Mr. Housewife has discovered a new show.
The Deadliest Catch, on Discovery channel.
It is compelling.
It reminds me of home.
Yes, it's set in Alaska, but close enough.
It reminded me of why I'm different from people raised in Utah--
and not just the weirdo religious stuff.
I have this in my genes.
This toughness, this ruggedness, hard work.
Oh, I've gotten soft, but I feel it there.
The power of the ocean has always been something I've had a confusing relationship with.
I am afraid of so little--snakes, getting fat--and I love the ocean so much, but...
I feel its harsh strength, its uncaring, unknowing power.
It is vast and unsympathetic.
When I'm on the ocean, on a small craft, I can easily get freaked out thinking about the sharks and whales and octopi (sp?).
Not to mention the waves and the wind, working together, an unwitting duo.
I imagined, the other night, grabbing the front of a shirt while kneeling in a lap,
pulling a mouth to mine.
It has been cold here.
I have things to do.
Must go to school tomorrow, and turn in a photographer request for my show on Friday.
Must register little ones for a couple of weeks of half-day day camp stuff.
Must not forget to...shit. I forgot already.
Ain't that just a pissah?
I am hungry.
But not for food.
I am in love with the captain of the crab boat Rollo.
Eric, is his name.
Not sure what he's doing on a boat.
But maybe I can volunteer to be the ship's cook.
Such an ugly word, "slut."
Unless whispered with urgency and proper accompanying adjectives,
on the downstroke.