inTraining

My favorite Halloween costume is probably among the top 10 worn costumes of all time.

It was Halloween 1996. I was 18 and my friends were trying desperately to mend my recent broken heart at a Teen Night party at Caddy’s in downtown Cincinnati (greatest danceclub/bar/reception hall/illegal poker room EVER!).

Picture black and white soda shop-style tiled floor, mirrored walls, multi-colored disco balls and Quad City Dj’s “C’mon N´ Ride The Train” (whoo whoo) blaring in the background.

We were body against slimy body, squished tight, and gyrating with no real dance skill. Some of the other bodies wore costumes, but my friends and I were too cool.

A line began to form for the required train and I grudgingly allowed myself to be pulled into it, still working my full pout over being dumped by a boy.

Just then, Batman swooped in and saved me from the train line. He whisked me on to the dance floor and we shared our own private dance. I don’t remember our conversation (did anyone really converse at that age?), but I do remember he coaxed one of the first smiles out of me in weeks.

I rejoined my friends after several hours with the masked man. They were full of predictions about how hideous my Batman would look without his mask.

I didn’t care. I just remember the sparkling lights, the laughs, the feeling of being appreciated and desired.

Caddy’s was the sort of place that shut down suddenly before you were ready for its magic to go away. That night was no exception. One minute I was smiling into the eyes of a masked man, then next we were being shuffled toward the door.

As our respecting friends dragged us apart, my Batman pulled off his mask and gave me a sheepish grin.

It was the BOY. The one who had broken my heart.

Sneaky bastard.

I still have that costume…although, it doesn’t fit the boy (now man) any longer. But every now and then I make him don the mask ,-)

Sorry, I NEVER want to be a kid again. But I do like some of the memories…

Harvest Moon - October 6, 2006

All it takes to recapture my youth is to step into the moonlit night.

I recall sitting crossed-legged in the cool Kentucky Bluegrass on sultry summer evenings. Crickets chirped and cicadas buzzed as I would gaze up into the night sky mesmerized by the full moon.

Some of my happiest childhood memories involved crisp autumn nights when the sweet scent of the fireplace smoke mingled with the cinnamon from my mother’s candles and wreaths. The nights were not yet cold, but perfect for bundling up in a blanket and sitting on the porch swing with hot apple cider, sharing my day with the full harvest moon.

At some point, I realized that the moon knew me as a young girl but would also know me at my oldest. It would see me through my greatest moments and shine bright even when I couldn’t.

My current favorite moon shines against the backdrop of moored sailboats gently bobbing with the incoming ocean waves. My husband and I walk hand in hand at the shore break, and my friend lights our path as we make our way through the night…and through life.

I search for the moon nightly. It makes me feel young and powerful. It reminds me of my past, it calms me in my present, and it gives me hope about my future.

I do not operate with much sense period. To take one of my major, god-given, senses away, you better bring back-up.

However, since returning to school, the thought of losing my hearing shows some appeal.

Back in my Saved-By-the-Bell-era school days, we didn’t come to class toting a laptop. Nowadays? Every student squishes themselves and their mammoth laptops into shoulder-to-shoulder rows and SLAMS their fingers down on the keys.

Worse, some chicks have fingernails the size of talons and use the tips of their acrylic investment to type out their notes.

Tapety-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tapety-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Then there’s the open-mouth, cow-chewing, slap of these students eating their lunch. In class. The crunch of their Cheetos. In class. The smack and pop of their bubble gum. In class.

Smack, suck, crunch, pop. Smack, suck, crunch, pop.

You’d think the onslaught of tapping and farm-animal noise would distract enough of us to form our own little corner of silence. But, no.

Tapety-tap-tap-tap-tap. Smack, suck, crunch, pop. Tapety-tap-tap-tap-tap. Smack, suck, crunch, pop. Tapety-tap-tap-tap-tap. Smack, suck, crunch, pop. Tapety-tap-tap-tap-tap. Smack, suck, crunch, pop.

The professor, of course, is firing out questions at inhuman decibels. Hands are flying in the air knocking over papers and coffee mugs. The wannabe stand-up comedian is practicing his gig at the expense of the class within whispered earshot behind you. The girl next to you is asking you what page we’re on. The guy in front of you has YouTube up and thinks no one else can hear.

And all your mind registers is…I. Can’t. THINK!

You want to shove an ice pick in your ear and plunge into a world of silence!

Or find yourself a prescription for ADD.

Whatever it takes to make it stop.

Think I’d look funny walking around town with noise-canceling headphones over my ears all the time?

Awestruck

Children are expensive. Just ask my husband. From the time I first met him, he would shake his head and twirl his hair with a perplexed expression whenever the subject of children came into the conversation.

Much to my amusement, as soon as we were married, I received an intricate financial planning spreadsheet with an updated section for ‘CHILDREN’.

Ha! My hubby is sweet, really. But I blame him for jinxing us with childbearing problems by attempting to be {{gasp}} prepared for kids.

Needless to say, Fate has thrown a wrench into our life’s nicely organized financial spreadsheet. Not only will we need the ‘CHILDREN’ column, we’ll also need to pony-up the cash to create the child(ren).

We plan to adopt an older child and use a Surrogate for another. Both methods are extremely expensive. What most people take for granted, having sex (free), pregnancy test ($14), doctor’s visit ($25 copay), will most likely cost us six figures.

That’s before orthodontia, summer camp, and college funds.

Fun, huh?

That’s why we’re saving our Benjamins for babies (makes for an interesting mid-life crisis purchase)!

Oh well, who needs that Ferrari anyway?

Belgian Hot Chocolate and Honeydew Green Tea - Theobroma Chocolate, Chadstone Shopping Centre

Nestled among the cobblestone streets of ancient Old St. Augustine, you’ll find a back alley that catches your attention because it does not follow the structured grid of the more modern streets.

On the corner of that alley sits a building, hundreds of years old. Its coquina construction is three levels high and each floor displays two giant floor-to-ceiling skinny windows. On the first floor, the second window was, at one time, converted into the doorway to this magnificent structure.

The inside glows with polished wood floors and a winding stair case. The building itself smells of sea salt from the Atlantic Ocean, just a stone’s throw away.

The building, once someone’s home, now stands vacant. Waiting for a tenant whom its ghostly inhabitants approve.

If I had the disposable income (because surely ownership would be for pleasure and I’d never get the money back), I’d purchase this heavenly building, ghosts and all, and open a coffee house of sorts.

I’d furnish the outside porch with a cushioned porch swing, chairs and a sturdy table.

The first floor would occupy a long counter running the length of the building. On stage left, I’d operate a coffee/espresso bar. On stage right, I’d display the delicacies I baked the night prior…my experimental recipe creations and tried-and-true delectable favorites.

My kitchen would be behind the counter, so I could operate my store while at the same time bake to my heart’s content.

Comfy, mismatched chairs would take up the rest of the space and the walls would hold posters of local bands, advertisements, and travel treasures that make great conversations.

The walls of second floor would hold floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and contain hundreds of books on a leave-and-borrow honor system. Soft music would linger…maybe a corner for a local band to play music and a local author to tell ghost stories. Thick, brightly colored silk drapes would hang on the windows and the room would be fairly dark, except for the reading lamps by the overstuffed chairs.

In the corner would be one of the building’s original fireplaces. I’d restore it to its former glory and light dozens of sparkling candles in its charred belly.

The third floor would be a work in progress. But I’m thinking I’d eventually win the liquor license battle and make this floor a wine bar. I’d have Thorton, Vilano Beach’s own wood-workman, carve a beautiful bar out of a single piece of wood. We’d serve delightful wines and carefully selected cheeses during weekday happy hour and late on the weekends.

I would paint, shutter, and add balconies to the outside structure, giving the building a Venetian look while also maintaining the Spanish style by allowing the bougainvillea to take over.

Once I finished my magical masterpiece, I’d have a local St. Augustine artist hand paint me a sign that simply states:

Cocaine

Because, I’d need SOMETHING lucrative to sell in order to keep a place like this going!

toasted marshmallow topping

Summer means long days spent on the lake. Which doesn’t leave much time for meal prep. Someone may get clever and have a prepared pasta salad to go with whatever meat finds its way to the grill. And some days begin a little cloudy, so I’ll whip together a baked mostacholi and slow-cooker meatballs to warm up our bones after being in the water all day.

But one constant you’ll always find on our summer menu is a gigantic, triple batch of brownies. We eat brownies when we wake-up…they’re the perfect fuel for an early morning wakeboard session.

In the afternoon, we find brownies in the cooler to go with the cucumber and egg salad sandwiches we nibble on while lazily floating in the sun-lit coves.

And at night, we get creative. Brownie-cherry Jubilee! Kalua-coconut-brownie Mudslides! And my personal favorite, S’mores Brownies with crumbled graham crackers and fire-toasted marshmallows.

In fact, it may be time to stoke that campfire a little early…

Some people, men especially, mistake maintenance with relaxation. Is it relaxing to take your car in for an oil change? I think not.

There is a fundamental difference between what I *do* to relax and what actually relaxes me.

Let me count the ways a woman PAYS to ‘relax’.

Thumbscrews

Pedicures: Though I often partake in this procedure, it is neither fun or relaxing. Pedicures can be painful…all the pricking and cuticle cutting. And the sand-bar-of-abuse is absolute torture to those of us with ticklish feet!

Chocolate/Honey/Sugar/Cosmo Baths: Oh joy. Let’s sit in a vat of luke-warm, sticky chocolate or honey or sugar or cosmopolitan (none of which smells like chocolate or honey or sugar or cosmopolitan) in a community bare-butt tub. On the way out, be sure to grab a script for antibiotics.

Brow Waxing: Hot wax followed by sharp pain…within close proximity of two of your most valuable organs. Really, that sounds relaxing? AND, the sadomasochist performing this procedure is certain to laugh at you if you tear up (and you will).

Bikini Waxing: Yowl! Are you serious? (See Brow Waxing above)

Botox: Granted, I’ve not yet experienced the ‘relaxing’ effects of this procedure, however, I did attend an office Botox party luncheon. It was at this party that I witnessed a woman (who I had previously pegged as a wuss) voluntarily allow someone to plunge a dagger full of goo into her forehead. Relaxing? I’d rather have my finger nails pulled!

Body Wraps: It’s not so bad paying for someone to take an hour wrapping hot towels tightly around your body…effectively transforming you into a mummy. But, as I found out, those towels cool and loosen. Your hands and feet are then placed into plastic bags (to collect excess water), then you’re made to walk on a treadmill for hours with nothing to do except watch the Lifetime channel. Feels kind of like wearing a too-small wetsuit and maneuvering a treadmill. Underwater. In Antarctica.

Despite these rantings, I assure you I’m not a total failure in the art of relaxation. I’m quite proficient at relaxing during these activities:

Reading a book. Any book.
Sharing wine with friends in my kitchen.
Sitting in front of a roaring fire (safely contained and with someone to stoke it, of course).
Scalp massages at the hair salon!!!!

The difference is none of these free activities require bodily torture in the name of relaxation. They’re not a trip to the dealership but rather a slow cruise down a scenic, winding road.

Ladies and gentleman, children of all ages, come one, come all to see the impossibly cute, hot-tempered, death-defying, fuzzy lop that occupies my living room.

He sits perched atop the couch, his head is cocked. His ears twitch as you approach. Then, he’s off like a prom dress, flying around the perimeter of the living room so fast you don’t see him until he’s once again perched on his resting place. It’s the fabulous Mr. Peanut!

(and he expects you to clap for him once he’s finished maneuvering his trick).

Rabbit in the Dryer

I rescue rabbits. I do this out of indentured servitude to my poor, dear, earless (earless because I cut them off) bunny Booboo.

Most of these rabbits have come from bad situations…they’ve been neglected, abused, unfed. Others have had an ordinary, but mind-numbing life stuck in tiny outdoor cage.

When I first encounter a rabbit that is in need of my rescuing, I can immediately recognize if this bun still has ‘life’ left in him.

That’s my hidden talent. I am a connoisseur of bunny personalities. And I nurture them and guide them to their full potential.

For instance, my current bunny, Mr. Peanut, is at this very moment walking on two legs to receive a banana chip. He also dose an olympic-quality triple, half-twist, dead-out, back-whip, arabian tuck. =)

Sure, I train my rabbits to do ordinary tasks like use a litter pan (seriously, they will ONLY go in the carefully hidden pan), eat/drink out of a bowl, and stay off the furniture. But we get bored of those easy-to-learn tricks.

One of my buns, Sir Flops a Lot, was brilliant. I knew he was destined for bunny trick greatness when I visited some abandoned bunnies and he spent the entire time tossing his ball up against the wall trying to get my attention. I picked him up and he melted like butter into my arms giving me the full treatment of “PLEASE take me out of here!”. I did. And he was never so sweet again.

However, Sir Flops a Lot trained well. Before long I had him impressing my guests by opening his food drawer in the fridge, pulling out his greens, and serving himself. He also did Backflips for Bananas! (he probably would go Coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs too, but I don’t encourage complex carb consumption).

Flopsy would also watch me and try to emulate. For instance, after seeing me climb a step ladder to reach a shelf, he pulled all the cushions off the couch, stacked them in front of a hard to reach plant, then climbed to the top to eat that herbage delight.

I suppose I should train my bunnies for Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks but we haven’t mastered the ‘perform on-demand’ trick. Besides, Mr. Peanut is a Leno fan.

Many only-children are brats because they do not have a sibling rival to balance out their youth. However, not having siblings did nothing to stop me from having my own personal rival. A rival of the worst kind: one with authority. My father was responsible for all the teasing, all the closet locking…all my childhood angst. And I still turned out to be a brat.

Most of the conflicts between my father and I were settled by truce once we inflicted enough eye-for-eye pain.

Except one.

Mini Recliner

The crowning glory of our family room was a plush, reclinable Lazy Boy chair taking up the best viewing spot of the room. This was “Dad’s Chair”. Pfft. Yeah, right.

During one particular slumber party, I was busy establishing my role as Princess Boss-of-everyone (as only an only-child can do), and while doing so I sat upon my throne of envy, otherwise known as “Dad’s Chair”.

In walks my father. He dares to tell me, the Princess, to “Get out of my chair”.

I, of course, politely refuse.

He gives me one last warning, “Get your ass out of my chair before I bruise it”.

Ha, as if!

Once my father realized he was getting nowhere due to my faithful audience, he simply marched over, lifted me out of his chair with ease, and dropped my on my royal behind.

He DE-THRONED me!

This was not good for my image. My court of slumber party attendees looked unsure about my ability to rule them. I felt heat rising from my toes, into my chest, then flush up my face. But I would not cry. Nope, I’d get even.

I herded my posse into the playroom and planned a quick retaliation. My eyes settled on a knitting set that my father’s own grandmother had left me when she died. How fitting. I grabbed a needle, a really long, thin needle used for beading.

When my dad got up to get a drink, I quickly went to “Dad’s Chair”, threaded the needle through the fabric so it would stand upright. Then snuck back into my hiding spot to wait.

My plan couldn’t have worked better. Dad came back down, distracted by juggling his beer and talking on the phone.

He sat right down on that needle.

We heard a god-awful yelp.

Then, he leapt up, inspected his chair and we heard “God D@mmit, JESSICA!”

All he heard in response was five little girls giggling.

We were smart for our age, though. We ran. And ran. And ran some more.

In fact, I left the house for hours. My mother didn’t even look for me. To this day she says she’s thankful I stayed away so long. “By god, Jessica, that man loved you. But he would have killed you.”

*smirk*