Friday, June 21, 2013

Beware of Dog

Have you seen the Russian tampon commercial? Hopefully if you had not, you clicked on the link and caught up with the rest of us. Two of my male friends sent it to me, which is oddly flattering, although I hope it has more to do with my sense of humor than the desire that I die by shark attack during that time of the month. The part that makes it even funnier, funny ha-ha not funny weird, is that last week I was at the beach and, lucky me, I had my period.  Now, before you go thinking this falls into the Too Much Information category, just stick with it a little longer. I promise not to get all descriptive.

Anyway, one of these aforementioned friends, JM, had asked me if I was scared to go in the water while I was on my period because of the risk of shark attack. It is not important to know why he asked me that. Let’s just say it was happenstance that he had some sort of period/ocean curiosity at the same time I was menstruating at the beach, and so his question was unassuming and yet very timely. I explained patiently to him that I was a woman of my forties and knew my way around a tampon, and that I did not double as a chum bucket.

But is it a valid question, knowing that sharks can detect the scent of blood miles away? The Russians sure think so, and hell, are there even sharks in Russia? Let’s take a quick Google break. Okay, the short answer is there shouldn’t be, but because of the global warming hoax which apparently the sharks are in on, there are now.

So anyway, JM and I had discussed the likelihood of period related shark attack while I was at the beach, and not a day later, it was like a scene from “Jaws.” Not one of the good scenes when people get bit and die; rather, one of those scenes where everyone overreacts and it’s super annoying and you want them to get eaten by a shark just to make them shut up. Yes, I do root for for the shark.

My daughter and I were walking out to the beach when a man came up to us and asked us if we were going to the beach. That stupid question irritated me immediately, seeing as I had a beach chair in one hand and a bag of beach towels in the other, and I was wearing a bathing suit. No, idiot, I’m going to the Queen’s coronation, and I sure hope I’m not under dressed.

I remembered seeing this Einstein on the sand a few days before because at the time he was wearing an odd outfit, a green tank top and green swim trunks, the kind of green that makes you think this person must be colorblind. I politely told him that yes, we were in fact planning on going to the beach, and he said we needed to be careful because they had seen a shark that morning not even five feet from the shoreline. I asked him how big it was, and he said, again, five feet. He also told me that he had already informed the sheriff’s office, which would have reassured me if they were planning to arrest it.  I thanked him for his warning, and my daughter and I continued our way through the sand dunes to a lovely spot not too far away from the water line.

"Who calls the sheriff to report a shark sighting? That's like calling your dentist when you want a divorce," I said to my daughter.

As we opened our chairs and put down the bags and buckets, a woman walked over to us. She must have been the wife of the colorblind idiot town crier because she was also dressed oddly, in a Gidget style double knit one piece in red, white, and blue stripes. That suit had to be older than me, and I am not young. Come to think of it, I may have seen a picture of my grandmother in that suit, possibly with the same hair style. She asked us if we planned to go to the water, which made me wonder if this was the first time these people had been to a beach in the summer. Then she told me, get ready for this, that they had seen a five foot shark not five feet from the shore. Did they have a tape measure with them? I thanked her as I had with her husband, and she returned to her spot.

“Did they really see a shark?” my daughter asked me.

“I’m sure they did. They both think so, anyway,” I told her.

We sat there in our chairs, scanning the horizon and seeing, well, just a bunch of sand and water.

Another family stepped through the dunes, and before they could even get their flip flops off, the woman in the unintentionally vintage bathing suit swooped over to them with her warning about the shark and all the stuff about the five feet.  This family actually picked up their articles and left.

The colorblind man joined his retro wife under their umbrella where the kept a vigilant watch on the not even five foot waves lapping against the shore. Every so often, he would stand up with his camera and walk to the water, ready to document and possibly tag the man eating beast.

My daughter and I watched him watch the water and his wife warn other beach goers for about fifteen minutes, but then I got hot, so I stood up to walk to the water.

“Are you really going to go in there?” my daughter asked.

“Sure, aren’t you?”

“But what about the shark?” she said.

“I have news for you, honey,” I told her. “Every time we go in the water, there is a shark there. Where else are sharks going to be? Flying overhead?  That’s where they live, in the ocean. Let me ask you this: do sharks generally eat people? ”

“No,” she said.

“And what do they eat, seals?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she said.

“Well, you are wearing a lime green bathing suit and you have long blond hair, and I have never seen a seal that looks like that. Plus, we’ve been sitting here for a while, and nobody has died yet. I think we’re good. And it’s hot, so are you coming or what?”

We bravely put our feet in the water, and then for good measure, I stepped out knee deep. And guess what happened? I got wet, and I cooled off. I didn’t even step funny on a shell and hurt the sole of my foot.

By the time the rest of my family came outside to join us, I had already decided to not tell them about the shark, not because I secretly want them to die, but because I didn’t want to seem like I was overreacting like the shark couple. I started to wonder if they were even real, or maybe, just maybe, they had been victims of a shark attack at that very spot, and now they haunted the beach, appearing only on the anniversary of their tragic deaths, waiting to warn families of the dangers lurking beneath the waves.

Later, I spent some time researching, and I didn't find anything about a fatal shark attack on that beach during the 1960's. In fact, it turns out that sharks do kill more people a year than tampons, but that's by accident. Sharks aren't even attracted to human blood. Sharks also kill less people than hippos. Hell, even more people are killed by their own dogs than sharks in any given year, and they are supposed to be man’s best friend.

Fear not the large fish with the rows of razor sharp teeth that is billed a killing machine. It’s just not that into you. And that goes double if you are on the rag.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Writer's Block

I want to write but it’s been so long since I’ve recorded a thought that I don’t even know where to begin.

I am starting by glancing out the window every time I hear a loud truck noise just in case it’s the UPS man. I don’t even think I am expecting a package, but I have a very Pavlovian response to the sound of a UPS truck. Maybe whatever I forgot I ordered is finally here, or maybe someone thought of me and sent me a little treat. Usually, it’s neither of those, nor is the UPS truck for me. More likely, it’s for the neighbor across the street. I’m convinced something illegal is going on over there, based on the frequency of the UPS truck stopping in front of their house. The UPS man isn’t even hot; I am really in it for what’s in the truck.

After that, I inspect the front yard for colorful birds. Today, it’s just a female cardinal, and not even male cardinals can get excited about that fugly bitch of the animal kingdom. Dukey brown boring bird. If I were a male cardinal, I’d be gay.
I also like to listen for the carpenter bees systematically dismantling my downstairs window. I am waiting for the glass to just fall out. Maybe the bee will shout “timber!” when it happens, and it is going to happen soon. It’s the worst sound, too; that bee’s chewing through wood sounds like children with loose teeth eating corn on the cob.
I next inspect my three flowering hydrangeas outside my office window. My husband planted them for me last year, and wonder of wonders, they have lived to see another season. Not only that, but they grew and have actual flowers actually blooming on them. Unfortunately, the heat of summer is making them all sad and droopy. I’m tempted to water them, but I’m also tempted to stay inside the temperature controlled house all day. I wouldn’t want to look like my hydrangeas.

In the other room, my teenager, E, is downloading music to her new iPod. Her last one died about a week ago, and in a fit of generosity, I offered to replace it. She’s especially bummed because whatever version she had contained a camera, which the new one does not. No more selfies that no one will ever see. I even spent an hour trying to find a refurbished Nano of that generation for her, but to my amazement, it must be some sort of geek collectible because it costs about fifty bucks more than a brand new one.
So I ordered her a new one. Did I mention it has an 8-pin thingy instead of a 30-pin thingy? This means about as much to you as it does to me, but the important part to understand is that it means none of the chargers, cords, cables, or speaker docks that we currently own will work with the new iPod. Brilliance on the part of Apple, as they continue to enslave all of the music and phone call making people of the world along with the Chinese child laborers who actually make their products.
She has the new iPod and is downloading music, one song at a time, which requires her shouting out the name of the band or singer, then playing it, then singing along with it, before finally downloading it to the damn thing. She is two hours into the process and is only on the D’s. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate when Teen Grandmaster Jazzy Fresh Princess is mixing her favorite one thousand songs within earshot? Maybe I should rethink the no computers in the children's bedrooms rule.
I have a cat tail on my keyboard, which also makes writing difficult. The minute I sit down to open my laptop, in walks one of my cats, who likes to sit next to me while I work. He thinks he is my  muse, but his incessant purring is very distracting, as is the way he tries to fit between the desk drawer and my lap. After he gives up on fitting his 14 pound cat body into a one inch space, he plops down on top of the desk and flicks his tail on the keys, while simultaneously getting his head stuck in the blinds and launching buckets full of unattached cat hairs in my general direction. There is a fine blanket of stray fur stuck on my monitor, enough to make a tiny sweater for, say, a chipmunk.
Writing isn’t easy.