BEST DAY KAYAKING

 I have friends who like to kayak and some who do not. One of my friends says that she won't do any sport with a "k" in it. She'll walk, but she won't hike, she won't bike, and won't skate, she won't ski, and she especially won't kayak because it has two k's in it.

I am sitting on my porch chugging iced coffee when a neighbor joins me, also chugging iced coffee. We talk (which does have a k in it) and decide to take a kayak trip up to New Hampshire for the day. It's an impromptu decision, but it's a successful one. We go the back roads to avoid the beach traffic, which by noon when we leave is completely backed up for about thirty miles. The drive is lovely along some back roads and by deserted Covid-19-closed fair grounds.

When we get to the lake, it's probably close to two o'clock by the time we are ready to put in. We paddle past some boat slips and immediately run into the marine patrol. Ooops. I guess that means we need to be all legal and stuff. As soon as we make sure we are kosher with our equipment, the marine patrol leaves the water and we are free to misbehave. 

We paddle past a small dam and around a couple of beaches. There are rocks and branches along the shore with occasional breaks for private sandy spots, but there's no real place for us to pull over and jump into the water, so we keep the oars in and row on. 

Something catches our eye from afar, so we paddle on over to a weighted pot of plastic yellow flowers sitting on a rock. This is because the rock is in the regular marine lane (no one cares if kayakers and canoers hit rocks and dump over, apparently) and someone wanted to be sure no one would fly over it with a boat or jet ski. 

After a while we paddle by a very small sandy area where someone has set up two chairs in the woods. No one is around, so we moor the boats to tree branches and take a quick swim. Good thing we moved on because the next door neighbors have wandered down to their little beach and they would probably tell on us because, let's face it, we're interlopers. But, a quick recovery happens when we play with their dog on the dock from the kayaks.

In our adventure, we pass a heron standing on a rock (for real, not a pretend potted heron), a family of ducks, and a loon. The loon is fishing near us and decides to come a little closer when the jet skis encroach on its feeding area. All of a sudden about ten feet behind my kayaking pal, the loon poops up and poses for pictures.

Coming around the bend I notice two jet skis constantly going back and forth in front of a lake house with a private beach. Turns out there's a woman about my age buck-naked walking around her yard and hanging up towels on a clothes line. Well, I guess that's one way to dry off completely.

We finish up the entire lake in under three hours, take another swim at the real beach (no sneaking around this time), then head out for dinner despite the fact that we are filthy and sweaty and sunscreen-smelling, have forgotten deodorant, and our hair has seen better days. We don't care, though, because it is just another "Best Day Ever" in a series of best days.

PISS OFF, JULY

Bye, bye, July 2020. Hello, August 2020! What horrors do you have planned for us? All I ask is that you hit us quickly and get it over with. Sound like a plan?

The best thing about July (Was there a best thing other than surviving it?) is that it's my birthday month. Well, as I age into eternity and reflect back on my own shit-show of a life,perhaps that doesn't make it "best thing" status, either. Okay, let me try this: The BEST thing about July being my birthday month is FREE STUFF.

I get coupons for discounts on appliances from Home Depot (I am a renter and don't need to supply my own appliances, but thanks, just the same), free nail polish from CVS (I forget about the coupon -- oops), a free beverage from Dunkins (I hope to use it before they close all of them due to bankruptcy), $5 off at DSW (can't buy much with that), and $10 to spend at Bob's Store. Yes, It's wonderful to have a birthday. Apparently in most cases I have to spend money to get my "free" stuff.

I head to Bob's Store first, which isn't Bob's Store anymore. It's now Sports Direct/Bob's. I walk in, expecting the usual Bob's experience: expensive merchandise and general order of the store. What I get instead is semi-order and a sense of discomfort. This doesn't look like Bob's. Things are moved around. Things look ... dirty. Kind of unkempt. Like a warehouse instead of a store.

I wander toward the back to footwear. I head to a rack of women's sandals, which is near the employee area. A bulky man in a black store t-shirt comes out, stands right next to me, and pretends to be looking at women's sandals. Uhhhh. Dude. So, I move to the left and look at another part of the rack of sandals because he is making me uncomfortable. He moves to his left and does the same. Creep. I back up and look at sneakers. He backs up and looks at sneakers. Women's sneakers.

From the time I enter the store to the time I hit the sandal rack has been exactly ninety seconds. How in the name of all things sane did the store decide in ninety seconds that the elderly-looking chick checking out shoes is a shoplifter? I don't even have a pocketbook with me. I'm wearing shorts and a summer shirt. Where am I going to hide this stolen merchandise? Or is he just some kind of pervert?

I decide that I don't want my $10 "gift" after all and head toward the exit. On my way I pass a display of purple Avia sneakers on sale for $19.98 This is when I know for sure that Bob's Store doesn't exist anymore because their sale price would be $40. I find my size, try them on, and notice that my size is the ONLY box not marked on sale. I bring my size plus another size to the register, where the girl tries to charge me full price and must hand-subtract the amount to make it come out correctly. BOOM. I walk out with sneakers for $9.98. So THERE, Mr. T-Shirt Creeper! I guess I DID rip off your store.

Next I go to DSW. I am hoping to get some earrings at a good discount with the $5 coupon. I walk in expecting my regular DSW experience only to find that the store looks like a filthy, disorganized warehouse. Kind of dirty and kind of unkempt. There are no displays of jewelry. There are no pocketbooks. There is no wall of fancy party shoes. Everything looks like a giant Wal-Mart shoe section.

I immediately head to the clearance shoes to discover that "One person per aisle ONLY" signs are everywhere. Of course, the ONLY other person IN the store is standing IN the aisle of MY sized shoes. Well, fuck this shit. I turn around to check the clearance wall. I'll buy a pocketbook or some socks on sale. Uhhhh . . . except the wall is nearly empty. There is one pocketbook, some shawls, and ten pairs of earrings facing the wrong direction like the sales associate who put them there didn't even give a shit.

Okay, so up at the front they have wallets and stuff. I'll go look there since the lady standing in the size 8 section is just looking, not touching anything, not trying anything on, not even moving.  At the front they have (wait for it, wait for it, wait for it) ... TOYS. Yes, toys. Kids' toys. Cars and games and plastic things. Toys. T-O-Y-S. In DSW. Where the wallets should be.

I see some Burt's Bees hand lotion, grab the two sizes, and take them to the counter. "How much are these?" I ask. The small one is $12.99. The large one is $7.99. That's right. Don't ask questions! This isn't math class.

I buy the large one, give her the $5 GIFT coupon, go to hand her $3, and she screams so loudly that the woman in clearance can hear her. "WE DON'T TAKE CASH!" I am forced to charge $2.99 for my "free gift" at DSW, which, by the way, will be the very LAST time that I shop at DSW because it's filthy, has stupid rules, and the clerk is a loudmouth.

I have other possible places on my list to stop: my free nail polish at CVS (which I eventually forget about), a great discount coupon from the daily Michael's Craft Store email, Joann Fabrics... But I am so disconcerted from my two shopping experiences that I get on the highway and head home.

Piss off, July, and piss off, birthday freebies. I'm damn glad August is here. August, all I ask is no more "free" gifts and get your shit together. We've pretty much had enough of 2020 at this point.

PAYBACK FROM THE ELECTRIC SKY

It's no secret (from last week's blog) that the weather has not been kind to us. We are in this strange pattern of mind-sucking heat followed by hours upon hours (sometimes even days) of unsettled, severe, disorienting thunderstorms and rain and hail and flash flooding.

I have been wary of taking the kayak out because sometimes the radar is clear, then moments later I am cowering with a headset on because thunder is shrieking all around. Some of these sudden and unanticipated squalls have uprooted trees and taken down live wires in a matter of seconds. It's almost like, "What in the freaking fuck, Mother Nature, are you smoking?"

In honor of the continued feud between the weather and me, I have taken to communicating with my weather app the way most people do with Siri and Alexa. The app, appropriately named What the Forecast, is probably the most honest, reliable, and truly direct of all the weather apps out there.

Oh, sure, I still check the local news radar and the radar on my phone that is put out by The Weather Channel. But how can anyone argue with succinct reality? Enjoy the next few days, folks. It looks like three days of ass-blistering heat followed by three days of mind-numbing heat, sure to be followed by days of unpredictable payback from the angry electric skies.

DON'T COMPLAIN - IT'S A HEATWAVE

Dear Everyone who is gearing up to complain about the heatwave:

Shut up. No, really. Put a cork in it.

We have been under house arrest for months. It's not snowing out (although last winter it didn't really snow at all). Outdoor (and some indoor) dining has reopened. Beer is back on tap. Gardens are starting to produce edible crops. Grills are in high gear. People are gathering (socially distant, of course) inside and out.

Life with and amongst humans is finally mimicking normalcy at its most basic levels.

We just ended a four-day weather pattern that was nothing but storms and rain and flash flooding. I drove through a pond as it formed around my car and barely sputtered through. (Two cars behind me? Not so lucky.) I slept on the futon twice this week because it rained so hard and so often and for so long that the rat-a-tat pounding of the water on the bedroom roof and the air conditioner was like torture. My ear buds have earned their keep allowing me to listen to music instead of thunder, and my tablet has brought television into my life without worry of a lightning strike blowing the whole system when the electricity surges.

So, please, don't complain about the heat. Don't whine about the sweat marks under your armpits. Don't curse the hot car seat when you sit your ass down and the skin sears off. Don't compare the sidewalk's reflective scorch with the Sahara. Don't make cracks about frying eggs on the road (you can do it, by the way, because the tar really does get that hot). Don't pick your damp wedgie, don't yank on your soaked bra, and don't flap your long hair off your disgustingly sweaty neck or forehead.

Just look at the sun in the sky and the temperature soar and say, "Thank you, Summer. Thank you for letting me get outside and pretend life is the same as it always was." We may be stuck with limited physical travel, but it's days like these that restore our mental travel.

Welcome, Heatwave. Bring it. Show me what you've got.

BEACH DAY . . . FINALLY

I have been avoiding the beach.

First I avoid the beach because New Hampshire (where my favorite beach is located) won't let Massachusetts cars into their state. Oh, sure, I could go to Massachusetts beaches, except that brings up problem number two: giant jellyfish with tentacles that can grow to 120 feet.  FEET. Yes, you read that correctly. These jellyfish are showing up all over Massachusetts, so, screw that. I'm not going to any jellyfish beaches regardless of what Spongebob Squarepants has to say about it.

Finally, one morning this week I wake up early and simply decide, fudge this crap, I'm going to the beach to walk because it's low tide so the entire beach will be open. I honestly don't care if I get into the water or not (jellyfish), but I need a walk and I need the sand in my toes. I grab my beach staples: water, sunscreen, paper, pens, a book, and my glasses. My beach chairs live in my car 365 days a year just in case I should come across the beach, even in winter, and want to sit for a while. From wake-up to leaving my parking lot, it has been about a half hour.

Two miles from the beach are the salt marshes. One of the reasons I love this beach is its distance from the salt marshes because that's where the greenheads congregate and plan attacking all of the people who are sitting on the beach. For anyone unfamiliar, the greenhead is a nasty giant fly that has jaws of steel, and it will take a chunk out of you while sucking your blood, leaving a nasty miniature bite behind. Greenheads are like inept vampires -- ready to deplete your veins but totally unaware that sharp fangs or needles would actually do the trick more quickly and efficiently. They are the idiot toddlers of the blood-sucking insect world, and they invade New England beaches for several weeks during the summer.

As I pass the salt marshes, something lands on my windshield smack in front of my face. A goddamned greenhead. I try speeding up, but it has a superglue grip to the glass. I examine it closely, trying to deny that it is a greenhead while also trying not to drive off the road and into the salt marsh, thus ensuring that I will either drown or be bled to death by seasonal villains. Even the wipers cannot dislodge the bug. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it disappears, flying off, no doubt, to the beach to wait for me to arrive so it can come in for the kill.

The beach is mostly blocked off. Only half of the lot, that goes on for a mile, is open. The rest is periodically cordoned off with concrete barriers and police tape. No matter. It's 9:15 a.m. I have the pick of spaces. I hop out of my car, look over the breakwall and see ...

Nothing. Oh, I can hear it, that's for damn sure, but the coast is completely and totally fogged in. I can see for about fifteen feet, and that's it.

I leave all of my stuff in my car, tuck the parking pass onto my dashboard, and start down the steps and rocks to the beach. Even walking along the water (and in the water, which is warm and perfect), it is hard to see, which scares the buhjeezuhs out of the unsuspecting seagulls hopping around on the sand. I walk for about fifteen minutes before I decide it is futile to walk the entire beach like this. Instead, I grab my gear, drag my chair down near the water, plunk myself down for ninety minutes, and do what I always do at the beach: write and read and dig my toes into the wet sand.

I know my skin is starting to burn despite the haze, so I pack it in after two hours of absolute bliss. No one has come near me (no need for my mask), barely anyone has entered the water blocking my limited view out to sea, and no one's radio has broken the continuous sound of the waves. Packing up to leave, I am actually surprised by all of the people behind me in the dry sand who have set up their own socially distant stations. I haven't heard any of them arrive. I haven't heard anything except the seagulls and the water, a wonderful gift that only the ocean fog can grant.

Some may think a hazy, foggy beach day isn't a decent beach day at all, but they'd be wrong. It's the perfect beach day because every day at the beach is a perfect day. Until I start the lazy drive home through the back roads, I hadn't realize how badly I needed this, how desperate my mind has been for a day of salt and surf. Best of all, my buddy the greenhead didn't show up, and neither did any shocking jellyfish. I may leave a little more sunburnt and a lot more relaxed, but I also leave without losing any flesh and blood to the beach varmints, in the water or out.

FREEDOM

Well, it's Independence Day weekend.
I got nothing.

There is nothing I can
possibly say that won't
piss off one or both or,
hell, all sides of
supporters and
dissenters and
pundits, paid and unpaid.

This.
This is what I believe in.

Freedom.

Try not to fuck it up.

EPISODE OF WILD PLANT KINGDOM

And now for an episode of Wild Plant Kingdom:
(Please read it in the voice of Marlin Perkins for full effect.)

Sal and I have been on the elusive trail of the Amorphophallus Titanum, also known as the Corpse Flower, a flower that we have been trailing for nearly a decade. This flower is unique in many ways because it only blooms every seven to ten years. Its blossom holds for about twenty-four hours (if we are lucky), and the bloom itself smells like dead animals and rotting human flesh.

Amorphophallus Titanum literaly means "misshapen giant penis." (I'm just going to leave that right here. It doesn't have anything to do with the rest of our report, but it is a fact that many women can attest to witnessing at least once in their lifetimes.)

We have attempted to smell the blossoming Corpse Flower before. Our travels have taken us numerous times to the Franklin Park Zoo in Boston, so many times, in fact, that we now know our way from the zoo to Yankee Lobster and the Harpoon Brewery without needing the expressway nor GPS. Despite going to the zoo every day for two straight weeks, the flower, aptly named Morticia, did a quick bloom in the searing heat and was quite done emitting her fragrance by the time we arrived hours later. These expeditions made us both great pals of the scientists in charge of the greenhouse and semi-experts in the life cycle of the misshapen giant penis flower.

While visiting Morticia, we also saw a small sprout of a Corpse Flower, a dinky little leafy plant named Fester. It is Fester that we have come to see today, and, despite our best efforts, we are almost too late. Fester has bloomed on a Sunday, so we rush in on Monday (at the mercy of Covid reservation times).

We are on complete autopilot as we sail through the Roxbury-Dorchester-Jamaica Plain triangle, arrive within five minutes of our required entrance time, and head almost directly to the flower. Sal is distracted while learning about the sex habits of two young giraffes from an overly-sharing park ranger. We make our way past the playground, along the kangaroos, and chat with the emu who follows our steps from its side of the fence.

Finally. Nirvana. We stand in a short line to get our chance to see and smell Fester.

It is not the absolute disgusting and hideous experience for which we have been hoping, and our years of quest seem for naught.  However, blessed be, if we stand at a certain angle, remove our Covid masks, use our hands to help swish the air forward, there is no doubt, no doubt at all, that we are smelling Fester's corpsey stench.

Yes, indeed, we came, we saw, we smelled, we conquered.

To be honest, though. Sal and I would love to see the bloom completely open and to be bowled over by the odor, so overcome in fact that we dry heave. Dry heaving over the Corpse Flower would be THE ultimate experience.

With that reality in mind, people, please keep us informed of any more Corpse Flowers you might hear about that are ready to bloom. Although this was a small conquest, we are still willing, sort of like King Henry VI, to go once more unto the stench, dear friends.