If you judge people, you have no time to love them. ~Mother Theresa

"Isn't it a little ironic here?  We pick politicians by how they look on TV and Miss America on where she stands on the issues.  Isn't that a little backwards?"-- Jay Leno


Every little girl dreams at one point or another of being crowned queen or princess at a pageant.

Okay... I realize that statement isn't exactly true.

If I were writing a nationally syndicated column I would be hounded, with thousands upon thousands of nasty comments and hate mail. About how politically incorrect I am to group all little girls together and how outrageously demeaning pageants are to little girls

But thankfully I'm not.

I'm just my tiny little rant in my corner of the world, and that sentence, though littered with fallacy and assumptions, sounded like a good way to start today's post.

Besides you should all just be happy that this isn't another story about my dog.

So back to where I started.... as a child I dreamt of being in my small town's Exhibition pageant just like my sister.

( I never was, Exhibition week seemed to always fall conveniently on the same week I went to visit my aunts in another town. Kudos to my mother for pulling that one over on me three years in a row)

I watched on the edge of my seat as Darva Conger was crowned to marry a millionaire when I was seventeen.

(Who knew that show could cause so much controversy, yet ten years later the Bachelor/Bachelorette shows are beloved prime time must-sees.)

And if I had cable TV I can say with absolute certainty I would be addicted to the "Little Miss Perfect" shows.

(No matter how much they make my stomach turn, I have to admit it is about 50% curiosity, 48% disdain, and 2% jealousy that keeps my from looking away.)

So when asked to be a judge for the First Annual "Real Lobsterman of Shelburne County" pageant, I could hardly resist.

Six men would compete to prove worthy of the title and all I had to do was sit and watch and pick which one I liked best.

Sounds easy right?

Yes, I could sit down in the darkened audience and watch these men do all the hard work, then maybe hold up a little card that said my score on it for each one.

Should I mention I'm not actually the competitive type so I was planning on giving them all a 9.5 anyway?

The pageant started a 7pm... like a diligent judge I was having some pre-pageant coffee (to stay alert just in case I felt the need to vary the scores or anything) and getting ready to show up by about 6:45.

This is where my preconceived notions of the night started to go a little hairy.

I got a call from my sister asking me to be there by 6pm to go over the judging rules.

Oooppss... I could tell right then that one of those rules would be "Please don't be apathetic about this and just give them all the same scores, leaving the other judges to do all the work"

So I show up an hour early, still thinking this would be a fairly laid back evening on my part. What could be so hard about actually deciding who deserves the 7 and who deserves a 10?

As I walk towards the stage, and notice all the people running around doing what looked like official setting up things, I realized that maybe this was going to be a little more involved than previously expected.

Then as I neared the stage I realized that the table ON the stage had three seats for the judges.

So much for sitting with the audience, was my first thought.

Glad I brushed my hair, was my second.

As it turns out the judges were also a part of the show.

As a diligent supporter of community events, I didn't complain.

Well, not until was informed I had to write a bio on my self to be introduced.

Then I wined a little.

You may think that because I write these things that make people chuckle I'm actually quite witty.

Au Contraire Mon Frére. Not in the least. At least not on demand. I'm not so great at writing under pressure.

I read the bios for the other judges for some inspiration. But all that did was intimidate me.

Little did I know that finding a way to describe myself in six short entertaining sentences was actually the easiest duty I would have for a night.

I then had to come up with my own questions to ask the contestants!

About lobstering!!

All I know about lobstering is how much it hurts to get pinched and that I get a little nauseous before sunrise.

This is when I started flat out complaining that my sister hadn't prepared me for anything. She looked a little horrified as she tried to assure me that she had no idea I would have to do public speaking.

I think she thought I was going to quit or something.

Sometimes I just like to whine. It helps with my creative process.

And so there I sat, through the Opening Ceremonies, with my "I'm paying attention and fully enjoying this" face. Thinking about how similar being a bridesmaid and a pageant judge really are.

First you think it's an honour, then you realize there is real work involved, and to top it all off you have to get up in front of everyone and behave yourself so as not to steel the spotlight from what they actually came to see.

As the pageant starts they call the men up to the stage.

I look at line of six strong, macho, fisherman walking to their own rhythm of "How the hell did we get talked into this?" and I start to feel a little less sorry for myself and a little more proud of them.

Then the judging officially starts and I have no time to actually think of anything else.

They modeled their outfits, answered their questions, and their hands flew as they completed their rope coiling, splicing and lobster banding tasks.

There were points to be given out for creativity and originality. Not to mention I gave out extra points just for them being entertaining.

But I kept having to adjust scores, because I would give one guy a 45 out of 50, then the next guy would be way better.. so I'd have to down grade the 45 to a 42 to be able to give the next one a 48.... it was a complicated system I had going. I'm not sure if it would pass a pageantry review board.

Nothing was scored out of ten. I felt a little bit like I was being given a public math exam.

We had three stop watches, but not a calculator in sight.

By the end of the night, my score sheet looked like this.

My fellow judges and I tallied everything up individually. Then we added all of our scores together, only to find that out of a possible 450 points, two guys had the exact same score.

We couldn't have done that if we had tried.

So we went back for a tie-breaker. A Band-0ff. Ten lobsters each, first one done takes the grad prize.

It was a nail biter to the end. But finally we crowned ourselves a "Real Lobsterman of Shelburne County", and two "Men in Waiting".

And despite all my complaints I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I hope to be asked back next year (hint hint Suzy).

I will be prepared with my caculator, and my white-out.

A New Office Experience

Enjoy when you can, and endure when you must.  ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I was having some trouble thinking of a blog post for this week.

Mainly because I wanted to be able to write something other than "Today I had a bad day and hurt myself"

Unfortunately when I look back on this week, the only thing I seem to have accomplished is acquiring a new bruise each day.

And I refuse to make an entire blog about how klutzy I am (although I'm fairly certain I would never run out of content if I did).

So instead I'm going to give you a little break from your regularly scheduled work day to try and imagine what it's lifework as a bander on a lobster boat for the day.


It's very easy to simulate, and then you will know exactly how I feel one week a year.

Since your not really doing any thing productive at the moment (come on, you're reading my blog.. I know you have more important things to do) you can start right now.

First, find your heat source to your office, and shut it off.

Spin in your chair till slightly nauseous.

Know that if you are going to throw up, your only choice is your own work space. Getting up to go throw up in an appropriate place, will only put you life in danger.

(Noah saved me my first year by pretty much picking me up as I was leaning over the side and putting me back in my safe little "zone" where traps would not knock me over as they flew off the boat.)

Now splash a little salt water on you face.

Repeat.

Now remove two screws from the bottom of your office chair to simulate rouge waves.

Throw some more salt water on your face.

(It's actually surprisingly refreshing the first time, plus the salt water gives you that sexy beach hair -you just can't see it under your fish gutsy toque hair.)

In fact, ask a co-worker to just randomly throw water at you during the day, no rhyme or reason.

Also ask them to attack you with a stapler if you get tired. (That is the worst part, just when you think you've got the hang of things a lobster nabs you with their little bastard claws)

Now that you're in the spirit of things, time to get to work.

Pick a random mundane tedious job, make sure it involves contorting your body in some way.

Lets say you choose to pick the staples out of paper.

Place the stapled sheets on the left side of your chair... twist towards them, pick them out, place in basket on right side of chair... repeat.

As fast as possible.

Ask that helpful co-worker to keep throwing more stapled sheets on top of your pile. (He's not really doing anything that important either.)

The proper ratio is 2 to 3 sheets in for every one sheet out, just enough to make you feel like it is all helpless and it will never stop.

Keep going for about 12 hours or so.

(See previous blog about lobstering if you feel like you need a bathroom break…)

Now at the end of your day, just when you feel like you are about to pass out from exhaustion, take all of the un-stapled papers, and start filing them away.

As fast as possible.

You can't go home until they are all filed.

File them into 100 pound boxes, then drag them around for awhile.

Once you get the hang of how things are going, turn the lights off and continue in the dark. (Be sure to get your co-worker to attack you a few more times with the stapler, as this is extremely helpful at keeping you awake.)

Now go home, and go to bed for four hours, and get back up and do it all again.

If you can keep this up for a week straight, you will receive amazing benefits, toned arms from all the lifting, sore hands an aching back and best of all a new found appreciation for your actual job.

Thinking about thoughts on a boat.

Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again? ~Winnie the Pooh

Remember how I said I wouldn't have a post about lobstering? Well I lied.

This is not a real blog entry anyway... this is simply a compilation of things that went through my head in the past week while banding lobsters....

You'd be surprised at how much can go through your head during a 15 hour work day.

You'd also be surprised at how much of that is absolutely meaningless.

The top twenty things I think most often, in no particular order.

1. ugghhh....I have to pee

2. I don 't think I can feel my fingers.... oh wait, there's a crusher claw, yes yes I can feel them....

3. "Fish heads, fish heads, rolly polly fish heads"

4. What time is it?

5. Is it daylight?

6. Dammit where's the horizon?

(For anyone who has never experienced seasickness, I'm not just hoping to find the spot where the sea and sky meet because it looks pretty... I'm trying to keep my lunch down)

77. How many more hours till I can pee?

(My toilet on the boat is a bucket.

That fact alone is enough to make me not want to use it.

Add to that the amount of work it takes to take off your gloves, scarf, hat, oil gear, ask your father for the bucket, not fall over while on the bucket, put everything back on, including snapping the stupid oil gear closed which my hands are normally to numb to do, then hand your bucket of pee back to your father like it's a perfectly normal thing to do so he can throw it over and walk back out on deck and pretend that no one knows why you were down forward for so long.

Plus all the unbanded lobsters that have collected while you were taking this stupid break. Needless to say, I try not to ever use the bathroom on the boat.

But since we are there from 4:30am to around 7:30 pm it is not something I can entirely avoid, I can only put it off as long as possible)

8. I wish the sun would come up so it would be warm.

9. Stupid sun is in my eyes.

10. Only 8 hours left!!! yea!!!!

(This one always makes me laugh, it is the most ridiculous thing to think in the world, but also completely genuine.

8 hours is an entire shift in most worlds, but in the double-license banders world, it is the last portion of your day, and something to celebrate)

11. "Fish heads, Fish heads, eat them up yum."

12. Why the hell don't I know any more words to the stupid fish heads song??

13. 4 more hours till I can pee.

14. Cheesies are the best invention ever.

15. Ha! got you you bastard.

(Much like slapping a mosquito before it bites you, it feels very triumphant to band a lobster that's being ornery and fighting for it's freedom. I know I'm 20 times bigger than they are, but it still feels good to outsmart them).

16. I'm going to count the strings to make this go faster.... one.... two...... three.... two?? or three?? five, it must be five by now... wtf??

17. I'm going to count the lobsters to see how many I band in a string.... one, two, threefourfivesix....sev-nope to small, seve-nope, seven, eight-nine-ten, nope V-notch,was I on nine? ten? thirteen? no twelve, no wait- what?? dammit.....

(I'm not really good at concentrating on counting. Generally because if you focus too much on counting you are bound to screw up and get your fingers caught in a claw.)

18. ow that hand hurts, I should switch to the left.

19 damit, my left hand hurts, I should switch to the right.

20. huh? isn't that funny, two hours ago I had to pee, and now I don't.

There is more that I think about.

~Life plans.

~How to achieve world peace.

~Lyrics to Jem and the Holograms.

~Other jobs I could do and if they would make me as much money as this one.

~How happy I was to have new boots.

~If it would be worth it to figure out how to use Kijiji and sell my new boots, so next year I can have the pleasure of buying new ones again.

~What really happened "The night the lights went out in Georgia".

~How the hell I managed to have a bag of croutons for lunch that had an expiration date of June 2009.

~If I really cared that the crusty bread bits I packed because I don' t like sandwiches were out of date, since they still tasted of garlicky goodness.

But in general, year after year, those twenty listed are thought over and over.

And with the exception of #14, probably won't be thought again until next year.

My New Tango Shoes

It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out; it's the grain of sand in your shoe.
Robert W. Service

Next week, I will be lobstering. There will be no post....

Sure I will have plenty of time, an average of 14 hours a day of nothing to do but think. I'm sure I could dream up many posts.

But seeing as my hands will be occupied banding thousands of lobsters, I will not have the time, nor the co-ordination to type them up.

Don't set your hearts on a post lobstering week wrap up either.

Banding is kind of like childbirth. You feel a little acid-refluxy nervous anticipation for it. You get through it. You enjoy the rewards after. Then you forget every detail so as to be able to someday go through it all again.

It's indescribable anyway.

In fact I tried to describe it this weekend to a sales man, and I'm pretty sure he thinks he was being punked.

He's probably still checking for hidden cameras in the display racks.

Last year my boots disintegrated off my feet on the second day.

So I had to spend the remaining 5 days in second rate non-insulated rubber boots.

Not only was I sad to no longer own a pair of size 13 hand-me down "Lego-Boots" but my feet were also cold.

So this year, I decided to sacrifice a day's pay to purchase my very own pair of good lobstering quality boots.

No more digging in the basement for a pair of matching rubber boots my father no longer wants...I am a grown up, I will buy my own pair.

I wanted a fancy comfy pair like my boyfriend has for work. No dice, they are $250+ and have to be ordered online.

So he takes me to Atlantic Workwear. The window display is camo gear, and orange stuff you see construction workers wear.

Inside there is a sign, promoting a percentage off hunting boots, big oil gear, safety hats, and black steel-toed police boots.

I fit right in in my leggings, 80's inspired t-shirt dress, and fur lined boots with decorative buckles.

Maybe that's why I didn't get waited on right away.

I pick out a big pair of clunky boots and flag down a store clerk.

When I ask to try some on he tells me they don't come in womens sizes.

He is obviously very flustered by the fact that he is waiting on the 150-pound-woman-with make-up-on, and not the 230-pound-man-with-arms-the-size-of-a-dumptrucks that he assumed would be buying something.

He quickly goes back to find the smallest pair that he has. I try on the men's size 9 I took off display.

It's too small.

Not in the normal sense, of my toes a scrunched up and I can't get my heel in. But in Lobsterbander terms, size 9 is a bit snug for me.

The look on his face was priceless when he comes back out with the 7 and I tell him no way.

I then start to explain to him why I need boots in the first place.

I say it will be cold... he helpfully informs me that they are insulated boots.

I re-explain cold as "Ill be standing still fro 12 hours on a boat, I need to fit three pairs of wool socks on"

He shows me the girlie rubber boots he still thinks I am looking for, something light weight and you can fit the fancy liners in side.

These are in fact the exact type of boots that I wore for five days last season, which brought me to the conclusion that it was worth it to spend more money on my very own pair of boots.

There is something about "12 hours of cold" that this man is not understanding.

As I explain to him that I need to be able to wiggle my toes inside my boots, mainly to keep warm, but also as a form entertainment between sets. (Wiggling your toes is as close to dancing as your body can pull off during the first week.)

When I tell him that I usually wear size 13, he starts looking at my boyfriend for some sign that I'm an escaped lunatic who just needs to be corralled into a corner so they can straight-jacket me and put me back in my cell.

I finally convince him to let me buy the size nines. (I asked for size tens and he said he didn't have any... I think he was lying, but I didn't bother to call him on it.)

I then drop the final bomb on him and tell him it doesn't matter since I'll only be wearing them for a week anyway.

I realize now that I failed to mention that I would be wearing them for one week out of the year, not one week my entire life.

I will continue to wear them after that, but most likely all they will be really useful for, is that one week. These boots should last me the rest of my life, one week at a time

I would have tried to clear that up, but he actually gave me a discount. It may have been because he felt sorry for me.

Or it may have been he was afraid I would freak out at the price and he would have to go through the whole "choosing a pair" process with me again.

In the end I have a brand new pair of Arctic, green, cushiony, insulated rubber boots. And I'm getting used to the fact that you can't fit a Ford Explorer in the space between my actual toe and the end of the boot.

You can probably still fit a good mid-size family sedan though, so I'm happy.

And as I brag about my new boots to anyone who will listen (or read), I realize that an expensive pair of new shoes makes me excited, no matter what they look like :)