That’s it. I’m jumping.

Do these sandals make my feet look fat?

I kid. I’m jumping, but it’s only two feet of water, off the dock outside our island get-away, our nowaternoelectricitynofooling idyll of the last 10 days. At the end of today, we are loading a moving van, and then tomorrow meeting a nice man named Jeff to get the keys to our (for now) permanent dwelling place, which has a flush toilet and everything.

To be honest, I don’t know what to think. I do know that I’m tired of trying to figure out what unguent (sorry, Korky, that’s what we call them in my country) goes in which bag. I know my sandals — my favorite brown flip-flops — officially smell like fish and probably always will. And I’m out of clean underwear, so we might as well come back to civilization if for no other reason than to wash my drawers.

So. I’m off the grid for a few more days and then we’ll all meet up and get things back to normal, a bit. Well, not “normal,” as I wouldn’t know normal if it nibbled on my leg, but as near-to normal as we’re ever going to get.

Meanwhile? As always, talk about yourselves.

She has a tummy!

The woman on page 194 of a recent “Glamour” magazine has a belly — she’s normal, in other words — and we can’t stop talking about her.

More here. And here. What does it say about the state of our shapes when we go ga-ga over a woman with a teeny bit of meat on her?

The truth about Canada’s health care system

It isn’t perfect, but it’s something Canadians say they wouldn’t trade for U.S. health care.

More here.

And thanks, Truthout, for the link.

What can we learn from Phillip Garrido?

Jac asked, and I’ve been thinking about this myself.

This, from Hortense at Jezebel, contains a telling statement:

Sometimes, I suppose, we’d all rather live near strangers than know the truth about what’s really going on next door.

In the wake of the horror in the Garrido’s backyard, what do you know about your neighbors? Until we sold the house in July, we had the same address for 16 years and though we made overtures all around, the house to the north of us was a mystery.

I knew there were three lovely daughters. I knew there was a timid mother. And I knew I didn’t much like the father, who would walk his two (aggressive) dogs up and down the street for hours. I also knew he was sick, but we only found out he died because my husband happened to be looking out a window and saw paramedics removing a body bag.

We tried, I promise, but in subtle and unsubtle ways, the mother let us know that she didn’t much want us in her lives, or so I thought. It was heartbreaking, and only when we were moving did we have much time with the mother and one of the daughters. And she thanked us for being so friendly.

We move to a new house tomorrow, after a month’s idyl on a lake not far from our old house. The funny thing is, I consider myself outgoing, but my husband had made friends while I’ve just kind of walked by waving. I’m short-term. I know I’m short-term. And I’m not putting out much effort.

Sad, I guess. Not very living -in-the-moment of me. I don’t intend to be the belle of my new street, but I do intend to know who is next door.

About that “routine” traffic stop…

…police say there’s no such thing.

Timothy McVeigh, Ted Bundy, David “Son of Sam” Berkowitz, and 9/11 ring-leader Mohammed Atta all were snagged for ”routine” traffic violations.

Four years later…

Some people are still waiting for a recovery.

500 days of Sanford

More on Gov. Mark Sanford, here. Yes, it’s ugly.

Hurricane Danny is coming! Look busy!

Subtitled: Be Careful What You Wish For

When we moved onto an island in the middle of a lake in eastern Connecticut last week, I said I hoped we’d get to ride out at least one big storm before we leave this coming Monday.

Tough to say if that’s going to happen, but Hurricane Danny might at least dump water on us tonight and tomorrow.

Whee! And since any trip to the island involves a kayak paddle, I just may have to find things to do in my one-room shanty.

O.K. It’s not really a shanty. Here’s a photo:

It’s more like a pleasant-enough motel room, minus running water and electricity. You can see our propane burners, and the wine we probably won’t drink — unless we really are trapped and then how else do we kill time – and assorted pots and pans I’ll never use, no matter how long we’re marooned.

I have a stack of books, some magazines I want to read, a pleasant companion, and a vivid imagination. I’ll stop off at the store on the way home and fill a bag with empty calories and snack myself into a bleary-eyed frenzy. I suppose if I was going to stick to the back-to-nature theme, I’d chew tree bark.

I can’t promise that won’t happen, if the storm goes long.

In whatever shape Saturday leaves us, Sunday is supposed to be relatively clear, so I repeat: Don’t you worry about me.

In answer to your questions:

Yes, I was on the Information Superhighway last night, but not from my island retreat. I borrowed a friend’s house (and wireless connection). Such won’t be the case this weekend, so, as always, talk among yourselves.

No, I have not suffered yet another bout of poison ivy, which leads me to believe the small vine I saw on the island is wimpy as I am ulta-allergic and should have been quite ill by now.

No, I am not afraid at night. From an earlier post (not that you need to be keeping up), I am obviously spoiling for a bar fight and fully capable of taking care of myself. Earlier this week when fishermen chatting out in their boats woke me up, I sprang to my feet ready to scare them away (my pleasant companion was away at work). However, they weren’t on the not-shanty’s deck — as I’d originally thought — so I didn’t bark at them. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: As a small girl, I spent multiple hours in church hearing vivid descriptions about the flames of hell licking the skin off my bones. This early training has rendered me fairly fearless in my near-dotage.

Yes, I do sleep like a baby (minus filling my pants) so long as the geriatric cat doesn’t take a notion to leap onto the bed. 

And no, I don’t mind that this kind of escape isn’t for every one. Nor do I mind if you are jealous of it. In fact, I alternate between loving this brief idyll and wishing it was over, myself.

I just fielded a call from my pleasant companion who has suggested we hightail it off the island and spend the weekend in one of our state’s behemoth casinos. Our respective legal teams will, most likely, hash this out by the time I reach my kayak.

I’m kidding about the legal teams. Until we meet again: Ta-ta.

God don’t like ugly

Not sure how God would feel about convicted sex offender (and accused kidnapper/sex offender) Phillip Garrido’s blog.

More on Garrido, and the charges he faces, here.

I don’t know…

…if you pray, if you send energy to someone, whatever your reaction to bad news that strikes someone you don’t know, do whatever you do for Jaycee Lee Dugard and her two children.

They now start the long and painful process of coming home.