please?
Archangel enters stage left, hands God newspaper, exits stage right. God thumbs through paper.
God: I see you discuss moving the city's kayak launch and reviewed Little Mary Sunshine.
Me: Um, yes.
God: OOOH! And here's something really riveting- a photo of two musicians eating cheese. (clears throat) Would you care to explain, Miss Salustri, exactly what you did with your me-given talent?
Me: You're looking at it, sir.
God: This is IT? Emily Dickinson, Chelsea Handler, David Sedaris--they all would have killed for your talent. And what do you do with it? Review community theatre? Write about kayak launches? Tell people to move?
Me: I'm going to hell, aren't I, sir?
God: No, not exactly. I'm sending you back to write for Fox News.

Forever Days

2008-12-13T08:51:00.004-05:00

You know how when you're a kid you think everything lasts forever? You have no sense of termination. It was forever until Christmas, a day without your best friend lasted forever, and if you got grounded for a weekend (as I frequently did), it was the end of the world because a weekend was forever.

It worked the other way, too. There was no sense of anyone you loved going away. Your parents, grandparents, your family--they would all be around forever. In an eight-year-old mind, no one dies, no one goes away, and everyone stays friends forever. That's what all that "best friends forever" stuff meant.

I want to be eight again. Or ten. Ten was a really, really good year. Just because I work with people who have aged less years than there are between me and ten years old doesn't matter, I remember being ten.

Ten was way before boys and cars and anything like that. Oh, there were boys, but they were mostly something to be giggled over instead of fought over. Ten was a pretty good age to sit around and play games and ride our bikes and have sleepovers and stay up late. I think by the time I was ten I had met all the girl friends I would stay in touch with over the years.

I'm not so much for girl friends. After I discovered boys it seems like all my girl-girl relationships grew increasingly bogged down by jealousies, competition, and who had the biggest chest. I turned my focus to boys and squeezed my girl friends in between crushes and boyfriends.

Those of you who know me well, truly well, know that I don't have a good history with girls. In fact, most of the women I was close to in high school and college I want nothing to do with. I had eight friends in high school that I talked to every day, ate lunch with, slept over at their houses, cried over teenage tragedies with, and grew up with. Some of them have gone way too far upriver (I mean Colonel Kurtz kind of stuff) and some have just fallen away. After a series of hideous falling outs I decided that women were just evil and I was better off without them.

A few years ago I met Shelly and cautiously--very cautiously--we became friends. I figured that since she was gay it wasn't technically like having a girl friend. Which is about the stupidest thing you can think, because Shelly's actually better at being a girl friend than most women I've met, straight or gay. She is, in fact, such I good friend that I start to hang out with her and, on occasion, her friends and her girlfriend.

Since I judge people instantly (I'm not proud, just honest) I assumed they were... well, let's just say I assumed they were the sort of people they most assuredly are not. I spent a few years on the fringes, but the more I got to know them the more I really, really liked them.

And the more time I spend with them the more I can't believe that there are girls like this in the world. First off, you must know this: Shelly has the most beautiful friends. Leah, Stacey, Maria and Amanda look exactly like the girls at the cool table in high school and they dress like Sex in the City. They've all known each other since, apparently, infancy. They're warm, genuine, funny women and I feel honored that they so readily include me.

I'd pretty much given up on the whole girlfriend thing, too, but spending time with them made me miss people I'd written off and it got me thinking about that word, forever. People I thought would be around forever when I was a kid... aren't. People I love die. People I love get old. In the past year I've watched people die that, even as an adult, I assumed would be around if not forever, well, then, for a good long while.

Let me tell you about my friend Dee. I met Dee when I was nine and we were going into 5th grade at Belleair Elementary. No, dinosaurs did NOT roam the earth back then, but electricity was still pretty new. Anyway, I digress... Dee lived with her mom and her sister, but no dad. Dee's dad was so long ago out of the picture that Dee didn't remember him. She didn't know where her dad was. Her mom never dated, never--to my knowledge--even looked at other men.

When Dee grew up she hired a private investigator to find her dad, which I believe her mom was not at all happy about. Dee and her dad started talking and eventually her dad came to visit. Dee's mother was less happy about this.

Here's where it gets really interesting: The moment Dee's mom and dad saw each other--the very INSTANT--it was like nothing had ever happened. From all I've heard it was love at first sight all over again. To make a long story short, they remarried and lived happily ever after.

But "ever after" isn't the same as forever after. After a lifetime apart and a scant ten years together, Dee's dad died this year. I can't even comprehend what it would be like to not grow up with a dad or to lose your love and then find them again only to have him taken away after such a short time.

I can, however, imagine losing people I love.

When I turned 30 my future former sister-in-law told me that women spent their twenties focusing on men and their thirties focusing on themselves. I agree with her but she left something out: the older I get the more I need my girl friends. It's a wholly selfish need.

I have a friend from the "forever days" that I had a falling out with about ten years ago. She wronged me and, god help me, it must be genetic, I have hung onto that for near a decade, like it was a badge or excuse for everything that followed. I was the injured party, I was the one hurt, I was the one who deserved some sort of reparations.

The problem was that I missed her so damn much. Things would happen and I'd want to pick up the phone and then I'd remember that I didn't know where she was and, oh, yeah, that's because I'd cut her out of my life.

Except I hadn't. There are people you can cut out of your life and it doesn't matter. Trust me; I am by now an expert. But there are people--usually from those "forever days"--that you can't slice out of your life so easily. You've grown up together, you've made mistakes together, you've been stupid and smart and fat and thin and married and divorced and whatever together, and sometimes you have people so enmeshed in your life that when things happen to you, they affect them, too, and when things happen to them, they impact you just as much.

So when she called me last year I did not, as I often swore I would, hang up. I listened and she talked and she listened and I talked and after we hung up I went over to Shelly's house. Without naming names I told her about the falling out and the phone call. And Shelly didn't tell me what to do, not even a little bit, but she did, gently, suggest that it wasn't a horrible thing to forgive somebody. She offered that it cost more to hold onto things than it did to let them go.

Gradually this friend and I started to talk again and I still held on to a little bit of the past. No harm in remembering, right? All along, I'm still a little bit wronged, a little bit the one hurt, a little bit hanging on.

My aunt was supposed to be around forever. She died a few years ago, way, way too young.
Tom Merrifield died just a few months ago. He wasn't even 60.
Dee's dad was gone for years and years and he came back and they had him for ten years, but he died this year.

So I think about the people I've cut out of my life and picture hearing that they'd died and by and large I've made the right decisions. But this one friend--this friend from the "forever days," I can't see it. The idea of just getting a phone call when she dies, of not knowing her, not being her friend--I can't do it. I don't want to do it.

In the face of forever, I don't care if I'm right or she is or who did what to who. I really, really don't. Because as I get older I start to realize what matters isn't being right, it's being happy. I say that a lot; it's a quote I love: I'd rather be happy than right any day. I could die tomorrow, or she could, or anyone I love could be gone, and then what? There will always be time to regret what I could have done. I most certainly will regret things in my life; I already regret a whole host of things. But I refuse to regret this.

I do not wish to remarry and I do not want children of my own. I have no brothers or sisters. Men are nice--don't get me wrong, men are very nice, quite lovely--but there is something irreplaceable about a girl friend.

A group of us celebrated my birthday last night, and I looked around the table and it was just... nice.

Laura. Dee. Sandi. Amanda. Shelly. Maricris. Leah. Stacey. There's no competition anymore. As you hover around 40, no one wants to have the biggest chest, because really, that's just a liability. Jealousy? Of what? We've all carved out the lives we want. No one wants my life but me, and I don't want any of their lives, but that doesn't mean we're not happy for each other.

Have we hurt each other? I'm sure almost everyone at that table last night has hurt someone else at that table in some way, but I think everyone there understands that having and being a friend is like riding a bike: you might fall, you might get hurt, but you keep at it because at the end what matters isn't that you fell but that you had a wonderful ride.

Tom Merrifield: A Celebration of Life

2008-11-29T18:32:00.002-05:00

I hate funerals. Even when people call them "a celebration of so-and-so's life," you can't hide what's going on: someone has died and some people are sad, some people feel guilty, and some people feel guilty that they don't feel sad.

Tom Merrifield died last month. October 25, to be precise. I'm going to go ahead and assume that most of you don't know him by name, which is OK. He was the guy who owned the banner towing planes that puttered up and down the Pinellas beaches for the past 30 years.

God, he could be a jerk.

What, you want me to lie? Have we MET? The guy was harsh with people at times.

A local beach paper ran a short article about Tom and made him sound like a friggin' saint. Why can't people just stand up and say, "Man, the guy was kind of an asshole, but that's what I liked about him. He was a decent guy who happened to be human, he had a scary need for companionship, he often spoke derisively to his friends, and once he pissed me off so badly I threw him out of my car, but you know what? The world needs more people like him, because at least he was real and not some bullshit chex mix/soccer mom/bridge playing motherfucker?"

In case you're wondering, yes, we had words on more than one occasion. The last time he and I spoke he got made at me, but then he calmed himself down and we talked for about an hour. And one of the very last things he said to me was that he wanted people to sit around at his funeral and talk about "One time, with Tom..." and remember him that way.

His friends "celebrated his life" a month after his death (today) so here goes...

One time, with Tom, we drove out to an airfield in Kissimmee and I backed the trailer over part of a gas pump.

One time, with Tom, we rented a boat and went fishing one of the artificial reefs. It was the first time I saw flying fish, and dolphin rode our bow wave.

One time, with Tom, we went kingfishing and we ended up bludgeoning the kingfish so badly--it would NOT die--that if FWC saw our boat we would have gone to jail for murder while they launched a massive search for the body. Note on that one: after we beat the hell out of this fish it still flopped around in the cooler for a full five minutes.

More than one time with Tom, we went fishing every week out of Tierra Verde. He loved to fish; he obsessed over fishing. He would buy different line and it wasn't enough that he had it, he'd put it on our lines, too. He'd fish off the seawall at the end of 18 at SPG; he'd fish off the dock at Tierra Verde while we waited for a boat. Of course, on at least one occasion I had to take the fish off the hook for him, but he loved the fishing part.

One time with Tom he bought Tom (another Tom) a crab trap and we put it out while we fished and then pulled it out later... and got a cowfish and spider crabs.

One time, because of Tom Merrifield, I had the coolest summer job in the world: banner towing ground crew. Without sounding too hippy-dippy, he understood what it meant to "follow your bliss."

As usual, now that he's gone people will realize what they couldn't appreciate while he was alive (I think sometimes his mouth didn't help, either, which is what I loved about him so much, I recognized a kindred spirit): he was a good guy. He was an asshole, he was a moody sonofabitch, but he was a good guy, and I am a better person for having known him. He helped me be who I am right now, and for that alone I should have told him while he was alive how much I appreciated him. He treated his friends well and when he liked you, you would not want for anything and he would work his brain double and triple time to find a way to solve your problems. Since he was a very, very smart man, he usually came up with a pretty viable solution.

I'm not saying this well and I'm not saying it very eloquently at all, but let's leave it at this: he used to hassle me about not dressing up and wearing high heels and a dress and makeup. Not only did I go to his funeral, the only one I've been to in almost ten years, I wore a dress, makeup, and high heels, just because it would have made him happy, and he would maybe have understood that I valued knowing him. I really, really wish I'd done it while he was alive.

Of course, he would have made some incredibly insensitive remark that would have just pissed me off and we would have fought, but, ah, such is life.

My Machiavellianity

2008-10-28T07:07:00.001-05:00

I'm not proud, people.

Last night *someone* told me my attitude about younger men and sex (bad idea, don't do it, go with an older guy because the sex is better) and my little story about younger men floating on their back (sexually, stay with me) and thinking they're swimming while the older men actually swim was Machiavellian. Mind you, that wasn't said as an insult, but I didn't agree that my ideas about sex and the older man (the marathon runner of the sex olympics, if you will) fell under the "Machiavellian" heading. So, because I let things go easily and don't worry things OVER and OVER and OVER in my mind, what's the first thing I did this morning?

That's right, I woke up, took a breath of God's beautiful air, closed my eyes, and let it go.

Oh, wait, that doesn't sound like me at all. Ah, yes, I remember now. I Googled Machiavellian, and because the internet is a wondrous, amazing thing, I found, of course, a quiz that will assess your Machiavellianness. Since we all know that internet quizzes are amazingly accurate and always groundtruthed by competent mental health professionals, I went ahead and took it.

Conclusion? My attitudes about sex and the younger man, NOT Machiavellian, but I did score a 76/100 on the Machiavelli scale.

And also, I cannot say "Machiavellian."

Fucking Tourists.

2008-10-17T15:53:00.003-05:00

If there were a draft right now I would move to Canada rather than defend some of these sorry-assed people who call themselves Americans, so disgusted am I with what I witnessed this afternoon.

So, I'm heading over to the beach for the afternoon sail when traffic stops on the Bayway. Now, the bridge isn't up, doesn't appear to be going up, and I can't quite see why we need to stop, but whatever. Stuck over Boca Ciega Bay on a day like today... there are worse places to get stuck. It's only after I've been at a dead stop for about five or ten minutes that I get curious and step out of the car just in time to see two or three people dragging a guy out of his car, get him on the pavement, rip open his shirt and start CPR. When I learned CPR they told us that you should always let the rescuers know that you know it as well, because once you start CPR you cannot stop until professional rescuers arrive and, well, you get tired. So I run over and tell them I know CPR if they want assistance.

That's when a guy behind me says, "Good, good for you, why don't we get the professionals in here and clear a fucking lane?" and, at first, I think he means to let the ambulance through. Turns out that was a little too optimistic about the human condition, because right on my heels is a woman who says, "I'm a nurse, can I help?", whereupon this waste of carbon starts swearing about needing to get his car through and we should all just stop and wait for rescuers so we can clear a path for him to get his car through.

Uh-huh, you read that right. Fat tourist (checked the license plate, he was) wants trained rescuers to stop CPR and move the fibrillating man off to the side of the road so he can get his polo shirt and khaki Boston ass over the bridge. Funny, too, cause his silhouette indicated to me that he may, in the very near future, need some sort of medical assistance himself, so you would think he'd be more understanding. I diverge, though. Back to our regularly scheduled programming...

"Hey, show a little respect!" another guy says, which apparently upsets Fat Tourist even more, because he now starts calling that guy names and--I am SO not making this up--next thing you know they're swinging at each other over the two people giving the dying guy CPR on the Bayway.

I threw up a little in my mouth just remembering this.

Of course, the paramedics showed up, Fat Boston Man took off (which makes me wonder why he was so damn concerned about it before) and three passers-by (two nurses and a random guy from Guam) helped the paramedics as they worked on this guy for a few minutes.

Here's what's messed up: most of the people who got out of their cars wanted to help, from giving CPR to holding the IV bag once the pros got there. That part is all very touching, but then there's this guy, this interminable asshole, this absolute jerkoff of a human being who just wanted to get his car through, and then I find myself looking down at Mr.-Almost-Dead and wondering if, had the situations been reversed, he would be the guy giving mouth to mouth or the utter waste of sperm and egg and life and freedom who didn't care if another human being died as long as he could get over the bridge.

THAT is almost enough to make me want to worry about nothing else but getting my own car through.

Almost.

My Breasts Runneth Over

2008-10-15T20:28:00.002-05:00

Why do bra designers hate me?

As those of you who know me well may surmise, yes, I went shopping this evening. I didn't have to sail tonight but didn't get that confirmed until too late to do anything worthwhile, so I found myself with some free time on my hands. What do I do with it?

Do I:
A) Catch up or *gasps* get ahead on any number of freelance projects that urgently need my attention?
No, I do not.

B) Go for a bike ride along the beach or a stroll in the sand?
No, I do not.

C) Head to the library and attempt to do some research for any one of a number of projects that call out to me with the increasing demands of a spurned yet psychotic lover?
No, I do not.

No, I, dear friends, chose Secret Option D, Torture and Feeling Bad About My Body.

Now, let me say that, by and large, I like my body, so much so that I posed naked for a calendar a few years back. I have no desire to look like... well, a more pop-culturally aware person could give you the name of a supermodel here, but not I. You know what I mean; I don't want to be a twig. I have a good body; it does what I want (and, on occasion, what others want, but that's another entry for a blog that my mom DOESN'T read. Hi, Mom!) I quit smoking (several times, but one finally took quite a bit back), don't drink to excess, shovel leafy green things down my throat on occasion, and, most importantly to my particularly family history, watch my sugar. I ride my bike many miles a week, crew on a sailboat, and generally move around. I weigh just over 140 pounds and, while I'd like a flatter stomach and a rounder ass (if I didn't have the Salustri hips my jeans would just slide right to my ankles, a carpenter could use my butt as a level), meh. What can I do? Starve myself? I like food way, way, WAY too much for that nonsense. Plus I have the willpower of a dog on a meat wagon.

Anyway, my point is this: I'm OK with how I look. If I could change one tiny thing, it'd be my breasts. OK, that's not tiny, but you know what I mean. I went from a carpenter's dream (flat as a board) to my current size in about a month or so in 6th grade. My current size is actually "38 Hindenburg" which, if you walk into any Victoria's Secret, is incredibly difficult to fit.

It was my mistake to try to do just that this evening. Hey, here's a handy little tip for all you salesgirls working at any shop that sells bras: if you can go braless without endangering those around you when you break into a brisk jog, please do not try to help me buy a bra. Find the hefty matron in the back (you know who I mean, the manager who transferred from Lane Bryant) to assist me. I have a lot of rage and, as I may have mentioned, I don't like bra shopping. You, blondie with the 24-year-old A cups, are merely a target. Serial. I see you and I see the little red concentric circles over your head. Back away from the DD-cup, please.

Honestly, it's not their fault. Really. Bra designers apparently never reached puberty and want to punish those of us capable of fully developing. I mean, come on, why spend all your time designing bras for those women who don't actually need them? Why not, instead, channel your energies into creating bras for those of us who want -nay, need our breasts held up above our navels?

Serial. I was looking at bras that cost $56 this evening. Do you have any IDEA how many idiot tourists I need to pander to on these sailboats or how many stories about city council I need to write to earn that money? Here's the kicker: I would GLADLY have parted with it had ANY of these bras that cost as much as a monthly water bill come CLOSE to containing my breasts in a fashion that didn't make me look like Maxine from the Hallmark line of greeting cards.

I mean, come on, here, people. My breasts are big (I think by now we've established that I'm not bragging), and I'm OK with that (they've served me well), but what's the big deal (no pun intended) in SOMEONE designing a few bras that actually fit me? Why must every shopping foray end in tears? Is this some sort of punishment for something I did in a past life? Is THIS what they mean by karma?

There's a First Time For Everything

2008-10-09T21:56:00.004-05:00

Our two Florida Studies program chairs, Ray Arsenault and Gary Mormino, are notorious for their research, their intelligence, and their unfailing ability to capsize a canoe. Seriously.

Last fall I wrote an oral history of Jeff Klinkenberg. After we talked for about ninety minutes, Jeff said, "So, you're a student of Ray and Gary's?"

I affirmed that I was.

"They're great guys. I love them, I do." That's a pretty close approximation, I think, to what Jeff actually said, but I remember with vivid clarity what he said next. He looked into my eyes and dipped his head down a bit as though he was going to tell me a secret.

"Don't ever," Jeff said "get into a canoe with either of them. They go over every time."

Turns out Jeff knew of what he spoke. These guys are legends for going over in a canoe in more bodies of water than the average person can identify. I laugh at them whenever the subject comes up. In fact, I think I laughed about their capsize-abilities as recently as Sunday morning.

Let's make that, laughed. I think we all know what's coming next.

Oh, yes I did. In a kayak I've owned for five years.

Was it in rough water? Why, no, it wasn't.
Was it in fast water? Why, no, it wasn't.
Was it in a crisis sort of situation where I flipped trying to save a drowning baby? Why, no, it wasn't.

*sighs*

I was putting in. Calypso was already in, as was I. Yes, I flipped my kayak with only part of the boat in the water. In my defense, the entry slope was really steep. Poor Calypso, she didn't know what hit her. One minute she was in the cockpit, looking out at the Alafaya, sniffing the air for recent swamp bunnies or whatever the hell she sniffs for, thinking, "hey, life is pretty good."

The next minute she is under the water in a kayak that she, not thirty seconds ago, trusted implicitly, thinking something, I imagine, that is a cross between "What the--?!" and "{sigh} so this is how it's going to be."

I experienced a cross pollination of thought between "I am NOT capsizing, am I?" and "Oh, shit, get the dog!" 'Cause, you know, there are gators in the Alafaya (and, used to be, manatee, who I like to think of as the unsung villains of the Florida waterways. Vicious creatures, those manatee. One tried to kill Shelly just a few months ago. OK, well, it hissed at her. She said. Which is, as we all know, completely believable and not at all delusional.)

I got out, saved Calypso (poor little puppy, it's hard to be my dog, it really is), rescued my dry box (with camera and keys dry and happy inside), sponged a couple of gallons out of my cockpit, plopped a slightly nervous and very wet Calypso back in the kayak, and shivered my way up the river.

THAT is how the universe repays you for laughing at other people.

Miss Kitty, Chinsegut, and the Big Sugar Band

2008-10-05T15:41:00.005-05:00

I climbed Mount Chinsegut, faced a woeful bull, and had a drink at Miss Kitty's Hilltop Lounge, one of Brooksville's finest establishments.

But first, Chinsegut. We arrived yesterday, had a tour of the hill and then the house, and wandered about the property. Brooksville itself is a whole different world when compared to St. Petersburg, and Chinsegut is even more of a world away. The hill was beautiful, but it's a pity USF is essentially practicing a tacit demolition or, as our tour guide/ orange pie chef/ Chinsegut historian Andy Huse put it this weekend, "demolition by neglect" with the main house. It's a three story wood manor house built in 1849, the oldest house in Hernando County, and a husk of what it must have been 100 years ago: the paint is peeling, the third floor is structurally unsound so we couldn't go up to it, and the house is falling apart. Thank god that wasn't the case with the cabins.

And, oh, a word about those "cabins": when someone tells you you'll be staying there in a cabin with no stove or microwave, what level of luxury do you expect? None, right? I'm thinking that we'll have shelter but probably have to rough it.

If "roughing it" means "the icemakers won't have door dispensers," then, yes, I "roughed it" this weekend. It was tough, let me tell you. I had to open the freezer door to ice beverages down.

Despite the rough conditions--it took almost ten whole seconds for the hot water to come up in my bathroom this morning--I had a GREAT time. I want to go back. So here are the top ten best things about Chinsegut Hill:

10. Rocking chairs on the cabin and manor house porches.

9. How dark it gets out in the country.

8. The slasher film mood of the Hill just after sunrise and in late afternoon.

7. Crumbling outbuildings dotting the landscape.

6. The steps that lead up to a platform in an oak tree.

5. Brahma bulls lurching about the property.

4. "What happens at Chinsegut, stays at Chinsegut."

3. Sandhill cranes, deer, and spiders.

2. The Inuit word Chinsegut means a place where lost things are found, and I believe it is so.

1. The Chinsegut Blues, a blues song Andy and Roy apparently composed last night around the fire. Quite lovely, all at once bluesy and soulful and fueled almost entirely by rum. Theresa, Emily and I joke about starting a girl band: The Three Marjories and the Big Sugar Band. T's on Facebook right now, telling everyone she found Big Sugar.

I think the Inuit name has some truth to it, I really do.

What to say about Miss Kitty? Miss Kitty's is all the glorious, deep-fried, bleached blonde, camel-toe, tooth-missin', two-stepping, stetson-hat-wearin', tobacco-dippin'reasons I am so glad I no longer work at a country radio station.

I loved it there. I could have sat and watched the whole thing for hours. I actually DID sit and watch for hours. The women outweighed and outnumbered the men and everyone seemed OK with that.

Top 10 Reasons I Love Miss Kitty's:

10. Dan Story and the What's Your Problem Band. OK, I don't remember the name of his band but I swear to you that it was very similar to that.

9. Dan Story wore tight Levi's, a big ole' white belt, and his shirt stayed unbuttoned while he sang.

8. Any band that can go from "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" to "You Shook Me All Night Long" is OK with me.

7. There's something beautifully tragic about middle aged women line dancing.

6. Similarly tragic and beautiful in its own right, I love the hopeful look the men get around closing time as those same women all start to dance in a circle around one guy.

5. Going to a red state backwoods bar with a college professor who was up for a Pulitzer for his book on the freedom riders and just being relieved when our group gets in the front door of that bar without any of the patrons noticing the Obama bumper sticker on that professor's Volvo.

4. The look on the same professor's face as he tries to reconcile his academic experiences with the bar scene at Miss Kitty's on a Saturday night.

3. The look on the same professor's face when we ask our barmaid what the red drinks in the hurricane glasses are and she says they're called "Knock me down and fuck me."

2. That professor and the other grad student (both male) order one of these drinks. I sip my rum and coke, feel a little bit like a longshoreman amidst some H. R. Pufnstuf sorority formal, and briefly wonder where all the men have gone. This feeling intensifies as the two men talk about how you can't really taste the alcohol. I flash on Grapefruit, Juicy Fruit:

Girl: "You can hardly taste the alcohol!"

Buffett: "That's the plan, baby... What you don't drink we're gonna pour on ya!"

I sigh, and go back to watching people line dance to urban music.

1. Miss Kitty's Hilltop Lounge has a My Space page.

Altitude Sickness

2008-10-02T07:17:00.003-05:00

This weekend I, along with a group of other intrepid travelers, will travel to Chinsegut, the second highest point in Florida with an elevation of 269 feet.

I'm a little fuzzy on the details but, as I understand it, this used to be a working plantation, a rarity this far south in Florida (most of our glorious, sexist, racist past involves the panhandle and points north of Jacksonville; all we can claim down here usually is pirates and malaria.) USF got the land through some sort of donation and uses it for retreats (this weekend is a Florida Studies retreat, which may or may not involve mechanical bulls and a place called Miss Kitty's.)

If I don't succumb to altitude sickness I shall report from base camp.

Thought For The Day

2008-10-02T07:16:00.001-05:00

"Matthew is a reporter. He's not qualified to change a light bulb." --Jimmy James, Newsradio

Well, At Least She Was Monogamous

2008-09-25T22:08:00.002-05:00

Apparently this woman and I graduated at the same time, from the same high school. Go Tornadoes! I have no idea who she is and, in fact, wouldn't have known this had another friend not pointed it out.

I'm so proud of my alma mater. We did such a good job with everybody. Too bad wild horses couldn't drag me to the next reunion (really, when you've got Facebook, why bother?); it should be fun. I mean, not for me, hell no, but somebody.

Is sex with a 15-year-old that the woman didn't herself teach really that bad? I mean, I know we're conditioned to think it is, but really, what harm is she doing here?

I'm just sayin...

SNL Quote

2008-09-16T09:37:00.001-05:00

"I invite the media to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine."
-"Hillary Clinton", SNL, 9/13/2008

An Open Letter to Bagboys Everywhere

2008-09-11T19:54:00.004-05:00

Dear Bagboy (or Bagperson),

I know I've had a rough couple of months here. I understand that I may, perhaps, be a little cranky as a result, and I apologize most sincerely if this letter comes off as bitchy.

That said...

PLEASE, for the love of GOD and all that is holy, sweet FRIGGIN Jesus, stop quadruple bagging my box of pasta!

I mean, come on here. I can't even walk in the store without seeing the big signs reminding me to bring my own bags and feeling guilty for forgetting mine in the car but walking in anyway. So here's a quick, environmentally friendly, petroleum-efficient math lesson: when I purchase a box of elbow macaroni, a wedge of horseradish cheese, a deli quiche, milk--which, by the way, has its own handle and DOES NOT need a bag of its own!--and a bottle of chardonnay, how many bags do I need or want when I say "Please put that in one bag, even if it must be paper"?

You take your time. Really. This is important.

Ooooh, no, sorry, the answer was not three. I can understand why you would think that, what with... well, OK, no, I really can't. I asked for one bag; every square inch of signage around every register screams at me about the damn environment and bags and how if I use one of your cheap-ass plastic bags the rain forests will wilt and marmosets will go extinct and we'll never find a cure for cancer and the ozone will evaporate and we will all die in a fiery explosion resulting pretty much directly from gamma radiation. What the hell makes you think three is appropriate?

Here are some tips for bagging my groceries. Feel free to print these out for reference; I know that might slow down your bagging time, but trust me, I'm not the only one who will thank you later.

1. Milk has a handle. As such it neither needs to be bagged in a plastic bag of its own nor double bagged.

2. This also applies to many laundry detergents, six packs of beer, peanut oil, corn oil... dude, pretty much anything that has its own handle doesn't need a bag. I know this is a tough one, but trust me on this.

3. When I--or any customer--ask you to fit something in one bag, that does not mean to put things in bags inside of other bags so I only have to slip my fingers through one handle. It means I only want to walk out of the store with one bag. Even if it hurts, do not try to trick me with double-bagging shennanigans or bagging my meat separately. Yes, I know about the dangers of e. coli, and I'm OK with the risk. I'll even sign a waiver or pay extra or whatever it takes.

4. My vegetables can mingle. Really. Should my avocado touch my plantains, it'll be OK. Really. If I don't feel the need to sheath them back in the produce section, I'm OK with them going commando for the ride home.

5. Please don't make faces when I ask for paper bags. More stuff fits in the paper bags and--this is your fault--it's so clearly a pain in your ass to open up a new bag, I know there's very little danger of me ending up walking out with five paper bags when I purchase three items. Think of paper bags as punishment: you abused the privilege of plastic bags, now take your medicine without being Mr. Pouty Face.

6. Look at me. I'm in your store wearing a t-shirt advertising to all the world that I crew for sailboats. My nails are not manicured; I smell like the Gulf of Mexico. Do I really look like I'm going to collapse under the weight of having my quiche in the same bag as my pasta? Really? I can take it; a midget with an iron deficiency and advanced osteoporosis could take it.

7. As long as I have your attention, let's be clear here: I, like the rest of the world, worked in a grocery store as a teenager. I know how mind-numbing it can be to work in a supermarket. But I had a manager who enforced the notion--some now call it silly--that the customer comes first. That meant we couldn't make obscene gestures with the customer's zucchini, ignore the customer to talk with the cashier about the blow job she gave her boyfriend last night, or complain about the management. Look, I've been in your shoes. I know how tempting the zucchini joke is, and I'm sure the head she gave your older brother was fantastic, really. Management does suck and, yes, they probably don't have a life outside the store.

But you know what? I'm 35 and that's my zucchini. If anyone's going to violate it, it's going to be me or someone I know a lot better than you know that cashier. I can promise you that, should there ever be such a contest, I could outperform and expose the cashier for the rank amateur that she is, fellatially speaking. Finally, management was right: I do come first. I work too damn hard to spend my money at a store where the bagboys treat me like anything less than fucking royalty. I know it sucks and it seems unfair--I mean, I'm a writer and sailboat crew, which is really just a notch and half above "drunk who lives under the overpass"--but if you don't like it get another job. Until then, or until such time as your board of directors stops charging me five bucks for a gallon of milk, suck it up, smile at me, and when I say one bag, give me one fucking bag.

Most sincerely,

A loyal customer.

The Happy Tostone

2008-08-31T20:03:00.004-05:00

I should have taken a picture, I really should have. They were that beautifully golden-perfect.

So, I'm just on the front side of 40, sleeping on a couch--albeit a very comfortable couch, and that's just 'cause there's no bed in the place--and I don't know what I'm going to do about my house in the hood, but I don't care.

Because I love tostones. Yes, that's right, I'm having an enduring and satisfying meaningful experience with twice-fried green plantains. It's like the Cuban form of the Italian biscotti, another excruciatingly gratifying food that also requires cooking two times over, except they're not nearly as sweet.

Dinner this evening: rice (I call it Puerto Rican because that's what Maricris makes and she's Puerto Rican, but it's just medium grain white rice that will ultimately lead to adult-onset diabetes for me), black beans with sofrito (the black beans recipe kind of comes from Berta Maria's mother, and the sofrito is a mixture of Maricris and Emilio, so it's a cross-cultural meal: Cubano y Puertoricano), shrimp cooked in olive oil, garlic and merlot, and, of course, tostones.

I'm addicted, I admit it. Tonight we had to go to the Publix downtown because I knew from last night that the Sweetbay by the house didn't have un-ripe enough plantains (I bought Goya frozen, which were good but just not the same). Thank god I froze half of what I bought this evening; we'd be Miami-bound tomorrow evening if I hadn't.

Am I in denial? Is it weird that, for all practical intents and purposes, I don't have a home yet have no desire to find one, need to move my furniture to my parents house but instead spend all my spare time cooking and seeking the perfectly fried tostone? Should it bother me that I need to clear out my house but instead obsess over the best recipe for am authentic Cuban sofrito?

Meh.

OK, so I'm quasi-homeless. I'm actually happier than I've been in a couple of years. I don't have to worry about my dog when I'm not home, can sleep without fear of a break-in, and I have relative assurance that when I wake each morning my poor pink scooter (which has admittedly seen better days) will be in the same place I left it the night prior. Apparently that whole "shelter" thing in Maslow's hierarchy of needs factors in more heavily than I gave it credit for.

Tostones, of course, are an even more basic need. I can live with that.

Yellow--er, Red--Submarine

2008-08-28T08:07:00.002-05:00

Ever since I saw the Russian Red Army Choir and the Leningrad Cowboys perform Sweet Home Alabama, I'm sort of addicted. I found this on YouTube last night, and it made me so happy.

It doesn't take much, really.

Great Guiness Commercial

2008-08-25T08:03:00.004-05:00

Not only does it drink like a meal, they have a great sense of humor.
Since I don't actually watch--or even have the ability to watch--broadcast or cable television, I can only assume that Guinness isn't shipping this out to the networks for prime time slots. No matter, it probably gets more play on the internet anyway.

Scooter Education

2008-08-25T08:02:00.002-05:00

Note to self: Do NOT "fall" off scooter on drawspan. Feels like giant cheese grater.

Scratch that, it IS giant cheese grater.

Trying to Reason with the Hurricane Season

2008-08-20T15:51:00.003-05:00

An open letter to my loved ones...

Dear Northerner,

Sigh.

Let's get a few things straight about hurricanes. Again. (Don't we do this every year?)

1) Hurricanes, also known as tropical cyclones, are very intense summer storms. I take the threat of a hurricane very seriously and do not expect my life would remain unchanged in one's wake. A category five storm would forever change my life as I know it.

2) That said, let's all be real here, OK? Simply naming a storm does not imbue it with hurricane-strength winds. I am sick to the teeth (what does that MEAN?) of the civilized (and I use that term VERY lightly) world stumbling all over itself every time the National Hurricane Center (NHC) names a storm. The NHC, a division of NOAA (the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) names any storm that has winds of 35 mph. There is a big- and I'm talkin' HUGE- difference between 35 and 135. So you'll understand why a named storm doesn't necessarily send me scurrying into the nearest bathtub with all my worldly good wrapped in Ziplocs. 35 isn't a storm; it's an EXCELLENT day sailing.

3)Maybe, perhaps, POSSIBLY the guys at Bays News 9 and every other Florida news station need to keep us watching with dramatic predictions that they exaggerated for their own ends, like selling ads and boosting ratings.

4) Also, the local news guys chief qualifications may just be "looking good in front of the camera" and they PROBABLY dosn't know as much as the NOAA scientists.

That said, I went to Disney yesterday and got so rainsoaked that I'm just now drying out. But it was COOL, no lines at the Magic Kingdom. We literally walked on to every ride. The only down side is that it seems as though my Crocs were not designed to play nicely with some Disney concrete (very slippery). What's a broken leg worth at the Lawsuit - I mean Magic - Kingdom?

Boxes All 'Round

2008-08-07T21:20:00.004-05:00

I don't even fool myself into thinking this time will be the last. I picture myself at 83 years old, arthritis twining around my bones, packing a banker's box with books, muttering to myself "simplify, simplify" and trying to decide if I really need to keep that trashy historical romance about Sleepy Hollow (I will, of course). I'll be as crazy as my grandmother (it doesn't matter which one, they were both a bit nuts in their heyday, although my mom's mom definitely made the cast of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest look like a kindergarten class off their Ritalin) but I will have enough a grasp on reality to know that I need more boxes, much like I do now.

As you may surmise, I am planning a move. Uh-GAIN.

This time it's because having a cracked out middle-aged man come running up to me and start screaming at me for calling the police on him doesn't make me feel like, to paraphrase the ancient knight in the third Indiana Jones movie, I have chosen wisely. Also because the St. Pete Police's Narcotics guy responded to my complaint about the related drug problem on the alley by my house was the first he'd heard of a drug problem on the alley. Apparently he doesn't hear much, what with his head buried in the sand and all. 'Course, since our mayor has his head firmly up his ass about the crime problem in the south side of the city, I guess the officer's only following suit.

I no longer feel safe alone in my home, and I am done. So much for the naive liberal of three years ago. I guess it's easier to be open-minded in a safe neighborhood. Ah, well, we all gotta go sometime...

But the good news is that the fine folks at R. W. Caldwell Realty (who have yet to trudge into the new millenium with a web site or else I would gladly link to it here so that all three of my readers could click on it) have agreed to manage the property as a rental for me and, should someone be more daring than I, sell it). They've been incredibly helpful, stopping just shy of letting me store my piano at their office until I settle somewhere else, even though one of their property managers plays (come on, Poul, I KNOW you read this, it'd be a great fun on a Friday afternoon, or you could celebrate every closing with a little song. No OTHER Realtor in town does that, I'm pretty sure).

As per usual, I'm not real sure where I'm going or when I'll get there, but I'm amazingly OK with that. I think I'm part nomad, happier wandering.

It's just hard to fit all the boxes on my back.

Fireball Island

2008-08-05T14:22:00.004-05:00

I love board games. My parents only had one child -- apparently I was enough -- so I was forever pestering them to play Monopoly, Sorry!, Chinese Checkers, or whatever with me. Of course, they worked, so when my grandparents watched me they got to play checkers and Chutes & Ladders and, once my grandfather decided I was old enough (four), five-card stud.

But I never got to play this game, and they don't make it anymore. Fortunately for me, I am not the only loser in the world who thinks that geeky games are cool. Rounding out the affectionately and somewhat offensively named loser trifecta of my friends, Emilio trotted this out last night.

Because he's that sort of person, he of course still has the box and all the game pieces, and the original price tag on the box. He paid $15 for the game.

It's now selling on eBay for about $200. I don't care about that as much as I want to be one of the kids in this commercial:

Of Jobs and Hideously Tiny Bedrooms

2008-06-17T20:06:00.002-05:00

I should probably get, as my mother calls it, "a grown-up job."

I am loathe to do this, (what the hell does that mean, anyway?) so much so that I've actually blown a few interviews. On purpose.

You see, common sense tells me I need a job, need to make far more money than I am now, but every time I go to an interview my stomach rebels and I feel like I can't breathe. Seriously, there's something about putting on a business suit and heels (yes, I have one suit and one pair of heels left) that makes me physically ill. So really, I'm acutely miserable just being IN the interview. The last one I went on... they led me to a conference room where I waited with nothing to look at but one of those motivational posters- you know, the ones with the black matte that have a close-up of a guy jumping two mountain peaks or two hands shaking? Yeah, this one said something like "INSPIRATION: DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR FUELED BY THREE MARTINI LUNCHES" and I swear to god my ass started sucking up the fabric on the seat and my hands started to sweat and every fiber of my being screamed "Get OUT! Get out NOW!"

I purposely made it sound like I didn't have the experience they wanted while trying to sound like I wanted them to think I did. Sound complicated? I did it on only one cup of coffee, folks. I was pissed I drove all the way to Tri-County Business Park to be met with fucking motivational posters.

The one before that I actually told them I would love the job... if I could work from home. It was made clear to me before the interview that was in no way, shape, or form possible. They offered me fifty thousand a year to market car audio components and wiring. It ain't enough. I threw up a little in my mouth just thinking about working there every day. I told them to call me if they wanted a freelancer and bought myself Chik-Fil-A, my new reward for wearing ANYTHING from Petite Sophisticate. Yes, I know it looks good (Damn good, actually, especially on me. I have nice boobs...) if you're into the Chex Mix Junior League Young Republican Stepford Wife scene (I'm not, if you had any doubt. Just wanted to clear that up...).

The one I was supposed to go on last week I canceled via e-mail. I lied and told them I was offered a - and I quote - "lucrative contract position." Shelly, who actually WANTS to work somewhere 40 hours a week (crazy bitch) was also up for the job- writing advertorials for "I Found My Doctor!" (dot com, of course) - and it just seemed wrong to go out against one of my closest friends when I really didn't want the job. She got the job, and she'll love it. I would have hated it within a month and been out of there as soon as they sent me a memo about appropriate footwear or why my advertorial on colorectal surgery wasn't peppy enough.

But I did get a paying roommate, so that should help with the finances. I miss Derek desperately but need a gross influx of cash right now. And it's just weird. I mean, this new guy seems nice. He answered this ad, which is much to his credit:

Despite any reservations I may have, I need a roommate. That's OK, really, except I worry having a roommate won't be like an episode of Friends. I am uneasy about living with a complete stranger, but property taxes and homeowner's insurance have made it more appealing.

So here's the deal: The monthly rent is in addition to half the water, power, security, and internet bill (generally totaling $200, $70, $40 and $30 at its worst, so $170 for you except in extreme cases) You MUST clean up after yourself and have some modicum of common sense. I pick up after myself and clean the house, but I fight being a messy person and it's all I can do to pick up after myself so I really don't want to have to get after someone else to pick up after themselves.

You MUST love dogs. This is a dealbreaker. I have a dachshund who is almost always with me. I have a television but no antennae and no cable, although there is a jack in your room. I'm happy that way, but would consider splitting cable with someone. You can smoke outside. If you throw the butts in the yard I will kill you in your sleep (see, that's a joke that I hope you got. If you're offended, perhaps we're not a great match.) I have a small parrot and I take care of her, but she's there and isn't going anywhere. She isn't terribly loud... for a parrot. Which means she's quieter than most parrots but still makes more noise than a fish.

I have a fenced yard (front and back). You can bring a dog that gets along with mine. In fact, the more the merrier if they're yours and you take care of them. The backyard fence is a 6' privacy fence; the front yard has a 4' fence. The house has a nice but smallish front porch. You will have access to the front door as well as a door to your room off this porch.

I'm allergic to cats and I'm glad.

Everything works in the house but I'm gradually trying to make it nicer. This means that I have workers there from time to time. Not so great neighborhood. That translates as such: don't leave your car unlocked if there's anything of value in it. Don't move in with me if you're easily intimidated by a neighborhood. I live in Bartlett Park, about 2 miles from downtown St. Petersburg off 4th Street South and 22nd Avenue. If you don't know the area, please drive through to make sure you're OK with it. I may be making it sound worse than it is...

I can be a bitch, but it's NEVER personal. For me (another joke... mostly.) I don't share booze but I do share food. Sometimes. I rarely share veal, citrus, or Bagel Bites. It's a crazy world.

If needed, I have a bed you could use. The closets are tiny but the backyard is ample. I keep to myself and don't spend a lot of time in the house. If my future roommate can DO things, handy things like guy things with tools and such, we can talk about the rent.
***
Jaye, my new roommate, has checks that clear the bank, no apparent criminal record, and an affinity for woodworking and, apparently, making corn whiskey. Yeah, that last part seemed a little weird to me, too, but as long as I don't have to live with a drunk I'm happy enough. He's old enough to be considered a gentleman, and he's originally from Virginia. They don't have many serial killers there, do they? No matter, Shelly (you know Shelly, of "I Found My Doctor! fame) assures me that serial killers rarely (if ever) prey on roommates or neighbors.

Whew! That's a load off.

So now that I have a roommate I have to fit my crap into one bedroom instead of two. You know, five years ago I got a divorce and when I moved out I fit everything but my clothes, computer, dog accessories, and furniture into six boxes. What the HELL happened since then? Do I REALLY need four ball caps?

Well, yes, actually, I do. Because otherwise I have to wear one all the time and they just get dirty and gross. This way I rotate. OK, you got me, I don't need all four, and I'll clear out at least two tomorrow. But I DO need the SCUBA gear, and the sleeping bag, and the sewing machine... actually, it seems like I had the SCUBA gear and sewing machine when I emancipated myself from my marriage shackles (my good GOD I sound like a Feminazi. I'm not, I swear. I just don't believe in marriage. Or commitment. Or... well, you get the idea) so maybe I never really fit into six boxes.

But it's a good goal, isn't it?

Yum.

2008-05-23T19:36:00.001-05:00

I love corn dog nuggets from Gillie's.

That is all.

Oh, their collards are pretty good, too.

And One Time, At Band Camp...

2008-04-29T14:03:00.002-05:00

I love Luci. She's the most realistic mom I know my age. She doesn't pull any punches with her two girls, and she's been brutally honest with them about sex and drugs, including revealing plenty of anecdotes about her own experiences, thus ensuring her two girls will, most likely, never have sex. Forget about telling your kids "just say no" and giving them that "why buy the cow?" crap; if you want to make sure your kids never do drugs or have sex, let Luci tell them stories about her high school boyfriend using sandwich bags for condoms.

Here's her most recent "Joy of Motherhood" e-mail:

"Randi Sue is going to a marching band party tonight. Damn, I should have put her on the pill during Spring Break... This is an actual conversation we had a couple of days ago while she was filling out the forms to pick her classes for next year:

MA: Maybe next year you'll get to touch Meat's (the kid she has a crush on) meat!
RS: I'm not ready to touch anybody's meat thank you.
MA: Wow. By your age I was already slinging it around like confetti. Of course it wasn't any fun. It was like being poked with a big inexperienced finger.
RS: Sigh.
MA: Covered in a Ziploc bag with a rubber band at the top since my 'boyfriend' was too embarrassed to buy condoms.
RS: Is there any question in your mind as to why I want to be a psychologist?
MA: Hey, if you even get a high school diploma, you beat your old Ma.
RS: If you keep talking to me I'm going to put in the wrong numbers and end up in a 'How to give a blow job' class.
MA: Don't be silly. You only need to take that if you're not going to college.

End scene.

I want my Parent of the Year award and I want it now!!!"

.... Tonight, on a very special Blossom

The Italian Toolbox

2008-04-29T13:44:00.003-05:00

As the end of the semester draws near and I can breathe a little more deeply, I turn my attention to things on the home front that desperately need my attention. You know the sort of thing I speak of: the fence that's half-installed, half lying in a tidy pile in the side year; the living room walls that need trim paint; and don't even get me started on my fireplace. So I figure that since my classes are technically over I can start with something small and get a jump on the summer, even though I have to grade some papers for my grad assistantship.

I have caulk. I have knife. I have prior experience, albeit it wasn't necessarily a GOOD experience. So I settle into my bathtub and take out the old crappy caulk. When I've got the bulk of it removed I reach for mineral spirits, acetone, or even rubbing alcohol to remove the skin that's left and clean up so I can caulk.

Nothing. Nada. I have nothing on hand that will do this. Now, since I need to caulk the tub so I can, oh, I don't know, shower in the near future, I'm debating a run to Home Depot when I realize that, as a proper Italian, I do have something on hand that'll get the job done.

I go to my refrigerator and pull out... Yup, you guessed it: booze. See, in my fridge I have raki, a yummy little bottle filled with, as far as I can tell, ethyl alcohol mixed with some anise for flavor. Despite its yummy peppermint taste, I can't drink the stuff much, like more than a very diluted shot once every few years. I honestly can't say why this stuff is even in my fridge, but at the moment I don't care because it's saving me a trip to the store and a lot of work in cleanup.

So I clean up the caulk in the tub, then wash my hands in raki. Then I notice that I have some caulk on my leg, so I use a little more raki to get that off. Oh, what's that- a spot on my foot? No problem, I just scrub with a bit of raki and it comes right off. It's about this time when I realize that the bathroom reeks of liquor, which means I must smell like a wino with an expensive palate. Of course, I just caulked the tub, so I can't take a shower.

And then I remember: I have a class tonight. Yes, I know I said I was done with classes, and I am - technically. I mean, I'm not a student in a class meeting this evening. No, my class tonight is the one I'm TA'ing. So NOT appropriate to show up smelling like I just, well, bathed in liquor.

But at least the tub looks better.

The Pirate Clown

2008-04-08T15:50:00.003-05:00

While I'm not much for sharing anything, especially my living quarters, I do enjoy Derek, my occasional roommate. Derek started out as a dog sitter, then dubbed himself "dog nanny" (which makes us BOTH sound more pretentious then we could ever aspire to be), and finally just started calling himself my roommate.

Here's what I like about Derek:

1. He calls himself my roommate even when he's on tour in Europe or traveling with the circus. No, I am not speaking metaphorically. Derek's a real live clown. No, he does NOT wear the big shoes and red nose for fun.

2. I can't piss him off. Which, aside from being a rare gift, is just refreshing, really.

3. He has more issues than I do. Before anyone who knows us both really, really well starts hollering that I'm lying, please think in terms of quantity, not quality.

4. On the rare occasions I feel compelled to groom, he has adequate hair product and other girly things around. Yes, he's gay, but that's not why: he's an actor and they tend to carry a lot of weird baggage, both emotionally and physically. Case in point: I just brushed my teeth (see? I groom!) and noticed that my household had somehow magically acquired fingernail polish remover. So, should I ever purchase a nail polish other than clear or attempt to paint my nails at home, I'm all set.

5. When I got butchered by a hair stylist who made me look like... well, picture the butchiest, burliest, manliest lesbian you've ever seen on TV (they don't get this severe in real life), then give her an even worse haircut. That was me. Anyway, when I got that haircut, he's one of a precious few people who just admitted it made me look like a lesbian trying to look like Dudley Moore. He actually laughed at me, which made me laugh, which made me not cry, which was where I was headed when I looked in the mirror. As we've established I'm not all about the grooming, you could well ascertain that this was a truly hideous look for me.

6. He teaches my bird words like "lesbian". Rather than choosing to believe that he's plotting against me, I like to think he's educating her in diversity.

7. He will tell me without compunction that I am living like a bachelor and should probably make more of an effort to swap out the milk carton every couple of months.

8. He's a vegetarian so I never have to worry about him stealing my leftovers.

9. We have nothing in common except an intolerance for the bourgeois,a desire to make money without wearing pantyhose, and ugly, wicked senses of humor.

10. He likes pirates, too. In fact (the point of all this), he's in American Stage's Pirates of Penzance, opening this week in the park. Pay what you can nights are Wednesday and Thursday, and after that it's something like $20.

Go see Derek. In choices in keeping with American Stage's artistic choices for their park shows, they've departed from the traditional Gilbert & Sullivan opera. Derek's gonna have mutton chops and an afro; you can't miss him.

Oh, yeah, for more info, visit AmStage's web site.

Florida Studies Margarita

2008-03-28T16:24:00.003-05:00

Ever since I took the Florida Foodways class (see Karma's a Bitch for more on that) I've been preoccupied with the idea of a Florida cocktail. I even attempted to research it, which, according to my professor, didn't work out for me, but hey, that could have been the whole itching powder thing a few years back or just crappy research on my part. Whatever. Anyway, when I couldn't find a definitive Florida cocktail, I got to thinking that I could come up with one. I worked with key lime margaritas for a while, but when the Florida Studies program went to Fisheating Creek a few months ago, I grabbed a handful of sour oranges growing wild there. I wasted that batch on a sour orange pie that I didn't really care for, but when the faculty went back last week two of them were kind enough to make sure I got a fresh batch. I'll try sour orange pie again, but until then...

Florida Studies Margarita

Mull all but one slice of key lime covered with a healthy dose of Tupelo honey (purchased on north Florida field trip with the Florida Geography class); add to shaker.
Add ice, and then...
5 counts tequila,
4 counts triple sec,
and the juice from one sour orange.

See? Higher education... it's a good thing!
Shake. Serve with or without ice; garnish with key lime slice.

Sweet Home Leningrad

2008-03-28T14:07:00.002-05:00

Never let it be said that I'm not getting anything out of grad school.

One of my professors passed this along to me, citing it as proof that globalization has happened After I watched the video I couldn't really argue with him.

According to tothepointnews.com, here's the background:

"Back in the days of the Soviet Union, the Soviet Red Army had an official choir composed of male soldiers and musicians. It still exists. The Red Army Choir performs throughout Russia to this day.

"Now consider the Finnish rock band called The Leningrad Cowboys. A little while ago, they held a concert in Russia, in which - to the screaming applause of Russkie teen-agers - they got the Red Army Choir to join them on stage for a performance of Sweet Home Alabama. In English."

I'm gonna go put on my Skynard t-shirt.

Mutiny

2008-03-13T09:32:00.003-05:00

I want to preface this by saying that I love the Florida Studies Program at USF St. Petersburg, and this little tale should in no way reflect negatively upon it.

I do, however, have a very different word for a certain other program at USF.

See, I've gone on a few excursions with FSP this semester. I spent a weekend at Fisheating Creek, playing with wild hogs and battling water lettuce. I went to North Florida and ate Apalachicola oysters. I had a great time and had absolutely no reason to believe this trip would be any different.

I should have realized the potential for problems when I realized that this trip was organized somewhat outside the program.

We were supposed to leave Friday morning, sail to Cabbage Key, and come home early Tuesday morning. All for $120, which included most of the meals. Sounds fantastic, right? I agree. So much so that I talked two of my friends into signing up for the undergraduate section of the class.

Well, Friday dawned windy and cold, so they (and I'm carefully leaving out references to who "they" are) postponed the trip for a day. Saturday rolls around and I head down to the docks. Still windy but we're leaving. As we're about to push off, I ask about our itinerary. I mean, we lost a day, so how are we going to get to Cabbage Key?

That's when I should have run screaming, because the answer indicated that we didn't really have a plan. Now, I am the master of no plans, love not having a plan, don't really believe in them. But I long ago accepted that the majority of the world is not like me, and nine times out of ten when people say they don't have a plan, they're full of shit. When they say they don't have a plan it actually means one of two things: they're lying or they have no clue what they're doing. Both of these things differ DRAMATICALLY from not having a plan.

So we shove off and leave the harbor... and encounter gusts to 38 knots. We sail on, the dinghy flying behind us. Yes, flying. Little windy. No biggie to me but when I start to get wet I know we're in trouble. Not because we're going to sink but because I suspect we'll have to stop soon. Which we do, at the Holiday Inn Sunspree by the Sunshine Skyway. It's 12:30 in the afternoon. Our captain announces we're going to dock here for the evening.

I, at this point, do the only logical thing and call a friend to come get me after a few hours. I mean, I'm 15 minutes from my house and I have no desire to crowd in with eight other people on a boat that sleeps six. Oh, yes, did I not mention that? Yeah, it was a little crowded.

The captain says we'll shove off "at first light", which we work out means 8 a.m., so I return at 8 a.m. and he's nowhere near ready to go. By way of excuse he blames the time change. Now I ask you... do you need to have your watch set properly to know when it's light out?

We leave shortly before 11, and I realize we're not going far but I still cling to foolish hope that we'll make, oh, I don't know, someplace south of Anna Maria. It takes us almost four hours to get from the Skyway to Egmont Key, during which time several people (not including me) start to puke. Here's where it gets interesting.

One woman also pees while puking. All over the cockpit. Lovely. Delightful. When we dinghy into Egmont Key on a dinghy with a motor that no one apparently tested before we left the dock - it keeps dying and we have to paddle to shore- she lies down in the sand and proceeds to tell me about it. She does not change her pants; you can see the stain on them.

So you can understand why, when we left Egmont at 5 and our captain asks us if we want to stay at a marina or at anchor, the majority of people who paid for the trip say a marina. I desperately do not want to spend the night on a boat that someone has peed all over and no one has hosed off. Also, a lot of people are fairly queasy and say they'd like to at least eat on solid ground. The captain tells me that if I can find a marina at Anna Maria or close to it on my iPhone we'll dock at it. Not sure how that became my responsibility, but whatever.

So I find one and he tells me there isn't enough daylight to try and find it. OH-kay. I mean, we have three hours until sunset and a nice wind, but whatever. At this point I'm ready to kill them all, because all I've heard for the past day at sea is how quiet it is out on the water. Over and over. Loudly. Three people at a time competing to say it the loudest.

"Gee, it's so QUIET out here!"

"I KNOW!!! THERE'S NO NOISE! IT'S GREAT!"

"I LOVE IT! YOU KNOW, NONE OF THAT CONSTANT BABBLE!"

Are you fucking kidding me?

This continues until I'm about to wrap the lot of them in the storm jib and throw them overboard. It's a 37' boat; there's nowhere I can go to escape them. I briefly entertain the idea of swimming for shore or staging an all-out mutiny - I think enough people want to bail out at this point that we can take the boat - but Peepee Pants (who still hasn't changed, by the way) is on the side of the "GOSH, it's so QUIET" crew, and she's a big woman and as annoyed as I am I don't have the rage to take her.

We drop anchor by Emerson Point on the Manatee, but only after we head up into the Manatee and I actually overhear the captain ask "Are we on the Manatee now?"

And then the next morning I realize he and the professor are meeting up with friends who have dropped anchor on the same stretch of river. Gee, maybe that explains why we "didn't have enough daylight" to go anywhere other than the river.

We sail back the next day and, because SOMEONE'S hell bent on sailing, it takes us five hours to get from the bay pier at Fort DeSoto to the harbor at USF. At one point our speed over the ground as a half a knot. For those of you playing the home game, no, we hadn't hosed the piss off the boat yet.

BONUS: As we're about to cruise under the Skyway (OK, it was actually a 90 minute sail away, but we were physically very close to it), I went and got my camera. And dropped it. It bounced off the deck and, you guessed it, into the drink. We retrieved it and I'm guessing saltwater won't hurt a digital camera, right?

Oh.

Isn't that just slap you in the ass fantastic? I blow $120 on a cruise to Egmont Key (why take the $20 ferry when you can spend six times that?) AND I lose an $800 camera to the sea.

Look, I know this sounds whiny and bitchy, but here's my point: $120 was a great deal to get to Cabbage Key, a place I've never visited. But when the plans changed I wasn't given the option of a refund. No, I get the option of a sunset sail one night. Around Tampa Bay. Um, dude, I don't know if you realize this, but we live on a peninsula on a peninsula. I've been in Tampa Bay before. I can get out there anytime I want. I can't get to Cabbage Key as easily. How about delivering what you promised?

I'm all in favor of sailing. I love boats, sailboats more than any other kind. But NOT when they become a floating party where you're lured on board for one reason and once your money is a distant memory the game changes. Lesson learned: never sail with strangers, not even for class credit.

So, to recap:

1. Egmont Key, not Cabbage Key.
2. A night at a Holiday Inn by my house, not at Longboat Key.
3. A night anchored by liveaboards who didn't appear able to sail or motor anywhere instead of at Cabbage Key so the captain and the teacher could catch up with a friend. Gosh, isn't he scenery beautiful? Look, we're anchored around the very people who give boaters a bad rap. Let's blend in...
4. Pee in the cockpit for the last 36 hours of the cruise.
5. Camera all gone.

Let's do that again.

Believe me...

2008-03-09T20:31:00.002-05:00

...when I tell you I am on the field trip from hell. And half the people here are too happy listening to the mindless clacking of their own voices to notice. I ask you this: if you're on a sailboat and someone pees all over it, would you not find a marina to hose down the cockpit?

Yeah, I would too. And ya know what? I ain't squeamish but that's where I draw the line. Hell, I don't even sit in my own pee, I am not ABOUT to loll about in somebody else's.

To answer the more obvious question, because she was nauseated. Guess it was her own way of sharing the wealth. And look- seven hours later and it's the gift that keeps giving.

My Puppy, The Porn Star

2008-02-28T12:20:00.002-05:00

Calypso has lived for eight whole months, a fact she celebrated by going into heat. Sort of. I think.

See, my confusion stems from this: no one - not my vet, not Wikipedia, not people who have dogs, seems real certain how this works. The ONLY thing everyone agrees on is that she shouldn't have puppies until she's in her second heat. Or second year. Or second season. Except my mother, who says Calypso shouldn't have puppies at all. But my mother also once told me that kissing with your mouth open was disgusting, and ever since I found out she was wrong about that (just last May), anything else she says is suspect as well.

Last week she started what I can only assume is something somewhat similar to a doggie period, so I had to buy her little puppy dog maxi pads. Wasn't THAT fun. I don't have much shame; I really don't. I could buy condoms for my grandfather if he needed them, but something about the nomenclature tripped me up. So I'm in the pet store and I can't find what I need, so I get a clerk and start to ask her, except I realize I don't even know how to refer to them. What the HELL do you call them? Doggie tampons don't exist, I'm sure and I hope, so that's out. Doggie maxi pads? Mini pads? Panty liners? Do dogs have access to the wide array of absorbent feminine products that women (and a few kinky and confused men) do? I end up whispering- WHISPERING- that I need "doggie... um, pads, or whatever."

Turns out that the sexual revolution COMPLETELY passed by the canine world. They have a severely limited selection of feminine (is that even the proper adjective?)products. No maxi pads, no mini pads, no scented or unscented, no wings. Just boxes of "sanitary napkins". Who even calls them that anymore? I don't know much, but I have a fair level of confidence that the average teenager would think you were talking about some sort of bloodborne pathogen barrier product commonly used in the restaurant industry if you asked them to define "sanitary napkins".

I ended up buying Calypso a little pink gingham ruffly diaper (don't get me started about the logic of having something called a diaper used in conjunction with a maxi pad) and little doggy "sanitary napkins," which she hates. She does not like restricted access to her, as her vet calls it, "little girl area."

Which brings me to the point of this post: that "little girl area" has definitely morphed into something quite the opposite. It is no longer little and rather than looking like a "girl" area, it makes her look like a porn star.

All she needs is a cheap set of pasties and a pole to practice on.

Random Thoughts

2008-02-09T22:54:00.001-05:00

I'm typing this on my iPhone. For those of you who have one, I don't need to explain how cool and wonderful that is. For those of you who don't have an iPhone, I can explain like this: it IS the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It does everything.

Except it's not quite a GPS. I have a GPS... I think. I can't find it anywhere. For those of you playing the home game, no, this is not a rerun. I'm cursed; it's karma coming back to bite me on the ass again. Perhaps I'm overstating things because I'm tired.

Because I just worked 15 hours at the bookstore. Calypso came with me; I'm teaching her how to alphabetize. Is it a sad state of affairs that she does a better job than a LOT of the people we've hired? S comes before T, people! It's not rocket science. Trust me, I know...one of my oldest friends actually is a rocket scientist.

And I'm way too tired to go on writing. I'll leave you all with this thought: I love Mazzaro's. Any place that has a cheese room is pretty close to perfection.

I Heart Shelly.

2008-01-28T16:01:00.000-05:00

You know, you need friends that make you laugh. In that spirit, please consider the e-mail Shelly sent a bunch of us this morning:
"I've been using my time this afternoon to conduct a little research. You see, I was hell-bent to join Weight Watchers today for obvious reasons. But, after perusing a few diet websites, I found that there actually is a miracle cure for weight gain: Cutting calories and exercising. I told Maricris that I wanted to join WW because I needed "institutionalized motivation." But, you know what? I am not going to pay $12 every week to sit in a room of fat people and have them tell me that I need to stop drinking so much beer. I can tell myself that for free, thank you very much.

So I am basically sending this email so that I can confirm to myself in writing that today I am going back to watching my calories and exercising. And by that, I mean doing my two least favorite things in the world: walking Mango and not drinking beer.

Do not buy me beer. Do not call me to go out for beer. Do not tempt me over to your house under the pretext of having "beer." Do not invite me to sporting events. Do not try to get me to do anything for you by waving the notion of "beer" in my face. Do not even mention the word "beer" in my presence. Or be sneaky by speaking of it only in brand names. For that matter, do not mention to me countries known for beer. This includes England, Ireland, Scotland, All of Europe, really, the Caribbean and most of Asia. And Mexico. And Canada.

We can discuss Africa.

My love to you all. Wish me luck. I have to go walk the dog, now.

Shelly

PS While we're on the subject, I would appreciate it if no one left any more fabulous chocolate cakes on my doorstep. Thanks."

Is now a bad time to mention to her that they make beer in Africa?

And Yet ANOTHER Great Day in St. Petersburg

2008-01-18T16:15:00.000-05:00

Mayor Baker, would you care to read this and then tell me that again?

So, as many of you know, I live in Bartlett Park which, as Mayor Baker has said, doesn't have a crime problem. Crime, the good Mayor insists with all the passion of a politician with his eye on a higher office or perhaps a board appointment, is DOWN in St. Petersburg.

And now I would like to quote Gulfport Police Chief Curt Willocks: "Crime rate doesn't matter if you're the victim."

ANXIETY ALERT: Mother, please don't read this!

I fell asleep at a friend's house last night. At about 3 am, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number so I didn't pick up, but they left a voice message. It was my alarm company, Pinnacle Security, and they told me I had an alarm at my house and they needed me to call them.

Of course, that's when my phone lost its signal. But I had two numbers on file with the company- Shelly and Tom- and when they couldn't reach me, they started calling my emergency numbers. I answered and told them that I was NOT at home, it was NOT a false alarm, and they needed to send the police. They already had (my alarm has an intercom system, and when I didn't answer that they dispatched the police), so I told them I was on my way home.

When I got there the police were already there, checking everything out. I unlocked my door and they went in. No one had been inside, and when I went in and checked nothing was stolen. But my bedroom window was smashed in. The police figure that the person or persons smashed the window, heard the alarm, and took off. A little broken glass and a few hours spent boarding up a window and I was back to sleep. I am so impressed that the alarm company did exactly what they promised and it actually prevented a larger crime. The alarm paid for itself several times over last night, and if you live in the southside (or near the southside) and are reading this, I encourage you to get an alarm system today. My day would have been wildly worse today had I not done that a few months ago.

Bartlett Park has also developed a great e-mail network, so while the crime scene techs dusted for prints and I wondered if this was REALLY my life, I let my neighbors know (via e-mail) what was going on. I am touched by the e-mails and phone calls I received today offering support and I wonder how many other neighborhoods have such a network. I mean, what happened wasn't a big deal (I and my animals are unharmed and nothing was stolen), but it's nice to know that other people in your neighborhood will watch out for you, and it's nice for them to know what kinds of crime are in the top ten this week. A neighboring crime watch e-mailed my e-mail to many and reminded them to lock their doors and check their alarms, a reminder we all need sometimes.

That alone won't change things around here, and since I am apparently committed to the neighborhood, I'll tell you what I think.

The officers indicated to me that the police could use a fully staffed force, something our Mayor insists we have and few southside residents believe.

So I implore my city again: Could we PLEASE admit we have a crime problem in St. Pete and add a few officers? Help the ones on the street out, please. They're doing a good job but they could do it so much better with more officers.Of course, that would mean admitting a crime problem actually exists, and apparently our Mayor is wont to do that.

And, FYI- the police say that the criminals probably smashed the window with a sock-covered hand, and they said in many cases people are so blatant that they walk down the street with socks on their hands. So if you see a sock-handed person sauntering down your street, call the cops.

After all, they need all the help they can get. God knows our Mayor doesn't give a rat's red ass about helping keep our neighborhoods safe.

Go ahead, prove me wrong, Mayor Baker. I triple dog dare you.

Yo! College Students... Put Down the Cell Phone

2008-01-12T18:25:00.000-05:00

So, as many of you know, I have started grad school.

Again.

But this time, I'm smart enough to study something that interests me- Florida Studies at USF St. Pete (yes, it's a real program, and so much cooler than anything else in, well, the world. OK, in the academic world.)

I'm into my second semester, and for some unknown reason, my esteemed (and it's actually true, they are, check out their creds) professors saw fit to give me a graduate assistantship, which means that they pay my tuition and give me a small salary, and for a few hours each week, I am their bitch. Well, OK, I may have overstated that, but I have gotten to help them with some of their research.

And, as of last week, I've also gotten to work as a TA (teacher's assistant) for Dr. Arsenault in his sophomore American History I class. For the first week I sat down in front, facing the class from the teacher's perspective, and listened to him lecture.

And you know what?

College students are as annoying as hell. I mean, seriously, I had NO idea. I've been in a few seminars, which mean we read a fuckload (that's the scholarly term) of stuff and discuss it in class. But lecture classes get to listen to the professor impart his wisdom.

If that sounds smart-ass, I didn't mean it as such. But that's what happens; you spend three hours a week listening to some guy talk about whatever. Except in this case you get to listen to Ray Aresenault give you his version of American history, starting with the Columbian exchange (which took place in 1492, when Columbus happened upon North America) and ended in the late 1800s, with the South trying to get its shit together (I haven't checked, but I think we're still trying). I like Arsenault, I like how he can make history come alive without all Discovery-channeling it up. I know that he tries to deal in the factiest of facts (it's hard to get government docs that go back to the 15th century, but, still, he doesn't deal in the speculative if he can help it), and he still makes it pretty interesting.

So what the hell are all you zygotes doing screwing off in the auditorium?

I know I am about to sound VERY "cranky old lady" here, but people, please, it's just common respect NOT to talk during a lecture. At the VERY least, you (or your mom and dad) are paying good money for you to sit through the lecture. Try and pay attention. I never realized how incredibly disturbing it is for a professor when you text message, sleep, whisper, or whatever through the lecture. I don't know how people do it, I really don't. I was just sitting there, facing a class of 52, while he spoke, and I wanted to throttle you. The girl in the black sweater? We know you were on your blackberry. And the four guys in front of her who could have been Pikes (if only USF St. Pete had a Greek thing going, that is), well, I would have kicked your ass OUT for being so stupidly loud. What was so funny, eh?

Let me explain: I am (well, was, until Tuesday night) the WORST offender. I thought stodgy professors were so into ONLY what they had to say that they didn't notice what I was doing, so I would text message, ask Peyton or Nano a question, re-read the chapter, whatever. Turns out that professors, well, they're actually PEOPLE (who'd have guessed?) and when you act like they're just an annoyance to be stumbled over en route to your MBA, they notice.

And it's such a shame, because the people who have Arsenault for American History probably have no idea how lucky they are to have him and not some flunky off the street. Man knows his shit, and he can show you why any of it matters. He's the best American History prof you'll ever have. He's got a few books out, and not just dusty scholarly shit no one reads. I think he has a film deal for Freedom Riders, and people like to read him- they don't do it because they have to. Years from now he'll be dead (sorry, Dr. A, but you probably WILL die) and people will still study him, and you lucky bastards will be able to say you studied under him.

But will you remember anything except the text fight you had with your boyfriend during the class?

God, I am a snob... AND a crabby old lady.

Foreclosure in Bartlett Park

2007-11-30T15:07:00.001-05:00

No, not me. But there's a house on my street that's been foreclosed on and the bank is auctioning off. If you've been to my house, you probably know which one I mean- the cute little cottage with the stone (I think it's fake, but hell, it's still cute) front. When I moved in two (almost three now) years ago, it sat empty. People ask about it all the time.

The Department of Elder Affairs came in and made some repairs on behalf of the owners, and I had the chance to see the inside. I thought it would be trashed and while it does need some work, it's in pretty good shape. When I saw it the wood floors looked pretty good and it had a nice big living room and a fireplace.

My point in telling you all this? There's an open house tomorrow and next Saturday, and I'm pretty sure whoever comes by can get the house for a song. So if you have the sort of spirit for renovations, you can own a home that, in about five or ten years, will be in a pretty cool part of town.

I think the place needs appliances, but I can tell you from experience that appliances (washer, dryer, fridge, and oven) will set you back anywhere from $1200 to $2000, and other than that I think whoever buys it could move right in and do the work that it needs while they live there. Hell, if you buy it and don't plan to rent it out, I'll help you refinish the floors (I've done that three times and it's not as bad as you might think).

I'm posting this because it's a decent house and I would love to see someone come in and fix it up a bit and take care of it. It's been empty far too long. If you haven't ever bought a house because real estate's been too expensive this is right up your alley.

Oh, and about the neighborhood- yeah, well, it ain't perfect. But thanks to our neighborhood association, the Bartlett Park Crime Watch, and a pretty fine group of police officers, things are much better than they were a year ago. I mean, don't leave your scooter outside and unlocked or anything, but I can honestly say I have NEVER feared for my safety here. As for your immediate neighbors? Gail lives on one side and she's a FANTASTIC neighbor. The house next store is up for sale, too, but it's going for almost $200k. I would be shocked if this house sold for half that.

One more thing: if you want to buy this house as an investment rental, please don't. We don't need more rentals here; we need owner occupieds. Trust me, the grief from me alone when your tenants act up will be enormous. I want neighbors, not transients.

But hey, if you think old houses are cool and you want a mortgage payment that you can afford in a house that can only get more valuable, stop by the open house at 764 21st Avenue South tomorrow or next Saturday.

I can't promise you'll be on easy street, but if you're into cottages you will love this house.

Should Homeless Beg at Your Car?

2007-10-20T18:27:00.000-05:00

Every day I try to find a detour around the intersection of 9th Street South and 22nd Avenue. No, I'm not trying to avoid a red light (although I drive a stick, so if I can swing it, that's a nice bonus, too); I'm trying to avoid the guy who comes to my car and begs.

It didn't start out as begging. At first he would come to my car and offer a flyer for local happenings. But then he started asking for a donation for his offerings. Since I never took the stuff AND it's free at the counter of any local convenience store, I'm pretty sure he's just asking for a handout.

Before anyone starts quoting cheesy eighties songs I'd like to stress that I am doing my best to keep my head above water here... you know, just keep swimming and all that happy crap (actually, it is). I'm not refusing money while I drive by in a Beamer; if I give this guy money it means I don't have money for food or pit bull attack vet bills. Seriously.

So here's my question... is this legal? I know St. Pete has an ordinance against what they call "aggressive" panhandling. Is this what they consider aggressive?

Should this guy be allowed to beg at my car window while I'm stopped at a red light? I'm really curious; sometimes I feel like I've gotten so jaded that I make big deals out of little deals.

I'd like to add that this guy seems like a reasonably sentient being and it seems that anyone who has the stamina to stand on a street corner and converse with passersby and drivers could easily hold some sort of job. He's not ill groomed- better than me on many a day- and I don't understand why he needs to beg when the St. Pete Times has basically legalized begging with their street corner salespeople. Yes, I know there are dozens of reasons people beg for money, but this guy doesn't seem to fit the bill of someone who cannot hold a job; rather, he seems like someone who is choosing not to.

Thoughts?

Not Much Fun For Little Harpo...

2007-10-17T20:53:00.000-05:00

So... after Gulfport Vet had my dog for six hours yesterday and still hadn't really had a chance to look at her, I went and got her and brought her to Bay Moorings Animal Hospital, where they promptly x-rayed her and got her fixed up.

The concerns? Well, holes in her where the pit bull had bitten her... three major ones that, luckily, didn't need stitches. Both vets had concerns that her jaw and right leg had gotten broken, but x-rays revealed that the bones hadn't gotten broken or crushed.

She's a very lucky little puppy, and I can't say enough good things about this clinic or Dr. Cunningham, who spent a lot of time explaining what we should do to make sure Calypso got better as fast as possible.

There is a good probability that some muscle got torn and/or ripped away from her bones, and she had a big hematoma on her chest by one of the bites. They put a compression bandage on her (she looks like a little sausage) that has to stay on for a few days. The bandage, as I understand it, will help the hematoma go away faster and greatly increase the probability that the muscle re-adheres to the bone. She's also on antibiotics because the biggest concern now is that she doesn't get septic from the dog bites.

While I went to class last night Tom watched her and, as near as I can tell, kept her in his lap for about four hours. When I got to his house he just seemed delighted to be able to stand up. She was still pretty doped up- the first vet had given her an opiate derivative in preparation for the x-rays because she wouldn't stop screaming (and can you blame her? It would be like an elephant grabbing you and shaking you viciously while it bit you)- but otherwise OK.

By now, though, she's recovered enough to become a puppy pain in the ass again, which makes me happier than I can express with just 26 different letters. She's trying to help post this blog before I'm ready, and she's adding her own comments (mostly things like \\\\\ and =]=\, which may mean something in canine but not much to us lowly humans). The chief way I can tell she's feeling better? It's getting increasingly hard to obey the vet's orders, like no jumping on the couch- she wants up, she wants down. She wants down, she wants up. Over and over again in some maddening cycle that has motivations only she can grasp.

But this story could have had a much worse ending. I'm still amazed that I didn't get bit and equally amazed that it was so easy to find the attacking dog and keep it contained until Animal Services could get there.

There is, of course, almost no chance of finding out who so recklessly owned that animal. It doesn't matter; even if I knew who owned him, I doubt very much he or she would pay for the vet bills. And let me reiterate... I don't care. The whole thing cost me less than $400, which is a hell of a lot of money to me, but she is alive and in one piece.

And into something, I can tell. As I type this, it's just too quiet. Gotta go check and see what she's up to...

I Hope That Dog Dies

2007-10-16T08:52:00.000-05:00

I never, ever thought I would say those words. Ask anyone who knows me... I love dogs. All dogs. As a rule I prefer the company of a dog to that of a person. They are wonderful creatures that love you unconditionally, and the world is a far better place with them than without them.

Except for one.

This morning, I woke up, made some coffee, and sat on my front porch with my little four month old puppy. Calypso was sitting next to me (on a leash, I might add) when I saw a rather large pit bull chase a cat across the street. No sooner had I formed the thought that I should get Calypso inside... just in case... when this dog with a head the size of a volleyball charges up my steps and grabs my dog.

Calypso, at less than ten pounds, is no match for this troglodyte of a dog, and he has her in his mouth and won't let go. It was exactly like every news account you have ever read about a pit bull attacking. I grab the pit by the collar and, with great difficulty, manage to pull him off her. I hold him long enough for her to get in the house, then release him and try to sprint into my house.

I say "try" because before I can get in the house and get the door closed, the fucking pit bull charges into my house and GRABS HER AGAIN. He's now biting and shaking her and she's screaming bloody murder, and all I can do is grab the collar and try to pull him off her. I finally- with no small amount of effort- manage to pull him off her, yank him outside, and close the door. Inside I still hear her screaming, but at least she's safe, whereas I am now outside holding onto this dog, who is trying to get back to the door. I start screaming and yelling praying like hell one of my neighbors will come out to see what's going on, because I have no earthly idea what's going to happen if I let this dog go.

Finally I hear someone calling (as if calling a dog) and the dog looks toward the street and tries to pull away. I take a chance and let go, and he runs off. I go inside and find Calypso screaming by the bathroom, holding up her front paw, covered in dog spit and blood. I grab a towel, wrap her in it, and go to the car.

I get almost to the car and the fucking pit bull comes back to my yard and chases us. I manage to get in the car, shut the door, and head to Gulfport Vet. Calypso has bites on her back and chest and a possible broken leg; they have to knock her out to x-ray her and see what's going on.

While I was driving Calypso to the vet I called 911. The operator, over Calypso's screams, manages to figure out what I'm trying to say and puts me through to Animal Services.

After I leave the vet, Tom and I started to drive back to my street to look for the dog. On the way there, on 22nd Ave, he spots a dog that fits the description and we pull over. When we do, a white van stops behind us. They tell us they just hit the dog. It is indeed the same dog that attacked Calypso. Tom explained why we were looking for the dog. The guys shakes his head and says "Dogs like that should be killed" (or something to that effect; I may have the exact wording wrong but I believe I've got the sentiment correct). Tom ties the dog to a stop sign and I call Animal Services to let them know we have found the dog and it is injured.

Let me just say that if this morning is any indication, Animal Services has a better response time than the SPPD. Within five minutes of my call, they were there, and they had already been to my house to take a report. The officer was very nice; he had me fill out an affadavit and assured me that if the owner didn't claim the dog it would get euthanized. He also assured me that if someone did come forward to claim the dog, they would notify me.

People, the past hour and a half (yes, that's all happened in a ninety minute window) was the most horrible thing I've experienced. To see a dog attack like that... how does that happen? How do we get from Lassie and Rin Tin Tin and the little ball of fur that licks my face to wake me up every morning to an animal that wants to attack so badly it will push its way in my front door to come after a dog that, five minutes prior, it had never even seen?

I have calmed down enough to realize that I am incredibly lucky that Calypso is still alive. I don't know how to describe how sick it makes me to think of her getting attacked and shaken in her own living room, but at least she's alive and her injuries apparently aren't as bad as they could have been. I know I'm lucky, too, that the damn dog didn't turn on me and bite me, although I would have preferred that to having Calypso get hurt.

Two hours ago I never would have dreamed of feeling this way, but it makes me feel much better to know that unless the owner comes forward to claim the pit (which had no tag or chip), the dog will be dead. Which means it cannot attack my dog again, or any other dog, child, or person.

Who Do You Blame For a Dead Spoonbill?

2007-10-12T18:07:00.000-05:00

Nothing upsets the good folks in Gulfport more than a maligned animal. Trust me on this. So when I wrote an article about a roseate spoonbill that died tangled in fishing line in the Clam Bayou area, I knew letters would follow. Here's the article; a letter and my response follow.

Fishing Line Kills Bird
By Cathy Salustri

While Councilwoman Michele King walked her dog through Clam Bayou on a recent Sunday morning, she noticed a dead roseate spoonbill hanging by one claw from a branch. She called Gulfport’s after hours number and requested someone come remove the bird.
Unfortunately, the police didn’t have a boat that could get into the Bayou to remove the bird. Police reports indicate that King told the police that “if we (GPD) doesn't get  the bird down Gulfport would be on the front page of the St. Pete Times.”
“I told them I didn’t want that bird to show up on the front page of the Times,” King said. “It was right about that time that Clam Bayou was in the Times. I thought if we didn’t take care of it somebody was going to take a picture of it and it was going to show up in the St. Pete Times.”
“It was a Sunday and I really didn’t want it hanging there when the kayakers came out,” King added. Police reports indicate that King told Officer Peter Horning “Never mind, I will call the City Manager, he has a kayak and he can get the bird down."
“It was a little frustrating,” King remembers “because he couldn’t get it down, and I was going to call Tom [Brobeil, Gulfport’s City Manager] and let him do it, but I didn’t have his number. As I got close to the marina, I thought ‘this is a better solution’, and I asked.”
King asked Tony Fields, the Marine Assistant at the  Gulfport Marina to get the bird. Harbormaster Denis Frain said that when Fields called the Suncoast Seabird Sanctuary they told him that they only dealt with live birds. Fields opted to swim over to the island to retrieve the dead  bird.
King said that Fields told her the bird probably tried to get away but couldn’t because of the fishing line. “He also told me that it happened a lot, that it wasn’t that unusual,” despite Clam Bayou’s monofilament recycling tubes (white PVC tubes), King said.
After hours, City Manager Tom Brobeil said that anyone who finds a hazard or danger should call the police department’s non-emergency number at 893-1030. During business hours they should call Leisure Services Director Jim O’Reilly at 893-1067. Brobeil cautions that birds that have obviously died from getting tangled in fishing line do not constitute a public safety hazard, adding that citizens should do nothing in those cases.
“It’s an environmental hazard, obviously,” Brobeil said, but stressed that environmental hazards remain separate from safety hazards that would merit a call to the city. “We don’t have staff to go combing the mangroves for dead animals. Now, if I find that there’s a whole bunch of dead birds clustered in one area, that’s something we need to investigate.”
In short, Brobeil said the best course of action is to “do nothing. If a bird died from being tangled in line, you can’t save the bird’s life. The only thing you can do is before the fact- inform people that they shouldn’t cut their line, they should try to untangle it.”
You can reach Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@TheGabber.com.

In response, I received the photo above my article and the letter below:

Did Brobeil really say "do nothing" with the bird in the line? May have been the best course of action (legally) but a tasteless thing to say. What do you think when you see this picture? -Kurt Z, Kayak Nature Adventures

I responded as such:

On a personal rather than professional note, I think it may not have been the most tasteful thing to say but it was the reaction that had the best perspective. City managers and County administrators are paid to think before they react when everyone they answer to may be too busy reacting. If you look at the situation logically, you may agree with me that Mr. Brobeil had the best interests of the City at heart even if his words didn't echo the emotion of other people in my article. I would also argue that Mr. Brobeil cares more about the ecology of this area than many others who stand before him at Council meetings, but he is not paid to rule according to his belief system; he is paid to carry out the wishes of the City.

I think that some fisherman was remarkably ignorant to have ignored the monofilament recycling containers.

I think everyone screamed to cut property taxes, so the notion that GP doesn't have the staff to tend to this immediately comes as no shock to me. The question of humanity is moot since the bird was already dead, and Brobeil was, in this case, correct. There was nothing more to do for the bird. The correct course of action would have been to call FWC to come get the bird, as we (at the Gabber) have printed their direct request that citizens call them in these instances. Of course, they couldn't do it immediately. Very few agencies would on a Sunday; bear in mind that the City's ultimate response was to have a marina worker swim over and get the bird down. How lucky for Tony that the bird died from something non-communicable, as I'm fairly certain he couldn't have carried a biohazard kit with him.

I think that if it had been me who had seen the bird, I would have gotten it down myself, as I believe you would have. So what stopped a citizen from getting the bird down? If you lack the physical resources to do just that, why not call Audobon or the Sierra Club or someone who actively lobbies for the environment? Why didn't THOSE agencies step up? Why weren't they called?

I think it's a damn shame that some people have no regard for the creatures we exist beside. I kayak frequently- in fact, I just returned from a wonderful paddle down the Manatee River- and I see evidence of people's ignorance or ambivalence or whatever you want to call it on every river I travel; some more than others. It has gotten better, but every now and then you see signs of idiots on the water. I can understand your frustration. But I worked for County government for a long time, and I've covered Gulfport for four years now. Citizens need to take responsibility for their actions rather than blame overburdened and underpaid government workers. I think Ms. King was truly concerned for the bird but, in the short term, more worried about how it looked than the ultimate best course of action. I am confident that she will, as an elected official, seek out a way to keep this from happening more- she has rallied around environmental issues in the past.

I think my words may sound heartless, but I hear people scream for the city's help daily while also clamoring to cut taxes. Well, you can't have both; we've cut taxes. People cannot expect the same level of service they did a year ago. How much would people scream if the City paid someone overtime to be on call for such instances?

I think my taxes were cut $30 and, in my book, it wasn't worth it.

Professionally, I have no opinion. I covered the story because I was paid to do so, not because I was outraged by Brobeil's comments, the city's actions, or Ms. King's comments. Removing emotions, I don't know who was right and who was wrong. Professionally, I don't care. If I start to care I report facts that fit only what I believe rather than equally presented sides of a story. And yes, Brobeil said "do nothing". He stressed that it was because the bird had already died. I don't think he feels that way about live birds, however you would have to ask him directly. I have always found him to be very accessible; if you feel the City needs to do something different, I suggest you call his office at 893-1010 and speak with him.

If I had a column in The Gabber I would probably use it next week to say exactly what I have just said to you and more about the ignorant buffoons who want to have Clam Bayou accessible but don't think it's their job to help preserve it and leave their line in trees. I would say that they must live under a rock the size of an 18 year old boy's libido to live and fish in Florida and NOT know that when you fish you CANNOT CUT THE LINE.

Unfortunately I do not have a column; perhaps that's for the best. So all I can do is report what is told to me and hope I'm asking the right questions to present the story equally.

|||

Crime Down in St. Petersburg?

2007-10-12T08:06:00.000-05:00

You know, I'm having an increasingly harder time believing Fearless Leader Baker's party line that "crime is down" in St. Petersburg.

This, fortunately for me although not the Wildwood residents, is not my neighborhood- perhaps because we are blessed with some frequently vocal and neurotic (but in a really, really good way) crime watch people and "regular" police officers. Which is not to say it's all candy-coated houses (some have treats of a different kind, though!) and streets flowing with milk and honey. It's a tough neighborhood. Just not a horrible neighborhood. If you look you can see positive changes here. But NOT because elected leaders step foot into our streets on any kind of regular basis.

All you have to do, Mssrs. Baker and Davis, is for the love of god admit we have a crime problem here and help us fix it. I'm not a dumb girl, I see a LOT of rentals and know that means you're getting un-homesteaded property taxes on more than a few homes in the southside. Use that money in the areas you collect it.

But look at what you HAVE done in midtown... we've got a new Sweetbay and we're about to get a bank.

I'm sure that makes Benjamin Philyor's family feel much better about everything.

Vice Mayor Davis, I asked you in an interview last spring if you would feel comfortable having your daughter live in any of our midtown neighborhoods. You said yes, without hesitation. And I ask you that again.

Before you answer, realize that midtown includes the neighborhoods where we've seen many of this killings this year.

Today, you can either answer no, which fills me with respect that, until now, you have not earned from me, and then do something about it, or you can stick with that original yes answer, which begs a follow-up question...

What the hell kind of father are you?

Marijuana Infused Olive Oil

2007-10-10T20:24:00.000-05:00

This is NOT a sanctioned recipe of my Florida Foodways class, although that IS where I heard about it (not from my itching powder professor but from a fellow scholar).

No, mother, I have NOT tried it, nor do I have the ingredients to do so (I'm running low on olive oil).

1 cup olive oil (the good stuff)
1 quarter marijuana (also the good stuff)

Mix ingredients. Simmer but DO NOT BOIL for 30 - 45 minutes.

Use as a dipping sauce for crusty French bread OR as the olive oil in the Betty Crocker boxed brownie recipe.

I'm learning the best stuff in grad school....

Curse of the Erotic Tiki

2007-10-10T20:21:00.000-05:00

In reference to the blog entry below, I found out later that Curse of the Erotic Tiki is REALLY BAD soft porn, not at all a movie about gods and islands. The lighting was too bad to be bad enough for porn and the women acted too badly to be bad porn actresses. The guys did NOT have Ron Jeremy moustaches... or any of his other attributes.

Just in case you were wondering.

Hurricane Reconnaissance

2007-10-10T20:18:00.000-05:00

I wrote this three years ago but never posted or published it anywhere. I found it tonight while going through old clips and queries. Since it's unlikely it will ever see the light of day anywhere else, I've opted to post it here. Enjoy. We have 21 days left in this year's hurricane season, and I predict that if we do not see "THE BIG ONE" in that time, all the fervor will have died off completely by June 1, 2008. See you then...
If it’s not a phrase, it should be. Maybe not the most appropriate one, but I’ve grown to despise the tired phrase “hurricane preparedness”.
My Thursday began with an early morning phone call –in my world, “early” means anything before 10 a.m. - from the Advertising Air Force. You know, the banner planes that wiggle along the beaches touting “Get Your Ass To The Pass” and “Chubby’s- World’s Best Burgers”. Seems they were worried that the planes, tied down in a field at Whitted, could blow over if either Bonnie or Charley hit. Could Tom come help move the planes into the hangars? As a member of the media, I have an almost frenetic fascination with how easily people scurry about at the direction of a talking head. Fascination wins out over fatigue, and I go along for the ride.
Next Tom’s sister Cheryl calls from Mad Beach, wondering if he can help secure the three sailboats behind her house.
So we clear out the hangar, Tom and the other pilot taxi the planes into the hangar, where we then try to make a pickup truck, banner transport van, and –don’t ask- a limousine fit next to fifty foot long and seven foot tall banners. Henry, a relatively recent transplant from Canada, tries to decide what to think about the weather. He seems torn between his everyone else’s borderline panic and my and Tom’s “the media loves a good story and this is it” attitudes.
As we leave the airport, I get a call from my mother. When it gets windy I should make sure our dachshund puppy ONLY goes out on a leash lest he blow away in the gale. Do we have enough water?
Cheryl’s backyard teems with sailors; three cherished sailboats and two hurricanes have driven all else from their minds. Cheryl’s friend Donna watches Bay News 9, reporting periodically “the winds are over 90 miles an hour” and “they’re gonna probably close the bridges soon”.
The empty house next door has logs piled up on a dock that looks like something out of Captain Ron. Next week the dock reconstruction starts, but only if the logs don’t launch themselves at Cheryl’s boat tomorrow. The water reaches my chest and we have plenty of line. We push the wood in the water and Tom lashes them together a la “Escape From Gilligan’s Island”. The puppy has yet to blow away in the as-of-yet-nonexistent winds and has a great time birling on the logs while we work.
The first casualty of “Bonnie and Clyde” hits when I try to get back on the dock. The right way to do this involves swimming around to where the water comes almost to the dock. I, of course, don’t do this the right way. Instead, I decide to use a large barnacle to briefly support my left foot while I hoist myself up to the floating logs and climb out.
Hurricane readiness was temporarily abandoned while Sue gets the first aid kit and Cheryl gets the peroxide.
Once the boats have enough lines of them to double as a prop in the next Spiderman movie, Tom drops me off to do an interview for next week’s issue while he gets some food.
My interview, inside Boca Ciega Center, will have to wait. The nursing home, anticipating patients from an evacuated nursing home, has cleared out part of their great room and has nurses and aids scurrying about. I get a few photos, chat with the Trib reporter about the storm, and head home.
Tom has done his part to prepare for the storm; he put gas in my car and gotten hamburger meat, Neosporin, red wine, and chips. He sits down to work on Reef Dog’s web site while I look on the Internet Movie Database for some good movies to rent. Putting our heads together, we come up with a good list of Florida hurricane movies:
Sunshine State
Gone Fishin’
Forces of Nature
The Deep
Kon-Tiki
Curse of the Erotic Tiki
Blockbuster has men working outside to board up their windows. Luckily, they haven’t closed yet. Unluckily, the Pasadena Blockbuster has only three of our movies. We head to Wal-Greens, where I buy gauze. I also succumb to “hurricane fever” and stock up on Starbucks Mocha Frappucino- just in case. On the way home, I snap a few photos of boarded up shops downtown just in case Ken wants to use them in a story.
Hurricane reconnaissance complete, we order a white cheese pizza, mix up some sangria, and settle in with Forces of Nature. We fall asleep on the couch while Sandra Bullock and Ben Affleck frolic at South of the Border.
Bonnie never materialized. Charley… well, Charley actually made to shore. Just not here. In blatant disrespect for the law, we did not evacuate. Neither, it seems, did most of our neighbors. We did not tape our windows, we did not buy gallons of water.
The short version? The breeze felt good, I have perfected the perfect pitcher of sangria, and our windows don’t have sticky gunk all over them. The dogs did not blow away. The mobile home residents in Punta Gorda didn’t have the same luck.
I guess I’ve gotten jaded from the perpetual media hurricane blitz. It also helps that we canceled Direct TV and listen to iPods instead of the radio. Any weather news came from noaa.gov or weather.com; when you don’t hear bulletins every nine minutes suggesting that “this could be the big one”, it’s hard to get whipped into a frenzy. Yup, it was a big-assed storm. We did prepare- we bungeed the lids to our garbage cans and we moved the patio furniture to safety. But the storm, on NOAA’s web site Friday morning, didn’t look that bad, as hurricanes go. By the time I knew Charley had turned into a category four it had also turned, so I never really worried.
And you know what? I had fun. We watched movies, ate pizza, and got a day off from work. I loved it. When people called us from out of town, worried, we repeated our hurricane mantra: turn the TV OFF. I do understand securing boats, but not much else about this “hurricane fever.”
Just for fun, let’s say we did have a category four or five bearing down on us; then what? We may have stayed with my parents up-county, but probably not done too much else. I don’t honestly believe tape on windows does a bit of good when a real storm hits; after all, what good are windows when you don’t have a roof?
And- I know it’s not a popular sentiment (at least, not one most admit to)- I would love to see how the beaches look without all the t-shirt shops and McMansions, although most of the Punta Gorda damage involved boats and (surprise!) mobile homes. If my house offends nature by its location, then so be it. Maybe I need to live somewhere else.
Of course, we’ll see how I feel when we do get “the big one”. I may be out there with everyone else, fighting over plywood and frappucinos.

Calypso

2007-10-04T22:02:00.000-05:00

Meet Calypso.

Meet Calypso because, after 12 years of living with a dog who thinks the sun rises and sets because you exist, you cannot come home to an empty house.

Meet Calypso because I believe that dogs are far, far superior to any human I have ever met.

Meet Calyspso because, hey, life is just too easy, I think I'll get a puppy.

Don't get me wrong, she's wonderful, she is. She's all of maybe nine pounds right now, and all nine of them truly believe she would simply cease to exist if I didn't love her. At three months old, she has come to live with me and Scrubfy and assorted crabs (I haven't seen the octopus in a while) and other saltwater creatures.

But she's still a puppy, which means that things I haven't had to consider in, oh, 11 years or so, I have to consider now.

Like teething. Some people would say that potty training a dog is the hardest part. I would respectfully have to disagree. Having something that's at all related to a wolf cutting its first adult teeth in your house... that far surpasses the challenges of having to pick up the occasional pile of warm dog crap (plus, she's tiny... there's just not that much to pick up).

Now, when Madison was a puppy, the chewing reached paranormal heights. That dog got into things I didn't even realize I owned. You want to know what happened to Hoffa? Madison chewed him up. It got to the point that all I had to do was call my vet, give my name, and the immediate response was "What did Madison eat now?"

So, really, this isn't that bad. I just had always thought dalmatians were so intense as compared to other breeds of puppies that anything else would be no less effort than flossing.

Which is true, really. It's just like flossing.

If you're naked in front of 27 of your peers and you happen to have advanced periodontal disease.

Plus she can do weird things in her crate, which freaks me out.

Now, before you start, let me explain that she is ONLY in her crate if I have to work at the bookstore in some capacity that she can't join me or if I have to go to class. This amounts to roughly less than 20 hours each week. The rest of the time she is with me, helping me study (she really liked Cross Creek but River of Grass, not so much) or going to the beach or the newspaper or Home Depot. You would think that, given that many, many dogs spend either eight-plus hours a day ALONE or tied to a string in the yard, she would realize how great she has it.

As it turns out, it's never enough for some dogs.

I resorted to the crate after two nights. The first night I put her in my bathroom, carefully removing anything at puppy level. I returned home to a dog who was fine and a home not destroyed.

The second night I returned home to a dog that had somehow gotten stuck in the bathtub (she's about 5 inches tall at this stage) after ripping up some of the floor in the bathroom.

That's when I decided to crate her.

Day One in crate: Everything, save the horrible screaming as I leave the house, is fine. I return home, we go outside, she pees outside, licks my face, bites my nose, comes inside, gets a treat.

I feel pretty good about her training. The sooner she gets housebroken and cuts her adult teeth, the sooner I can let her have the run of the house. This is going to be so easy, I think to myself. Which, I'd like to point out, is no different than a person on a road trip thinking "We are making EXCELLENT time!".

Day Two in crate: I come home and she is not in the crate. I put her there before I left, and I'd like to note that the crate is still shut and locked. The pan in the bottom of the crate, along with her blanket, is half out of the crate. She comes running to meet me from the bedroom.

Hmmm.

Day Three in crate: Pretty much as the first day. I re-assembled the crate so as to make it harder for her to escape.

But then last week we went to the Keys for a few days, and I took the crate with us just to be safe. When I reassembled it I must have done something wrong, but she didn't notice it until the second night she was back in it.

That's when I came home to find her in her crate, but the black bottom pan outside the crate, and the crate in the fireplace and a puppy covered in soot that's been there god knows how long.

And then tonight, where she had somehow gotten the black pan halfway across the living room, pushed her crate into the fireplace- AGAIN- and gotten about 7 inches of my living room rug into the crate with her.

I think she somehow gets out, rearranges things to her liking, and then, somehow, locks herself in the crate again.

Whatever she does, it exhausts her. She's sleeping like, well, a puppy next to me, her little black snout up against my leg.

Dreaming up new ways to bring excitement to our lives.

I'm so lucky.

The Best Dog Ever

2007-09-11T19:32:00.000-05:00

Madison died today. She was 12. And she was my best friend.

I got her when she was just five weeks old, in the guise of a “foster puppy” from the North Pinellas Humane Society. What bullshit. I already knew I wanted a puppy and had convinced my new husband to get me one as part of a drunken evening in Jamaica on our honeymoon. The deal was this: he got a new computer and I could get a puppy.

As miserable as I feel tonight I can honestly say I got the better end of the deal.

Madison came to me as a hellion little Dalmatian, liver-spotted and neurotic. I suffered through two (TWO!) couches and a chair as well as the death of many familiar household objects as she matured through the rough puppyhood of Dalmatia. She was not an easy dog, but I loved her and she loved me. I understood her. She most certainly understood me.

Eventually I divorced. I remember the night I left my husband and how angry he was at me (and rightly so). He yelled at me and told me he wanted to hit me, and that was when my wonderful spotted companion jumped up on the couch and physically placed herself between me and my soon-to-be-ex. She turned bright pink, she shook like a poor little orphan, but by god she planted her little doggy self between me and my husband and made it clear: thou shalt not pass.

I left that night, but on one condition and one condition only: I was taking the dog. She was the only thing I insisted get put in the divorce papers. He got everything else; I got the Dalmatian. Again I say I got the better end of the deal.

That’s when her life got immeasurably better. My best friend and I went to Fort DeSoto almost every day, walking and playing and rough-housing in the surf. Men came and went, as did jobs and life, but we always had each other. I started freelancing, which meant that I had days to spend playing with this now-neurotic ball of fur (it’s amazing how a poor marriage can affect a dog’s temperament).

And I had the nights. Every night she would sleep with me or near me, and when I was sad she would curl up with me and lick my tears until I only cared that I had this warm, furry body next to me, who loved me no matter what, no matter who I was, no matter what I did. How wonderful.

More time passed. She got older, as did I. We now go for a walk to the beach by my new home, where we run for a mile and walk back home. When we stop she looks at me like I am crazy. She is 12; I am 34. How does she have this much energy?

As it turns out, she doesn’t. Arthritis cripples one leg. Her “dog nanny”, my friend Derek, comes by all the time to ensure that while I am at work or in class she is happy, fed, watered, and walked. I owe him almost as much as I do her.

Then, last week, she collapsed while climbing up my front stoop.

She never gets up again, spending her last few days letting me take her out and helping her go to the bathroom. I get a wagon to move her, as she cannot walk.

No medicine worked. She had aged and, as such, was old. She was dying. I could not stop this.

I cannot explain how guilty I felt. While I had gotten her to the beach and spent time with her- in both instances, she had more of a life than most dogs- I just felt I could have done more. But the time for doing more had past. She was at the end of the road.

So today I gave her jambalaya for breakfast. Tom and I took her to Fort DeSoto. She floated in a raft. I let her dry off in the sand.

Then we drove her to Dr. St. John.

He apologized. It was not his fault.

He let me hold her while he gave her the shot.

She died in my arms. I did not want to let her go. I could not say good-bye. I just told her good night.

I was lucky to have known her and to have lived with her.

She was the best dog.

True Floridians

2007-09-06T08:46:00.000-05:00

I got this as an e-mail forward, which I usually HATE. But this is pretty dead on...

Signs of a True Floridian

Socks are only for bowling.
You never use an umbrella because you know the rain will be over in
five minutes.
A good parking place has nothing to do with distance from the store,
but everything to do with shade.
Your winter coat is made of denim.
You can tell the difference between fire ant bites and mosquito bites.
You're younger than thirty but some of your friends are over 65.
Anything under 70 is chilly.
You pass on the right and honk at the elderly, but pull over for a
funeral.
You've driven through Yeehaw Junction.
You could swim before you could read.
You have to drive north to get to The South.
You know that no other grocery store can compare to Publix.
Every other house in your neighborhood had blue roofs in 2004-2005.
You've gotten out of school early on Halloween to trick or treat
before it got dark.
You know that anything under a Category 3 just isn't worth waking up
for.
You dread lovebug season.
You are on a first name basis with the Hurricane list. They aren't
Hurricane Charley, Hurricane Frances, but Charley , Frances , Ivan
and Jeanne.
You know what a snowbird is and you hate them.
You know why flamingos are pink.
You think a six-foot alligator is actually pretty average.
You were twelve before you ever saw snow, or you still haven't.
"Down South" means Key West.
"Panhandling" means going to Pensacola.
You think no-one over 70 should be allowed to drive.
Flip-flops are everyday wear.
Shoes are for business meetings and church.
No, wait, flip flops are good for church too, unless it's Easter or
Christmas.
Sweet tea can be served at any meal.
An alligator once walked through your neighborhood.
You smirk when a game show's "Grand Prize" is a trip or cruise to
Florida.
You measure distance in minutes.
You have a drawer full of bathing suits, and one sweatshirt.
You get annoyed at the tourists who feed seagulls.
All the local festivals are named after a fruit.
A mountain is any hill 100 feet above sea level.
You think everyone from a bigger city has a northern accent.
You know the four seasons really are: almost summer, summer, not
summer but really hot, and February.
It's not soda, cola, or pop. it's coke, regardless of brand or
flavor, "What kinda coke you want?"
Anything under 95 is just warm.
You've hosted a hurricane party.
You go to a theme park for an afternoon, and know when to get on the
best rides (Space Mountain during the Electric Light Parade!).
You understand the futility of exterminating cockroaches.
You can pronounce Okeechobee, Kissimmee , Ichnatucknee and
Withlacoochee.
You understand why it's better to have a friend with a boat, than
have a boat yourself.
Bumper stickers on the pickup in front of you include: various fish,
NRA, Nascar and Go Gators.
You were 5 before you realized they made houses without pools.
You were 25 when you first met someone who couldn't swim.
You get angry when people say " Florida isn't really part of the SOUTH."
You've worn shorts and used the A/C on Christmas.
You know what the "stingray shuffle" is, and why it's important!
You recognize Miami-Dade as "Northern Cuba".

Karma's A Bitch

2007-08-29T21:40:00.000-05:00

This is not exactly what you would call a "Dear Diary" moment. You know how all those bumper stickers always say "Just Be Nice"? You know how I always laugh at them? Well, keep reading.

So, as some of you might know, I have opted to give grad school a second go-round with USF's Florida Studies program. These kind people have actually offered me money to attend and do a bit of research for some of the faculty authors. My classes are amazingly cool- as Shelly says, this program was essentially designed for me.

Tonight's class was Florida Foodways, taught by one Andy Huse. Does that name sound at all familiar to any of our CHS alums? Yeah, me neither. He was apparently a year behind me (although, as we're about to see, apparently not in maturity), and I really don't remember him at all.

But after class tonight, he mentions to me that we attended CHS together. I am amazed that he remembers me, and ask if it has anything to do with the name- Salustri isn't exactly Smith, after all- to which he replies no, it was my face.

So I have this wildly narcissistic, indulgent moment where I think to myself how pretty I must be to have stuck in his head for almost 20 years. He remembers my face. Wow. I must be better looking than I ever dreamed.

Keep reading.

We walk downstairs, beause the Florida Studies program is housed entirely in the Snell House, a waterfront piece of architecture that would make Kenwood-philes swoon, and keep talking, a conversation that mostly consists of me telling a man who will grade my performance in weeks to come that how, although he remembers me vividly after a minimum of 17 years, I have no clue who he is. All the while I'm having this egocentric episode because this person of whom I have absolutely NO recollection whatsoever remembers me, remembers my face.

"I remember you," says Professor Huse "because you dumped itching powder down the back of my shirt."

Now, folks, I have no memory of this, although it certainly exists within the realm of things that sound enough like the 15 year old me. I can't remember this, but I can't remember not doing it, either.

You know, what do you say to that, really? Of course, I attempt to try.

"Are you sure it was me? Because, I, uh, really don't remember that." Although- and let's be honest here, at reunions I am not remembered for my elevated maturity- I would swear it wasn't me.

"Oh, I remember. You had fiberglass shavings, and you put them down my shirt."

Now, I sense, is not the time to bring up my research project.

"Um, I... was I being kind of an asshole? I was kind of an asshole back then." As to imply that I have, in almost two decades time, somehow improved.

"Yeah, you were being an asshole."

Which is really what you want to hear from a man who will be grading you rather subjectvely over the next 16 weeks.

How, exactly, does one recover from that?

Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell

2007-08-09T21:34:00.000-05:00

I went clothes shopping today.

There are only a few things I hate more than shopping for clothes, one of which is doing so at the mall. ANY mall. Another is the tiny metal pick the dental hygienist uses on your teeth. You know the one... it scrapes your teeth but it feels likes someone's scraping your cerebellum.

So I have two out my three LEAST favorite things facing me down like a stood up girl on prom night, and as much as I want to bury my head in the sand and not do this hideous thing, I kinda had to.

See, my wardrobe has whittled itself down to a few pairs of denim shorts and a bevy of tee shirts that have seen better days. My editor at the paper laughs at my shorts and makes the occasional comment about being able to see my white pasty ass through the holes, and while my wardrobe works just fine for most things in my life, it has occurred to me that I might, at some point in my life, need clothes that actually fit and don't make me look like one of the less fortunate residents of tent city.

So I braved the mall, going to Old Navy in Westshore. But while I live in what the police have said is one of the worst neighborhoods in St. Petersburg alone, have left the country alone, and can, in fact, face most things alone, a trip to the mall isn't one of them. I need moral support. I need someone to talk me down. I need someone to keep me from buying polka dots.

Shelly, lucky gal that she is, was drafted for the project. Since Canada was NOT an option, she chose to face the enemy with me. And, folks, if you don't believe me, the enemy IS yesterday. Roughly, 1983, I think.

Did you know layering was back? Did you know that the mannequins had strech pants under denimn skirts? Did you know that you can, once again, purchase purple jeans? I have seen the future of fashion, and it looks eerily like my May 1984 Teen magazine. I was just bummed I couldn't find any parachute pants.

Shelly met me there, and when she called me to see how I was doing, I told her I had found a really cool t-shirt dress.

Silence.

Then she says, "Well, you better get a big belt to wear at an angle."

She was kidding.

I told her they had quite a selection of belts AND that I was about to buy polks dots. She paused, then basically told me not to do anything, she would be right there.

Some people might think that, given the stereotype of the lesbian, turning to one for fashion advice might be useless. But they don't know how bad off I am, and while Shelly has a markedly more boyish sense of fashion than many women, she is not your typical stereotype. Plus, she understands why polka dots are a bad idea, a skill that clearly comes from a gene I do not possess. Oh, I've heard the bad press they get, but put them close to me and I absolutely swoon. It's not a good thing. Only size 2's should EVER wear polka dots. I am not a size two.

She suffers through with me and my mumblings of "where are the grownup sizes?" and "so, you don't tuck t-shirts in, huh?", and tells me as nicely as possible that the latest baby doll fashions make women with breasts the size of small Asian countries look like white trash (in hindsight, she was right... I saw a woman roughly my size wearing the very top I almost purchased and it made her look like a reject from a Cops audition).

My reward for listening to her is that she acquieses when I want to go to the Gap. I have two reasons for this: the pants in Old Navy are NOT meant for women who like to eat, while the Gap jeans are as close to perfect as a size 12 can get, and it is physically impossible to buy ANY top at the Gap and ANY pair of pants and NOT have them match. They're my big-girl GrrAnimals.

So, we walk into the Gap, and in ten minutes I have a pair of pants, two shirts, a pair of jeans (my very favorite thing in the world when it comes to Gap clothes), and a pair of shorts. The tops take the fat off my stomach and loan it to the jeans, where they rearrange it to make me appear as though I actually have an ass. I am as happy as I can be inside a mall.

So I've done the math: I weigh just under 160 pounds. I spent from 2:15 until 5:15 at the mall. That's about 180 minutes, or just over one minute per pound. While I'm not unhappy, I figure if I can catch a good case of that intestinal thing kids get in the Congo, I can go back to shopping online and only spend about an hour and a half going to the mall for exchanges.

Ah, well, at least I don't have a dentist appointment anytime soon.

Well, THAT Was Just a Matter of Time

2007-07-10T23:39:00.000-05:00

As I believe I've mentioned, I recently purchased a new Volkswagen Rabbit.

And then I posted an entry about how it is almost, but not entirely, unlike the Rabbit I learned to drive a stick on. Namely, it zips. I didn't even realize it was possible for a Volkswagen to GO 55 MPH until last week.

So I'm zipping along today, headed to rehearsal, and as I cross the Howard Frankland I notice what seems to be an inordinate number of vehicles getting ticketed by unmarked cars. I pay little attention; after a '74 Volks Thing and a '95 Toyota Tercel, I don't speed; I mean, I used to, a long time ago, but then I stopped driving cars that permitted speeds greater than 50, so it became impossible.

Because we are headed to the theatre at the ungodly hour of 3 p.m., traffic is moving at a steady clip. I buzz along, letting people pass me as we traverse the interstate.

We are almost over the bridge when I see flashing lights in my rear view mirror. Now, it is so out of the question that I have done anything, I assume the officer is merely attempting to get to another car and I am in the way, so I pull over to let him pass.

He does not pass. He, in fact, pulls over behind me.

The lovely young man (what, they hire preschoolers now for FHP? I could have babysat this guy!) informs me that not only was I speeding, I changed lanes three times without signaling.

Such a good stage manager am I that I start texting the cast and crew to be careful of the speed trap while Officer Doogie goes back to his car to write out a ticket that I am certain will rival my August mortgage payment.

Derek, my passenger, turns to me when the officer walks away and says "I think he's gay," to which I respond "well, flirt a little, would you? Help me out here!"

Officer Doogie cut me a break, though, and only ticketed me for two failures to properly signal. A mere $123.50. I even- and I'm embarassed to admit this- show him the lane change feature on my blinker as I explain that I must not quite have the hang of it (what I thought this would accomplish, I have no earthly idea). He smiles and says "that seems like a great feature." What he doesn't say but I swear to god I can hear him thinking is "maybe you should try using it".

So, yeah, it could have been better, but it could have been worse, but here's what I kept thinking:

How much must it suck to go to school, probably get a degree in criminology, attend and pass a police academy, and get sent on speed trap expeditions? I mean, here's Officer Doogie, clearly some sort of child prodigy to have graduated high school and the academy by age 14, and he probably had visions of being the next Matlock (or some TV character who's actually a police officer, I don't know, I don't have TV) and instead he's Barney Fife, ticketing people for failure to signal.

But hey, me? I've clearly set a record. I'm the first person to speed in a Volkswagen Rabbit.

What I Do

2007-07-10T13:27:00.000-05:00

OK, well, I actually stage manage. In this instance, for StageWorks' production of The Mystery of Irma Vep, a farce that ridicules the early 20th century horror films.

Derek Baxter and Larry Buzzeo play all eight characters, and this morning they appeared on Channel 10's show, Studio 10.

Here's what they do. I just make sure they get to the stage on time...
The Mystery of Irma Vep.

For tickets, call 813-251-8984.

My Secret Squirrel

2007-07-06T19:42:00.000-05:00

I have a secret shame.

Cars.

Now, before I begin, let me preface this entry with one indisputable fact: I am not a lesbian. Not, as Jerry Seinfeld would say, that's there's anything wrong with that. Not at all. But I am aggressively heterosexual, and I am well aware that the following entry about cars may call that into question for some. Lord knows, I get asked enough (my husband, around the time we started divorce proceedings, my parents, around the same time... it's enough to make a person mad- as in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde mad, not betrayed lover mad). But despite my affinity for power tools, my work in technical theatre, my aversion to hairbrushes, cosmetics, and what the beauty industry likes to call "hair product"... and, yes, despite my love for cars, I am not gay. I've even asked one of my closest friends, Shelly, a pretty amazing woman who also happens to be gay (not that her sexual preference is anyone's business but her own, but Shelly is so obviously gay that I thought she'd be a swell judge, and she was, since her answers agreed so vehemently with my own conclusions). Shelly assures me that a key component in lesbianism is actually wanting to have sex with women, a facet of my makeup that is apparently sorely lacking. The verdict is in: I am straight (you know, I hate that word. It implies that gay people are somehow crooked, like a hunchback or an old grandmother with severe osteoporosis. All the gay people I know walk upright.)

But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes, cars.

Now, I don't really pay attention to cars. Odd for someone who, just two paragraphs ago, said she loved cars. I do; I love feeling an engine turn, I love the simple mechanics of combustion engines that can boggle the mind like a puzzle when something ceases to behave properly, I love the smell of gasoline. But I don't pay attention to the latest models; they all, unless they're a Jeep (a REAL one, not those closed in things that have passed some insipid safety test) or a Volkswagen, look the same to me.

I guess I need to clarify: unless they're an OLD Volkswagen.

I love Volkswagens- the old, air-cooled, engine-in-the-back, leavin'-a-breadcrumb-trail-of-oil, fill your toolbox with special tools, Volkswagens. After all, Volkswagen IS German for "special tool". Anyone who has EVER owned a pre-1984 (or possibly later) VW knows what I mean.

My first memory of a car was a baby blue VW Beetle. I think my mom brought it with her into the marriage, sort of like a dowry. Before you laugh, you have to know my dad to understand how cool that was. I think I was about 4 or 5 before I realized that not all cars putted and that tranmissions could be "automatic". Sadly, my dad and his brother (my godfather) were cruising down the Sawmill River Parkway one day when the front floor gave out and my Uncle Jerry did a quick Flintstones imitation as they drove along. Despite my protests (filled with the complete failure of my seven year old brain to understand rust and corrosion), we sold or junked the Beetle before we moved to Florida.

All, however, was not lost, and by this time the German Volkswagen virus ran through my father's veins. When I was in third grade, my dad bought an old VW wagon of some sort (I don't think it was a 411, but it sure looked like one) from a junkyard. This car laid waste to the notion that Volkswagens, like hope, float. Some guy had towed his boat to the beach with the little yellow guy and somehow ended up dunking the back half of the VW in the drink. Saltwater and engines REALLY don't mix; for something like 60 bucks my dad got the car and proceeded to spend about a year picking sand out of the engine. He rebuilt it and it ran forever until he couldn't get parts anymore (this was WAY before commercial internet services and aeons before eBay; if my mom and dad had an eBay account in the 80s, I'm convinved we'd still have that car).

The next car I remember was a 1983 dark green Volkswagen Rabbit. It had a tan interior and some sort of what I can only assume was fake leather. My mom would give me a ride to school in this car (along with five or six of my closest friends, and I can assure you, if you haven't crammed eight preteen girls into a Rabbit, you haven't lived), and, joy of joys, it had a tape player. Oh, unknown luxury. We must be rich, I thought, followed by the greatest joy of the 1980's preteen: I can listen to my Wham! tape on the way to school. I'm fairly sure there's a special place in heaven for my mother and others like her who heard "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" 167 days straight in 1985. I learned, despite my mother's panic as I did so, to drive a manual transmission in this car.

That was the last of the Volkswagens I remember. My dad totalled it (this is a recurring theme in my family's automotive history), and the white, VW Golf-type thing that came later. I still miss that car.

Fast forward to a few years ago, when I became obssessed with finding a Thing. This car, I can assure you, is the one car that makes Volkswagen stand out from all other car manufacturers. Simply put, it is the coolest car EVER. The doors come off. The roof (if it even has one) comes off. The windshield folds down. The back seat folds down (keep in mind these cars were early 70s in the US, and a fold down seat wasn't that common then).

They were made of steel. Driving this incredibly cool car was like driving a little tank. Like it or not, you get attention when you cruise around in a Thing. (If you can't picture one, go rent 50 First Dates, Drew Barrymore drives a nice one. Or watch Meet the Fockers, where the Focker dad drives one a little closer to the reality of a 30+ year old Thing.)

But steel rusts. A lot, as it turns out. And when a steel car lives in Florida for 30+ years and people who owned the car before you are complete idiots, they rust fast.

So I found one in August 2005, bought it that September, and sold her at Christmas 2006. After which I drove a Scooter, and, when 17 year old Sierra took pity on me and essentially GAVE me her 1995 Tercel, I drove that.

But the Tercel's days were numbered. Last week she blew white smoke that rivaled forest fires in Georgia, and I knew it was time. Yes, a new car. One with a warranty and, against my inclinations, a car loan.

Of course, I chose Volkswagen. Did you know they recently started making Rabbits again? In all honesty, it's the Golf, which is what they changed the Rabbit's name to several years back. But, hey, a Rabbit.

Nevermind that NO ONE at the dealership had ever heard of a Thing, nevermind that the posters of old VW ads on the walls of the same dealership advertised benefits of Volkswagens that no longer existed (such as air-cooled engines that no longer existed ane rear-car engines), nevermind that the cheapest car Volkswagen makes will cost me over $15,000... It was Volkswagen, and I was happy.

So now, a week later, I have a brand-new tornado red Rabbit. Manual transmission, 2.5 liter engine, crafty German engineering... oh, yeah.

But there's a problem, aside from the engine in the front of the car and the damn radiator.

This car goes. Fast. And it gets to "fast", well, fast.

And you would think someone raised on submerged Volkswagens, Volkswagens with missing floors, and Volkswagens that you basically had to salvage parts locally or drive to Sundance in Plant City to get.... well, you'd think they wouldn't like it.

But you know what? It feels wrong, like stealing the prom queen's boyfriend or cheating on your taxes. It feels wrong, but it feels so good...

And that, my friends, is my secret squirrel.

Nazis. I HATE Those Guys.

2007-06-28T11:37:00.000-05:00

I've actually taken the house off the market. It wasn't going anywhere anyway.

The past week has shown me a different side of the neighborhood- a quiet legion of people here who are black but also have disgust for the behaviors I talked about. Some of my neighbors have approached me about the article, and what resulted was perhaps some of the most REAL and MEANINGFUL conversations about race I've ever been a party to or overheard.

I think but do not know that some people here (Bartlett) don't understand some of the things I feel; I do not get a lot of what they say. I'm not talking about the crack heads and dope dealers or the massive legions of passers-through.

Example: "If you would just talk to your neighbors and make friends, they would watch out for your property and it would be safer".

OK, I get that. But when I asked "Don't you think you should be able to rely on the police to keep the neighborhood safe?" I was met with blank stares. Now, I know that the police can't be everywhere, but I've never lived somewhere where the levels of crime were so acceptable.

It's almost like it's acceptable to have crime as long as you can protect people you know and like from getting victimized. I would think that very touching if the crime here wasn't so rampant.

The fallout here could have been much worse, and this is more of a "clear my head" type of post than any type of grand statement. I'm writing this for me, no one else.

There have been some amusing moments. I had to stop reading comments on the Times site.

It became apparent that a lot of these posters may not have read my article; it would not shock me to know that they hadn’t even finished Rodney’s piece. One allegation made suggested that I have had thefts because I worked as a prostitute and used crack (While I am a –ahem- healthy woman, I haven’t found the need to turn to prostitution, and while I do have my vices, crack has never been one of them). Another accusation suggested that I must have “messed with somebody’s man” (because, as we all know, the appropriate response to infidelity is to steal the adulterer’s lawnmower… I think that’s actually in the Old Testament).

My favorite, though, suggested that Eric Deggans and I had somehow conspired to create this amalgamated media frenzy and sought to divide St. Petersburg in some sort of race war. If you know anything of how a newsroom works and theories about news framing, you may understand that we generally spend our time just try to report news. We do not sit around in some newspaper Bat Cave and scheme to change the world. At best, we can hope to start a dialogue.

These comments, although ignorant, didn’t shock me. But my neighbors did. In my initial article I mentioned a neighbor who brought me food, and the Times’ piece named her: Gail Fisher-Lee. The day Thrash showed her a copy of I Had a Dream, she came to my home. I opened my door, not sure what to expect. She opened her arms and grabbed me in a big bear hug.

“Why didn’t you tell me you felt that way?” she asked.
“Because,” I answered, “I don’t feel that way about you.” What followed was an hour of talking about black, white, and our neighborhood.

Friday morning Wild 98.7 wanted me to take part in their morning show. I declined, and I also chose not to listen. But apparently my neighbors did listen, and at least one of them called in. My neighbor Nicki has a brother who used to stay with her. He called in and, as I understand it, defended me. Nicki came over Friday night and we, too, talked about black, white, and our neighborhood.

And then I got an e-mail from someone identifying themselves as “Yankee James”. He said “keep your chin up…we’ve all been where you’re at.” He also invited me to join a forum at vnnforum.com. Because I’m classically naïve, I didn’t put his screen name together with anything sinister. Because, although I’d had enough of the comments online, stupidity is making the same decisions and expecting different results. I followed the link.

What I read made me physically ill. I won't repeat it here and will not post the link, because the site is populated by freakshows and, well, scary fucking excuses for carbon based life forms.

After I read a line or two and scrolled down a few posts, I looked over at Derek.

"I would rather live here forever than become one of these people," I told him.

Rarely a moment of clarity graces my thoughts. This was one such moment.

This web site was peppered with people I could never become. My struggles with race are far more subtle. One comment I received summed it up intelligently:
“The real question is not whether you're racist - we all are, to some extent - it's what you do with your racist assumptions: whether you actively try to identify them in yourself; whether you struggle with them; whether you let them control your interactions with others or treat people unfairly.” (Carrie M., Brooklyn)

So what do I do now? Do I give in and, as several neighbors said, let the bad things here run me out of my home? Do I, as another friend said, simply stop?

I think the answer lies somewhere in the middle, but I do know this: the support I have received in my neighborhood has made it feel like a community. Look, I didn't take my house off the market because I had any great revelation. I'm the same person with the same struggles. I took the house down because it wasn't gonna sell. But you know what? This past week is the best I've felt about my neighborhood since Derek looked around last December and noticed some stuff was missing from the yard.

I don’t hate black people. But I hate ignorance, violence, and (to paraphrase Indiana Jones), I hate Nazis.

I would rather live in Bartlett Park, with its crime, drugs, and litter, than spend one moment more having Nazi supremacists sympathize with me. I know I have more choices than that, but the past week has given me the perspective that where I sit ain’t so bad, after all.

I’ll take where I am over where "they" are anyday. How horrible it must be to be inside their heads. So as the For Sale sign comes down, I’ll just keep swimming.

Writer's Block

2007-06-28T11:07:00.001-05:00

So here's the problem, if you want to call it that.

Every time for the past few weeks I've tried to make a post, I can't.

People are reading this. Which is weird, really.

I don't think I should talk about race anymore- from what I can tell, the discussion is doing very well without me, save for the wackjob white supremacists who scare the holy living fuck out of me. My understanding is that the Times is doing some kind of followup on the whole thing this Sunday.

Does anyone else find that odd? You know, that they gave my "lament" (THEIR word, NOT mine) 45 column inches and only mentioned the paper my piece initially appeared in ONCE? Well, OK, I understand they shouldn't promote another paper, but seriously, guys, how much mileage can one paper get out of something that appeared in another? I guess I shouldn't find it odd that they want to milk this for all they can, but it amazes me.

See (prepare for tangent or, perhaps, the POINT of this blog entry), this is my problem. I used to write whatever the hell I wanted up here, and about three or four people read it. It was a great way for me to loosen up and get into "real" writing (which simply means writing that pays the bills), and if Shelly or Luci or whoever laughed, that was a plus. But all of a sudden all faceless people are leaving comments, and I feel like I shouldn't just write about frivolous things because it will seem like I'm making light of everything else.

But writing about frivolous things is how I quiet the noise in my head, and for the past month the noise inside my cranium has approached levels rivaled ONLY by AC/DC in concert. Only not as melodious.

So, just think of all future blog entries as a sign of my empty head. It's probably not that big of a jump for some of you.

Better Than Braces.

2007-06-27T21:09:00.000-05:00

The time has come for a very important decision in my life. This is not a matter that I have entered into lightly; in fact, I have fought this for well over a year. But sometimes in life you have to suck it up and this is one of those times...

I am buying a new car.

Eleven or twelve years ago, I purchased a new Toyota Rav4. It was a fantastic, amazing car. We understood each other. I slogged through weighty payments, never regretting the bite they took out of my budget because my Rav and I had this pure, true love.

Until I saw 50 First Dates a few years back. In this film, Drew Barrymore drives a Volkswagen Thing. I hadn't seen one since high school when the Cole twins shared one. Back then, I thought they were cool, but a few years ago I thought my automotive life would be complete if only I could share it with such a vehicle. So I scoured AutoTrader and pored over eBay, searching endlessly for such a car. I finally found one in Fort Lauderdale and nothing but nothing could dissuade me. We were meant to be together, my Thing and I. I pictured a long and happy life for the two of us, driving off into mant splendid Fort DeSoto sunsets, camping in the Everglades, sharing our hopes and dreams.

I even sold the Rav.

Alas, it was not to be. My Thing had a secret shame, the scourge of all pre-1981 Volkswagens everywhere.

She had The Rust.

Her previous companion had betrayed her by fiberglassing over the rust, making the situation all the worse.

Classic Camber wanted $15,000 to fix her. No other Volks place would even touch her.

So, at Christmas, I betrayed her. I listed her on eBay and tried to justify my position to her, telling her she deserved a companion who could fufill her needs. I told her I would always love her, but I just couldn't give her what she needed. In desperation, I told her that it wasn't her, it was me, and that we could still be friends.

She didn't listen. By Christmas she was gone, leaving only a half-empty jar of Naval Jelly and a spare visor for me to remember her by.

That's when I turned my attention to my scooter, and, well... we all know how that turned out.

And then Sierra got a new car, leaving a 1995 Toyota Tercel up for grabs. I paid her $450 for it. And, well, you really DO get what you pay for.

Since March or so, I have put in two (TWO!) radiators, a water pump, a timing belt, new brake shoes, drums, and wheel bearings. New adjusters. New pads. New air filter. New wires to the cigarette lighter (because, after all, what is a car without power for my iPod's iTrip?). I changed fuses. I cleaned. I loved. I gave.

But last week I started my car and was rewarded with a cloud of smoke that rivaled the aftermath haze of a 4th of July celebration.

Head gasket? Water in the oil? Who knows. But I will allow my Tercel to die with dignity.

And, much against my grain, I am buying a new car. Which will mean carrying comprehensive insurance again. It will mean paying the "bend over" insurance premiums again. And... it will mean car payments.

And, alas, it means car salesmen.

Where the HELL do they get these guys? I mean, do they take a special personality class or something? Look, all I want is a 2 door, manual, no frills, get me there and back, VW Rabbit (oh, yeah, baby, they're making 'em again, and I want one!)... but to get there- and bear in mind I'm bringing cash and my own financing- I need to listen through layers of bullshit. That includes but is in no way limited to the following:

"We can't take alloy wheels off a car" (Yeah, because Volkswagens are NOTORIOUSLY hard to work on)

"I'll get in trouble if I give you this deal" (Spare me)

"You don't want to wait for 08's, because they'll cost more and they won't be as good" (because car manufacturers are getting shittier by the year)

"I hate salesmen" (No response needed)

"If you go the extra $500, I'll give you your first oil change for free!" (Do people REALLY fall for this?)

And here's my very favorite...

"I actually work for the BMW dealership but all the Volkswagen salesmen are busy, so they asked me to come over and see if I could help you. You know, a lot of people don't realize how afforable BMW's really are." (I couldn't help it, I laughed at her. Because you can get a 380i or whatever for EXACTLY the same price as a VW Rabbit, doncha know? And when you're done, step over here and I'll show you how your Beamer's headlight switch ACTUALLY opens the secret door to Narnia...)

I have heard better lines twenty minutes before last call at bars. I THINK I have finally found one, but no one's signed anywhere yet. Keep your fingers crossed that I don't kill a sales guy before I drive away in my new car.

I am becoming my mother.

2007-06-19T18:34:00.000-05:00

You don't understand how that may be the hardest thing in the world for me to say. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother, dearly. I know that, despite the fact that we rarely can spend ten minutes together without one of us rolling our eyes at the other or shuddering in gross disbelief (I do the former, she the latter... usually), I am very, very lucky. When I was a belligerent, headstrong teenager (no, not you, Sunshine, you gasp in disbelief) I am amazed she didn't simply keel over in shock. Seriously, if the woman had emerged from my teenage years in a comatose state, muttering simply "One day... a daughter just like you...", I would have thought she got off easy.

But still... that doesn't mean I want to turn into her. A few years ago my dad and I were remodeling a bathroom in The Money Pit, and he actually threw me out of my own home (as I like to say, you can't make this shit up, folks), I called her from my car as I drove away (well, what was I going to do? My dad said if I didn't leave, he would, and he knows much more than I do about plumbing). She answered the phone.

"What happened?" (Have I mentioned she's not entirely unlike the Olympia Dukakis character in Moonstruck?)

Me: Please tell me that Jimmy Buffett is my father.

She: (deep sigh) What happened?

Me: Just tell me you slept with him around the time I was conceived.

She: Why?

Me: Because I know that one day I will turn into either you or my father, and I want it to be Jimmy Buffett.

Sadly, my mom appears to have been a faithful wife. Or fiancee. Whatever (I was born suspiciously nine months and three days after my mom and dad exchanged vows). And, true to form, I am turning into ONE of my parents. To paraphrase Rachel from Friends, "I was so busy trying NOT to turn into my dad, I did NOT see that coming!"

How, you may wonder, did I make this deep self discovery? Simply put: Adventure Island.

Allow me to elaborate. For Father's Day, Tash wanted to take her dad to Adventure Island. For reasons not germaine to this blog entry, she took me, too. (See, Ma? Some kids turn out OK.) Before you get ahead of me, no, it wasn't the water rides that bothered me. Hours spent on the Ramblin' Bayou, floating along in the urine of a million preschoolers and the almost certain possibility of swallowing a mouthful of water that I know, just know, is brimming with cryptospridium, e. coli, and giardia is NOT the problem. That, I can take in stride. No, what bothered me is probably something most of you don't ever think about.

The Climb.

Yes, that DOES need to be capitalized. Because, you see, I hate- I'm using the word hate here- heights. Now, I will climb into a tiny plane without a second thought. I will float over Tampa Bay in an open cockpit, single-engine plane that, as regularly as a man on a high-fiber diet, will blow at least one cylinder every 6 - 8 weeks, look down at the ground 1000 feet below, and think, "God, this is amazing!" But get me up on a ladder- even 8 feet up- and I get dizzy. My calves clench, sweat beads up on my brow, and I feel like I can't breathe. The very fact that I sit on a bar stool to work on my computer is, in and of itself, amazing (my feet don't touch the ground when I sit in it). Last Friday I climbed into the loft at St. Pete Little Theatre and, much to my embarassment, couldn't climb down without assistance from a very bemused technical director.

Suffice to say, heights are not my thing. So why, you may wonder, would I climb up several hundred feet willingly? Simply put: I love water, water rides, anything that gets me wet, I'm there. And the rides are cool. One of my favorite rides, Wahoo Rapids, lets four people slide down a closed tunnel at one time, achieving amazing speeds, splashing and spinning you the whole descent. I love it.

Except it has an open wooden staircase. The first few flights went fine- until we got to the part where it was open, only a flimsy wood railing about three feet high separating us from what I am sure is almost certain death. And I know- KNOW, mind you- that there is no way in hell I will ever get close enough to fall over, but still... my calves clench up. I start to sweat. My legs start to shake, and I am reduced to baby steps (because, I rationalize, anything more dramatic could make the entire structure collapse). Now, I am not a big girl. I'm no Calista Flockhart, but judging by the girth of a lot of the ladies I see at the water park, this structure MUST have been built to last, right? No matter. I become convinced that I am going to step on a piece of wood, it will crack, and I spiral down to a painful death.

It of course, doesn't help that Sierra is there, just as shaky as I am. Of course, she's half my age. I am the adult here, I remind myself. Be mature. Face your fear.

And then her dad points out that the ledge we're stading on has no obvious supports. Sierra's boyfriend starts to shake the railing. Adult, hell, I want to get down. I close my eyes... and in my mind, I see the whole structure collapsing in slow motion, my body twisting towards a jagged piece of pressure treated wood.

Bu the line moves. We end up on the stairs again. Her dad assures me that he will not let me fall. What fun this must be for him, really. And we go down the flume... which was great. Statistically, there is probably a much greater chance that I will die or break something on the actual water slide, but for some reason I can't understand, this part doesn't bother me at all.

So then we head to Key West Rapids, because stupidity is making the same decisions over and over and expecting different results. As an added bonus, these steps are simply concrete slats you can see between. Which is to say that if you stumble, you will find your leg dangling 200+ feet in the air. I refuse to move from each landing until I can make it up each flight of steps in one go. Ah, logic, thy name is Cathy.

It most assuredly does NOT help that SOMEONE keeps making jokes about the structural integrity of the steps on both rides. I close my eyes, and that's when I realize... I am turning into my mother. I say as much to him.

"Well, I know THAT," he responds, and for some reason I am annoyed that this amuses him. And then it dawns on me. When my mother got scared of things I thought were illogical fears, there was someone who taunted her in much the same manner. It was the same person who would tickle me until I couldn't breathe and go out of his way to frustrate me in conversation- just for fun. I turn to him.

"Of course, you DO know who you're turning into, right?"

"Who?" he asks.

"My father."

On the next climb, he didn't make fun of me at all.

Call it.

2007-06-17T07:08:00.000-05:00

Those of you who know me know that I, by choice, have about three friends. I tend, recent events excluded, to keep to myself. After my divorce and move to Gulfport several years ago, I relished the quiet of my own apartment, content to spend nights writing on my couch or sitting in the dunes down on Passe-a-Grille.

When I first started work at The Gabber, I am told, my editor thought I was all business and quiet (please note the past tense) and our copy editor Shelly thought I might not be that bright because I never spoke. At our annual June Christmas party (no, that's not a mistake), I would have a beer or two while the rest of the staff cavorted like college chums.

My mother, I am certain, is grateful that I have found a balance between eternal hermitude (I'm fairly certain that's an actual word and, if not, it should be) and the party life. She used to call me and demand a recounting of people I had spoken to that day; these calls ended with her heartily encouraging me to get what she called "more two-legged interaction". I think perhaps this week she may be wishing I could keep my mouth shut just a wee bit more, but generally she's happy that I tend to get out a bit. Of course, part of that is an effort on my part because we writers often border precariously on the edge of a special type of insanity brought about by hours of Hemingway-like introspection. To save myself from going blind raving mad, I have gotten the odd part time job where I am allowed- nay, forced- to have contact with people. Generally this serves to remind me that most people are crazy, but it also allows me to hone a very rusty set of social skills.

Recently, though, most of my interactions have related to the by-now infamous racist article. When the dust settled, I found two people who have surprised me.

One: Shelly Wilson, the former copy editor who has forsaken correcting my grammar to return to school. Shelly and I got to be friends long ago, but we often come down on different sides of the proverbial fence when we discuss social issues and politics. I refer to her- with great affection- as a hippie tree-hugging liberal. Our conversations know no limits, and often times people who don't understand our interactions simply sit, wide-eyed, and try to fade into whatever piece of furniture they happen to be sitting on. One night we sat in Hooks, arguing so vehemently about Hurricane Katrina and New Orleans that the guy in the booth behind us, who early in the conversation abandoned all pretense of not eavesdropping, practically had his head in my wasabi and was laughing hysterically at us as we went round and round about the President, the actual role of FEMA, and what level the reponsibility the government actually has towards people who choose not to evacuate.

My point is simply this: we disagree. And, as you may imagine, the whole three part article has been a source for our conversations lately. Shelly and I (big shock) do not agree. But she's intelligent and she understands why I wrote what I wrote. And today I woke up to find a blog post that makes me glad I can call her a friend. She has a more finely tuned capacity for critical thinking than I ever will; I highly suggest anyone who has any interest in the issue check out her post.

Two: Gail, who lives across the street from me. Gail is the neighbor who brings me crawfish dressing. We sit and talk on my front porch whenever life affords us a mutual hour or two off from work.

When Rodney Thrash started interviewing me for the Floridian article he's writing (now slated for Tuesday), he wanted to talk to some of my neighbors. So he found himself at Gail's front door. Gail knew I had written something but hadn't seen the article. I watched him leave her house last Friday and, about 20 minutes later, steeled myself for the worst when she knocked on my door.

But that's not what happened. I opened the door and Gail stood there. We looked at each other for a moment, and then she opened her arms and pulled me into a hug.

"Why," she finally said, "didn't you tell me you felt that way?"

"Because I don't feel that way about you," I answered her honestly. And I don't. But, I told her, I believed she had every right to be angry at me.

"My heart breaks for you, but it doesn't change how I feel about you," she told me. And then we sat on my front porch for an hour or so and talked openly about how I felt, how she felt, and how she believed that more people needed to admit how they felt about race. It was her general opinion that people bury feelings like mine and, she pointed out, it doesn't mean they don't feel them. It simply means that they can never get past them if they can never admit them.

What I'm finding is that people who feel at all as I do aren't fooling black people by not admitting the issues. What I'm hearing is that if you're black, you face this sort of thing every day, regardless of whether you're a poor black woman living on the south side or a wealthy black person living at the north end of Pinellas county.

Gail rents in my neighborhood, works at a nursing home, and mothers three almost-grown kids. She and her husband both work endless hours and share a car with their oldest son. Gail cuts their grass with a second-hand lawn mower.

Shelly lives in a Kenwood home that she and her girlfriend Maria own. Maria is an engineer; Shelly writes for The Gabber and goes to school full time. They have a gardener, a new Element, and a barely used sedan.

These are two women- one white, one black- who have two very different lives. Gail hails from New Orleans; Shelly grew up in Gulfport.

But they have one commonality- neither of them is stupid enough to pretend race doesn't matter.

I would argue that Shelly sees a lot less overt racism than Gail does. Gail deals with it every day; Shelly can look at it from the outside. Yes, she's a lesbian, but being gay in Gulfport and Kenwood isn't quite the stigma it is in, say, Kentucky. And if Shelly faces discrimination, it's not because of her race.

I suspect that Shelly isn't a racist. In fact, a lot of our arguments revolve around the "race v. socio-economic" issue. But she notices race. Of course, that's not acceptable in our society. We (white people) are taught "African American" is the way to identify black people. Of course, that all falls down sometimes. Like with Leroy, a friend of mine who lives in Belize. If you ask Leroy, he'll tell you he's Belizean. Or black. But he's not African American. Or the girl I went to grad school with years ago. She was Algerian, which made her African. But she had the same skin tone as I do. Our professor was from South African. You know where this is going. Of course... she was blond. And pale.

But call people black? Nope, that'll get you sent to a diversity class. Interesting note: at last Saturday's meeting it was made painfully clear to me that the black people in the room had no issue calling black people black and white people white. Why, one woman asked me, can't white people come to terms with it and do the same thing?

Because we're taught that doing so is a form of racism or somehow insulting to black people (who, I guess, we're supposed to believe wouldn't know what color their skin was if we didn't point it out to them). We're taught that being black isn't allowed to matter which, if you think about it, is a hell of an insult to someone who is black and overcomes all the bullshit to achieve on the same level as someone who doesn't face the receiving end of racism every damn day.

Why?

Call it white man's guilt. Call it ignorant. Call it a flimsy way to mask our own concerns and doubt. Call it whatever the hell you want.

But call it.

So Maybe I Won't Stop Talking...

2007-06-14T09:50:00.000-05:00

Big shock to those of you who know me well, I know.

I just read a post on The Feed, Eric Deggans' blog. In it he says:

"Why write something so provocative in print and on blogs and then get upset when the community decides to engage you about it?"

First let me say: I thought Saturday's meeting- the Tampa Bay Association of Black Journalists, which I attended at Deggans' invitation- was productive- but please bear in mind that I can only speak for myself. I would never presume to know what's going on in anyone else's mind.

Next let me try to answer Deggans' question: The "why" is simple. Or not. I am not upset, not at all. But I am weary of hearing that I am not a racist. Is there anyone out there- anyone at all- who could possibly understand how hard it was for me as a person to admit to the world in general that I fear I may be devolving (Alex Pickett used that word in this week's CL article, and I like it; it expresses things tidily) into a racist?

OK, so now take that and couple it with people - black and white and whatever falls in between- who spend time with me and tell me that they do not believe I am a racist. Does anyone out there have any idea how it feels to have to insist to these people that yes, although I hate how I feel, it is, indeed, how I feel? Feeling bad about something doesn't make the feeling immaterial. Do not excuse me; doing so negates the problem. And if you negate the problem, then you cover it back up again, and nothing gets resolved, which was kind of the whole point.

And it's pretty clear to me after listening to the WMNF interview and reading the piece in Creative Loafing that I haven’t accurately given the proper voice to my concerns. If I had, then the stories wouldn't miss the mark. WMNF actually got close, but everyone wants to say I'm confusing race with social and economic issues. My point is that yes, perhaps... BUT (and this is a pretty big but) I look out my window and see a group of people that are not like me. My mind- anyone's mind- looks for the commonalities these people share that I do not share with them. And we share a street, share a neighborhood, and logic would follow that since we all live in the same neighborhood, we must all make about the same amount of money. So then the issues are social.

Is it possible that collective shared experiences make up the social factors in my neighborhood? Is it possible that growing up black is part of those collective shared experiences? Look, I do not argue that it's impossible to make different choices than those many of my neighbors have; if you've been following this, you'll see that I have actually made the opposite argument. But consider schema, as discussed at the Wikipedia web site:

"In psychology and cognitive science, a schema is a mental structure that represents some aspect of the world. People use schemas to organize current knowledge and provide a framework for future understanding. Examples of schemas include stereotypes, social roles, scripts, worldviews, and archetypes. In Piaget's theory of development, children adopt a series of schemas to understand the world." (See the entry).

In trying to make sense of why people in my neighborhood have made the choices they have and behave as they do, this factors heavily. In an attempt to understand why my neighbors behave differently than I have, I have started to see their skin color as one way to group them. This is the heart of the problem.

And, believe me, guys, I KNOW this isn't how it should be. But please, please, don't dismiss how I feel. My struggle is real, not something you can reason away. I look around my neighborhood and see a group of people I do not identify with, and as my mind struggles to figure out why many of my neighbors behave so differently, the conclusions I draw shock me. And I struggle not to let those conclusions translate to ALL black people.

The idea that I am not a racist simply because I struggle doesn't change that my mind has drawn those conclusions.

At Saturday's meeting Deggans' quoted Walter Lippman and his sentiments that the role of a journalist was to keep a community in dialogue with itself. I agree. I thought that was the road we were all about to go down.

But when I continuously hear dismissals of how I feel or suggestions that I seek out a better class of black people (made to me at Saturday's meeting), I think we've begun the wrong dialogue, one that doesn't address the issue. There are a lot of black people in my neighborhood, and a lot of people impacted by their behavior. Suggesting that I or anyone else who faces similar struggles simply look beyond the boundaries of Bartlett Park and ignore what does go on there does nothing to help the situations within my neighborhood. I live HERE. This is what I see, not what happens in other neighborhoods. This is what is real to me.

I want us all to ask why.

Why are things the way they are?

I want us all to admit that these biases exist and that they are not OK, but they are felt. I want to stop pretending people don’t make judgments based on color. I want to stop pretending that the south side doesn’t have problems because of the large number of poor black people living there. I want to stop pretending that color doesn’t factor into social issues. I want to tear down the façade that the south side’s problems aren’t tied to race and bias. I want to hear people admit that color matters even if they believe it shouldn’t.

I want people to be honest. I want us all to stop being so damn afraid of getting sued or fired or judged that we can’t even admit how we feel. I want to hear people talk about the issues in the south side in honest, real terms. I want to hear “important” city officials talk about my neighborhood in real terms, not bureaucratic, bullshit jargon that dances around the issues without ever actually naming, much less addressing them. “Midtown revitalization”? Are you fucking kidding me? You know what that means? That means making a poor black neighborhood appealing to investors or up and coming white and black people who probably don’t identify with the black people living there at all.

But if you say I do not feel how I feel, or that it’s OK because I struggle with it, that's just tacit permission to never discuss these things, keep them buried, and fool ourselves into thinking everything will improve.

It's easy to tell me that I'm wrong. I know I shouldn't make sweeping generalizations. But I feel what I feel.

I'm looking at a whole community here, and behaviors on my street reinforce those feelings. These people are just as black as any other black person, and how they behave- like it or not- makes life harder for black people who don't behave in a similar manner. It isn't fair, I know. But if you want to gauge white people by responses I've gotten, you can't say it doesn't happen. Not all whites, but enough.

I think I can fairly say these feelings 1) are fostered by behaviors like those exhibited in my neighborhood and 2) aren’t going to change if even the black people who don't behave in that manner but, ultimately, are negatively affected by those behaviors say, essentially, it's OK.

So if you don't like the word racist, find another one. But please find one that doesn't minimize the problem.

And if you want to have a dialogue about the problem, I will gladly respond and discuss it further. But let's have the right dialogue.

Fifteen Minutes...

2007-06-11T23:17:00.000-05:00

I haven't posted because it's all too rapid to post.

Saturday I spoke to the Tampa Bay Association of Black Journalists.

And WMNF 88.5 interviewed me.

The St. Pete Times is running a story about me in Thursday's Floridian.

Creative Loafing also has something in this week's paper.

I'm doing a phone interview with the Florida Courier tomorrow morning (or is it this morning?)

Guys, I haven't said anything new. And... for what it's worth, I think it's great that so many people have read what I've written. But I'm getting damn tired of trying to convince folks I'm a racist. I never- NEVER- wanted to be a poster child for racism.

But... here, courtesy of the American Collegiate Dictionary:

racism: the belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability...

NOWHERE does it say that "racists" DON'T feel bad about how they feel or acquiesce to their feelings. Just because someone doesn't like it or fights it doesn't mean they are NOT a racist.

Now... please... please... can you turn your attention to what's wrong in the south side and forget about me? I am one person and I do not like how I feel. I'm working on it, I promise. I never said less. Unless the Daily Show calls, I am done. I have nothing new to say; anything more will rehash the issues. Bring them up at the next St. Pete city meeting; ask them why they haven't gotten more aggressive with crime in south side neighborhoods. Ask them why they're not upping the number of officers. Ask them why police KNOW that crack houses exist, know WHERE they exist, and then ask WHY they haven't shut them down. Ask them why they allow slum lords to rent to the lowlifes. Ask them why they praise a Sweetbay and herald it as a flagship of redevelopment... but ignore the people less than a mile away who are crying for help to clean the drugs out of their neighborhoods. And ask them why NONE of the elected officials who talk about how great midtown is have taken a chance and moved to the "midtown" they say is the next best thing.

Those are the real questions. Not me. I do not matter, not in this issue.

The Mystery of the Three Pack

2007-05-24T11:20:00.000-05:00

If you "got" my reference in my last blog (and in my Gabber article about Carl Asch of Empty Hats fame), this is probably a useless blog entry.

If you did not get the reference (and please, mom, if you DON'T fall into this category, I don't want to know... really), read on.

Three pack, as in erotic (read: porn) magazines.

In some adult retail establishments (I have heard) patrons can purchase certain magazines in sets of threes, all nicely wrapped in a plastic bag, in much the same way as MacWorld arrives in my mailbox. Of course, MacWorld, while an inarguably more valuable publication for what I do (no comments, please), lacks the closeup photographic work of these other publications.... from what I've read.

Because the magazines are safely contained in plastic, people wishing to purchase them can only see the titles of the outer two magazines, which, my sources tell me, generally have the more mainstream (playing fast and loose with the word mainstream, I know) titles, such as Lips (I'm not certain but I think it's a magazine about skin care) Shaved (I believe this particular title has some relation to grooming), or Hustler (now, even the most Puritanical of us knows that this magazine deals with billiards).

The mystery inner magazine? Well, apparently (again, I don't know, have never seen these magazines, and certainly don't have an ex-husband who had two milk crates full of the stuff in the back of the closet by his dress shoes) the plastic is just tight enough that patrons can't tell what subjects the third magazine deals with.

Now, as good Americans, we never hide something we could market and sell for more money, and given that the three packs generally cost less than purchasing three magazines separately, what would you expect to find as the middle magazine?

Pregnant Middle-Aged Women With One Leg?
Mennonite Lesbian Women?
Post-Op Women of Abilene?
40 Women Over 40 and Over 400 pounds?
Men Dressed As Dogs?

Those titles may be a bit tame for the average three pack, but you get the idea. The third magazine provides amusement only, and not the kind that gets you in trouble at the local bookstore (see prior blog entry). At least, that's what I choose to believe, because if there actually exists a publisher somewhere who puts these 'zines out as a serious attempt at embracing sexuality and discovering oneself (don't I make porn sound very sophisticated?), I not only don't want to know, I don't want to know their target audience.

So, there you go, curious readers. The mystery of the three pack, unveiled. I'm thinking of getting my own show on TLC...

Alleged Masturbation.

2007-05-22T22:55:00.000-05:00

So... I have this great part-time job as a night "keyholder" at the new downtown St. Pete "Buns and Noodles" bookstore (apparently I'm not supposed to say "Barnes and Noble" in my blog- as part of the ultimate "Office Space" experience, they actually have a blogging policy... Oops.) and, from time to time, it offers general merriment.

Like tonight.

I'm at the store and my mind is on my current deadline that has, once again, broken the sound barrier as it went whooshing by this afternoon. I see one of our staff, who I will call Cat because that is her name, standing with a cart of USF emblazened merchandise, looking mildly mortified and befuddled by the back door. I ask her what's up.

"I just caught a woman touching herself," she whispers. Perhaps, I suggest, she simply had an itch. Cat explains that the accompanying bobbing and... um... movement belies a simple itch. I can't help it. I start to laugh. After all, who masturbates in a bookstore?

Well, apparently this woman. I won't give her name because the last name is the same as a certain Tampa mayor, and I am certain they are not related. But Cat walked by the armchairs by the history section and, as she described it, saw a woman reading a Meg Cabot novel, her hand down the front of her pants moving in a rather distinctive motion (I'd like to mention that Cat is only recently 18 and exactly how the hell sophisticated HAVE teenagers gotten, anyway?) as she bobbed up and down and to and fro.

Is it possible, I ask again (because my mind simply doesn't wrap around anything else- we're a bookstore, for chrissakes, one of the last bastions of intellectualism, a place for debate and exploration, albeit a very different kind than this woman chose to pursue), that the woman simply had an itch? Cat graces me with a look that I equate with a response to the comment "Mommy and Daddy were just checking something..", and I have the good grace to stop talking. I walk by the woman to check out the situation at hand (pun intended), as I am the one in charge (and those of you who know me should be afraid, very afraid, at that), and I can't tell. But it isn't normal reading behavior- unless you're reading a three pack...

So I call campus police. I am NOT paid enough to go over to people and ask them to stop with their self-gratification. The dispatcher asks how he can help. I tell him who I am and add that there is a woman allegedly masturbating in the store and while I can't tell, perhaps they can send an officer over to handle the situation (pun NOT intended).

A long pause. You know it's a good day when you can make a police dispatcher speechless, if even for a brief moment.

"What does she look like?" he asks next.

Now, those of you who don't know me may assume that some supreme respect for law enforcement on my part resulted in a simple description of what she was wearing, hair color, and the like. Those of you who DO know me, however, will not be shocked at what I said next.

"What, so you can figure out how many guys to send over?" I ask, and I swear the dispatcher chortles. You can't make this shit up, folks.

He finishes laughing and explains that the officer needs a way to identify the alleged masturbator. As if the hand down the front of her pants ISN'T enough... I say the large woman with the bad dye job and figure if they can't work it out from what the woman's doing coupled with her lack of grooming in the hair dye department, they can't really offer us much help.

As an afterthought, I ask if this is even illegal. I mean, really, she hasn't exposed herself, so what, exactly, is the crime?

"I'm sure it must be," the dispatcher answered through barely disguised laughter.

Long story short (too late...)? The officer (a woman) arrives and pulls the alleged masturbator out of the store. She questions her and trespasses her from USF (which includes the bookstore and, apparently, this woman's hope of a way to a better station in life as a university student), but not before she gleans the following:

The AM (alleged masturbator) says that she had just shaved and had an intense, persistent itch that she was simply trying to scratch. The officer explained that the bathroom is a completely appropriate place for said scratching (or, hey, a clinic, huh?) and that no situation existed where that was permissible behavior in a bookstore or, for that matter, any public place.

Here's the best part... the AM thanks the officer and extends her hand as if to shake.

The officer (and really, folks, these guys DO NOT make enough money) looks at her and says, "You can understand why I'm not going to shake your hand, right?"

It's like a DaVinyl's song on acid, it really is.

I Am Not a Victim... But Enough is Enough

2007-05-20T01:46:00.000-05:00

It seems that I have come under criticism for not getting more involved in my neighborhood's crime watch activities. It also seems that the Creative Loafing posters feel like I'm whining and playing the victim.

To set the record straight....
-I report on several community groups that all meet at night. Most times I have to choose between making money and going to my neighborhood's crime watch meeting. I'm a freelancer, guys, I get paid per article. Yes, I know I have chosen this life, but I don't have sick time, I don't have anyone else in my home helping with finances, so it's just me and my laptop against the world (oh, and my Dalmatian, but she really has limited earning potential). I don't get a salary, so I work when and where I can.
-You want to fault me for not getting involved, go ahead. I made my bed and all, writing what I did, but I would argue that, agree with me or not, my article and these posts have drawn focus to a largely ignored area of Pinellas County.
-I DO call the police, so much so that I feel like the cranky old lady with 97 cats and bright green fuzzy slippers that calls if someone looks suspicious. I have taken every blessed one of their suggestions, save for putting lights up in the alley (I just don't have the resources).
-Complaining without action or attempt? I'm not a joiner, I'm not a leader, I'm not an activist. I am, however, a writer. So that's what I do. Those of you who read my article and took it as complaining or whining, read it again, and consider this:

Those of you who disagreed with me are, response-wise (letters, e-mails, and calls to me, the paper, as well as these blogs) in the minority. That shocked me and disturbs me.

I didn't write I Had a Dream expecting empathy. I expected and hoped that people would not relate but would understand that things aren't as rosy on the south side as city officials would have you think. I realize that perhaps only a handful of people reading this anymore may have actually met me, so I guess I need to explain that three years ago I felt completely differently. I was more severely opinionated to the left about race than anyone who has responded to these writings.

This has not been an easy journey (relax, my anti-Cathy hate club, I am not whining) in that respect. Or any respect, really. That any living situation- regardless of your level of involvement in neighborhood watch groups or cleanups or whatever- can facilitate as dramatic a change as it has for me- is unacceptable. I'm not real pleased with myself, don't misunderstand, but I have seen things I cannot unsee. I can't pretend they didn't happen. I'm not like city of St. Pete's leadership (to be fair, just some of it, not all): I can't act like things are fine here. They are not. Living here has changed me. Yes, I have allowed it, but I would argue that any one of you who spent two years on my street would emerge from the experience changed as well.

Here's what I've seen:

Some people don't want to be fixed.
Some people aren't capable of changing their lives.
Opportunity means nothing when the above two statements are true.

And here's what I want to know:

Those of you who remain adamant that I am not a racist- why is that so important to you? Is it because you feel like I do and don't want to admit that you might be a little bit racist, too? Or is it because you want to believe that all people are, as Anne Frank said, basically good at heart? I assure, they are not, and I am no different. I am not a bad person, but I have flaws. Many. (My ex husband can send you a notarized list, in either alphabetical or temporal order of discovery.)

One final thought, and then let's move on, please...

I am not a victim.
But you know what? If I'm not, then neither are my neighbors. We are all responsible for ourselves. At some point we must stop blaming our parents, our schools, our genetics, what the fuck ever, and realize we're responsible for our future and our situations. Either we're all victims or none of us are, and either way the result doesn't change.

What Came Before The Racist Article

2007-05-14T20:06:00.000-05:00

The "I Had a Dream" article that ran in the May 10 Gabber was the third in a three part series. Here's part two, in which I quote Rick Baker accusing me of spinning a story. Share and enjoy....

Another Great Day in St. Petersburg

A Tale of Two Cities: Part II

By Cathy Salustri

“It’s another great day in St. Petersburg,” Mayor Rick Baker announced Tuesday morning at Midtown’s Tangerine Plaza. Baker, along with a bevy of St. Petersburg officials, attended the grand opening of two new businesses in the Sweetbay shopping plaza on the corner of 18th Avenue and 22nd Street South.
Mayor Baker- along with Deputy Mayor Goliath Davis- has passion when he talks about midtown. After the ceremonies, he sits down on a bench outside the Sweetbay, ready to talk about the changes in Midtown.
I ask him first about citizen concerns about crime. In researching Midtown’s progress I have heard a lot of concern that the City could do more to fight crime in Midtown.
The 2006 Uniform Crime Report for St. Petersburg reports that eight of the nine highest crime areas in the city fall within Midtown’s boundaries. These areas have an average crime rate of roughly 22%.
That means that out of every 100 people living in those neighborhoods, 22 fell prey to murder, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, burglary, larceny, or auto theft in 2006.
“You can certainly spin the story that way if you want to,” Baker says, adding “There are crime problems everywhere. Crime is down.”
The nine federal census tracts in question reflect an increase in crime. In 2000, the crime rate in those nine areas hovered just above 19%. However, the Mayor is right- the overall crime rate for St. Petersburg fell from 8.2% in 2000 to 8.1% last year.
Not everyone agrees with Baker’s optimism about the crime rate. Some accuse Baker of focusing on economic development and ignoring crime problems in their neighborhoods.
Lou Delprete, a Central Oak Park resident for over 40 years, doubts Baker’s ability to revitalize midtown in a way that will improve the quality of life for existing residents.
“I think he listens to Goliath Davis,” Delprete says “which means nothing. I think he’s looking at businesses and condos and he’s not concerned with the residents at all. He’ll pour money into midtown and still have a high crime rate.”
“It would be a huge mistake to assume we chose to do economic development instead of law enforcement,” Baker says, “We chose to do it in addition to.”
Davis shares Baker’s passion for Midtown, growing more animated as he denies problems of discord.
“We didn’t come in and assume we had any idea of what the community was going to want,” Davis says, “This process is a direct result of community engagement and focus groups.”
From communication with Midtown residents, Davis says the city developed a strategic plan for Midtown. That plan includes economic development, codes enforcement, housing, and public safety. All those components, Davis says, must dovetail to improve Midtown.
“You can’t arrest your way out of an economic problem,” he says.
“You’ve got to do everything at the same time: infrastructure, crime, and economic development,” Baker explains.
Both men suggest that crime poses less of a concern than the other issues in Midtown.
“If you look at the number of people who are buying houses, that’s not indicative of the people worrying about crime,” Baker says.
Tom Tito, a 33 year veteran of Bartlett Park, disagrees.
“There’s all kinds of new buildings,” Tito, president of the Bartlett Park Neighborhood Association explains, “but according to the St. Pete Times last October, 5,000 people have moved out. I think he’s got a lot of wishful thinking going on.”
Rose Mary Kitchen and her husband have lived in Bartlett Park for 37 years. She does worry about crime.
“You can’t help but feel endangered,” she says after Tuesday night’s Crime Watch meeting, “You never know when a shooting can occur.”
Clearly, not everyone agrees. That, according to Baker, doesn’t mean bad things for the City.
“The conflict you’re seeing... is not an unhealthy conflict. I don’t mind people pushing us- the worst thing is when a neighborhood has given up,” Baker says. As he speaks, a man approaches. Noel Pennington, a Lake Maggiore Shores resident, wants to thank the Mayor and shake his hand.
“I think St. Petersburg is changing a lot, and it’s all for the better,” he tells Baker.
Scott Swift, a Bartlett Park resident, agrees that the change has helped.
“I’ve become a fan of the Mayor because I can see what he’s doing,” Swift says “and there’s a lot of pain to it. You’re going from a retirement - based community. The city was very stable- and unchanged- for about 30 years.”
Changes in the population and what attracts people to St. Petersburg have meant that city government has had to change how it handles certain issues.
“We’re building a much better city, but you have to change law enforcement and prevention strategies as your culture and population changes,” Swift says.
Everyone I spoke to agreed that St. Petersburg Police do all they can to help, but can’t do it alone.
“You’ve go to call in constantly- without mercy and with zero tolerance. It’s the one thing we can do,” Swift told the Crime Watch group Tuesday night.
“They need more police officers,” Tito says, “The Sheriff said he would provide more deputies to help fill in, but the Mayor refuses to ask.”
Kitchen and her husband Johnnie say that parents need to take responsibility for their children.
“The kids need training,” Mr. Kitchen says.
Delprete says the city needs a curfew, something brought up at Tuesday night’s Crime Watch meeting.
Davis and Baker say that, despite these complaints, Midtown continues to move in the right direction. Baker says that by the end of his term, “I think we’ll be very close to being there in terms of the seamlessness.”
Davis grew up in St. Petersburg and currently lives in Pinellas Point. He told me he would have no problem if his daughter wanted to live in Midtown.
“There’s nowhere in the City I wouldn’t live,” he smiles.
Tito and Delprete both shudder and shake their heads “no” when asked if they would want their daughters to move into Midtown.
“You’re talking to the wrong people,” Davis says, “Go up to anyone here and ask them how they feel about it,” he adds, gesturing to the crowd gathered at the ribbon cutting
I approach Sam Thomas. Thomas has lived in Midtown “off and on” since the 1970s. I ask him how he feels about the new shops.
“I think it’s positive,” Thomas says as he leans against the new Beauty Supply store in Tangerine Plaza.
“How committed,” I ask next “do you think the City is to improving the quality of life in Midtown?”
He pauses.
“I think to a certain extent.”
Where, I ask, does that commitment end?
“Behind the Sweetbay. It’s like if the outside of the house looks good, but when you open the door, it looks ratty.”

You can contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@TheGabber.com. Next Week: I Had A Dream.

Defending the Indensible

2007-05-14T15:55:00.000-05:00

If you scroll down to my "I Had A Dream" post, you'll see that Leilani Polk and I have been discussing my post for a few comments now. Before you read further, take a look at our comments (link on the right side of your screen) and come back on up here. Rather than post a comment as long as a blog entry, thought I should just make a new entry.

Leilani,

I have a friend who lives in a different neighborhood several blocks away. Poor black people populate his street. He is one of two white people on the street. But does he have the problems I do? No. On his street I see a community that takes pride in their homes. They get up and go to work; they keep their homes tidy and well-maintained. And these black people, I would argue, have faced the same hurdles as the black people on my street. But they have not, by all appearances, faced through problems through the haze of crack smoke and crime.

I know that I can't imagine what it's like to grow up black in any economic strata (poor, middle class, or rich). I'm not sure I feel "entrenched" in southside/midtown, but I have looked at the issue and researched it outside my own opinions. I have looked for proof that I am wrong about what I am about to say; I have not found it.

The St. Pete police are not the problem. The problem comes when St. Pete has a mayor who accuses me of "spinning" a story when I interview him about crime in midtown. The problem comes when St. Pete can have a media event when they cut the ribbon on new stores in midtown/southside but it takes me five months to get Mayor Baker to consent to an interview about the area- and only then because I ran into him at the aforementioned ribbon cutting the day before the article went to press. The problem comes when the media reprints press releases instead of doing their own research. And the problem comes when I see people and talk to people who communicate a sense of entitlement and a lack of desire to change. There are a wealth of opportunities within walking distance- financial assistance to buy a home, lifelong learning, scholarship assistace, help wanted signs in storefronts- but how much more do you expect from the people offering the help? The help is there, the chances exist. I've reported on several opportunities for kids and adults, I've passed the press releases along to the paper, and I don't know what else to do. People who want to find help have found it. Maybe not all of those who want it, but many have. Some people do not want to change. It's unfortunate that my street houses so many of them.

And, yes, Leilani, the problem comes from me. I have had long discussions with my editor about my biases and opinions and we've looked at how it will color any reporting I do on midtown/southside. Part of the reason he chose to run that piece, I think, is so that people could see my bias up front.

Every person- reporters included- have biases. A good reporter should try to not incorporate them into the reporting. I don't know if I can do that on this issue.

Yes, I want to avoid sweeping generalizations. Can I? I have no clue. Here's where I want desperately to argue with you but I can't. I definitely don't agree with you on all points, but you're right on this one. What I'm doing isn't right, from a journalistic standpoint. But... would it be better for me to have not written that and reported on midtown/southside anyway? And consider this: right or wrong, reporter or regular person, this is how living where I live has changed me. I moved there because I found an inexpensive home and - this is key- I believed that the City of St. Petersburg was committed to the area. I expected some crime, yes, but I also expected the City to demonstrate their commitment to reducing crime in this area and improving quality of life issues.

The police can only do so much. Is it their fault that the budget only allows so many officers? How do you justify a higher budget and, by translation, higher taxes, when the people paying the majority of those taxes don't live in midtown/southside and won't see a change in their day to day lives, save the higher tax bill? How can you fault the police when the County has judges that accept ridiculous excuses like "my client had a prescription and mistook the Ecstasy for his prescription"? How can you fault the police when the state attorney can't or won't prosecute a case against the guy the police caught on a stolen scooter, with drugs on him and two violations of probation for other drug charges? How frustrating it must be to work as an officer, and when they behave like real people and speak their mind, we crucify them for saying what they believe. How frustrated must that officer have been to feel as though that was the best advice he could give me?

Look, all I'm saying is that I have changed because of my experiences. I used to feel like you do now- possibly more so; I don't know the extent of your convictions. I was NOT ambivalent about race and discrimination. I still am not. But if taking the city of St. Pete on faith and making the move here has contributed to the dissolution of what I thought was a solid belief system, what will it do to others? What about people who don't feel as strongly as I did and move here simply because they feel they have no other choice?

That's the real problem, as I see it. I am one person and, in the grand scheme of things, I don't matter. But take several of me and add us all together and it scares me.

"If I Had Given the Neighborhood More Time..."

2007-05-13T19:48:00.000-05:00

Tom Tito, a Bartlett Park activist who I have spoken to on numerous occasions, has responded to Alex's comment on my article on his Creative Loafing blog.

Tito makes some excellent points about our neighborhood, but he says one thing that I believe is flawed:

"If she had given the neighborhood more time she would have found a large number of black residents who are the best neighbors you could ever meet."

While he may be right, I believe that life consists of little moments rather than the big picture. If I stayed here longer I might, indeed, see that. But here's the thing that haunts me, the thing that has prompted me to call a Realtor and list the house:

525,600 minutes.

If you've seen Rent you get the reference, but if you haven't, let me explain. That's how many minutes it takes to measure a year. I have almost a million minutes of my life spent here, a million minutes spent having to call police. A million minutes spent having things stolen. A million minutes spent disgusted with the City, my neighbors, the absentee landlords, and, finally, with myself.

A million minutes spent learning to hate.

Those are minutes I will never get back and I cannot change. Sure, if I give the neighborhood more time that might change. I believe the neighborhood will change, probably for the better.

I used to work for Pinellas County. In our building we had a lot of career employees. I watched one too many people suffer through decades of what amounted to abject misery because the County had pretty decent retirement. They had goals, dreams, plans... and they suffered because the end, they believed, would justify the means. And I watched more than one of those people die just before retirement or immediately after. They never got the prize, just the rough road along the way.

I don't know what's going to happen in my life. Five years ago I was on a different track altogether. Three years ago I had no intention of ever leaving Gulfport. Two years ago I had high hopes for this adorable little house on 21st Avenue South. And today I want more than anything to sell that adorable home and move somewhere that lets me enjoy the minutes that paint the big picture.

That's all any of us have: right now. It's 8:07 now. 8:08 is not a guarantee. All I have is how much I like who and what and where I am right now. I love who I am, I can admit what I am, but as for the where? It isn't where I need or want to be.

If you can promise me- PROMISE me- that I have another 20 years left, another 10, or, hell, even another day, I will stay here. I'll wait it out.

Any takers?

Yeah, I thought not.

They're Actually NOT Watching Me

2007-05-12T16:53:00.000-05:00

Thank god I was wrong, please see the comments below on my previous post.

Sometimes on blogs and web sites it's hard to see what someone's intent is- my own included. Stogie, thanks for clearing that up, because I DO realize that what I wrote could be interpreted either way.

So I am not The Man, which is good, because I thought The Man generally made a lot more money or was missing a lot more teeth (I only have lost my wisdom teeth, no jokes, please!)

It's one of those times when I love being wrong. As Douglas Adams said, "I'd rather be happy than right any day."

They're Watching Me.

2007-05-12T14:36:00.000-05:00

At least, it certainly seems this way.

The Bartlett Park blogmaster (is that a word?) sent me an e-mail letting me know that I was on the Creative Loafing blog. The link he sent, tho, was to TampaBlab rather than Alex's CL blog, and when I clicked on the link and scrolled down, I found a link to the Ybor City Stogie, another blog site that has reposted my article as it appears below, (sans my little narcisstic rant above the post).

Does anyone else find it wildly peculiar that, three years ago, the Drudge Report labeled my paper as a horrible liberal rag or some such nonsense and now I'm a Tampa Bay Right Winger? Maybe I misread the intent of reposting the entry, but it certainly seems like I'm the right wing they're watching.

Oh, sweet jesus.

I'm the man.

I Had a Dream.

2007-05-10T23:35:00.000-05:00

I posted this a few months ago but have revised it at length and my very courageous editor has run it on the front page of this week's Gabber. This is basically just narcissm that driving me to repost it as it finally ran, because the first draft had issues. And, hey, it's my blog. I can do that. Well, OK, with permission of The Gabber, who officially own the rights to this piece.

A note about this: I believe this is the only thing I have ever written that has driven people who do not like me to say I have courage. Hell, no one has ever said I was brave before, like me or not. I like to believe that I'm not driven by other people's opinion of me, but for some secret squirrel reason, that gave me pleasure to hear.

Here 'tis:

I Had A Dream
A Tale Of One City

By Cathy Salustri

I’m a white woman living in a black neighborhood, and I’m turning into a racist because of it.
I don’t say this proudly; quite the opposite: I am ashamed. But that doesn’t change what I have become.
Growing up, I didn’t -as I don’t think many children do- notice skin color, save for the little blonde girl in my first grade class. I spent the first seven years of my life in an Italian neighborhood, and when Karen showed up in school, I asked my mom why Karen’s skin was so pale- was she sick? Beyond that, I didn’t really understand the idea of “a colored person”. I guess, after meeting Karen, I thought “colored” must mean Italian.
When we moved to Florida, though, my new southern peers explained it to me in terms that sent me sobbing to my mother, asking her if my dad’s best friend knew he was black. Despite those ignorant euphemisms, I learned- or thought I learned- that what mattered was what a person looked like inside, not out.
Four years ago I moved to Gulfport, a city that prides itself on its diversity. Of course, in Gulfport “diversity” refers more to sexual orientation than skin color. As a Gulfportian, I occasionally felt like a straight minority, but it didn’t change how I felt about gay people.
Then, almost two years ago, I bought a house in Bartlett Park, a predominantly black neighborhood in what we used to call the “south side” but now refer to as “Midtown”. Here I have been forced to acknowledge the racist within me. Please understand: I am not proud of this; I’m simply not willing to pretend.
I am a racist. Unlike Gulfport and gay people, living in Bartlett Park has made me feel differently about black people.
While I walk my dog, the comments I get- mostly come-ons, although I assure you I’m not all that- make me uncomfortable. I get intimidated at how physically close these men get to me, so much so that if I did not have a dog I wouldn’t walk through my neighborhood. I don’t fear unwanted advances but I do believe one of two things: either these people are trying to figure out how long I’ll be away from home or are gauging my reaction to see how easily intimidated I am. My saving grace? A cantankerous, overprotective Dalmatian. These men often ask if she bites, the only comment they make that gets more than a nod in return. Hell, yes, she bites.
When someone broke into my shed last year and, while inspecting the damage, my friend had his scooter stolen from my front yard, the words that went through my brain shocked me, but they would not go away.
When the loud bass thrums through my house, rattling my windows and making my head throb, only a very strong sense of self-preservation keeps me from throwing a rock through the car’s window and shouting things that would most certainly get me arrested for hate crimes -if I lasted that long.
Every time I have to call St. Pete’s finest because some crack head has stolen something out of my yard or broken into my fenced backyard, I can understand why people don’t want to come to the south side.
Living in my neighborhood, I understand why people don’t want to hire black people, why they say the horrible things they do about them. I understand how people learn to stop juging people by their individual traits. It’s not always ignorance; sometimes it’s simply taking the offensive.
That’s the sad part: I would love to call most of the people in my neighborhood good people and argue the ‘few bad apples” theory. The reality? only four homes on my street (myself included) have anyone living there who holds a job. The rest get money from... well, I don’t know where. Maybe they all inherited it. People walk by smoking pot... at any time of day. Houses have people- young people, not retirees- sitting outside all day and night. Parties start early every day, music thumping, crowds gathering, all hours before twilight. Strangers visit several homes on my street for just a few minutes at a time, then disappear down alleys again. I see no signs that most of my neighbors want things to change.
I hate what I see and how I feel. I like the few neighbors I know. They bring me food on Thanksgiving, check on me when I enter a hermit phase and don’t show my face for a while, and smile at me on the street. So when these racial slurs ricochet through my head and two minutes later one of my neighbors brings me a plate of crawfish dressing, I feel no better than Michael Richards. I have had every advantage, my skin color among the largest. I’m not a stupid girl; I know that does NOT give me the right to use these words; in fact, I should, because of those advantages, know better. Even in a neighborhood that receives substandard city services, I have advantages because of my skin color.
And make no mistake about it: we do receive substandard services. We don’t get our mail picked up every day, our alley trash cans (city issued) barely cling to life, and trash collection seems based on the Chinese calendar. Potholes and litter line the alleyways.
A code enforcement officer in my neighborhood told me he was happy to see a white person in the neighborhood. A St. Pete policeman responded to one of my calls- a break in to my fenced yard- and told me to move, because the police didn’t have enough officers to do what needed to be done in Bartlett Park.
I cannot believe these two city representatives would have said the same thing to any of my black neighbors. Every police officer (and there have been many) who has come out here has asked why I moved here, their tone suggesting I need my head examined.
I have had a plethora of petty thefts and few big ones, although no one has attempted to enter my house... yet. Lawn mowers, old sandals, wasp killer, weed eaters, lawn furniture, ladders, and a host of other items disappearing have all definitely clouded the way I think. My fence lock getting smashed off with a cinder block hasn’t helped, either.
Last month a 19 year old black man, Maurice Fleming, got arrested while riding my stolen scooter. The locked scooter disappeared from my front yard; two days later the police caught him riding it a few blocks from my house. He had Ecstasy on him. He also was on probation for possession of cocaine and weed. My first thought? Well, my first thought was unprintable. My second thought was not much better: “Well, statistically, he’ll be dead soon.” Not quite the tolerance my mom and dad tried to teach me.
Tuesday morning I sat in court and watched him tell a judge he had a prescription and simply mistook the Ecstasy for his prescription. I then watched the judge sentence him to “time served”. The charges of grand theft? Dropped. Incidentally, Mr. Fleming totalled my scooter. Excuse me, allegedly totalled it. I watched Fleming make eye contact with someone he knew watching the sentencing. He smiled at them. And something in me broke, because at that minute I realized I wasn’t just thinking awful things about him, but every black person in that courtroom.
I moved here because I believed skin color didn’t matter, that underneath the epidermis we were all the same. I moved here because I could afford my home without putting on heels and a skirt and working 40 hours a week at a place where I got memos about group lunches and had to participate in trust falls and team building exercises.
I don’t want to move, I really don’t. I love my 1925 house, its refinished wood floors, fireplace, and huge yard. I love living close to Gulfport and downtown St. Pete. I love that I can pay my mortgage with the money I make writing.
But I hate what it’s doing to my view of the world. I hate that with every burglary (10 times in 18 months), words I once found abhorrent stop just short of my lips. I hate that I know my neighborhood’s problems result from crack and too many absentee landlords, yet I still find myself looking at every black face I see, wondering: Will you be the next person to steal from me? I hate that I am losing the ability to see anything other than black and white. I hate that I want another white person to buy a house on my street because that would be a “sign” that the neighborhood might turn around. I hate that two years in one neighborhood has erased an entire canon of black literature and history and replaced it with racism.
Above all else I hate that my friends who have darker skin than I will read this and see what I have become. I wish that not saying these things would make them go away, but it doesn’t. So what can I possibly say to them to erase what I feel, to convey how it hurts me to feel these things? How can they ever trust that I don’t care what their skin looks like?
What about the next black person I meet past the perimeter of Bartlett Park? Will I see them as a person, or have I lost the ability to see past the pigment in their skin? Will I judge them before I know them, and, as such, never know them at all?
That makes me a racist if that is true, and that, more than any prescient fear for my possessions, disturbs me more than anything else.
My friends assure me that a racist would never move to this neighborhood.
And I agree: a racist didn’t.

Flattery That Makes You Think

2007-04-21T21:21:00.000-05:00

And you know I hate to think, right?

So I get home tonight and there's an e-mail waiting for me from another guy in the neighborhood, letting me know that, essentially, this blog has made the Creative Loafing Blog.

I'm honored, really, since the weekly wouldn't respond to my query last year when I pitched a story.

I don't know Alex, although I admired (and vehemently disagreed with certain points in) his story on Bartlett Park in last week's Creative Loafing. I also think it sucks that a layout decision in The Gabber kept the first of my three part article on Midtown out of The Gabber until next week.

But even more disturbing is that Alex pointed out the disintegration (or enlightenment, depending on your attitude) of my world view in my blogs... and he has an incredibly valid although heretofore overlooked point.

When I moved in I had, as he calls it, righteous indignation. Now I've been reduced to contempt (check out the 4th entry down), again his word choice.

And, because I DO have an open mind, I re-read the two entries.

And damn it, he's right.

But wait... wasn't that MY point?

No Day But Today

2007-04-19T08:24:00.001-05:00

Some days my highest achievement is sucking breath in and pushing it out again. Yesterday was one such day; it also illustrates beautifully the logic behind my aversion to making plans.
8 a.m.-ish.
I wake up and screw around on the net, not even out of bed yet. My thoughts for the day include replacing the radiator in my car (OK, I wasn’t actually going to do it, but Tom was), changing my oil, maybe even the brake pads, and -most importantly- fixing the cigarette lighter in my car so I could FINALLY use my iTrip. I was actually feeling ambitious for a day off and had promised to go up to the airport and work on the banner plane with some of the guys.
8:20 a.m. -ish
I love it when my mom calls and there’s a pause after I answer the phone. After 34 years, I also know that when, after the pause, she starts our conversation by telling me where she’s going, something unpleasant has happened. So when she opens with, “I’m on my way home now,” I know something’s up. And I was right. They took my dad to the hospital because they thought he might be having a heart attack. His pressure was through the roof and they gave him nitroglycerin and morphine.
“But,” my mother says “he’s very concerned about you and doesn’t want you to drive down here.” (It typically takes 40 minutes to drive to Clearwater). Don’t even get me started on this. I lie and agree with her and ask her to tell me when he gets into a room and please keep me posted.
9:00 a.m.-ish
I take my car to Tom’s house so he can get the radiator done and I can get to the hospital without having to stop and add water. But when I scoot under the car to change the oil I see coolant coating... well, everything. Of COURSE. Dad isn’t in a room yet, so I change the oil, add fluid, and hope for the best. I swing home, add water to the radiator (isn’t that why I fixed the radiator and isn’t it disturbing that I can lose a quart of coolant in 14 blocks?).
Noon-ish
“Please don’t come up here, Cath, your father is very worried about you driving!”
“Tell him to lay off the bacon and drop a couple of pounds and I won’t freak out when he has chest pains, but until then I’m coming up.”
Makes you want to have a daughter just like me, doesn’t it? Try to understand, my dad could be having a heart transplant and all I would hear is “Your dad’s having a little procedure; it may even be outpatient, don’t drive up, you don’t want to leave the dog alone.” That’s if they even told me first. More than once my cousin Michele has called me and, in the course of conversation, asked me if my dad was feeling better or how his doctor appointment went and I feel like Lizzie Borden as I admit I have no clue what she’s talking about. She’s 1300 miles away, I’m a 40 minute drive, and I’m their daughter, so why the hell should I know what’s going on, right?
“Well, we didn’t want to worry you,” my mom will say in defense. Yeah, because finding out about my dad’s pancrea-ectomy or whatever from my cousin will accomplish THAT.
Sure, if you don’t know my family you can laugh and think I’m exaggerating, but my godfather is the same damn way, and his kids (my cousins) know you can’t make this shit up. They’ve got the same model, just a later year. My model has a few more miles, theirs has a better radio, but essentially we’re all driving the same damn thing around.
Speaking of driving, I point the car towards Clearwater and decide it might not be a bad idea to call the shop and see how much a new water pump would cost. Two reasons: in Toyotas, the water pump and timing belt are all one happy package, it sucks to try and do yourself, and I don’t think I should wait for the water pump to go completely which, I know from experience, means the timing belt will go as well.
Good thing I call, too, because the engine temperature appears to be approaching Mercury or, at the very least, Venus. I am on borrowed time, there’s no way in hell this car will make it to Clearwater, and I don’t want to call anyone to come get me, so I run a few yellowish lights to get to Autoway (there’s logic there, when I let the car idle the temp goes nuts) and coast into the red lane on borrowed time.
3 p.m.-ish
I have to wait on a rental car but I am well on my way now. I get to the hospital by 4. I HATE north county traffic, I swear to Christ every stupid old lady driving habit shown in movies played itself out in front of me on East Bay Drive yesterday. It’s a miracle I don’t get out of the car and beat someone to death.
4 p.m.-ish
I feel like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, I really do. I started out with a yellow scooter, then a Toyota Tercel, and now I’m in a Forerunner, something that has more square footage than my house. Couple that with the fact it’s taking FOUR HOURS to make a 40 minute trip and it really is amazing I didn’t shoot somebody who, in all probability, deserved it.
4:05 p.m.-ish
“Hi, Cath, why did you call my brother?” Gosh golly gee I don’t know, maybe because THEY THOUGHT YOU HAD A HEART ATTACK. I try and remember that my parents have had a rough day and I shouldn’t yell at them right this second. Instead I take it out on anyone I talk to who isn’t a) family or b) not a healthcare professional (NEVER yell at nurses and doctors, that’s almost as bad as fucking with the people who bring you food in restaurants).
So I have this cool shirt Tom made on CafePress, and I’m wearing it. I walk in and my dad squints and looks, reads the shirt out loud, and this is how I know he’s doped up: he neither looks at me in disgust nor laughs hysterically. Instead, he looks at my mother who -and you REALLY need to know my mom to appreciate this- closes her eyes briefly and says, “It means when a man can’t get an erection.” Now, I sense, is not the time to make a joke about whether that’s a “man” or not. I’m still too stunned that my mother actually used the word “erection” in a sentence that doesn’t relate to construction.
From there the conversation kind of gets away from me. Not five minutes after my dad gave me a hard time about calling his brother and worrying him, I hear these words come out of his mouth, preceded by a large sigh and the sound of him climbing up on the cross:
“You know, none of my brothers have called me other than Jerry.”
Really, is there any way to win?
From there we talk about my car. When he finds out I have brought it to a repair shop, my father while, still hooked up to the telemetry, looks at me sadly and says, “You know, you can still ask ME to work on your car.”
I look at my mother who is red with laughter.
“Well, I’m sorry, you were fibrillating at the time,” I say. At this point I can only imagine what the guy in the next bed is thinking. Shortly after that I go back to their house with my mom and then swing back by Morton Plant to see my dad again.
6:30 p.m.-ish
I head home and, after talking to some non-family members on the phone who probably think that the Estrogen Queen Pod People have replaced the woman they once knew, I decide that it’s probably best that I not use the phone anymore tonight. If you called last night and I didn’t answer, please don’t take it personally. I’ll get in touch with you all today.

Quiet = Stupid, Apparently

2007-04-13T20:01:00.000-05:00

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Shelly and I kicked back at Limey's this afternoon with our second or third bitch-type session this week. Because Shelly, unlike myself, has a propensity for people, we found ourselves joined by two of her (rather enjoyable, even if they are human) friends. In the process of getting to know everyone, I found out something so amazing I had to share.

When Shelly first met me, she says she "kinda thought" I "might be stupid". Apparently because I didn't speak much.

For some reason I find this hysterical. How horribly snobbish am I to derive mirth from the very notion that anyone might think I was stupid?

Of course, I'd like to point out that my parents once worried I might have something wrong with me (they thought I might be retarded, I guess) when I was three because I hadn't started to speak yet. Why is it that not babbling gets associated with stupidity?

Now, if she really wanted to judge my intelligence, I can point to no less than a dozen life choices that WOULD give her evidence of my lack of intelligence.

Black and White, Part Three

2007-04-12T14:42:00.000-05:00

This isn't about Gulfport, but Gulfport started it with its whole "let's work together and not live in a bubble" mentality. I, like our readers, have progressed beyond the City's borders.

I do not believe the lip service paid to the south side. I cannot think of it as midtown because to accept "midtown" would be akin to trying to believe the political spin surrounding it.

What's going to happen to the south side? I don't know, but I fear that the bad guys far outnumber the good.

The police don't get paid enough for what they do, and I don't for a moment believe we have enough of them in St. Pete. The drug dealers get overlooked while police try to keep certain drug busts quiet because they want to use a house as "a honey hole" as one officer told me last month.
Mayor Baker points to a supermarket that barely keeps its staff off welfare- and I'd like to point out that these folks probably would have found a job somewhere without the supermarket- as signs that the south side has a bright future.

I had my scooter stolen the first week of April. It had a wheel lock and was right under my front porch light. The police recovered it from a young man who had ecstasy in his possession. They charged the young Marcus Fleming with grand theft, possession of ecstasy, and two counts of violating probation. Mr. Fleming was on probation for possession of cocaine as well as possession of marijuana. He will be 20 in October.

When the young Mr. Fleming couldn't find a loved one to post his bond, a judge released him anyway. On April 23 I will meet with the State Attorney and the St. Pete Police to see if there's enough cause to prosecute.

Yeah, reread that last sentence. They caught him on the scooter- which, by the way, sustained over $600 worth of damage (it only cost $1000 new) and they don't know if they have enough to make the charges stick. It makes me wonder why the police even bother doing their job at all; it has to be not only the most dangerous job around but also the one with the potential to feel the most futile.

Now, I know that I should have locked the scooter up in my fenced backyard. But I've had the locks busted off my fence before as well, and I've had my shed broken into. I've lost more money in lawn equipment over the past two years than I, prior to living in the south side, had espent the other 32 years of my life.

But the bottom line is this- I want to live somewhere where locking up your vehicle is sufficient. I want to live somewhere where my garden sandals don't get stolen from my front porch. I want to live somewhere where I can go to the corner gas station and not get offered drugs or hookers. I want to live somewhere where every time I go outside I don't glare at the strangers wandering along my street, worried they will be the next to steal from me. I want to live somewhere where the police have the support of the city to do something about drug dealers.

I want to live somewhere where I don't worry about my dog dying, not just because I love her more than anything but because I truly believe her presence rather than the the presence of a Sweetbay is the only reason the stuff inside my house hasn't been stolen.

I don't know where that place is. I just know that right now, it isn't here.

Black and White, Part Two

2007-04-09T17:11:00.000-05:00

When I met with Chuck Harmon, we met initally to talk about the way St. Pete uses community policing. Late last year, amid all the noise about tent cities and a new Camelot in Tallahassee with one of St. Pete's own as governor, Harmon decided to make his community policing department into something useful. This, for some reason, received a great deal of attention in the mainstream media (for all you guys playing the home version, The Gabber is NOT the mainstream media. We're not exactly alternative news, either, but whatever, it works for us). Despite the lack of positive response in other area papers, I thought eliminating a separate group of Community Police Officers a stroke of genius on Harmon's part (If you thought I- or any other reporter- was objective, you need to start paying more attention). Ken Reichert, the editor of this paper, did not.

Now, since Ken and I see eye to eye on many, many things, this surprised me a bit. We've only ever disagreed on two other issues- the importance of covering chicken-related issues in the paper (I'm all for it) and whether or not the US actually landed on the moon in the 60s (which I just say we didn't because it makes his mouth get all tight and his nostrils flare, just like I bet they did now when he read this for the first time). So, like any other employee would do when their boss expresses an opinion on something, I told him he was wrong and I would, through objective, unbiased reporting, prove it to him. (If you ever wondered how the paper gets its ideas for stories, wonder no longer: it's whatever we disagreed about in an editorial meeting the Friday before.)

To best describe why I'm an advocate of mainstreaming CPO's with the rest of the force, let me paraphrase Chief Willocks: community policing is every officer's job. Where I live I see police officers slogging through apathy (more than one of them has referred my concerns [petty theft, destruction of property, and two or three more counts of petty theft] to the community police officers instead of taking a report or doing anything about the crime).

As you may have guessed, I do not live in Gulfport. I live in the heart of midtown, on 21st Avenue behind Atwaters, between 9th and 7th Streets South. My neighbors refer to me as the white girl on 21st. When they give directions, they use me as a landmark ("go down the street til you see the house where the white girl lives and we're two houses past her on the other side of the street"). When I was a kid we called it the south side, but that phrase seems as unwelcome at St. Pete City Hall as Don Imus at a Martin Luther King Jr. parade.

Now we, thanks to Mayor Baker and one of our many deputy mayors, Go Davis, call it "Midtown", and promises of low mortgage payments and the next redevelopment trend led me here two years ago. Harmon's actions should reassure me as well. But... what's actually happening in midtown?

Here's what I know. I know that Gulfport has stepped up and started to work with St. Pete on the Greater Childs Park initiative. I know Councilperson Mary Stull shows up at Childs Park meetings as well as at her own Gulfport Crime Awareness meetings. I know that Harmon's CPO initiative has kept their promises- at least, when I've called they've called me right back and, as a result of my bitching I've seen more officers on my block. I know that most midtown neighborhoods have Crime Watch meetings. And- this is the big one- I know that Deputy Mayor Davis promises that the City remains " committed to facilitating the redevelopment and economic growth of Midtown."

But I believe some other things, too. I believe people still sell drugs on my street. A LOT of drugs, and not just the kind that make you want another bag of chips. I believe that St. Pete officers are aware of the problem. I believe that mine is not the only street in midtown that has this problem, and I believe that the police are probably aware of those other streets, too. I believe that Mayor Baker's office has repeatedly ignored my request- and a few made by my publisher- for an interview. I believe that despite his promises, the deputy mayor hasn't made a whit of difference in my quality of life.

A few months back, Gulfport Crime Awareness invited Childs Park Crime Watch to host a joint meeting. Other than one woman speaking and two people who attended with her, no one from Childs Park showed up. No one on St. Pete's Council showed up, although Gulfport council had representation as well as several city staff. I heard a lot of "please don't blame Childs Park for the crime in Gulfport". Gulfport Chief of Police admits Gulfport has its share of criminals, but let's be honest: if we had South Pasadena on the east side of Gulfport, I'm fairly certain we'd see fewer crimes in Gulfport as well.

Black and White, Part One

2007-04-09T16:43:00.000-05:00

If you follow The Gabber you remember an article I wrote last month about a meeting of the minds between Gulfport and St. Petersburg Police. For that article I met with both Gulfport Chief of Police Curt Willocks and Saint Petersburg Chief of Police Chuck Harmon. I also interviewed Gulfport Mayor Mike Yakes and Councilperson Mary Stull, and although their words didn't make the final cut of the article, their insights pointed me towards where we at the paper thought the article should ultimately go.

If that seems lopsided to you- you know, in that I spent a lot of time with Gulfport officials but only spoke to the police on the St. Pete side- you're right. It WAS lopsided. That inequity comes not from shoddy reporting but from... something else. You could say- and I AM saying it- that St. Petersburg was somewhat unresponsive to not only my attempts but my publisher's to setting up an interview with Mayor Rick Baker ("somewhat unresponsive", by the way, is a euphemism some reporters use when they think they still have a chance in hell of setting up aforementioned interview and don't want to end up with a hostile interview-ee). Deputy Mayor Goliath Davis III did not return my calls, either. If you follow midtown politics you know that Davis is Baker's answer to problems in midtown. Unless, I guess, you're a white chick trying to get a story about what the City has actually committed to.

That's not to say that I didn't get good information from Harmon. Harmon seemed to genuinely care about the city's safety; once he chose to believe that I didn't want to write an expose about crime and the police department's ambivalence towards midtown, he relaxed. A little.

In a nutshell (I know good reporting should have hard and fast statistics, but let's keep it simple and I'll condense. If anyone wants to challenge me, contact me at 321-6965 and I'll pull out my ream of crime stats).

*Midtown St. Pete runs from 4th Street South west to 34th Street South and from 2nd Avenue North south to 30th Avenue South. It does not include Childs Park; however, the City of St. Pete's midtown documentation includes something called the Childs Park Initiative. Midtown proper, though, doesn't touch Gulfport, but to many, midtown includes Childs Park- perhaps because St. Pete includes that as midtown in all documentation except their map of the area.
*The Childs Park area has a LOT of crime.
*Childs Park and Gulfport share 49th Street South, a corridor that has, by comparison, more crime than other areas of Gulfport.
*Both police departments have expressed to The Gabber a strong wish to work together and improve the situation along 49th Street. Gulfport Crime Watch (GCW) has had Childs Park representatives speak at meetings but, at press time, the head of GCW hasn't been able to contact the head of Childs Park Crime Watch (Ms. Patterson; she wouldn't give us her first name) to attend another meeting. I, too, have met with no success in getting Ms. Patterson to talk to the paper.

If you're sensing a pattern here- one that links apathy, unresponsiveness, and crime- then good, I'm not the only one.

See? There ARE worse neighborhoods...

2007-04-06T15:39:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, they're only about two streets away from mine.
Check out today's Times. A woman I work with at Barnes and Noble lives a couple doors down from this house. She still has HER scooter. Of course, she has a garage.

The Scooter Saga

2007-04-05T09:23:00.001-05:00

As some of you may have surmised, there's trouble in paradise. Namely, my house isn't IN paradise, isn't close to paradise, and, in fact, you would need the latest global positioning software to get from my house to the same continental plate as paradise.

It was a matter of time, really, and I don't want to mislead you into thinking I am shocked by the latest turn of events, but really, enough is enough.

The scooter- my scooter- got stolen Sunday night. Or Monday morning. Hard to tell which, cause the asshole came and got it like, well, like a thief in the night. Marcus Fleminggot caught riding it early yesterday morning. He also happened to have some X in his possession and went to jail. They caught him eight blocks from my house; he lives about the same distance away, too. The waste of oxygen actually told the officer that he thought maybe it was stolen, but hedidn't take it ("Only guilty man in Shawshank...").

What type of scum do you have to be to steal someone's property, punch out the ignition (oh, yes, the scooter is absolutely trashed), rip off the trunk, break the lock to get under the seat, and throw out all their stuff? They also scraped off all the decals and broke every panel on the body as well as the chrome. They ripped off the gas cap and broke the gas tank. Included in the missing is my media pass, a really cool mermaid cigarette case that worked better for holding my business cards, a hat, lip balm, some of my writing clips from the lastest CitiLife, and other things that were mine. Nothing terribly expensive, but they were mine. MINE, dammit. Things I didn't sell drugs for or cash my girlfriend's welfare check for, but things I had to work for- I rolled out banners for these things, I sold books for these things, I sat through government meetings and reported on them for these things.

And so, enough is enough. I can't afford to live this cheaply anymore, I don't care how low my mortgage payment is, add on the losses- lawnmowers, weedeaters, scooters, old sandals (really), and it ain't cheap to live here. Also, if I stay here, I'm going to either incite a riot or get the shit kicked out of me. I've gotten a really bad attitude the past few days.

The good news is that the house should be on the market by Monday and I've gotten quit good at packing.

Truth in Advertising

2007-04-02T13:47:00.000-05:00

FOR SALE 2 bedroom, 1 bath cottage home in the heart of St. Pete's midtown redevelopment district. Close to downtown, many major gas stations, and several streetside purveyors of footwear and hubcaps. Wood floors, new appliances, large fenced yard. This home oozes urban charm! If you wish you could hear rap with your morning coffee, don't let this gem pass you by! Always wanted a home that allowed you to get your money's worth from your homeowner's insurance theft clause? Look no further! Prostitutes conveniently located in the side yard or alley adjacent to this low profile gem. Tankless hot water heater, central air, fireplace. Close to many major crack dealers as well as reasonably priced crystal meth, cocaine, and pills. Worried about Mayor Baker's plan to revitalize downtown and make great drug deals a thing of the past? This neighborhood will long outlast any lip service any politician pays midtown. 727-656-5420, serious offers only

Because They Can

2007-03-29T21:55:00.000-05:00

I have the best job(s) ever.

While at the AAF- yes, I'm back, baby!- I had some down time, so I wandered over to the sea wall and hung out with my camera. Guess what I saw AND got a photo of?

I still can't believe I got the shot. I know it's not National Geographic stuff, and I really don't care. What I DO care about- intensely- is that I live, play, and work somewhere where seeing this kind of stuff is... just what happens.

It's March and I'm wearing a bikini to work. I love my job, I love my life.

Photo, by the way, is courtesy of The Gabber newspaper, which paid me for it.

I am NOT a Republican.

2007-03-24T17:26:00.000-05:00

Really, I'm not. But sometimes... well, sometimes... sigh.

I write for the Gabber, a Gulfport-based indie weekly, among other publications. Gulfport, a teeny-tiny town on the tip of Pinellas County, passed a human rights ordinance last year, making them the first municpality in the county to do so. It protects, among other things, gays, lesbians, transsexual, and transgendered persons from discrimination. It is a liberal, welcoming community, by most people's standards. It is, I like to think, the only place on the west coast of Florida where all the gay people are out of the closet and the fundamental Christians are in. So I get exposed to things that people in, say, Safety Harbor probably do not.

This weekend, Steve Stanton, city manager for Largo (also in Pinellas County), lost his job because he revealed to the media that he would soon "undergo gender reassignment surgery" (that from the TImes). And people in Gulfport have taken up arms. Not all, but many.

People showed up in pink shirts. They protested. They called Largo unfair, bigoted, whatever.

Maybe. But...

But any time the Daily Show shows up with a crew, you know you're about to see a mockery in the making. Usually rightly so. I just wonder which way they're going to go.

Cause here's the thing. Penis, vagina, breasts, man-nipples, I really, really, REALLY don't care. But...

But this guy told his coworkers and the papers before he told his 13 year old son.

I'm not judging him for wanting to be a woman. I think he's probably a screwed up guy, but so are MOST career public administrators. What I'm juging him for is simply this:

I put myself in his son's place. Going to school with all of 12 hours knowledge that your dad's gonna be a chick soon and, hey, guess what, life as you know it has just been totally, irrevocably, painfully altered. Life isn't fair, I believe that, but at 13, your parents should still be on your side. (Pissing them off doesn't come until your 30s, I've found).

As one Gulfport bureaucrat told me (off the record, of course...), Stanton gave up his right to change his gender when he had a kid. And I agree. ESPECIALLY when you're a public figure.

Stanton should lose his job because his priorities are so fucked up? Maybe. Maybe not. But that's hard for me, picturing his kid at school. And the kid knows now that both his parents knew and didn't tell him until they absolutely had to.

But, yeah, let him continue to run the city. Sure, why not, since he's exercised such good judgment up until now.

The Un-Cupid

2007-03-21T22:00:00.000-05:00

Remember that great 7UP commercial? Yeah, I've got my own thing going. But before I start, may I just take a moment to say...

Hall-a-fuckin'-leullah, the sun has returned! Yippee!
OK, I'm all better now (well, it's a sliding scale).

One of my precious few friends called me the anti-cupid today. But that's not what this blog is about.

She paid me one of the greatest compliments ever. It was NOT the anti-cupid remark, although she did say that, too.

Suffice to say, she and I have known each other for a lo-o-o-o-ng time. She knew me before the mistake I made that some called marriage and I called anaesthesia. So when she sent me an e-mail last month and asked for help, I couldn't refuse her. In over 20 years, she has never asked me for a thing. Plus, I have been a shitty friend and, for some wildly inexplicable reason, she still likes me. I owed her. Plus- and more importantly- I wanted to help. Even more important? Her husband makes AMAZING pickled okra and I wanted some. I DO have priorities.

However, her issues with her husband were at the crux of the help, although it wasn't immediately apparent, except to my mother. God bless the woman, I think the producers of Moonstruck based Olympia Dukakis' character on her... those of you who know her or truly know me know what I mean here. My mother's first question? "Is she leaving him?" I scoffed, but the woman was right. I HATE that.

But I digress... the point is, my friend may very well leave her husband soon. Honestly, I really like her husband but I think the best thing she can do is leave. He's not beating her or anything but sometimes a marriage is poison nonetheless. So while she's suffering through all this, a friend of hers asks her about what WOULD have helped her marriage, about what she thinks a marriage should be.

Here's the compliment; I will remember it until the day I die.

She told him that what Tom and I have is what "it" should be. She said she was referring, in a completely non-sexual sense of the word, to the intimacy between us.

Which is pretty funny, really, because what we have most people don't even recognize as anything at all. I hate essentially every term for relationship that exists and cringe at the idea of anything that resembles a "boyfriend" or whatever. (How much can one marriage mess up a person?) We're not that; whatever we are is steadfastly undefined and open to interpretation. Whatever. You don't need to know the gory details. He is not my boyfriend. I am not his girlfriend (as I say, we are not 12). Either or both of us are free to do what we want. I want that and believe that as much as a fundamental Christian believes in god.

That said, he is the only person I would trust with my life. But even if I never saw him again, in 20 years I would still feel that way; it's not dependant on anything concrete. He is my best friend. He knows me and gets me and wants to be with me in spite of the things I can't stand about myself.

And other people see that whatever we have or are is freakishly un-normal. I'm sure it gives my mom nightmares. But... after everything, after what has happened, the idea that anyone who wants to change their life can look at me, or look at him, or whatever Us exists, and say...

"That's what it should be..."

....That's pretty wonderful.

The Whirlwind

2007-03-13T18:51:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I know... no posts for a while and then I post this crappy one.

It's election night and I don't tend to follow these things except out of a sort of third party objectivity. You know... "no man who is capable of getting himself elected... should by any means be allowed to do the job." That sort of thing.

I DO have one question, and any answer at all will be accepted if not believed...

Why, if we have such a steadfast separation of church and state, are most of our polling places at churches?

Superbowl, Everglades Style

2007-01-17T19:34:00.000-05:00

I have the best life.

Yesterday Tom calls me and says that he has to fly a banner over the superbowl next month. He wanted to know if I would ground crew for him.

Of course.

Looks like I will spend Superbowl Sunday (football- that's the one that bounces funny when you drop it, right?) at some desolate, abandoned airstrip just outside the Everglades, camping.

Cool.

I get to go camping and get paid for it. If I'm really lucky I can turn it into an article and get paid twice.

Now... where's my Coleman lantern? The superbowl is almost here...

The Gabber in the St. Pete Times

2007-01-17T19:24:00.000-05:00

I love the maniacal crosspaths of life. Here's one...

A few weeks ago, I went down to the tent city in St. Pete to interview its residents. The media wasn't allowed in, but because the photographer, Coe Arthur Younger, has covered the plight of the homeless fairly extensively for several months, Coe and I were allowed in to talk to the residents. As we did, I noticed a St. Pete TImes photographer taking pictures from outside the tent city.

That was Friday.

On Sunday, my parents came to visit and my mom brought me a few pieces from the past few weeks' coverage of Tent City in the Times. She said she thought I would like to read them.

Yesterday (I'm a horrible procrastinator and an even worse housekeeper. I like to tell myself it's a sign of the creative mind) I went through the papers. I read a few articles and then came to the January 6 edition of the Times. On the front page of the Local and State section there was an article about Tent City. I looked at the picture and started to read, then stopped, looked at again, and noticed something odd.

In the dead center of the photo- which, in all objectivity, was not a well-composed shot- I sat, in my green Gabber shirt, chatting up one of the guys who lived in Tent City.

How funny. The Gabber reporter in the Times.

Even funnier? I just look like one homeless person talking to another.

Funnier yet? My mother- the woman who birthed me, raised me, taught me right from wrong, wiped my butt (although not for some time now)... she looked at the photo, read the article, and never noticed me. Her daughter. Spawn of her loins. Just another homeless person.

Just another example of how we see and don't see.