Girl on the Brink: Surviving Desperate Times with Desperate Measures

All my friend needed to say when I asked him what I should bring for Antigua Sailing Week was not to look like a “rube.” Horrified that I would come off as a yokel, I immediately headed over to Overstock.com to stock up on the appropriate apparel, which included a good deck shoe, duffel bag (since I’ll be getting a bunk, but it’s on a Far 65!), computer tote (wouldn’t want to bring my leather one), water shoes, and I threw in a girly red-and-white striped sailor’s top tee for $19.00. Dent: $157.99.

How could I not. I’ve already got sunglasses, and I’m going to get me a Girl on the Brink hat, though I’ll be attending under my real name. Maybe I’ll revise the logo to say Girl on the Drink. I hear the rum is inhalable. If you missed Ahoy! Antigua, the original entry to this prime-time fantasy, escapism trip, coming up on April 23, where I’ll be blogging live for my pleasure, it’s always in the Archive for yours. One more thing, I could use a good naught…, er, knot book.

After I picked up my son from school this afternoon, I went back out, to Hudson Trail Outfitters, to look for a thingymajigger to hold my sunglasses in place. The last thing I need is for them to go flying off my face (they’re prescription), leaving me half blind, not to mention that squinting in the bright sun would accelerate the crow’s feet after my Botox injection to get rid of them.

On the same rack, I found this viser cap that also had a pouch to hold my sunglasses. A bit pricey at $15.95, but it was an impulse buy—forgive me. I support patent pendings. Former impulse buys were a trip to Saks for a Chanterelle bra, wait…that’s the mushroom. I mean Chantelle bra. Now those are expensive, but the guys love ‘em. Cleavage.

Another friend suggested some topics to write about, which I’m always thankful for because I’m never sure whether to focus on a fantasy—the perils and pleasures of finding a man—or a serious piece, such as examining how the federal bailout is affecting the lives of the rich. But I suspect that the skippers on their bazillion-dollar boats will throw back the F. Scott Fitzgerald line that the rich are different. When I’m boarded, I’ll let you know.