Answer: Why would I want to spend 100,000 dollars a year to stick my hand up a horse's ass?
This concludes today's brutal moment of honesty with Linzoo.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Everything I ever thought about pirates was a lie.
I make my living working on a boat. I will literally write that on my tax forms this year. More specifically, I am a stewardess on a private yacht, and as such, I "maintain all aspects of the interior, and guest relations" on the boat. That entrance interview is really working for itself.
In these tough economic times, where people like you and Linzoo are scrambling to make a buck, its comforting to know that there are still billionaires out there with asses to be wiped. As someone who was on unemployment and food stamps before I got this job, I wipe those asses with a toothy grin.
The job is a good one - it offers solid pay, and you do get to travel, albeit minimally. At the moment, I'm writing this from the Atlantic City Trump Casino Marina - class. The only real bummer about the job is that most weekends, to the chagrin of my boyfriend, I am called away to work on 4 day boat trips. Up until yesterday, we had only been going to the Hamptons. (Rough gig, I know.) Yesterday we broke that trend by sailing to good ole' AC, as I mentioned.
Now. It is no secret that Linzoo gets famously motion sick. I could be in my Gram's station wagon for 5 minutes, going from her house to the local Pathmark, and I'll have my head between my knees. Kiddie rides, carnivals, car trips, airplanes - my kryptonite. I crumble in the face of passenger side travel. So you would think these boat trips would be nightmares for me, but I am happy to report that in all of our travels to Sag Harbor, I barely even felt the boat moving. The trip to Atlantic City, however...changed everything.
We set sail at around 4am; I was clearly snoozing. I awoke at approximately 5am, dreaming in my bed that we were on a bumper car. 14 foot swells in the waves, thanks to the oncoming hurricane. For the next 4 hours, I reached a level of physical illness I had never known before. I could barely move, was constantly sick to my stomach, and trying to keep myself from passing out by sitting in a cold shower with my clothes on. Livin' the fucking dream.
As fate would have it, one of the deckhands came to check on me, saw that I looked like a corpse and took care of me - brought me upstairs to the main Salon (yes, the boat has a main Salon), where I wouldn't feel the waves as intensely as they were in my cabin. He gave me Dramamine, and a motion sickness patch to wear behind my ear, some water, and let me sleep - which I did. Once we reached Atlantic City, my eyes opened. Other than being very dehydrated, very hungry, and cold, I wasn't sick - the boat had stopped moving! I wanted to run out and kiss the dock. Hell, I would have married the friggin dock had it meant never again feeling what I had felt on that trip to Atlantic City.
As I nourished myself back to health with Gatorade and french toast, my brain started to dissect all of this. I had heard terrible sea sickness stories before: one of the stewardesses who worked here prior to me literally puked for 4 days straight on a trip from Newport, RI to England. I have heard of people who want to jump off the boat, the sickness gets so bad and inescapable, but you never really understand yourself until you are sitting in a stall shower with your clothes on, praying for death to come. All of a sudden, it made me think of pirates, and of sailors in ye olden times. Now, I work on a luxury yacht; I finally fell asleep on what was probably a million dollar angel feather filled couch. I had motion sickness pills, and fresh water. I cannot wrap my head around the fact that sailors would have to contend with week, month, or year long journeys, probably got sicker than I did, and would have to sleep on like, barrels.
Pirates and sailors are a strong stock! Filling their lungs with the salty sea air, and majestically looking out onto the seas from the bow of the ship. Yeah, that's a liar liar pants on fire situation. They were probably covered in filth, had rotten food to eat, no fresh water, and no escape from the constant thrashing of their rickity wooden ships. Barf-o-rama.
Making this realization has changed my perception of sailing forever. In my mind, Jack Sparrow and Captain Hook are now eternally puking over the sides of their respective ships. Its so interesting, as you start to get older, you have new experiences, and you make these realizations. People love to cling to mystery - Santa, the Easter Bunny, the idea that Pocahontas didn't get raped by John Smith, and killed by smallpox once he dragged her to the new world. Linzoo loves a good mystery like anyone else, but I'm a really tough audience. I think we cling to stuff like that, because, lets be honest here, there is hardly any mystery left in the world today. Knowing, dissecting, getting to the bottom of things has become engrained in our culture. There is no privacy, and there are no secrets. Sometimes its refreshing to be entangled in a mystery, but only when its worthy of it.
Perfect example of the most unworthy mystery story of all time: The "lost" colonists of Roanoke Island.
What do they teach you in school about this? (*enter cloaked man, making creepy crawling motions with his hands, surrounded in fog*)
"There were a group of innocent settlers who built a colony in Roanoke Island, and one day someone came to the settlement and found nooooo traaace of themmm! The only sign of anything was a word, "Croatoan," that was carved on a treee! No one has ever found the meaning of this word, or who left it! Ooooo!" (*man disappears in a puff of smoke*)
What actually happened?
A bunch of people came to this "new land" that was previously settled by NATIVE AMERICANS. Its impossible to grow food there because its all sand, (I know, Linzoo has seen the stomping grounds with her own eyes) and they pissed off the Native Americans, which equals no food, and no assistance with the oncoming winter. Finally, when the adult settlers started looking at their babies like they were giant hot dogs, they went to John White, the leader of the settlement, and begged him to go back to England for food and supplies. He did go back to England, and didn't return to Roanoke Island for THREE YEARS. One he finally DID go back, surprise surprise, they were nowhere to be found! The end.
What the hell is the mystery? These people were obviously wiped out, have a nice day. And even if they just picked up and moved somewhere, John White couldn't turn over a few leaves, or walk a couple miles south to see what's up? How many times in your life have you seen a landmark of any kind get demolished, or moved, and something else put in its place? The turnover time can happen in a few weeks - hell, anything can happen in three years!
Maybe I'm just too cynical. Or hypocritical. I do believe in faeries, after all. But I do not believe in the "lost" colony of Roanoke Island. It happened, and the details were lost, but I think its pretty obvious what went down, and there is no real mystery to it at all. Its sad to lose the mystery of certain things, like jolly ole' pirates of yore, but that other shit has got to go. I hate fabricated mystery. Do yourselves a favor, and research the 1979 UFO sightings in Denville, NJ. THAT'S some fucking mysterious shit, worthy of the title.
As I always say, some of you may feel I'm wrong. Rest assured, I am always right: one brutal truth you can always count on.
In these tough economic times, where people like you and Linzoo are scrambling to make a buck, its comforting to know that there are still billionaires out there with asses to be wiped. As someone who was on unemployment and food stamps before I got this job, I wipe those asses with a toothy grin.
The job is a good one - it offers solid pay, and you do get to travel, albeit minimally. At the moment, I'm writing this from the Atlantic City Trump Casino Marina - class. The only real bummer about the job is that most weekends, to the chagrin of my boyfriend, I am called away to work on 4 day boat trips. Up until yesterday, we had only been going to the Hamptons. (Rough gig, I know.) Yesterday we broke that trend by sailing to good ole' AC, as I mentioned.
Now. It is no secret that Linzoo gets famously motion sick. I could be in my Gram's station wagon for 5 minutes, going from her house to the local Pathmark, and I'll have my head between my knees. Kiddie rides, carnivals, car trips, airplanes - my kryptonite. I crumble in the face of passenger side travel. So you would think these boat trips would be nightmares for me, but I am happy to report that in all of our travels to Sag Harbor, I barely even felt the boat moving. The trip to Atlantic City, however...changed everything.
We set sail at around 4am; I was clearly snoozing. I awoke at approximately 5am, dreaming in my bed that we were on a bumper car. 14 foot swells in the waves, thanks to the oncoming hurricane. For the next 4 hours, I reached a level of physical illness I had never known before. I could barely move, was constantly sick to my stomach, and trying to keep myself from passing out by sitting in a cold shower with my clothes on. Livin' the fucking dream.
As fate would have it, one of the deckhands came to check on me, saw that I looked like a corpse and took care of me - brought me upstairs to the main Salon (yes, the boat has a main Salon), where I wouldn't feel the waves as intensely as they were in my cabin. He gave me Dramamine, and a motion sickness patch to wear behind my ear, some water, and let me sleep - which I did. Once we reached Atlantic City, my eyes opened. Other than being very dehydrated, very hungry, and cold, I wasn't sick - the boat had stopped moving! I wanted to run out and kiss the dock. Hell, I would have married the friggin dock had it meant never again feeling what I had felt on that trip to Atlantic City.
As I nourished myself back to health with Gatorade and french toast, my brain started to dissect all of this. I had heard terrible sea sickness stories before: one of the stewardesses who worked here prior to me literally puked for 4 days straight on a trip from Newport, RI to England. I have heard of people who want to jump off the boat, the sickness gets so bad and inescapable, but you never really understand yourself until you are sitting in a stall shower with your clothes on, praying for death to come. All of a sudden, it made me think of pirates, and of sailors in ye olden times. Now, I work on a luxury yacht; I finally fell asleep on what was probably a million dollar angel feather filled couch. I had motion sickness pills, and fresh water. I cannot wrap my head around the fact that sailors would have to contend with week, month, or year long journeys, probably got sicker than I did, and would have to sleep on like, barrels.
Pirates and sailors are a strong stock! Filling their lungs with the salty sea air, and majestically looking out onto the seas from the bow of the ship. Yeah, that's a liar liar pants on fire situation. They were probably covered in filth, had rotten food to eat, no fresh water, and no escape from the constant thrashing of their rickity wooden ships. Barf-o-rama.
Making this realization has changed my perception of sailing forever. In my mind, Jack Sparrow and Captain Hook are now eternally puking over the sides of their respective ships. Its so interesting, as you start to get older, you have new experiences, and you make these realizations. People love to cling to mystery - Santa, the Easter Bunny, the idea that Pocahontas didn't get raped by John Smith, and killed by smallpox once he dragged her to the new world. Linzoo loves a good mystery like anyone else, but I'm a really tough audience. I think we cling to stuff like that, because, lets be honest here, there is hardly any mystery left in the world today. Knowing, dissecting, getting to the bottom of things has become engrained in our culture. There is no privacy, and there are no secrets. Sometimes its refreshing to be entangled in a mystery, but only when its worthy of it.
Perfect example of the most unworthy mystery story of all time: The "lost" colonists of Roanoke Island.
What do they teach you in school about this? (*enter cloaked man, making creepy crawling motions with his hands, surrounded in fog*)
"There were a group of innocent settlers who built a colony in Roanoke Island, and one day someone came to the settlement and found nooooo traaace of themmm! The only sign of anything was a word, "Croatoan," that was carved on a treee! No one has ever found the meaning of this word, or who left it! Ooooo!" (*man disappears in a puff of smoke*)
What actually happened?
A bunch of people came to this "new land" that was previously settled by NATIVE AMERICANS. Its impossible to grow food there because its all sand, (I know, Linzoo has seen the stomping grounds with her own eyes) and they pissed off the Native Americans, which equals no food, and no assistance with the oncoming winter. Finally, when the adult settlers started looking at their babies like they were giant hot dogs, they went to John White, the leader of the settlement, and begged him to go back to England for food and supplies. He did go back to England, and didn't return to Roanoke Island for THREE YEARS. One he finally DID go back, surprise surprise, they were nowhere to be found! The end.
What the hell is the mystery? These people were obviously wiped out, have a nice day. And even if they just picked up and moved somewhere, John White couldn't turn over a few leaves, or walk a couple miles south to see what's up? How many times in your life have you seen a landmark of any kind get demolished, or moved, and something else put in its place? The turnover time can happen in a few weeks - hell, anything can happen in three years!
Maybe I'm just too cynical. Or hypocritical. I do believe in faeries, after all. But I do not believe in the "lost" colony of Roanoke Island. It happened, and the details were lost, but I think its pretty obvious what went down, and there is no real mystery to it at all. Its sad to lose the mystery of certain things, like jolly ole' pirates of yore, but that other shit has got to go. I hate fabricated mystery. Do yourselves a favor, and research the 1979 UFO sightings in Denville, NJ. THAT'S some fucking mysterious shit, worthy of the title.
As I always say, some of you may feel I'm wrong. Rest assured, I am always right: one brutal truth you can always count on.
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