Cocktail Maven

PROMPTuesday #127: Vice

2010-10-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

Write a story about a vice.

So, in the spirit of the season, I offer the following tidbit.

-- Cocktail Maven

So many women.

Beautiful women. He’d lost count after the first twenty. From his vantage point on the highest deck, the women formed brightly-colored sluices between the black tuxedos and white-jacketed servers. His eyes alighted on the woman now adorning Anatole’s arm. She was particularly to his own taste. He liked women that were like a fine Zinfandel; full-bodied and leggy, soft on the palate, with just a touch of spice. He sighed.

Oh, how he missed wine.

Still, there were other pleasures to compensate for his inability to drink alcohol. Other vices he -- and his friends -- could indulge of an evening.

Tonight was to be just such an evening.

As the yacht pulled out of the harbor and into the open sea, he could sense a unifying, anticipatory shiver twitching under every tuxedo jacket. The ladies had been promised a night to remember. None of them would, of course. Remember, that is. He doubted very much that memory survived a bloodletting.

So many women.

How could they possibly consume all of them?

PROMPTuesday #113: Sing Me a Cowboy Song

2010-07-06T16:30:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PrompTuesday #113:

Howdy pardners!* It’s country western song day here at PROMPTuesday! Write me some lonesome lyrics that would make a bull’s balls swell.

You got it! -- Cocktail Maven

Rye whiskey
Sloshes on the bar
He’s had too much, maybe
Imploding like a star
His eyes are dim, hazy
He chews on a cigar
And wonders
How’s he get that girl out of his head?

Cryin’ ain’t no use and workin hard just makes him sore.
Quiet Sunday evenin’s, well they make him miss her more.
Poker night at Johnny’s house? Aw hell, that guy’s a bore.
He’d rather be here passed out on the floor.

Lost weekend
Beneath a prairie moon
She makes him laugh, again
Singin’ some old tune
About a gal cheatin’
Who knew it would come true?
He wonders
How’s he get that girl out of his head?

Cryin’ ain’t no use . . . etc.

Days, ranchin’
Chasin’ after steer
And every night, drinkin’
Whiskey chased with beer
He still can’t stop thinkin’
She’s gonna reappear.
He’s never
Gonna get that girl out of his head.

Cryin’ ain’t no use . . . etc.

May as well lie here passed out on the floor.

PROMPTuesday #61: Imagine That

2009-06-23T15:37:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #61:

For this week’s PROMPTuesday, describe an experience you have never had but have heard about and can imagine. Describe this experience in the first person singular, present tense as it is happening.

Every word of this is true. Is that cheating? -- Cocktail Maven

I woke this morning with a strong sense of foreboding. Strange dreams last night. At the core, the dreams were completely normal -- going places, doing things, talking to people. What was strange was the fact that every few minutes, right in the middle of a perfectly ordinary conversation with a family member or a shop girl, their faces would flash into an x-ray version. No one seemed to notice but me.

Now, driving north on Interstate 5 through dense, but fast-moving L.A. traffic, I find myself unable to stop thinking about those skeletal faces. Death masks. Meanwhile, in the real world outside my head, yet another panel truck swerves precariously into my lane. You, know, the open-backed ones with the wooden slat rails on the sides and back? They are like a plague on the freeway this morning. Where do they all come from, and why are they picking on me? So far, I’ve been nearly run off the road by a panel truck piled high with swap-meet furniture, rudely (and dangerously) cut-off by a panel truck bearing a lawnmower, two fichus trees and a miscellany of gardening equipment, and now I have to watch out for Swervin’ Mervyn in the next lane. Did I mention that there is a plastic grocery bag plastered to my grille? That little adornment blew there out of yet another panel truck. I can see one translucent, white handle flap annoyingly in my peripheral vision. It’s enough to make a person paranoid.

Swervin’ Mervyn exits, finally, and I breathe a sigh of relief. That is, until the SUV in front of me pulls over a lane. His lane defection reveals just the tiniest candy-apple red sports car between me and, improbably, another panel truck. This one is loaded down with cardboard flats of blackberries. In an apparent attempt to keep the blackberries from escaping during transport, the genius driver has placed three sheets of plywood around the perimeter of the truck bed, one on the left, one on the right, and one in the front behind the cab. Classy, Mr. Berryman.

That sense of foreboding, I woke up with? It’s suddenly worse. It settles like a living creature into the pit of my stomach and reaches a cold hand up to constrict my throat from inside. Every muscle tenses and I am suddenly and painfully conscious of my breathing.

The plywood sheet at the front of the truck is moving.

I watch the plywood vibrate in a quick staccato. Then it is banging, and not gently, on the back of the panel truck’s cab. The freeway backdraft is forcing its way behind and underneath the plywood and shaking, lifting. There is no where for me to go. To either side of me is a solid wall of cars and there is no time to put on my brakes without welcoming the guy behind me straight into my back seat. In these moments, I feel a strange kinship with my fellow drivers. We are all trapped tegether on this freeway, really. Speeding along in unison at over 60 miles per hour. It seems profoundly sad that all those people behind me have no idea their lives depend on whether I time my next actions . . . just . . . right.

As the plywood finally, inevitably, lifts off from its launch pad in the back of the panel truck, the world goes silent, and time ticks forward in frame-by-frame. I watch, horrified and fascinated, as the plywood soars toward me through smog-filled air. It flips in slow motion once, twice. I tap my brakes, quickly, repeatedly, trying to position myself. If I can time this just right, the plywood will land flat in my lane, and I can simply drive over it. I live. Everybody lives. I make it to Tracy's with a good story to tell and we drink wine and laugh. Just as long as I time this just right. I’ve got to time this just right.

The plywood clears the roof of the red sports car ahead of me with barely an inch to spare, still flipping. The damn board seems to have its heart set on me, instead. It wants to lay itself down on the hood of my car, slide up through my windshield, take my head as a souvenir. I won't let it. Surely, it can only have been seconds, but I feel like I’ve been staring down the barrel of this proverbial shotgun for hours. Here it is. Time for the showdown.

I’ve got to time this just right. I’ve got to time this just right. I’ve got . . .

PrompTuesday #60 - Lie to Me

2009-06-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's "PrompTuesday #60:

So lie to me. Answer one question for each deadly sin with a made-up answer.

Pride
What is your biggest contribution to the world?

I recently wrote a magnificent novel for and presented it to Queen Elizabeth II on her birthday. It was a fictional history of the United States, had the United States never fought for independence from the British Empire. It took ten years to research and another ten to write and edit. She finished it one Sunday while we were on holiday together at Balmoral and Queenie (as I like to call her) pronounced the work to be of such profound beauty and brilliance that she knighted me on the spot. By the way, I would thank you to refer to me as “Dame” henceforward.

Envy
What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?

Enormous buttocks. Speaking of which:

Gluttony

What did you eat last night?

Interesting you should ask! I baked a German chocolate cake and ate the entire thing in one sitting. Then, deciding it was time for dinner, I chased its chocolatey goodness with two very dry Vodka Gibsons.

Lust
What really lights your fire?

Nothing gets me going like a good tractor-pull. The taste of gasonline on the wind . . . the animalistic filth of it . . . the HUGE tractors . . . the vaguely inappropriate camaraderie of odiferous aficionados of tractor-pullery. I really must take Queenie sometime.

Anger
What is the last thing that really pissed you off?

I’m so sorry. I can’t help you there. I have reached a state of emotional equilibrium wherein I remain above such puerile emotions.

Greed
Name something you hoard and keep from others.

Rubbish. Why should the city get all my lovely garbage for free? They have refused to purchase it at my more than reasonable asking price, so I now compact it myself and use it to build landscape features. Next week I begin shipping the blocks back east to start construction of a new home in the Hamptons.

Sloth
What’s the laziest thing you ever did?

I once drowned in a wading pool because I was too lazy to . . . well . . . wade.

San Diego Momma's PrompTuesday # 55

2009-05-13T13:35:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PromptTuesday #55

This week San Diego Momma starts us off with two sentences with the result that oops! my politics are showing. -- Cocktail Maven

“What are you doing here?” I hadn’t thought to knock.

Aaron raised his head from the table. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “We need to talk.”

“Why aren’t you in Boston?” This I asked as I led Wrigley, slobbering and panting back into Aaron’s apartment and hung his leash up on the hook by the door.

“I didn’t go to Boston. I went to Schenectady.”

“To see your folks?” I hoped.

“No. To see Jenny.”

Jenny. The ex-girlfriend. The high school sweetheart. Damn. That’s the trouble with these younger guys. The boys new to the lifestyle who don’t discover they’re gay until their twenties. Old habits die hard. By now I should know better than to fall for straight boys. I’ll be looking at the other side of 40 in a few weeks. You think I’d have learned by now.

I stride over to the refrigerator for bottled water while I weigh my reply. Finally, I opt for simplicity.

“Why?”

It’s hard, y’know, to explain. I just . . . It’s been almost two years, now, you and me. And, you know how we’ve been talking . . . about taking the next step? Like, me giving up my apartment in Queens and moving into your place in the Village?”

So that’s it. He’s panicking. “Yeah.” I’m not giving him anything to work with. I am determined not to make this any easier on him. I know what’s coming, and I want him to suffer through every second of spelling it out for me.

“Well, you know all about how I was raised, right, an’ how you always crack wise and call me your ‘old-fashioned girl’?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I . . . I kinda’ am. An’ I want all the stuff that every old-fashioned girl wants. I want the big wedding and the white picket fence and the 2.4 kids and the minivan in the driveway for shuttling around a whole soccer team. I want that.” He pauses. “And I think I deserve that.”

“So, mid-game, you’re switch-hitting again, huh? Whatever. I hope you and Jenny will be very happy.”

He stares at me. The look of shock on his face seems genuine. “No! You got it all wrong, Scott! No! I want all of that, but I want it all with YOU, you lunkhead! I’m just sayin’ I don’t want to live together until we go down to Jersey and make it official. I don’t want to wait for the courts here, and I don’t believe in living together without bein’ married. I mean, you’re makin’ a home together, right? There’s a commitment that kinda goes along with that, and I think we should, y’know, commit. The timing is good, ‘cuz my lease is up the end of next month.”

“Um. And, what does any of this have to do with you going to see Jenny?”

“Well, I, uh. Y’know. Thinking about the future got me thinkin’ about . . . y’know. Kids. I asked Jenny if she might be . . . willing to . . . help us out that way. Have a kid for us. Help us become a real family. She says yeah, she would.”

I’m stunned. And deeply moved. I think of how I am continuously amazed by this handsome man sitting here in front of me. Perhaps it is because I always underestimate him. It’s a difficult lifestyle. I’ve learned always to expect the worst. But maybe it doesn’t have to be so difficult. Maybe together, really together, it won’t be.

“You’ve really given this some thought, haven’t you?” I ask.

Wrigley pads over and sets his big, black head on Aaron’s knee. Aaron’s tense shoulders relax visibly as he scratches the dog’s head. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I have.” Aaron’s big brown eyes look up at me a little anxiously, almost shyly. It’s unbearably cute. “So whaddya’ think?” he asks.

“I think that’s got to be the lamest marriage proposal ever.”

We laugh until we can barely stand.

RIP Frankie Manning

2009-04-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

May 26, 1914 - April 27, 2009

Sigh.

I have nothing to say about this sweet, funny, inspiring, vivacious, flirtatious icon of an era that hasn't been said more eloquently elsewhere.

Except that he gave my bottom a quick pat once during a dance.

He was about 85 at the time.

Bless his heart, his friends and loved ones, and his lasting memory.

Lindy Hop Great Frankie Manning Dies at 94

http://www.frankiemanning.com/

San Diego Momma's PrompTuesday # 51: Gonna Be Startin' Something

2009-04-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PrompTuesday # 51:

This week, San Diego Momma started us off with a first sentence. (I love these!) So without further ado:

She lifted the smudged glass to her lips, stopped mid-raise with that familiar lopsided smile and whispered, “This is the last you’ll see of me.” She coolly downed the remainder of the vodka Gibson she had insisted be served in an actual cocktail glass instead of the plastic cup originally proffered.

"Goodbye, Jack."

Then, without so much as a sideways glance, she turned on her slingback Prada heels, and strode unceremoniously out of the "sorry excuse for a ballroom". Her words.

Up until that point, attending his 20th high-school reunion had seemed a grand idea. Now he wasn't so sure. He gazed once more around the room. In the wake of Bobbi's departure, ("It's Roberta, Jack. Always has been. Please try to remember that, won't you?"), he had to admit everything seemed suddenly dreary and depressing. The laughter sounded forced and artificial. The once-familiar faces looked tired and used up, or bloated with debauchery and excess. The women, every last one of them mutton dressed as lamb, struggled to feign class and pretend that this barnyard hoedown was a night at Maxim's. It was a safe bet that few of these yokels had ever traveled far enough afield to so much as cross a county line.

Jack glanced at his watch. Ten minutes. Roberta had been there for exactly ten minutes. In that time, she had surveyed the environs, assessed the value of both the ritual display and its participants and found it all lacking.

"What the hell am I still doing in this godforsaken town?" he mumbled.

"You say something, pal?" The bartender was eyeing him, expectantly.

"Uh, no. I mean, yeah," he stammered. "Belevedere Gibson, please."

"Sure thing."

"And buddy, . . . Put it in a glass, would you?"

Literary Love Affairs, Part I: Or Why I Talk to Squirrels

2009-01-07T11:00:00.000-08:00

San Diego Momma’s second PrompTuesday of 2009 is a doozy. She’s asking us what our favorite book is and why.

Book. Did you catch that? Singular.

I balked. I panicked. I told her it was like having a lifelong nymphomaniac choose her favorite lover. Completely, utterly, impossible. Then I closed my browser window and went about my business. But the question kept nagging. I thought about how seemingly insurmountable tasks can be made manageable when broken down into smaller tasks. It would be perfectly legitimate to break one’s life as a reader down into small pieces and select a favorite book for each phase of one’s life, wouldn't it? Yes. Hence this first installment of what may be a completely tedious exercise in literary navel-gazing. Let's call this:

Part One: The Dr. Seuss Years

My mother got me started early in my book addiction by signing me up for one of those children’s book-of-the-month clubs. I remember being so excited every time one of the flat cardboard boxes arrived. The very first one was Dr. Seuss’s One Fish, Two Fish. I liked Dr. Seuss well enough, but his books were never entirely satisfying to me. He may be a national institution, but let’s face it, there’s not a whole lot going on there in terms of story. I had pretty much outgrown the Dr. even before Kindergarten.

Ingeniously, these book clubs send out books of ever-increasing complexity to keep pace with a child’s anticipated reading level. When then the actual story books with plotlines and conflict and only one illustration for every two pages started arriving in the mailbox, they were a revelation. Now those were the books that hooked me. Those were the books that fired my imagination and fed my pretend games. Those were the books like Miss Suzy (Miriam Young and Arnold Lobel).

I know. You have probably never heard of it, and it’s a crying shame. It’s marvelous. You see, there’s this little squirrel. She wears an apron and lives in a tree. She is house-proud, very much like my mother, and keeps a tidy little home there. One day, some mean, nasty red squirrels invade her home and throw her out. She runs away into the attic of the house nearby. Stored in the attic, are a brigade of toy soldiers and a perfectly squirrel- sized doll house. She befriends the soldiers and takes up residence in the doll house. Finally, she tells the soldiers about her old home in the tree, which she misses terribly, and they decide to help her get it back.

I loved, loved, loved that book. It had everything my little 5 year old heart could want: a fluffy, anthropomorphic squirrel, a doll house, a mysterious attic, and the kind of righting of wrongs that my overdeveloped sense of justice often demands of literature even to this day. (More on that in subsequent installments.)

There came an afternoon, when I was in Junior High, when my mother suggested giving all of my “kid’s books” to my nephew. I thought about it for a few seconds, as shocked by the suggestion as by my own reaction to it -- books being so very precious, after all. It took a moment, but I decided that my little baby nephew was at least as precious and absolutely deserving of my beloved books. I answered that, yes, he could have everything EXCEPT a Child’s Garden of Verses, and Miss Suzy. Miss Suzy I was perfectly willing to read to him myself, but she would forever remain indisputably mine.

I have her still.

PrompTuesday # 32: One Word

2008-11-25T16:48:00.000-08:00

SanDiegoMomma's PrompTuesday #32:

I took today’s PROMPTuesday from One Word to keep it simple this week (especially after the labyrinth-like PROMPT from last Tuesday.

So this week, write on this:

On the subway platform, a six year old black girl clutched her little sister’s hand, and held her breath.

She’d witnessed something impossible, the kind of thing you only see in movies. But at the movies, you knew how to react. First you’d get that tingle along your spine, and then you’d laugh. Maybe you’d even cheer and clap. You cheered because it was thrilling, but ultimately, you knew everything was going to be fine. Everybody would be safe and the hero would be unharmed. But seeing such a thing in real life, Shuqui realized, wasn’t like that. Not at all.

And so she held her breath. While her knees trembled and her vision blurred and her brain wobbled around inside her head, she held her breath and tried to decide whether to cheer or to scream.

The man in the black t-shirt had been sweating. He was stumbling around a little, “like a half-dead fly” Aunt Linda would say. Her daddy had gone over to see if the man was alright. He was like that, always looking out for and doing for people. Like today, after daddy was done at work they had had fun. There had been hot cocoa and pizza, and a new pair of shoes for each of the girls. Now it was time to go home and this man was sick and Shuqui was scared; even more so when the man fell to the ground, convulsing.

“What’s the matter with that man?” Her sister looked up at her, wide-eyed, her face framed by the unruly tendrils that loved to wriggle their way free of her knit cap.

The girls and watched nervously from a few paces away. The brief bout of convulsions had stopped and Daddy and another lady were helping the man up, now. When he seemed able to stand on his own again, she turned away and answered her sister.

“He’s just sick is all. Don’t worry, Syshe. Daddy’s gonna help him. He’ll be okay.”

A sudden movement in her peripheral vision told her differently. She glanced up. Something else was wrong. What was it? The man. Where did he go? She looked at her father. He was on the far side of the yellow line where you’re not supposed to stand. He was staring down at the tracks. Understanding began to dawn on her. She put the pieces together one by one: the man, the tracks, the sound of the oncoming subway train. In the exact moment that she realized what had happened, she saw her Daddy jump down, bend low, and then he was gone.

Within seconds, the train roared out of the tunnel. The squeal of the brakes melded with a woman's shrieks. But the train hadn’t stopped soon enough. A line of subway cars stood over the place she had watched her father disappear.

She held her breath.

She blinked her burning eyes, hard. Unable to move. Looking around, she saw she wasn’t the only one. Everyone was stock-still and staring; at least a hundred people. A hundred pairs of eyes trying to bore their way through the train cars to see, to know.

Then two pairs feet came pounding down from the front of the train, propelling uniformed bodies. One uniform tried fearfully to peer under the train. The other yelled for everyone to stand back.

Shuqui holding her breath. Waiting. Waiting for what?

Daddy's voice: “We're O.K. down here, but I’ve got two daughters up there. Let them know their father’s O.K.”

Exhale.

Now Shuqui knew the score. This was the part where everyone cheers and claps. She let them. Her own brain decided she should laugh, but she let the tears come too.

A Season Ends: Another Begins

2008-11-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

Election night 2008: I was scared and exhilarated and glued to the television set. . . and sick.

No, I mean actually, literally sick. Sore throat, sinus pressure, runny nose.

I wanted to have boatloads of high-end champagne at the ready, because my instincts told me there would be something to celebrate by the end of the night. But I was sick. I wanted to be at a party somewhere, or at one of my favorite neighborhood haunts with a contingent of like-minded friends to share the tension and mark the momentousness of the night. But I was sick. At the very least, I wanted to be watching the results in a clean and tidy room, free of that nagging pile of laundry to be folded. But I was sick and feeling pretty feeble. So, when CNN called it, instead of banging pots and pans on the front porch or hitting the streets to celebrate, I shed a few sniffly tears of relief and gratitude and Husband and I toasted our new President-elect, with a couple of these.

Hot Buttered Rum

1 – 2 oz. Puerto Rican Dark Rum (depending on mug size)
1 – 2 T Honey
4 whole cloves
Boiling water
1 pat (about half an ounce) of unsalted butter

Pour rum into your favorite mug, the one that fits your hands most comfortably and gives you that cozy feeling whenever you use it. Drop in cloves. Fill mug with boiling water as you would for tea. Stir in honey. Check for taste. When you are satisfied the proportions are right. Float the pat of butter on top and watch it melt across the surface of the rum. Sip and enjoy!

Stepping Out of My Crate

2008-09-27T11:00:00.000-07:00

If you need me, I'll be here:

Or here:

Or maybe even here:

See you in a couple of weeks . . .

Making the Case for Obama

2008-09-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This is reprinted from an email that's been going around that I thoroughly enjoyed receiving. I believe I have done my due diligence in terms of fact-checking, but feel free to challenge me on any inaccuracies you may find.

I'm a little confused. Let me see if I have this straight
If you grow up in Hawaii , raised by your grandparents, you're "exotic, different."
Grow up in Alaska eating moose burgers, a quintessential American story.
If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim.
Name your kids Willow , Trig and Track, you're a maverick.
Graduate from Harvard law School and you are unstable.
Attend 5 different small colleges before graduating, you're well grounded.
If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drive that registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a district with over 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate's Health and Human Services committee, spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any real leadership experience.
If your total resume is: local weather girl, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the mayor of a town with less than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you're qualified to become the country's second highest ranking executive.
My understanding is that Palin's resume actually begins with "2nd runner-up Beauty Queen/Miss Congeniality, local sportscaster, 4 years on the city council, etc. . ." But, onwards. - Cocktail Maven
If you have been married to the same woman for 19 years while raising 2 beautiful daughters, all within Protestant churches, you're not a real Christian.
If you cheated on your first wife with a rich heiress, and left your disfigured wife and married the heiress the next month, you're a Christian.
If you teach responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of society.
If, while governor, you staunchly advocate abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in your state's school system while your unwed teen daughter ends up pregnant , you're very responsible.

If your wife is a Harvard graduate lawyer who gave up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to raise a family, your family's values don't represent America 's.
If your husband is nicknamed "First Dude", with at least one DWI conviction and no college education , who didn't register to vote until age 25 and once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of Alaska from the USA , your family is extremely admirable.
OK, much clearer now.

Friday Happy Hour - Hurricane Chuck

2008-09-19T12:00:00.000-07:00

Hurricanes.

The season has officially started and we've been hearing a lot about them. Some of us have unfortunately been experiencing them. Hello Louisiana, Galveston, Cuba, Haiti - my heart goes out to the victims in the paths of Gustav and Hanna and Ike. Being on the West Coast of the US and therefore completely jaded about earthquakes, hurricanes tend to scare the bejeezus out of me. I'm sure the opposite would be true were I a native of the Gulf Coast.

Now, I thought I hated Hurricane cocktails, too. But this recipe? This is truly tasty. I can't claim credit for this one, I'm afraid. This fantabulous recipe comes from Mr. Chuck Taggart, a California-transplanted New Orleanean who keeps the faith on his Gumbo Pages. So, since I have set aside Fridays for recommending cocktail recipes, allow me to present for your imbibing pleasure, the best dang Hurricane recipe ever.

Chuck Taggart's N'Awlins Hurricane Cocktail

1.5 ounces light rum*
1.5 ounces dark rum
1 ounce orange juice
1 ounce fresh lime juice (NOT Rose's or RealLime)
1/4 cup passion fruit juice, or 1 tablespoon passion fruit syrup
1 teaspoon superfine sugar
1 teaspoon grenadine
Cherries with stems*, and orange slice to garnish
Ice cubes

In a cocktail shaker, mix the rum, passion fruit juice or syrup, the other juices and the sugar until sugar is dissolved. Add the grenadine, and stir to combine, then add ice and shake. Half-fill a hurricane glass with ice, then strain drink into glass; add ice to fill. Garnish with orange slice and cherries.

Chuck? You're welcome to come sip Hurricanes on my front porch anytime.

* Maven modifications: My personal preference is to use all dark rum and eliminate the cherry garnish. Maraschinos just give me the heebie-jeebies. -- Cocktail Maven

PROMPTuesday #22 - Writing Poetry

2008-09-16T10:48:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #22:

Today, write a poem including the following lines in any order:

“I tie a ribbon in a foolish way”
“The delicious fragility of this travesty”
“Where we still laugh and wish”

(Prompt courtesy of CreativeWritingPrompts)

Okay, here we go. Quick and dirty per request.

I walk this street a lifetime ago

Where we still laugh and wish

For a future we would never know

Once promised in a kiss

A sun bleached boardwalk a lifetime ago

With ribbons in my hair

Skipping barefoot as I throw

Rose petals in the air

Here again a sunny day

My mind too tired to wander

I tie a ribbon in a foolish way

Skip the boardwalk in your honor

The delicious fragility of this travesty

Not lost to the observant

Abandon is my majesty

And I her humble servant

Tequila Update

2008-09-12T13:23:00.000-07:00

Coincidentally, there is a tequila tasting event going on in San Diego this weekend. I just now heard one of the judges on the radio. Though he doesn't know yet which of the hundreds of tequilas that are being judged will win (that will be revealed tomorrow), he specifically named Clase Azul as his favorite so far! I feel validated.

Top Tequilas and Tequilas That Tanked

2008-09-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

My politically adversarial but no less dear friend (and Tales of the Heliosphere blogger), "tdr" hosted a tequila-tasting-slash-Mexican-food-gorge-fest at his home last Friday night. I brought the Sangrita.

As I promised in last Friday's blog, here is a rundown of the tequilas we tasted (in the order we tasted them), my totally subjective rating and my notes and comments about the level to which my palate was impressed. With one exception, we limited ourselves to anjeos for the purposes of this tasting, that is, tequilas that were aged for one year. Tasting was blind with the names revealed only after all 14 tequilas had been tasted. The ones I have no intention of ever drinking again after this experience were given a flat-out zero.

Tequila	Comments	Score
Dos Lunas	tdr started with the favorite from a previous tasting I did not attend, and I'm glad he did. This was terrific, and the one to beat for everything that followed. Sssssmooth with a beautiful smoky color, a scent of honey and a tobacco aftertaste.	10
Patron	This was the pale color of ginger ale and was much more acrid. Tasted like Novocain and smelled like petroleum products. Nasty.	0
Jose Cuervo 1800 Reposado	Slightly pink, sweet and strong, this reminded me of an expensive French lipstick -- which is not necessarily a bad thing! Pleased all senses respectably.	5
Corazon	Ginger ale color, sweet and slightly floral smelling. This had a unique buttery flavor and feel to it that I didn't get from any of the others.	7
El Tesoro	Wow. I was excited about this one after the first whiff. It smells really amazing, but Lordy, Lordy, once I tasted? Blech. It leaves your mouth tasting the way I imagine glue huffing would.	1
Gran Centenaro	Nice, nice nice! Good color, great esthers, lingers on the palate like a fine cognac with a hint of orange peel in the aftertaste. I literally had to taste the first one again after this, to make sure I still liked it better. I did. Hence the score of 9 here instead of 10.	9
Herradura	Very vanilla in the nose and on the palate, but a little too much burn to make it enjoyable. I think this would be an exceptional mixer to complement sweeter tequila-based cocktails.	6
Los Azulejos	This one reminded me of a really horrid pear brandy I once tried. All alcohol burn and no flavor.	0
Camilo	Slightly pinkish color, tasty. Not too much burn. Very respectable overall.	6
Jose Cuervo	This was much too sweet and tasted cheap. The moment I tried sniffing it, my nostrils literally rebelled and tried to close up at the scent. Felt like I was drinking cheap perfume.	0
Abandonado	This one was very nice. It was sweeter than my favorite, but equally nice in the mouth. Loses points for an unimpressive nose.	7.5
Cabo Wabo	Utterly boring. Good color but not much flavor. Use this for mixing if you want a Margarita but really don’t like the taste of tequila.	4
Jose Cuervo Reserva de la Familia	Really good! This one genuinely surprised me. The color was nice, but the standout feature was an earthy flavor I didn’t taste in any of the other offerings.	8
Clase Azul	Terrific flavors of coffee and honey with a pleasing mellow burn. The esters are a tad too strong, causing your eyes to water, ultimately too strong to beat out my fave.	9

PROMPTuesday #21 - Navel Gazing

2008-09-10T15:30:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #21:

Tell us a story! It can be long, short, true, false, silly, honest, colorful, quiet, meandering, punchy, ANYTHING!

"Get the door open, John! I have GOT to get these pants off!"

“I’m trying, babe! We forgot to leave the light on before we left. I can’t see a damn thing.”

The deadbolt successfully negotiated, Kate squeezes past him through the door and trot-squirms her way toward the bedroom, kicking of her flip-flops and unzipping her jeans on the way. She is hopping on one foot and pulling off the second pant leg before he has even removed the key from the lock.

“I don’t know what the hell they did to these jeans”, she yells back over her shoulder, “but something was poking me in the stomach through the entire movie!” She clicks on the bedside lamp, the brightest lamp in the house, sits on the bed, and squints at the front placket of her newly purchased designer jeans. “Damn it.”

She reaches for her reading glasses and takes another look. Nothing. The stitching is tight and sewn with uniformly smooth, soft cotton thread. There are no tags she has forgotten to remove. She sees absolutely nothing that could cause her so much discomfort. She stands and walks to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Dropping the jeans, she examines her reflection. She raises her t-shirt and there is the irrefutable physical evidence of her torment. A hot, angry red splotch roughly the size a silver dollar surrounds her navel and spreads upward like the map of a north flowing river delta. In spite of the pain and itch and her general irritation, she can’t help but be pleased with how very trim she’s looking. She hasn’t had abs like this since she was on the high school swim team two decades ago.

“Did you find it?”

John is leaning on the bedroom doorframe, a smirk on his face. Kate is suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look staring at herself in her boring white cotton underwear and Batman t-shirt. She suppresses a smile of her own. She won’t give him the satisfaction.

“No. There’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of COURSE I’m sure. There is nothing at all wrong with those jeans.”

“Then it must be your belly button.”

In a flash, Kate picks the jeans up off the floor and flings them in his general direction. Then she struts toward him, sticking a finger in her navel with a sweeping gesture and, bending back at the waist, she proclaims, “my good man, I can assure you that there is likewise nothing whatsoever in the sanctum sanctorum of my perfect navel.”

Only there is.

Tom sees her muscles tense. He watches as her eyes widen in shock. She tilts her head down and attempts to peer into her navel. “ John?” She says.

“Yeah, honey?”

“It’s attached.”

“What is? What’s attached?”

“This THING! This THING in my navel! It’s ATTACHED to me! What is it? I’ve got to get it out. What is it?!”

Before he can cross the room to her, Kate grabs hold of the offending object and yanks. Hard. Her tiny yelp, not-so-tiny intake of breath, and the thin rivulet of blood that begins to creep slowly down her abdomen seem to indicate that yes, whatever it is, it WAS attached.

Scarcely noticing the blood, Kate dashes into the adjoining bathroom and fumbles through the medicine cabinet with bloody fingers. She comes away with a pair of tweezers and the magnifying eyeglasses she uses when applying makeup. Swapping these for her reading glasses, she bends over the counter and starts fiddling with the thing from her navel.

Magnified thus, the object is revealed as a metal cylinder, no more than a quarter of an inch long with one pointed end and one flat. Toward the flat end Kate notices a seam and what appear to be concentric rings. A lid? Yes! It’s a canister! Pinching the impossibly small canister between two fingernails, she can just manage to twist the lid with the tweezers. The lid comes away at last and out slides another cylinder. This one is flat on both ends and seems to be a stainless steel bar. There is writing etched into the surface. It reads:

GenuSem

S/N 186143684486

Made in the USA

"GenuSem", she whispers, wondering at the connection. Already knowing. GenuSem. Where her husband works.

She looks at herself in the mirror over the sink. Even under the magnification of the makeup glasses, her skin is flawless. Dewy. Peaches and cream. Thirty-seven years have washed over her face and form and left no trace. Thirty seven years old and not even one toe of a crow’s foot. Her friend Irene just had fat removed from her buttocks and injected into her nasolabial folds. Kate questions for the first time where her own nasolabial folds are. And now that she thinks about it, doesn’t she remember having a mole over her left eyebrow?

“Kate?” John has crept into the bathroom unnoticed. He exhales her name in a short burst, cautiously, tentatively. He looks worried.

And well he should.

“Something you want to tell me, John?”

His shoulders slump. The furrow between his eyebrows deepens. Kate suspects she will never see a similar furrow on her own face. She waits for him to speak.

“Listen, Kate. I didn’t know what else to do. You were so sick last year, and the medical bills. . .”

“Where’s my body, John?”

"You don’t understand, Kate! If it weren’t for GenuSem . . ."

“Where is my body, John? I assume the brain is mine, but what did you do with my body, John?”

“Kate, I . . .”

“WHERE . . . IS . . . MY . . . BODY . . . JOHN?”

He hesitates. The moment is endless. He balances briefly on the parapet of a lie and falls truthward.

“I told them to save your eyes", he says. "Those are yours, too, Kate. The eyes are yours, too.”

Camping Ranting

2008-09-08T09:00:00.000-07:00

So, Labor Day weekend my husband and I went tent camping in the Sierras. We had planned to stay for three nights. We left after only one. Why? in my mind it was because far too many campers simply do not possess common camping sense or practice common camping courtesy. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that some of these so-called "campers" view camping merely as a cheap alternative to the hotel room they truly desire.

Thus I was inspired to create a common-sense etiquette guide for camping, but instead, I offer you two open letters to the fellow campers that made our camping experience less than ideal.

Boys and Thier Toys

Dear fellow campers -

We couldn’t help but remark upon the hulking behemoth of a portable apartment building parked on your modestly-sized campsite. How clever that it actually has a four-motorcycle garage at the back, and how convenient. You and your three “best-buds” were able to each bring a bike for your long, stud weekend in the Sierras. Where does one go to ride those dirt-bikes in the Sierras, I wonder? And at 6:30AM, too! How very industrious.

I just wonder if you are quite certain this is where you intended to “camp”. You will no doubt have noticed that the campsites here are not exceedingly large. In fact, now that you have placed the apartment building (with attached garage), the two-man tent and the four motorcycles on your campsite, there is no alternative but for your king-sized pickup truck (Goodness! What large tires!), to poke conspicuously out into the drive that enters the campground. Also, you are aware that this campground has no running water, are you not? And no hookups? Silly me! Of course you are aware there are no hookups! Otherwise, you would not have brought the generator with which you so graciously lulled us to sleep last night. Why, I do believe I heard the crickets and the frogs in the surrounding woods give up altogether when faced with your generator’s mighty thrum.

It might interest you to know that there is a campground a few clicks down the road specifically designed for RV and trailer camping. There are LARGE spaces, hookups and even a shower facility provided. I know you would appreciate the showers since you and your friends must have spent a great deal of money on your body art. It seems a shame all those tattoos should be hidden under a layer of campsite grime.

Regards,

Site #1

A Family Affair

Dear fellow campers –

Family is so important. It is wonderful that your extended family enjoys vacationing together. Two, or is it three families on one campsite! That’s impressive. The smallest one in the campground, too. How ironic that the smallest site will host the largest group. One. . . two. . three. . . EIGHT of which are children! They have the adults outnumbered two to one. Let's hope the dears don't decide to mutiny.

I just wanted to thank your family for helping us decide whether to stay through the weekend, or to go home. Watching all of you tumble energetically out of two cars like a Ringling Brothers circus act this morning, left us still on the fence. However, when the first bit of “camping gear” to come out of those cars proved to be a portable stereo the size of Rhode Island, we had reached a decision.

Our campsite reservation is prepaid and nonrefundable. Please avail yourselves. It is right next to yours and I think it will handle two or three of your smaller tents quite comfortably.

Best,

Site # 1

Tequila Sippin'

2008-09-05T16:00:00.000-07:00

There are a slew of amazing, high-quality tequilas out there these days that have completely transformed my view of agave-based liquor. Today's higher-end tequilas have legs that go on for miles, like the finest cognacs or old-vine Zinfandels. They feel buttery in your mouth, and in the esters you get hints of vanilla or honey. They are transcendent. In the past two years, I have gone from someone who completely reviled Tequila as one step below Thunderbolt and bathtub gin and one step above moonshine, to someone for whom Tequila-sipping is a new favorite pastime. The key is to find a tequila worth sipping. When you do, you'd be doing yourself a favor to sip it from a brandy snifter. More on tequilas worth sipping next week.

Today's weekend elixir is actually NOT a cocktail, but an accompaniment. I got this recipe off of he manager of an exceptional "Mexico City style Mexican" restaurant in downtown San Diego, Candelas. They have a terrific selection of tequilas, they make a mean mole, and their food is really fresh and scrumptious.

I recommend starting with your own very basic homemade Bloody Mary mixture of tomato Juice, Worcestershire sauce, celery seed, salt, fresh pepper and tabasco, all according to your taste. I do NOT recommend adding Old Bay or beef boullion for the purposes of this recipe. The goal is to end up with something a bit lighter, fresher and fruitier than bloody mary mix.

Sangrita (2 servings)

Approx 8 - 12 oz of bloody mary mix (homemade or store bought)
Juice of 1 1/2 limes
Splash of orange juice
Pinch of kosher salt
Pinch of fresh cracked black pepper
Tabasco (to taste)

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake well. Divide pour between two double glasses and enjoy alongside your favorite tequila.

Sangrita is not only the perfect chaser for tequila but it is also great for cleansing the palate between tequilas when conducting your own at-home tequila tasting (as long as you don't make it too spicy!). Amounts are approximate, based on watching and asking questions as he made it. This makes two servings.

Now I'm off to whip up a pitcher-full for . . . you guessed it . . . a tequila tasting!

I'll report back next Friday with the results.

Weekend Recommendations

2008-09-04T06:56:00.000-07:00

This will get you started this weekend. I'll be updating this with some theatre events this evening. In the mean time, in order to enjoy any of the activities below, you will find it helpful to be living or working in San Diego (as am I) and to have slightly retro sensibilities (as do I). If you are and if you do, you may run into me at any of the following:

TONIGHT! September 4, Thursday

Taryn Donath at Patrick's II
This saucy lassie plays a mean boogie woogie piano, and she's got the pipes to keep up with her fingers. Think Jerry Lee Lewis in a skirt, only cuter.

Wild Child at House of Blues
Too young to have seen the Doors in concert, or maybe just feeling nostalgic? This Doors tribute band will bring the experience to life for you.

Thursday Night Thing at the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art
First Thursday of every month.

Friday, 9/5

Taryn Donath at Patrick's II
Boogie woogie baby, Round II.

Saturday, 9/6

Tea Ceremony at the Japanese Friendship Garden

At 1:00 the Japanese Friendship Garden Society of San Diego will be performing the traditional Japanese tea ceremony. Admission to the garden is a paltry four bucks. You can have your own tea for another three.

Sunday, 9/7

House of Blues Gospel Brunch
Each and every Sunday, just like Jesus likes it.

ONGOING

The Stilettos at Henry's Pub

Rockabilly Swing that will put a spring in your rock-step. Every Tuesday night. Lucky us!

COMING SOON:

Trolley Dances

Yup! It's exactly what it sounds like!

"The Women" at the Old Globe Theatre

So, SO excited about this. Glamourous, vicious, loquiacious fun.

Flashy Snacking

2008-09-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

So yesterday I paid a visit to my favorite little sandwich shop. I always order the same thing: Tuna salad on sourdough with everything, add sprouts too, please. Tasty and filling, and only about $3.50. Sometimes, I will also pick up a little something for afternoon snacking. They have whole oranges, apples and bananas, hard-boiled eggs and the like. Usually, I go for the small, colorful bowl of raw veggies.

Yesterday, they were particularly colorful.

What is wrong with this picture, you ask? Simple. The orange stuff? It ain't cheese. It's cauliflower! Pretty, isn't it?

Now, this is my very first exposure to orange cauliflower, so naturally I had to rush to the nearest computer and do some internet research. According to this four-year-old USA Today article, orange cauliflower has been commercially available since 2004, but it was actually first discovered as a natural mutation as far back as 1970. A man named Michael Dickson is credited with heading up developing a new hybrid. Here's a quote from the article:

Dickson started developing the vegetable in 1981 after researchers from the National Vegetable Research Center in England who were familiar with his work forwarded him some seeds from the mutant plant, first found in the Bradford Marsh north of Toronto in 1970.

Research is also showing that the orange cauliflower varietal may actually be more healthful, allowing the plant to store higher levels of beta-carotene. Further research could lead to a wide range of crops genetically-modified to provide more complete nutrition, potentially good news for developing nations.

Regardless of where you stand on the issue of genetic modification of food, the new cauliflower sure is purty.

PROMPTuesday #20 - Memory Description

2008-09-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #20:

What are your back-to-school memories? Tell us about one. Your memory can be your own, or one from watching your child go to school, or a story inspired by a memory, or anything back-to-school-y. Either way, make us smell the must of the chalk or the acridity of teen spirit.

I remember my very first day of school. I had been judged one week too young to have been able to start the year before, so I had quite literally been anticipating my first day of kindergarten for over a year. Everything was so new and exciting. I remember marveling at the teeny hard plastic chairs and low, wide desks. Everything was brightly colored and just the right size, like Baby Bear’s chair in the Goldilocks story. I remember being shocked and disappointed, even at five years old, by how many of the other kids had not learned to read already. I still remember the names and faces of a good dozen kids from my Kindergarten class. I remember fighting against my instincts and prissily telling myself that, yes, it is okay to paint with your fingers, as long as I don’t get paint on my outfit. And, yes, there you have it. Of all my kindergarten memories, what I remember most are my outfits.

My mother has always been a very frugal and resourceful woman. In an effort to save (and eventually make) money, she became quite an accomplished refinisher of battered desks and dressers, re-upholsterer of worn out chairs, and sewer of lothing for both herself and for me. In fact, there is a two-page fashion spread in the family photo album that chronicles my first week of school in outfits. Five days, five hairdo’s, five outfits. . . one pattern. It’s pretty impressive, actually. The pattern was a skirt set. You could either make it as a skirt and vest combo, a skirt with attached suspenders, or a skirt with an overall-style bib front. My mother did all three in an array of fabrics (mostly man-made), but my favorite was the bib-front in a dark purple corduroy, velvety to the touch, with multi-colored flowers in the pattern. I'd sit primly in one of the hard chairs and periodically glance down to smooth my skirt over my lap, just to feel the luxurious fabric under my hands. I happened to love going to school, but even if I hadn’t? I would have begged to go solely for the purpose of showing off my outfits.

The Chip Shot

2008-08-22T10:10:00.000-07:00

Last week, I drowned my bogus Bigfoot sorrows in Georgia Bigfoot Cocktails. Well, one, actually. They’re pretty strong. This week’s cocktail recipe highlights yet another of my small obsessions. Coffee. I simply adore a good cup of coffee. My favorite purveyor? Caffe Calabria. You can literally walk in there and have a cup of coffee made with beans that were just roasted that morning. They also supply a number of restaurants, but I won’t ask them which. It’s a little game I play; a test for my palate. I’ll have a cup of coffee somewhere and just KNOW if it’s Calabria coffee. I’m proud to say I haven’t been wrong yet.

I first discovered today’s drink at a hip-crazy-cool, billiards-themed nightclub, now long defunct. The place was huge. One half was taken up with at least half a dozen beautiful pool tables with purple or gold or red felt, no boring green. The walls were also painted a warm gold and displayed elaborately framed reproductions of paintings by Van Gogh and other expressionists.

The other end of the club was darker with a stage for live music, a dance floor and tall bar tables. Separating the two and kind of forming an island in the middle was a beautiful curved and immaculate bar. One night, while waiting for a friend, the smiling, friendly bartender made me one of these.

So, without further ado, allow me to introduce:

The Chip Shot

1 oz Tuaca
1 oz Bailey’s Irish Cream
1 oz (or so) Hot Coffee

Serve in a brandy snifter and float a whole coffee bean on top for garnish.

TIP: If you order this out, do not let them try to put it in a double glass or one of those glass Irish Coffee cups. INSIST on the brandy snifter. Catching those esters is half the joy of a Chip Shot.

Cheers!

Oh, and incidentally - the slick billiards club? It’s an all-you-can-eat Japanese buffet now.

Yep.

This Weekend in San Diego

2008-08-21T13:05:00.000-07:00

Lots of cool stuff going on this weekend. I wish I could split myself into two for some of these. In order to enjoy any of the activities below, you will find it helpful to be living or working in San Diego (as am I) and to have slightly retro sensibilities (as do I). If you are and if you do, you may run into me at any of the following:

TONIGHT! August 21, Thursday

Screen on the Green - Bye, Bye, Birdie FREE!
Oh, how I love this movie. One of Ann-Margaret's very first roles and the is at her dancey, perky best. The San Diego Museum of Art projects films on the East Lawn under the stars. Bring a blanket and a wrap and a picnic for maximum joy.

Cinema Under the Stars - To Kill a Mockingbird
Feel like a classic flick in the open air but musicals not your thing? Check out this amazing film version of one of the best books ever written. You can also catch this on Friday night.

Steve Tyrell at Anthology
This jazz vocalist in the classic style has recently lent his smooth yet gravelly tones to a Burt Bacharach tribute. I think Steve's is the voice that Burt Bacharach would choose to have been born with himself. If you like this kind of thing, its a perfect pairing at a perfect venue. Two performances Friday as well.

Friday, 8/22

Cinema Under the Stars - To Kill a Mockingbird
See above

Steve Tyrell at Anthology
Two performances.

Sondre Lerche at House of Blues
Just TRY listening to this guy without smiling. You can't do it, can you? So cute you'll want to squish him like a bug.

Saturday, 8/23

North Park Historical Society Walking Tour
A walking tour of the bungalow neighborhoods of North Park, specifically what is called the "Dryden District" after early 20th century architect David Owen Dryden.

Cinema Under the Stars - A Hard Day's Night
I don't know about you, But I am prone to occasional bouts of Beatlemania on the weekends. I recommend this to relieve symptoms and to counteract the drearifying effects of your oh-so-serious day job. Also screens Sunday.

Sunday, 8/24

Cinema Under the Stars - A Hard Day's Night
See above.

House of Blues Gospel Brunch
Each and every Sunday, just like Jesus likes it.

ONGOING

Device Gallery - "Fantastic Contraption"
Edgy new gallery in Ja Lolla. Definitely worth checking out. Current Exhibit ends September 2, 2008.

Spring Awakening at the Balboa Theatre
The Tony Award-winning musical runs only through the 31st. Why should you go see it? Ten reasons - eight of which are Tony Awards. The other two? The venue is the historic and beautifully restored Balboa Theatre and they let you sit on stage, if you like. No, really. How cool is that?

Thursday Night Thing at the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art
First Thursday of every month.

COMING SOON:

Fritz Blitz 2008 - "Best of the Blitz"

Horrible, Horrible, Horrible

2008-08-20T20:15:00.000-07:00

Authors note to D. and to PW: I strongly advise against reading today's post. It's a downer anyway. -- Cocktail Maven

Something awful happened today.

172 people boarded a plane in Spain bound for the Canary Islands. Moments after takeoff, only 19 were left alive. There is no end of bad news in the world. You don't even have to look for it for it to plop in your lap on a daily basis. Wars. Atrocities. Extinction. Ignorance. Much of it washes over me. You learn to filter these things out just to survive, but for some reason, my mind keeps wandering back to this tragedy.

I know the families of the dead will suffer the loss of loved ones for a long time, for the rest of their lives, probably. I know the suddenness of their loss must only increase their anguish. I know this, I know what it is to lose someone. I know, and in no way do I intend to diminish their pain when I say that it is the plight of the surviving 19 that touches me most. It is the surviving that horrifies me.

We have all heard that statistically, we are much, much safer and less likely to come to harm travelling by plane than when travelling by car. However, despite the instructions provided by the air host/hostess, and in spite of flotation devices and oxygen masks, deep down we all know that were something to go awry, likelihood of survival is - let's face it - negligible.

But what if you did survive a plane crash? What if YOU, out of 172 people, were one of the blessed few who walked away? What do you do with that? How do you reconcile the memory of the man across the aisle who hoisted your bag for you with the memory of watching him die mere moments later, completely powerless to help? How do you compartmentalize something like that and move on with your life? How do you even decide what to do with the rest of it?

I hope I never have to find out.

PROMPTuesday #18 - Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

2008-08-18T22:25:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #18:

William Carlos Williams’s poem “This is just to say...” is basically about people who know they are supposed to say I’m sorry and apologize — but skirt the apology itself. Here’s the poem:

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

So the PROMPT for today is to wrote your own version of the poem.

William Carlos Williams happens to be one of my very favorite poets. Knowing myself unworthy to emulate him, I decided to use this exercise as a chance to come clean on something. I dedicate this effort to my darling husband.

This is just to say

I have used
your razor
that was
in the shower

for which
you had
bought
a new blade

forgive me
it was so sharp
and I
so hairy

Into the Void

2008-08-18T16:39:00.001-07:00

I've been scribbling on napkins as long as I can remember. Raised as an only child, I relied on an active imagination and volumes of books to keep myself amused. Occasionally, I would commit my own fancies to paper.

My first poem was written when I was about seven. To this day, I believe it remains my mother's favorite. Shall I share it with you?

I called it:

Today

It may begin a happy day
And then it might end in sorrow
but there's not a more important day
than the day before tomorrow

There you have it.

I've been thinking about that poem quite a bit lately. Probably because - thanks in large part to the inspiration of San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesdays and the fine examples of my clever husband and writerly friends - I have resumed my napkin scribbling.

Well, the napkins are usually computer screens and there's rather more typing than scribbling, but you get the idea.

Today I took a big, scary step for me. I submitted a new poem for publication. Not only that, but I submitted it for publication in the most prestigious poetry periodical I could imagine. The editors may hate it. They may scratch their heads and wonder where I got the gall to submit in the first place. That's okay. It was important that I do it. It was important that I do it today.

I've heard it said that if you reach for the stars, you may never get them, but in the process of reaching, you might well take hold of the moon. So I figure, even if the stars laugh and point at my waggling fingers, at least my fingers are out ther waggling. Who knows what I'll come back with?

I should have a better idea "within within 1-3 weeks".

Mini-Vacation

2008-08-16T13:59:00.000-07:00

Weekends.

I believe, that as much as circumstances allow, each and every weekend should be embraced as the mini-vacation it is. My husband, on the other hand is rather more industrious than I think one ought to be between 5pm Friday and 10pm on Sunday. I understand that there are always things that need doing for which our workaday lives often do not leave room. Typically such tasks involve pruning shears, paintbrushes, and. . . uh-oh! I do believe I just heard a saw outside.

I am afraid to check. I don't want to get involved.

After all, it's Saturday, it's very hot, and I'm on a mini-vacation.

At least for as long as I can get away with it.

If you need me, I'll be on the sofa with a pillow behind my back, an iced coffee and a good book. I say that, of course, hoping you won't need me.

You Saw It Here First: Georgia Bigfoot Cocktail

2008-08-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

So, in honor of today’s inconclusive press conference around the suspected bogus Georgia Bigfoot story, I am inventing a cocktail to both mourn his demise and celebrate my hopes for future legitimate breakthroughs in Bigfoot cryptozoology. I think the occasion calls for something BIG and STRONG and, of course, involving peaches.

You know, Georgia? Peaches?

Onwards.

First, let us begin with a base that is distinctly southern and quintessentially American:

1 jigger Kentucky Bourbon (I like Maker’s Mark)

Next, of course, the peaches . . . Nothing too girly, because we want those rough and rugged Georgia mountain types to drink this too. Let’s try:

1 jigger Peach Brandy

There you go! I think we’re on the right track. Three solid ounces of alcohol sounds big and strong to me. What’s missing? Ah, yes! Bitters to represent the bitterness of my disappointment once the Georgia Bigfoot is debunked.

2 dashes of bitters

And finally, let’s throw in some Ginger Ale to make the cocktail nice and refreshing after a hard day of Bigfoot hunting. Putting it all together, we have:

The Georgia Bigfoot Cocktail
Fill a highball glass half way with crushed ice. Add:
1 jigger of Kentucky Bourbon
1 Jigger of Peach Brandy
2 Dashes of bitters
Top off with Ginger Ale, stir and enjoy!

VARIATIONS:

The Canadian Sasquatch
There are many reported sightings of such creatures in British Columbia as well. Substitute Canadian Whiskey for the Kentucky Bourbon and drink a toast to our northern neighbors.

The Hairy Bigfoot/Hairy Sasquatch
If the original is still not manly enough for you, you might like the burn on this version. Simply skip the Ginger Ale and serve it in a double glass. Works either neat or on the rocks according to your preference. Then go get your back waxed.

The French Pedicure
For the more genteel I've devised a this Champagne Cocktail version that is also quite tasty:
Drop a sugar cube in the bottom of a champagne flute and add
2 dashes of bitters
1 Jigger of Peach Brandy
Fill glass with chilled champagne

Cheers!

Steppin' Out With Your Own Big Feet

2008-08-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

I have designated Thursdays for listings the heppest (no I did NOT misspell that ) things to do over the upcoming weekend. In order to enjoy any of the activities below, you will find it helpful to be living or working in San Diego (as am I) and to have slightly retro sensibilities (as do I). If you are and if you do, you may run into me at any of the following:

TONIGHT! August 14, Thursday

2nd Annual Toast to Hillcrest
Hillcrest's fledgling History Guild has put together it's second 21-up tasting event. A fun opportunity to sip and sup your way through Hillcrest.

Screen on the Green - The Parent Trap FREE!
The San Diego Museum of Art projects films on the East Lawn under the stars. Bring a blanket and a wrap and a picnic to this one, too. Incidentally, we're talking about the 1961 version, with Hayley Mills. Little Miss Lohan is nowhere to be found, which is just fine by me. . .

Friday, 8/15

Spring Awakening at the Balboa Theatre NEW!
The Tony Award-winning musical opens tomorrow and runs through the 31st. Why should you go see it? Ten reasons, eight of which are Tony Awards. The other two being:

The historic Balboa Theatre (beautifully restored and only just recently reopened)
They let you sit on stage, if you like. No, really.

Saturday, 8/16

Bird Park Summer Concert - "The Hayriders" FREE!
Some of the band selections over the past two years have been dubious, particularly knowing how many REALLY talented bands are underutilized in San Diego. Haven't heard these guys, but for me, even bad rockabilly is a rockin' good time. Bring a blanket or lawn chair and something to nibble on.

Hostelling International Midnight Madness Bike Ride

Sunday, 8/17

The Wizard of OZ at the San Diego Symphony Summer Pops
They'll be screening a special print of the film that only includes dialog and sound effects. The San Diego Symphony will provide the musical soundtrack LIVE. I love it when they do this!

House of Blues Gospel Brunch
Each and every Sundays, just like Jesus likes it.

ONGOING

Big River: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn LAST CHANCE!
The San Diego Reperatory Theatre stages this musical version of the Mark Twain Classic. Closes August 17th.

Thursday Night Thing at the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art
First Thursday of every month.

COMING SOON:

Fritz Blitz 2008 - "Best of the Blitz"

Of Monsters and Very Large Feet

2008-08-13T15:20:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember I have fallen in love with monsters.

Literary, rather than literal, of course.

I am sure it began with the fairy-tale variety; with beasts, frogs and bears who were really princes in disguise. Add to that a lifelong diet of classics in which nobles behave monstrously and presumed monsters are revealed as truly noble. Now, it is safe to say my girlish infatuation has deepened into a love for the ages.

So today it is reported that a mythical monster for our modern world may have been discovered in the Georgia woods. I am naturally skeptical, but oh my stars, I don’t want to be.

The story is that two men who lead bigfoot tracking expeditions, claim to have found the body of a hairy, 500 pound, 7 foot 7 inch man/ape. With very large feet. 16 3/4 inches long, to be exact. They also claim to have seen his “brethren” (their words from the press release at searchingforbigfoot.com) alive and well in the vicinity of the body. A press conference will be held on Friday, August 15th in Palo Alto at which the two men promise to provide photographic and DNA evidence of the find. Ah, for the luxury of being a press-credentialed master of my own schedule.

I must say, as much as the discovery fires my imagination, the romantic in me balks at the inelegant details as I imagine them unfolding: A monolithic yet lifeless carcass, abused by the elements, stretched on a stainless steel table. Harsh lights and sharp implements. Laboratory tests and sample collection.

Where I crave the Tarzan of Edgar Rice Burroughs or the Quasimodo of Victor Hugo, I find I may have to settle for Frankenstein’s monster, or rather, a poorly written, modern version in the vein of Clive Barker or Robin Cook.

Looks like I’ve been handed my Latest Obsession.

PROMPTuesday #17 - Get Specific

2008-08-12T11:07:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #17:

So, for this exercise, get specific with your writing. As written in the Observation Deck, Never just say ‘red dress,” say ‘ultra revealing micro mini with fringe.” Today, write a paragraph or a poem about anything, perhaps your first car, and describe it to the smallest detail. Or, start a sentence to flesh out an adjective, like, “He was so lazy that….”

Once, twice up in the air, then solidly in my palm as I push the screen door aside and step out. The chair shifts slightly when I lower myself into it, sighing. No deadlines here. No keyboards or computer screens. My thumb slides over the universally orange and pockmarked surface nestled in my hand, keeping time with the rhythmic "creak-creak" of the abused and exhausted floorboards beneath me. Across the street, a squirrel jogs in short bursts along a telephone wire, tail so high and bushy, he looks electrified. His is the only visible movement tonight, save mine. I smile and plunge a too white, manicured nail-tip into taut skin and begin the slow striptease of summer fruit.

Author's Note: This one also yielded a poem version with which I am rather pleased. Thanks again, San Diego Momma! -- Cocktail Maven

PROMPTuesday #16 - Give 'Em a Piece of Your Mind

2008-08-05T20:07:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #16:

write a letter of complaint. Write it to your grocery store, your breakfast, your toilet paper…anything you find lacking, subpar, or freaky.

Dear Jack,

I am pleased that your fast-food restaurant chain is responding to the nation’s obesity epidemic by developing menu items for the more health-conscious among us. I find it very comforting to know that, in a pinch (no groceries in the house, no time to cook) I can visit the Jack in the Box just down the street and grab one of your yummy new Acapulco Chicken Salads and actually ENJOY a fast food meal. However, I do believe you may wish to consider providing psychiatric evaluations for the chefs and market testers who designed this latest offering. Surely, only an unstable mind would conceive of pairing a delicious, healthful salad with a dressing that boasts TWENTY-FOUR GRAMS OF FAT.

For comparison’s sake, I reviewed the nutrition information for some of your other menu items. Here is what I found: At 24 grams of fat, one serving of your Cilantro-Lime Salad Dressing has more fat than a junior bacon cheeseburger or a medium order of fries. 6 pieces of your latest mother’s-worst-nightmare snack food, breaded and deep-fried macaroni and cheese (who comes up with this stuff?), surpasses the fat content of the dressing by a single gram, as does the Cheeseburger Deluxe, the Supreme Croissant, and the Bacon Egg and Cheese Biscuit.

Clearly, someone forgot to consider the target market for your salads.

Regards,

Thankful for Low-Fat Balsamic Dressing in San Diego

PROMPTuesday #15 - One Word Says It All

2008-07-29T15:59:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #15:

Write about deception. Whatever that means to you. Can be fact or fiction.

Without intention
Her predilection
For effusive affection
Feeds misconception
Of deception
With no connection
To the truth

Defamation
Confrontation
Protestation
Isolation
Litigation
And a man of station
Gets a hot new secretary

PROMPTuesday #13 - Finish It

2008-07-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #13:

for today’s exercise, I’d love you to add to the sentences provided below. Complete the paragraph and continue the story.
**********************************************************************************

“Wait!” I screamed after her. “Your hat!”

She ignored me, which was to be expected. We hadn’t talked, not really anyway, in more than 10 years. I scooped up her black hat. The mesh veil fluttered beneath my fingers…

**********************************************************************************

Author's Note: I TOTALLY CHEATED on this one. I practically doubled both the time and the length, constrants that San Diego Momma laid out. I justify my transgression by saying that I was on a roll and ooh, I had FUN with this one -- Cocktail Maven

“Wait!” I screamed after her. “Your hat!”

She ignored me, which was to be expected. We hadn’t talked, not really anyway, in more than 10 years. I scooped up her black hat. The mesh veil fluttered beneath my fingers…

I considered going after her. I could have caught her before the service, but I was expressly NOT invited. The years of enduring her hatred kept me rooted to the doorstep, hat in hand. “Serves her right” I said aloud. I knew how strongly she felt about graveside decorum. She would be mortified to arrive bareheaded and barefaced.

It’s hard to believe my sister Joan and I were once incredibly close. So close, in fact, that we built a home together. It is a two story Spanish affair with identical floor plans upstairs and down: Two bedrooms, a large eat-in kitchen, living room and one and a half baths. The stacked cottages differed only in our color choices. Joanie was fond of mauve, while I leaned more toward greens and cream. We intended to grow old together here in harmony and mutual support. Having remained unmarried well into our thirties, we were satisfied that we ould likely never marry. Then came Terrence.

Terrence courted my sister in an impassioned tornado and married her after only three weeks. During that time she had been completely transformed by their affair. She began an average middle-aged bookkeeper and became a romantic heroine to make a Barbara Cartland proud. I watched the transformation with awe, and then with envy.

The late night that a drunken Terrence stumbled into my first floor home by mistake, I only wanted a little taste of what my sister had. Had I foreseen the bitter shrieking matches to come — the slammed doors, the hatred — I would have shoved Terrence back into the hallway and carried him up the stairs if necessary. Ultimately, it became too much for Terrence, and he abandoned my sister. She’d had no word of him until yesterday, when a lawyer called to say Terrence was dead.

I glanced up from my doorstep reverie when I heard a car approach. Joanie emerged slowly from her ancient Buick and turned to face me. Her tear-stained cheeks were no surprise, but there was something else. The old, familiar hatred was gone from her eyes. Her gaze was instead hopeless and, dare I say, apologetic? I went to her and proffered the hat. She didn’t even glance at it. She just took my face in her hands and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Janice. I’m so, so sorry . . . all these years I’ve cost us.”

“But what? Why? What’s happened, Joanie?”

“So many women.” Her voice broke, but she went on. “There were so many women at the funeral. And the police. Those women lost everything, Joanie. Terry conned them all. What you did? You saved me. I’m so sorry.”

PROMPTuesday #12 - The Guest Hostess (ME!)

2008-07-09T22:26:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #12:

San Diego Momma asked me to guest host PROMPTuesday this week, and I was INCREDIBLY honored. I wanted to do something fresh and innocent so here's what I opted to recommend:

The ancient Greek storyteller, Aesop is known for morality fables featuring anthropomorphic animals, insects, plants, and even statuary. This PROMPTuesday, I’d like to see everyone knock out a little fable of their own. Take a principle you live by, put it in a story and create your own axiom for the ages. The final sentence of your story should state the moral.

I grew up on Aesop (among myriad others) and have loved his stories as long as I remember. I thoroughly enjoyed playing with the form.

THE WARTHOG AND THE SHOPKEEPERS

There once was a warthog with enormous tusks. His tusks were strong and they rose high into the air. They made the warthog look terribly fierce and intimidating. After many years of tearing through the forest frightening all the other animals, the warthog grew lonely. It was time for a change. “I think I should like to work in a shop,” the warthog decided. That way, I shall meet lots of people and never be lonely.” So the warthog set off for town that very day.

When the he got to town, he saw a dress shop across the town square. “That is a very pretty shop,” thought the warthog, “perhaps I shall work there.” But when the customers saw him come in the door, they all screamed and ran away. “No, no, no!” Cried the dressmaker. “You are much too fierce and intimidating to work in my shop”. The warthog hung his head and left.

Next he saw a tiny shoe shop. “May I work in your shop?” The warthog asked. “No, no, no!” said the cobbler. “Your tusks are much too large for my tiny shop. They will get in the way.” The warthog hung his head and left.

Feeling very sad now, the warthog decided to try the bakery. “May I work in your shop?” asked the warthog. “My, my, my!” cried the baker. “What lovely tusks you have! Those tusks would be perfect for delivering my doughnuts. Yes, yes, yes, you may work in my shop!”

And so the warthog lived a long and happy life delivering doughnuts all over town. He made many friends along the way and never felt lonely again.

MORAL: We each of us are perfect when put to perfect purpose.

PROMPTuesday #11 - The Infomercial

2008-07-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #11:

This week, please humor me by writing an infomercial for this product:

Eat whatever you want and don’t gain an ounce!

Are you a sofa snacker? A potato chip couch potato? What if you could burn all the unwanted calories from your favorite foods BEFORE you eat them? We all know that exercise burns calories, but exactly how much exercise do you need to burn off that bear claw you’ve been eyeing? The Motivator Exerbike with built-in calorie calculator will figure it out FOR you!

Simply open the accompanying food booklet and enter the code for the tasty snack you plan to eat. Next, place the food item on the tray scale in front of the handlebars. The Motivator Excerbike automatically weighs your portion and calculates calorie content. All you have to do now is pedal! Your prominently displayed food item keeps you motivated and reminds you of the taste treat to come.

As the Motivator Exerbike tracks the calories you burn, choose from over 45 different musical accompaniments, including themes from such film classics as “Chariots of Fire”, “Rocky”, “Raiders of the Lost Ark” and “Breaking Away”. Once you have bicycled away as many calories as you are about to consume, the red light below your handlebars will flash indicate you’ve preemptively burned off that candy bar, cream-filled doughnut or bag of chips.

The Motivator Excerbike: Your key to eating guilt-free!

PROMPTuesday #10 - Dream Book

2008-06-24T09:35:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #10:

You’re in a bookstore. You see stacks and stacks of books, but one in particular catches your eye. Something about the title. You’re intrigued. You pick the book up, open it, and read the first paragraph. Now you’re hooked. What is the title of the book and what did the first paragraph say?

THE CAVALIER OF KENSINGTON PARK

He pressed the tip of his rapier lightly into the back of the Ruffian’s neck. His stance was sure; his body perfectly balanced and each muscle was alert and ready to spring into action. There would be no mistakes tonight. The moon was full and he had no trouble sizing up his opponent and calculating the risks. The cavalier had carefully positioned himself between the moon and the struggling figures on the grass, knowing his elegant cape and plumed hat would cut quite the dashing . . . and intimidating . . . silhouette.

“I’d thank you to unhand the lady.”

PROMPTuesday #8 - You Know What They Say About a Picture

2008-06-10T20:53:00.000-07:00

Author's note: This little prompt "seed" that San Diego Momma planted has grown into a fully-realized short story. I plan to submit it for possible publication in the very near future. You can be sure I will blog about the success or failure of my attempt. Keep checking back for updates! -- Cocktail Maven

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #8:

This PROMPTuesday is about what lies beneath. So this week, I’d like you to look at this picture:

…and very quickly write down the first three words that come to mind. Now, start writing, using those words anywhere in your story. (Be sure to name the three words in your post or comments for our FYI.)

Oh! And the genre is “memoir.” (It can be a fake memoir.)

Three words: Cold, Sediment, Lost.

It was during the summer of my twelfth year that I became an only child. That was the year my brother was lost. He took the little rowboat out on the lake early one morning and simply never came back. He wasn’t supposed to go alone. We were always supposed to stick together,to watch out for each other. But it was early and cold, and I was tired. I yelled at him and told him that if he wanted to fish that badly then he should just go already and leave me in peace. Now, thirty years later, I still look for him on the shore. I stand knee-deep in the water with the sediment sucking at my feet and I expect to see Danny striding up with that classic smirk on his face, his “you’ll believe anything, won’t you?” look. I keep hoping he stayed away all these years just out of spite.

It was six months before we found the boat, caught up in some reeds. A family of ducks had made a nest in it. There were no holes, no damage of any kind, nothing to indicate where the boat and my brother had gone. Just seeing the boat made me angry. It should have had the decency to stay lost.

Like my brother.

Like Danny.

PROMPTuesday #7 - The Story Spinner

2008-06-03T09:43:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #7:

Thanks to the Story Spinner, I generated a random prompt that’ll give you a starting phrase, the setting, and two items to include in your story.

Here they are:

First sentence for your story: “Dear Diary,”
Setting: In a limousine

Two words you must include while writing:

Missile
Hearth

Dear Diary -

Another effing limousine and another effing premier. Who conned me into thinking this was going to be glamorous and fun? The accumulated days I’ve spent in the dentist’s chair for these perfectly pearly whites are days and hours I’m just never getting back. The time spent having hair ripped from my body and coiffed on my head . . .

I just know this boob-tape is giving me a rash.

To top it off my feet are killing me and we haven’t even arrived yet. Damn. I really shouldn’t be wearing such pointy-toed shoes so soon after my bunion surgery. Why do I subject myself to this? So I can wear those little strappy sandals with the diamonds on the red carpet for five minutes in MARCH? So not worth it.

I’d rather be tending hearth and home back on the farm in Iowa. I miss my horses. I miss my mom’s tuna casserole. I even miss my dad’s tobacco spitting. I miss EATING. And just look at this guy at the other end of the seat. Unbelievable, the guys they pair me up with for these things. The international heartthrob with the cavernous nostrils and nothing to say. Dumb as a box of rocks and gay as paint.

I hope the movie flops.

I hope the theatre burns down so I can turn around and go home.

I hope a stray missile lands on the limo.

I knew I should have been a French teacher.

PROMPTuesday #6 - Don't Be Yourself

2008-05-27T09:56:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #6:

Write in another voice — someone completely opposite from you (i.e. an oil tycoon, a four-year-old kid, a drunk dog) and argue in favor or opposition to something outlandish which should be legalized or outlawed (i.e. the oil tycoon might argue that all environmental groups be declared unconstitutional, the four-year-old may advocate mandatory dessert after dinner, etc.).

I can’t believe that little twerp actually TALKED to me after math. He tole me he likes my new cowboy boots. Dummy. He’d prolly trip if he ever had a pair of cowboy boots. I hate that kid. He thinks he’s so smart. I coulda figured out the problem on the board in another minute if he’d of just kept his big mouth shut. His big ugly metal mouth in his big ugly head. “Looks like a watermelon on a toothpick”, is what my dad would say. Who’s that kid he think he is, making me look dumb? I’ll show HIM who’s dumb. I’ll show the little creep how smart my fists are. He tole me he liked my cowboy boots this morning. I’ll give him a look up close. Show ‘im how pointy they are. Then I’ll let my boots kick his sorry little ass. He can’t even tell on me ‘cuz science says I got every right to beat up on him. Darwin says its “survival of the fittest”, and I’m way fitter to survive than Twerpy Mcgee. I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and I got REAL pointy boots.

Hah! There he his!

“Hey, shrimp!”. . .

PROMPTuesday #5 - It's All in the Tone

2008-05-20T20:47:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #5:

Write something spooky. It can be a made-up story, something that happened to you, dialogue, an urban legend re-told, anything. Experiment with tone, mood and atmosphere to create a sense of the scary. I’m not thinking gory here, but rather something less overt, more subtle; a story, description, poem, tidbit that uses description to convey a feeling of foreboding and spookiness.

I wake up lying in the street. Quite literally in the gutter. I wait for the world to coalesce beyond the gray mist that surrounds me. High above, a gaslight flickers. Night, then. It is not my eyes that have betrayed me. I am betrayed by the sun and this damnable fog.

How long I have lain here? Long enough to warm the cobblestone beneath my cheek. The stale mouth, the throbbing temples and the stench of alcohol permeating my skin tell me I have again succumbed to my baser urges. She will leave me if she finds out. But wait. Has she not already? Is that not that the very reason I find myself in such a state? Someone told her I was drinking. After I promised. But it was a lie, a vicious slander and I told her as much. She thought me false. And so I drank. How long ago now? Hours? Weeks?

I try to push myself upright, but a searing pain catches my breath and stops me short. Now on all fours, I reach around gingerly to finger a rib. Broken, I fear. How? And what is this on my hands? Blood? It is on my hands, the sleeves of my jacket. . . soaking into my shirt cuffs! Mine? Slowly I shift my weight to the curb and check for further injury. A small gash above one eyebrow. Nothing to account for all. . . this. . . blood.

What have I done?

PROMPTuesday #4 - My First Love

2008-05-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #4:

Write about your first love. Work the phrase, “Beauty in the shadows,” into the piece. This one can go to 250 words.

Sweet 16 and never been kissed, but I was determined.

The first time I saw the tall, wavy-haired, dark-eyed boy at that church in Carlsbad. I remember thinking to myself, “He’s the one! He is going to be my first boyfriend.” Until then, I felt like I had been hiding my beauty in the shadows, unwilling to risk revealing myself in sunlight for fear I should be found wanting, undesirable, ugly.

The preacher’s daughter had known Tall Dark and his brother most of her life. She introduced us. Now, six months later I had just turned 16, and the boy asks me after youth group if he can talk to me alone for a minute. I follow him into one of the small Sunday school classrooms off of the main fellowship hall and shyly, timidly, he gives me a gift, not knowing how I will react. Not knowing whether I would “get it”, and understand the significance of the gesture. I did, and it must have shown in my face enough to bolster his courage. He asked me to “go with him”, and I of course, said yes. It was then that he kissed me. My first kiss!

Apparently his first kiss too.

I distinctly remember our teeth colliding. Even in my inexperience, somehow I knew that wasn’t supposed to happen. Regardless, I was thrilled! I was validated! I was all over goose bumps to be viewed in the light, and welcomed, and loved. I felt like I had grabbed the brass ring and now I didn’t have to get off the Merry-go-round. MY ride was just starting. . .

PROMPTuesday #3 - The Door

2008-05-06T20:38:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #3:

You’ve been taken from your home, blindfolded and put on an airplane. After what seems like forever, you’re led off the plane, and left to stand, alone. You take off the blindfold and see this:

What’s behind the door?

I knock. What else can I do? After a moment, the wood slides away from behind the tiny barred window, and two pale, rheumy eyes beneath maniacal eyebrows peer out at me. “She’s here”, he croaks, to someone other than me. The door swings back on creaking hinges and the rheumy-eyed old man guides me inside.

The room isn’t so much a room as a cavern, carved from the stone of the mountainside into which it is nestled. The stone floor is covered in oriental rugs, showing their age, but spotlessly clean. There is a pride of place here that is palpable. The only light in the cavern room collects in pools around scattered oil lamps atop myriad antique tables. Placed strategically near and around these tables so as to take advantage of the lamp glow, are beautifully crafted wingback chairs, perfect for reading.

The walls, floor to ceiling are covered with books.

PROMPTuesday #2 - Step Out of Your Crate

2008-04-29T21:10:00.000-07:00

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #2:

In the spirit of TED, an annual conference that challenges the world’s most influential thinkers to give the talk of their lives in just 18 minutes, write an inspirational “speech” in 150 words. Speak to any audience you want: an unborn child, college grads, the elderly, the dying, your younger self, whoever. You can make this silly, serious, sad, angry, scary. Anything goes.

When you bring a new puppy into your home, experts recommend that you crate train, both for your own sanity and for the puppy’s sense of security and well-being. The puppy has a small, safe space that it can consider home, and it can retreat to it when all the new sights and smells and experiences being absorbed by its little brain become too much. Gradually, you introduce the puppy to different rooms of your home as it begins to feel more comfortable. It’s amazing to watch. Each new room is a thrill and a surprise for the teeny little creature. You can see as it’s stimulated by new experiences, how it changes and learns to become a part of your household, part of your own microcosmic community and a good puppy citizen.

I think it is safe to say, that we have all explored virtually every nook and cranny of our own homes (with perhaps the exception of the spider-infested crawlspace underneath). But really, that depends on what you consider home. Is your house your home? Your state? Your nation? Your planet?

How much of your HOME have you really explored?

I keep seeing alarming (to me) statistics about how only between 10 and 20 percent of Americans will ever own a passport in their lifetime. The statistics are even more shocking when you find out 80% of us (probably the same 80%)spend our entire lives within 20 miles of where we were born. I looked up some numbers. The land surface of the planet is a bit over 57 million square miles. Of that, North America takes up just over 9 million, about 16%. The entire US? 3.7 million (6%). Bringing those numbers back into our own sanctuaries, 6% of the average new home built in the US today can be represented by about a 10 by 12 foot bedroom.

So I ask again, how much of your home have you really explored?

It’s time to step out of your crate.

PROMPTuesday #1 - Making Writing Fun Again

2008-04-22T10:15:00.000-07:00

My charming, delightful, creative friend San Diego Momma has begun providing writing prompts in her Blog every Tuesday. The goal is just to get juices flowing and make writing fun again. It's working for me. I'm having a blast and I know you will too.

Here's what she threw out at us for her very first PROMPTuesday prompt:

Write a nonsense poem. Make up words. Create silly sentences. Whatever. Just make it all a bunch of make believe and not making sense-it-ness.

I gave it a try, and my own efforts yielded a limerick. Must be the Irish in me.

I am old and my bones are all rickety.
I move slow and my joints go “crick-crickety”.
But when in my car,
I drive fast and far,
And hope the police don’t feel tickety.