Getting in the Spirits

While everyone else is battling H1N1, I've contracted some sort of Martha Stewart disease where I feel compelled to cook things from scratch every day. My condition is exacerbated by the oncoming holidays and snowy Sundays with football games on TV.

I just returned from a super fun pumpkin carving party, a tradition held by the hosts, Doug and Edie, for 25 years. Despite the snowy weather, they'd set up the backyard as a complete eating, drinking and pumpkin carving station. Tables covered in newspaper, tarps to keep our heads dry and space heaters to keep us from freezing - oh, it was cozy.

Also, TONS of food, goodies and desserts. Doug is an expert chili man, always a good thing to be in these parts. He had giant pots of spicy green chili, mild green chili, veggie chili and red chili. YUM. I scarfed down a bowl and am now regretting that I did not have seconds.

But I did not arrive empty handed. In fact, despite getting home late (and a tad tipsy) last night from a dinner party in Morrison, I use some of the leftover juice to make Grape Ice Cream. That's right, a new flavor has been brought into this world and I am its mother.

It turned out okay except the next batch will use less sugar and no vanilla - too much getting in the way of that powerful grape-y flavor.

I also spent the afternoon making a batch of over-the-top Halloween cookies. I recently came across a bag of cookie cutters (ghost, bat, pumpkin, cat) in my cupboard and decided to put them to use.

Such fun! Any day you get to play around with food coloring and rainbow sprinkles is a fine, fine day if you ask me. The result was 16 beautiful, perfect cookies (and one disaster cookie I call, 'Insecure Zombie Kitty Applies For A Job') worthy of photographing, suitable for framing and ideal for eating. They were a hit at the party.

And though I was the last person to finish carving, I ultimately completed my version of 'Devil's Advocate.' Behold:

The Green Triangle

Beyond the scope of love, I realized this week why I like to stay in touch with old friends. Because they have witnessed the many versions of You and remain curious about who You are today. (See an earlier version of me at left, on the shores of Lake Malawi.)

This all dawned on me earlier this week after visiting with my old friend, Marie-Josee. (Skype, I love you!) Next week, it will be 15 years since we first met in Kenya. She was a 19-year-old, easily-bored girl who hailed from Montreal and thrived on risky adventure. I was 29 and had become too settled for my own comfort - a nice boyfriend, a great apartment and a swanky job as a food writer. Staring down the barrel of the big 3-0, I set out for the world and all its physical discomforts.

Once in Kenya, I met up with my overland crew and quickly realized I was the sole American. We gathered in a circle at that first campsite, Hell's Gate, alongside Lake Naivashu. Our roughly seasoned leader, Kevin, was giving instructions about Something Important. Unfortunately, his Kiwi accent was so thick, I couldn't understand one word he said. Something like, "Right, then. Grab ya mate, hack a sack and find some deht (dirt). She'll be royt (right)!"

All I could think was, "Uh-oh."

Next thing I know, people started pairing up, grabbing bright green canvas bags and wandering off. I didn't know what was going on. Eventually, I stood alone, save for one young girl who spoke to me in a heavy French accent: "Well, I don't know what he said but whatever it is, it's me and you." And just like that, MJ and I became tent-mates for the next three months.

Now, these were not the fancy REI tents that we all have today. These were very basic canvas tents made in the 60s, purchased from the German army who was probably going to through them out anyway. In real estate terms, they were 'cozy' and 'quaint.'

Sharing such a small space with another person under extreme conditions ... well, you get to know a person. (Not to mention the fact that your tentmate is also your cooking partner.) MJ and I came to lovingly refer to our home as, The Green Triangle. Just like any roomies, we laughed, we argued, we shared secrets and got used to one another's sleep talk. (Marie's was mostly in French, although one night she burst out in English: "My God, it's only a gun!")

The following year, MJ came to visit me at my wee beach apartment in California and we celebrated her 20th birthday. We have since kept in loose touch through letters and, eventually, email. I came close to flying to Montreal one weekend for her going away party a couple of years ago, but the planets did not align.

(MJ & I, with our porters, on the Zaire-Ugandan border, getting ready to track mountain gorillas. From our smiles, I can see that we have no clue how physically demanding it was going to be.)

Seeing her lovely face (see above for her classic 'I-am-bored' look) again and hearing that charming accent, it all came rushing back. Because MJ speaks something like five languages, her English phrasing is pretty hilarious. Some of my favorite excerpts from letters and conversations:

"You know how it is, sometimes life is black and other times it is pink. And other times, it is just nice having a husband with a house in the south of France."

Re: her divorce. "And dat was awful. Like washing machine stuck on spin."

"And den I left. I went to live somewhere hot."

My favorite, which came from out of nowhere: "And do you know what else I like about me?"

MJ is less impetuous now, more focused in her life and goals. She is working on her PhD in cultural linguistic history, or some such thing. She has lived in nearly every country in Europe but now has two rooms in Italy - one in the South and one in the North. "One for study, one for living," - typical MJ logic.

As our visit came to a close, I was unabashed in my affection. "I love you madly," I told her, and she squealed and laughed. She returned the love and we swore to visit again soon. And maybe ... just maybe ... someday... we would travel together again, perhaps with a bigger tent.

Long-Time Supporter Explodes

Sure, I got me a fancy office chair but a girl like me needs all the support she can get. And so, for the past 3+ years, I've put several old friends into action.

As I may have mentioned before, I'm not much of a consumer. Unless it's entertainment, food, booze or travel, I'm unlikely to pay for it. Especially if it has any practical uses.

My former college roomie, Laurianna, once visited me from Albuqurque and commented on my cooking skills. "I see you've learned a few things since college," she said, making me glow inside. "But you are still using the same pans and some of these puppies are dangerous." She held up one or two pans that had deep scrapes in them, the protective 'coating' long gone.

"Girlfriend, you need to buy yourself some new pans," she sternly advised. I nodded in full agreement.

Weeks later, a huge box was delivered to my door. In it, a full set of cooking pans and utensils. It was from Laurianna and the note read: "You need these and I KNOW YOU - you will never make the purchase yourself."

It's a great thing to have a friend that knows you so well and yet, loves you anyway.

ANYHOO, I acquired three pillows in 1997 when my San Francisco roomie, Michelle, moved out. They are not pretty so I'd kept them for practical purposes only. One a drab green, another a dirty maroon and the last a psychotic mix of the two colors.

For my entire Colorado life, the maroon pillow has served has my steady back support at ClizBiz Inc. It has held me up through numerous late-night conference calls with China, given me comfort through long editing sessions and selflessly provided bouncy support during various blogging episodes.

Sometime last week, it gave out. Actually, it exploded. I walked in one day and pillow guts were everywhere. Coarse white stuffing lay down around the chair, pillow seams opened like a murder victim's throat. If only I'd had crime scene tape ... oh, it was awful.

I've decided to keep using it until all the stuffing has exited the pillow, which should be sometime next week. Then I will discard the shell and can safely state: "I wore this pillow OUT.'

Old Style Thinkin'

The sky above Lyons on Sunday night was surreal. It was one of those sunsets that made you hear bluesy angels.

I'd been exploring land and lots with Reid, both pretending we had enough money to build a dream reality. I just want a 3-5 acre mini-spread. Big enough to have a yoga yurt, some chickens, a big-ass garden and dogs ... for starters. When I picture my dream future, I see lots of hard physical work (compared to now, anyway) and a great deal of dirt. I also see a great big smile on my face.

Yes, something is happening to me and I've become drawn into all things homespun. My brother even noticed it when we hung out at mom's recently. He was watching me cook and commented with some confusion, "Hey, what are you, Holly Hobbie?"

Just last week, I cooked up a fine, yellow batch of homemade mustard. Okay, so it was for an article I was writing but still, I was pretty gung-ho about it. The result was mind-blowing and tongue-transfixing. Truly. Me and store-bought mustard are through.


Just last Sunday I found myself listening to the Broncos game while making homemade grape jelly. (Photo above - pure grape juice on sugar.) Unlike a true domestica, I got impatient and ended up using too much water so it's somewhere between jelly and syrup. I call it 'jerup.' It's so damn good, I'm tempted to put it on everything. I'm told that grape-jelly-bacon sandwiches are the best ...

Today, I spent several hours today tearing up the '09 Garden (RIP) and it felt so wonderful to be messing about in the dirt again, even if it was a sad occasion. Meanwhile, I'm saving up my pennies for 'farm school' and with any luck, I'll start to become useful.

Green Grasshopper Goodbyes

About a month ago, I went out on my balcony to fetch the morning paper (so retro of me) and there on the ground was the most beautiful grasshopper ... dying. I managed to pick it up and looked right into that tiny green science fiction face. The mandibles were working but it looked like it had a busted leg and therefore, couldn't get anywhere to fend for itself.

It gave me a great opportunity to study the insect up close and notice how it brilliantly it had mimicked its leafy home, right down to the 'veins.' Mother Nature is so brilliant and always five steps ahead.

I placed it in a seashell and took it out back. Perhaps if I placed it on a big, flat leaf, it could rest up and recover? Wishful thinking. I managed to get it situated on a leaf and close to the moist earth. It went and hid, telling me that at least it was happy to be out of the bright sun. And there it died.

I was surprisingly sad about it. I mean, we'd just met! I said a little prayer and went on with my day, though I couldn't get that wee green face outta my mind.

Next morning, same exact thing. A gorgeous grasshopper was struggling on my welcome mat and near death. Since my mother was facing heart surgery at the time, I had to reject the "omen" word that kept flashing in my brain. I also neglected to post about it here.

Again, I grabbed the same sea shell and scooped up the new guy. "Is this going to be a regular thing?" I asked him. "Because I'm not sure I can be Dr. Snow White Kevorkian to the Insect World." His legs were also broken and he seemed weaker than the other, much closer to the end.

I took him to the same comforting plant out back and placed him on a leaf opposite the previous burial. Who wants to see the corpse of a fallen colleague as you yourself are dying? Nobody.

As I did the day before, I said a little green grasshopper prayer. Like the true dork that I am, I said that I was sorry that they had to leave, glad they stopped by on their final day, honored to meet them, etc. Yes, I am, without question, a Nature Nerd.

The next day, I was hesitant to fetch the paper. Would I be greeted by more brightly colored death? Thankfully, no dying grasshoppers appeared. But I guess the word is out - free no-fuss burials at my place. Anytime.

Home, Sweet (Dry), Home

While scientists proclaim Antarctica to be the driest place on Earth, I would have to insist that, in fact, my left eyeball is the driest location on the planet. True story.

Turns out, I am especially sensitive to altitude difference and moisture levels (or lack thereof) in the air. My skin, eyes, hair, nails, sleep patterns and appetite are all heavily affected by my current geographical location. Perhaps this is the price I pay for studying Nature as a hobby; I've gotten too close to my subject.

After two weeks at sea level - my body sucking in all the oxygen and slurping up all the moisture it can manage - I've returned home to Denver, where there are 18% fewer oxygen molecules and very little moisture. While my heart is happy to be home again in my beautiful adopted state, other parts of my body tend to rebel. The left eyeball, especially.

It is not happy here and does want to face facts. I try to point out that my right eyeball, which has endured numerous surgeries and dramas and therefore has much more of a reason to complain, does not. I also like to mention the clean air, which surely must be kinder to a certain mucous membrane I know. Then, I always point out the bevy of rugged Colorado men running-hiking-skiing-biking everywhere - they are most certainly are easy on the eyes.

No matter. Morning tantrums ensue and it refuses to stay open, even when I have important shit to do. I end up wearing sun glasses at church like a redemptive Jack Nicholson. Many a phone call I conduct with my eyes shut tight like a telephone psychic. Bright sun can feel a like a thousand white hot needles straight in my iris, giving me a special affection for snowy or rainy days. (I don't even want to talk about fluorescent lighting, which is pure sensory evil no matter where I am or how I'm feeling.)

When it is really bad, I have to pull the car over and wait out the excruciating episode. No amount of fish oil tablets (3x a day), doctor-prescribed eye drops (Restasis, 2x a day) or water gulping seems to help. One thing I've noticed, the tantrums rarely last beyond 1 p.m.

Thankfully, being half-blind actually helps my guitar playing. Now, if I could just loose some teeth, find a rickety porch and learn me some blues chords, I'd have a legitimate act.


(Eyeball Image Credit: Larry McFarland.)

Some Morbid Nutritional Advice

From your friendly neighborhood wholegrain bread store.

YMCA

In between my joyful reunions with old friends here in LA, I've been hanging out with some new friends that are, in fact, old-ish.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I set my iPhone alarm for 8:00 a.m. - still painfully early for me these days. I make the 1.2 mile drive - past my alma mater, Lakewood High School - and park at the Lakewood-Weingart YMCA, my new favorite place.

In the pool, I join the volleyball gang, a lively bunch of people who can spike, serve and tease with the best of 'em. Besides the joy of feeling bouyant in the water, I adore the ritual of victory. When a team wins, they gather hands in a circle, float on their backs and kick their feet in the middle while singing Village People: "Y-M-C-A!" The losing team usually just sulks. Then, we play a new game.

Then, I stay for another hour to do Water Aerobics with another set of seniors, some of whom - like Linda and Isabel - knew me as a baby.

I cannot overstate how inspiring it is to be with people who, although mostly decades older than I, are my kindred spirits. They believe as I do, that JOY can and should be a regular emotion, or at least a daily goal, and that exercise helps get you there.


Take the story of Ina, a 94-year-old pipsqueak who, up until 15 months ago, played v-ball regularly with the gang. One morning, Ina spiked the ball, urped out a quiet little "help" and went down. Her teammate, Bill, quickly got her out of the water and onto the pavement. They called 911 but Ina was gone. Heart attack.

Isn't that a fantastic death? I'd certainly rather end my days frolicking with friends than wearing a diaper in nursing home, that's for sure. I asked my new friend, Shirley, who was telling me the story as a witness, if Ina managed to get that final ball over the net.

She thought for a moment and smiled. "Yes. Yes, she did!" Ina won the Final Round, for sure.

(Statue photo shot in Colorado by Goomama.)

Ice Blockage

What is ice blocking you say? To my Colorado peeps, let me explain.

Y'see, in Southern California there are no seasons. (A rainy day here and there does - not count as a season. Also, "earthquake weather" - not a season.) Without snowmen to make and leaves to jump into, how do kids entertain themselves?

Frankly, one can only go to the beach so often and nobody is better at creating fun stuff out of nothing than bored suburban kids. This is how skateboarding down metal handrails and empty swimming pools became an art form. This is also how Ice Blocking was born.

It's very simple:

- Buy giant blocks of ice from supermarket, liquor store or iceman.
- Grab thick beach towels.
- Cruise parks and golf courses for grassy knolls.
- Carry the blocks to the top of the hill.
- Fold a towel and place on an ice block.
- Plant ass on the block.
- Slide down the hill, avoiding trees, and laugh.
- Carry the block back up the hill in the towel.
- Repeat until the cops come and tell you knock it off.

So, when I am in SoCal, I usually get to visit one of my favorite families, The Lawlers. I went to high school with Debbie, the ultimate surfer/skateboarder chick. I knew her husband, Greg, separately - still one of the funniest men I know. When they married, I knew that cool adorable kids would soon follow.

They did and now there are four extremely funny, talented and lovable people that I get to hang out with. That they live less than a mile from my mother's house makes it super easy.

Last time, we all went toiletpapering - another SoCal tradition and, in my day, intended as a compliment to the recipient. This time, it was Ice Blocking, something I haven't done since the mid-80s with Greg and his buddies. (Sadly, Greg was out of town for this adventure - bummer.)

I had such a blast with Debbie, Nate, Tanner, Hannah and Nate's friend, Jack, that my youthful flashbacks were energizing. Jack and I shared one block and ended up ass-over-head in one fabulous burnout. Hannah and I raced our blocks to the bottom and neither of us fell off! This was a personal best for me.

After many icy runs down the hill, I ducked into some dark bushes for a pee break. Walking out, young Hannah ran up to me, breathless and giggling: "IT'S THE FUZZ!!!" Aaaah, Johnny Law had finally arrived, right on time.  Even the gruff cop from the Cerritos Sheriff Department could not dim my mood, in fact, it made me nostalgic. If he hadn't arrived, the evening would not have been complete.

I'm looking forward to the next Lawler (lawless?) adventure pulled from my youth. Perhaps oil pump riding?

Two Great Snouts

I've been catching up with old friends right and left. All those big projects I brought with me? The ones I was going to complete with all my 'free time?' Yeah, I haven't touched 'em.

Instead, I've been visiting friends who have cute dogs. These are the kind of dogs that jump into my lap and make me want to sneak them in my purse, like Sophia here. She lives in Upland with three other dogs, six cats, my friend, Andrea, her husband, Barry, and two awesome teenagers. I kinda fell for her even though she was wearing a sweater.

This here is Rasputin, a cutie pie that hangs out with my friend, Heidi. He is a wonderful character and it's fun watching Heidi make scrunchy pet owner faces that I've never seen her make before.

I can't wait to meet my dog, wherever he or she might be. Sigh.

Hometown Boy Makes Good

I love it when my friends hit big time, as they often do. A childhood friend of mine, Michael Stuhlbarg, has the lead in the new Coen Brothers film, "A Serious Man." (See the trailer here.)

Though a year younger than I, it was pretty evident to all of us in proximity that Michael's life trajectory was already determined: He was going to be an accomplished actor and that's all there was to it.

Along with a bunch of other ratty kids, I co-starred with him in a production of "Annie Get Your Gun" and he already seemed professional, even in high school. Atop of his endless talent, Michael was also unfailingly kind and polite. And with tongue firmly in cheek, I can finally use that age-old Hollywood cliche, "He was a dream to work with."

From graduation, Michael went straight to Juilliard and has never wanted for work since. The man has had one acting gig after the next - mostly on Broadway. He's played Hamlet in Central Park - always a golden gig for any actor - and been nominated for a Tony award. In a true testament of his talent, consider this: Michael has never been a waiter. Ever.

Sometime during the mid-90s, my pals, Michelle, Lisa and I visited New York and Michael kindly handed over the keys to his apartment while he stayed with his girlfriend. There was very little furniture in it but we were incredibly grateful.

At the time, Michael was starring in some play where he played the ghost of a tortured Jewish man. He had to look emaciated for the role and so our efforts to wine and dine our gratitude to Michael were for naught. There was one dinner where he ordered in that soft voice of his, "Just some water and some lettuce, please." Good grief! Talk about dedication.

So it with great joy that I congratulate Michael on scoring this fabulous role on film. I'm also glad that the world will soon become familiar with his immense talent and most of all, I'm relieved to see him in a role where he is allowed to eat.

Sorry, Kids - No Melting Trees For You

While strolling the neighborhood of my childhood, I came upon my old school - all of them, actually.

That's right. My preschool, kindergarten, elementary, junior and high school are all lined up snug on one street, Centralia Avenue. Furthermore, both my colleges (Long Beach City College & CSULB) can also be found just a few miles down the road. My academic career was tightly packed into a five-mile radius.

While surveying the very spot at Mark Twain Elementary School where I had my first kiss with Sean Bergeron in 6th Grade, I came upon a handy list of substances and behaviors that are verboten to the students. Of course, there was no such list when I was a kid and if there was, it probably only listed tobacco.

Still, I was shocked at the wide variety of recreational habits that a kid might consider, for what is this really but a helpful list of suggestions?

These all make good sense, of course, especially the firearms, tobacco and alcohol. But I did a double-take when I read the ban of "Marijuana ... and Peyote."

Okay, PEYOTE???? Do you know how difficult it is to get your hands on peyote? Sadly, I have no experience with it myself but peyote is actually a cactus that grows in Texas and Mexico and when consumed, the mescaline hits and you see God, plus a few other things. It is used in some Native American ceremonies and 'twas a favorite of the late Hunter S. Thompson and Beavis.

Not only is peyote extremely slow-growing (taking up to three years to mature) but it has been so over-harvested that it is listed as an endangered species.

Now, I ask you, where in the world is a 6th grader going to get his hands on peyote? Perhaps I have become such an old lady that I cannot imagine the sophistication of today's youth. You can probably order it through an iPhone app for all I know ...

PEYOTE?? Really?

Return to the Southland

After a fantabulous weekend with my beautiful stepsister, Julie (who is cancer-free!), I find myself heading once again down to LA. Mama Iva had a successful heart valve surgery and the family is taking shifts as part of her Recovery Team.

I'm quite anxious to see her but also nervous about being house-bound for two weeks. I'm bringing along a few projects, plus my guitar. Perhaps my serenading will make her wish she was back in ICU.

Surely, I'll miss my garden, my friends, my cubby-hole apartment and the arrival of another gorgeous new season in Colorado. Every time I leave this state, it gets harder and harder to board that plane.

Memories in the Sand, 1945

Once again, a reality talent show has unearthed an undiscovered gem proving that TV does retain some value. Meet the recent winner of "Ukraine’s Got Talent", Kseniya Simonova, who tells elaborate stories through sand animation with the help of a giant light box and her pinpoint artistic skill.

The above clip is 8.5 minutes but it gets more amazing as time goes on. Using a dramatic score and few defiant hair flips, this gifted young woman tells the story of the German invasion of the Soviet Union during World War II. You can't help but be moved and it's always refreshing to see the tools of storytelling redefined once again.

Ignited

Cheered on by my friend, Kath (pictured with me, below), I managed to present at last night's Ignite Boulder 6 without completely blowing it. In fact, I had a blast. The presenters were all uniquely impressive - I was honored to be in such company.

I gotta say that the musical entertainment, Mountain Standard Time, was phenomenally good. These boys are fine musicians and really, when is the last time you had a saxophone in a mountain band?

I just read Andrew Hyde's take on the evening and he hit on a key point. I probably did too much 'reading' from my notes during my presentation. However, I'm happy to report that I did NOT read from the slides. The audience - despite their many beers - seemed mostly literate and able to do that on their own. Either way, my presentation, "Screw Logic: A Unbelievable Look at Bizarre Beliefs", went off fine. I took a look at how standard beliefs often get turned upside down over the course of time (see: Flat Earth Society) and that nobody knows anything, especially the 'experts.'

Several of my favorite presentations included "Food Porn: Behind the Lens" (Jen Yu); "Classic Literature Through the Eyes of the Modern Chick Flick" (Cristina Sagray); "Everything I Needed to Know About Journalism I learned From 'Ghostbusters'" (Dave Burdick); "Rainbow Suspenders and Fuzzy Pink Hats" (Kaley Sutton) - about my beloved Burning Man - and "The Alternative, Alternative Energy: My million dollar idea" (Sari Levy.) This last one was about turning America's fat into energy and it was sheer brilliance. To quote: "Farms are about growing, right? At Fat Farms we should be growing more fat people!"

(Here's me with fellow presenters, Cristina Sagray and Jen Newell. We celebrated with sushi after the show.)

And I am so grateful to Andrew & Co. for putting Michael Brown as the final presenter for he would have been impossible to follow. The subject of his presentation was "Risk and Reward" and I figured we would be getting a lesson in investment and finance.

Turns out, Michael is an adventure filmmaker and had documented blind climber Erik Weihenmayer’s historic ascent as well as four other remarkable ‘firsts’ on Mount Everest. Along the way, two team members perished in an avalanche. Michael told of making this amazing 75-minute film, "Farther Than the Eye Can See", and politely asked if he could show us bits of the film. Um, yes. Please.

Michael generously shared three 2-minute clips of the most breathtaking, emotional footage - the audience was genuinely awestruck. After the joking around all evening, we were simply blown away by the depth and breadth of Erik's story and the team's endless determination. The physical challenges the crew faced are hard to imagine, their task unbelievably daunting, and they yet persevered. Watching the crew coach Erik over a ladder across a deep ice crevasse ... I was holding my breath the whole time. I can't even imagine.

I just kept thinking, "I'm so glad Erik made it!" and "I'm so glad Michael went last!"

If you get a chance to catch Ignite 7, do it. You won't be sorry.

Ignite Boulder Tonight!

Because I like to force myself into scary situations (it makes for better storytelling later), I'm one of the presenters at Ignite Boulder 6 tonight at the Boulder Theater. Ignite is a series of presentations on a variety of random topics. Each presentation consists of 20 slides which automatically advance after 15 seconds. Quick and dirty.

Though it is a worldwide movement, I can assure you that local tech celeb and firestarter, Andrew Hyde, is the main Dude behind this event. Honestly, I'm not sure the man ever really sleeps - he's got his hands in so many cool projects.

Anyway, I took on the challenge of putting together a presentation of some social redeeming value. It was awfully fun doing all the research but I hope I remember to have fun when I'm up there in front of 750 hecklers. (Heckling is an Ignite tradition - so funny.)

If any of you are in the area, please stop by! Would love to have the support.

My Patrick Swayze Story

It's has just been reported that actor Patrick Swayze has passed away from pancreatic cancer at the age of 57. We knew it was coming but it's still terribly sad. I certainly didn't know the man but enjoyed his movies like "Ghost" and "Dirty Dancing" like everyone else. However, it was always his Chippendale's skit with the late Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live that endeared me to him. That, and the time I almost crashed his car.

It's around 1996 and I'm a proud member of an all-female car parking team called The Valettes. (We had pink bow ties and cummerbunds and handed out roses.) We mostly worked parties in and around LA and Hollywood. We were a novelty act and people dug it.

We were working some party up in the Hollywood Hills, when Patrick and his lovely wife, Lisa, pulled up in a powder blue antique Mercedes. This isn't long after his film, "Too Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar" - a film I have yet to see. (That's Patrick at left, in drag, wearing the hat. With him is Wesley Snipes and John Leguizamo.)

A few of us ladies scramble for position but I win the keys and the privilege of parking his car. I get in and quickly realize two things:

1) There is cigarette ash everywhere and the ashtray is overflowing. 'Hmmmm, I didn't know he smoked,' I thought. (In fact, Patrick was a heavy smoker for years but never did so in public.)

2) I recognize almost none of the regular controls of the average car. With the exception of the speedometer and the gas gage, everything is different. I couldn't tell you the age of the car - 50s? 60s? - but it was old and he may have had it imported direct from Germany. Dunno, but the damn thing was exotic.

Anyway, I manage to figure out how to get it moving and find a safe spot for it. The night goes on and we gals park more cars. Running up and down those hills used to be such good exercise and it was always fun to witness "The Scene." (The highly-tanned George Hamilton also showed up later and he struck me as someone so very happy with his lot in life, I can't help but like him to this day. Plus, he was nice to everyone.)

Hours passed and eventually, I had to use the restroom. Evidently, they didn't have a porta potty for the "help" and I was directed into the swanky mansion to use the loo. I ended up standing in line with a few C- and D-grade actresses and scanned the room. I recognized a few faces but ended up observing Swayze and tried to picture him smoking.

He was deeply involved in a discussion with some guy about antique watches - both the man and Patrick were wearing one. Meanwhile, several women passing by attempted to throw themselves at Patrick without success. He was polite, sure, but his face said it all: 'Move on, lady. I am happily taken.'

And so, I searched for his wife, Lisa, and spotted her standing nearby. She was talking and laughing with a fellow blonde. She struck me as naturally beautiful, secure and wise - which made her a standout at the party and the entire city. Obviously, Patrick agreed. They met when they were both 19 and married when he was 23. Even standing apart, I could see they were permanently smitten.

Back outside, I resumed my duties (btw, Miatas are like having wheels on your ass, incredibly fun) and the party began winding down. Patrick and Lisa emerged, arm-in-arm, and approached me directly. "Hi! I think we're going to call it a night," he said, smiling. That was my cue.

I grabbed his keys and jogged up the hill toward his car. Once in, I remembered the cigarettes and figured he was probably anxious to light up. Heading back down the hill, I quickly realized that something wasn't right - I didn't seem to be slowing down despite my liberal use of the brake. I began to panic and the realization set in: I was going to destroy Patrick Swayze's car and would likely never park in this town again.

Cresting the hill and heading down (not yet fast but definitely gaining some speed), I could see Patrick look up, meet my terrified gaze and leap into action.

Here's the part when I can personally attest to his dancer's athleticism. That boy SPRINTED up the hill like goddamn lightning-fueled gazelle. In one swift movement, he met me halfway, swung open the driver's door and stuck his highly-toned leg in across my lap, leaving his perfectly-shaped ass inches from my face, which - looking back now - was a real highlight.

Then there was a crunch-grinding sound and the car came to a halt, within inches of another expensive celebrity car. I didn't know what to say but was getting ready to apologize profusely when Patrick said to me,

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Are you okay? I forgot to tell you that this car has two brakes! Oh my gosh, I can't believe I forgot to tell you! One isn't working and I was going to get it fixed today but .... ARE YOU ALRIGHT??? I'M SO SORRY!"

He then helped me out of the car, where I stood on wobbly legs. "I ... thought ... I was ... going .... to crash ... your car..."

"I KNOW! I could see your face and then I remembered! I'm so glad nothing happened. I'm so sorry. Here ya go," and then he handed me $20. Though we were not supposed to take tips - it was part of The Valettes schtick - I took it, figuring it would buy me a stiff drink later.

Lisa walked past me heading toward the car, smiling big. She didn't speak but it looked like she'd been laughing. She was even happy in a crisis, darn her. Meanwhile, I'd practically pissed myself while nearly mowing down a crowd of fancy people with a movie star's car. Good Lord.

***

Godspeed, Patrick. From all I can tell, you were an amazing artist, a devoted husband and one sweetheart of a guy. I wish you could have stayed longer.

Thank you!

Great news! Mama Iva's surgery went super smooth. It was supposed to last up to 3.5 hours but took only two. The doc said when he put everything back together (I'm paraphrasing here), her heart just took off with full horsepower.

She's in ICU and sleeping a lot but they are going to try and get her up today. What a champ! It is amazing what can be done these days and my hats are off to Dr. Shuman and the amazing team at Long Beach Memorial Hospital - the very same place where I had oh-so-many surgeries as a child.

As for my sister, we have some waiting to do before we know more. She is coming to visit me soon and we both need the time together so badly.

Thanks to all for your kind thoughts and prayers. Sometimes I forget how much love is at-the-ready until I tap into it so thanks for the reminder. You guys are awesomesauce.

(Image found at BalanceForce.)

A Call For Healing Thoughts

Tomorrow morning at 7:30 a.m. Pacific Time, Mama Iva will head into surgery at Long Beach Memorial where a highly capable surgeon named Dr. Shuman will replace her aortic valve with some tissue from a pig. (Thanks, pig!)

This is fantastic news since she has put off the surgery for a year or more, fearful of the knife and the long recovery. Mama Iva is not an old lady who sits around and knits. She is a full-time working woman who also throws legendary parties and long recoveries do not fit into her busy plans.

In the photo above, Mama Iva and I are sharing giant margaritas in Ensenada and she is watching a mariachi band nearby. We had such a grand time that when we returned to the cruise ship tour bus a tad late, we were given a stern Hispanic talking to. We just giggled into our cocktails (they'd poured the remnants into plastic to-go cups for us) and promised we would not do it again.

I feel very conflicted about not being there but Cousin Linda (a retired surgical nurse) and my brother, Rob, will be there. As her recovery will take 6-8 weeks, we are tag-teaming. That my brother is leaving his home and family in Mississippi at the peak of hurricane season, is no small sacrifice. I will return to LA later this month and so on. The whole episode offers some strong arguments for having offspring.

And, as if I needed another reason to stress out on September 11th, my beloved step-sister, Julie, will have a biopsy taken from her breast to check for cancer. Julie has had the 'breast cancer' Sword of Damocles hanging over her head as long as she can recall.

Her sister, Kathy (an awesome gal), died of breast cancer at age 37. Her mother, Shirley (my stepmama), also had a double mastectomy. To top it off, cancer runs in both sides of her family. Often times, Julie has felt like it was only a matter of time before the genes caught up with her.

The great news is, they have caught a tiny speck in her breast very early. Also, her wonderful husband, Chris, is a rock of support. Julie is like my mother - fun-loving, tough and wildly popular. She is an expert fisherwoman and lives in the Pacific Northwest. Much like Mama Iva, she has an interest in cocktails - I love this about them.

If you are the praying type or inclined to send along some healing thoughts, please do so. Aim for Long Beach, California and Seattle, Washington. And I know it is cliche but here goes: Hug your loved ones close tonight and always.

Back in the Water

So, I came home from LA yesterday after sobbing my way through the security line. Even though I know my mom will be fine and the next family shift has arrived (my cousin and brother), it was hard saying goodbye. I received no comfort in the air, watching the eight fires below me, smolder and chew their way through the mountains of my youth.

While I spent the week being there for my mom - helping her prepare her life and home for surgery and six-week recovery - I managed to squeeze in a few light moments. Now that I live in a landlocked state, I appreciate the Pacific Ocean more than ever. I brought along my ancient bikini just in case the opportunity should arise. It did.

Much like I did so many years ago, I called up Diane (I think we met in first grade ... or was it second?) and had her "meet me at the beach." I drove the 20 minutes to Sunset Beach - snuggled tightly between Seal Beach and Bolsa Chica - and plopped my stuff on the sand. I ran right into the ocean and it felt like pure heaven, like coming home. I made friends with two teenage girls, Debbie and Sophie, and dived through the waves like a wanna-be mermaid.

Later, Diane arrived and I convinced her to come back into the water with me. We were chatting up a storm, treading water when we suddenly realized we were too far from shore and could not touch bottom. We began to swim back (forgetting that we should swim diagonally) and began to assess our dire situation. Diane yelled out:

"I'm tired!"

"Me too!" I yelled back.

"Are you okay?" she yelled.

Pause.

"No!"

And so, I flagged down a nearby surfer named Robert who promptly rescued my ass. "Here just rest on my board and then I'll tow you in," he said with absolutely calm. He'd obviously done this before. "There's a strong rip tide going on today so be careful."

"Yeah, I'll do that," I sputtered.

We got back to our towels with hearts beating and our lives still flashing before our eyes. I tried to resume the conversation and be breezy about the whole episode but Diane was having none of it.

"So ... (pant, pant) .. Diane .. (pant) ... How's the new job?"

"ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!? WE ALMOST DIED, HEATHER! DO YOU MIND??? I NEED TO CATCH MY BREATH!!!"

"Okay, yeah. You're right. That was scary."

And then we both started laughing and couldn't stop.

My re-acquaintance with the ocean had been adequately satisfied.

My Mother's Heart

Status Update: So, I went into the Long Beach Memorial Hospital a few days ago and found a handsome young doctor telling my mother to pack up and go home. Seems the Plavix - a blood thinner - that she's been on has to work its way out of her system before she can have any kind of heart surgery.

So, we are hanging around the old homestead waiting it out. I'm running errands, trying to wean mom off salty salad dressings and generally being there when needed. She is scheduled for valve replacement surgery on September 11th. (When folks comment on the auspicious date, she likes to point out that she'd had back surgery on Friday the 13th and things went fine.)

Cousin Linda and my brother, Robert, will be here for the surgery. I will head back home, as planned, on the 7th, then return again later this month to help with her recovery. I tease my brother that my shift will begin just as Mama Iva is getting her strength back so she'll keep me running around a lot more.

Thanks for all the prayers and warm wishes. We are all so lucky to have one another, no?