This-N-That

Well, things are definitely on track for Saba.  I officially gave notice at the Damien Center (I actually gave notice my first week there, when I found out about the Saba gig--didn't want to take the job under false pretenses) and that made me kind of sad.  I so love my job.  Sophie (the girl half of the couple who run El Momo) and I have been e-mailing about things like curtains vs. bamboo shades... ideas for exterior lighting... color options for the new tile going in around the pool... white or colored sheets...  Gosh, but it's all fun!  Today I sent off the info they need to book my plane ticket.  That really made it all seem real.

And--wonder of wonders--it turns out there's an HIV/AIDS community center right down the hill from the hotel!  I've been in touch with them about volunteering while I'm on the island.  Nice bit of continuity, huh?  I figure on an island of 1500 people any new semi-permanent arrival will be the subject of intense curiosity.  By being right out there in the community I'll not only have the opportunity of meeting the locals right off the bat, but they in turn will be able to check me out at closer range.  I won't be so mysterious as I might seem if I just came down the hill once in a while to pick something up.

Everything seems to falling right into place!

But none of this has kept me from starting a new blog.  Hovering above all this planning and researching for my Saba trip is a layer of anticipation regarding my possible tin can road trip come fall.  I just posted the first entry (with pictures!)  Drop by for a visit when you can.  For now it will serve mostly as a renovation update.  And, boy, if you think this blog is sporadic (Ellen...) the new one will seem positively glacial.

Have to go stoke the fire.  Later!

Throw 'Em Up and See Where They Land

While I really don’t like to plan in advance (one of my favorite expressions—my Atheism aside—is “You want to give God a good laugh? Make plans.”) I do tend to ruminate on various possibilities. Since realizing my life is going to set out on a different course very soon (I’m going through “The Change”) I’ve Googled everything that sounds even remotely interesting. I’ve bookmarked pages for… The Peace Corp. The National Park Service (can’t you see me in a ranger uniform? My own or someone else’s? I don’t mind…) Bartending somewhere completely new (there’s a restaurant in Austin—the gayest of Texas towns--called Saba. Is that a sign?) Leading kayak tours in Key West. (Never been in a kayak, but I do row, which is much more challenging.) Doing the poor-relation tour of friends in warmer climes. My friends Mindy and Bradley both have farms in Kentucky/Tennessee. Maybe I could hang out there for a while and earn my stay by checking off items on the chore wheel like some passing hobo in the Depression. (An aside: I once had a conversation with a down-and-out fellow on Houston Street as we waited for the light to change. Somehow the derivation of the word “hobo” came up and he claimed the New York-to-Albany truck route started at that very corner and the Forgotten Men would wait there for a lift. We were at the corner of Houston and Bowery. Get it? HOuston/BOwery? HoBo? Don’t know if it’s true, but I like the thought.)

Anyway… I think you get the point. I’ve had lots of ideas for lots of different things in lots of different places throughout the country (and abroad.) But how to decide? I mean, until something falls into my lap (not out of the question, by any means) I do have to make some decision to start off this adventure.

And then inspiration struck: there’s a barn down the road a piece with a lot of old crap in the yard. Tires… a couple of boats… cars too numerous to mention… tractors… As I said, “crap.” And there among the refuse, gleaming like a beacon in the darkness, sits a little tiny silver-colored teardrop camper. I have no idea if it’s even remotely salvageable, but I’m going to do a little recon. and see if I can’t get the people to just give it to me for free in exchange for taking it off their hands. I know for a fact they’re trying to empty the yard of all that junk so I’d be doing them a favor. (Wink-wink.) I figure I'd get a hold of it, trick it out to the max (I’ve done it before to an old camper—it’s fun!) and at the sign of the first frost this fall, hitch that baby up to the Jeep and head south.

Talk about paring down! If everything I needed fit into a little tin box that I hauled behind my car I’d know my gut feeling to “simplify, simplify” was right on target. Not to mention I’d get to experience as many of those bookmarked web pages as I could cram into an extended road trip.

I must admit, since I hatched this hare-brained, cockamamie scheme it’s pretty much all I can think about. 90% of that may simply be the thought of how much fun it would be fix the thing up, but that’s in my DNA. I’ve already named it: “Li’l Squirt.” Cute, huh?

Of course, as I said, it may be a rusted piece of junk or the folks who own it may not want to give/sell it to me, but as the lady said, I can dream, can’t I?

Maybe I can avoid making plans after all.



Randomness: is it just me, or do other former porn stars regularly get fan mail from active-duty priests and other clergy members? One even came on the official church e-mail address. I’m not kidding, folks! It’s friggin’ weird!



Amazingly fast update...

By coincidence, just after I posted yesterday's entry I headed out to work and, lo and behold, the fellow who owns all that junk was on site. Long story short--it's mine! And for a price by which I couldn't come by a decent iPod. Woo-hoo! I may have to rethink the name, though. Apparently this type of camper is affectionately known as a "canned ham." I'm seeing a logo across the back with that name and the image of Scout in her ham costume from "To Kill A Mockingbird." Oh, yeah. That's definitely the way to go.

Kitty on Fire

Mickey loves the heat from the woodstove.  She’s been in this chair all night.  Earlier, though, she was out on one of the (two, thank you very much) screened-in porches because it was warm enough today to have the doors open.  The woodstove hadn’t had a fire in it yet—I had it installed last summer—and they say you have to “burn off the smell,” so I though it would be a good time to do just that.  Throw open all the doors and windows and get a roaring fire going.  Just like Dad always said—I was trying to heat the outdoors.  He also said I read too much.  Mickey loves the screened-in porch, too.  It makes her feel like she’s going outdoors even though she’s really not.  Jeanine came over for dinner tonight.  I can’t really call it my first dinner party because Jeanine brought dinner with her.  We sat on the porch for a bit and caught up, then moved inside when it got too chilly.  That’s when Mickey came in, too.  Like I said, she’s been in that chair ever since.  She loves it there.  We all watched “Rachel Getting Married” while we ate.  I liked it pretty much, except the endless scenes of actual wedding stupidity.  It started to feel like I was at the wedding, and wanted to leave.  I understood why Debra Winger cut out early.  I still liked the movie, though.  Mickey didn’t.  She threw up halfway though.  (Didn’t eat it, at least.)  She wandered around the house, puking.  Great aim, that cat—only on the rugs.  Then she climbed back up on that chair, where she’s been ever since.  She loves it there.  It’s close to the woodstove.  Mickey loves the heat from the woodstove.

About Face(book)

Shortly after my Facebook rant a few postings back I received a message (via Facebook) from a friend I haven’t seen in a while who had “friended” me and with whom I had since had a brief exchange of messages (again, via Facebook.)  He closed the final message with, “So, are you going to friend me?”

 

Now, this guy is in his fifties.  He has several hundred “friends” on his profile page.  Lord!  I thought, what the fuck—I’m not going to spend one more second worrying about whether I’m offending someone or not.  On Facebook!  So I went through my voluminous list of friend requests and “confirmed” everyone on the list who I actually do know.  (I wonder if they all donned little white outfits for their confirmation?)  The total strangers are still personae non gratae.

 

Well, I’m here to testify—nay, to concede, that putting myself on all of those new lists made me accessible to umpteen gazillion more people who contacted me.  Some of whom I actually was happy to hear from.  So, just like my anti-snob-snobbish attitude that has kept me from returning to Fire Island after that one night back in 1979 (the lack of invitations has nothing  to do with it!) my hoity-toity-osity re. Facebook “friends” kept me from getting back in touch with lots of people I’m genuinely glad to be back in touch with.

 

All those high school types who were mean to me in high school but who want to be friends all of a sudden (with no note!!!)…?  Well, we’ll see about them.  I’m not saying “no” for sure, but I may make them sweat a little.

 

Like I said, “high school redux.”  Mea culpa.

 

 

 

This brief post is the first from my new residence.  I had the satellite internet installed today (no cable on the road.  25 miles from the state capital, folks.  Yes, the satellite is noticeably slower, but the alternative was…?) so, as of last night, je suis ensconced.  I have to say—this is a swell house.  I took a shower here after the gym and stayed in longer than I actually wanted to, just because I could.  And while I’m loathe to alter the graphic concept of this blog (a square image at the end of each post) to show off the living room properly I have to post a rectangular photo. 

 

Don’t Mickey and I look glamorous in our new digs?

 

     

Pulling Up Stakes

I’m moving.

 

For the next eight-to-ten weeks before I leave for Saba I’ll be living somewhere else.  Do you know how sometimes when you’re in a relationship and it’s not going well and all you can focus on in your partner is that One Thing that drives you nuts and leaves you unable to appreciate the good things about them?  Well, my house right now in my mind is nothing but a persnickety bathroom.  Nothing else.  Plumbing.  For several months things have been getting progressively more problematic to the point where, yes, I can flush, shower and do the dishes, but really only once a day and even then the shower has to be thisfast and the sink needs to drain so slowly that I have to insert a knife into the rim of the drain basket so hopefully—hopefully—it won’t back up into the shower.

 

Annoying.  Unsanitary.  Gross.

 

Fortunately, I happen to have an extra house at the moment.  You may have heard the economy fell over a cliff leaving me with an unsold house.  An unsold house with working plumbing.  (The italics are mine.)  So I figured what the heck, why not enjoy the 21^st-century luxury of an indoor functioning toilet until my departure.  (The house also has a dishwasher and a laundry room, which are two luxuries I’ve never gotten to experience.)

 

I’m moving over there in dribs and drabs until the internet is connected (I know—pathetic,) which will spare me a big, cathartic move.  There will be no Ma Joad moment where I toss my shiny earbobs into the Franklin stove along with that postcard of the hoochie dancer with the feathery skirt.  It’ll be more the case that the balance of my life shifts gradually from one house to the other until I simply discover I’m living in the new place.  I moved once before in this manner (from this house, in fact) and it’s really quite pleasant and atraumatic.  And as I mentioned earlier, I do love the other house a lot.  I considered moving into it myself when I was in the midst of working on it, so it’s kind of funny (funny/weird, not /ha-ha) that I should wind up there anyway.

 

I’ve been going over there sporadically to take this-and-that and I made a couple of runs over there this afternoon (it’s only about 13 minutes away from here) with kitchen-type things and pantry items and the stereo.  The stereo has always been the very first thing I set up whether it’s an actual move or the start of a renovation project.  Gotta have that music playing.  Can’t work without the “Love Theme from Spartacus” blasting through the house, can we?  Or Eydie Gormé singing in Spanish.

 

But I think today the scale shifted just a tad in favor of the new place.  I did something that—after the fact—I realized always signifies to me that the place I’m moving into is  General HQ.

 

I made a pot of coffee.

 

I set out the new Mr. Coffee on the counter and decided—what the heck--a little caffeine in the afternoon wouldn’t hurt me.  I was in the other room (connecting the speaker wires) when I heard the coffee maker gurgle to a finish.  (Surely that is one of the world’s happiest sounds.)  Even when I discovered I had forgotten the right cable to hook up my iPod.  Rats!  No Musical Theater Favorites Played on The Mighty Wurlitzer!  No Walter Brennan Christmas Album! No matter.

 

I had my coffee.  I was home.

 

 

Rice Krispy Paul

We have a bunch of terrific volunteers at the Damien Center.  Some work with P.A.W.S. (our sister organization that helps out members with their pets,) some just help out with whatever needs to be done a particular day.  And then there’s Rice Krispy Paul.  Paul volunteers in the kitchen on Tuesday nights—serving up dinner, cleaning up the place and—most important to me—makes Rice Krispy Treats for dessert.  But not just any Rice Krispy Treats.  Flavored Rice Kripsy Treats.  A different flavor every Tuesday, in fact.  My first Tuesday night I didn’t know what to expect.  I saw Paul coming down the stairs from the attic, which serves as our pantry.  Sure enough, in his arms were a couple boxes of Rice Krispies,  bags of marshmallows and a bunch of other… stuff. 

 

But the groceries in his arms were not the first thing I noticed; Paul’s mighty good lookin’.  He seems to be very fit and his (usually just a little too short) trousers fit nice and snug on his, well, where one would expect trousers to fit.  It’s his sideburns that really get me going, though.  They’re rather wide and lengthy and crisply squared.  But they’re trimmed really close.  It gives off this sense of being a little wild but still being in control.  Am I reading too much into Paul’s facial hair?  Maybe.  But I think I’m right. 

 

That first night, after dinner was finished, this tray of crimson Rice Krispy Treats appeared on the serving counter.  Hmmm…  Rice Kripsy Treats have been a particular favorite of mine ever since I was a kid.  Gram Judson’s were the best; she made hers with Fluff rather than melt the marshmallows herself.  Something about that made them extra-special.  But I’m a purist:  I like my Rice Kripsy Treats plain and unadulterated.  Rice Krispies/marshmallows... full stop.  So seeing a bright red batch come out of the kitchen left me a little wary.

 

I pried one loose from the pack and bit into it.  Oh, my God!  Cinnamon Rice Kripsy Treats!  They were so good!  The following week a tray full of deep blue Treats showed up.  Blueberry?  Roquefort?  Cabbage?  Well, it turns out Paul doesn’t concern himself with matching the color to the flavor.  These blue squares were lemon.  And they were amazing.  I simply could. not. stop. eating them.  Tonight, being Tuesday, was yet another variation on the theme:  Mounds Rice Krispy Treats.  That’s right:  chocolate chips and coconut.  Yum!

 

But last week, at my own suggestion, were the bestest Rice Krispy Treats I ever done e’t.  I’ve always been a huge fan of a confection that—up until fairly recently—was only available in specialty shops as an English import.  I speak of Terry’s Chocolate Orange, a spherical treat that, when tapped firmly on a hard surface, miraculously breaks into segments, just like an orange.  The individual segments even have “pulp” imprinted on their sides.  The chocolate is, indeed, infused with orange oil and is just the best candy ever.

 

Rice Krispy Paul made them at my request and, their green (?!) color aside, were spectacular.  I don’t know what turned me on more; the chocolate-orange Rice Krispy Treats or Paul’s sideburns.

 

On an unrelated note, before he went back into the kitchen Paul gestured to a notice with a peace sign posted on the bulletin board behind the front desk and told me that that symbol is actually a composite of the semaphore signals for “N” and “D” nested within a circle and  stands for “Nuclear Disarmament.”  In England, anyway.  The rest of the world treats it as a broader symbol for peace.

 

Oh, Paul.  Sigh…