A New Meaning to Free-Range

Alright, yes, it has been three weeks since my last post and nearly two months since my wedding and I have been side stepping complaints from a certain luncheon meat who will remain unnamed but guys. I got my dream job. A few weeks ago I started working for an animal welfare nonprofit and it rocks. It also kind of makes me feel like I’ve never worked a legitimate day in my entire life because the work is demanding and brain-energy consuming and interesting for once. I’m doing a lot of real writing which is completely different from blogging because instead of recounting the slapstick routine that is my daily existence, I’m tearing out hearts with sob stories about abused puppehs. I mist at my desk all the time. I shit you not.

So, it should come as no surprise that this one-time vegetarian is struggling with meat again (even bacon) and now refuses to consume it unless I am absolutely certain that the animal it came from was humanely raised. It should come as less of a surprise that this development has gotten me into trouble.

Two weeks ago was the wedding of Beau’s cousin in Florida. Starbucks wasn’t even open yet when we got to the airport at the ungodly hour of 4:30am that Saturday. We huddled at their gates peering through the bars to no avail until his parents found an open Dunkin Donuts further into the terminal. In addition to my new wariness of meat products (even bacon), my situation has been compounded by renewed interest in getting back into shape to avoid eventually having a TLC special made about me when they have to use a fork lift to remove me from my condo. That pretty much crossed everything on the Dunkies menu off of the list of possibilities for breakfast.

I wandered to a snack kiosk and found a stash of Fiber One bars. At 150 calories a piece, I reasoned that two would make a satisfactory and responsible meal. I ate one while paying for them and the other somewhere over Delaware. By 9am we had landed in Tampa, collected a rental car and were on our way west to a beach front hotel.

Sometime after checking in and eating lunch, Beau’s sister She-Ra and her husband arrived. We were splitting the room with them in a cost-saving measure. Her husband retired to the room for a little golf tournament surveillance while we basked around the pool. Mere pages into a new book, I realized how exhausted I was. Severe sleepiness often makes my stomach ache so between a rumbling tummy and lack of rest, I was cranky. I excused myself to the room where I figured I’d get a jump start on the shower line up before the wedding that evening.

As soon as I was out of ear shot of about a dozen in-laws, a bit of gas escaped me. I giggled in that way that you do when you are actively flatulating behind a bush in public. It ceased to amuse me by the time I reached the elevator and was making wind like a tropical storm. I greeted She-Ra’s husband and retreated to the safety of the bathroom when I could attempt to silently detonate my digestive system.

Cleaned, refreshed and partially deflated, I snuggled into my bed for a power nap. When Beau woke me later that afternoon, I knew without a doubt that I was in trouble. Tropical storm Dangerous K had upgraded to a full-fledged category one hurricane and was gaining strength on the coast of the gulf. I threw myself out of bed and poked my head into the hallway where there was a lone housekeeper slowly pushing her cart down the never ending hall. I turned around, slammed the door and hurtled across the room as fast as I could at a controlled geisha step to my last sanctuary: the balcony overlooking the tennis courts.

As soon as the glass sliding door shut, I farted like nobody’s business (yet here I am telling the internet all about it so I guess that makes my business everybody’s business actually). Sheepishly, I slunk back into the room and confessed to Beau who already knew due to my constant whining earlier that day. News travels fast in a 12’ x 12’ room. Especially when you've been tooting along in your sleep. She-Ra inquired after what I’d eaten that day and a look of horror passed across her face when I got to the Fiber One bars that I’d had for breakfast, “Aren’t each of those 35% of your daily fiber? That’s 70% of your daily fiber that you ate in one sitting.”

Well. Fuck.

That didn’t change the fact that I had to fit my bloated abdomen into a cute little dress and march myself down to a gathering of in-laws and complete strangers where we’d all sit in closs proximity and in complete silence while watching a solemn, major life event unfold before our eyes. At least it was outside.

I managed to last through the blessedly brief ceremony without embarrassing myself further than a few moments of doubled over agony and the occasional sound of reuptake – that horrendous gurgling that your intestines do when you have a fart on deck that you REFUSE to release into the wild. Even my own body is bent on my complete and utter humiliation.

After the ceremony, I tried to sneak away but was retained for family photos. I lagged behind the group that was heading for the sand dunes and snuck a few silent-but-deadlies. My newly free-range ass air swirled about and I shuffled towards the sea grass before the guy collecting the folding chairs had detected anything was amiss.

Having mastered the art of silent release, the reception was much more comfortable. I passed gas near a volley ball court, at the bar, at a cocktail table while stuffing my face with baby quiches, in at least three hallways, in the bathroom after greeting the bride at the sink, in line at the buffet and, God help me, at the dinner table seated next to a previously estranged family member. Beau, if he stops speaking to you guys again, I may know why.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. Jet setting to southern states, attending family events and tirelessly lobbying for the freedom of farts, puppehs and meat. Even bacon.

Moving Day(s)

I was bitching with Office BFF this morning about moving out of my third floor apartment (in a house on a hill… so there’s actually another staircase outside). After she mentioned that she’s been making yearly moves since leaving college, I counted up how many times I’ve moved in that time frame and came to the realization that this will be my ninth relocation since December 2005. The first seven occurred in the year and a half span after graduation, much to the frustration of Bologna and T who helped 63% of the time. Here’s a not-so-brief outline of my travels:

1) Hilton Head, SC (Dec 2005 – Jan 2006)

I left my dorm room and moved roughly 1000 miles south to my father’s retirement village. By car. I stayed there for under a month. Shortly after a rousing New Years Eve of drinking Bacardi on his couch while watching Amelie and then attempting to play it off as drowsiness when he came home early from his Old People Party, I hopped on a London-bound plane with one suitcase to reclaim the alcoholic genuinely-Irish boyfriend that I procured during my stint at Oxford the previous summer.

2) Brixton, London, UK (Jan – March 2006)

Turns out there was very little worth reclaiming. He was still Irish and an alcoholic, but spent a good portion of my three month sojourn unemployed and not paying his share of the rent. We lived in the ghetto of Brixton (of the Clash’s “Guns of Brixton”) above an Indian bodega on a street where they frequently posted sandwich signs advertising unsolved crimes (for example, “Please be advised there may be a serial rapist on the loose in the general vicinity”). I worked as an illegal nanny to the director of American movies in the Marble Arch area. I regret not spending more of my time sightseeing by myself and wandering the city instead of wallowing in the misery that was my personal life. After a particularly bad row, I hopped on a plane back to the States with my one suitcase… and one very large bag of souvenirs.

3) Central NJ (April – May 2006)

St. Bologna greeted me at Newark Airport and brought me home where she deposited me (and my luggage) on her couch in central New Jersey. My father brought the rest of my belongings from South Carolina and they began piling up around Bologna’s condo. This was around the time that T developed a nervous twitch.

4) Weehawken, NJ (May 2006)

After getting my first big girl job in Manhattan in April, I moved to Weehawken just across the river from NYC. I had a beautiful view of the city skyline from my bedroom window and three incredibly creepy roommates who I caught congregating outside my room listening to one of my phone conversations. When Bologna prompted me with “Do you want to leave this place?” after a baseball game, I packed up my entire life in about an hour and threw it in the back of their pick up truck. T’s tick became inescapably noticeable.

5) Central NJ… again (May – June 2006)

We formed a neat little family unit back in the old condo. Just me, Bologna, T, and T’s head jerking. I crashed in their guest room for another month or so until selecting…

6) New Brunswick, NJ (June – Oct 2006)

...another slum! But this apartment was also conveniently located a full mile from the train station. I like an extra challenge when I’m running for my life down dark alleys past gold toothed whistling Mexican men. This one also required furniture. So, me, my luggage, and my brand new furniture were all neatly deposited on the 18th floor of a high rise by the ever patient Bologna, T and T’s hopeless shaking.

In early October, sick of getting cat calls on my walk home, I shouted back at a car full of large black men something to the effect of, “Does this ever work for you? Have you ever had success picking up a female using that kind of language?” They parked around the corner and menacingly began following me. I was then very grateful for my troop of lurking Hispanic guys and my ten years of Spanish lessons because I was able to ask them for help in their own language. They formed a blockade on the side walk behind me as I high tailed it. Apparently they didn’t take kindly to others intruding on their sexual harassment turf. To my knowledge, that was the only racial riot that my ghetto booty has incited.

During this time period, I’d also begun talking to Beau more and more frequently and ultimately decided to move up to Boston for him since he seemed unwilling to move to Yankee territory.

7) Boston, MA (Sept 2006 – June 2007)

Once again, Bologna, T, and T’s violent quaking packed me into a U-Haul and put me on the road. I unloaded in record time in Boston with the help of Beau and my three new roomies who were completely unconcerned that I had no job or marketable skill base. That Christmas, after it became clear that I was indeed settling in one location, T presented me with a gigantic bottle of tequila and lovely card noting that he had almost fully recovered from the persistent convulsions that I must have noticed when I was retired to his couch.

8) Outskirts of Boston, MA (June 2007 – June 2009)

After moving in with Beau, I stayed in the same apartment for an unprecedented two years. Now we’re finally leaving for our very own purchased home with our very own adult couch for T to crash on, should his malady ever return.

This concludes the Nomadic Adventures of Dangerous K. On a side note, I’ve decided to continue blogging even if that means subjecting my loved ones to pictures of my wardrobe choices and gushing over frilly things with pink bows once in awhile. More news to follow after the closing on Thursday!

Don't Worry - I Wasn't Eaten By A Shark

...but I've been playing catch up at work and trying to plan a wedding at home so I haven't had time to write about my fabulous vacation yet. I will though, even if it means doing it by hand this weekend while I'm sitting on Beau's boat. Until then, please enjoy this picture of me making out with a vat of rum at the Cruzan Rum Factory in St. Croix.

A Really Big Hat

Two days ago I accidentally scared poor Beau half to death. We watched Nick & Nora’s Infinite Playlist which was infinitely cute and enjoyable and incidentally put me in a terrible mood. Mostly because it was 9:30pm on a Tuesday night and I wanted to go have an adventure in which I too find Jesus at a drag show instead of putting on my big girl panties and going to my cubicle in the morning.

So I grumbled and was put to bed early and the next day I wrote Beau a lengthy email apologizing for my funk and explaining that I was fine, I just wanted to quit my job and join the Peace Corps so he shouldn’t be concerned. Leave it to Beau to worry about some innocent little comment like that.

After talking me down from my proverbial ledge in his I-Am-Diffusing-a-Bomb-and-I-Know-Better-than-to-Cut-the-Blue-Wire tone by promising me things like puppies and magical powers and bars in Key West, he told me it’s time we took a vacation. Much like a Labrador, the key to keeping me from going berserk, ripping up your favorite pillows and peeing on the carpet when you’re not home is to let me out in the backyard for a solid romp. I have to be tired out before I can be expected to sit still without causing trouble (or hung over but I’m much whinier then). So Beau is letting me off my leash for a week in May. I’M GOING ON A CRUISE BITCHES.

I will now procure a pirate’s hat. Effective immediately, I will begin referring to myself as Commodore Dangerous K and respectfully request that you do the same.

Lessons from the Metro Boston Roadways

After merging into the left lane during this morning’s commute as many other drivers do every day of their lives and will continue doing for the rest of time, the owner of a light-green high-end minivan floored his vehicle in order to tail me as if to say, “I know there was an appropriately sized gap in front of me that was perfect for your automobile, but still, your presence in this lane will not be tolerated despite the fact that you are clearly keeping up with traffic.” To clarify, I didn’t cut him off. This individual sped up AFTER I was already in front of him and proceeded to tail me at what appeared to be less than a foot of space at 60 mph.

In response, I righteously displayed my middle finger for his viewing pleasure. He retorted with an elaborate hand gesture of mock-fellatio. He continued to tail for several more minutes, even after I tapped on the breaks nearly causing him to nearly hit my mid-90s boat with his Mercedes. Eventually, he tried to pass me on the right and failed miserably when the semi in the next lane cock blocked his ass.

Traffic moved on without the fellater but it left me thinking about all that I have learned by driving in and around Beantown:

Boston Road Repair Fund Minus $22-Billion Big Dig Equals 22-Billion Potholes

Boston never EVER fixes their roads. On the blue moon that they DO decide to fix a pothole, they will do so on a Monday evening at 5:30 pm so as to inconvenience the highest number of people. They will post between two and seven police officers to stand ominously on the side of the road and watch the progress so as to maximize wastefulness.

The “Here I Come” Principle

In my homeland of the Dirty Jerz, the root of all bad driving is impatience. People will tail you because you’re holding up traffic and they need to go somewhere. The appropriate speed for the left lane on the Jersey Turnpike is infinity. You are expected to go as fast as possible in that lane. If you allow anyone to catch up to you when there is no one is front of you, it is their civic duty to let you know that you have failed society. That’s why the Jersey Sweep was invented – to get around Virginians doing 80 mph. Come to think of it, I wonder if Mr. Let-Me-Show-You-How-I-Put-Penis-In-My-Mouth was from the Jerz?

In Massachusetts though, the root of all bad driving is obliviousness. This phenomenon has come to be known in my household as the “Here I Come” principle (as in “ready or not, here I come”, as in “I don’t know exactly where you are, but I’m probably coming in your general direction right now”). This phrase was coined after Beau, a native Bostonian, took a mostly blind left hand turn from the right hand lane in a highly populated downtown area and my subsequent caterwauling. As a general rule, Bay Staters have no idea what’s going on when they are behind the wheel. They are completely unaware of their surroundings, usually on the phone, and just plain don’t notice that there are other cars on the road.

The Hypotenuse of “Why Don’t You Look Where I’m Going?”

With all that obliviousness comes a certain amount of implied trust. They trust you not to rear-end them when they cut you off without looking, and you may pass that trust on to the next driver when you park your car at a green light to get out and inspect the effect of a carwash on your rims. In Jersey, it is your responsibility not to get yourself into an accident. In Massachusetts, it is everyone else’s responsibility to make sure you don’t get into an accident.

Rotaries Equal Retardation

I used to go through three rotaries on my way to work. Each one backed up every single day, at every time of day and the inside resembles a mosh pit for cars.

As a preliminary effort to head off reactionary hate mail comments, I challenge you to take a toodle around Boston to check it out for yourself before committing yourself to an eternity of my ridicule by whining that I’ve stereotyped horribly and you are personally offended. Should you chose to refute the facts stated above, I require specific examples as well as your license plate number so I know to avoid you on the roads.

Close Only Counts In Horseshoes & Hand Grenades

I just… I don’t even know where to start. I have spent the past five days trying to decide where to start. I’ve started and then stopped and erased everything because it was not to my liking. I take my blogging very seriously. In short, some things happened on the trip and those things were surrounded by a lot of…. quiet. I don’t know if those events were actually eventful or just seemed eventful because they were not, in fact, cornfields. So, before another week goes by and my relations in New Jersey get their collective panties in a twist over the lack of posting, I’m going to go ahead and just start at the beginning. If you don’t mind.
Our wagon ride occurred mostly without incident which goes against everything I know about the Oregon Trail. There was no typhoid or blocked mountain passes or bear hunting (not yet anyway… that’s foreshadowing, folks. You gotta pay attention to my foreshadowing. T, are you paying attention??) We managed to fit almost every one of our worldly belongings in the barely-existent trunk of an Audi TT. Then we drove five hours west with four pit stops because seriously, at any minute we were about to fall off the face of the earth and I was reluctant to pee on a farmer’s front yard. Also, Beau needed tater tots in Troy, NY.

Finally, we approached our destination in West Bumble. We zoomed past the farmstead (going entirely too fast, eh hem) where Bologna was standing outside frantically waving her arms. That made me start flapping my own arms and squawking. Beau, probably because he was going entirely too fast, was one step ahead of me and was already turning around in the driveway of someone who might have run out of their home with a shotgun. Instead of an angry yokel, we next encountered a loose cow that proceeded to race the convertible for a short distance. It’s as if we went to the zoo and found a tiger walking around outside its enclosure. These things aren’t supposed to happen. Tigers are supposed to stay in their cages, and cows are supposed to stay inside their fenced pastures.

We spent the remainder of the day wandering around cornfields, taking pictures of deer poop, and getting acquainted with the holiday’s cast of characters. In addition to the family, we met two cats, Sweet and Pooh, so named for their individual temperaments. Sweet was particularly awesome. She’s twenty years old and noticeably blind. When she looks at you, it’s like she’s looking through you directly into your soul and reading your inner most thoughts. Then she would go and wreck my theory of feline wisdom by walking into walls and meowing peevishly at them as if it was the wall’s fault. According to Mr. T (T, that is your dad’s official blog name. I just wrote it with the intention of circling back and writing something more clever, but then I was all, “Mr. T?! YES.” These things just come to me) Sweet still goes outside and hunts. AND ACTUALLY KILLS STUFF. So, yeah, she may be a little clumsy and we may have found her standing in a toilet one night, but it’s all a part of the cosmic feline wisdom that I detected in her spacey stare.

Thanksgiving morning, before I woke up, the menfolk (T [Hi T!], his dad, my dad, and my Beau) went into the woods with guns and tried to kill things. Real guns. With like, real bullets. My boyfriend and my father with his iffy hearing and his poor eyesight went deep into a secluded forest, somewhere south of the Adirondacks, with loaded guns and little supervision. But happy times! They all came back alive and empty handed. Apparently, a few shots were fired but, as Mr. T told us, “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” They should have brought Sweet with them. She would have felled a buck with telekinesis and plaintive mewing.

We rounded out our visit to the middle of nowhere with a trip to the closest town which was a thirty minute drive through the woods and fields and farms. And at that, it was still the middle of nowhere. We wandered and visited a used book store and looked at Christmas decorations. All very peaceful, pleasant activities but you don’t want to read about that. You want to read about Beau pitching a hissy fit at a bakery which was really slow in that not-a-Starbucks-in-Boston way so we left before he got a cookie and complained about it until we got him a beer at a dive bar on the edge of town instead where he nearly got us all shot by loudly announcing that “those guys really suck at darts.”

That night we had an Oregon Trail style send off. Mr. T made us a bonfire in the backyard and sharpened sticks so we could roast cocktail wieners and marshmallows. We were having a merry ol’ time setting things on fire and stuffing our faces, when a mile down the road, the dogs at a neighboring farm began barking. Hysterically. The T’s all looked at each other and were quiet for a moment before forcefully starting conversation again. I was not so easily fooled so I asked what all the racket was about. They told me it was nothing to worry about. The dogs probably just smelled… something. Something? Yes, something. Like a coyote. Nothing to worry about.

I’d already been worrying about that for days. Ever since Mr. T said that the coyotes were originally introduced into the area in order to keep the deer population at bay, but they weren’t big and mean with drooly fangs enough, so local officials introduced a coyote/timber wolf cross breed. How is everyone ignoring the wolf part?! That’s like ignoring the part of me that’s Polish. Yeah, I’m mostly Italian, but that doesn’t cancel out all the Polish qualities. You should see me try to do simple common sense tasks like open a box of frozen chicken nuggets. The Polish is in there, festering, and it makes a difference. Except, generally speaking, those genes don’t make me snatch unsuspecting city folk from camp fires and feed them to my young.

Needless to say, despite attacking a bush with my pointy stick in self defense and nearly soiling myself twice, the predators stayed at bay long enough for us to wrap things up and return to the comfort of the indoors and the protection of Sweet.

Truly, this was a proper Dangerous holiday. I was nearly run down by a cow, pitch forked by angry locals, and eaten by a coyote in the span of 72 hours. Oh, and my dad almost shot my boyfriend which would have been a particular inconvenience because there was absolutely no room left in the trunk of the car for a body.

Real Pioneers Caulk It and Float

In the time honored tradition (which began last year) of the Dangerous Family, Thanksgiving simply cannot be held in a reasonable location. Why would anybody want to have dinner in front of a roaring fireplace at their father’s house in temperate South Carolina where one could still at this time of year feasibly walk on the beach? Thanksgiving must be an Adventure. This is to test the family loyalty. Sure you’ll help a relative hide a body, but will you drive cross country to stay in a roach infested motel?

Much to Beau’s disappointment, we won’t be returning to the Liki Tiki in Florida this year. Instead, we’re taking a relatively short drive of five hours to upstate New York, home of T’s entire family. Entire. Like going back a dozen generations to the Mayflower era when people were called hominids and ate ants with sticks. Yes, we’re going to eat Thanksgiving with the descendants of real life pilgrims. To do so, we just need to drive through an area that’s been blanketed with snow for a month to a place that Google informs me is nestled snugly between the Catskills and the Adirondacks. We will be frontiersmen in our own right as we forge through this wilderness where there may not be public restrooms, acceptable fast-food, paved roads or cell service. In just two days, we begin the exodus of The Slightly Abbreviated Oregon Trail.

Culling knowledge from the computer version, I know that the first step involves packing the wagon and similar to the ways of my overzealous ten-year-old self, I am already over packing. But instead of bringing fifteen pounds of cornmeal and twenty chickens (each with a name and an elaborate personal history that was explored in detail via the journal feature which chronicled every time a hen wandered off or had to be killed for food), I’m taking a number of supplies that Beau and I are concerned we may not find at our destination. Among these items are cilantro, comfy pillows, rum, and freshly ground coffee as well as a full arsenal of allergy medications since I’ll be cohabiting with multiple felines, which, though adorable, make me sneeze uncontrollably and my throat swell up in an unattractive and life-debilitating way.

Speaking of bodily weakness, remember how pissed you’d get when Amos, the quote-on-quote doctor, would come down with cholera somewhere in Wyoming and you’d have to rest for two weeks? Like Amos, I am also diseased. The inexplicable disappearing zit that hid before I got to last week’s interview has resurfaced on my chin and it is ANGRY. It looks much less like a pimple and much more like a second chin jutting out to the right. For thematic continuity, we’re going to call it mumps.

So, this is how I am required to prove my loyalty to the family and renew my membership for the coming year. With cornmeal, dysentery, and mountain lions. Pray for us. And Godspeed on your own travels!

Just a Quick One. Stop Reading Over My Shoulder, Beau.

I did that thing again where one minute I'm quietly typing away at my desk in Boston and the next I've skipped town. I took off the rest of the week to go hang around at Beau's parents' Cape house. But lucky me! Their yacht club has internet access. And also Big Girl Rumndietcokes.

Bermuda, Land of My People

Let me start by saying that I had fully intended on coming home from vacation and giving a play-by-play account of the entire week (no, but seriously, I have a detailed itinerary of every event in my paper journal – the one that some refer to as my “creepy little journal” because I can often be found sitting in a corner furiously writing while making shifty eye motions and visibly judging those around me). I am choosing not to do this for one main reason: the trip was perfect. It would be smug of me to sit here and describe the weather, the food, the beaches, the sunsets, etc. to you, especially the unfortunate souls who were stuck in Boston’s freak heat wave last week. More importantly, I’d probably lose your attention if I gave a full recap because that kind of peacefulness is inherently uneventful and less than dramatic. If you’re actually interested in my series of 20,000 dolphin pictures from the Maritime Museum you are more than welcome to visit my flickr album which I promise to update tonight, Bologna, so please stop calling and leaving breathy messages on my voicemail. I know it’s you.

Instead, I will regale you with one of my usual stories of foolishness, since my magnetism for trouble operates just as well in Bermuda as it does here at home. After our first day of sightseeing, we returned to port and decided to have a snack at the Tavern by the Sea in St. George’s before boarding the ship. Ordering went something like this:

Waiter: And madam what can I get for you?

Dangerous K: Could we get the nachos? And also a rumndietcoke?

Beau: Beer.

Waiter: Black rum, madam?

Dangerous K: Yes, please.

Beau: BEEEEEERRRRRR.

Waiter: Anything else, madam?

Dangerous K: No, thank you.

Beau: BEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

Black rum is the uber-rum. It’s aged longer, tastes stronger, and is essentially as lethal as Schwarzenegger circa the first Terminator would be if we dropped him in the Iraq. Pretty much, it is anti-terrorism in a jar. So, I wasn’t terribly surprised that it didn’t go down as easy as my first love, Bacardi. I was only halfway through my drink when Beau finished the last of his beer – an unprecedented occurrence. I am not one to hold up the next round. As I began to take bigger swigs, I noticed that the drink was going straight to my head, though, to the best of my knowledge, the Bermudian variety is not a higher proof than Ol’ Faithful. As the reigning Queen of Rum Consumption, the idea of a single cocktail taking me down is downright embarrassing. Beau gave me a funny look when I voiced this out loud. Then he felt my forehead. Then he took a sip. Then he said, “Honey, I think that’s straight rum.” Phew. Chug chug chug giggle.

Sure enough, the bill corroborated his opinion. My drink was listed only as black rum. No -ndietcoke. Which I believe officially makes me a pirate. Give me your booty.

Heh heh heh. Booty.

Dangerous K Unplugged

Long story short I forgot to mention I'm leaving for a cruise to Bermuda in... 2 hours. I've been told that there should be internet access, but no promises. If that is the case, I'll try to post a picture a day for your amusement. If not, I'll be back late next Sunday.

Til then, enjoy the heat wave, Boston. I'm out!