That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: "Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment."
~ Dorothy Parker

So. Here I am – in Manhattan. The Big Apple. New York, New York. Center of the universe – ok, not really. But it should be.

And I’m writing this as I sit in a personal Mecca of sorts.

The Algonquin lobby. Perched perhaps where the Vicious Circle gathered once upon a time, tongues pointed, wit wielded, whisky consumed.

It’s a haven of sorts for me from the elements – wind, cold, Ugg-wearing tourists, throngs of wide-eyed children gazing up at enormity.

I’m sipping a vodka gimlet (surely D. Parker must have consumed something similar, wouldn’t you think?) and even thought it’s made with Skyy and not my beloved Grey Goose, it’s pretty damn good. The subhead on the Classic Cocktails page says it all… “Our cocktails are made with depth, complexity and a dexterous hand. “

Eclectic group here in the hotel lobby of the Algonquin… heirloom-fur wearing dowagers toting ginormous pieces of designer luggage and greeting the staff like old friends; a Couple of a Certain Age having a late lunch a deux of salad, red wine and each other on a love seat in the lobby… illicit? Practiced? Who can know. Leather clad groups with indertminate accents looking furtively at maps and guidebooks and translation dictionaries. Pairs of all sorts and shapes and sizes.

I’m soaking it all in – moisturizer for my dry soul. Giving me new creative life and lustre.

I’m about to jump back into my novel. It’s lain dormant for a while – holidays and responsibilities and life have pushed ahead on the priority list. But I cannot think of anything I’d rather do in these first moments of my brief time here in the City that Never Sleeps (perfect for an insomniac like me – no wonder this city and I get along so damn well…) Sure, there are sales galore and museums to explore (there’s a funky exhibit at the Guggenheim that I may take in tomorrow) and faux bargains to ignore.

But I owe this to myself – my creative self who’s been searching for purpose and attempting follow-through and trying to get out of the starting gate – to be here. At this very moment.

There’s a family sitting in the cocktail grouping next to me discussing Dorothy Parker and her quotable self… trying to remember how the “girls who wear glasses” saying goes. The mystique is not lost on any of us here.

And as I gamely try to wipe off the errant lime juice sprayed from the squeeze into Gimlet #2, I get about the business of putting word to paper. Ideas to life. Me to fruition.

More tomorrow, y’all…

Don't faint. It's me

Yeah, I know it's been a while... a long while. Way too long, frankly. But with the holidays and The Great Computer Death of 2008 (more on that later) and various and sundry other issues (an aggravated sciatic nerve, Will on Winter Break, etc.), this writing thing has taken a back seat. In the rear of the stretch limo. Yep -- that's waaaaaay back there.

In order to blow the cobwebs out of this place and to air out the mustiness, here's a little something something from my kitchen. And it's pretty damn amazing, for something so simple. Really healthy, too. Fits right in with that Clean Eating thing I'm working on. Perfect for the beginning of a new year.

Soup. Soothing. Comforting. Warming. Filling. Good for you. Easy-going.

Who could ask for anymore than that out of a relationship. Or a meal.

Enjoy.

Lemon Chicken Soup

... just a perfect blendship
When other friendships are soon forgot
Ours will still be hot
Da da da da da da dig dig dig

Will has a new friend named Jake. Pretty cool, huh? Oh -- you have no idea.

Jake is the eldest son of my trainer/friend Stephanie. I'm hesitant to call her simply my trainer because we are becoming very good friends. She is amazing and I count her amongst my greatest blessings of this year.

Anyhoo -- we were chatting while pounding out some cardio about a week or so ago and I happened to mention that I was looking for a new babysitter, as my last regular one had the nerve to graduate from high school and go away to college. As fate and some divine intervention would have it, Steph mentioned that Jake had completed the Red Cross babysitting course and was interested in earning a little coin for the holidays.

Serendipity at its finest.

So, last Friday, Will and I went and hung out with our new pals -- he and Jake spent time together while I got in a conditioning workout, as my foot is still hurtin'. They playing the drums sang, tossed around a ball, goofed off on the piano, wrestled and rough-housed. Will had a wonderful time and hugs and kisses were dispensed all the way around when it was time to go.

Over the weekend, Will would talk about Jake -- just in passing here and there, but enough to let me know that their time together had made an impact.

Come to find out today that it just wasn't a one way thing. Steph told me that all weekend long, Jake talked about Will, telling his friends about this "cool little boy" that he was going to start watching and how much fun they had.

He never mentioned Will's disabilities. Nor his crazy health history. Nor his limitations.

Jake saw simply Will -- the REAL Will. A goofy, silly, happy, funny and yes, musical little boy.

He "got" him -- for who he is beneath all the labels. He's just a kid.

Beautiful. My heart is still full and singing about this. And yes, I'm crying (what -- have we just met? Please.) but they are tears of joy and of possibility.

Yep, Will has a new friend named Jake. We should all be so lucky to have our own Jakes in our lives -- those people who see beyond and around and through the road blocks and labels and smoke and mirror and see use for who we really and truly are. And like what they see.

Thanks, Jake.

... I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
~ Humphrey Bogart

'Tis the season for music galore -- here are just a few of my holiday favorites...

Dean Martin (with Shirley Jones!) ~ “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow”


Handel’s Messiah: A Soulful Celebration ~ “Hallelujah Chorus”


Death Cab for Cutie ~ “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)”


Aimee Mann and Grant-Lee Phillips ~ “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch”


Guster ~ "¿Donde Esta Santa Claus?"


Barenaked Ladies (feat. Sarah McLachlan) ~ “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings”


Eartha Kitt ~ “Santa Baby”


Spinal Tap ~ “Christmas with the Devil”
(C’mon. You know I have NO willpower when it comes to these guys...)


Sufjan Stevens ~ “The Friendly Beasts”


Sixpense None the Richer ~ “Silent Night”


Handel’s Messiah ~ “And the Glory of the Lord”
(Deep down, I'm a classical girl, especially when it comes to this piece)


Ray Charles and Betty Carter ~ “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”
(Maybe one of the sexiest songs evah...)


Whitney Houston ~ “Joy to the World”
(Yeah, I know. But I simply love this version of this song)


Bonus!
Clarence Carter ~ “Back Door Santa”

Guess what?

I'll wait. Take your time.

Give up?

I have an athletic injury.

That's right. Me. Athletic injury. Yeah.

If I didn't think it would do further damage, I'd do a little jump for joy. 'Cause I'm kinda digging the fact that I hurt myself working out.

Blame it on the shoes.

I have been working with a personal trainer now for about six weeks. Finally, finally, finally got serious about getting in shape and re-discovering my figure. And it's paying off. There are five plus inches less of me in the waist and counting -- and that's the only measurement we've been taking regularly at the moment. But I'm the Proportionately Incredibly Shrinking Woman, per my trainer -- every time I get out of the car to meet her, she says she notices a difference.

Go me.

We're working together five days a week (told you I'd gotten serious) at a local park. No stuffy sweaty gyms for us. We walk, do stretching and other toning exercises as we go and then head to a pavilion to do more circuit training-type things. Instead of sitting my fat ass down to eat at a picnic table, I'm lying on top of it, doing crunches.

And seeing results.

However, my footwear and its considerable age have become problematic. Basically, the shoes are shot. And I have plantar fasciitis in my right foot as a yucky by-product of such.

Sum'bitch hurts, y'all.

However, I'm adhering to the illegitimis non carborundum concept -- not gonna let this bastard thing get me down. I've stretched, massaged, rolled my foot on a frozen water bottle, elevated and rested. So far, so good. It's better than it was, but still not great. I shall prevail. I have a pretty high tolerance for pain anyway -- remember, I'm the chick who walked around in premature labor for three days. It takes a lot to render me helpless (if I put my mind to it, anyway.)

So I'm taking it easy, at least for the next couple of days. Gonna focus on the toning rather than the cardio. Not a bad thing. Oh -- new shoes -- on tap for tomorrow. My trainer (who I ADORE, if you couldn't tell by now) is going with me to help me make the best choice for my needs. And what girl doesn't love shoe shopping with a galpal? Seriously.

Meanwhile, I'm going to embrace my pain just a bit. And hone that tone of pride in my voice that I'll use when someone says "Hey -- you look like you're limping? What did you do?"

Hope they're prepared for my answer. Boo-yah!

You're so wrapped up in layers, onion boy, you're afraid of your own feelings!
~ Shrek

I'm a sucker for taking a quiz. Or personality profile. Or filling out a meme. I think they're fun. And I actually learn a little something about myself in the process. Which is never a bad thing.

This is a mega-fun one. My version here is very similar to the one the fabulous perpstu shared on her blog.

A meme to peel away the layers of you. Or me, rather...

LAYER ONE
* Name: citizen jane
* Birth date: September 27
* Birthplace: Florida
* Current Location: Florida
* Eye Color: Brown
* Hair Color: Brown
* Height: 5’6”
* Righty or Lefty: Righty
* Zodiac Sign: Libra

LAYER TWO
* Your heritage: Swedish & English
* The shoes you wore today: Black Chuck Taylors; New Balance walking shoes
* Your weakness: Tall, smart, funny, slightly neurotic men with hairy chests and caramel. Oh, and vodka. Tequila, too. Lethal combinations, these. And a sale at Nordstrom.
* Your fears: Snakes; not being in control
* Your perfect pizza: Sausage and onion
* Personal goals you'd like to achieve:
To make sure Will meets and hopefully exceeds his potential;
To be a legitimate published writer;
To win big bucks on a game show that involves thought and skill (e.g. NOT Deal or No Deal);
To sing with a band.

LAYER THREE
* Your most overused phrases on social networking sites: groovy; seriously; have we just met?
* Your first waking thoughts: How is Will?
* Your best physical feature: My breasts. They’re real. And they’re spectacular. My hair’s not bad either.
* Your most missed memory: Can’t remember. HA!

LAYER FOUR
* Pepsi or Coke: Coke
* McDonald's or Burger King: Mickey D’s
* Single or group dates: Single, although I do like double dating with other couples. And of course, Girls’ Night Out.
* Adidas or Nike: Nike
* Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Lipton (Diet Brisk, to be exact)
* Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate
* Cappuccino or coffee: Iced Chai Latte. HA!

LAYER FIVE
* Smoke: Only after/while drinking. And that's provided I can either find a smoke buddy or can bum a ciggy off someone. I'm a very slothy smoker.
* Cuss: Constantly
* Sing: Constantly. I'm a second alto. And proud of it.
* Take a shower everyday: Yep
* Do you think you've been in love: Absolutely. Five times, to be exact. But I'm not naming names...
* Want to go to college: Been there, done that. Twice. But going back to grad school to finish my master’s in English is always in the back of my mind.
* Liked high school: Hindsight -- yeah. Not a bad way to spend four years.
* Want to get married: Always. And I did it.
* Believe in yourself: My mind, always. The rest of me -- sometimes.
* Get motion sickness: Actually, yes. Mostly on amusement park rides.
* Think you're attractive: If I'm being honest, no. Not really.
* Think you're a health freak: Not really -- health conscious is more like it.
* Get along with your parent(s): Yes, now that I'm an adult.
* Like thunderstorms: No. Which sucks, because I live in the Thunderstorm Belt.
* Play an instrument: Does the tambourine count? Actually, very basic piano. Emphasis on basic. Which is sad, considering I took lessons for 10 years.

LAYER SIX
In the past month...
* Drank alcohol: Yep.
* Smoked: Nyet.
* Done a drug: Does cold medicine qualify here? If not, then no.
* Made Out: Yep.
* Gone on a date: No, sadly.
* Gone to the mall?: No. Online shopping? That's a whole 'nother matter.
* Eaten an entire box of Oreos?: No. My trainer girl would somehow know.
* Eaten sushi: Yuck. No. LOATHE sushi. I like my fish cooked and my beef raw, for what it’s worth.
* Been on stage: Again, no. Drat.
* Been dumped: Nyet to that.
* Gone skating: No.
* Made homemade cookies: Nope.
* Gone skinny dipping: Unfortunately, no.
* Dyed your hair: Oh yeah. Once a month, baby. Like clockwork.
* Stolen Anything: No way.

LAYER SEVEN
Ever...
* Played a game that required removal of clothing: Oh. Yeah.
* Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Hello -- have we just met?
* Been caught "doing something": Oh. Yeah.
* Been called a tease: Oh. yeah. *bats eyes* Actually, I’ve been called “precocious” more than a tease. But that was a while ago when my age actually qualified me to be precocious. Now I’m just a good old-fashioned flirt.
* Gotten beaten up: No, thank goodness.
* Shoplifted: Never.
* Changed who you were to fit in: Sadly, yes. But it was when I was much younger and even more insecure than I am now.

LAYER EIGHT
* Age you hoped to be married: I wanted to be married by 27. Ended up walking down the aisle at age 33.
* Numbers and Names of Children: One -- my darling William.
* How do you want to die: In my sleep. Painlessly. DNR, baby.
* Where did you want to go to college: Exactly where I did -- The University of Florida.
* What do you want to be when you grow up: Sane. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
* What country would you most like to visit: Brazil.

LAYER NINE
* Number of drugs taken illegally: One -- pot. Ganja. Marijuana. You get the picture.
* Number of people I could trust with my life: Six.
* Number of CDs that I own: Well over a hundred. Don’t even start with me on mp3s.
* Number of piercings: Two -- one in each ear
* Number of tattoos: None
* Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper?: Probably close to 50, believe it or not. That’s what happens when one lives in the same place all of one’s life. And had jobs that required one to talk to reporters on a regular basis. And held community volunteer positions in organizations that were newsworthy. Believe me -- I’m not that interesting. Or notorious.
* Number of scars on my body: Four. None very juicy, save for the one on my pinky toe that I got when I dropped an X-acto Knife on it during a 48-hour-without-sleep marathon to complete my final magazine project in college. And now that I read that anecdote, even it’s not very scintilating.
* Number of things in my past that I regret: Just two. But I’m not telling.

Life is like an onion: you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
~ Carl Sandburg

... balance and perspective are slooowly being restored to my psyche -- and y'all's sweet comments and good wishes and love had a lot to do with that. Thank you. So much.

Am trying to restart the right side of my brain -- you know, where all that crazy bountiful creative stuff is generated. In that spirit, I'm jumped into a quick little exercise called Friday Fill-Ins.

1. Snow? What is that? We only hear about it in the land where I'm from...

2. I'm looking forward to not setting my alarm tomorrow morning.

3. Grape NEHI is the best soda ever!

4. One of my favorite old tv shows is The Dick Van Dyke Show. And Ellery Queen. And That Girl. Why must you make me choose only one? *sobs*.

5. I'm done with negative self-talk (Hey! I'm working on it -- that's gotta count for something, right?.

6. The most enjoyable thing around the holidays is that slightly cliched phrase, but always true Reason for the Season.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to dinner with my family, including my parents and my two beautiful nieces, tomorrow my plans include sleep, watching the GATORS win the SEC Championship, winter cleaning Will's room and writing on the NaNo project; and Sunday, I want to simply exhale!

It ain't easy being me.
~ Andrew McCarthy in "St. Elmo's Fire"

I have just done something of which I am not very proud.

I lost my temper with Will. Yelled at him.

And that's an action I try very hard not to take. It's honestly counterproductive, especially with a little fellow like Will, who's still working on figuring out how to properly communicate his emotions. And I try to model appropriate behavior for him, using calm tones and gentle words.

But today, I just snapped a little. Lost my patience and yelled at him to stop doing something (grabbing my hand off my computer mouse to get my attention.)

It wasn't long until we were both sobbing. Him from being on the receiving end of the diatribe and me from the sheer horror at me losing my shit.

It's been a tough couple of days for both of us, frankly.

Yesterday, upon arriving back at school after the Thanksgiving break, I learned that Will's wonderful, amazing, kind, gentle, fantastic teacher had spent the holiday in the hospital with congenital heart failure and would be out of the classroom for at least two weeks. I cannot begin to express how marvelous this man has been for Will (and for me) -- I count him amongst my greatest blessings as a parent. Not only am I concerned for him and his health, but for how his absence will affect my boy. Will is devoted to Mr. H -- all he could talk about in the car on the way to school yesterday was how much he wanted to see him. He doesn't understand the whole of the situation -- he just knows his Mr. H. isn't there. And that's tough.

We're coupling that with some paternal separation anxiety as well -- the Mister was home all last week and Will got used to having him around. Come yesterday, when he was back out on the road for work, it provided yet another adjustment for the little guy to try and handle.

Needless to say, there's been a lot of tears and tantrums and acting out. And this afternoon, I had maxed out. I hate it, but there you are. He and I are fine now -- his upset was immediately over after some hugs and gentle reassurance; mine remains, directed more at my own self than anything. As usual.

I think my inability to manage the situation is also stemming from my internal fight with my demons -- the blue funk has crept in again, as it does every so often. Maybe it's hormones, maybe it's the season -- who knows. I'm taking better care of myself these days -- remembering to take my Mother's Little Helper and getting plenty of exercise -- but still it comes. The blues.

Just part of who I am, I suppose. And I hate it.

I'm reverting to my reclusive ways -- my safe place when this happens. It's not that I don't like to be around people -- I just figure they don't want to be around me, especially when I'm wrestling with my crap. I've been told that's not true, but I'm not sure... somehow the loneliness seems fitting for me during these times.

I feel odd blogging about this -- the last thing I want to do is come across as pathetic or self-indulgent or pandering. I'm way too proud. But I needed an outlet -- someone to talk it out with. The blank page seemed as good an option as any -- and it won't reject me for being too needy or a weirdo. I may delete this post -- I may not. Perhaps it will help to see it in black and white and to serve as a reminder for me as to what happens when I lose control.

This too shall pass -- it always does. But the residue it leaves behind when it exits stage left lingers longer than I'd like. Especially when I do something as yucky as yell at my baby.

Who knows -- maybe this time will be different. Maybe the exercise and healthy eating can help me to get back to where I want to be sooner. Maybe I can find the strength to work it all out. Maybe my tears will finally dry up.

I can only hope.

I hate getting sand in my bathing suit. It just makes me itch and get all uncomfortable. And I swear everyone can tell, even though I try not to be too obvious and squirm.

We were at the beach club for the day -- Nana, Mama, Porter and me. Plus Pammy and a weird little friend of Porter’s named Shiner Paulsen. His real name was Robert, but ever since he got a terrible black eye when he made a scene tripping over his untied shoelace running to get to the ice cream truck back when he was in kindergarten, most everyone, including even his mama, has called him Shiner. I say most everyone because his teachers always insist on calling him Robert and since he’s not used to hearing that, he never answers in class when he’s addressed that way and ends up spending a lot of time in the principal’s office. It’s Shiner’s fault that I got sand in my bathing suit. He and Porter were playing keepaway with my brand new transistor radio and as I went to grab it from Porter, Shiner gave me a shove and I fell bottom first onto the ground. I could swear he tried to give me a feel “up there” when he pushed me but his hand missed and he ended up pushing my shoulder instead. Pammy said he had a really weird look on his face when he realized what he’d done -- like he’d gotten away with something. I don’t know how he could confuse my chest with my shoulder, since I’m not THAT flat chested. Stupid boys.

Once I got up and yelled at Porter and Shriner (who were halfway down the beach at that point), I tried to get as much sand off and out as possible, but didn’t have much luck. As it was almost lunch time, Pammy suggested we go up to the club, shower off and then get something to eat. We gathered up our towels and radio and books and put them in our cabana, then headed up to the main part of the club.

I’d been coming to the Sandy Palms Beach Club for as long as I could remember. Both my parents and grandparents were members and the Club (as we called it) was as much a part of my family as anything. Nana liked to tell the story of how she danced with Babe Ruth one night at a club party (he had two left feet and smelled of bourbon) and he made a pass at her. She said no, of course, but she always blushed a little when she would get to that part of the story. Mama and Daddy also ate dinner several times at the table next to Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe. Mama even put her lipstick on at the same time as Marilyn in the ladies room one evening. Mama said her skin was “flawless” and she was very nice and a little shy, and that Joe was so handsome. I loved hearing stories like this -- I thought it was cool when famous history and my family came together. I wrote a report for History this past year about when Papa came to a meeting at Sandy Palms to hear Calvin Coolidge speak -- it got an A. Mr. Daniels said it was very original. I liked being original.

We spend a lot of time at Sandy Palms, especially in the summer. Jack and his friends come here at night for parties and stuff. Jack likes to call the club Hairy Palms, because of a story going around about a guy named Kirby Lewis who got caught, as Jack likes to say, choking the chicken, in the corridor between the men’s and women’s locker rooms. Bitty Carmichael, the club president’s wife, was the one who found him -- she was coming in after her morning tennis match. Mama says she still hasn’t really recovered -- although she has always been a little nervous and uptight, so I don’t know how you could tell. Apparently Kirby, who was a lifeguard at the time, was on his break, which was coincidentally right after the girls’ swim team practice. That little incident earned him the nickname Wanker Lewis; Jack says he hasn’t gotten a date since it happened so it’s a good thing he’s well-trained in you-know-what. It makes Mama so mad when Jack says “Hairy Palms”, which is, of course, why he does it. Kirby’s younger brother Kris is in my grade -- I pretty much try to stay clear of him, just in case.

I have my own history with the Club -- I learned to swim in the club pool; learned to dance at cotillions in the ballroom; was taught out how to eat a meal with lots of silverware at your place setting; and got a little idea how to play bridge from watching Nana and Mama at their regular games. That’s what Mama was doing today -- playing bridge. She and her friends were up in the card room on the second floor at a table by the window. I could see her from our spot on the beach, dressed in a bright yellow dress, her jet black hair perfectly set, cards in her right hand and her cigarette in her left. The Upstairs Card Room was the smoking room and even though Mama grumbled a little about it in front of Daddy, she was glad to get the chance to smoke whenever she could -- and she always had an excuse for why her clothes smelled like smoke. I caught her eye as Pammy and I stepped onto the patio and headed for the outside shower to rinse our feet off. She mouthed a “where is your brother?” to me and cocked her head towards the beach. I rolled my eyes and pointed in the direction where I’d last seen Porter and his rotten buddy running off. She nodded, smiled and straightened her back, giving me a look. That was her little signal to me to stand up straight myself and hold my tummy in. I had put on my terry cloth coverup over my suit, so I didn’t think she could see my stomach -- but I straightened up anyway. We rinsed our feet off, took our flip-flops out of our beach totes, put them on and went into the pool area.

The smell of chlorine hit my nose as soon as we stepped onto the pool deck.

“Wow. That’s strong. Someone must have had a party in here last night.” I said to Pammy as we flipped and flopped along.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“Heck -- everybody knows that the maintenance staff puts extra chemicals in the water to kill any weird germs the day after a pool party. Even though you’re not supposed to drink in the pool, people do. They spill stuff. And they do lots of other things as well.” I grinned. I knew what was coming next. Pammy was so predictable.

“What do you mean ‘lots of other things’? Like what? What kinds of things could people.... oh. Ah. Ew, that’s just gross.” She made a face -- her usual “I’m disgusted” face.

I laughed, just as I stepped aside to avoid getting splashed by a group of beginner swimmers, hanging on the side of the pool, working on their kicking. Their instructor, Carl, was the same one who taught me to swim. In fact, I would bet that anyone who learned to swim at Sandy Palms learned from Carl. An older guy, his skin was tan and leathery from hours spent in the sun. He wore a floppy sailor’s hat -- the same one he’d had for years. It looked just like the hat Gilligan wore. When I was little, Jack told me that Carl really was Gilligan and I believed him. It wasn’t true, of course. Thank goodness I never said anything to Carl about being on a deserted island or on television. That would have been so embarrassing, even for a little kid like I was then. Jack was always telling me stories like that -- for the longest time, I thought that a witch lived in the towers on top of the country club near our house, thanks to a story he told me on our way to school one day. The club had really cool architecture -- Spanish, I think -- and the towers were the highlight, tall and pointy and mysterious. The thought of a witch living there scared me to death -- Jack described her just like Maleficent in “Sleeping Beauty”, knowing full well that movie gave me nightmares. I couldn’t even look at the country club when we drove by without getting a little chill. Mama finally asked me one day what was wrong because she had noticed my strange behavior in the back seat of the car and I told her Jack’s story. She straightened both of us out -- me with the story and Jack for filling my head with such things. It took me a long time before I believed anything he told me like that was true.

We were almost to the outside door of the pool locker room when I heard the click-click-click of the mah jongg tiles coming from the poolside card room. It occurred to me that there certainly were a lot of rooms in this place -- and they always seemed to be filled with some activity or the other.

Nana and her mah jongg girls, as they liked to call themselves, were in the midst of a serious game by the sound of it. I paused a moment, debating on whether to say hello before we went and changed. Even though the sand inside my suit was really bothering me, I knew it was best if I said hello, since not doing so would not only be rude, but mentioned later. Over and over.

“Hi Nana. Mrs. Malone. Mrs. Canfield.” I stuck my head in the open door, smile on my face. There was another woman at the table who I didn’t know, else I would have said hello to her too. Must be polite, especially to one’s elders.

“Why Nixie Jean -- you’re back from the beach already?” Nana gestured to me to come over to her, bangle bracelets jingling in punctuation.

“Yes ma’am. I just got really sandy down there and we wanted to come and clean up before lunch.” I made my way to her seat and kissed her on the cheek. Pammy stood at the doorway, unsure of whether to come in or not.

“Hello Pamela. Nice to see you.” Nana smiled, always gracious.

“Hi Mrs. Porter.” Pammy flushed a little. She wasn’t always comfortable in these situations, even though she’d known my Nana most all of her life. And Nana was a little larger than life to begin with. A retired elementary school principal, she was what Daddy referred to as a “strong Southern woman.” With dyed red hair (we never did dare ask what her original hair color was -- only Nana and her hairdresser Donny knew for sure. And neither of them were talking.) and a love of bright colors, she sort of reminded me of Endora from Bewitched, without the mischief. But with the bright blue eyeshadow. I mentioned this to Pammy one day when we were floating around in our pool at home. She told me that I watched too much television, because all my comparisons involved TV characters. I promptly told her there was no such thing as too much TV.

“Are you girls going to eat lunch at the snack bar or in the dining room? The desserts in the dining room look especially good today.” Nana had a terrible sweet tooth that she was always happy to share.

“We thought we’d eat in the dining room. It’s more civilized in there.” I said. In the summer, the snack bar was full of kids like Porter and his friends and I wasn’t in the mood for their shenanigans at the moment. Especially that Shiner.

“Very good. Oh Nixie Jean, have you met Mrs. Barry? Sheila, this is my granddaughter Nixie Jean.” Nana nodded towards the mystery woman at the mah jongg table.

“Hello Mrs. Barry. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Sheila and her family are renting a house on our cove at the lake this summer. Her grandchildren are about your age.”

“Oh, that’ll be cool to have some new kids around this year.” I smiled politely. With my luck, they’d be all like Porter and drive me crazy. Thank goodness for Uncle Tommy being there.

The Card Room waitress walked in at that moment, carrying a tray of salads and one piece of key lime pie. I knew who that was for.

“We’ll be going now, Nana. We don’t want to interrupt your lunch.” I walked to the door where Pammy was still standing, trying not to look bored.

“That’s fine, Nixie Jean. Don’t forget about dinner at our house tomorrow night. Tommy called me this morning and said he would try to get in in time to sit down with us. So it will be a little celebration before we all head off for our summer activities -- your grandfather is going on a fishing trip to the Keys for two weeks. Did you know that?”

“Yes ma’am I did. Mama said something about that just this morning.” Nana took a long time to say goodbye. She was always remembering things she needed to tell you.

“We’ll see you later. Mrs. Barry, it was nice to meet you.” And with a smile and a wave, we were gone.

Yep, 'tis the season. And in that spirit, here's Part One of The World's Lengthiest Holiday Meme... didn't want to overwhelm you with too much of my Festive Fabulousness. HA!

Favorite Christmas ...
Non-religious song? “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” Want me to sing it for you -- cause I will. Don’t tempt me...
Religious song? Either “Hallelujah” or “And the Glory of the Lord” from Handel’s Messiah or “Joy to the World” or “Angels We Have Heard on High” or...
Santa-related song? “(Everybody’s Waiting for) The Man with the Bag”
Fictional character? Heat Miser and Snow Miser, baby
Dinner main course? Prime rib (or as I called it when I was a wee lass, roast beast)
Dinner dessert? Either trifle or my chocolate mousse
Scent? Spices -- cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg
Animated Christmas program? “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” Hands down. I can quote it practically verbatim. Just as Linus says “Lights please” is when I begin to tear up... see, I’m teary now just thinking about it...
Non-animated program? “White Christmas.” Bing and Rosie and Danny and Irving Berlin songs -- what’s not to love!
Personal memory? A living room full of wrapping paper and joy and love.
Story? The Story itself, straight outta Luke, Chapter 2. Doesn't get much better than that.

This or That...
Candy cane or peppermint patties? Peppermint patties.
Sugar cookies or gingerbread? Yes.
Tinsel or beaded strands? Beaded strands, if I must.
Multi-colored or single color lights? Depends. Like them both.
Flashing or still lights? Still. Flashing lights bug the crap out of me.
Wreaths or mistletoe/holly? Wreaths
Rudolph or Frosty? Rudolph, baby!
Sledding or snowball fights? You’re asking a native Floridian this? Oy.
Snow or ice/icicles? Snow
Hat or earmuffs? Hat. I guess. Again, native Floridian here...
Getting or giving? Giving. No question.
Snow days or plow trucks? Going with snow days, because those are akin to my more-familiar hurricane days.
Stockings or presents? Presents
Cookies and milk or letter to Santa? Gotta go with the letter. It's all about the writing -- and who can resiste the chance to write a persuasive letter... not me!
Christmas Eve or Christmas Day? Christmas Day!
Log Burning Channel or Real Thing? Real thing.
Cards or e-mails? C a r d s .
Shoveling or scraping ice off the car? Please. I have no idea. They both sound unappealing. *turns up air conditioner*
The Inn's Manger or the animals? Another weird question, but I'll go with manger.
Hot cocoa or eggnog? Both. Eggnog -- straight. Cocoa with peppermint schnapps.
Jack Frost or Little Drummer Boy? Drummer Boy.

Yay or Ugh...
Holiday shopping? Yay. But only online. Haven't set foot in a mall to Christmas shop in years and years.
Icy roads? What are these icy roads of which you speak...
Limited driving visibility? Ugh.
Christmas Carolers? Yay!
Mall Santas? Yay!
Salvation Army Santas? Yay! (even though my home phone number is one digit off that of the Salvation Army... no, I do not want to pay your light bill.)
Blizzards? Yay! What do I know, though...
24/7 Holiday Radio? Yay -- but only like a week before the day itself.
Freezing cold? Yay!
Setting up the tree? Yay!
Wrapping presents? Let’s split the difference on this one...
Visiting/seeing family? Depends on which family members you’re referring to...
Belief in Santa Claus? What do you mean, belief-- he’s real. I believe that. End of story.
Chocolate countdown calendar? Ugh. Tacky. Give me a good old Advent calendar any day.
Peeking at your gifts? Ugh.
Making out with Santa under the mistletoe? Yay! Especially if Santa smells good...mmmmm
Decorated houses? Yay!
Extremely decorated houses? Ugh
White Christmas morning? Yay!
Santa knowing when you're asleep and awake? Yay!


First Thought That Comes To Mind When You Hear...
Snowflake! Unique
Pinecones! Pretty
Elves! Hermie!
Sleigh! Jingle bells!
Presents! Hooray!
Cookies! Mmmmmm
Mistletoe! C’mon over here...
Rudolph! Red nose
Blizzard! Brrrrrr!
School's canceled! Groovy.
Ice Skating! Never done it.
Santa's Lap! Photo op!
Black Friday! Are you nuts?
God's Son! Unto you a Child is born.
Melting Snow! Dirty mess.
Lumps of coal! No thank you.
Nutcracker! Sugar Plum Fairies.
Ho Ho Ho! Green Giant
North Pole! Frequent flier miles

To be continued...