Common Name: Enraged Tree Pose
Posture Pointers: Shift weight onto left foot carefully balancing beer in left hand, hot buffalo wing in right. Bend right knee, bring it out to side, find a comfortable hairy place to rest sole of foot along inside of left leg. Inhale, bring arms up overhead. Exhale, hinge forward bringing arms to front and to hands claw like position. Inhale, crown of head falls toward back wall. Eyes focus on Drishti (Plasma hanging on wall). Flex face muscle into expression of rage.

Harvest Moon - October 6, 2006

All it takes to recapture my youth is to step into the moonlit night.

I recall sitting crossed-legged in the cool Kentucky Bluegrass on sultry summer evenings. Crickets chirped and cicadas buzzed as I would gaze up into the night sky mesmerized by the full moon.

Some of my happiest childhood memories involved crisp autumn nights when the sweet scent of the fireplace smoke mingled with the cinnamon from my mother’s candles and wreaths. The nights were not yet cold, but perfect for bundling up in a blanket and sitting on the porch swing with hot apple cider, sharing my day with the full harvest moon.

At some point, I realized that the moon knew me as a young girl but would also know me at my oldest. It would see me through my greatest moments and shine bright even when I couldn’t.

My current favorite moon shines against the backdrop of moored sailboats gently bobbing with the incoming ocean waves. My husband and I walk hand in hand at the shore break, and my friend lights our path as we make our way through the night…and through life.

I search for the moon nightly. It makes me feel young and powerful. It reminds me of my past, it calms me in my present, and it gives me hope about my future.

Many think their wedding was the most amazing event in history. And why not? All your friends are there! Eating the food you choose. Drinking cocktails you provide them (which means they feel obligated to be nice to you). The music is your choice. The décor suits your taste. It’s perfect!

And the bride is the reining queen of the entire event. She is the superstar that everyone wants to touch. For one day (if she's lucky), the bride wears an ensemble tailored specifically to her. She has people waiting to fulfill her every demand: cars to chauffeur her, assistants to guide her, specialists to dab her shiny nose with powder.

It takes awhile for this idea to sink in for some brides. For instance, I remember telling my husband how GREAT our bartenders were because they always remembered to pour me the specific wine I wanted without me having to ask. I mean, how did they remember it was me?!? (yes, post bridezilla, I now realize the big, poofy, white dress tipped them off)

The bride sets the schedule and all her court surrounds her and takes hundreds of pictures of her. It’s like being Madonna for the day…but even better because you get to actually EAT the cake!

It’s nice. If not slightly annoying. And just when you start getting used to the idea, the night is over and you’re back to being the bridesmaid.

Shhh, don’t let chocolate in on this little secret: My first choice for a lifetime treasure trove of candy is Mentos!

I’m quite addicted to this 10-whopping-calories-a-piece minty confection (10 doesn’t sound too bad, right? Consider 13 candies in one wrap and the fact I can unravel and consume that wrap in 5 minutes!).

I hold the Kentucky public school system at fault for my self-certified Mentos addiction. The candies are MADE right down the street from my childhood home. The facility pumps the wraps into local stores and offers tours. Fresh, soft, gooey Mentos are a delicacy many never experience! I was doomed from my first tour.

My addiction is very similar to that of a cigarette smoker. As soon as I finish a meal, I get this itch in the back of my throat for the cool sting and soft chew of a Mento. Nothing will satisfy the craving (except, perhaps, some mint chocolate chip ice cream, which in itself is a sure path to a future of insulin shots).

In the past I’d go to Costco and buy boxes of Mentos rolls...you know, the ones store owners purchase in bulk to sell individually. Holy Diabetes, I’d eat the entire box in less than a week!

Breaking myself of my glucose addiction was quite a challenge. I still get a wild look in my eye and a little jerky just thinking about them.

But if you were cruel enough to offer a recovering Mento addict a lifetime supply of her favorite weakness, I wouldn’t say no ,-)

Tattoos are not my thing, however, I'd wear a temporary one occasionally as a banner for things I'd rather not say out loud.

This week, stamped across my forehead, my tat would read:

--} Not interested in stealing your Firm job OR your creepy boyfriend, thanks. {--

Just so people would feel free to actually speak to me when I talk to them AND, possibly, not want to stab a knife in my back when I turn around.

Rumor mags claims that actor Dustin Hoffman stays at the Four Seasons in Lanai every ‘week 52’ (the biggest timeshare vacation time of the year, right after Christmas and over New Year’s Day). We too were staying at this property during that time.

Staying at the Four Seasons is always a treat...no matter what city. Posh luxury aside, they do a dazzling job bringing in local flavors without being too over the top.

Although all their rooms are fabulous, we usually price ourselves into one of their more modest options.

Now, my husband has always been mistaken for *someone*. We’re still not sure who. People ask for his autograph all the time. Sometimes they think he’s Brendan Fraiser...other times people just say they thought he was a golf pro. But he’s NEVER been mistaken for Dustin Hoffman!

However, when we checked into Lanai’s Four Seasons (Four Seasons being the ONLY hotel on the tiny island of Lanai), a manager came out from the back and escorted us to a FOUR-room suite having the best view of the property.

I remember standing in the dining room (yes, dining room inside our room), peeking at my husband, and him shaking his head slightly to suggest “Don’t you DARE say anything!”.

Needless to say, the weekend was amazing! A few people did camp out in front of our room, but they thought we were Hoffman cousins or something and soon left us alone. We enjoyed a huge balcony that ran the length of the hotel and a bathroom (if you could even call it that) that rivaled a spa. And every time we left the suite, we would return to gifts and goodies on the bed or desk or table or spa tub.

We walked into every restaurant on the resort without a reservation. And two lounge chairs, located in a shady little alcove overlooking the ocean, were reserved for us daily.

It was a marvelous week that I’ll likely never rival. I’m very happy to have it as a memory.

I DO wonder, however, where in the world was the real Dustin Hoffman?

Sports Stuff
When I first met my husband (14 long years ago) his bachelor pad boasted a signed Larry Bird picture hanging right above his toilet (very disconcerting for many reasons). The place was littered with various sports memorabilia that attempted to pose as decor. Not exactly a sports spectator kind of guy (that’s why I LOVE him), my husband received bukooz of these items from his father’s days at Upper Deck. He owns hundreds of nifty items (read: some odd person will actually PAY for them) in a vault somewhere. All supposedly much more impressive than the Bird pic...perhaps that’s why it received a less than stellar hanging spot.

Comic Books
I keep hearing how this Batman comic book where Robin bites the big one is going to fund my future children’s education. I’ve yet to see it (and I’m quite skeptical), so I’ll continue my imaginary child’s savings until someone ‘shows me the money’!

Baubles
I love vintage jewelry pieces and purses...particularly Chanel. It is my dream to someday be approached by a dapper gentleman who tells me his beloved grandmother has passed leaving behind a vast collection of authentic Chanel items dating back into the 30s. He will, of course, want me to have these items because he knows I’ll cherish them as his grandmother did. Until that day, I’ll have to settle for the pieces I can find (the value greatly diminished by all the hootchies out there toting knock-offs).

I DO have a few beautiful jewelry pieces, not branded, that are stunning. Most of these were purchased for a song by either me or an aunt during travels (she brings back stones from Madagascar that would turn a nun into a jew thief). They always appraise for much more than I paid...and I’ve had starry-eyed woman offer me twice that price. Sadly, these things also remain in a cold box somewhere, rarely allowed out to play.

Looking back on it, this list is kind of sad. I hope Space School is somewhat reasonable. Or maybe I’ll have extremely bright children that acquire scholarships! Then I can take the proceeds from the loot I’ll never sell and fulfill my dream of selling painted rocks in the Caribbean.

Smoked salmon entree - Guillaume at Bennelong

Breakfast
I consider myself to be somewhat of an Eggs Benedict connoisseur. Surprisingly, it’s the one dish I do not prepare well, so I will have chosen my personal chef based on their adeptness at creating this dish. I plan on him getting fancy with my one-day-of-heaven per week allowance. But a smoked salmon mousse variety with a lemony sauce and topped with capers and onion will do.

Lunch
I have exactly 30 minutes of break time during Wednesdays. The rumor is that my school sponsors Hot Dog Wednesdays outside by the lake. Since I like the water, I’ll probably venture out and it’s possible that in my frenzied, sleep-deprived state, I may consider a glutinous, squishy bun full of processed animal guts.

My chef must stop this.

I’m thinking a delicate boxed lunch. No cold cuts, please! Maybe some coconut-lime shrimp salad on a flaky whole wheat croissant. Or, perhaps my chef can whip up Tognol Tuna salad with Lemon and Cherries (read: crack for Jess).

Dinner
How nice it will be to arrive home and find a chilled glass of Albarino (or Amarone, depending on the weather that day). A few soft goat cheese varieties or other apps like avocado and shrimp stuffed deviled eggs. Maybe some home made sushi made with eel and watercress. Or smoked salmon mousse on toast points with tiny bits of chives!

Then, my chef will present a fabulously prepared fish. No sauce. I’m looking for fresh, magical, melt in your mouth Florida fish. Save the calories for dessert.

After running or yoga-ing, I hope to find a delightful creation baked to perfection. Still warm and awaiting ice cream. Chez Chef can’t go wrong with a coconut cake or tres leches. He need not get creative if he’s smart enough to rip-off a Lemoncello torte or strawberry shortcake!

It’s possible that even I can play nice and open my kitchen for a little pampering. IF he doesn’t mess with my spices, or rearrange my cabinets, or basically, touch anything ,-)

Espresso Machine
Mmmm, espresso. Preferably my own Jura Capresso with my favorite clay mug. If anyone touches either item I may remain in this cell for life under a 1st Degree Murder conviction (or assault, at the very least).

Macbook Pro
Perish the thought of leaving my life-source behind. My baby always travels with me...even to the remote corners of uncivilized wilderness (read: Tennessee). The device alone provides hours of stimulus, what with my Adobe Master Collection and endless publishing tools.

A solid stream of WiFi must be included. The sentence will fly by while I browse my social networking, blogs, news, chat, and shopping sites (what? I’ll need to order all the stuff I forgot to bring).

And I get free food brought to me while ‘working’. Excellent!

Law Prep Books
26 days. 26 days to read 24 books. Torts. Contracts. Civ Pro. Property. Con Law 1. Con Law 2. Criminal Law. Glannon primers. Delaney guides. 7 boxes of Law in a Flash! flash cards (typed in 6pt font). Moynihan’s ancient Intro to Property. 8 hours of LEEWS Legal Essay Exam System.

And I STILL won’t complete the reading list...unless I forget the plug to my computer.

Let’s talk about a longer sentence. What did I do to get in here? Surely I can do something to increase my time ,-)

There is one photo of me perched on a slanted rooftop while my dad grasps me around the waist. Him in his tight, curly, afro-inducing perm (yes, perm), grinning proudly despite his horrendous outfit. Me, about four years of age with long white hair caught in a perfect bow, a snazzy little skirt/top combo, with a Barbie in one hand and a bottle of Little Kings (beer!) in the other.

I DO remember this night. It was my grandparent’s annual 4th of July party. I remember the cool Kentucky Bluegrass under my feet. It stung my legs when sitting in it cross-legged too long.

I remember the charred particles in my teeth, which could only have been the result of my grandfather’s grilled meats (we have to watch that man or he’ll grill a hot dog until there’s nothing left).

I remember the tang of TANG that my grandmother made me and how it felt sticky around the corners of my mouth.

I remember the excitement of the impending fireworks and the promise that I too would get to crawl through the little peaked window in the attic to sit on the A-framed roof of my grandparent’s home.

On that roof one could see not only the firecracker display below, but also the grand performance the city of Cincinnati launched from the Ohio River.

I remember the thumping sound deep in my chest as the sky lit up with colorful lights in every direction.

I remember my father clutching me and my grandfather constantly plucking at my nose (“I’ve got your nose Jessica, want it back?”). My uncles huddled in a circle below, lighting things and then quickly stepping back before the lumps at their feet erupted into an explosion of sparks.

I remember the heavy smoke stinging my throat and me telling my dad I was thirsty. He handed me the green bottle he had been sipping and told me to take a swig.

Just then my grandmother appeared in the attic window, told us to smile, and a bright flash of light blinded my vision.

Children are expensive. Just ask my husband. From the time I first met him, he would shake his head and twirl his hair with a perplexed expression whenever the subject of children came into the conversation.

Much to my amusement, as soon as we were married, I received an intricate financial planning spreadsheet with an updated section for ‘CHILDREN’.

Ha! My hubby is sweet, really. But I blame him for jinxing us with childbearing problems by attempting to be {{gasp}} prepared for kids.

Needless to say, Fate has thrown a wrench into our life’s nicely organized financial spreadsheet. Not only will we need the ‘CHILDREN’ column, we’ll also need to pony-up the cash to create the child(ren).

We plan to adopt an older child and use a Surrogate for another. Both methods are extremely expensive. What most people take for granted, having sex (free), pregnancy test ($14), doctor’s visit ($25 copay), will most likely cost us six figures.

That’s before orthodontia, summer camp, and college funds.

Fun, huh?

That’s why we’re saving our Benjamins for babies (makes for an interesting mid-life crisis purchase)!

Oh well, who needs that Ferrari anyway?

Restraints
My mother drove a battered CJ-7 during my childhood. She wrecked that Jeep every single summer that I can remember. Usually, it was just a fender-bender. But at age 8, I broke the windshield with my head. And it wasn’t until age 10, when the Jeep’s frame bent, effectively popping open the soft doors and ejecting me out onto the street, that a helpful paramedic alerted me to a seat belt and how to use it.

Since then, I never ride in any vehicle (cabs included) without my seatbelt. This proves to be an annoying problem when trying to shove a lot of people into a truck to head down to the lake dock. So be it.

Move over granny, I get the seat belt.

Debate
To the dismay of everyone I know, I LOVE to argue. I don’t care if I’ve never met you in my life, I will ask you a question and lead you into a ‘friendly’ debate. The topic could be quantum physics or chewing gum. I don’t care. I will dig until I’ve uncovered your beliefs on Watermelon Bubblicious and we will argue the finer points of Juicy Fruit until you cave. AND, once you do, I’ll eagerly hop sides and go at it again from another angle.

Many car-companions have abruptly stopped on the side of the road to yell, “Quit FIGHTING with me!”.

But I’m not really fighting. Once we’ve stopped, I expect us to carry on like best of friends. It’s just a friendly debate, after all ;-)

La Vien Rose by Louis Armstrong

“When you kiss me heaven sighs...” My grandmother taught me to dance while also keeping a clean house. She and I would grab a broom and dance around her big ole country kitchen singing this song. She had that special magic which turned ordinary tasks into extraordinary adventures. Although in body, my grandmother only died recently, that woman...the magical one, passed away when I turned into a bratty teenager. On occasion I like to recapture her magic!

On these occasions, I would dig out my Glinda the Good Witch costume and don it with delight. He would pull on grey sweats and swear he was the Tin man. I, of course, knew all the words and for some reason he didn’t stop me from annoyingly reciting them.

Once, a friend stayed at my house during this time and after the show ended, my father video recorded us acting out the entire script...again. (Oh, how I wish I could find that tape)

My most treasured gift from my dad is a pair of red, glittery Jelly sandals (Is anyone here young enough to remember Jellys?). I proudly displayed my ‘Ruby Slippers’ until I wore the plastic down to my bare feet.

Even without my father’s influence, I’ve always been drawn to this movie. What a performance! The makers truly created something magnificent out of little to no Hollywood magic. I can only hope that the Wizard of Oz is sufficient for future generations and is never {{gasp}} remade.

Several years ago, I stood at the front of the line for Wicked’s opening in NYC and love that performance almost as much. I hope to one day drag my father to a double feature: An afternoon of Wizard of OZ, followed by an evening with Wicked!

Nestled among the cobblestone streets of ancient Old St. Augustine, you’ll find a back alley that catches your attention because it does not follow the structured grid of the more modern streets.

On the corner of that alley sits a building, hundreds of years old. Its coquina construction is three levels high and each floor displays two giant floor-to-ceiling skinny windows. On the first floor, the second window was, at one time, converted into the doorway to this magnificent structure.

The inside glows with polished wood floors and a winding stair case. The building itself smells of sea salt from the Atlantic Ocean, just a stone’s throw away.

The building, once someone’s home, now stands vacant. Waiting for a tenant whom its ghostly inhabitants approve.

If I had the disposable income (because surely ownership would be for pleasure and I’d never get the money back), I’d purchase this heavenly building, ghosts and all, and open a coffee house of sorts.

I’d furnish the outside porch with a cushioned porch swing, chairs and a sturdy table.

The first floor would occupy a long counter running the length of the building. On stage left, I’d operate a coffee/espresso bar. On stage right, I’d display the delicacies I baked the night prior...my experimental recipe creations and tried-and-true delectable favorites.

My kitchen would be behind the counter, so I could operate my store while at the same time bake to my heart’s content.

Comfy, mismatched chairs would take up the rest of the space and the walls would hold posters of local bands, advertisements, and travel treasures that make great conversations.

The walls of second floor would hold floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and contain hundreds of books on a leave-and-borrow honor system. Soft music would linger...maybe a corner for a local band to play music and a local author to tell ghost stories. Thick, brightly colored silk drapes would hang on the windows and the room would be fairly dark, except for the reading lamps by the overstuffed chairs.

In the corner would be one of the building’s original fireplaces. I’d restore it to its former glory and light dozens of sparkling candles in its charred belly.

The third floor would be a work in progress. But I’m thinking I’d eventually win the liquor license battle and make this floor a wine bar. I’d have Thorton, Vilano Beach’s own wood-workman, carve a beautiful bar out of a single piece of wood. We’d serve delightful wines and carefully selected cheeses during weekday happy hour and late on the weekends.

I would paint, shutter, and add balconies to the outside structure, giving the building a Venetian look while also maintaining the Spanish style by allowing the bougainvillea to take over.

Once I finished my magical masterpiece, I’d have a local St. Augustine artist hand paint me a sign that simply states:

Cocaine

Because, I’d need SOMETHING lucrative to sell in order to keep a place like this going!

First of all, I WANT JURY DUTY!

I’ve tried for years to get called for duty, much less placed. No luck.

Instead, I secretly attend open court proceedings. I find the judicial system so very fascinating.

However, to prepare myself for the incredibly interesting, menacing trial I’m sure to someday witness (ha!), I would bring with me a copy of American Psycho.

I’m not certain how this book escaped my notice for so long. A recent visitor of mine left it behind and I’m a promiscuous book whore, so I read it.

At first I wasn’t impressed. Literary fluff makes my eyes roll. But then I realized I’d entered the most disturbing mind I’ve had privy to in my entire life.

And that made me think about all the other individuals I share air with and what sort of deranged thoughts go through their mind.

If you read this book while performing your civic duty you’ll be certain to not underestimate the lunatic on trial.

Unfortunately, if the defendant is snowy-white and innocent, you’ll have convinced yourself he’s guilty just because American Psycho will rid you of faith in humanity.

Pro Football Hall of Murder
My favorite celebrity meeting was in Miami. A friend and I walked into a happening restaurant called Jaguars and she said “Oh my God, that’s OJ Simpson!”.

I looked at the guy and said “No, he’s too short”.

As we ordered drinks she kept rambling about how this guy was looking over at us (so what) and then she started freaking out because he was heading our direction.

My back was to the approaching group so I didn’t see they were close enough to hear my response of “I’m sure that’s not OJ, but if it IS him, I’m blond so I’m outta here before he knifes me or something.”

Apparently, it WAS OJ because he immediately spun around on his heels and walked away. (and the incredulous bartender told me so) *smirk*

The Spanaird
My husband was driving me INSANE browsing through the Pro shop during the Mercedes Championship. As I aimed an exasperated look his direction, some guy’s chest blocked my view.

I stepped to the right. He did too.

I stepped to the left. He went left too.

Finally I looked up and gave him a look that displayed my mood saying “Would you get the hell out of my way?”

The guy looked shocked. Behind us I heard a smattering of laughs and coughs from a group of boys. I found my husband staring at the guy all star-struck as he pushed me out of the way to introduce himself to Sergio Garcia.

Sergio won the tournament that week. He also won my dream car, which my husband thinks is hilarious. Whatever. I kept Sergio humble...for a few days at least ,-)

Wake up Call
I was by myself on a 13-hour flight and just when I thought I was safe from anyone sitting next to me a group of guys boarded the plane. They were loud, obnoxious and blown out of their mind. The group as a whole looked down at me and started high-fiving the guy who was to sit at the window.

I, of course, put on my headphones and ignored him.

During the long flight he had an annoying habit of looking down at my iPod to see what was playing, which was some Band of Horses, Cold War Kids, Spoon, Wilco...mellow stuff so I could SLEEP! But this pompous boob pulled off my headphones and told me my music selection sucked.

He plugged in his own iPod which played Maroon 5.

GAG me. Please.

I told him this. Out loud.

He ripped out his iPod and didn’t talk to me the rest of the flight.

And yes, the flight attendant later told me I was sitting next to one of the band members of Maroon 5.

Vampire Slayer
I walked out of a Four Seasons beach bar once and literally stepped on a short woman. Two hands reached out and grasped my shoulders to steady me and I found myself looking up into the eyes of...

a blah-looking middle-aged guy. But his voice! I recognized his deep voice and quick smile. It was Freddie Prince Jr. and I had squished his Sarah Michelle Gellar. She was not pleased. (Honey, if you’re that short, wear some heels)