W is for Wicked

Although I grew up in upstate New York, my family is originally from New England - just outside of Boston to be a bit more specific. Aside from a few Midwestern hiccups (and I have no idea where those came from), my accent is almost neutral. 

And I hated it. 

During the summers we'd gather with my grandparents in Maine for a few glorious weeks of fun and freedom playing capture the flag in the street, swimming in the frigid Atlantic, crabbing, and hunting salamanders in the woods. The best of all times was when my cousins trips coincided with ours. I loved listening to them talk. The dropped Rs, the long drawn out vowels. It was a beautiful thing, perhaps even the start of my love affair with accents (although as I got older I grew more and more fascinated with European accents over American ones). 

I idolized my cousin Mike. Out of all my cousins he was my favorite growing up. He never ignored me, never talked down to me, and he always made time to play with me even though he was six years older. Of course, rosy glasses being what they are, I'm sure my siblings and Mike could list hundreds of times when he joined in teasing me or, you know, locking me and his other female cousins in the bunkhouse.

I loved the Muppet Show - I still do actually - and when Mike would visit he would have be practice my Miss Piggy karate chops of rolls of paper towels and he'd sing, "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" while I hi-yah'd away at the paper towels. Best of all, he'd tell me I was wicked cool in that awesome accent.

Is it any wonder why I adored him so much?

Wicked, from the 1980s, can be used as both and adjective and a adverb. As an adjective it means excellent or outstanding, when used as an adverb it means very.

Example: Wilson wandered down a wide woody path, "Wow! Those weeping willows are wicked!"

This post has been brought to you by the Letter W and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

R is for Rugrat

So, I’m a bum or I was exceedingly busy this weekend. Either way, I’m late with my R and I might be late with my S.

Way back when I was a teenager we all doted on my nephew. He was the first grandchild, the first (and only boy), the first nephew. I loved that kid like crazy mad. Still do. He’s a great kid…young man…crap! Seriously, he’s an adult now, but I still see him as a kid. I can’t help it.

The 90s was the decade of Nickelodeon. All the very best shows from that network are firmly placed in the 90s (Double Dare and You Can’t Do That On Television excluded). The 90s saw Clarissa Explains It All, Blue’s Clues, Doug and of course, Rugrats.

Kyle and I loved Rugrats and made a big event each week watching the new episodes. I couldn’t tell you who was more excited about Tommy’s antics or Chuckie’s OCD. Rugrats was our thing. Sure Kirsten and Mom would watch occasionally, but they didn’t understand the appeal and wonder that was Rugrats.

For Kyle, I image the appeal might have been a sense of independence, taking charge of his childhood like Tommy and escaping the nursery. For me, Rugrats reminded me of the wonderful way children view the world, they way I still wanted to view the world…Heck! I still view the world like that sometimes where a sandy playground becomes a desert; a staircase becomes a Mount Everest waiting to be scaled.

Rugrats, at its heart, should remind us that adventure is always waiting sometimes it’s just a matter of how we see things.

Rugrat is a noun from the 1970s that means small child.

Example: Roger ran through the rain to the rodeo hoping that the rugrats would still be riding the sheep, easily the creepiest and entertaining portion of the rodeo. 

This post has been brought to you by the Letter R and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

P is for Put a Bee in your Bonnet

When I was little I can remember running to my grandmother in conniptions of excitement, jumping up and down by her side, tugging on her hand or sleeve until I got her devoted attention. With 15+ grandchildren gaining undivided attention especially during summer vacations was tricky. I may have even used manners in interrupting, but I somehow doubt that. Impulsiveness and a serious lack of patience has always plagued me.

Inevitably, once attention was gained, I was scolded for interrupting.

“Who put a bee in your bonnet?” my grandmother would ask with a soft smile.

I would laugh because the thought of wearing a bonnet was absurd enough without having a bee shoved in one. But I never really much thought about the saying beyond it was something that my grandmother said. In the years since her death I’ve often spent time recalling my memories of her and wished that I had more. I wonder sometimes what she might think of my life now and my children. As much as I’d love to have my children know her, I know that in fact they do, a little because I see so much of my grandmother in my mom. Her smile and the twinkle in her eyes when she talks to her grandchildren are so very much my grandmother.

I know many women never want to hear that they have turned into their mothers but our mothers are our very first teachers, our cheerleaders, our greatest supporters and I can think of no higher compliment to my mom to tell her the million little ways she reminds me of grandma.

Put a bee in your bonnet is a phrase from the 1930s that means you have something interesting to tell; however, I think my grandmother used it more to mean “what the heck has gotten into you, Heather!”

Example: “Please, Penelope, stop jumping and tell us who put a bee in your bonnet?” Pansy asked. Penelope preened with pride, “I’ve practiced piccolo pretty much all day and now have Puccini’s Madame Butterfly practically perfect!”

This post has been brought to you by the Letter P and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

L is for Louse

Back in my day, one of the worst things to call someone on the playground was a louse. To kids, there is a stigma attached to having lice. A stigma, that to this day has not been broken. Dirty kids, poor kids, kids that were different always had a better chance of being infested than you did.

Until the day, you actually came home, digging and scratching in your hair and suddenly, you were ashamed.

I've had lice twice in my life. Once as a child and I don't really remember much about it except I insisted on looking at one through a magnifying glass. And once a few years ago when the girls and I bought some beach hats. Ashleigh noticed them first on her head and I asked her if there was a notice from her school - because the schools will do that - and sure enough, there wasn't. We racked our brains trying to figure out where she could have picked them up, when Cyra came to me complaining that her head was itchy. 

We traced the outbreak to the hats and by then, I was starting to itch.

Everyone and everything got treated: all the stuffed animals, bedding, clothes. I put chemicals on the carpet, sprayed so much Rid everywhere, I might as well have called pest control.

Just writing about it makes my head itch!!

Louse has been around for ages as the singular name for lice. As a slang though, it can be traced to the early 1900s where it was a noun used to describe a mean person. Today, I think we use it to mean a jerk or a low-life.

Example: Larry lurked low in the lilacs lying in wait for Lenny the Louse to leave Leona's love nest. Larry laughed thinking about how he was going to lob a loogie at Lenny.

This post has been brought to you by the Letter L and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. And by the number 744. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

J is for Jalopy

This is the first word on my list so far that I have no specific memories for nor can I recall ever using it. Which is a travesty because we’ve all owned a jalopy.

My jalopy was an old Chevy Celebrity station wagon that my sister bought off of a co-worker for me. Well, I say she bought it for me, but it is just as likely that she bought it so that we could have an extra car - specifically so that I’d stop asking to borrow the car. It was love at first sight. I named him Rembrandt and had visions of giving him a paint job akin to the one that Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem gave Fozzie’s Studebaker.

Rembrandt saw my through my first summer after graduation and took me on my first camping trip. My first real make-out session happened in the back underneath a beautiful starry sky on my favorite back road.

I don’t remember the cause of Rembrandt’s death, but by the autumn of 95, he’d had enough and was put out to pasture.

Jalopy is a noun from the 1920s that means a beat up old car.

Example: Jack jumped into the jeep and jolted in surprise. “This jalopy just jabbed me in the Johnson!”

This post has been brought to you by the Letter J and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. And by the number 1166. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

E is for Egad

 Back in high school one of my favorite cartoons was Animaniacs. Who am I kidding? It still is one of my favorite cartoons. So much so that I’ve introduced it to my daughters who also now love it! I love the pop culture references, the hijinks, the pure unadulterated chaos caused by the Warner Brothers and the Warner Sister. It is a show that is entertaining and intelligent, introducing kids to concepts like the theory of relativity, our small place in the universe, and thematic movies like the Godfather.

And of course most of these concepts were introduced by song. Best way to learn, right? Give a shout out if you can remember the Preamble because of School House Rocks! Seriously, Friends, the only reason I know all the state capitals is because of Animaniacs.

But by far my favorite part of the Animaniacs was Pinky and The Brain. They must have been popular because they landed themselves a short lived spin off. I giggled uncontrollably every time Pinky screwed up or “narffed” and I loved it when he would exclaim, “Egad, Brain!” marveling at Brain’s plans for world domination.

This might just be the oldest word on my list. I’m not 100 percent sure though as I still have a few words left to pick.

Egad is an interjection dating from the late 1600s used to express shock or surprise.

Example: Egad, Evelyn! Every earthworm we’ve enjoyed exposing to excrement enthusiastically endures endless episodes of Entourage, Eureka, and as expected, Ed, Edd, ‘n Eddie. 

This post has been brought to you by the Letter E and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. And by the number 584. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

Photo A Day - View From Your Window

I love the view from my living room windows. A big grassy lawn, a gazebo and a pond - it reminds me of an old English estate. Not that I have ever been to an old English estate but I imagine that there would be at least one view from the manor that overlooked an expanse of manicured lawn with a pretty gazebo smack in the middle of an artfully arranged garden and a glassy pond filled to the brim with basking turtles, minnows and dragonflies.

I have a very good imagination.

This view today grants me a small taste of home - upstate New York. Although it is well into November, here in Florida it only just started to get chilly and the leaves only just turned and started to fall. It's officially long sleeve shirt weather now. (Sorry my Great White North friends for rubbing it in...how many feet of snow do you have already?)

As much as I find home is where my family is, I still miss my hometown in the autumn. The delightful crunch of the leaves under foot, the crisp air biting at the nose, the fuzzy sweaters and slippers, apple orchards and pumpkin patches, things that Florida lack, makes me nostalgic for home. But once a year, as the few deciduous trees drop their leaves, I am transported back to my northeastern roots.

Look at my little photobombing kitty, Simone. It wasn't until I had the camera aimed out the window that she decided she needed to be on the sill.

A carpet of leaves is as close as I'll get to a carpet of snow.

Photo A Day - A Favorite Thing

When I was little my dad, every year, would take me to the Topsfield Fair. We'd walk around the 4-H buildings and look at chickens and rabbits. We'd stroll through the big tent filled with thousands of jars of jams, pickled things and honey. I can remember towering sunflowers flanking the entrance and makeshift hay tables covered with pumpkins, gourds and Indian corn.

I wouldn't go on the rides but we'd play the carnival games and I rarely ever won anything. But once, my eye caught sight of a stuffed raccoon hanging from the upper reaches of a roulette-ish style game. One would make fifty cent bets on colors, months, numbers, days of the weeks all sorts of things. Then someone in the crowd tossed a hexagon shaped die and whatever the die landed on was the winner.

And I wanted that raccoon. I begged my dad to let me play and he handed me fifty cents. I have no idea what I put my bet on but when that die bounced across the betting table, I knew, I just knew I was going to win. Every molecule in my body knew that me winning was the only possible outcome.

Image my devestation when I didn't win.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I'm sure that a temper tantrum was imminent. My dad quickly took out another fifty cents and said he'd give it a go, but if he didn't win then it was time to move on to the rubber frog launching game that he knew I wanted to play next. With a nod I agreed because of course my dad would win me my raccoon.

And you know what?

He totally did.

But I'm fairly sure he played about a hundred more times.

Sort of looks like he's doing the hula, doesn't it?

I tried to get him from his best side, but honestly, all his sides are the best!

Bandit has been with me since I was eight years old. He is from an era when carnival prizes were made out of quality material - no plastic pellets fill his tummy just soft and oh so squishable fiberfill. He stayed on my bed from elementary school right through college. He still sits next to my bed today. I don't snuggle him as much anymore but some days when I am sad or angry with the world I reach out for him and squeeze him tight. Which is why, really, he's a bit lopsided now and the soft velvet of his nose has worn away.

This is part of a month long photo a day challenge hosted by fatmumslim.

A Bit of History, Gone.

Along with all of the other devestation that Sandy has caused, a minor news blip that got almost no attention (from what I can tell) is that the tall ship, the Bounty, sank off of the coast of North Carolina.

Sank.

The Bounty.

It might have been just a replica built for a Hollywood movie but it was history. History that I walked upon and touched. History that introduced my girls to Marlon Brando. History that now lies at the bottom of the ocean.

Sure it isn't as tragic as the loss of the Titanic or the Lusitania. It isn't as pressing as the flooding in New York - my home state - or the tens of thousands without power. But I'm sad about it nonetheless. Maybe because there aren't many tall ships left in this world of gas and metal. Maybe because The Bounty represented a time and age that I long to be a part of.

Here's a blurb from CNN that shows rescue footage of three of the crew members and another from the Washington Post.

I wrote about the Bounty a few months ago when it docked in St. Augustine and the we took a tour walking the deck where Marlon Brando and Johny Depp walked - not that I'm a big fan of Depp but yeah it was used in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies too.

Story of a Cake Photo Edition

You didn't really think that I wouldn't take photos of the cake, did you?

mmm...melting chocolate and butter. What a great base for a cake.

A little yolk and sugar.

Beating those egg whites into shape!

Fold the egg whites into the chocolate base.

I could totally eat this as is!

It isn't there just yet...

Grating chocolate is tiring.

Almost looking like the photo!

There it is. I plan on adding a touch of fresh whipped cream with a touch of vanilla for garnish instead of the chocolate curls. Also, this is the very same orange plate that I served it on the first time.

This is the Story of a Cake

In August of 2002, six months pregnant with our second child, I was finally ready to marry Scott. After four months on the road he had vacation coming up and planned to be home just in time for my birthday. Only a few days prior to his arrival he called to let me know when he’d home and I told him I was ready for the ring.

He got home late on Friday evening looking very much like a mountain man down from the Appalachians with a big bushy beard and shaggy hair. I didn’t realize how much I had missed him until he wiped the tears from my cheeks. With Ashleigh swung up high in his arms we walked into the house. Tired, smelly and with mounds of laundry he managed a quick bite to eat and a shower before falling into bed.

The next night, the eve before my birthday, we celebrated his birthday that we missed while he was on the road. I made a rich chocolate fudge cake with a thick ganache glaze. It was the first time I had every tried to make a cake from scratch. I stuck five candles in the cake and Ashleigh and I sang a very off-key rendition of Happy Birthday. Normal sized servings had to be quartered it was so sweet.

I was going to school full time so I wasn’t working and we had very little money to spare, so the next day for my birthday, we stuck the same five candles back in the cake, turned it slightly and used it for my birthday cake as well. Three more very small slices later and we still had a half of the cake left over.

On Monday, Scott and I rose early and went to the courthouse to apply for a marriage license. I fidgeted almost more than Ashleigh while we waited in line. I squirmed while answering the clerk’s questions. Scott held my hand tightly and told me be still.

Afterward, I called my mom. Then called my dad and told him we were getting married on the 15^th if he’d like to come down. They were both disappointed that we were doing it so quickly and shouldn’t we wait and plan a “proper wedding?”

I didn’t want a proper wedding – whatever that was. I didn’t want a fuss.

I sent an email to extended family and friends letting them know what was going on. And for the most part, everyone understood. Scott had to leave by the afternoon of the 15^th in order to get back to work and we didn’t want to wait anymore. Especially Scott. Once I had said I would, he wanted to get that ring on my finger as swiftly as possible. I wasn’t going to change my mind, of course, but after nearly six years of agreeing to marry him and never setting an actual date, I understood his nervousness.

The night before we got married, I found out a friend I had hoped would be able to come was not going to make it. Scott held me, pulled back tight against his chest, while I cried into my pillow. He brushed my hair out of my face, wiped my tears dry and whispered how much he loved me.

“We don’t have to do this tomorrow,” he said.

“What?” My eyes hurt and nose was stuffy and red and it took me a moment to process his words.

“We can wait until you’re ready.”

“I shook my head. “I am ready,” I insisted.

“Really?” he asked. “All this and you say you’re ready?”

“It’s just…I wanted a friend there too.” Scott’s closest friend was coming and maybe I was jealous. Maybe I was still nervous about getting married. “I am ready, Scott. I want to get married. We are getting married tomorrow.”

“I don’t mind if you want to wait until we can plan an actual party with all your family and friends to come.”

He understood. I might not want to fuss, the big wedding with glitz and glam, but I did want my family there. And my friends.

“No.” I told him. “My mom and dad will be there. Your dad, too. That’s enough.”

The next morning, tears started anew when I realized I hadn’t any flowers. I had always thought when I got married I would have a bouquet of white daisies or a small sprig of lily of the valley or maybe just a bunch of lilacs. Simple flowers that I loved. After a few minutes of tears, Scott managed to work out why I was crying and headed out to the car. We always kept change in the ashtray and he managed to dig out enough to run to the grocery store and buy me a very small bouquet of white carnations with a bit of baby’s breath. My mom worked the flowers into two small bouquets, one for me and a smaller one for Ashleigh.

And they were perfect.

I wore this dress. Scott even put on a tie. And we drove ourselves to courthouse. As we parked the car, Scott held my hand.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

I shook my head.

I nodded again.

The ceremony was very much a blur. It was hot and sticky, the humidity already nearing 90 percent even that early in the morning. Sweat trickled down my back and Scott looked about to melt in his shirt and tie. Cyra tumbled across my abdomen. Ashleigh became fascinated with tiny snails that inched across the sidewalk and kept crouching down to watch them. She picked a few up and held them up for me to see. I said vows, but I don’t remember what they were. If I promised to obey…well, that hasn’t really been kept. But I’m pretty sure all the other ones I’ve done okay with.

When all was said and done the court official asked if I’d like to go inside and request a name change.

I looked at Scott. This was something we hadn’t really ever discussed. Sure, Ashleigh bore his name and the new baby would as well, that seemed right and appropriate, but me?

There must have been something on my face that he could read…or maybe (as much as I hate to admit it) he just knows me all too well.

“No,” he said, “That’s okay. I think she’ll keep her name.”

“Oh.” The court official said. “Well, if you change your mind-“

I smiled and nodded. “I won’t.”

Scott chuckled and we walked away to join our parents. My dad treated us to a wedding breakfast at Shoney’s which was perfect because I was starving by then having been too nervous earlier to eat.

We drove home holding hands, fiddling with the rings now on our fingers. Mine, too big, looped around my thumb.

“You know,” I told him, “I’ve never really been a fan of jewelry…”

“It stays on,” he warned. “We’ll get it sized, but it stays put!”

At home, Scott packed up his duffel bag as I watched.

“Hey!” I said, “We need to have wedding cake!”

“Hon, we don’t really have the time to get or make one.”

I paused for a second. “We have the birthday cake. I’ll just turn it around.”

We both laughed and went to the kitchen. I took the cake out from the refrigerator and unwrapped the tinfoil. I called for Ashleigh and my parents to join us. We stood around the half a cake with forks and dug in. Scott and I exchanged bites – but did not smear cake in each other’s face.

I giggle about it now, a recycled wedding cake, but it is one of my favorite stories from back then.

As the years passed, Scott and I often celebrated our anniversary with a small dinner out or a quiet evening at home. One year, in the midst of work and school, we each forgot our anniversary altogether and didn’t realize it until nearly a week had passed. One year, after hearing the story of the recycled cake, one of our gamer friends bought us a large cake to celebrate our anniversary.

Today, ten years after the recycled cake and once again short on cash, I will once again make the cake that served as birthday and wedding cake.

Ten years.

It seems appropriate this year to remember the humble beginnings to our marriage.

Monkey in the Tree

NOTE: I am prefacing this story with the following disclaimer: I do not believe in ghosts, spirits or apparitions. I never have. And despite this story, I still don't. Zombies, aliens and Bigfoot, however, I (mostly) completely believe in.

Kirsten leaned against the cool stone wall next to me. Cyra snuggled in her arms. The ghost tour had gone on longer than a two year old was capable of walking and between Kirsten, Mom and me we had taken turns holding the increasingly temperamental toddler.

The tour guide was telling a story about a Spanish woman who was buried in the cemetery behind us. Ashleigh leaned against me half listening and my nephew fidgeted in the crowd. Cyra kicked her feet against the wall making her shoes light up. Earlier, the tour guide suggested that ghosts like to follow lights, like those in her shoes, home. She wiggled and Kirsten switched her to her other arm.

“Do you want me to take her?” I asked.

Kirsten shook her head. “She’s fine.”

Suddenly something caught Cyra’s eye and she stared intently into the live oak looming over our heads. Fascinated she watched the upper branches for a few minutes while the tour guide droned on about the funeral parade of the Spanish lady.

“Look Auntie,” Cyra squeed pointing into the tree.

Kirsten and I both looked where she point. Branches and leaves swayed softly in the night breeze, but we didn’t see anything interesting or unusual.

We nodded and played along. But she was not fooled.

“No! Auntie, look.” She insisted, “See the monkey?”

I chuckled. “A monkey?”

She nodded staring into the tree. Kirsten and I exchanged a look. Do you see anything, it said. No, nothing.

Cyra giggled and laughed. “Silly Monkey.”

A few other people on the tour looked over at us and we hushed Cyra.

“I don’t see anything, sweetie,” Kirsten said.

Cyra took Kirsten’s chin in her hands and turned her head to look into the branches. “Look Auntie, the monkey!”

Again, my sister and I studied the dark branches above our heads to no avail. Whatever it was that Cyra was seeing we couldn’t spot. Cyra continued to giggle softly at the monkey’s antics while we stood there. I didn’t mention, nor did my sister, who also knew, the story of Little James.

James died in 1877 at the age of 5 years and 10 days old. According to legend, he often climbed in the large live oak that sits just inside the Tolomato Cemetery. He would scoot out onto the branch that drooped over Cordova Street. One day, he slipped and fell to the street below. His family buried him in the shade of the tree he loved so much.

Over the years, most stories about James come from children who would see a little boy dressed in “funny clothes” playing in the tree and cemetery. Some ghost hunters claim to have heard a child giggling in the cemetery. Most often though he is seen scampering in the tree.

Kind of like a monkey…

The tour guide finished up her story and we moved down along the street. Cyra waved goodbye to the monkey in the tree. The rest of the tour was uneventful and when we got home Cyra giggled as I put her to bed.

“What are you laughing at sweet heart?” I asked.

“Silly monkey, Mommy,” she giggled and twisted on her changing tabled looking around the room.

“Well,” I said with a big pretend yawn. “Tell the silly monkey it is your bedtime and he needs to be quiet.”

She did so and I read her a quick story and tucked her into bed monkey almost, but not quite forgotten.

A few days later, just after Ashleigh had left for school, Cyra sat on the couch watching Arthur while I got ready for the day. I stepped into the bathroom and started doing my hair when I heard a loud shrill giggle.

“Mommy!” Cyra yelled.

I stuck my head around the corner. Cyra, still on the couch, pointed at the T.V. now off.

“Did you turn it off?” I asked coming back into the living room.

Cyra shook her head.

“Let me have the remote, Cyra.” I said holding out my hand.

Cyra pointed at the top of the entertainment center. The remote sat in the exact spot I had placed it a few minutes before. I gave Cyra a look. I didn’t think she could reach up there yet. I better push things back farther, I thought.

I turned the T.V. back on and returned to the bathroom. The second I stepped in, I heard the T.V. click off again, followed by another giggle. I went back into the living room. Cyra sat in the same spot kicking her feet. I looked at the entertainment center. The remote was still in its spot.

“Cyra stop playing with the buttons on the T.V.” I scolded slowly. She knew how to turn the T.V. on and off with the buttons on the base of the set. But I knew I didn’t hear her get up. And certainly, I thought, she didn’t have enough time to get to the T.V. and back without me seeing her.

I picked up the remote, turned the T.V. back on and walked back to the bathroom, remote still in hand. I hadn’t taken more then three steps when the T.V. turned off again. I stopped and turned around. Cyra smiled.

“I bet someone has a universal remote outside,” I said but I I didn’t really believe that. I walked to the apartment window anyway and looked downstairs. How creepy it would be if there was someone outside. The yard was empty.

The T.V. turned back on. Then off. Then on again. Cyra laughed and jumped off the couch.

“Monkey! Monkey! Silly Monkey!” she giggled.

The set went off again. I stood in the middle of the room, remote in hand. I turned around the whole room slowly.

“Alright.” I said to the room, “I get it. Now, please stop.”

I turned the T.V. back on and waited. After a few minutes passed, I went back to getting ready. The T.V. stayed on. Over the next few months the T.V. would occasionally turn itself off and on. When it happened, we made sure to acknowledge the little monkey Cyra claimed was doing it. And after a while it stopped happening altogether.

James' headstone. I will feature other photos from the Tolomato Cemetery on Friday.

Z is for Zombies

I am the first to admit that I cannot and should not watch horror movies. Or movies that might be scary in any sense of the word. Or movies that might hint at something scary. I especially should not watch ANYTHING to do with zombies.

But I do. I break this scared and most cardinal rule all the time now.

Back in 2004, Scott and I decided to watch the recently released remake of Dawn of the Dead on DVD. We snuggled down on the couch in our tiny apartment and before the title even appeared on the screen my heart was already pounding and I gripped Scott’s hand.

“If you can’t handle this,” he said. “Let’s just turn it off. I’ll watch it later.”

“No. No.” I insisted. “I’m fine.”

Two hours of jumping and twitching and squeaking and closing my eyes, the movie finally ended.

“I loved it!” I told Scott.

He raised his eyebrow at me.

“No. Really!” I exclaimed. “I really did.”

“Your eyes were closed for most of it.” he said as he stood up. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “Come on, bed.” He pushed me into the bedroom.

I was just a bit unsure about the whole going to sleep thing, but I gamely changed into my jimmies and crawled under the sheets. Scott gave me a kiss and turned out the light. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I started hearing things moving around outside.

“I’m glad we’re on the second floor.” I whispered in the dark. “All we’d have to do is break the staircases.”

“They’re made of concrete.” Scott sighed. “We don’t have a sledgehammer.”

“We need one.”

“Go to sleep.” He growled.

I fell asleep a few minutes later. I’m not sure how long I slept for but when I woke, it was still dark. Light from a street light filtered in through the blinds casting a yellow streaks on the wall. As I often do, I rolled over to snuggle Scott for a minute before I fell back asleep. Scott lifted his head off the pillow as I slid my arm around his waist and growled low in his throat. His eyes were dead and I could see in the dimness part of his face was missing. He was a zombie! I screamed and threw a punch right at his face then scrambled from the bed. He grabbed at me and I froze for a split second before I started flailing my arms and legs.

“Ow! Shit!” Scott yelled. “Heather! You punched me in the face!”

I screamed again and Scott clamped his hands down on my shoulders as I flailed about under the sheets.

“WAKE UP!” Scott yelled again and shook me.

My eyes popped fully open and I looked up at Scott.

“You were a zombie!” I cried tears streaming down my cheeks.

“You punched me!” Scott shook his head. “How would that have helped if I was a zombie?” He let got of my shoulders and turned on the light.

“I was trying to get away.” I said trying to calm down.

“It’s a good thing you don’t know how to actually throw a punch.” He chuckled, just a bit, because he was clearly still upset. “You are NEVER watching another zombie movie again!

A few years later, I started added a minor addendum to the story. I didn’t just punch him because he was a zombie. I cured him! Also, this is the reason why I am not allowed to have anything more dangerous than a piñata stick on my bedside table.

Y is for Yellow

(NOTE - Clearly I am off schedule for the Blogging A to Z Challenge. I really struggled with a topic for Y and I was also pretty busy yesterday so I took Saturday off.)

When Scott and I bought the old house, painting the girls’ rooms was easy and done before we moved in. The downstairs however, was one giant L shaped blank slate. Very open concept, the living room/dining room had so much wall space it was really hard for Scott and me to decide on a color. Quite honestly, Scott didn’t care at all what colors the walls were and left the decision mostly in my hands.

Mom and my sister, now pretty much next door, had lots of opinions about the walls. They would come over with fabric samples and color swatches trying to help me make a choice. The white walls were covered in bright splotches of spackle where Kirsten and I had filled in nail holes and small cracks. I was okay with it, for the most part, but mom and Kirsten were not. They got frustrated with my indecision.

For over six months I hemmed and hawed about paint colors. Finally, one day in early autumn mom came over with fabric swatches for me to look at, three different patterns in golden yellow, teal and orange.

“What if I make curtains with them?” Mom asked.

“Sure.” I said. “I like them.”

“What about the walls?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I really don’t care all that much, honestly.”

I liked the colors, but on the wall? I wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the walls painted but with so much wall, I was nervous of the color being overwhelming. After a few minutes argument about the wall colors – me insisting that I liked the spackle spots just fine, I finally gave up and told them that if it bother them so much they could do something about it.

The following week after a particularly hectic day, I picked up the girls and headed home. It was getting dark and I could see lights coming from inside.

“Did I not turn off the lights this morning?” I asked as we pulled in the driveway.

Ashleigh shrugged.

I was a bit nervous about going inside at this point, but in we went. All the furniture was pulled away from the walls, tarps were thrown on the floor, blue painter’s tape covered up the trim and my sister perched on a ladder happily painting the walls of my dining room yellow. The smell of fresh paint clung in the air despite the sliding glass doors being wide open. Mom painted around the trim between the dining room and kitchen. The living room was mostly done except for a corner behind the entertainment center.

“Wow,” I said slowly. “Yellow.”

“Isn’t it great?” Mom asked.

“It’s really…yellow.” I said slowly trying to wrap my head around it.

“You said you didn’t care.” My sister said.

I nodded. “Yeah…I didn’t…” I looked around the room.

“You hate it,” Mom said disappointment heavy in her voice.

“No…no, I don’t hate it.” I replied. “It’s just really yellow.”

“If you really hate it, we can change it. It’s just paint,” my sister said.

“No,” I sighed. “It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.”

And I did. I like the color despite there being so much of it. The one drawback? Every single photo taken inside made people look sallow and jaundiced. 

This is an old photo and one of the only ones I could find were I wouldn't be embarrassed by clutter or large piles of socks.

 

X is for X-Ray

I looked up at the parallel bars and took a deep breath. I was next and I knew, I just knew, that I would not be able to perform the task Coach set for us. I fidgeted in the line and tugged at my gym shirt. This was the first year I had to change for gym class. I missed jumping rope and playing kickball. Why did middle school P.E. class have to have units? Why did we need a gymnastic unit?

I watched in awe as the girl in front of me pulled herself up and propelled herself across the bars. I could see her arms straining as she held herself up and was impressed that she made it nearly all the way across before dropping neatly to the mats below.

Coach waved me forward. I tugged at my shirt again. I scuffed my feet across the floor, my sneakers squeaked and chirped. I stopped in front of Coach and listened with half an ear as she gave me instructions.

“Alright?” she asked.

I hadn’t understood a thing she said.

“Please, Coach,” I whispered up at her while my eyes were fixed on the bars looming above my head. “I can’t do this.”

“You need to at least try.” Coach gave me that look. The one that makes you feel small and like crap because you’re afraid. I was overweight in 5^th grade and Coach seemed to think I was trying to get out of any exercise.

“Coach,” I implored and nodded to a small group of girls jumping rope. “Let me do something else. I can not do this.”

“Heather,” Coach was patient but insistent, “Everyone has to give it a try first.” She leaned down, her eyes sympathetic. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. I expect you to try. That’s all I’m asking.”

I nodded even as tears pooled in my eyes.

I walked up to the bars. I could feel all sorts of eyes on my back. It made it worse. I reached up for the bars and had to go on tiptoe before I could grab them. It wasn’t as hard to pull myself up as I thought it might be, but I knew that it was going to be near impossible to lift my body up over the bars. I struggled. I pulled. I strained and grunted. Coach kept giving me very loud words of encouragement. And then I was up, my upper body over the top of the parallel bars. My arms burned and then, all of a sudden I was on the mat, my left arm bent funny underneath me.

I screamed and the tears that I had gotten a head start on flowed freely. Coach crouched beside me, assessed and gathered me to my feet. She walked me to the nurse’s office where a quick phone call to my mom had her speeding to the school. By the time she arrived my arm was puffed out twice the normal size and turning an ugly bluish purple. My tears had yet to stop. I had ice wrapped around my arm and was quickly shuffled off to the doctor’s office.

Back then doctors did everything in-house. There wasn’t a specialist just the general practitioner. Dr. Smith ushered us into an exam room, threw some lead pads over my chest and snapped a few quick x-rays – the first I’d had except for dental x-rays.

I sat as still as I could while the x-rays were being developed. Mom stood by me smoothing the hair from my forehead. The room felt too warm. I felt too clammy. Everything seemed like it was spinning and a roller coaster at the same time. I closed my eyes and gulped. With every heartbeat, my arm felt like it swelled and ebbed like the ocean tides.

“Mom?” I whimpered.

“It’ll be fine, sweetie,” she said.

I wanted to believe her. And then the doctor came back in. He waved a shiny, floppy black x-ray at us.

“It’s definitely broken.” He shoved the picture onto a light box. “Both the radius and the ulna.”

He pointed to the breaks. My bones were clearly not in the right place. The x-ray showed that just above my left wrist, both snapped – thankfully not too much and certainly they weren’t poking out through my skin. My stomach rolled as I stared at the x-ray.

“I’m going to need to set it.” 

He took out a bowl, plaster and rolls of gauze and thick cotton. I watched as he prepared everything next to the exam table setting each tool needed on a shiny stainless steal tray.

“I don’t feel so good,” I mumbled and lay back down.

“This is going to hurt, Heather,” Dr. Smith said. “I won’t lie. But I need you to lie as still as you can, understand?”

I nodded and my mom moved closer to my side. The doctor took my arm in his hands and began to gently rub.

Then SNAP! My arm clicked back into place, one of the single-most disturbing noises I have ever heard. I shrieked, my voice cracking and echoing in the room.Tears exploded from my eyes. The room spun about and tilted oddly. The door pounded open as a nurse rushed in expecting to find someone dead.

“I’m going to be sick!” I screamed and turned my head.

Mom grabbed a plastic bowl and shoved it under my mouth as heaved up my lunch. I sobbed while I puked, the smell stinging my eyes and eliciting more tears. When I was once again calm, with nothing else to come up, my mom helped me clean up and got me a drink of water to rinse my mouth out.

Dr. Smith, working quickly, wrapped my arm in the thick cotton and began slapping on warm strips of gauze dipped in plaster. My arm, throbbing slightly less than before, felt heavy and warm. The shiny white cast weighed my arm down. I felt off balance. Dr. Smith fitted me with a sling.

“The cast will need to stay on for six weeks,” Dr. Smith said. “Keep her calm – don’t let her run around. You don’t want her falling again.”

“Does this mean I can’t go to gym?” I asked staring at my arm.

Dr. Smith nodded. “I’ll give you a note.”

I smiled.

V is for Velcro - Update

When I was a week old, we moved to Maine. We lived in a trailer on the same street as my grandmother. My room was the smallest in the house and to maximize the space available, my mom converted my closet into a crib/bed.

I tried my best to illustrate.

 Although I tease my mom about putting me in a cage, it was a remarkable use of the space and made sense. I was little and didn’t take up much space for sleeping…my toys on the other hand seemed to exponentially grow out of control.

My mom is a problem solver. She has always amazed me (as much as I deny it) with her ability to look at a problem and see many solutions. She is a doer, a crafter, a fixer. She can’t help it; and although she often has great ideas, her approach to helping my keep my room clean ended up in vivid nightmares (mine) and endless yelling (hers).

Like many little girls I had a large collection of stuffed animals. And like many little children, my stuffed animals never found a single home – I spread them out across the room and probably never put them away. How could I? They were my babies and pets!

My mom, in a decisive moment of “I’ll fix this problem if it kills me” took all of my stuffed animals and sewed little Velcro dots on the backs of all their heads. Sewed! On their HEADS! She then hot glued the other half of the Velcro dots to the wall of my room. Right across from my crib cage!

I was too young to remember the conversation, but I imagine it went something like this:

“Look, Heather,” Mom pointed to the wall where rows upon rows of black dots lined the wall.

“Oh no!” I exclaimed, “The wall is sick!” I’m sure I said something precocious and adorable which made my mom laugh and smile and ruffle my fluffy blonde curls.

“No,” Mom said, “It’s Velcro. Look at Super Pooh.” She showed me the back of his head. A matching black dot was stuck fast to his head.

“Oh no!’ I must have cried in distress.

Then she took Super Pooh and STUCK HIM TO THE WALL! Hanging him dead right in front of my eyes! She then took the rest of my stuffed animals and showed me how to hang them all up nice and neat.

The trouble started that night. After I was put to bed, I lay in my crib cage and stared at the wall. Dead soulless eyes stared down at me. I closed my eyes but I could still feel the animals looking at me. I tried to sleep. I knew my animals were angry at me for allowing this to happen to them. I tossed and turned. I must have fallen asleep because then the nightmares started. And when I jolted awake to find them still staring I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m not sure how I escaped from my crib cage, but out I got and down came all the stuffed animals from the wall. I scattered them across the floor like they were supposed to be and got back into bed.

The next morning my mom came in. Shocked at all the animals on the floor she began yelling at me and putting the toys back on the wall. This routine repeated nightly for I don’t know how long…maybe until we moved. But it wasn’t until I was nearly an adult that my reasons behind my nightly destruction of my room were revealed.

I still have Super Pooh. He sits in a spot of honor on my dresser as a remembrance of this tragic craft-fix. 

UPDATE - According to my mom (who denies she put me into a outright cage...claims it was only a "bed rail") the stuffed animals were actually Velcroed up INSIDE on the walls my crib cage! Meaning they were even CLOSER staring down at me! Which on one hand makes more sense as to how I was able to tear them off of the walls every night without breaking my leg climbing in and out of my bed and on the other hand is slightly more disturbing... 

U is for UFOs

Scott and I had been dating for about five months when after a particularly romantic Italian dinner we went for a stroll on the beach. The moon wasn’t up yet and the stars sparkled like mad all over the sky. Hand in hand we walked along the nearly deserted beach. It was about ten o’clock and after some smooching I returned my gaze to the sky.

“Look,” I said pointing to a bright light that seemed to be zipping across the sky alarmingly fast.

“Yeah,” Scott said, “I see it. It’s probably one of the planes out of the base.” He pointed north. “The base is only a few miles up that way a bit.”

“Hmm. Have I told you about the time I saw a UFO?”

“They don’t exist.”

“No! Really!” I insisted. “There is even a book that was written all about the one I saw.”

Back in the Eighties in upstate New York where I grew up, a series of boomerang UFO sightings were reported. One night, my brother Karl, an amateur astronomer, called us all to come to the upstairs porch where he had been stargazing. Gliding across the sky was a large array of lights in a large boomerang shape. We watched it as it moved silently across the sky blotting out the stars behind it. In stunned silence, we stood on the porch until the craft was beyond our view.

“We don’t really ever talk about,” I finished up. “My mom brings it up now and then, but I can’t remember when my brothers or sister have ever mentioned it again. Supposedly, the sightings were of the Stealth bomber, but according to the book I found, the Stealth bomber was never testing in that region.”

“Interesting,” Scott said.

“You don’t believe me?” I asked a little hurt.

“You said it yourself, you were really young.”

I looked back up to the sky. A single star catches my attention. It is brighter than the others and I try to recall if any of the planets are supposed to be visible this night. I can’t think of any and then the thought of planets flees as the light starts growing.

“Look at the Scott,” I point to the light.

Scott stood still next to me as the light continued to grow and then all of a sudden began to shrink again. And then, almost imperceptibly, the light began to wobble around in a small circle. I took my glasses off, cleaned them and looked again.

“Did that light just-”

“Yeah.” Scott didn’t even wait for me to finish.

“Probably a plane…circling…right?” I asked.

“I…don’t know. I don’t see any blinking lights.” Scott was hesitant and he took my hand. “Let’s go.”

“Go? No! Let’s watch for a few more minutes.”

The light grew brighter again jolted up and down in rapid succession. Then all of a sudden from the north, three flashes of light zipping through the sky caught my eye.

“Look.” I pointed at the new lights.

“They look like fighters flying in formation.” Scott said. He grew on and around the base and would know what planes flying in formation would look like.

The planes shot to the first light and began circling it. Circling it. Zipping around all the while the original light kept growing in brightness and then suddenly dimming.

Scott grabbed my hand tightly. “Let’s go.” He insisted. “Right now!” He pulled me down the beach and back to the car.

Once safely in the car, safely driving away from the beach, I look back at the sky. The bright light was no longer there and the three planes seemed to be flying back to the north.

“Do you think that was a UFO?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Street lights flashed across his face as we drove. “I’ll tell you what, though, I’ve never been as freaked out before.”

“Cool.” I grinned as Scott looked over at me.

“Cool?”

“Now I’ve seen two UFOs!”

Scott shook his head. “I’ll feel a lot better about this once we get back to the house.”

To this day, Scott still does not like talking about that night!