Princess

I had long been fascinated by Manx cats because when I was seventeen, I’d adopted a white Manx cat from a woman who had a litter of kittens.  A Manx cat, if you’ve never seen one, is basically a cat without a tail.  The first one I had was a pure white cat which made her look exactly like a bunny rabbit.

“You know we can’t get a cat,” said Norman one afternoon as I was pestering him about getting a pet.  “This apartment complex doesn’t allow pets.”

Norman lived in an apartment complex way down at the end of Kendall Drive in South Miami.  It was one of the first apartments complexes built in that area, an area that has since been dug up, dynamited, sawgrass cut down, alligators corralled in god-knows-where, and built up to be a thriving metropolitan area.  But in the late 70s, there was only the one long road, Kendall Drive which had a few scattered businesses, but mostly vegetable and fruit stands.  At the end of this long lonely road, stood one apartment complex called Tennis Villas, where Norman lived.  I’d moved in with him after I escaped from that big fat joke of a marriage I was involved in and was ready for a new chapter.

“But nobody’s ever going to see it,” I begged.  “I don’t plan on letting the cat be an outdoors cat.  So who’s ever going to see it?”

I could tell he was starting to soften, and I already had the local newspaper laid out and open to the classified section and a few listings circled that said “free kittens”.

“Here, look at this one,” I pointed, “It says they rescue cats and try to find them good homes.  Are you really going to let these poor kittens starve?  And guess what else?  They say they have a Manx kitten.”

We pulled up in front of a ramshackle house in South Miami--white house, red tile roof with a few tiles missing, overgrown grass surrounded by a chain link fence and parked the Toyota.  I could already see cats cruising the yard.  We cautiously walked up to the front door and rang the bell.  The front curtain moved and a woman’s face momentarily appeared, then darted away quickly.  The front door opened to reveal a woman of about five foot, rail thin, a few tendrils of dark hair escaping from a red bandanna that she wore over her head.

“Name’s Jody.  You two here about the kitten?”

I’m going to try to break you in to what this place looked like very delicately on account of I don’t want anyone scratching at their skin thinking they have a bad case of Chiggers just by reading this.  How else to explain it other than if you looked up the word “packrat” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of Jody’s house.

“You said you were interested in the Manx?” asked Jody.  “Come on back and out to the carport area where I keep the babies.  I’d offer you two something to drink but I haven’t had time to wash dishes in a few days.”

We trailed Jody through the living room, past stacks of newspapers, some in English, some in Spanish, (don’t ask me why the Spanish as Jody was about as hick as they came) past the multi-tiered cat perches constructed from wood covered with orange and white shag carpeting, through the kitchen where I glimpsed the open pantry which had cases of Top Ramen in ‘natural’ shrimp flavor and extra large bags of Plain Wrap dry cat food and past the kitchen sink overflowing with dirty dishes.  Stepping on the cool linoleum floor in my bare feet, I felt something sticky which will remain unidentified.  Cats were everywhere.  Black and white cats, calico cats, orange and white striped cats, white cats, black cats, fluffy cats, short haired cats.  And even a hairless cat.

“That’s Q-Tip,” said Jody as she passed the unfortunate hairless cat and stroked it delicately.

“I just love cats,” she said.  “Always have.  Grew up with cats and they’ve pretty much saved my life.”  I didn’t ask her to elaborate on that one for fear I’d hear some stories about her being locked up in a small closet as a child with a cat, her only friend.  Jody looked like the type of woman who’d trap mice to feed the cats if she had to.

“And here we are,” she said stepping down the three steps from the kitchen and onto the carport.  “The nursery.”

For some reason, Jody thought it would be a good idea to keep all the nursing mothers outside.  I guess they like the fresh air, and as an added bonus, if Jody should forget to feed them, the mother could simply run onto the overgrown lawn where she’d be certain to catch a mouse or a lizard or who knows what else suitable to feed her babies.

Norman had never had a cat before and I have to give him credit for being a good sport.  I glanced over at him and saw him forcing his best smile for Jody.

“Like I was telling you on the phone, I used to have a Manx cat,” I told Jody.  “They’re just the coolest cats.  Their personalities are almost like dogs.”

“You got that right, sweetie.  I got one left.  Let me grab her away from momma.”

Jody bent over one of the nursing boxes and pulled a baby kitty away from its mothers teat with a sound that reminded me of someone uncorking a bottle of champagne.

“Look at this little sweetheart.  Isn’t she just as cute as she can be?”

And she was.  The kitten was a tiny little bundle of joy, no bigger than an Idaho potato.  She had calico colored fur, mostly black with orange and beige thrown in.  She looked up at me and squeaked out a little mewling sound.  I was in love.

“Oh, I just love her!  Looking over at Norman, I asked, “What do you think?  Isn’t she just perfect?”

“She really is a cute little thing,” he said, delicately holding her in both hands.

“Okay Jody, she’s the one we want.”

“Great.  But I’m going to have to give her shots before you all take her home.  And you have to promise to get her fixed.”

Don’t ask me how, but somehow Jody had all the necessary inoculations ready for a young kitten because she went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and returned with the shots our kitten would need.

“Just hold her still while I give her the shot,” said Jody bending over the oblivious kitten and injecting her with three different injections.

Right about this time we heard a loud cat fight, screeching and hissing coming from the kitchen.

“Thomas!  Goldenrod!  Cut that out now!” she yelled and the cats actually stopped.  This was a scary place.  One that may have worked for her and the cats, but I’m pretty certain this woman was never going to get a date.  What was she supposed to say on her Match.com profile?  Looking To Save The World, One Feline At A Time.  Call Me.  I don’t think so.

Norman and I took the most adorable kitten in the whole wide world home with us, then made a trip to the local K-Mart where we bought an array of cat paraphernalia; plastic cat bowls, a litter box, a large box of Friskies Seafood Buffet flavored cat food and of course, lots of cat toys, one of which was a toy plastic grasshopper that the kitten just loved.

“So, what do we name her?” I asked Norman as we were fixing dinner that night and giving the kitten an extra helping of Friskies.

He looked down at the little bundle of joy and said, “Princess.  Remember that show Make Room For Daddy?  That’s what the dad liked to call his daughter.  And she really does look like a little princess.”

And that is how Princess came to live with us.

A few weeks later, we got a notice on the front door of the apartment.  It was an official looking document which advised us that we were in violation of our lease agreement.  No pets allowed.  Get rid of the cat or move.  What did we do?  I think you know the answer to that one.  It looked like it was time to find a new place to live.

Westward Ho!

You'd be surprised at how much can fit into the back of a small Toyota pickup truck that's covered with a shell.  Seven boxes of record albums, a twenty gallon fish aquarium with a stand and filters, clothing, a 22 rifle, a 33 millimeter camera.   In the small front of the truck which seats two, you can fit a small pet carrier with a manx cat inside, and by the passengers feet you can even fit a medium sized German Shepherd.

We had decided that with Southern Records being closed, my divorce and the Liberty City race riots, it might be a good time to pack up all our worldly belongings and set out on a cross country adventure.

"Some of my best friends live in Santa Fe, New Mexico," said Norman.  "That'll be a great place to visit.  And a couple that I went to college with live in Oklahoma and have been bugging me to visit them for years.  Let's go."

That was about the extent of our plan.  My mother was not too happy that I was leaving my hometown of Miami.

"You know your dad is really upset that you're leaving," she told me one day in an attempt to get the guilt to kick in.

I figured it would be a good idea to go talk to my mom and dad, I owed them at least that much, a visit in person.

I showed up at my parents house, the house that I'd had so many memories of my youth, so many good times in Miami Springs on Hunting Lodge Drive.  There wasn't much for me there those days.  Susan had gotten married, moved to Orlando and already had a baby, Monica was living with her soon to be husband who she'd end up having a son with, and moving to New York.  Jim and Carol were getting ready to make one of their many moves for his job, Laura had moved to Brownsville, Texas with her husband.  My first attempt at marriage was a big fat joke, which I was more than eager to get away from.  It was a time of change for all of us.  I was excited about putting some miles between me and my first twenty years.

When I walked into the living room, my dad was sitting in his favorite chair reading the Miami Herald.  Mom had a concerned look on her face, she wasn't ready to cut the apron strings yet.

Best to jump right in and talk I figured.  "Dad, mom tells me you're upset that I'm moving."

My father looked up at me from behind his reading glasses, blinking and said, "No.  I'm not upset."

I don't know if this was a man who didn't want a confrontation, something my mother was itching for, or more likely, he was open to his daughter going on an adventure.  After all, he'd left his hometown of Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania right after graduating high school and never looked back.  There wasn't much to say.  My mother wasn't going to get a fight out of him or me.

The "No, I'm not upset," was all I got out of Dad.  No lecture about being careful on the road, no pep talk about how great it was going to be to be on a cross-country adventure.  Nothing.  Just, "No, I'm not upset."

Mom and I huddled in the kitchen, where she stood wringing her hands.  She still hadn't met my boyfriend even.  "Yennyfair, you really going to do this?"

"Yes, mom I'm going to be fine."

"Well, I want to meet the person you're moving with."

A couple of days later, after we had the Toyota packed to the gills, Norman and I planned to meet my mother in the parking lot of the record store where he worked.  It was his last day.  Norman was one of the nicest men I've ever dated; polite, funny, caring and loving.  My mother had nothing to worry about but she didn't know that.  As we waited in the parking lot, I saw Mom pull up in the gold Chevy Impala, a worried look on her face.  We all got out of the car and made introductions.  I can't really remember any of what was said other than my mom hugging me and saying to Norman, "Take good care of my baby."  I leaned into my mother as she gave me a fierce hug.  She smelled of Oil of Olay.  That would turn out to be the last time I lived in Florida.

We spent the very last night of my life in Florida at our friends Larry and Bill's condo in Kendall.  Larry and Bill were two good ol' boy drinking buddies that Norman and I had befriended at the Crown Disco Lounge in South Miami.  That was a place that we liked to hang out at after work for a night of drinking and listening to disco music in the dim lounge with the large dance floor that featured a glittering disco ball in the center.

"You all are stayin' with us tomorrow night," slurred Larry over a scotch and water.  "You guys need a place to stay, me and Bill here are always happy to help," he said while hugging his brother, a tall redneck with dark hair who tried to look as white collar as possible.  "And you bring that dog and cat of yours too."

We had already moved out of the migrant farm worker house in Florida City and needed a place to stay just for the one night, so it was off to Larry and Bill's bachelor pad where they showed us around.  The condo was a small two bedroom cracker box, on one of the many lakes (read rock quarry with reptiles swimming in it) that graced the Kendall area; an area like all of South Florida that was really meant as a home to the wildlife of the everglades, but instead was built up by hungry developers to house families and hard core drinkers alike.

"This here'll be your room for the night," said Larry, opening the door onto a bedroom with one queen sized bed.  "You guys can have these army blankets I got from the good ol' U S of A," he said while handing us a couple of scratchy green army blankets.  "They'll keep you warm while you're traveling."

Bill continued the tour, a slight sway to his step from getting a head start on drinking that day.  "This here's the bathroom.  Cushy toilet seat's for my hemorrhoids, and that fake salt in the kitchen's for my high blood pressure," he said with a laugh.  "Feel free to help yourself to anything.  Me and Larry's heading out to Crown.  Got us some serious drinking to do."

Norman and I hunkered in for the night, getting King and Princess settled into the bedroom.  We fell asleep under the scratchy army blankets and were awakened around two thirty in the morning to King letting out a low growl and bark as Larry and Bill staggered into the condo for the night.

"Just doin' his job," I heard Larry laugh.

Bright and early, and we were off, Larry and Bill waving to us from their post on the front porch, cotton robed and steaming mugs of coffee in their hands.

We had decided ahead of time to take turns driving one tank-full at a time.  We had a supply of cassettes with music like The Beach Boys, The Mama's and the Papa's, The Rolling Stones and The Young Rascals.

"Listen, I can do all the voices of the Beach Boys," said Norman as he sang along with one of their many harmonious songs.

I was excited to be on the open road.  The further we drove through the long state of Florida, the more I felt my old life slipping away from me.  I felt free for the first time in awhile.  We drove and sang, drove and ate fast food, drove and laughed, drove and drove.  I had made the right decision.  I was happy.

Amarillo, Texas is located at the very top of Texas, the area known as the panhandle.  We were driving on Interstate 40, the main highway through that section of Texas, which is long, hot, dry and flat--an arsonists dream.  The panorama goes by in a monotonous repetitive scene--miles and miles of government issued fencing which lines the highway to hell.  It was Norman's turn to drive and since we didn't have air conditioning in the truck, I was trying to cool off by sticking my head out the window hoping for a breeze.  It felt like someone had taken a giant blow dryer and was blowing it right in my face.  King lay by my feet, unresponsive in the heat.  Princess curled up in her cat carrier, eyes closed, pink tongue panting, trying to get some relief from the heat.  It was getting late in the day, the shadows getting long.

"Let's find a place to stop for the night," I told Norman who was busily looking for signs of civilization.  There were none.  We'd already passed through the last chance stop for gas many miles ago, a dusty place where a desiccated old man wearing a white mechanics jumpsuit had jumped up from his position on a folding chair, tossed aside the sports section, and pumped gas for us.  We'd seen nothing but tumbleweeds and scrub brush since then.  Suddenly, a small town loomed in the distance.  Was it a mirage or was that really a Motel 6?  It was!  The neon sign outside the two story L shaped building advertised $19.99 a night in blinking neon (blinking because the sign was threatening to burn out).

“Looks like they’ve even got air-conditioning,” Norman mused as we pulled into the dusty parking lot, white gravel crunching underneath our tires.

The first thing I noticed about the Motel 6 was the sparkling blue pool surrounded by a chain link fence, hard white plastic lounge chairs haphazardly strewn about the concrete pool area.  How great would it feel to jump headfirst into that pool?  We stopped in front of the office, Norman pulling the parking brake up as the Toyota slammed to a stop.

The reception area, if you can call it that, of the Motel 6 was a cracker box sized room with a long white counter directly in front, rows of wire holders on the left which held an assortment of brochures detailing all the fun we could have in Amarillo, Texas. Get Your Kicks On Historic Route 66 or Camp in Palo Duro Canyon.  I’d be camping in the Motel 6 tonight, thank you very much.  A bespectacled man wearing a white t-shirt advertising a local plumbing company turned the considerable volume down on the black and white TV that was blaring an episode of The Price Is Right.  Bells rang and grandmothers who waited to be called to Come On Down screamed.  What is it about game shows that makes the contestants look like they’ve consumed way too much Red Bull?

“Can ah hep ya folks?”

“We’d like a room for the night,” said Norman while extracting his brown faux leather wallet (the one he’d bought at K-Mart) from his back jeans pocket.

“You folks have pets?” said the hotel manager while craning his neck past us and looking suspiciously out the window at our truck in which sat an almost full grown German Shepherd.  “Twenty-five buck cleaning deposit.”

We made our way, key in hand to room sixteen which was right next to the ice machine and vending machine, the latter offering a tempting array of hydrogenated, high sugar delicacies like Butterfinger bars and my personal favorite, Cheez-Its.  We opened the door onto home, sweet, home.  The room featured a queen sized bed with one scratchy sheet, two flat as pancake pillows, an open-air closet with three rusting wire coat hangers, a black and white TV hanging near the ceiling, which would be certain to cause a crick in the neck to the viewer, a sink with a large crack running through the middle, a bar of soap about the size of a postage stamp, and an air conditioning unit against one wall.  I walked over to the air conditioner and turned the knob onto high and was rewarded with a blast of cold air, the fan blowing my long blonde hair behind my head.  I walked into the toilet and shower area, flipped the light switch and the fan came on at the same time.  That’s how you can always tell the grade of hotel you’re staying in--either the fan is separate (in high class resorts) or it’s all one unit (in dives like the Motel 6).

“I’m going to walk King,” said Norman while clipping the black leather leash onto King’s choke collar.  “Why don’t you put on your suit and I’ll meet you in the pool when I get back.”

I let Princess out of her cat carrier, her small tailless body creeping out with suspicion.  “Hey sweetie, you hungry baby?” I said while filling her plastic food bowl with Friskies.

The pool area was devoid of any decoration at all.  No poolside bar with a Calypso band playing.  No scantily clad cabana boys offering me ice cold lemon-aide, no plush lounge chairs.  There was basically: the kidney shaped pool, about ten cheap molded plastic lounge chairs haphazardly set out on the hot concrete, a torn net on a long pole resting against the chain link fence and a sign advising me what to do if someone drowned.  I was to check for an open airway by tilting the victims head back, then I was to run to the nearest pay phone and dial 911.

I dove headfirst into the sparkling water and was thrilled with the feel of cool water rushing against my skin.  Popping my head up, I could feel the hot, dry blow dyer air doing its best to dry my face.  I floated on my back as a family of four; mother, father, two requisite screaming boys entered the pool area, the boys squealing with laughter, executing perfect cannonballs into the water, splashing happily.  Norman followed behind them, one scratchy white motel towel draped over his shoulder.

“Guess what?  There’s a Taco Bell in town,” he said.

We loved Taco Bell.  Norman had worked at a Taco Bell during college and told me that they used real beans in their bean burritos.  Good enough for me.

“Really?  Where?  Let’s go.”

“Well, I don’t really know where it is but I saw a Taco Bell cup on the sidewalk when I was walking King.  We’ll ask the manager.”

As the sun set, we sat at the small table by the window in our room, King and Princess sleeping contentedly on the lumpy bed, and ate our feast from Taco Bell; bean and cheese burritos with green sauce, bean and cheese tostadas with extra cheese and gobfuls of hot sauce squeezed out of individual hot sauce packets.  We showered, and as I climbed under the covers, Norman grabbed a handful of quarters off the dresser.

“This is so funny.  I’ve never seen a vibrating bed before,” he said while feeding a quarter into a coin slot that was positioned at the top of the headboard.

The entire bed started to shimmy and shake, sending a surprised Princess jumping off the bed, her fur standing straight up as she streaked underneath the bed for cover.  The vibrating bed was supposed to be relaxing and soothing but really it just felt like a train was going by.  Once the shaking finally stopped, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep dreaming of cabana boys.

After you drive through Albuquerque, New Mexico--a city that looks like a giant had been playing, built a sandcastle city, then inverted a large plastic bowl over the city to trap in all the exhaust fumes and dust--you start the climb up the long winding road to Santa Fe.  It’s sixty miles of elevation, landing you in the capital of New Mexico which is at an elevation of 7,260 ft. above sea level.

This charming artists community is filled with beautiful adobe homes, historic cathedrals, a town square where the locals like to relax on a park bench or play chess while the Native American’s sell their handmade turquoise jewelry.  The town features authentic Southwestern Mexican restaurants like Tomasita’s where I tasted the most delicious green chili burrito I’ve ever eaten, and bars.  Lots of bars.

“I told my buddy, the Hip, that we’d meet him here,” said Norman as he pulled the Toyota into the parking lot of a local watering hole.  I can’t remember the name of the place but it was probably something along the lines of The Double Down or The Tequila Slammer.

‘The Hip’ was a tall blond long haired guy who looked like Greg Allman.  He strode into the bar with a decisive air, a few of the local girls smiling in admiration as they took long pulls off of their Coors beer bottles.

“Hey man, good to see you!” he said to Norman pulling him into a bear hug.  “And this must be Jenny.”

Norman had been visiting Santa Fe for a few years because his friends Jim Lang and The Hip, who he’d grown up with in Nutley, New Jersey, had relocated there.

“Lot’s of work here if you want to work in the service industry,” said Hip.  “It’s either you got money and one of those big adobe houses out in the desert or you’re working behind a bar or flipping burgers.  Jimmy got a job as a chef so he’s making pretty good money.  The day’s are warm and the beer is cold, so who am I to complain?”

From there we made our way to Jim Lang’s house, a humble adobe home in a residential neighborhood.  Loud music blared from the living room when we walked in, King on the leash, Princess patiently waiting in her cat carrier in the truck.  A tall man wearing a faded red plaid shirt who looked like Grizzly Adams barreled into the living room from the kitchen carrying a couple of cold beers for us.

“Name’s Woodie,” he said.  “Welcome to Santa Fe.”

The house was turning into pandemonium as more people arrived, laughing, smoking and drinking.  Suddenly, Woodie opened the back door and a pig ran into the living room.  This was not a smart pet pig like Arnold on Green Acres.  This was a regular, barnyard pig that was not sure what it was doing in a living room as it ran circles around the coffee table.  King jumped up onto the sofa in alarm without even bending his legs.

“That’s my pig,” said Woodie.  “I’m plumping him up for a big barbecue we’re gonna have.  So, don’t be thinking of naming him.”

A few days later, as we were in the local bar enjoying a cold beer, Woodie walked in and told me, “I named the pig.”

“What?  You can’t name the pig.  You’re going to get attached to him.  What’d you name him?”

“The pigs name is Dead.”

We all thought this was one of the funniest things we’d ever heard.  Drinking too much Coors beer can do that to you.

The Staycation

So, I turned fifty-five today.

"What do you want to do for your birthday?" asked Surfer Boy a few weeks ago.

"Let's not spend the whole time eating and drinking.  Let's do something active and calorie burning."  My favorite activities include Surfing, Hiking, Running and Yoga.  "How about we go somewhere not too far and spend a couple of nights?  Carlsbad sounds good."

Carlsbad is only a forty-five minute drive South of our home in Laguna Beach so it was settled.  The area had everything we wanted: a Bikram Yoga studio in Encinitas, one of the most gorgeous hiking trails in Torrey Pines and some of the best surf in the world all up and down the coastline.

We arrived at the Hilton in Carlsbad on Wednesday afternoon.  It was a perfect Southern California day -- warm and sunny.  As Kerry pulled his white Chevy Van Surf-mobile into the valet parking area, we were greeted by a group of enthusiastic valet parking attendants -- tall athletic surfer dudes.

"Welcome to the Hilton," said the valet as he opened the passenger door to the Surf-mobile for me.  "Where you guys coming in from?"

I stepped out of the van, inhaling deeply of the sea air.  "All the way from Laguna Beach."

"Oh, a Staycation," he said.

Now, maybe its just me, but I'm not sure about this term Staycation.  I think it's a new Facebook generation term -- a term made up to make me feel like I'm a bit less-than because I didn't take a trip to Dubai or somewhere equally far or exotic.  Or expensive.

"Oh, a Staycation," he said with just the merest hint of disappointment.  "Cheapskates," is what he looked like he was thinking.

The Hilton in Carlsbad is gorgeous.  Right on the beach.

We threw our luggage into our deluxe room overlooking the ocean and hit the coast looking for waves.

The first town South of Carlsbad is Leucadia.  Leucadia is the kind of town that boasts a mixture of spiritual hippie-types and alcoholics, seemingly in equal proportions.  The Leucadia liquor store stands at the center of town like a beacon.  It has a towering architectural steeple boasting the word LIQUOR in tall black letters. When we drove by the liquor store at night, I noticed that the Q and the R were burned out on the neon sign.  Did that stop the drunks from finding the place?  Nope.  Next to the numerous liquor stores, you can find holistic practitioners, yoga studios and vegan restaurants.

Drive a little further South and you hit Encinitas, home of the Self Realization Fellowship -- a temple dedicated to spiritual enlightenment but to the surfers, home to one of the best surf breaks in the area.  A surf spot called Swami's.

Southern California has some of the most consistent surf in the world.  Unfortunately, that hasn't been the case for the past week or so, but we were hoping that would change.  I mean, it is my birthday after all.  Don't they know who I am!

We parked the Surf-mobile and walked over to the parking lot overlooking the surf-break.  A group of unemployed Jesus Christ look-alike surfers were huddled around the railing at the edge of the cliff, hands in pockets, glum looks as though they'd just lost their best friend.

"Where's that surf you promised me?" I said to one of the bearded surfer-dudes.

He broke into a grin exposing perfect white teeth.  "Tomorrow."

We walked back to the van, determined to find a place to surf before we succumbed to the restaurant with its rich food and fine wine.  Checking out the architectural style of the multi-million homes along the cliff, I noticed an odd mixture.  One home was done in a Neo-Zen contemporary style.  It looks like it's been recently renovated complete with a state of the art kitchen, the likes of which have granite tile work that cost more than my entire net worth.  Then, next to that house, we saw a creepy home that looked like the mansion where Bette Davis was cruelly imprisoning her wheelchair bound sister in the movie Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

We finally ended up in Cardiff, and not to be deterred, set up our beach chairs, donned our wetsuits, grabbed our surfboards and surfed in surf that was around two to three.  Inches.

Thursday morning dawned bright and early -- Kerry and I ready for our triathlon of Yoga, Hiking and Surfing.  Our first stop was the Bikram Yoga Studio in Encintas.

We walked upstairs to the small studio above the place that used to be an Insurance Agency but is now apparently a bakery judging by all the cake pans I saw through the plate glass window.

"Good morning!" trilled the fit dark-haired yoga instructor.  "Sorry to tell you, but the heater's broken.  It's only about eighty-five degrees in there."

Bikram Yoga is a kick-butt ninety minute yoga workout typically performed in a room heated to one hundred and five degrees.

"That's a relief," said Kerry.  "This way, we won't be so wiped out the rest of the day.

Now understand folks, this is a luxury triathlon, so after yoga it was back to the Hilton for a deluxe lunch of fish tacos overlooking the Pacific Ocean.  Then it was time to don our hiking clothes for the hike at Torrey Pines.

Torrey Pines is one of the most majestic hiking trails in Southern California and if you've never been, you must check it out next time you're in town.  We spent two hours hiking some steep trails that lead right down to the beach.  The weather was perfect.  Sunny, warm with a cooling ocean breeze.

We checked out the surf the whole time we were overlooking the ocean realizing that the Jesus Christ look-alike who promised us waves today was wrong.  But, being people who start what they finish, we concluded our hike, waxed our surfboards and hit the cool Pacific Ocean which felt delightfully soothing on our tired hiking legs.

In the Parking Lot at Torrey Pines

By then it was getting late.  I wanted to get cleaned up and presentable for dinner but that meant going all the way back to the hotel, showering, putting on makeup and flat-ironing my hair into submission before we could sit down to our well deserved dinner, fine wine and decadent birthday dessert.

"Why don't we just shower off in the beach shower?  You've got that gauzy white dress you can wear to the restaurant," said my husband -- the man who loves me without Mac Makeup or hair extensions.

"Okay," I said, too weak to argue.

We had reservations at the Solace and the Moonlight Lounge in Encinitas.  Urban gentrification has hit Encinitas hard which basically boils down to multi-million dollar loft apartments built on top of the state-of-the-art Whole Foods Market -- the largest one I've ever seen.  Next to the Whole Foods Market was our restaurant which embraced the theme of conservation, recycling, and farm to table foods, the produce picked by legal immigrants.  It has a decorating style that can only be described as biodegradable.  One big storm and the fine art sculptures made out of recycled cardboard will disintegrate.  But the food was delicious!  The salads were fresh, the salmon was cooked just right and if you visit, make sure you get the coconut cake for dessert.

I like the architectural style but for my money I want the ceilings finished please.

Birthdays.  Now that I'm older they seem like such an odd holiday to me.  You get all this crazy attention from your family and friends for doing nothing more than making it through the year.  But I love it because we all need a day where we're reminded of how many great people we have in our lives.  I thank you all for being part of my life and all the birthday wishes I got today.  I am truly blessed.  And next time you need some time off, consider a Staycation.  You'll be glad you did.

Strip Poker

Genre:  Card Game

Players:  Two or more

Playing Time:  Amount Varies

Skills Required:  Counting, Strategy, Bluffing, Probability

I had never been good at card games.  Susan and I had a favorite board game manufactured by Parker Brothers called Clue, a game that didn't require much in the way of skill, just a simple process of elimination which ended with either Susan or me triumphantly declaring: "Mr. Plum did it with the lead pipe in the conservatory!"

     When Ricky Comfort telephoned my house that day, his scratchy voice asking, "Hey, um, what're you and Susan doing today?  Wanna come over and play strip poker?" we figured it was time to learn to play cards.  Neither one of us had skills like strategy, bluffing or probability but we did have our Teenform training bras.  Evidently since we'd already had our first make-out session underneath Ricky's house, the word on the street was that Susan and I were, how shall I put this delicately?  Easy.

     Hanging up the yellow kitchen wall phone I nervously said to Susan, "I think this'll be okay.  We can always leave whenever we want.  Let's go in my room and just find as many clothes as we can.  That way, we shouldn't have to strip down too much."  I was nervous but by now I was an old pro -- my first kiss under my belt.  This was the age that sex hormones were starting to kick in and the prospect of hanging out with a group of hot, sweaty half-naked pimply guys sounded almost enticing.

     We rummaged through my dresser pulling out extra t-shirts, sweaters, leotards, tights to go underneath our stretch shorts and of course our Teenform training bras.  I'd taken to stuffing my bra with toilet paper that year since I was flat as a board, but that little secret was something I decided to forgo that day.  "Hey, look what I found," said Susan pulling out a pair of wool gloves from the back of my underwear drawer.  "The more clothes the better," she said with a nervous smile.  We were so overdressed that our strip poker debut was sure to be successful.  I grabbed my winter coat for good measure before we stiffly walked out into the scorching hot Florida sun and ambled over to Ricky's house.

     When we arrived at Ricky's house, we were greeted by Ricky, Henry Mahanke and Michael Melvin who wore the bare minimum of clothing -- each wore just a pair of jeans and t-shirts and Converse high-top tennis shoes with socks.  I started mentally counting how many articles of clothing they wore compared to ours.  As usual, Ricky's mother was either at work or running extensive errands since she didn't seem to be around much.  The house was uncomfortably warm, made all the more so by our extra clothing.  One inefficient box-style fan stood in the corner of the room blowing warm air.  Susan and I sat down on the tattered sofa which was covered with a faded beige-colored nubby bedspread.  Ricky's dog, a large brown mutt with fur that felt like wire sauntered happily over to us, his tail thumping against the side of the mahogany-colored naugahyde recliner that was set up in front of the black and white TV set.

     "Buster!" Go lay down," commanded Ricky.  Buster obediently curled up right in front of the fan, ready to watch the action.

     Sex-god Henry was looking just as alluring as ever that day, his mesmerizing blue eyes scanning our fit-for-Alaska clad bodies.  I felt myself flush.

     Walking out of the kitchen carrying a couple of cokes with ice in cheap plastic tumblers, the pink tumbler for Susan, purple for me, Ricky said, "Hey, this'll be fun.  My mom's gone the rest of the day shopping with my sister so we got the place to ourselves."

     Henry produced a deck of Bicycle playing cards and set them in the middle of the coffee table and started shuffling the deck not taking his eyes off of Susan and me.

     I felt myself get dizzy as cards were passed out and the boys started throwing around phrases like 'poker face, wild card, and stripped deck' -- phrases that I'd never heard before but sounded like words I wouldn't mind becoming more intimate with.  I can't really remember how this game is played because I still never do more than put five bucks on black on the roulette table whenever I go to Las Vegas.  I like games that are nice and simple.  But Ricky, Henry and Michael seemed to have strategy when it came to strip poker because before we knew what was happening, Susan was down to her white cotton underwear and Teenform training bra and so was I.  A few more cards were dealt and Ricky's luck took a turn for the worse.  Suddenly, he was down to his Fruit of The Loom tighty-whities, his pale body only matched by his pale pimply face.  That was when the phone rang -- a shrill sound disrupting our intense concentration.  We all jumped in alarm.

     Ricky snatched up the phone.  "Hello?"  I suppose the person on the other end of the line must've said, "What are you doing?" because Ricky answering in nothing but his underwear said, "Oh, nothing."  A few more mumbled phrases before he hung up the phone and panicked saying, "My mom's gonna be home in half an hour!"

     Saved by the bell.  The five of us scrambled around, gathering up our jeans, t-shirts, Converse high-tops, leotards, stretch shorts, socks, gloves, coats, and rapidly dressed.

      As we walked home, Susan and I felt as though we'd just performed an important rite-of-passage.  Susan picked a red hibiscus flower, tucked it behind her ear and smiled.  And that, my friends, was my first time seeing a boy almost naked.

Sea Hag

Enter At Your Own Risk

It's always fun to go to a nude beach with your mother.  I was visiting Miami from California in 1998 when my sister Monica, our mom and our aunt Blanca, decided on a girls outing.

     "Let's go to Haulover Beach," said Monica.

     "But Monica," said our mom, "Haulover is a nude beach."

     Monica was behind the wheel of the car, driving towards Haulover beach quite decisively.  "Mom!" she scolded, "Haulover is not a nude beach.  Where did you ever get that idea?"  I can only assume that our mom must've seen this fact covered on one of the local news stations since she didn't get down to the beach that often.

     My mom knew better than to argue with Monica.  When you're a kid, you have to do whatever your parents tell you to do.  When they get older, they pretty much have to do whatever you tell them to do.

     Monica drove her car into the Haulover Beach parking lot, which is situated right off of Collins Ave, where we gathered up towels and beach blankets, beach bags loaded down with No Ad suntan oil, back issues of Cosmopolitan magazine and other cheap reading material, and headed down to the beach.  It was close to summer, which means in Florida: really hot.  Hot to the point of you're-not-sure-if-you-want-your-feet-to-touch-the-sand hot, and very-few-people-on-the-beach hot.

     As we walked down to what looked like a great spot to lay out, next to the lifeguard tower, we noticed only one other towel set up with no one on it.  We took our large beach blanket, a brown and beige blanket from Peru.  It had artistic renderings that had been woven into the cloth, of llama's and Peruvian Indian men and women portrayed in an Egyptian Hieroglyphic style sideways stance.  We each took one corner of the blanket and smoothed it down on the hot sand, then placed our back issues of Cosmopolitan along with our suntan oil and several bottles of ice cold water on the towel

     The lifeguard noticed us and used this opportunity to break what must have been an extremely long boredom spell.  "How you girls doin' today?"  he asked after jumping down the last few steps of the lifeguard tower, thus proving to us his extreme athletic capabilities.  He was wearing the briefest pair of red speedos, a deep tan on a muscled body and a pair of Foster Grants ensuring that we couldn't see the whites of his eyes.

     "We're doing great!" I said while removing my short, white lace bikini cover up.  "I'm visiting from California.  So excited to be in Miami.  I spent lots of time here at Haulover back in the day."

     "Is that right?" he said while eyeing all us girls appreciatively.  "Not many folks on the beach today.  I'll be glad to keep y'all company.  I got a can of sliced peaches I can share with you."  I can only wonder about the sliced peaches.  Perhaps this is a little known lifeguard aphrodisiac used in extreme circumstances to get women who are otherwise clothed, to disrobe.

     Monica didn't seem too interested in this feast.  She was eyeing the aquamarine water of the Atlantic Ocean, sweat already breaking out on her brow from the extreme heat.  "Let's go for a swim," she said.

     Mom and Blanca elected to stay behind while Monica and I headed out for a swim.  We half-walked, half-ran towards the water to avoid scorching our feet.  As we neared the water, we spotted a lone woman swimming.  At this point all we could see was her bleached blond hair.  It was the kind of hair that is so severely bleached by the sun that it resembles the straw hair of a scarecrow.  The bleached blond hair perfectly matched her brown face which was so weathered by the sun that it looked more like a catchers mitt.  Bleached blond woman was getting ready to emerge from the water.  This we knew because we could now see her torso.  Her bare torso.  As she walked towards us, her enormous brown breasts swayed back and forth like a pendulum.  Uh-Oh, I'm not in California anymore.  This woman could use a little Newport Beach implant action, thought I.  After the torso, her bare butt and legs and finally her feet emerged from the water.  She headed straight for the one towel set up on the beach.  It was - do I even have to say it - the towel set up directly next to our blanket.

     "Jennifer, look.  That lady is talking to Mom and Blanca."

     I could see my mom and Blanca smiling politely, nodding and making small talk with Scarecrow Lady.  Monica and I laughed and enjoyed their discomfort from our secure spot in the warm Atlantic Ocean, the barely refreshing warm water caressing our bikini clad bodies.

     We finally emerged from the water just in time to see the lifeguard break out the can of peaches.  He produced a cheap can opener and went to work opening the can while peach syrup slopped all around the top of the can, splashing over his red speedos.  "These peaches here are nice and cool.  Kept 'em on ice all morning."  We all sat around Naked Lady's towel and politely ate cling peaches.

     Later, Monica and I decided to walk north on the beach for a little exercise.  As we walked, the warm ocean water lapping at our feet, we noticed that in the distance, there was quite an active group of beach-goers assembled.  As we drew closer, we noticed that the throng was a bit of an elderly group.  Okay, this makes sense because it was a weekday.  Also, Miami Beach is known for retirees so no big surprise there.  As we got closer, we noticed that this multitude of senior citizens were bare ass naked.

     "Whoa.  Monica, I don't know if I'm ready for this."  We could see old men wearing no more than a ear splitting grin, especially when they saw us two young things.  Many were playing paddle ball, some were splashing in the water.  "This is too much reality for a Tuesday morning."

     We decided that would be a good time to turn around and rejoin the peach-eating group.  When we returned to where Mom and Blanca were stationed next to lifeguard tower, we saw the two of them trying to mind their own business while Bleached Blond Naked Lady caught a few more rays on her bare butt.

     At the end of our excursion that day, as we were sitting in Monica's car, getting ready to leave Haulover Beach, Blanca said "You know, is more sexy I think when lady have a tan line.  Pero ese pedazo de carne negro!"  (But that piece of black meat!)

THE (BARE) END

Rico - The Wonder Athlete

From Left: Rico, Kole, Me, Andrea and Kerry

Remember those old vampire movies starring actors like Bela Lugosi or Vincent Price?  When the movie started they seemed normal - well, kinda - then as the movie progressed, you discovered that the character enjoyed eternal life, lived in a casket, drank blood and preyed on other humans for sustenance.  Meet my favorite training partner, Rico.

I met Rico over fifteen years ago through running friends.  He seemed upbeat, positive, easy to get along with and was a great running partner.  Then you looked a little closer.  That was when you noticed that he didn't eat much, never carried water, seemed to be able to run hundreds of miles without tiring, never slept and finally, when you discovered his age and how many grand kids he had, you couldn't believe it was true.  What was this guy doing?  Watching late night TV infomercials and ordering longevity tonics that the rest of us have never heard of?

"Rico, what time are you getting up to work out tomorrow morning?" I asked.

"2:30 to head out to the gym, then I get my wheat grass shot, then I go to work driving a truck for twelve hours, then I get my run in."

"Oh."

Like most vampires and those with eternal life, they outlast everyone around them.  When the older folks either die, or get injured, they start preying on the younger generation.  Oh, say your grand kids.

My innocent step-grand kids. From (L) Liam age 12, Justice age 15

One year when Justice and Liam came to visit for the summer, Rico decided it would be a great idea to take them out on a "short hike" in Casper's park.  This is an area of frequent Mountain Lion sightings and attacks.  The way I look at it, if the Mountain Lion doesn't get you, Rico will, so why bother to play it safe?

Halfway through this hot, summer hike with temperatures reaching the high 90s, we reached a fork in the trail.  Rico, who is very familiar with the area said, "Do you guys wanna take a shortcut up a hill or do you wanna go on a flat, longer trail?"  Welcome to Badger Pass, a long, steep uphill.  Yes, it was a bit shorter.  But what you gained in shortcut, you lost in every other way including difficulty, elevation and steep incline.  Halfway up the trail, we ran out of water.  Then we ran out of food.  Then we ran out of sunscreen.  It was hot.  I was starting to get a little worried about the kids.  But they kept putting one foot in front of the other.  They made it up Badger Pass and all the way to the end of what turned out to be a fifteen mile hike.

Rico - Be prepared to end up in some rugged terrain.

Rico always remembers that day with Justice and Liam.  "I was so impressed with how they got out there with no training and they did it!"

"Yeah, but they never came back," I reminded him.

One time Rico talked his wife, Andrea into hiking with him while they were on vacation.  This is how she ended up:

Another time Rico asked me, during a routine ten mile hike at Black Star canyon, "Do you want to check out the waterfall I read about in the paper?  It's only a mile further."

"Sure, why not?  Sounds fun."

Six hours later, after rock jumping, boulder climbing, traversing both sides of a raging stream and attempting to avoid the poison oak, we made it to the waterfall, and mercifully, back to our parked car.  The next day, I was covered in such an extreme case of poison oak rash, that I ended up at the Urgent Care. "We can give you a cortisone shot.  Poison oak is a systemic affliction.  It's the only way for a case this severe," said the Doctor as he stood over me with his hypodermic needle poised.

Every time an unsuspecting family member comes into town, you can bet Rico will be there with his water bottle, whistle, sleigh bells tied to his home made trail suspenders (this is meant to scare off animals), ice pick, knife and a huge smile, welcoming them to "a short hike on the trail".

Rico doing what he loves.

His latest victims are my daughter Angela, and her boyfriend Kole.  They showed the merest hint of enthusiasm for hiking - in fact I think they are genuinely interested - and Rico is having a field day.  The first weekend was six miles on Saturday, eight miles on Sunday.  But not just any hike.  Nope.  This hike had us climbing, scratching, clawing, sliding, begging for our mothers.  We loved every second of it.

Will she make it down the mountainside?

If this is the key to eternal life, I have only one thing to say: "Pass the wheat grass shot please."

Then and Now

Truckee, CA 1986

It seems that all we ever hear is folks wishing for the good old days.  When looking back on fond memories, the present never seems to be able to live up to the past.  Experiences of today seem to pale in comparison.  I remember when....

I'm going to ask you to reconsider these statements and instead, look forward to the future that includes technological marvels such as botox, cosmetic surgery, orthodontia, designer clothing, Mac makeup and lest we forget, Photoshop.

Let's take a look at the above photograph on a case by case basis starting at the left:

Here I am pregnant with Jessica.  I get a little leeway there accounting for the massively swollen face, fingers, ankles, toes; a look that has me right up there with Lance Armstrong getting tested for steroid use.  And what exactly is up with the outfit?  The t-shirt came in a pack from a maternity store.  It was one of those two for twenty bucks specials, its only redeeming quality is that it was extra large.  The shorts are of a draw string variety, the string rapidly running out of room.  The slip-on sandals were the only shoes I could wear anymore due to the swelling.

Next up, Wendy.  Little Wendy gets a free pass because she's young.  When you're that young you can get away with wearing any kind of dorky print top.  At least the red shorts somewhat tie in with the red pattern on the shirt.  I'm still trying to figure out what the print is.  Are they flowers or spaceships?  The world may never know.  Her hair pretty much looks the same as it does today, and that's a good thing because at least she still has all of it.  But she loses several points for the bobby socks.  The smile, or lack of smile, is to hide her braces.

John is not looking too bad here.  Dominique and I dragged him down to the mall and bought him this outfit to go with his leather man-bag which he lost in the mall.  It contained all his life savings and credit cards.  The hair color?  I'm not sure what kind of comment to make but again, at least he has hair.

Dominique, or Nikki as she was called in those days, decided to play it safe with her outfit.  You can't go wrong with a solid red shirt.  The drop scoop neck adds a pleasing line.  The jeans are still in fashion today - in this way the outfit is timeless.  But the shoes.  Nikki, you can't wear supportive shoes with white socks if your jeans are going to be floodwater length.  Now let's check out the hair.  The great thing about Nikki is that she had a wild mane of hair that refused to be tamed.  It was just like a weed.  Cut it and it grows back faster and stronger.  John payed her an undisclosed amount of money one time to cut it short like a boy.  He always wanted a boy.

Second to last, here's Jessica inside Mommy's tummy sleeping contentedly, looking fashionable in her birthday suit.

And lastly, there's Angela, a mere glint in her Daddy's eye.

So when you start to feel sorry for yourself, lamenting the fact that things just aren't what they used to be, I urge you to consider what a difference a couple of decades can make.

From Left: Jessica, Wendy, John, Dominique and Angela

Me! Utilizing all the tricks: Mac makeup, plastic surgery, hair dye, Photoshop and professional photography by Dominique