Weekends on the Odyssey -- a time to step back from the day to day rigors of Extreme Telecommuting and take stock, see where you stand. A time for cold self-assessment and, if necessary, decisive corrective action. A time to consider china patterns for our upcoming bridal registration. In this way, we ensure that the Extreme Telecommuter's Path leads to the Palace of Wisdom and that their Pantry contains the Pleasing Patterns for all to Peruse.
Fortunately, this path is not without it's pleasant digressions. Newly arrived in Newport the night before, we awoke in another strange bed, wondering what might be in the offing. Thankfully, we were under the gentle care of Kristanne's brother, Chuck, and his wife, Lisa (known in most social circles as "The Minister of Romance" and the "First Lady of Fun," respectively). Whatever was in store, we knew there would be ample opportunity for holding hands and kissing. That's just the natural byproducts of an afternoon with Chuck and Lisa.
Little did I know, however, that our afternoon would include sailing. Sailing is unnatural to me. I don't float particularly well and I understand little of the ways of the wind -- its mysterious currents I cannot navigate. Few would ever call me, "mate," or, "old salt," or even, "swabbie." Far more likely would I be called, "nautically-challenged," or "landlubber," or even, "crab food." Chuck and Lisa know this, too. During a vacation last summer at Echo Lake in California's Sierra Nevada, I tried my hand at piloting a little Sunfish sailboat around the lake's comfortable environs. It turned out that I was excellent at sailing with the wind, speeding directly to the opposite end of the lake as I did, but that I lacked the requisite understanding of how to sail into the wind. Later, as disbelieving folks streamed out of their lakeside cabins to watch Kristanne and Rosalie use the canoe to tow me and the sailboat back to the relative safety of our cabin, I was made to understand by the jeering passersby that sailing into the wind required something called, "tacking." Whatever.
Understandably, I did not want a repeat of last year's follies. Kristanne had been nice enough to overlook the previous summer's ignominy and still agree to marry me, but another defeat might just seal the deal. Plus, this boat looked a little big to tow with a canoe. Trepidations abounded. Fortunately, it became rapidly clear that I was not expected to sail this boat at all. In fact, Lisa expressed that she would feel more comfortable if I would just sit as far from the helm as possible. The others nodded their assent, indicating that this sentiment was shared by the lot of them. Fair enough. So, I twinkled my toes and enjoyed the salt spray as first Chuck and then Kristanne piloted this screaming yacht to the limits of its mechanical abilities, threatening to capsize us at any moment. I would have panicked, but Lisa's brother, Kurt (who probably has been called, "Old Salt," the lucky bastard), was with us, and he is a sailor of some repute. That's Kurt at right, assuming the demeanor of the everready sailor. |
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| The sail continued through the lovely summer sun. Lisa and Kurt's mom, Marge the Omniscient, pointed out the waterfront mansions that bestow upon Newport the reputation of Summer Playground for the Wealthy. Marge knew most all of the mansions by name, owner, and history, which provided an informative running narrative for our sail. Do you know where the summer home of the fellow who invented Worcestershire Sauce is? I do. I know where the boat Ted Turner learned how to sail on is, too. If you want to know, drop me an email, and I'll consider divulging my knowledge. | |
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Eventually, the sail was over, and we returned to Lisa's parents' home in Newport. After a great tour of the sights of Newport, courtesy of Marge, we were ready to eat. And not in any small way, either. We were ready to barbecue. There you see Kurt shucking the corn. Next to him is noted bon vivant, Reginald Von Rensselaer (of the Newport Von Rensselaers), skewering the shish-kabobs. Out of the picture, the rest of us are doing stretching exercises. Eventually, it was time to prepare Chuck to cook our meal. |
| When you're talking about a barbecue master of Chuck's reputation, you don't just light some coals and set to basting. Not even. There are preparations to be made. After a vigorous cold shower, we rubbed him down with baby oil from head to toe while reading incantations from Betty Crocker cookbooks. Rosalie worked some shiatsu magic on his back while Kristanne and I prepared a path of flower petals from the kitchen to the barbecue so that his feet would never have to touch the cold floor. Next, Lisa anointed his forehead with a dollop of barbecue sauce before we wheeled him out to the grill on a hand truck. Art lit some incense while Marge tied the magic apron around his waist. Then, we gathered in a circle around his feet, hands joined in a moment of communal silence. Finally, Reginald said the magic words ("Barbecue Powers, Activate!"), and Chuck came to life, ready for a barbecue frenzy. Meat was flying, gristle whizzing over our heads, as Chuck disappeared into a maelstrom of chicken, fish, and Real Smoke Flavor, providing us this day our daily shish-kabob. |  |
Predictably, the meal and the company were delicious. After watching Lisa and Kurt open their birthday gifts, we shared in a wonderful cake Marge had baked for the occasion. Then, there was an audible "pop" as the buttons on pants all around the table were unfastened in unison. Now, that's a good meal! When the meal's over, though you have to do the dishes. Fortunately, the Bohner Precision Dishwashing Drill Team was in full effect, as you can see below. Check out the grace, the elan, the esprit d'corp! |
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See you next time on the Odyssey!
Total Miles for 7/19 = 0