HOT TUB MAN - PROVING THAT WE HAVEN'T LOST OUR TOUCH COMPLETELY

My friend and I are walking around Marina Bay in Quincy. There is a labyrinth made up of boat docks, and the further the wharf moves along, the more expensive and exclusive and enormous the life-sized toys. Toward the right are nice boats; toward the left are yachts that money-dreams are made of.

The two of us enjoy the beautiful summer day, leaning on the railing that gazes over the harbor with Boston in the backdrop. Behind us, people populate the outdoor dining littered all over Marina Bay. In front of us, several super-sized private boats are docked, one of which is so huge that it cannot even park inside the marina. 

Oh, how the other half lives!

This is when we notice Hot Tub Man.

On one of the larger yachts, a hot tub divides the deck of the bow. In the hot tub is a man about our age, topless, wearing sunglasses, and tanning his upper half while tossing around his unnatural, tangerine-colored hair. My friend is convinced that he is checking us out. I think she's hallucinating. 

Until --

Mr. Hot Tub Man glances over his shoulder at us, then slides himself around the water until he is face-on toward us. Of course, I giggle because this is so high school behavior, and we are all so very much past high school. Yet, we continue to semi-watch him from the corner of our sight line.

Suddenly, Hot Tub Man pops up, showing us his tighty navies. He is wearing either a square-crotched bathing suit or the man is in his damn boxer briefs. How do we know? He turns over and starts doing modified push-ups and planks on the tub's edge, still in the water, showing us his barely-spandex-clad butt cheeks. 

God bless the man, he's trying. He really is. He's got game, we'll give him that much. But, for the love of the art of flirting, you don't need to show us your aged backside if you want our attention. 

Just wave. Raise a glass to toast two beautiful ladies who may or may not be watching you.

When he finally climbs out of the water, Hot Tub Man goes for the beach towel, sucking his gut in as he waddles over to where the terrycloth is folded on a ledge. You all know the gut-suck I'm talking about. We all do it at our age. It's the "Oh, shit, my stomach doesn't belong down at my thighs" breathing intake and breath hold. Don't lie. Anyone over the age of forty has practiced it. By fifty, we've mastered it. By sixty? Well, we try, goddamnit, we try.

I'll be honest: I'm a window shopper. I have zero desire to try nor to buy whatever it is that Hot Tub Man is peddling. Once we realize that he is drying off and possibly changing, we come to the conclusion that, ahoy, matey, he's going to request permission to come ashore. This fact immediately alters our lunch plans. 

Sit outside on the wharf where he can find us? No way! 

Quickly, we hustle slightly inland, away from Marina Bay's immediate waterfront shops, and settle into our good old favorite, The Chantey. We do sit outside, but we are between two buildings and in the shade. If Hot Tub Man intends to find us, he's going to have to work for it. 

Besides, if he does find us, I'm putting the mudslides bill in his back pocket . . . provided he has finally put on his pants.

SCHOOL - IT'S "GO" TIME

School is in session! 

I'm going to have a positive attitude! I'm going to rock it so hard this year! I already have my rosters printed out, my seating charts done, and my first few days of handouts all copied and hole-punched. 

I'm ready!

Or, so I believe.

The rosters change at the last moment. This means that the seating charts change. We cannot access the part of the website that we need for our team meeting. The three professional development sessions are less than professional. The copy machine is being temperamental, and someone walks away and leaves it jammed. We're short-staffed. The tech department failed to properly open the date to begin start-of-year assessments. Five minutes before the students walk down the hall for Day One, I experience a sudden and somewhat debilitating ocular migraine.

In other words, it's business as usual here in the middle school. Bring it. Let the games begin!

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 6 - THE FINAL FRONTIER

{Remember two things about my epic Vermont-New York road trip: My car has 93,000 miles on it, and disaster is about to strike.}

With about sixty miles left to my destination in the North Country of New York, my car decides to crap out in Westport. The tachometer starts going a little funky, and all of a sudden every single emergency light comes on.

Yes, my car has 93,000 miles on it, but it has recently been serviced, and it's a make and model that can easily support 200,000 miles. Of course it would choose now to be a jerk -- right now -- when I have zero GPS, zero cell service, and it's 8,000 degrees with 97% humidity outside. Despite being a notorious speed trap, there is nary an officer of the law in sight.

I. Am. Doomed.

As I drift over to the side of the road, panic sets in. Sure, I have AAA-plus. I can get towed to my brother's house. The problem is that I still have zero cell service and zero wireless capabilities. I'm not calling anybody for help. I push the button on the dashboard, assuming that I am shutting off the car. Nope. Apparently, the car shut itself off, so pressing the ignition restarts the car. The dashboard looks deceptively fine now. 

What doesn't look fine is my heart rate. Finally, I take a few deep breaths and pull back into the road. I drive along, not pushing the speed too far. As I'm driving if locals are up my arse to pass me, I pull over, wave them along, and get back on my route. At this point, I could get on a northbound highway, but I'd rather have the car die on a backroad than die in the passing lane of route 87. 

I drive for about ten miles and come to a side street where the oldest schoolhouse in Essex County, New York, is still standing. I decide to have lunch at the schoolhouse and give the car a good rest. If it doesn't start, there are a couple of farms I can walk to because, hey, I still don't have cell connectivity. Off on the side of a car-less street, a schoolhouse with a flag stands right on the road, along with a sign inviting people to sit and enjoy the views from sunrise to sunset. I grab my sandwich, a water, and a snack, then get myself comfy on one of the benches.

The first thing I notice as I relax in the midst of absolute solitude is that my phone starts pinging. Hey! I'm back in the land of the electronic living, at least, for now. The next thing I notice is the view - I am facing the mountains, and the sun is shining full and hot, creating areas of light and shadow across the mountainous skyline. The last thing I notice is that I am sitting about twenty feet away from a vineyard full of row after row of grape vines. (Oh, for a glass of wine right about now!)

By the time I'm ready to hit the road again, the car starts and seems to be running okay, although I can't tell if it sounds different or if I'm hallucinating from the panic and the high temperatures causing heatstroke. I decide to avoid the highway and continue on the backroads thirty-plus miles until I reach another land form much like the one where I started. 

I stop at Ausable Chasm, a gorge in the Adirondacks. Quechee Gorge (where this entire misadventure started), runs through Mesozoic-era Vermont metamorphic bedrock for over a mile, is 165 feet deep, and has formed over 13,000 years. Ausable Chasm runs through 500 million year-old Potsdam sandstone for about two miles, is 150 feet deep, and has formed over 10,000 years. I've walked the trails before and rafted back to the main lodge, but today it's crowded and oh-so-undeniably hot, and the water level is a bit low. I snap a few photos and video, then backtrack to my favorite farmstand store in nearby Peru, NY (today's destination).

It seems appropriate that my trip from gorge to gorge, chasm to chasm, bridge to bridge, has included unbelievable highs, terrifying lows, twists, turns, cool refreshing spots, sweaty uncomfortable moments, some frustrations, some surprises, and countless visions of amazement. 

The Syracuse - Albany - Amsterdam - Plattsburgh (New York Triangle) trip is another story but separate from my solo travels and not at all horrifying, and it would earn a separate novella (which I probably won't be writing anytime soon) since it involves much more interesting co-conspirators and no wrong-way idiocy (my sister-in-law has a remarkable sense of direction that I lack). 

It's safe to admit, however, that I avoid any further stops on the way home, despite several hoped-for adventures. After my major hiccup in Westport, NY, when my car lost all power and every light flashed on, I make the executive decision to follow twisted Monopoly advice: Go home. Go directly home. Do not pass Go; Do not collect $200. I get in my car, devise the safest route home, and put pedal to metal, not even stopping to eat nor to pee. Four-plus hours of cross-fingered driving and six days after this misadventure began, I am home safe, sound, and running straight to the facilities.