Picture it: January 1991

We were at war – for the first time in my lifetime since Vietnam. The Gulf War. Kuwait. Iraq. Saddam. Buzz words.

Arthur Kent – the Scud Stud. Poster boy for this thing.

This was a visual war. We saw it unfold right before our eyes. TV screens filled with the sights and sounds of an ominously-lit Baghdad. We watched it all through the green tint of universal night vision goggles

In the midst of all this came one of the world’s largest media spectacles – the Super Bowl. XXV. Buffalo Bills versus NY Giants. In my community. Tampa Bay.

And I had tickets.

My dad was on the planning committee and as a result, was able to procure some hot, hard-to-come-by seats for his nearest and dearest. I went with a galpal – the object of my affection at the time was a big weenie who apparently didn’t share my emotions, despite his actions to the contrary, and declined my invitation. Dumbass.

It was an interesting juxtaposition – the festivity and pomp of the most celebrated sporting event in the country placed against the gravity and uncertainty of a nation at war.

We got word before the event to “travel light” as security would be intense at the venue, Tampa Stadium, aka The Big Sombrero, dubbed thusly by ESPN’s Chris Berman. Intense didn’t cover the half of it. Screening and searching at check point after check point were time-absorbing obstacles as we made our way to our seats in the nosebleed section. There was the sense of anxiousness hanging in the air, mingling with the joie de vivre. And if you looked along the top of the stadium, you could see the FBI sharpshooters at the ready. Unsettlingly comforting.

The game itself was one for the ages: closest score in Super Bowl history – 20-19, with the Giants coming out victorious; the Bills losing thanks to a missed wide-right last second field goal. I saw grown men crying in the stands after the final seconds ticked down off the game clock – both tears of joy and frustration. Never let it be said that football is a game with no passion.

And while I’m ashamed to admit I remember little to nothing about the halftime show (apparently New Kids on the Block performed… ugh), the memory which has stayed with me for nearly 20 years is that of the performance of the National Anthem.

Whitney Houston, accompanied by the Florida Orchestra.

Perhaps her finest performance ever, it is evocative of the emotion and searching and anxious patriotism that permeated the country at the time. Still gives me chills.



On this eve of another Super Bowl being played in my community, I can’t help but think back on the game 18 years ago. So much has changed since then – yet so much is still the same. It’s a funny milestone to use – a football game. But it works somehow. Very American.

I'm watching from the comfort of my home this year... which is fine. Better access to bathrooms and food and the real star of the show -- the ads. Plus I'm curious to see how my community is portrayed to the rest of the world.

Oh yeah -- there's going to be a game tossed in there as well. Rooting for the Arizona Cardinals -- love me an underdog.

Let’s tee it up and kick it off.

And then let those commercials roll.

It's been a busy, crazy, groovy day.

And I just now realized that I had NOTHING in mind for the blog today. This Blog 365 thing... not as easy as you'd think.

I'm kinda taking the Weenie Way out. Googled "Friday Blog Meme" and grabbed the first thing that looked interesting.

So, here we are. A quickie. Friday Fill-In. Good in a pinch.

Hey -- it works.

1. I'd really like an amazing meal, great bottle of wine and mind-blowing conversation right now.

2. SHIT! is the word you'd most often hear me say if I stubbed my toe.

3. Possession is subjective. And relative.

4. Keith Richards could kick the ass of Captain Jack Sparrow.

5. Marshmallows and fire go together like prosciutto and melon.

6. And the beat goes on and on.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to watching a great movie -- probably Glengarry Glen Ross, tomorrow my plans include reading, writing and playing in the kitchen and Sunday, I want to kick back and watch my hometown community showcased during Super Bowl coverage!

Never let it be said that I'm not a tough babe.

Once upon a time...

...I tore all the ligaments in my ankle in an aerobics class and went back to class for two days, thinking I'd just strained it.

...I strained my quad muscle dancing in a variety show and finished up the act before hobbling off stage.

...I walked around in premature labor for two days before the pain became too great and I went to the ER. And we all know how that turned out (in case you're new here and don't, check this out: The Will Chronicles)

Me and Timex -- we can take a lick and keep on ticking.

So in that spirit, I give you the latest example of my pain threshold:



Lousy photo, I know. But I was shooting in a hurry, because... oh, never mind.

But you can get the gist of things from it.

See that red spot, around the New Balance N.

Blood. From a blister.

Yesterday, I decided to break in a new pair of trainers. Bought then a couple of weeks ago. Felt good in the store.

So on my endurance cardio walk, at about the one mile mark, that familiar blister sting began to make its presence known.

You can imagine what things felt like at the end of the walk, nearly two miles later.

However, I just chalked it up to being part of the process and put those damn shoes in the back of the closet.

Today, fortified with my regular, comfy trainers, some blister block and band-aids, I was ready.

Excuses? I don't need no stinkin' excuses.

Another endurance walk. Some mild discomfort, but nothing that would fell me, the OTB. No, not Off Track Betting.

Original Tough Babe.

At the end of the walk, my trainer looked down for some reason and noticed the Red Badge of Courage on my shoe. Yikes. But it's ok.

No pain, no gain baby.

Just be glad I opted not to take a photo of my sock...

Tonight, after three Freeze Dances, a frantic air drum session, a song-learning session and a piano recital from a six-year-old during which she played "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in the key of D Minor (the saddest of all keys), the Choir Urchins and I had a little meeting of the minds with some classical music. And crayons.

We drew the music. Actually, we listened to the piece and drew what we thought it sounded like.

Crazy. Fun.

Take a look:



That's what I'm calling the 1812 Crayolature.

And this is a mash up of the Can-Can and The Sorcerer's Apprentice. We're hip to those mash-up things in Choir Urchin Land:


Can you dig it?

The apex of the sporting phenomenon known as Football Season is upon us.

The Super Bowl.

Even people who don’t give a rip about the NFL for the four months prior somehow like getting in on the action when it’s Big Game Time.

Psssst… this year, it’s right in my backyard. Tampa Bay. Yay Hometown!

With such events as this, the viewing parties are inevitable. Even though there may not be a lot of viewing involved, there will be drinking. And eating. And socializing.

The buffet table at these things groan with typical “game-day” food: wings, nachos, chips, little weenie things, a popper or two. And beer. Lots and lots of beer.

I’d like to offer some options that are a little more on the sophisticated side of things… easy and yummy. Although since we’re talking “sophisticated,” perhaps the word scrumptious would be more appropriate.

And yep – they probably work pretty well with beer. In case you were wondering.

Truffle Butter Popcorn
1/2 cup unpopped popcorn kernels 

3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted 

1 tablespoon white or black truffle oil 

Kosher salt to taste, plus black truffle salt to taste 

2 tablespoons finely chopped chives 



Air pop the popcorn, in batches if needed, or use two bags low-salt, light microwave popcorn, popped according to package directions. 



Drizzle two tablespoons of the unsalted butter over half the popped corn, tossing as you drizzle to distribute the butter evenly.

Combine the remaining melted butter and the truffle oil, and drizzle evenly on the remaining popcorn. Toss in chives. Season with salt and/or truffle salt to taste and serve. 



Variation on a theme: 
For wasabi popcorn: Crush two tablespoons of Wasabi peas in a blender until fine breadrumb texture. Sprinkle over buttered popcorn to taste. 


(BTW, this one would also be great for a home film festival... the works of Woody Allen or Robert Altman come to mind. But I digress.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Sugar and Spice Pepitas
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
2 cups shelled pepitas
1/3 cup sugar
1 large egg white, beaten until frothy
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Preheat oven to 350°F. Spray baking sheet with nonstick spray. Mix pepitas and next 6 ingredients in medium bowl. Stir in 1/4 teaspoon to 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper, depending on spiciness desired. Spread pepitas in single layer on baking sheet.
Bake until pepitas are golden and dry, stirring occasionally, about 15 minutes. Remove from oven. Seperate pepitas with fork while still warm. Cool before serving.

~~~~~~~~~~

Spinach-Parmesan Dip
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
1-1/2 cups chopped shallots
6 large garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1/2 cup organic chicken stock
1/2 cup whipping cream
1 10-ounce package ready-to-use fresh spinach leaves, chopped
1 cup (packed) freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1/3 cup sour cream
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Baguette slices, toasted

Melt butter with oil in heavy large pot over medium heat. Add onion and garlic; sauté until onion is tender and caramelized.. Add flour; stir 2 minutes. Gradually whisk in stock and cream; bring to boil, whisking constantly. Cook until mixture thickens, stirring frequently, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in spinach, cheese, sour cream and cayenne (spinach will wilt). Season with salt and pepper. Transfer dip to serving bowl. Serve warm with toasted baguette slices.

Variations on a theme: Adding a can of artichoke hearts or about 12 ounces fresh crab to this would totally take it up even another notch.

And now, for something a bit different... a musical meme! Whee!

1. Of all the bands/artists in your cd/record collection, which one do you own the most albums by?

Probably R.E.M., simply because of their long career. There are a couple of albums from the early ‘00s that I don’t have, but otherwise, I’ve got them all.

The prompt: Things you can do in three minutes

Have a quickie *lascivious eyebrow raise*
Give yourself a facial
Do a whole lotta crunches (engage your core!)
Read a magazine article
Put a coat of polish on your nails
Play a game of solitaire
Saute an onion
Load the dishwasher
Do a quick eBay search
Deep condition your hair
Pull weeds along your front walk
Have a mini-one-song dance party
Sign and mail a “just because” card to a friend
Read the comics in the newspaper
Cook an egg
Drink a cup of coffee
Iron a pair of pants
Eat a pot roast… or not
Boot up my Mac Airbook!!
Brew a cup of tea
Collect a bunch of shells on the beach
Moisturize!
Mark, tape and block a pair of lenses (thanks, Riss!)

I have a very diverse sense of humor. Very diverse.

OK, let's be honest. It's quirky.

There's no telling what's gonna make me laugh. Either at an appropriate or inappropriate time. I have the curse of the giggles.

These crazy-ass mug shots make me laugh out loud like nothing else. Even though I've seen them all more times than I can count. I think it's all about the hair. My funny-bone weakness is hilarious hair. Which gives me an idea for another pictorial post somewhere down the line, so I'll save my commentary for then.

I'm snickering even as I write this. And then coughing, because my #($&^# cold is still in residence.

Anyhoo.

Enjoy. I know I am.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!



BWAAAHAHAHAHA!



My personal favorite:

Once upon a time, before motherhood was so abruptly thrust upon me, I was a Working Girl.

Happily toiling in the world of business cards and networking and FICA, I enjoyed doing the 9-to-5 thing. My job was one of the primary ways I defined myself.

And lord knows I had a lot of different ones. Government and politics and retail and sales and printing and proofreading and box office management and writing and design and swimming lessons and the list goes on and on and on…

One of my Facebook pals made a coming the other day about how she “will never eat a sandwich from a plastic package ever ever again.” (Hi Jen!)

Couldn’t agree more.

It was the mid-‘90s. I was the public relations gal Friday for the volunteer and business partners department of our local school system. The lot of us was attending the annual conference of our professional organization in Orlando. Hotel was right off International Drive and a typical Toon Town facility. Very nice. I was a presenter, offering a session on how to be an effective tutor (horn toot time: I wrote and designed the tutor handbook and it was AWESOME, if I do say so myself. HA!)

My session was scheduled for early afternoon – the one right after lunch. And instead of attending the conference luncheon that day, I opted to grab a sandwich from a lunch counter and do some last-minute prep for my presentation. I was an eat-on-the-run girl in those days anyway, as there always seemed to be something that needed “doin’”

As I wolfed down my roast beef on sourdough with mayo, chips and diet coke, I was feeling pretty good about my session. And as time progressed, the room began to fill up with interested participants – every presenter’s dream.

I passed out my handouts, whipped out my overheads (remember – this was the mid ‘90s and I worked for a government agency. We weren’t the most technologically savvy bunch…) adjusted the hem of my Power Dress (I wasn’t a Power Suit kinda girl… too boring.) and hit it.

About 20 minutes later, I began to feel what could (and should) only be described as “wonky.” Brushing it off, I continued, fielding questions and making points. Ten more minutes went by and I looked around the room trying to locate the trashcans. Just in case.

This wasn’t good.

About 15 minutes before we were to actually finish, I wrapped things up gracefully, passing out my business card for follow up and left things with the conference staff person who was my facilitator.

The roast beef had become roast beast and was seeking revenge.

I will use some discretion and spare the details, but let’s just say that a more horrible experience I have not had in this area before or since.

It was bad. Really bad.

Everything you hear about food poisoning is true. And then some.

By the time I made it back to my hotel room, I was a hot mess. And still the Beast continued its revenge.

Once I crawled – and that’s no figurative use of speech, either – into bed, I felt as if I’d done the ring time with Ali in Manila. And word was spreading amongst my colleagues. Phone calls were placed, visits made – all with the same questions.

“How are you?”
Good lord, how do you think I am?

“Can I get you anything?”
Oh heck no. Even water was offensive to the system.

I should mention that I was the youngest of my group of co-workers and at the time, the only single non-parent. I brought out the maternal in everyone.

Apparently word had also spread to the conference and hotel staff, most likely thanks to my uber-efficient boss.

That’s when the fun really started.

A parade of hotel staff began to make its way to my room… doctors, managers, quality control people, human resources. Plus my concerned co-workers.

At one point, that hotel room resembled this…


The hotel folk asked question after question, taking notes. About the place I bought the sandwich. What else I’d eaten. How I felt. There was some cursory concern, but… let’s be honest – they were really trying to get a feel for whether or not I was going to sue their asses. And to make sure that this was an isolated incident.

And all I wanted was to be left alone.

A litigious gal I am not.

My brother, who lived in Orlando, finally came to the rescue, bringing me Gatorade and some peace and quiet.

I was pretty much out of commission the rest of the conference – which, considering the way I was feeling, was not such a bad thing. Some wiseacre took my picture as we were packing up to drive home… let’s just say it’s a good thing I was the PR chick, because that sucker just disappeared. Poof.

I was lucky, when I had that job, to have had opportunity to present at many conferences statewide and nationally – but no experience was quite as memorable as the one where I was felled by the Roast Beast.

Moral of the story: beware of sandwiches in plastic packages. They can be mean, violent sons of bitches.

Thirteen Things I loathe about being sick...

1. The sore throat. Damn, do I hate having a sore throat. Son of gun always hurts like an SOB. I still have my tonsils and have this theory that those bloody things make the throat stuff that much worse. However, once the initial sharp constant uber-annoying pain subsides, I get a husky tone to my voice that’s actually kind of cool. A little drag queen, a little 1-900 number operator.

2. I never ever seem to have tissue in the house. I buy it. I swear. But it disappears into some Kleenex vortex never to be seen again. I think that vortex is next to the black hole where my umbrellas go.

Oh – and in case you were wondering, TP = not a bad replacement. Paper towels = not so much. Ouch.

3. My eyes – watery, heavy-lidded, a little warm. None of which is enhancing to my appearance. Sunglasses are awesome. As are baseball caps. Plus avoiding mirrors. Concealer isn’t worth it. Sneezing and watery eyes take care of that tout de suite.

4. The smell of Vicks Vapo-Rub is nauscious-making. Forget garlic – that stuff should really keep the vampires away. Yes, I want to keep the vampires away. No, I haven’t read those Twilight books, so to me, a vampire is just a vampire. Pffffft.

5. Lack of energy. You know that feeling when even getting up to make some soup seems like a monumental effort. Yeah. I'm in touch with that emotion. How come there’s not a place that delivers “sick” food. That would be a great service. You could just call up and ask for the “Mommy special” and a thermos of chicken noodle soup, a box of saltines, a bottle of Gatorade and the National Enquirer would appear on your doorstep. Yep – the Enquirer. I like to read really trashy magazines when I’m under the weather. Fun fact of the day.

6. Sinus issues. I was born (thanks a lot, Dad) with the world’s worst sinuses. They ache and throb and I swear they swell when I'm sick, giving me the look of Zsa Zsa’s mug shot. SO attractive.

7. Sleep. Let’s talk about sleep. Hopefully, you have one nostril that’s functioning, so you can breathe. If not – then you have to shift to the mouth-breathe. Which isn’t a lot of fun, especially when you wake up and your breath even offends you and your teeth… well, let’s just say that a brush/rinse/repeat is a good idea. Periodically there’s drool. And always a snore. Delightful.

8. I opt not to take cold medicine, as I’m here alone with Will during the week and feeling like something the cat drug in from the alley is better than feeling like the junkie who did drugs in the alley. Need to have some semblance of my faculties about me.

9. The cough. Yay. Fun. Hacking, wheezing. Sometimes it can sound like a sick seal. Sometimes it’s like the lungs of the Marlboro Man have entered your body. For me, the cough is what lingers. And lingers. And lingers. Especially at night. Barrel of laughs – except that laughing makes you cough. Damn vicious circle.

10. Did you know that when you fall asleep with a cough drop in your mouth, it’s still there when you wake up in the morning. That’s freaky and gross all at the same time.

11. No one wants to be around you when you’re sick. Understandable. However, all those well-meaning people with whom you avoid doing face time think nothing of picking up the phone to call you to see how you’re feeling. Interrupting sleep. Invariably. “Oh, did I wake you?" is always the first thing out of the caller’s mouth. No, I always sound like Froggy from The Little Rascals. But thanks for asking.

12. Have you ever noticed how many judges have their own TV show? Seriously -- I'm wondering if there's not a class on "How To Deal With Asshats and Their Complaints in Front of a Camera" being offered for third year law students. Ridiculous. And they're everywhere. All afternoon. Trust me.

13. My taste buds take a holiday. Don’t know if they go on strike or catch a red-eye to Club Med. But I can’t taste anything if my nose is stopped up. Which really, if you think about it, isn’t a bad thing at all…

Thoughts on a day...

Aretha was magnificent – her voice can stir a soul like no other. And given her fashion history, her ginormous bow hat was not unexpected. It was large enough, though, that Capt. Sully would have been able to land a plane upon it.


~~~~~~~~~~

When did Walter Mondale morph into William F. Buckley Jr.? Seriously – I didn’t recognize him during his walk-up to the Inaugural dignitary holding pen.

~~~~~~~~~~

The First Daughters are simply adorable – what beautiful children. Although you can totally see the mischievous glint in Sasha’s eyes … It’s going to be fun to watch them grow up – but I don’t want to see too much. They need their privacy and space to simply be kids. I hope they’re afforded that.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Teddy Kennedy health scare certainly added a different hue to the day… his robust appearance before the ceremony was deceptive, sadly. It’s a sobering reminder that even on a day infused with celebration and hope that the obstacles we face don’t always take a holiday.

~~~~~~~~~~

I’m not a fan of the outgoing President. However, the boos and jeers and choruses of “Hey hey goodbye” when he was introduced were inappropriate and disrespectful and out of place at such an occasion.

People, that’s just tacky.

I also noticed a disproportionate amount of disparaging comments attached to blog/news pieces about Senator Kennedy’s situation. We need a national primer in manners, since people don’t seem to have any – or aren’t deploying them.

And for an example of good manners, we need to look no further than to the First Lady herself, who brought a gift for the Bushes with her to the White House this morning – such a gracious gesture.

~~~~~~~~~~

I rather liked the Inaugural poem – I think. I need to take some time to read it, as while the lovely poet Elizabeth Alexander has many talents, public reading may not be one of them. I could hear and see my college oral performance professor Ms. Norris saying “find the natural rhythm – don’t over emphasize anything."

~~~~~~~~~~

One of my favorite moments during the Inauguration Ceremony came during the benediction given by civil rights icon Rev. Joseph Lowrey. Begun with a phrase from the Negro National Anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing”, laced with Scripture references and ended with a phrase of wit that was all the more powerful coming from a man who has seen more than his share of inequality during his lifetime.

Take a look and a listen:



~~~~~~~~~~

Today, I laughed, I cried, I sang, I prayed, I smiled, I cheered, I thought, I reacted, did I mention I cried, I pondered, I applauded, I was silent.

Tomorrow, I’m taking action.

Because as President Obama said...

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter’s courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent’s willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

I have a job to do. We all do. A responsibility to our country. Land that we love.

Thirty –two years ago today was a cold one here in Florida. That capricious weather element known as snow flurries danced in the air. My dad, the chief public information officer for the local power company, was everywhere, fielding calls about brown—outs and doing media interviews in the front yard. School was cancelled, because the classrooms couldn’t get warm enough. A day off. For cold weather. In Florida. Monumental.

So – what’s a slightly nerdy, precocious and inquisitive seventh grade girlie to do on such a day?

Watch history being made. Which is what I did.

The Presidential campaign of 1976 was the first one to which I really paid attention. Ironically, my fascination with Watergate was the gateway impetus to my deep and passionate investment in political current affairs. And so I watched party conventions and read about election events and tried to understand editorial comments. I knew the names of Jimmy Carter’s crazy family members and could identify his pals from Georgia. Coming from a family of yellow-dog Democrats, I appreciated, even at my tender age, the significance of this political shift.


So when the school called to let us know that classes were cancelled for the day, I was more excited than the average bear. For I would be able to watch history being made. I could see the Inauguration of President Carter unfold in real time. Which was basically all we had in those days before YouTube and Plurk and Facebook.

From the oath taking to the unprecedented jump out of the car of the family to walk, hand in hand, down the parade route, with Mrs. Carter in her baby blue coat to the glamour of the Inaugural Balls. Thirty-two years later, I still remember those details. My first Inauguration.

Today, I’m reminded of that piece of my history as I sit, electronically plugged in every which possible, watching each moment, each move of this day. With the same wonder and amazement and pride I had thirty-two years ago.

The world is a different place now, thanks to technology and trial and experience.. Yes, our challenges are different and dare I say, more dire – but still the same, somehow, as they were all those years ago.

But on a day like today, when hundreds of thousands of people have made the effort to simply be in the same airspace as the President, and the words hope and change and can and do are earnest and cliché-free, anything seems possible.

Just goes to show that idealism is timeless. The twelve-year-old girl in me tells me so.

The prompt: As writers, we all love to read good books for inspiration. What book inspired you as a writer and why?

I cannot remember a time when I didn’t – or wasn’t – reading. Family lore says I taught myself to read using the “funny papers”, which is what I called the comics. Not sure if that’s true, but I do remember crawling next to my dad in his “chair” and looking at the newspaper along with him as he read.

I read all the standards a chick my age should read growing up – “From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler;” “James and the Giant Peach;” the Encyclopedia Brown series; the adventures of the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden and my favorite book as a girl: Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women.”

However, my theoretical library wasn’t limited to “age appropriate” material. Oh no. We had a set of supermarket encyclopedias that featured book synopses in the back – some of which had some serious adult content. Of course I cannot remember the titles now, but let’s just say that my parents’ pride in my interest in the encyclopedias was a little misplaced…

With the condensed version of “Tobacco Road” serving as my gateway drug, I worked my way up to more complete and interesting works. Patrick Dennis’ “Auntie Mame” and “Around the World with Auntie Mame” became favorites. “Gone with the Wind” was read over and over again. I would save my allowance to buy the most recent installment of John Jakes’ Kent Family Chronicles as soon as it was released. Our shopping center had a small bookstore with a fantastic used book section in the back (behind the dirty magazine section even… go figure) I would pour over the titles, turning my head sideways and walking down the rows until my aching neck could take no more. I would read the books – Collins, Krantz, Sheldon, Susann – as fast as I could, turn them back into the store for credit, and start the cycle again.

And of course, in addition to all this “personal” reading, I was doing an equal amount for language arts/ English classes in school. I came to love Hemingway’s Spartan style and precise use of words and Fitzgerald’s sumptuous storytelling. Steinbeck’s symbolism and themes.

I was a very well-read young teenager – in every sense of the word.

But the real influence on me wanting to become a writer came during my middle school years and from a most unlikely source: the Harlequin romance.

Yeah – you read that right.

Harlequin romances were my pleasure reading of choice as a young lass. The reading was easy, the stories compelling to me at the time, and there were a JILLION of them, which was perfect for a speedy reader like me.

It was those very qualities that made me think that I too could be a Harlequin romance writer. Never mind that I was 11 years old. Never been kissed. And in seventh grade.

I was going to be a romance novel writer. Picked out my pen name: Whitney L’Amour. My dad read a lot of Louis L’Amour and I thought that name was totally wasted on a guy who wrote Westerns. Ergo my taking it for my own use.

My hero: Van Doren (he must have been a distant relative to Mamie.) Strong, masculine. Virile. Oh yeah. Hairy chest. Tight pants.

My heroine: Cassie Wilson. A champion swimmer. I also watched a lot of classic MGM movies in the day – so think Esther Williams.

I didn’t get very far with this tale of star-crossed lovers, family fights, land battles and disco, as my attention was diverted by the school play and my latest crush and well, more books to read.

But the whistle had been whet. The pen poised. The fire lit.

I wanted to write. Liked to write. Needed to write. And over the years, I played at it, goofed with it, took it seriously, ignored it, thought about it, toyed with it and embraced it.

I no longer read romance novels. But I will forever think fondly upon them. For they were my first muse, she said with a smoldering look in her eye and a yearning in her heart… and elsewhere…

The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then,
Poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn,
And keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing.


Sir Ray and Lady Betty said it best...


It's cold. Everywhere. Relatively speaking. Yep, even here in Florida.

Hush. Remember, cold is all relative...

So in that spirit, here's a little something-something to help warm y'all up. Tunes to remind you of balmy breezes and sultry evenings. And some piccies to set the mood. A listen and a look might just cure what ails you...

It’s been a weird week. Really weird. Emergency appendectomies (for the Mister) and driving, driving and more driving and scheduling and re-scheduling and room service and crazy drivers.

Here are some highlights:

* I drove across the state of Florida not once but twice in a 48-hour period. Lots of thought-time. Primary conclusion: I love my state like nothing else. And that trucks full of oranges going 73 miles an hour on a two-lane road can be pretty imposing. Plus radio SUCKS in that part of the world. Sorry, but true. And you KNOW how I am about my music...

* From the time the door of the ER in Palm Beach Gardens was darkened to the moment the elderly (and I do mean elderly – she remembers where she was when she heard the news that Glenn Miller’s plane went down. Vividly.) but sweet pink-coat-wearing volunteer wheeled the Patient out the front door to my awaiting car: under 12 hours. That includes time spent cooling one’s heals in the ER, diagnosis, surgery, recovery, post-op, check-out. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am and may we see your insurance card. Whooosh. God bless our health care system.

* I debated the definition of "soft foods." For the record, unless you are a grizzly bear, cedar-planked salmon on fettuccine alfredo is not a soft food. I'm just sayin'.

* I was seen coming and going from the Palm Beach Gardens Marriott driving two different cars, leaving on foot and arriving in a cab. The bellmen probably thought I was either a hooer or a drug dealer. Probably the latter, since no self respecting hooker in that neighborhood would do business in workout clothes and Chuck Taylors.

* I found amusement seeing this printed EVERYWHERE in the hotel:Look at the Cuban Sandwich description. Y'all. It's "mojo," not "moho." Sure, that's how it's pronounced. However...

And you'd think that in an area with a large Hispanic population and one that features Caribbean and Cuban cuisine frequently, someone -- anyone, including the printer, would know better. Oy.

* There was a group of nuclear energy professionals having a meeting in the hotel and I was gratified to overhear, more than once, the word pronounced “nuke-u-lar.” Just like Jimmy Carter and I say it. Yeah, I know. But too bad.

* I spent some time hanging on the beach – I love being surfside at this time of year. Something so exhilarating and affirming about it. Usually. Although this little warning can take some of the zip out of one’s doo-dah:

The beach was fairly deserted, save for a couple of departing surfers and this guy:

C’mon. It’s the beach, granted – but it was also 60 degrees. Dude. Not necessary when it’s warm out and REALLY not necessary now.

* Oh -- and I spotting this bumper sticker on the back of a very large truck on the way home:I love my state. I love the South. All hail Dixieland.

I’m sure there are other details and tidbits that will occur to me immediately upon hitting “Post.” But for now, this shall suffice.

It’s a crazy world I inhabit… certifiable.

... literally.

I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God.

I traveled today. Through the heart of Florida.

Myakka City. Arcadia. Okeechobee. Indiantown.

Old Florida. The Florida of my ancestors.

Young Florida. The Florida without guile or pretense or glitz.

Where the air is ripe in one breath with the earthiness of manure and in the next with the dancing perfume only citrus can create.

Where the Florida pampas hosts cattle, their white bird entourages and rustling brush as far as the eye can see. Endlessly.

The heart of Florida is its own entity.

It is primitive, a place where birds of prey dip and dance uninhibitedly to a centuries-old rhythm over carcasses of comrades.

It is unsullied, a place where a chain store refers to the local jewelry shop and the only neon around highlights a classic Ballantine Beer sign.

It is lush – a place abundant with full sabal palms, tall pinched scrub pines, the occasional mossy oak, and color highlights provided by ubiquitous oranges and graceful Bougainvillea.

It is austere, silent yet knowing, unadorned with man-made trappings yet magnificently beautiful.

It is rural, in the purest sense of the word, balmy with the underlying scent of humidity and money.

I traveled today. Through the heart of Florida.

And the heart of Florida beat within me.

And now it's time for yet another installment of Useless Yet Hopefully Entertaining Facts about Janey... try to control your excitement.

1. Have you ever been searched by the cops? 

I'm looking to improve my writing chops. All part of the process.

So I'm taking Sunday as a day to use some writing prompts with this blogging thing. Give me a chance to stretch a little and focus on something specific -- spur me on, so to speak. I think it will prove to be very interesting.

Here goes...

The Prompt:
Look around the room and pick an object. Write one paragraph describing the object in full detail and a second paragraph explaining where it came from.

~~~~~~~~~

It sits in an inauspicious place in my living room, keeping company with a densely scented candle and antiquated editions of Shakespeare and Blake. I have no idea how tall it is – without a measuring tool, I am hopelessly inept in the ways of determining size precisely.

It’s small. Round. Compact. But powerful and wise. It tells the story of another time, a time not measurably that long ago, but one that seems light years away. A time when the world itself was small, round and compact.

A time when places like French West Africa and British Guiana still existed. French Indochina. Burma. The U.S.S.R.

The colors are muted. Faded from time and touch. The oceans and seas are befittingly vast, a shade of aqua seen only in pure waters surrounding tropical islands. Countries are tinted in earth tones that once were probably more Technicolor than dusty. Type is small – reader glasses small. So much information compiled onto such an efficient space. Overwhelming in its scope yet intimate in the nuances it provides.

The base and support elements are metal – dark, dark metal. Not rusted, but aged. Well. Appropriate.


This is my grandfather’s globe. Eight inches high. Monumental in impact.

I didn’t know my grandfather – he died when my mother was only five years old. Somehow, I have become the keeper of the family treasures, including this globe. I imagine it sitting on his desk at home, a reference for his work as a Spanish professor at our local junior college. Or for his frequent trips to Cuba. I see my mother’s inquisitive fingerprints on it – there mostly for the thrill of spinning it round and round but also for searching and finding and seeking.

I’m also not sure about the exact age of the globe – it postdates 1936, as there’s a notation about the reaching of the North Pole, which happened in ’36. But it’s most likely around 70 years old, give or take. Wow.

And while I don’t know a lot about the globe – and don’t know a lot about my grandfather, having this item of his in my possession helps me to feel closer both to him and to his world.

Maybe it’s not so inauspicious after all.

Ever have one of those days... when everything, including your creativity, takes a hiatus? When you sluff around in comfy clothes, charmingly mussy hair, a slightly sleepy look on your face, a languidity to your demeanor...

Your Spicy Score: Medium

You are hot enough to make a lasting impression, but you strike a balance. You know when you're being too fiery, and you also know when to bump up the temperature. Naughty and clever. Sexy yet down to earth.  You know how to work both sides of your personality. Men find you hot yet approachable - the perfect combination!

Your Little Black Dress Says You're Enchanting

You are chic, worldly, and charming. You are naturally fascinating and popular. You never feel like pretending to be someone you're not. Your style is simple, flattering, and always appropriate. You fill your closet with well quality, timeless items. If you were a shoe, you would be: Open toed heels

Your Word is "Peace"

You see life as precious, and you wish everyone was safe, happy, and taken care of. Social justice, human rights, and peace for all nations are all important to you. While you can't stop war, you try to be as calm and compassionate as possible in your everyday life. You promote harmony and cooperation. You're always willing to meet someone a little more than halfway.

You Speak Dixie!

45% Dixie 30% General American English 10% Yankee 5% Midwestern 0% Upper Midwestern

You Are 64% Lady

Overall, you are a refined lady with excellent manners. But you also know when to relax and not get too serious about etiquette

You Are a Music Geek

Music Geekiness: High Academic Geekiness: Moderate Geekiness in Love: Moderate Fashion Geekiness: Low Internet Geekiness: Low Movie Geekiness: Low Gamer Geekiness: None Nerdy Geekiness: None SciFi Geekiness: None

You Are 15% Left Brained, 85% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

You Are a 1950s Diva

High heels, pretty dresses, classic makeup... You're a feminine beauty who knows how to play up her assets!