Call Me Ishmael

Ishmael knew it was time to hightail it back to sea when it was damp, drizzly November in his soul. For me, it was when I realized that I knew, without checking the Comcast guide, that the Lifetime network was channel 48 on my cable system, and also that I was highly anticipating the next episode of Army Wives. I’m no Melville, but I know a sign when I see one.

Thus, I am now writing from some of my favorite literary outposts: first a window seat on a US-Air flight bound for St. Thomas, and now, Captain Celia’s home in Cruz Bay on St. John.

This weekend, I’ll be sailing in the St. Maarten’s International Women’s Keelboat Regatta with Team Skinny Legs. In a few hours, I’ll head over to Coral Bay to meet up with the rest of the girls on the team who will, it’s a good bet, not quietly take to the ship. Sorry, Herman.
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One Resident, Two Resident, Three Resident, Four...

If you’re being treated at a teaching hospital, time spent in the hilarious world of cancer can be measured in residents. I’m up to five. One for Dr. R, one for the oncologist I decided not to go with (primarily because I spent more time with the resident than with the doctor) and three for Dr. X, who has a steady stream of what appear to be brainy teenagers dressing up as doctors for Halloween.

There was the kind, pretty woman, who got me in my clueless stage last winter, and gently broke the fertility news. There was the earnest, geeky kid who hovered around all during radiation treatment, my freaked-out period, and did his best to answer all my technical questions. Then there was the guy who had the misfortune to be in the office last Tuesday. I am rapidly recovering to my pissed-off, greatly inconvenienced stage, and am back to being annoyed by strangers feeling around my neck and chest, especially ones who not only think they know more about this cancer thing than I do, but also look like jailbait.

P.R. for Pirates

This is for those of you who insist on asking, "What's next?" Who knew this was a job?