On Youth (Or, We only live once...or so I'm told)

First and foremost, I want to say...VIVA ESPAÑA!
Okay, now onto the post of the day.
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"Youth is wasted on the young". That quote usually refers to people in their 20s having the benefits of youth without appreciating its value. I prefer to travel farther back in time to childhood and say, "Only the young can handle youth." The series of photos below should serve as evidence in helping prove my case.

Exhibit #1:

I look at my daughter and her friend and wish I could both physically and spiritually behave the way they do. I'm sure I could muster the emotional strength to let myself go and jump as high as I can, but I'd pay for it later when my heels, ankles, and knees ache in retribution. (No, kids. Mommy can't play tonight. She's high on Naproxen because Advil wasn't strong enough.)

 Exhibit #2:

Many of you have seen this shot before (last post), but I repeat it to focus on the expression of pure joy on my daughter's face. She is free, open to the world, and unhibited - an emotion most adults can't experience without the aid of alcohol or some other substance. If someone caught me doing this and captured it on film, I'd possibly lose my job for being accused of drinking mid-day and playing hooky.

Exhibit #3:

This shot was taken about 4 years ago, but my daughter still feels free to make such facial expressions whenever the mood suits her. When I loosen up enough to do this, my kids tell me I'm "freakin' them out". (What's a girl to do?)

Exhibit #4:

The kids were told a surprise awaited them inside the plastic peanut-filled box. I dare even one of you grownups to dive into a box with this much gusto. Go ahead. I'll wait. Then I'll call the paramedics for you.

Exhibit #5:

I call this shot "Leap of Faith". My son's eyes were closed as he tried to avoid the water spray, but I'm sure you can imagine the thrill of making such a jump. Why can't I run through the sprinklers like this? Again, I'm envisioning neighbors calling Child Protective Services if they caught me in such an act. (She was jumping around like a six year old. The nerve of that woman. Who does she think she is to be enjoying life at her age?)

Exhibit #6:

And finally, who hasn't enjoyed a good cannonball jump into the swimming  pool? My son and his two buddies took on the challenge, so I tried my hand at it afterwards. Except when I did it, I splashed the entire pool deck, burnt my knees and bum in the landing, and ended up coughing up liquid chlorine as my kids shouted, "Geez, Mom. You're embarrassing us!"

Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case. In protest, I propose we all picket the powers that be and demand a bit of our youth back. So what if we have to load up on painkillers afterward or tolerate disapproving glares of other grownups. If for just a few moments in time we could feel the joy of youth again, I'm sure we'd all be happier and more successful adults. After all, we only live once.

On Falling in Love...with my hometown (Or, After 43 years, I get it)

It takes some people a day and others a weekend to fall in love with South Florida beaches. I, on the other hand, am a slow learner. Born and raised in Miami, I took the beach for granted. I was never a sun worshipper, preferring a chlorinated swimming pool to the stinging salt of the ocean, and I found sand a pervasive nuisance. Apparently, the sun was blinding me from the bigger picture.

After four years away at college and three years of European living, I had determined that my hometown did not rank on my top-10 list of beautiful cities. And even 14 years after moving to the next county north, I still tell people I only live here because I was born here and my extended family is here. As if I'm trapped in some pissant town where no one would ever want to be.

Except that all that changed this weekend. It all started with a bike ride and ended with me saying, "I had no idea this existed in my city. Where in God's name have I been all these years?" But since a picture is worth a thousand words (and you certainly don't want to read 1000 words in this post), I'll start here...

Here I'm standing on the veranda of the Pelican Grand Beach Resort on Fort Lauderdale Beach. I swear I could spend all day sitting in one of these rockers just reading or working on my WIP. Glorious. And to find out that low season is actually affordable, especially for a resident like me who doesn't have to pay airfare to get here.

And just down the road is this gin joint...

The Casablanca Cafe, complete with piano bar and Moroccan decor. Dining on the porch provides a beach view (directly behind me as I took the picture). In fact, here I am...

Ta da!

After discovering these fabulous landmarks (and enjoying a delicious Cobb salad rich with avocado!), I happened upon actual neighborhoods right on the beach.  With cottages that look like this...

http://www.fortlauderdale.olx.com/

and this...

http://www.southflorida.blockshopper.com/

Okay, so this one isn't exactly a cottage, but you get my drift. Point is, I thought Broward County was all condos and boring suburban communties that look like mine. But I am so wrong.

I also discovered Hugh Taylor Birch State Park. What??? Yes, right off the beach is this gem, where my friend Linda and I rode our bikes forever just wandering the myriad of paths that resemeble this one...

http://www.luxuryexperience.com/

Anyway, for the first time in 43 years, I am in love with my city and all its yet-to-be-discovered nooks that I'm finally willing to take the time to seek out. My daughter agrees with me. In fact, here's her take on Fort Lauderdale Beach...

I call this shot "Alegría"

So to all potential visitors I may host in the future, I send out a hearty Welcome! and an advisory to bring comfortable walking shoes and strong legs for bike riding. I promise you that my town will blow you away, and it will have nothing to do with a hurricane.

On Finding Thesea (Or, Any Dead Body Will Do)

A few days ago, I spent less than 48 hours on Florida’s Treasure Coast enjoying some girl time with my friend Jennifer. If you’ve read my most recent post, you know about the swimsuit shopping fiasco, but wait till you hear what that ocean air can do to a girl.

It all started when I arrived in Jensen Beach…which is usually where things do start, I realize…upon arrival. (Note to self: work on story openers) So I was excited to change into relaxation mode, having driven 2 hours through rush-hour traffic. (Okay, that’s a lie. Traffic actually wasn’t so bad, but saying it was creates the necessary tension to segue into the need for winding down.)

I had barely unpacked when Jen offered me a mixed drink in a plastic cup and said, “Let’s take a walk on the beach.” Which was right outside her back door…literally (that’s for Missed Periods ;-)) Okay, so it wasn’t literally because her back door is eleven flights closer to heaven. But after taking the elevator back down to earth, we were there.

We’re walking along the beach with waves rolling in so loudly we have to raise our voices to hear each other as we sip from our plastic cups. (We might as well be in a crowded club.) Can’t be more than twenty minutes that have passed when we both realize the breeze here is reeeeealy strong, which must explain why we’re having a hard time keeping our balance. Or maybe it’s that we never had dinner and have just consumed a double shot of God knows what.

We make our way back upstairs where Jen prepares us a snack while I peruse her apartment, checking out the décor. There, on the kitchen wall, is this picture:

As you can see, the letters are written in all caps and are very close together. So perhaps you’ll understand why I ask Jen the following:

"Who’s Thesea? Why do we need to find her?"

I seriously ask that.

Jen looks up at me and says, “No more drinkie for you.”

* * *

The next day, I find THE SEA, and we spend our time, sans alcohol, enjoying a more appropriate stroll along the beach, collecting colorful seashells (and even a crab leg), and enjoying not having to do anything for anyone else. It feels good.

View from Jen's 11th floor apartment

Self-potrait: I actually look tan. Ha!

So when night falls again, we want to head out. Except that in this town, there is no night life. In fact, Frommer’s has this to say about the town we are in: “Nightlife on the Treasure Coast may as well be called nightdead because there really isn't any!”

We spend a couple of hours at a charming but sleepy outdoor bar on the intercoastal...

 

Sunset view from charming-but-sleepy outdoor bar

...and spend the whole of our time there fighting the ocean breezes in a losing battle against keeping our hair out of our faces.

For a brief moment, we actually win that battle. (At least I do.)

Then we head home to close up the night by leaving our cell phones in the apartment (So bold we are!) and sitting on the edge of the deck, watching the foam of the high tide pour onto the shore. We can see this perfectly because a full moon illuminates the midnight sky as if God has lit a soft lantern just for us. We are bathing in the serenity of the moment, feeling grateful to have this chance to love and respect what Mother Nature has powerfully created.

Morning shot taken from where we sat on the top step of the deck

Then, in a town with nightdead, we begin to imagine the wonders going on beneath the water’s surface.

Jen: Wouldn’t it be cool if the Loch Ness monster suddenly came up out of the waves and came to eat the seaweed on the beach?

Me: (shaking my head) It’s 84 degrees out…at night…with the ocean breeze. Scottish Nessie would die of heat stroke in our sea. Now, a dead body washing ashore…that would be cool.

Jen: (looking at me incredulously) Oh, really. What would you actually do if that happened?

Me: I’d run upstairs and call 9-1-1.

Jen: (giggling) And then we’d put on our makeup and get all dolled up so we look good on the live news cameras.

Apparently, there isn’t enough serenity in the world to erase dark thoughts or vanity. And Frommer’s was obviously spot on when they described this town as dead. It's what brings about conversations such as the one Jen and I had.

Still, it is a beautiful place where I was able to see this from Jen's balcony when I awoke the next morning.

I don't know what Frommer's says about the Treasure Coast sunrise, but dead body or no dead body, waking up to this view was more stimulating than any adventure I didn't have.

On Swimsuit Shopping (Or, Guess! what I didn't buy)

Ask most women what the two most heinous errands they might have to run are and most will agree they are shopping for jeans and shopping for swimsuits. For the moment, I'm good on jeans. In fact, I recently cut sugar out of my diet (for a variety of reasons) and have since lost 8 pounds, which means I can wear my skinny jeans again! All you women out there know that I'm not talking about the trendy today-fashion of skinny jeans. No. You know better. So for all the men out there, I'll explain that a girl's skinny jeans are the ones she bought at her thinnest but usually can't wear. They sit in her closet awaiting the brief escape from her normal eating habits when she can finally get back into them. It ususally only lasts a few weeks, but hey...if it happens, it's a thrill. And when she jumps off the wagon, those skinny jeans will remain in the closet for an eternity, serving as a motivational icon of what could be.

Anyway, you would think that if I can fit into my skinny jeans, I'd have no problems going swimsuit shopping, which was my actual task at hand this morning since I am leaving this evening to spend a few days with my friend Jen at her beach condo on the coast. Being the non-snob that I am, I started at Target, planning on hopping over to Walmart if I did not divide and conquer at Target.

I tried on five suits of varying style. With each suit, I looked in the mirror at my 5'-6", 125-pound frame and thought, How can I look this bad? I looked around the dressing room stall for the special lights that focus directly on the derrier to accentuate the cheeks that hang out from the swimsuit bottom, but I could not find them. So I looked for the magic mirrors that capture the image of a relatively flat stomach and then alter it to include waves, dimples, and small rolls. But I couldn't find those either.

I imagined the women (Lord, I hope they're women!) watching me through their security cameras as they laugh and shout, "Now, while she's got her back turned, full power fluorescent lighting to make her skin look sallow against the print of that suit!" *cheers among the crowd* "Well done, ladies. From the expression on her face, she obviously thinks she's a fat pig. That'll teach that skinny bitch to go swimsuit shopping with pride."

They obviously don't work on commission.

After failing miserably at Target, I decided to simply cross the road and go into my local mall and give Macy's a go. Walmart was so far away, plus I had lots of Macy's coupons in my car. Decision justified.

In Macy's I tried on another five suits. But since this is Macy's and not Target, I decided they have more advanced technology in their dressing rooms. They must have mirrors that can capture my image, alter it with some Photoshop-type program, and reflect it back to me with the 8 pounds I've just lost plus an additional 10, for good measure. Need I say that I walked out of that dressing room with no potential purchase in hand and the strong urge for a shot of Tequila? And I hate Tequila!

http://www.fugly.com/

Here's a trick mirror that works in reverse. The stores definitely don't have one of these.

I walked through Macy's with a heavy heart (and apparently a much heavier behind than I'd envisioned) and was making my way to the exit when I spotted the absolutely cutest blouse in the whole wide world. I may not know my own butt, but I sure know what makes my chest look good, and this blouse was the goods. I quickly tried it on in the dressing room of a different department (where such trickster mirrors are not necessary...unless you're trying on jeans) and was thrilled to see that I was right. Yay, I was right about what would look good on me. *audible sigh of relief followed by the harsh realization that I should not be walking out of Macy's with anything but a swimsuit*

Ignoring my inner voice of reason (sorry, hubby, but sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do), I paid for the Guess! brand blouse, got my 25% discount, and left Macy's with a big smile on my face. As for how I'll feel about wearing a black blouse instead of a bathing suit while baking in the sun with Jen, can't say just yet. But maybe after a shot or two of Tequila, I won't give a damn.

On Words Put to Music (Or, Kiss me, for no reason, simply because your heart wants to)

Yesterday, my few leisure minutes of reading time were interrupted by the flow of a melody traveling down the stairs and into my cozy family room. I stopped, mid-page (yes, I did) and listened to the song dance in my ears. It was the most soothing music I’d heard in a while – the a cappella voices of my daughter and her best friend.

I didn’t recognize the melody, but it didn’t matter. The sweet richness of nine-year-old girls singing together as they did God knows what in my daughter’s bedroom (I could have sworn they were on Club Penguin) was enough to remind me that written words are precious but words put to melody are heavenly, especially when the right voices bring them to life.

And that got my mind wandering to some of my favorite song lyrics. Long after my reading time, my husband came home from work and sent me on my evening walk while he fed the kids dinner. With iPod in pocket, I walked my neighborhood, listening to my favorite Spanish music, and appreciating the incredible talent of a good songwriter. We writers put so much heart into our craft, and I believe talented lyricists deserve the same respect.

I realize many of you may not be familiar with Latin vocalists, but in case you’re a fan of Google Translator, I recommend you check out Alejandro Sanz’s Cuando Nadie Me Ve, where he sings:

When nobody sees me

I can be or not be

When nobody sees me

I spin the world in reverse

When nobody sees me

My skin doesn't limit me
(Trust me, it sounds lyrically delicious in Spanish.)

And Camila’s Besame, where they sing:

Kiss me as if the world will end

Kiss me, without reason, simply because your heart wants to

On the English language scene, some of my favorites include Al Stewart’s Year of the Cat (yeah, I realize I’m dating myself) and Billy Joel’s Summer Highland Falls (did it again!). But remember, I’m in it for the lyrics here.

Anyway, I hope I’ve brought a little la-la to your day, just as my daughter and her friend brought song to mine. What are some of your favorite lyrics?

On Vuvuzelas (Or, Is this word one of Eukzyman’s creations?)

[Note: For those unfamiliar with Eukzyman, please click here.]

An invisible angry swarm of bees is overtaking the World Cup games, and the South Africans are doing absolutely nothing about it. I realize it’s hard to track down anything that can’t be seen, but you’d think with an event being broadcast internationally there’d be some real incentive to come up with a quick fix anti-invisibility spray. And Lord knows we can hear the darn bees.

And now I’m told they’re not bees after all but rather vuvuzelas, which is an even stranger word to type than it is to say. What is this noxious, noisy thing that the South African fans consider tradition at all their soccer games? The vuvuzela – a bugle that has to be blown so hard it gives fans bruised lips – can reach 131 decibels, which is almost as loud as a gunshot. The word comes from Zulu and is said to mean – wait for it…making a loud noise.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/

So to those who mock my sensitivity and call it white noise, I flick my thumb against my teeth at you.

On Saturday, we had some friends over, and as they sat on the sofa with my husband watching the U.S.-England game, you can bet I was elsewhere in the house occupying myself. And that is another challenge. You see, last week my air conditioner drain pan overflowed because, apparently, we hadn’t been flushing out the line properly. (Actually, we hadn’t been flushing out the line at all.) So $500 later, a service call to completely clear the mold-laden line and clean the coils and blower has my system running again. Except that now the thing is so powerful, what with all that gunk not weighing it down anymore, that it runs much more loudly making a high-pitched whirring noise that my son (who has perfect pitch) confirms is a solid "C" note.

Between vuvuzelas and my a/c, I had a pertual headache.

So when my friend Eloisa asked me why I wasn't watching the game with them, I told her I wasn't interested in soccer, which is no lie.

Eloisa: "Aw, come on."
Me: "I can't tolerate that buzzing noise."
Eloisa: "What buzzing noise?"
Me: (With incredulous stare) "You can't hear the vuvuzelas?"
Eloisa: "The what?"
Me: "The vuvu- Oh, forget it!"
Husband: "Is Wendy saying something?"
Me: "You all need your hearing checked."
Husband: "Howard didn't get checked. He's the goalie. You don't know anything about soccer, Wendy."

I rest my case.