Don't push it!

I've never been the brightest bulb in the box but I did discover two very important things a while ago. These things being, I now understand why boats are referred to as 'She, and that I have a big mouth.

My fiance Hans has been sailing all his life and knows all about boats. Unfortunately for him he hooked up with a complete novice and that would be me. After selling his last boat (a forty-two foot Passport) back in 2005 and swearing he would never buy another one, a couple of years ago we went and bought a Bob Johnson thirty-five foot Catamaran.

Along with two other friends we spent a full week sailing her from Boston down to Maryland and our little cat performed admirably. For a spell we had her sailing along at 9 knots and with sails aloft she absolutely purred as the crew shouted with delight. Hans was also able to sail her pretty close into the wind and we praised our girl non stop. You see, the research we'd done on this boat told us that we'd be lucky to do seven knots and that sailing close to the wind just wasn't going to happen.

We had a lot of rainy weather and one memorable night had us forty miles out at sea with 30 knot winds and 5 foot seas. I'm sure for a hardened sailor this would be nothing, but for someone who gets car sick five minutes into a trip it's a big deal and I was one with my bucket all night long! A couple of our stormy anchorages made for little sleep as we listened to the wind howl like the devil all night long but our anchor held firmly each time. We were all relieved when only one day over our estimated arrival time we sailed into our harbor and set foot on land. Hans felt that we'd really put this boat through the paces and he was very happy with her performance.

So let's fast forward to much nicer weather and a pleasant little sail. This time it was only me and Hans and we decided to spend a long weekend aboard our girl. After a typical day of admiring all the new baby ospreys who eagerly poke their beaks over their nests as you sail by, avoiding crab lines and fast boats, we arrived at St. Michaels. We enjoyed clear skies and hot temperatures, shopped in quaint little stores, and cooked steaks on our grill.

Now here's where it gets interesting. We had spent two nights at anchor and were preparing for a third when I noticed another boat coming in. I couldn't help but notice her as she sashayed in saying "Ooh la la, look at me! I am a beautiful French Catamaran and you will make room for me!" And that's when I opened my big mouth. I pointed her out to Hans all the while gushing over her beauty. Hans too admired her size, pretty round curves and youth, and I believe that's when our sturdy American girl began plotting her revenge. As I mentioned earlier, we've suffered through some very dicey conditions and our anchor has held firmly so why would we worry now.

It was three AM when I heard a voice quietly calling out to us from somewhere outside. Hans was up like a shot and I heard the voice tell him that we were drifting. Drifting! Hans moved the boat, re-anchored, and puzzled over how our anchor could have let loose. Then he told me it was the owner of French Catamaran who'd called out to us. When morning rolled around and we were a little more clear headed I expressed my concerns to Hans. We had to have hit that other boat because how would they have known we were drifting? Well, that's exactly what happened. The owner (who was the nicest man in the world) motored over in his dinghy and told us how he had been awakened by a big thump and came up top to find that our cat had used her swim ladder brackets to smack their little French girl right across the nose, leaving two holes right above her water line! He fended her off and as she smugly drifted away that's when he called out to us.

We've been careful ever since then to praise our cat and exclaim over her beauty every time we set foot on board. But after this very expensive trip (where as soon as one thing is fixed two other things break) we got out the big guns and made our threat. High maintenence is one thing (as long as you get something in return) but we've had it with this whole 'everything is about me and now I want botox plus a facelift' attitude and we can file for divorce from you anytime we want. It's called being put up for sale Miss Snotty Cat, and just see if your next owner gives you the spa treatments you've received from us!

Hey waiter, there's a tooth in my soup!

Wait a minute, that's not just any tooth!

No!

It's my temporary crown.

That was just put on YESTERDAY, for God's sake!!!

And so began the painful saga of a crappy weekend.

On Thursday I sat through a two and a half hour ordeal that involved the grinding of an upper back molar down to nothing, and having a crown placed.

I was thrilled that I was not scheduled to work at the inn on Friday night, nor at my office job on Saturday morning (three of us rotate the Saturday morning schedule), so that meant Hans and I could go out dancing all night on Friday and sleep in on Saturday.

Not!

Friday evening, we had no sooner started sharing a bowl of chicken gumbo when I realized there was something very hard in my soup. You guessed it, my temporary crown was indeed 'temporary"!

With tooth in hand, and heart in throat, I ran to the ladies room and realized very quickly that there was no way that tooth was going back in without help.

A quick call to the doctor's office resulted in an appointment for the next morning at eight AM.

It wasn't long before the pain started and by the time we got home I couldn't get to the Vicadan (wisdom tooth, different doctor) fast enough.

Just take a serrated knife and shove it through one of your teeth, saw back and forth for a few hours and you'll get an idea of what I was going through.

Two hours later I took another Vicadan (my prescription states, one pill every 4 to 6 hours) and had to have Hans call the emergency room as I was in severe pain and the doctor wasn't returning my midnight calls.

They told me NOT to take another pain pill but that I could take some Ibuprofen, which I immediately did and after awhile the pain subsided and I was able to get some sleep.

Hans was not a happy camper! I've had a couple of bad experiences with my dentist in the last couple of years and Hans wanted a piece of him. The dentist was lucky because it was his partner that was on call, and who took care of me the next morning, and not him.

It didn't take long for him to declare that a root canal was necessary and we were going to do it right now.

And he did.

I also had to go to work at the inn Saturday night so I went straight to bed when we got home so that I would be able to function and hopefully not drool all over my customers!

I now have to go to another city for some more work and then back to my dentist to finish up.

Are they going to charge me for the root canal?

Probably.

Should I have to pay for it since the only reason I needed it was because a poorly placed temporary fell out?

I don't think so.

Am I a big pushover?

Yes.

This same doctor once prescribed Penicillin for me and I'm allergic to it. The replacement antibiotic was Clindamyacin which was far too strong, and put me in the hospital for a week with C-diff. I also had a cap placed on a front tooth and during the procedure he must have gotten too close to my sinuses because my nose ran freely for about 3 days after he was done (and I mean like a hose!). All of this has happened since I started dating Hans so you can see why he's a little unhappy.


And the reason this doctor didn't return my midnight calls was because I called him from my cell phone earlier and that's the number he kept. I called from my land line later on, and since it was so late, and since he didn't recognize the number, he decided it was just someone looking for drugs and ignored me!


I told Hans that these so called Golden Years of our lives aren't so Golden.



I think they're pretty damned rusty!

I couldn't make this stuff up!

The other night at the inn, I had a chance to work with Terri. She's around my age and I know I'm going to enjoy working with her. Years ago she was the bar manager and she eventually left, but now she's back as a waitress.

We were sharing some war stories and after I told her about a dropped wedding cake that I had the misfortune of being involved with, she asked me if I remembered when 'The Mrs.' (our name for the owner) had a dog.

This was before my time so she filled me in.

Apparently, The Mrs. had a dog named Brandy and Brandy knew her place. Brandy never went into the dining room, she regally greeted the guests, and when it stormed or she was nervous she would hide in the cloak room.

But then Brandy had to be put to sleep and The Mrs. was heartbroken. Off to the pound she went and darned if they didn't have a dog named Brandy who needed a home.

Unfortunately this Brandy was a bit common and this Brandy didn't know her place. She spent far too much time jamming her nose into crotches and was routinely chased from the dining room. The inn has 75 guest rooms and back in the day, they were left open for the public to view. That practice stopped a few years ago when the public started stealing quilts off of the beds. But back then, Brandy had her choice of rooms and was often caught napping on one of them at any given time.

One day Terri was working in the bar and since there was very little business she told the bartender she was working with that they should go check out the banquet room. There was to be a wedding reception later in the day and it's always fun to see how it's been decorated.

They were walking through the breezeway when Brandy came galumphing down the stairs from the banquet room. As always, she was in a playful mood so she wrestled around with the bartender before she grew bored and went in search of more fun.

They checked out the decorations and when they returned to the bar, the bartender asked Terri why he had whipped cream all over his pants. That's strange, they agreed, where could that have come from.

Right about then, Terri heard a commotion and stuck her head out of the bar only to see Betty, the banquet manager (who is about 4 feet 10 inches tall) literally running down the hall with a wedding cake in her arms, and her face an awful shade of gray.

"Oh my God!" Betty was hysterical. "Oh my God!" she said over and over.

She shot through the bar and into the kitchen, with Terri and the bartender right on her heels.

The cake was deposited on a table and Betty cried, "Look at this cake! Just look at it!"

Everyone stared down at what had at one time, been a wedding cake.

Now however, most of the entire bottom layer was gone, obviously eaten and slobbered on by a very hungry Brandy.

"What am I going to do?" wailed Betty. "They'll all be arriving soon and, oh my God, what am I going to do?"

Every one jumped into action. The inn does have a bakery, but of course there were no spare wedding cakes laying around so someone ran to the grocery store and came back with a bunch of small cakes. The chef whipped up some frosting but they ran into a snag when they realized that the wedding cake's frosting was a funky, off white color. Drops of coffee were added to the frosting until a passable shade was obtained.

The little cakes were crammed into the vacant space that Brandy had created, frosting was slathered over it all, and since the inn has cake decorating tools, a new border was piped on.

They were extremely lucky that it was a relatively plain cake and didn't have a basket weave or some other intricate design on it's surface.

Back to the banquet room the newly repaired cake went and the bride never knew anything had happened.

I kid you not!

When the staff cut and served the cake, they just bypassed the 'Brandy' section and threw it out later.

Sadly, Brandy's days as the inn dog were numbered.

But how I wish that dog was still there.

I have to work a wedding this afternoon and if anything goes wrong I can't use the excuse, "The dog ate it."