Best Friend Shenanigans

I think every girl, at some point, feels the need to be blond. Visions of walking down a beach, golden tresses blowing in the wind, deeply tanned and well toned body … aww, life is good!

My best friend and I were no strangers to this desire. Shortly after high school, we made our first trip to Florida, chaperon free. Being limited in funds, we had sought ways to bleach out our hair using the sun. We had been told that lemon juice worked really well. After our arrival and check-in at the hotel, we proceeded to the grocery store. 

We had discussed our lemon juice on our 15 hour drive.  We decided we would buy “Real Lemon” in the bottle, pour it in squirt bottles , and then spray it on our hair while we were sunbathing. With the car loaded with bottles of “Real Lemon” we anxiously returned to our room, put on our suits and headed to the pool.  First we slathered up with suntan oil.  I’m a fair-skinned red head, so you can figure out the result of this step.  Then we proceeded to wet our hair and squirt on the lemon juice. We figured if a little worked well, a lot should work really well.

As the sun started to dry out our hair, mine got stiff as a board. Then came the bees!  My best friend, flapping her hands over her head said “What is this with all the bees?  What’s the deal?”  I also was fighting off the bees, when it occurred to me, “ I think they are attracted to all this lemon.”    All Bees Unite!!

We decided we would take a walk down the beach, and surely the bees wouldn’t follow.  Through the warm sand we walked, right down to the water’s edge. Nothing feels quite as good as wet sand when it squishes through your toes. Nature’s pedicure. 

We were wearing suits that were strapless.  God forbid that we would get tan, or in my case, burn lines. As we were strolling along listening to the soft rumble of the waves and the song of the seagulls, we were oblivious to the darkening clouds forming overhead.   Imagine our surprise when we began to get pelted with sharp, pounding rain drops.  We turned and started to run back to our hotel. We had to hold the tops of our suits up, or I’m sure they would have been down to our waist.

Then the stinging began. This time it wasn’t bees. The rain was drenching our lemon covered hair, and all that lemon juice was running into our eyes.   It was quite the decision, as we continued to run, whether we were going to hold up our suits or wipe our eyes. To the gratefulness of the others on the beach, we chose holding up our suits. So we ran blindly the rest of the way to the hotel, eyes clenched tightly due to the burning, stinging lemon juice. 

If you want to bleach your hair, it’s probably best to go to a salon.  Lesson Learned!

This post is for the challenge from The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write a memory with "lesson learned" either the first two words or the last two words. 

Hearing Music Through My Feet

"One and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight. And one and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight."  These were words that I grew up with from the age of four until I graduated from high school.  Turn on the music, and I start to count away.     I've often said that I hear music through my feet.  My choir friends jokingly say, they love to stand behind me during the "Alleluia Chorus."  They're impressed with the hip action.  I don't even realize that I do it.  It's just a natural movement.  I still, even to this day, own a pair of tap shoes.  In fact I have two pair. One with heals, and one called jazz taps.

My childhood was blessed, and I do mean blessed with dance being a large part of my world.  I have often said that besides my parents, that my strongest mentor in my life has been my dance instructor, Miss Bette.  I studied dance from the very young age of four, and continued structured study until I graduated from high school. Then it was time to "move on."  I probably didn't really dance for another five years or so, but it seems that once I got my feet under me, settled into a job after college, and thought I had "grown up", I still often gravitated back to dance.  I joined every type of exercise class I could that involved music and dance. To heck with jogging, treadmills, rowers, stair steppers ... just turn on the music and let me dance.  I clogged with The River City Cloggers, I even taught kinder class for a period of time.   Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like 15 pairs of four-year-old feet in tap shoes.  I had a magic carpet in my class room, and when it wasn't your turn to show me the step, you got to stand on the magic carpet, with a special treat to follow. 

Miss Bette still teaches dance in our community.  She has to be in her late 70's to early 80's, and I believe she looks like she may be 60.  She has trained children, of children, of children.  She'll tell me, on times that we get to talk,  "Oh, I have Lisa's granddaughter in my class now."  She is so vibrant and proud of all the generations that have come her way.  She still teaches "tappercise" and some of my former dance mates and I attended some of her classes. She had every age group in the room, and there was a group of first time adult tappers in the second row.  All of us previous students were lined up in the first row.  She showed us the steps, then turned on the music.  Off we went!  The second row stopped about mid way through and just watched the ones of us tapping away in the front row. Bette just said, "Don't mind them. They've been dancing with me since they were four."   That's 54 years!!!!!

Dance taught me so much more than steps.  It taught me discipline, hard work, and poise.  In my "real job" I am often presenting to a full room of people.  This doesn't intimidate me.  I've been in front of audiences since I was four.    It seems that sometimes during parties or get-togethers with friends the "what if" games start.  You know the 'what if" you could do this over, or "what if" you could have lunch with.  My two favorite "what if" questions and answers are:

"What if you could have chosen your favorite job. What would it be."  My answer, I would have liked to have been 5'9" tall so I could have been a Rockette or a "gypsy" on Broadway and moved from one chorus line to another.

"What if  God asked you something you would like to do in Heaven that you didn't get to do on Earth."  My answer, I'd like to tap dance with Gene Kelly.  Just turn on the rain and give me the umbrella, and I'll be singing and dancing in the rain.

"Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.  
Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.
Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh."

If you need a  translation, Miss Bette just taught you the "Old Soft Shoe."   Just keep hearing that music in your feet.  It'll make everything seem brighter every day.

This is written for the prompt from The Red Dress Club.  We were to write about the word "rhythm" without using the word, and tell how it has played a part in our lives.

Get A Leg Up ...

The mountains were majestic, the snow like cotton rolling down a hill.  The peaceful quiet allowing a snapped twig to resonate almost with an echo.

The ski week was over and now it was time to return home. Time to face my family and friends with the realization that, yes, I was returning home injured, leg immobilized in a cast. I think my Mother's concerned look, as I limped off the plane, was the first thing I saw. Then my Father grinning, because he thought I was just kidding and trying to get a rise from my Mother.  But, all kidding aside, I truly was injured.  It was diagnosed as a torn medial collateral ligament in my left knee.  I was referred to an Orthopedist, and everyone who knew me was anxiously awaiting my first visit with him.  After the appointment, everyone was saying, "Isn't he just gorgeous?"  But to tell you the truth, my knee hurt so badly, and he had to draw so much fluid off of it, that I didn't think he looked a bit good.  However, I will say, that as my knee improved, so did he.  I ended up thinking he was pretty dang gorgeous!

I was casted for nearly four weeks with a full leg cast. My leg was absolutely straight with a cast extending from the ankle to the very top of my thigh.  I had gotten really good at maneuvering with this cast.  It was at least weightbearing, so no crutches were needed after the first several days. After tumbling down a flight of stairs, holding school books, I realized that I had to go DOWN the stairs with the bad leg first, and UP the stairs with the bad leg last.  It just didn't work any other way.

One night, about 3 weeks into the injury, I went to a darling little restaurant/cafe with friends. It was called Hearthstone Tavern, and the decor was a bit on the rustic side. I had dolled up pretty well, with wide leg pants that camouflaged the cast quite well.  I only needed to get to the table, sit down, and I would look as normal as everyone else in the restaurant. 

We were seated almost immediately, and I limped to the table with as much grace as I could muster.  Our table was a small round bistro type with four rattan chairs. The chairs were the kind that slanted slightly back with longer legs in the front and shorter legs in the back. We all sat down, and we ordered our round of drinks. Since I was off my pain medications now, I ordered my favorite Margarita. 

Before the waiter returned, I felt like my chair was just a tad bit further back from the table than I thought it should be.  So ... I cupped my fingers under the seat and scooched forward.  My life flashed before my eyes when I realized the chair was tipping over backwards.  Unable to stop the motion, and with my leg in plaster and casted absolutely straight, it came straight up under the table, and it flipped the entire table over and behind me.  You cannot even imagine the waiter's face when he showed up at our table, tray of drinks in hand to find hilarious laughter by my three friends, me on my back in the middle of the floor, with my left leg absolutely straight and completely perpendicular to the ceiling.  With my friends unable to get their breath, and me physically unable to help myself or get up ... were were just a complete mess.  The waiter blubbered something like, "How can I help?" Which just caused more raucous laughter. 

I think I finally rolled over on my right side, got up on my good knee, and was finally able to drag my bad leg up behind me. I guess I can at least be thankful the table wasn't full of food and drink, and none of us were impaled by flying dinnerware.   We were able to gather our composure and actually had a good dinner and good evening. But, every time there was a lull in conversation, the giggles would begin all over again.  And, we all knew that we were going to have to make an exit and get out of there, without causing anymore disruption.  What a night!   Talk about getting a leg up on things.

This post is an answer to the challenge by The Red Dress Club to write of one of our most embarrassing moments.

Forbidden Cartwheel

Try as I might, I can't remember any grade school trips.   I have taken myself back through each grade, just sure that if I ponder long enough, I will surely remember one or two field trips.  But, I really just don't.  I actually work with a woman who was in my grade school and high school class.  I polled her to see if she had any memory of any trips, and no, not a one.  I guess our school just didn't sponsor any trips away from school grounds.

I attended Catholic grade school and high school.  While we had more lay teachers than nuns in high school, the ratio of nuns to lay teachers in grade school certainly tipped the scale toward the nuns.  I remember picture day, science fairs, math bees, spelling bees, and book reading contests, but no field trips.

I guess the closest thing I can remember to a trip would be in the sixth grade.  I had "made" the cheer leading squad that year. That meant I got to go to all the ballgames both at "home" and "away."  Of course, "away" meant in the three cities which were about 5 to l0 minutes away from each other.  But as a 12-year-old, I might as well have been going to another state.  All those schools and all those different gyms!  And, in my cheer outfit as well. I remember feeling so proud walking into the opposing team's gym, pom poms and all.

Being a Catholic school in the 60's, we had some pretty tight restrictions on our cheer routines.  No "inappropriate" dancing or "inappropriate" words to our cheers.  I remember once it was my turn to do the free throw "score cheer."  This meant when a foul had been called and the player walked to the free throw line, I got to do an individual cheer to help him score.  I bounced onto the floor, cheered "S-C-O-R-E .. Score Bobby Score!"  I ended with a cartwheel and the splits.  When I came bouncing back to the sidelines, pony tail swaying, I looked up in the bleachers.  There she was ... Sr. Rose Patrice in full nun habit, glaring, absolutely glaring at me with her eyes slits and her mouth pursed.  Oh! Oh!  I think I did an "inappropriate" cheer.  I worried the rest of the weekend that I was really going to be in big trouble when I arrived at school on Monday.  My Mother assured me all weekend that I had done nothing wrong, but then she qualified her reassurance with her favorite statement, " I think those nuns sit up all night thinking up rules."

Sure enough Monday came and all the cheerleaders were summoned for a meeting in the Principal's office.  Sr. Rose Patrice told us she was absolutely astonished that any decent girl would turn herself up-side-down and let her skirt fly up, let alone end in a split.  From that day forward, no cartwheels, round-offs, or splits would be allowed.

We all showed deep remorse in her presence, but then giggled the rest of the day about her astonishment. I must admit I felt pretty empowered that a good little Catholic girl such as myself, for one shining moment got to be a "bad girl."

Maybe it is just as well we didn't have field trips.  I can only imagine all the rules that might have been attached.

This is written as an assignment from The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write about a memorable school trip in grade school. 

Utter Abandon

I confess I am a snow bunny.  My absolute favorite season is winter. The colder ... the better.  I am still wide-eyed, like a child, when I begin to see the snow start to fall.  Why does it seem like it always snows during the middle of the night?  I'm sure there is a scientific reason for this. All I know, is there have been times, over the years, when I have gotten up on purpose during the middle of the night just to watch it snow.

Some of my favorite vacations have been ski trips with my friends. On more than one occasion, twelve or more of us have rented a home in a ski area and have spent the week skiing, playing cards in the evening, and cooking special meals.  Fun! Fun!  When I think back on it, I am probably pretty lucky that I had more than one ski adventure.

My first ski trip was to Waterville Valley, New Hampshire.  Yes, I learned to ski on ice, and I must say I prefer it over powder.  I never mastered edging in powder, and I have a tendency to just fall over.  My first adventure was a ski package that was all inclusive, even including 1 1/2 hours of instruction each day.  I learned to ski by the Graduated Length Method, GLM.  If my skiing prowess hadn't indicated BEGINNER, my skis surely did. They were only 3 feet long. I didn't get my poles right off the bat either. I remember my ski class was all so proud when we finally got 4 1/2 foot skis and poles. Our outward appearance, at least, looked like we might know what we were doing.

I skied the entire week of my winter get-away. To be that young again and have such endurance.  But, the last day was my undoing. In typical ski story fashion, it literally was the final run of the final day of vacation. We got on the last lift of the day and up the mountain we went.  Those rides have to be some of the most peaceful times of my life. The quiet that surrounded me was awesome.  I could actually hear twigs snap off trees, and of course the blanket of white was magnificent.  There were a lot of people going up the mountain for "one last run."  This made for a longer than normal ride on the lift, and I enjoyed every second.

When we disembarked we were on a run called "Utter Abandon." Truer words were never spoken.  It was high, steep, and one mogul after another.  I slowly, very slowly started to make my way down.  Turn to the right over one mogul. then left, and repeat.  Because of the long lift ride, and the blowing cold wind, my bindings had frozen.  I didn't know that, so when I fell very, very slowly my foot stayed forward facing down the mountain, and my left knee turned completely sideways.  This time I heard a snap, but it wasn't the twigs on the trees, it was my knee.  Determined that I would get down that mountain on my own, I insisted on getting up. With the help of my friends I almost stood up, but then quickly went right back down.  The ski patrol was called and much to my embarrassment, I got a ride down in a toboggan. My friend was so scared to try to ski down, she was begging them to pull her down too.

I really did mess up my knee, and I went home with a cast from the top of my thigh to the bottom of my ankle.  Everyone thought I was joking when I limped off the plane.

One surgery later, and the following winter, equipped with a brace, a wrap, and a knee-sleeve I anxiously got on the lift.  Once again I felt the peace of the ride up the mountain, more than a little fear standing at the top, a tentative start down the mountain, and then a bit more abandon midway down.  Not utter abandon, but normal, fun, skimming over the top of the snow abandon.  Safely at the bottom, I looked back up at the mountain, then at my friends.  We smiled at each other, then we giggled like school girls.  With a Yeehaw!! out of my mouth, I was back.  Back with my favorite snow, cold, mountain, and peaceful quiet of the ski slopes.  There's just nothing like it.

This was written as a challenge from The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to right about the first time we _________after_________.

Sing-Along!!

"Come and listen to my story about a man named Jed. Poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed. Then one day he was shootin' at some food, and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude."

That's right, I remember by heart all the words to the "Beverly Hillbillies" T.V. show theme song.  Sometimes I can barely remember my phone number, let alone a grocery list from heart.  But there is something about T.V. theme songs that are indelibly etched in my long term memory.  I can sing every word to  "Gilligan's Island", "I Love Lucy", and "Flipper".

I don't remember how to work a square root, how to diagram a sentence, how to conjugate a verb in French, but I can remember the words to "The Patty Duke" show.  That actually turned out to be pretty important. Several years ago ago, a local radio station had a contest one evening.  They challenged anyone who could sing, ON THE AIR, "The Patty Duke" show theme song to call in.  If the person who sang got it correct, they won a prize.  Well guess who won?  You got it!  Me!  I won a gift certificate to a local music store for the album of my choice. Don't laugh.  No one has offered  me a gift certificate for knowing the adjective that modifies the noun!

I am very proud of myself.  If I hadn't known Patty and Kathy were "one pair of matching bookends ... different as night and day", I would have been minus one less album in my collection.

So go ahead Jed, "load up the family and move to Beverly ... hills that is."  Who knows your reward just might be a cement pond?   And, I bet Mr. Ed could confirm that for you.  He is "a horse, a horse of course, of course", and "nobody talks to a horse of course, unless of course, the horse of choice is the famous Mr. Ed."

The Red Dress writing club asked us to write about things we remember from heart from our childhood.  I just immediately started singing!!

Beach Blanket Bingo

The towel was placed with great precision. Angled absolutely appropriately to be facing the exact rays of the sun. A nice even tan with no shadowing high on the list of necessities.

The hair was exquisitely sculpted. The perfect flip, with the perfect bangs, adorned with the perfect white soft headband. The sunglasses were the latest style. The frames you would probably recognize walking down Rodeo Dr. in California.

The bathing suite was two-piece. Not a bikini. That would not have been acceptable for that time period.  No, it was two piece.  Brown dotted swiss with a white ruffle around the hips, and also white ruffles over both shoulders.  My big sister, 16-years-old, lounged on the beach with one leg extended, the other curved to a slight angle.  Not a speck of sand on her.  I always wondered how she made it to the chosen spot on the beach, spread out her towel, and got positioned without a speck of sand on her.  She's pretty anyway, and this day she looked beautiful and adorable.  She could have been a vision in one of the famous beach movies ... like "Beach Blanket Bingo."

Now, picture the little sister.  Thirteen years old, hair slung back in a pony tail.  Trudging down to the beach with a beach bag, towel, and one of her favorite possessions ... the family poodle, Fi Fi.  This would be the first time Fi Fi had been on a vacation with the family.  It took some convincing the parents to agree to let the dog travel with us. But in reality, I don't think they looked forward to leaving her behind either. Fi Fi was quite energetic.  If there was a wrong way to do something, she would seek it out and go for it with great enthusiasm.  She shredded phone books one day, while home alone, into such small pieces that it would have put an electric shredder to shame.  Standing almost an inch deep in her paper creation, with pieces of paper hanging off her ears and mouth, made her look quite guilty.  So cute, all you could do was laugh.

The little sister and Fi Fi continued on to the beach. Found a spot right next to the big sister, and flopped down for an afternoon of fun and sun. The little sister, anxious to show Fi Fi all about the ocean and beach said, "Look Fi Fi. See the sand."  Taking one of her hands and the tips of her fingers, she made a small digging motion in the sand.

Cocking her head a bit, pricking her ears, wagging her tail, Fi Fi discovered the magic of the sand.  Slowly at first, but then with great exuberance, the digging began. I think she could have made it to China if left to the task. The sand flew. It kicked to the sides some, but the biggest majority kicked to the back of her.  And where do you think it all came to rest?  You're right!  All over the big sister, so strategically placed, looking so adorable.  Oops!

At that point, my memory recalls, that it may have been time for a shower.

This is in response to a challenge by The Red Dress Club to write about sand.