---

IN THIS ISSUE

• Geoff Goodship expounds on the subject of seasickness
• Don Henderson describes a new series in the popular Survivor program
• Marilyn Magid tells of a disillusioning shopping experience
• Kate Brookfield forwards a fairy tale with a happy ending
• Gerrit de Leeuw sends some advice for retired husbands
• Barbara Wear, Betty Audet, Jay, and Tom Telfer suggest websites

Geoff Goodship finished painting his house in time to describe a malady that most of us have suffered from at one time or another:

SEASICKNESS

Been there ... done that. It´s one of the side benefits of a recent sailing adventure. It was not my first and probably won´t be my last. It´s fairly predictable, miserable, but not long lasting, and in my case, not fatal - so far.

There´s quite a collection of folklore on the topic. Admiral Nelson, the 19th-century British hero of Trafalgar, suggested his own fool- proof remedy: "You´ll feel better if you sit under a tree." He was right, of course, even if it did reveal his wretched sense of humour. In the almost 200 years since Nelson met his Waterloo, modern medicine hasn´t been able to improve on his tree remedy, but they´re still working on it. There´s a plethora of chemical solutions that manufacturers claim to be effective 90 percent of the time. In the small print they read, "Take 24-36 hours ahead of time." It must be like taking a morning-after pill 24-36 hours ahead of time. You never know when you might need it.

The first time I was seasick while sailing was off the north-west coast of Vancouver Island. As you turn west from the inside passage at the tip of the Island, there is a shallow area shown on the nautical charts. It´s called the Nawitti Bar. This 20-fathom depth causes the long rollers coming in from Japan to become confused and ugly before they crash on the beach.

I´ve never had trouble with waves which have a long swell. It doesn´t bother me to rise and fall 15-20 feet so long as the movement is somewhat regular. I don´t mind when the boat heels 30 degrees and water comes over the bow and the rail. However, when the sea comes up and slaps me around as if I were in a commercial washer, I can find no comfort zone. I feel like a piece of meat being tenderized. It´s the irregular motion that gets to me.

I was seasick again on our recent trip. On the east side of Quadra Island lies Drew Harbor, as peaceful and sheltered an anchorage as any sailor could ask for. Even though a strong wind can make the shrouds whistle, the long arm of Rebecca Spit shelters small boats from anything but a one-foot chop. On the morning we left Drew Harbour, all the sailboats hanging at anchor had turned like weather vanes to line up in the 30-knot wind.

Once we got out into Sutil Channel, we had no choice but to stick our bow directly into the wind and waves. There must be a straight line extending at least 100 miles with nothing to slow the speed and height of those waves. Even though our anchor chain locker was closed and sealed, it leaked, partly filling the chain locker and fouling the winch and its electrical controller. I had the best seat on the boat, which is at the wheel, but the thrashing we took soon got to me. For a minute or two I wondered if I could outlast it. One chuck over the stern convinced me I couldn´t manage to stay upright for the next four hours of pounding. Turning over the wheel, I headed for my bunk.

My solution is to get horizontal, close my eyes, brace myself against a bulkhead, and try to visualize Lord Nelson´s tree. It works, but for some strange reason, not until the boat stops tossing around like a cork.

Don Henderson forwards the harrowing details of

THE NEXT SURVIVOR SERIES

Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and three kids each for six weeks. Each kid will play two sports and either take music or dance classes. There is no fast food.

Each man must take care of his three kids, keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of "pretend" bills with not enough money. In addition, each man will have to budget money for groceries each week.

Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives, and send cards out on time.

Each man must also take each child to a doctor´s appointment, a dentist appointment, and a haircut appointment. He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the emergency ward (weekend, evening, on a holiday, or right when they´re about to leave for vacation). He must also make cookies or cupcakes for a social function.

Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside, and keeping it presentable at all times.

The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done.

Each father will be required to know all of the words to every stupid song that comes on TV and the name of each and every character on cartoons. Each man will have to make an Indian hut model with six toothpicks, a tortilla, and one marker; and get a four-year-old to eat a serving of peas.

Each man must adorn himself with jewelry, wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes, keep his nails polished and eyebrows groomed. The men must try to get through each day without snot, spit-up, or barf on their clothing.

During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties. They must try to explain what a tampon is for when the six-year-old boy finds it in the purse.

They must attend weekly school meetings, church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting. He will need to read a book to the children each night without falling asleep, and then feed them, dress them, brush their teeth and comb their hair each morning by 7:00. They must leave the home with no food on their face or clothes.

A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information: each child´s birthday, height, weight, shoe size, clothes size, and doctor´s name. Also the child´s weight at birth, length, time of birth, and length of labour, each child´s favourite colour, middle name, favourite snack, favourite song, favourite drink, favourite toy, biggest fear, and what they want to be when they grow up.

They must clean up after their sick child at 2:00 a.m. And then spend the remainder of the day tending to that child and waiting on him hand and foot until he is better.

They must have a loving, age-appropriate reply to, "You´re not the boss of me."

The kids vote them off the island based on performance. The last man wins only if he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment´s notice.

EDITOR´S NOTE: This is a program I would not mind watching!

Marilyn Magid sends this account of an experience most mature women go through:

SHOPPING FOR A NEW BATHING SUIT

When I was a child in the 1950s, the bathing suit for the mature figure was boned, trussed and reinforced: not so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift and they did a good job.

Today´s stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure carved from a potatochip.

The mature woman has a choice - she can either go up front to the maternity department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming away looking like a hippopotamus that escaped from Disney´s Fantasia, or she can wander around every run-of-the-mill department store trying to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of florescent rubber bands.

What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice, and entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room.

The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material. The Lycraused in bathing costumes was developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot,which give the added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protectedfrom shark attacks, as any shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer whiplash. I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror - my boobs had disappeared!

Eventually, I found one boob cowering under my left armpit. It took a while to find the other. At last I located it flattened beside my seventh rib. The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman is meant to wear her boobs spread across her chest like a speed bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to take a full view assessment.

The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fit those bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously from top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump of play dough wearing undersized cling wrap.

As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the prepubescent sales girl poppedher head through the curtain. "Oh, there you are," she said, admiring the bathing suit.

I replied that I wasn´t so sure and asked what else she had to show me. I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking tape, and a floral two-piece which gave the appearance of an oversized napkin in a serving ring.

I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frills and came out looking like Tarzan´s Jane, pregnant with triplets and having a rough day.

I tried on a black number with a midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning.

I tried on a bright pink pair with such a high cut leg I thought I would have to wax my eyebrows towear them.

Finally, I found a suit that fit ... a two-piece affair with a shorts style bottom and a looseblouse-type top.

It was cheap, comfortable, and bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a successfuloutcome, I figured. When I got home, I found a label which read - "Material may become transparent in water."

So, if you happen to be on the beach or near any other body of water this year and I´m there too ...I´ll be the one in cut off jeans and a t-shirt!

Kate Brookfield took time from her busy visit to Canada to send this

FAIRY TALE

A married couple in their early 60s was celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary in a quiet, romantic little restaurant.

Suddenly, a tiny yet beautiful fairy appeared on their table. She said, "For being such an exemplary married couple and for being loving to each other for all this time, I will grant you each a wish."

The wife answered, "Oh, I want to travel around the world with my darling husband."

The fairy waved her magic wand and - poof! - two tickets for the Queen Mary II appeared in her hands.

The husband thought for a moment: "Well, this is all very romantic, but an opportunity like this will never come again. I´m sorry, my love, but my wish is to have a wife 30 years younger than me."

The wife and the fairy were deeply disappointed, but a wish is a wish.

So the fairy waved her magic wand and poof! ... the husband became 92 years old.

The moral of this story: Men who are ungrateful bastards should remember fairies are female....

In order to help those husbands who may have encountered some problems at home after they have retired, we republish this article sent by Gerrit de Leeuw:

MATRIMONIAL ADVICE FROM A CONSIDERATE HUSBAND

It is important for men to remember that as women grow older, it becomes harder for them to maintain the same quality of housekeeping as when they were younger. When you notice this, try not to yell at them. Some are oversensitive, and there´s nothing worse than an oversensitive woman.

My name is Jeff. Let me relate how I handled the situation with my wife, Susie.

Since I retired several years ago, it has become necessary for Susie to get a full-time job along with her part-time job, both for extra income and for the health benefits that we needed.

Shortly after she started working, I noticed she was beginning to show her age. I usually get home from the golf club about the same time she gets home from work.

Although she knows how hungry I am, she almost always says she has to rest for half an hour or so before she starts dinner. I don´t yell at her. Instead, I tell her to take her time and just wake me when she gets dinner on the table. I generally have lunch in the men´s grill at the club so eating out is not reasonable. I´m ready for some home- cooked grub when I hit that door.

She used to do the dishes as soon as we finished eating, but now it´s not unusual for them to sit on the table for several hours after dinner. I do what I can by diplomatically reminding her several times each evening that they won´t clean themselves. I know she really appreciates this, as it does seem to motivate her to get them done before she goes to bed.

Another symptom of aging is complaining, I think. For example, she will say that it is difficult for her to find time to pay the monthly bills during her lunch hour. But, boys, we take ´em for better or worse, so I just smile and offer encouragement. I tell her to stretch it out over two, or even three days. That way she won´t have to rush so much. I also remind her that missing lunch completely now and then wouldn´t hurt her any (if you know what I mean). I like to think tact is one of my strong points.

When doing simple jobs, she seems to think she needs more rest periods. She had to take a break when she was only half finished mowing the yard. I try not to make a scene. I´m a fair man. I tell her to fix herself a nice, big, cold glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and just sit for a while. And as long as she is making one for herself, she may as well make one for me too.

I know that I probably look like a saint in the way I support Susie. I´m not saying that showing this much consideration is easy. Many men will find it difficult. Some will find it impossible! Nobody knows better than I do how frustrating women get as they get older.

However, guys, even if you just use a little more tact and less criticism of your aging wife because of this article, I will consider that writing it was well worthwhile. After all, we are put on this earth to help each other.

Sincerely, Jeff

EDITOR´S NOTE:

Jeff died suddenly on March 1 of a perforated rectum. The police report says he was found with a Calloway extra-long 50-inch Big Bertha driver II golf club jammed up his rear end, with barely five inches of grip showing and a sledge hammer lying nearby.

His wife Susie was arrested and charged with murder. The all-woman jury took only 15 minutes to find her not guilty, accepting her defence that Jeff somehow, without looking, accidentally sat down on his golf club.

SUGGESTED WEBSITES

Barbara Wear forwarded this story from The Salem News which brought back memories to the editor, another child of the Great Depression:

http://arunaurl.com/2gdl

Betty Audet picked up this site when visiting the Welland, Ontario, Seniors´ Centre:

http://www.pctools.com/free-antivirus/

After I shared with Jay a letter from Nigeria about a huge prize I had won in a contest I had not entered, he did some research. He found this on the RCMP site:

http://www.rcmp.gc.ca//scams/canadian_practical_guide_e.htm

and these two after a google search:

http://arunaurl.com/2gia

http://www.hotscams.com/articles/838/1/Lottery-Scam-US1million-Ecowas-Donations/Page1.html

Tom Telfer sends a site that lists sources for free music downloads:

http://mashable.com/2008/06/30/free-legal-music-sites/

This newsletter may be read online at http://members.shaw.ca/ vjsansum/ and

http://www.scn.org/seniors/stories.html

"Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward." - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.