I told you black people aren't buoyant! - Day 28 of 35 days to 35

We've established that I grew up in Alaska. And that I’m not crazy about hot weather. And that I don't try new things often. And that I'm black. All those things converge to support the fact that I don't swim. , I’ve been in Alaska since I was three and really, how many pools do you think we had there? I was not in the minority with my swimming aversion. I knew tons of people who couldn't swim, so much so that the Anchorage School District tried to make passing a swimming test a graduation requirement. Whatever. My non-swimming ass got my diploma without ever getting in a pool. Going along with the whole lover of cold Alaska thing, I just really don't like weather above 80 degrees. Obviously since I have moved from Alaska I have had to get used to summer highs in the 80s and beyond, but I am not a fan. Typically people who like hot weather hang out at the beach or pool and most of these people actually get in the water. But not me. I have a healthy respect for the water and we have an understanding....I don't get in water above mid thigh and water will not suck me into a watery and terrible death. This has worked for us. I never learned to swim when I was little and frankly I hate water in my face. I hate having water in my ears, even when I wash my hair. maybe it's because I have control issues and I freak out when I can't hear what is going on around me, I don't know, I just know that I avoid it at all costs. The idea of learning to swim at my age makes me wanna go back to Alaska where I can be a non-swimmer in peace. Plus, I don't know very many black people who swim. I used to be able to say "have you ever seen a black Olympic swimmer?" but Cullen Jones messed that up for me with his gold medal in the 400 meter freestyle relay. But I stick by my statement that black people aren't buoyant. We sink. For real, just sink right to the bottom. I’ve tried to float, but my big legs and butt just drag me down. And if you don't float it is kinda hard to swim. So see, I have plenty of good reasons why I don't swim. And we haven't even begun talking about the hair...

I can say with a fair amount of confidence that (most) black women's hair and water do not mix. Unless we are the in chair of a hairstylist, we DO NOT want our hair to get wet. Getting caught in the rain without an umbrella is cause for a meltdown so you can imagine what would happen after swimming. there is just way too much involved in getting it back to its presentable state after it gets wet...it takes way more that the blow dryer attached to the wall in the gym locker room. And if that is enough to keep my ass on dry land, I don't know what is.

But let's be reasonable, swimming is a skill everyone should have. I’ve talked about taking lessons for YEARS but never followed through (go figure!). But now that I am a mother and have a child who loves the water, it is pretty important that I know how to swim. I have these horrible images of Sammi in a pool and something going wrong and all I can do is look around and say "someone get her" because I can't swim to save my life let alone hers. That is not a scenario I want to experience, thank you very much. Plus sammi is learning to swim at school now which means come summertime, she will want to live at the pool. And I want to be able to be in there with her and not feel like I am going to drown if the water is over three and a half feet deep.

That said, I need to find someone to teach me to swim but NOT in a group setting. I need the person's undivided attention because I swear I could drown myself and my instructor too so he or she needs to only have me to worry about. And I think the instructor will have to be a man. Any woman I get will likely be smaller (read weaker) than me and then we are back to the I-will-take-her-down-with-me factor. Definitely a man. preferably one who could pick me up with ease just in case he has to fish my drowning body out of the pool (can you tell I have a lot of faith in my ability to conquer this swimming thing?). My friend Robin works at a fitness center and recommends one of her co-workers, as the perfect person to lead me to the land of the swimmers. She said he is laid back which is good because I will be an uptight mess and he will need to be able to calm me down. She told him about my project and he agreed to help so I sent him an email to set up my first lesson.

As the day for the lesson approaches, I begin to stress more and more about it. What if I get in the water and start flailing like I’m having a seizure as soon as water gets in my ears? This has been known to happen so it is a legitimate concern. AND WHAT ABOUT MY HAIR? This could be a major problem. I have got to get a swim cap to at least attempt to preserve the 'do, but I am not hopeful about its ability to keep my hair dry. Tell me again why I am doing this....

I arrive at Trihealth way early which leaves me plenty of time for my nerves to really get out of control. I’m sitting in the locker room in my new Speedo swimsuit (I wanted to look the part, even if it will be apparent once I hit the water that I am NOT a natural), swim cap in hand and heart in my throat. Unlike most other things, I do not have any delusions about this. It is going to be bad. Just how bad I am not sure, but definitely, definitely bad. I am praying that there aren't very many people in the pool so that I will not have many witnesses to this fiasco but when I walk out I see that is one prayer that was not answered. There are about 15 women in a water aerobics class in one end of the bigger pool along with a few others swimming laps and about ten people hanging around in the warm water pool, where the lesson will take place. Great. Fabulous. Wonderful. My very first swim lesson, which I am certain is going to be nothing short of disastrous, is going to have tons of witnesses. Good times.

I am lost in visions of my impending humiliation, Cedric, my instructor, walks up and introduces himself. He has a kickboard in one hand and something that looks like a long foam dumbbell in the other hand. I am not liking this looks of either of these. As we are exchanging pleasantries, Cedric begins to walk into the shallow end of the pool immediately fear grips my heart.

“Uh, wait a minute. Aren’t we gonna have any prep or anything?" I asked. I am sure the terror on my face is comical. I was hoping for some sort of a warm up, so explanation as to what the hell I would do once I got in the water, but not just diving right in. I’m not ready yet.
"Nope, we're getting right in. come on!" Cedric says smiling. Already I want to knock the smile off his face. Does he not know what he is in for? Does he not realize that the next thirty minutes is going to be pure hell? Clearly he doesn't or he would not be smiling like that.
I walked tentatively into the pool and am at least happy that the water is warm. Cedric immediately starts explaining how he wants me to hold the foam dumbbell out in front of me and "just kick" to the other end of the pool. He says it like it's easy. If it were that easy I’d probably know how to swim already! He assures me that he will be next to me holding me up that whole time. I try to explain my buoyancy problem but he just smiles again and hands me the foam thing.
I sincerely doubt that this foam thing is going to keep me afloat but I can't figure out how to stall any more so I grab it and go. And, just as I suspected, the bottom part of my body starts to sink as soon as I attempt to kick. Cedric keeps telling me to kick from my hips, to scissor my legs and kick hard. I kick as hard as I can and it seems to be getting better. About half way down the pool my legs start to burn and it occurs to me that this is going to be a workout. I did not even think about the fatigue factor. Damn my legs are tired and we are four minutes into the class!
I make it to the end of the pool and with only a few seconds of rest, we are turning around and heading back the other way. I am starting to get a feel for the kick motion but my legs feel as if I have twenty pound ankle weights on them. I am kicking but don't feel like I am going anywhere. We do this a few more times, and I am seriously winded. Then Cedric instructs me to put the foam thing across my chest, lay back onto him and kick. This is considerably easier that the other way. My legs are getting a little bit of a rest plus I get to catch my breath. So, of course, we don't do that part for very long. I practice kicking with the kick board as well and at times I think I get it and then I feel myself sink again. I will blame it on the fatigue. I have always prided myself on my strong legs, but they are jelly right now. I am thrilled when he says it time to practice the arm stroke until I realize that I am still going to have to kick. Shit. This is the longest thirty minutes of my life. And to think that I wanted an hour long lesson!

I put the arm stroke and kicking together and luckily I only have to go half the length of the pool. Cedric has his arm under my hips to help keep me up but I am pretty much doing it. I am too tired to be excited. Plus I am making it tons harder by trying to keep my head out of the water. I know Cedric will not let this silliness continue in my next lesson and I am going to, at some point, have to put my face in the water. But not today. We are done! I survived and think I did okay. Cedric congratulates me and says that I did much better than most of his adult new swimmers. I think he is blowing smoke and trying to make me feel good so I will come back for my next lesson, but I’ll take it. I’m proud of myself, proud that I got in the pool and even tried to do this. I really do want to learn, so I, my sensitive ears and my hair are going to have to make peace with the water. One lesson at a time.

For now lunch is calling my name. I head to the locker room praying that my swim cap worked. But I brought a hat, just in case!

Cast on, Cast off - Day 27 of 35 days to 35

This 35 day project has been amazing....and filled with amazing challenges. I came up with a bunch of things I would love to do, but I learned that just because I wanted them to be part of my project did NOT mean that was going to happen. Take skydiving for instance: This is something fun and insane that I have always wanted to do so it was literally the first thing I wrote on my list. I thought it would be easy enough; let Google lead me to a local skydiving company, call and set up and appointment then let 'er rip. There were several problems with this plan. First, this project is going on during the coldest month of the year. This would not be a problem but I live in OHIO! It's cold here. And snowy. And not really conducive to jumping out of an airplane. Still, I was determined to find someone somewhere within driving distance that would be willing to toss me out of a plane. I called places in Columbus, Dayton, Louisville, Lexington, Indianapolis...well you get the picture. They all said the same thing: call back at the end of February, which is clearly not going to work for me. The closest place I found willing to do it was over five hours away in Tennessee. I guess some would say that I didn't want to skydive THAT bad or I would have driven my crazy ass wherever I needed to go. But let's talk logistics, people. I work, I have a three year old and I don't have a random ten plus hours to drive to Tennessee. Yes I was bummed but reality had to win out.


The funny part is that some of the other things that have been a huge challenge to accomplish are nowhere near as involved as going skydiving! Case in point, I have been actively trying to attend my first knitting class for the past two weeks. The one place in the area that I found gives lessons on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons. So for the past two weeks I have planned to go to class and for many different reasons (no babysitter, bad weather, class cancelled) I have not been able to attend. You would think it would be fairly simple for me to get to a two hour class that is no more than twenty minutes from my house, but the comedy of errors that ensues every time I try to go makes me think that the universe just does not want me at this class. But I really want to learn to knit!! I have been crocheting for the past ten years or so and I love it. I have become a master at making afghans, scarves and hats, but one of my bucket list goals is to knit a sweater. I'm not sure why, I just think it would be really neat to go around wearing a sweater that I made. I don't have a lot of creative ability so if could manage to make something that is actually suitable to be worn in public, I'd feel really good about myself.

Today, once again, I wasn't able to go to the knitting glass so I decided that I would teach myself. I know how to crochet, which I am aware uses a totally different needle, but the manual dexterity from crocheting should help (I hope, I hope!). After a quick trip to Wal-Mart to get some yarn and knitting needles (which I had no idea about so I had to guess at what size would be easiest), I am ready to become a master knitter. So I turn to the best resource I can think of to aid me in my quest: YOUTUBE! Along with the comical, disturbing, and completely ridiculous videos, there are some useful ones too. A quick search of "learn to knit" brought up several videos. The first one was 5 minutes of someone knitting to music with no sort of explanation whatsoever. Seriously, no words. Just bad 70's style porno music playing and the same scenes of someone’s hands knitting. Yeah, that's not even a little bit helpful. But with the second one I hit the jackpot. It was a video of a hip looking 20-something showing you the basics of knitting. I watched it about twelve times before I even picked up yarn and needle. She made it sounds so easy and I could follow the hands on the screen so I figured I would pick this up in no time. I start the video from the beginning pick up my needle, ready to follow her but it seems like she is talking a mile a minute! Seriously, she was NOT talking this fast the other dozen times I watched it. I was lost at trying to tie the slip knot!!!

After about five replays, I got the slip knot down and think I have done the casting on part right, which is how you start any project. Then I move to making my first row and it all goes to shit. I have NO idea what I am doing wrong but it so does not look like what I am seeing on the screen. I keep pulling out the jacked up stitches and starting over but it is just not right. I should have known it would not be as simple as this video made it seem! I tried to hang in there with this chick explaining it over and over again, but after about twenty more minutes of clearly not doing it right, I decided it was time to see what else YouTube could offer in the way of instruction.

Fast forward an hour and a half....I am STILL looking for a video that I can follow. Every time I start one, I get more and more confused. I thought the casting on part was easy and it turns out that there are like a million different ways to it. I know I am not stupid, but I swear, the more I watch the dumber I feel. I just can't get it right. And by the way, some of the people who think their videos are helping people learn are sorely mistaken! Half of them had the camera so far away that you couldn't see what they were doing and the other half flew through the instructions so that it was nearly impossible to follow.

At this point, my frustration is getting the best of me. It's getting late, I'm tired, and I want to jam these needles into my computer screen. Maybe I need a break. Maybe I need some wine. Yes, wine. That always makes me think more clearly. I am so thankful for that wine tasting class right now because I am stocked up on good wine which is desperately needed as this point.

After a few sips and a half hour channel surfing, I am ready to weed through the crazy that is YouTube and try to find a video that might help me. There has got to be one out there. Maybe I should just look for one that explains casting on. I find several horrible videos that confuse me even more, and then I stumble on one that I think makes sense. I watch it again and again; maybe it is the wine but this is making sense to me. I put down wine and grab my needle and yarn (someone should figure out a way to drink wine while knitting!) and follow the directions of the lovely woman on the screen. I wish I knew her name because she is my new bff; she is explaining it in a way I can understand, I can see her hands and follow what she is doing and mine actually looks right. It's 2:00 am and I finally got the cast on right! Jeez, are you serious with this? Thrilled that I got this first part down, I am anxious to start the first row, but this video only tells you how to cast on. Damn. Oh but wait, YouTube has a handy feature where they recommend some other videos based on what you just watched and I could do a happy dance when I see my new bff featured in a video about knitting the first row. YES! I may actually learn how to do this shit!

I watch this next video and follow her intently. With every stitch I am gaining confidence and getting more excited because it is finally making sense. She uses this stupid rhyme that says "in thru the front door once around the back peek thru the window and off jumps jack" to explain how the stitch works. I keep repeating it, feeling like an ass but it really is helping; I'm doing it! I finish the first row and then I’m not really sure what to do. I am hoping there is a video about how to continue, since she is clearly the best knitting teacher ever. I find one but this one is not nearly as helpful. Her fingers are flying now and the camera isn't close. Plus it starts with both needles in her hands so I have no idea how she got there. I am staring a finally finished row on one needle and have no clue what to do with it. I guess I will go back to the rhyme and hope for the best....In through the front door, once around the back, peek through the window and off jumps jack...in through the front door, once around the back....OH MY GOD, IT'S WORKING!!!

Finished with the second row, I am beaming. I want to call my mom and tell her since she is the one who taught me to crochet, but it's almost 2:30 and my inkling is that she won't be nearly as excited as I am at this hour. I got it, I finally got it. After several hours, a glass of wine and a sore back, I think I got it! Until I get to the end of the third row......

Uh oh. Something is messed up. I have no idea how or why but there is no final stitch for me to go through. Shit. What the hell did I do wrong????

It’s 2:27 and you know what? I don't give a DAMN what I did wrong!! I am cross-eyed sleepy and I can't even thinks straight. I’ll figure it out tomorrow, my new bff isn't going anywhere but right now I’m going to bed!

Who said I had to master this shit today, anyway?!

 

P.S. If you get in the mood to torture yourself, here are the links to the videos that (kinda) taught me how to knit

knit stitch:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qi3A3HBAfrQ&feature=related

casting on:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Y6qgaEhfFM&feature=related

But I wanna be a wino too! - Day 26 of 35 days to 35

To say that I have a very discriminating pallet would be a gross understatement. I am an obviously picky eater, completely and irritatingly finicky. I basically have the taste buds of a twelve year old: tacos with only meat and cheese, burger with only ketchup, mustard and pickles and, most importantly, anything and everything sweet. Cake rules my world, as does pretty much any fruit flavored candy. It is a bit embarrassing not to have sophisticated taste and I have really tried to rush the evolution process but to no avail. I have gotten better at trying things, but you can pretty much bet that if it isn't sweet, I'm probably gonna hate it.

This really didn't become an issue until I was introduced to alcohol (when I was of legal age, of course!). There is really nothing sweet about alcohol. Beer is skunky and stinky and so not passing these lips, and most liquor is just STRONG!! So while all of my friends were enjoying dollar draft nights I was ordering $5 amaretto sours.....you can see why I didn't drink very much in college! Oh I tried other drinks....we won't discuss my adventures with Mad Dog 20/20 or the short lived but intense relationship with Boones Farm (Strawberry Hill, of course), but nothing did it for me. I could never get past the burning in my chest, the intense taste, and the fact that alcohol just wasn't freakin sweet. So I spent years sipping the ultimate girly drink and being pissed that I was spending so much more than my friends every time we went out.

Through the years I have (thankfully) graduated from the ridiculously fruity drinks to the only somewhat ridiculous fruity drinks. But I really wanted to be a wine drinker. There is something so cool and grown up about sipping on a nice Chardonnay or Merlot. Very sophisticated, very classy, very un-amaretto sour! By my late twenties it was getting a little embarrassing to be the only one at the dinner table not sharing the bottle of wine and ordering the typical college girl drink. So I set out on a mission to find a wine that I could like, or at least grow to like. There had to be a sweet wine out there somewhere right?


It didn't take very long for me to veto red wine. I tried several but always ended up feeling like I had just licked a cat and the fur was now stuck to my tongue. I am not a red wine girl. So I moved on to the whites, and after several dinners of nursing one glass of Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio that I really didn't like but pretended to love, I finally stumbled on my wine soul mate: Riesling! Ah, reisling, my sweet, sweet reisling. Finally I would be able to have dinner and not whisper my drink order embarrassingly to the waiter and hope no one noticed. Finally I could join in conversations about this or that wine and when I talked about one I loved I wouldn't be lying. And finally I could have one of those nights with just me, a bottle of wine and a great chick flick. I WAS FINALLY IN THE WINE CLUB!


So I've spent the past few years happily enjoying my wine and not caring that most people I know don't like riesling for the very same reason that I love it: too sweet. But I don't care! It doesn't bother me that I'm still not cool enough to share a bottle of wine with my dinner mates because they all drink "real" wine and I drink the sweet stuff. Okay, it does bother me a little. I would like to be able to drink and enjoy more than one type of wine (because did you know some places don't have a riesling on the menu?? THE NERVE!), to broaden my horizons a little. I had eased my way into the world of wine with the sweet stuff and now it was time to move on....


I decided that a wine tasting class might be a good way to expose me to other wines and possibly find one that I did not find repulsive. I really wanted to find a red wine that I could at least tolerate and at best love, so that I could really say I am a wine drinker. There is a fabulous store across the river in Newport, KY called Party Source. It has just about every alcohol you can think of and probably some you can't. Anything, and I mean anything you might need for a party you can find here. They are even so fabulous that they host cooking and wine classes (I had no idea, yay!) and I found the perfect one for me: Girls Night Out: A Guide to Tasting, Ordering, Pairing (and Drinking!) Wine. So not only am I going to get to drink a bunch of different wines, but as a bonus I will learn what wine is supposed to go with what food. Fabulous! It's kind of like a gift with purchase. So hopefully I will leave the class learning enough to sound like a real wine drinker, or at least be able to fake it really well.


The Friday of the wine tasting arrives, and as it happens, none of my friends are able to join me. Uh oh. Now we've already discussed my well established policy of not really doing things by myself, so my first inclination was to stay my ass right at home. But then I wouldn't have a "thing" for Friday....and I really kinda wanted to go. I hear this voice in my head (I think it might have been Charlene) saying "Come on Darlene, it's not that big of a deal. Put on your big girl panties, suck it up and go! It's free wine you idiot, GO, GO GO!" The voice wins. On the drive over, I talk myself into believing that there will HAVE to be another woman there alone so I will just sit by her and make friends. I'm a good talker, I can pull even the most bashful people out of their shells, so I am fairly confident that if I can just find a fellow loser-with-no-friends-so-I-had-to-come-solo, , I'll be just fine.


I arrive at Party Source and I am not really sure where to go. I see what looks like a really nice kitchen area and some high bar tables so I head that way. I am not sure I am going the right way but as I approach the woman standing behind a podium says "Are you here for Girls Night Out?"


"Yep".


As she is explaining the check in process, I look over her shoulder and am happy to see that I am one of the first people there. She gives me a nametag and says that since I am by myself, she wants me to sit at the counter, right in the front to save tables for groups. Thanks, lady, just keep pouring that salt in my wound.


I look at the counter and see that there is another woman who looks to be alone so I take a seat beside her. There is a place setting in front of me with grapes and cheeses and a big ol basket of yummy looking bread. Ooooooh, do you think we might get food too??? Also on the counter are a bunch of wine glasses filled with things like pears, berries, butter, chocolate and something that looks like sticks. This should be really interesting.


Okay, time to make a friend for the night. I turn to the woman next to me and start making small talk about the glasses with the food in them. We get caught up in conversation and soon the class is about to start. I realize that someone has taken a seat on the other side of me and she looks to be alone as well. I want to make sure she knows she is not alone in this whole solo thing so I turn to say hi and introduce myself. I look down at her name tag and her name is Darlene. I NEVER meet other Darlenes! How random is that? Must be a sign that this will be a good night.


The workshop gets started and our wine professional (whose name I forgot, of course), starts explaining to us that we will taste six different wines (not ONE riesling! Damn!) and have an appetizer to go with each so that we can experience each pairing. Fabulous! Wine AND food! He begins by talking about the difference between light and heavy wines and how to tell the difference. We get a groovy little chart that tells you which wine you should eat with which meats and then they begin passing around our first wine sample. He explains that the glasses with the random foods in them are to help us identify what flavors are in the wine and how to better tell if they are heavy or light. He passed out a glass of lemons and a glass of butter. Yes, butter. He talked about how the Chardonnay we would be drinking was buttery but with a hint of citrus. Okay.....


I smell the wine first and am not sure I am buying what he's selling but then I taste it and I think I can actually pick out the flavors he's talking about. I concede that it could have been the power of suggestion, but I felt like a real wine connoisseur! With every different wine, he passed around different glasses with different smells and, I gotta say, it was pretty cool. And even though I was not completely crazy about any of the first five wines, I drank my sample (that was definitely peer pressure! I didn't want to be the only one without an empty glass!). By the time we got to the fourth wine, I am thinking that we are all gonna be sloshed by the time this thing is over! I use this as an excuse not to finish my samples of the red wines we tasted. I have to admit, they were not as bad as I remembered and did not leave the filmy cat fur feeling in my mouth, but they were still not something I would order by choice (maybe the Pinot Noir if I was forced but I'd be bitter about it). I was proud of myself though; I took real tastes of the wine, not my usual baby sips that barely get your tongue wet.


Then we got to the best part of the night. The last wine was a Moscato Spumante. I was a little familiar with moscato because it is even sweeter than riesling, if you can believe that. And this particular wine was like heaven in a bottle: yummy moscato plus the bubbly goodness of champagne. It took a great deal of restraint not to guzzle my glass and dive across the counter to commandeer the rest of the bottle. All I could think was this little beauty will be the drink of the day on my birthday. It’s really like a party in a bottle so what could be more appropriate?! NOW I have a reason to look forward to turning 35!


As the class was ending, we were reminded that we would receive an extra 5% off of anything we wanted to buy tonight...so of course it was only right to get a bottle (or five) of the Moscato Spumante for my birthday. I mean, it was on sale, right? As I make my way out of my new favorite store with my case of wine (okay really, did you think I was gonna miss a chance to stock up?) I am so glad I followed the little voice in my head. Life's just too short not to put on your big girl panties and just go for it!

It's not as easy as it looks! - Day 25 of 35 days to 35

My older sister was the coolest person I knew. Everything about her was cool, her clothes, her hair, her friends and especially her car. She had a cute little Subaru Sports Coupe and to me it was like a race car. She drove it with such authority and every time I saw her shift those gears, I was in awe. I had to learn to drive a stick.



When it came time for me to learn to drive, I could hardly contain my excitement. My dad was the designated driving teacher in the family, well actually in the neighborhood. Along with teaching my sister, he taught just about every other teenager in our neighborhood to drive a stick. They all loved him and made it look so easy that I just knew I would be driving like a champ in no time. What I didn't know, or rather what Pam neglected to tell me, is that Dad was a great teacher for everyone BUT her. He had patience for days with everyone else but Pam had about two chances to get it right before he started yelling. Apparently there were lots of tears involved. But she learned, and dammit, I would too.


Here's the problem. I didn't know the first thing about driving so not only was I trying to master the stick shift, but I was trying to figure out the basics of driving as well. This is not a good combination. A good rule of thumb in just about everything is to learn the basics before you get fancy. That would have been helpful here. Instead you have me, behind the wheel of my mom's BMW (Pam had moved out and it was the only stick shift in the house. I know what you're thinking and yes it kicked the anxiety level up about a thousand notches), stalling repeatedly and try not to hit anything when I finally did get going. There were tears. Lots and lots of tears. And then the check engine light came on in Mom's car. All of a sudden Mom and Dad didn't think it was necessary for me to learn to drive a stick, and automatic would be just fine. Imagine that.


So I never learned how to drive a stick and for a long time felt like I wasn't "really" driving. I wanted to drive with authority, to shift those gears like I owned the world and would run over anything that got in my way. And even though now you would be hard pressed to find a stick shift, I am still itching to learn. I will not turn 35 and not have this skill under my belt.


First things first: where the hell do I find a stick shift to drive? I call a few rental car companies only to learn that most of them don't have any stick shifts available. I didn't really want to ask anyone I knew to borrow their car because all I could see was that bright red CHECK ENGINE light in my mom's car after only one or two times with me behind the wheel and I did not want to be responsible for that again. But I was all out of other ideas. Leave it to Facebook to hook me up with generous friends willing to let me murder drive their cars and were even willing to teach me! I have such cool friends.


I decided to take Jaime up on her offer of driving lessons because she is one of the most laid back people I know so I figured she would not try to beat my ass if I really did kill her car. She said there was a parking lot not far from her house that would work great...nothing and no one for me to run over. Perfect. We arranged to meet on Thursday after I finished teaching and I had planned to let my class out a little early since I would be driving to the other side of town.


So, of course, my class picks today to actually participate in a discussion, so I end up leaving campus much later than I intended. I race to the sitter to pick Sammi up and call Jaime to tell her we should be there in about 20 minutes. But I forgot it's rush hour. I. HATE. RUSH HOUR. I just can't deal. The older I get, the less patience I have for traffic and I am in the thick of it. I we are inching down I-75 and I am yelling at cars to get out of my way. It doesn't help. We finally make it to the parking lot where Jaime is waiting and I immediately get nervous. Shit. Her car is nice. I was so hoping it was a beater because I have had nightmares of leaving her transmission in the middle of the road. I don't wanna break her car. My mom always told me not to play with things that I couldn't afford to replace and a car is so not in my budget right now. Please God don't let me kill her car!


I get Sammi settled in the back of Jaime's car with Aladdin playing on her portable DVD player and we are ready to roll. I'm all ready to jump in the driver's seat but Jaime goes to that side and gets in. Okay, I guess some preparation is needed. She begins by explaining where the different gears are located on the gearshift, and the importance of the clutch. I was somewhat familiar with the basics because of Dad's lessons from hell, but the refresher was definitely helpful. She drives around the practice route we are going to take, trying to get me to hear the car "tell me when it's time to shift". Uh, okay. She tries to explain that as I ease off the clutch, I should be able to feel when to give the car gas. And when in doubt, step on the clutch. Sounds easy enough.


I'm finally behind the wheel and anxious to try it out, but am immediately discouraged when I can't manage to put the car in first gear. Good thing Jaime told me to practice shifting before I actually started trying to drive the damn thing. I finally find first, struggle my way to second, completely miss third and muscle it into fourth. I silently thank God for Disney and portable DVD players because it is clearly going to be a long night.


Go time is here...I ease off the clutch and onto the gas and pull away as smoothly as if I were driving my own car. This should have been a good thing, but I could feel my head swelling and couldn't help but think "I got this. This is gonna be the fastest stick-driving lesson in history". I cruise around the parking lot, feeling all good, and like I am ready to hit the highway. I ease to a stop and turn the car off so I can do it again and impress Jaime with my ability to pick this up so quickly. I turn the key in the ignition and nothing. The lights come on, the radio comes on but the car is not starting. I turn it again...nothing. Again. Nothing. SHIT! I KILLED HER CAR!!! And it's only been like five minutes. Jaime seems unphased but I am freaking out.


"Maybe you aren't pushing in the clutch?" she says.


"BUT I AM!! I AM! I'm so sorry, I killed your car. Oh God, I killed your car".


I jam my left foot down as hard as I can and turn the key and the car roars to life.


Oops. Guess I wasn't pushing the clutch down far enough. I'll make a note of that.
With the start up issue solved, it's time to really go for a spin. I stall. Then I make the car sputter and jerk then stall again.
"Mommy! What are you DOING?" Sammi laughs.
Seriously, the backseat driver thing...so not cute right now.


I finally get the car going again, and once I am driving everything is cool. I CAN feel the car tell me when it's time to shift and I feel so cool, like I am really driving. I make a few more circles around the parking lot, to build my confidence and then I feel like I'm ready to take it to the streets. I pull to the end of the parking lot and get ready to turn. Clearly I am going to need a huge break in traffic (just in case) so I sit there for a while waiting until I can't see any cars. It takes a minute. I jerkily (is that even a word?) pull out onto the street and get the car going so I can hit third gear (which I did find, thank you very much!). I'M DRIVING A STICK! HOW COOL AM I RIGHT NOW! I turn into one of the neighborhoods to get some good starting a stopping practice. I pretty much have the driving and stopping parts down. I even manage to downshift like a pro, but the starts need work. I just can't seem to get the feel of letting up on the clutch...I should probably buy Jamie new tires because I'm sure I burned most of the rubber on them in that neighborhood. I either stall or screech away like a bat out of hell.


It is driving me crazy that I can't get this whole clutch thing down, and then it hits me. First of all, I have only ever driven automatics, so my left leg is just used to chillin' when we're in the car. It's not really prepared to get into the action; it has no idea what to do. Not only that, I am asking it to do something that I have spent twenty years trying NOT to do....slam down a pedal in a car. So it's no wonder I'm having a little bit of trouble!


Jaime is a great cheerleader and wonderful teacher. She only laughs a little when I stall multiple times in a row and is so excited when I actually get a good start. Thank God she had her seatbelt on or I might have thrown her through the windshield with one of my terrible starts, but she acted as if she rode with horrendously bad drivers all the time. If it were me in that seat, I would have probably had a panic attack the first time I heard the gears grinding. But she just keeps encouraging me and making me feel like I am getting the hang of it and I start to believe her (Dad could learn a thing or two from Jaime!). I drive around a little while longer with Sammi chiming in every time there is a little jerkiness (MOM! What are you DOING up there?!). But I'm getting better and by the end of an hour, I am feeling like I if push came to shove, I could drive a stick and manage to not kill anyone.

Best part about it...I didn't hit anything and the transmission was still INSIDE Jaime's car. It was a good day.

A little taste of home - Day 24 of 35 days to 35

I'm an Alaska girl. Within minutes of meeting me, I somehow work into the conversation that I am from the best state ever. Technically, I was born in Miami, but my family moved to Alaska when I was three, so it's the only home I know. I love everything that is Alaska, everything it represents: the snow, moose in your front yard, the Fur Rendezvous, 300 lb cabbages, all of it. I think there is something really unique about people who call Alaska home; you never really leave it and it never really leaves you. Plus the look on people's faces when you say you're from there (especially when you're black!) is priceless!



So loving the cold and all that is cold related, one would think that I would be a rabid hockey fan. After all, I love ice skating; there was a time when I just knew I would be bringing home Olympic figure skating gold to The Last Frontier. But figure skating was as far as it went with me. Sure I had tons of friends who played hockey, even some girls, but it never really piqued my interest. I never learned the rules and I didn't understand how in the hell you were supposed to get going on hockey skates with no toe pick. Seriously! The one time I tried to learn hockey, I was on my ass five times in five minutes. No one told me there was no toe pick. No one told me that because there is no toe pick when you try to push off like you would in figure skates you topple forward in a graceless heap. So after my fifth and final fall, I promptly decided that hockey sucked.


I managed to make it through most of my teenage years without going to a hockey game. Even when I dated a hockey player, I somehow maneuvered my way around actually going to his games. I would hang out at Ben Boeke Ice Arena with all of the other hockey girlfriends, but there was no game watching going on. Oh I pretended to love hockey like a good little Alaskan (I got a UAA hockey jersey and everything!) but I prayed that no one would try to engage me in hockey speak because the jig would be up. When having a crush on a UAA hockey player and wearing a pin with is face on it on your jean jacket was "the thing" to do, I went along wholeheartedly, even though I couldn't tell you what the center does or what all of the lines on the ice mean. I realize now that my hockey ignorance is kind of taking away from my credibility as a real Alaska girl so I am on a mission to embrace this game.


I unfortunately do not live in a city that hosts a major league hockey team, so I am going to have to settle for going to a Cincinnati Cyclones game as my first hockey experience. They are a local minor league hockey team, so I think that qualifies as professional hockey, no? I have heard these games are a blast so it should be pretty fun. I wanted to enlist a few people to go with me, so I chose to go on dollar beer night, figuring someone might be enticed enough by that to tag along. Jaime, Lisa and Jodi all agreed to make my maiden hockey voyage with me so I was set.


Jody and I arrived at the game with the plan of meeting Jaime and Lisa at US Bank Arena. Typically, being the somewhat anal planner that I am, I would (gently) insist that we all ride together so that there is no confusion, but I am trying to be more laid back in 2010 so I refrained. I am terminally early for things, so Jody and I were parked and headed to the arena at 6:45 even though the game did not start until 7:30. We approach the ticket counter and this guy who had just got tickets with his son offered us two free tickets. Jody and I exchange glances, immediately suspicious, but the man insists we take them and says we can trade them for different seats. I figure we should take them...maybe it's a good omen for the evening. We exchange the two free tickets and purchase two more so the four of us can sit together, then head inside to wait for Jaime and Lisa. For the record, hockey games are a great place to people watch! We saw a little bit of everything, including a guy with a puck hat...I am not really sure if my description would do it justice. Picture a foam hockey puck about the size of a platter. Then picture said puck on the head of a grown - ass man. Now you see the comedy.


At about 7:15, I am beginning to get a little antsy. Then I get a text from Jaime saying they finally made it and are in the building but don't see us. I told her we were by the main entrance and that we had the tickets. A few more minutes pass...no Jaime. The music is beginning to pump up in the arena and from where we are standing I can see on the Jumbotron that they are making the player introductions. I am not sure what to do at this point. I call Jaime, but her cell phone is going to voicemail. Crap. At this point we have two choices...go in and hope that she calls when they get to the door or wait. We wait. I can't bring myself to go in even though I am dying to see the faceoff (isn't that what it's called?). Jodi tells me to go in so I can see it and she'll wait for them. I'm torn but rush past the ticket taker and into the arena in time to see the one of the Cyclones skating away with the puck. Oops. Missed it.


I go back out to where Jodi is standing and try to call Jaime again. Voicemail. Crap crap. Jodi and I are trying to figure out what to do when a roar erupts from the crowd, a ridiculously loud horn goes off and the announcer screams "GOAL!" Jodi and I look at each other and burst out laughing. Seriously. It would have to be at the game I go to that they score like two minutes in. That never happens! Never!


Now I am really not sure what to do! I decide to walk to the other entrance (though they wouldn't have been able to get in there without their tickets, which I have) but they are not there either. I just don't know what to do. I can see Jodi and I walking into the game just as they get to the entrance and we completely miss each other. I try to call again but it goes straight to voicemail. Crap crap crap.


I head back to Jodi, still not sure what to do when out of the corner of my eye I spy the answer to at least one of my problems....an open bar! I don't drink beer so the dollar beer special did nothing for me, but the bar has a Smirnoff Ice with my name on it. Now I can at least keep my anxiety at bay! Drink in hand, I find Jodi and ask her what she thinks we should do.'


Roar of the crowd. Ridiculously loud horn. "GOAL!"


Are you kidding me??? Are you freakin kidding me?

Needless to say, we decided to go in. We grab Jodi a beer and try to find our section. We got great tickets in the lower level, row K, right at center ice, but we decide to sit in the first row of the upper level anyway. We could still see everything and we didn't have to crawl over a bunch of what I can only assume given the promotional beer rate, are drunk or almost drunk rowdy fans. I feel terrible about not being able to find Jaime and Lisa. I keep my phone in my lap hoping that they will call and say that they are here and that we just somehow missed them.

I am trying to take in the scenery of my very first hockey experience and one thing jumps out at me. There are a lot of men here. A LOT of men. The combination of testosterone and cheap beer give the arena a buzz unlike any sporting event I've ever been to. I feel like at any moment guys are gonna start pounding on each other... I love it!

I am trying to follow the action of the game, but I have to admit I am kind of lost. The puck is much easier to follow in person though, thank goodness. I was worried it would be like my attempts to watch NHL and being confused because I never knew where the damn puck was! But this was cool. And these guys can really skate! I am mesmerized by their footwork, it's amazing. And then there is the checking. Now seriously, that's what I came to see. How great is a sport where you can smash someone hard as hell against a wall and it's not against the rules?! And they let you fight!! I was praying I would get to see a good hockey fight but the checking was pretty awesome too.


By the start of the second period I am pretty into the game. Then my phone finally beeps with a text. JAIME!! She says they must have missed us and ended up buying tickets and coming in. I can't figure out how we missed them! We were standing right inside the main entrance, and honestly, there were not a lot of black women there. Especially ones wearing a huge hockey jersey with the word Alaska across the front! But somehow they slipped past us and were seated in the section right in front of us! I look down to section 132 and immediately spot them. Hilarious! I send a text back telling them where we are and they come up to join us. Given how few people are at this game, it is complete comedy that we somehow missed each other totally.

We spend the rest of the game drinking dollar beers (well they do, I stick with my $6.50 Smirnoff Ices and try not to think about the fact that in the real world I could buy a six pack for the price of one here), snacking on junk and laughing at the increasingly drunk idiots around us. It was a great time. And they scored twice more so I wasn't bitter anymore about missing the first two goals. AND I GOT TO SEE A FIGHT! Number 26 (no idea what his name is!) got into a great fight with one of the other guys and he got a couple of really good punches in before the refs broke it up. My night was complete...friends, drinks, fights and the Cyclones won. What more could a girl ask for?


We walk into the night and are greeted by big beautiful snowflakes. Alaska flakes. Tonight, it feels like I am home.

I can do anything with vodka by my side - Day 23 of 35 days to 35

 vul⋅ner⋅a⋅ble  /[vuhl-ner-uh-buhl] - adjective
1. capable of or susceptible to being wounded or hurt, as by a weapon
2. open to moral attack, criticism, temptation, etc.

Vulnerability is scary as hell. By definition, it is opening yourself up to get kicked in the teeth by life, love, or whatever else you let close enough to completely annihilate you. So one would think that a sane person would avoid this at all costs, would not put themselves in a position to be hurt or disappointed or criticized. But we do it. Every day, in so many different ways, we do it. We put ourselves out there because really, that's the only way to get anything out of life. You stay guarded and you miss out on the hurt, but you miss out on the best stuff too.

One of the hardest things to do is to open yourself up to be criticized for something you have created, something you have given a part of yourself to. I have always admired people willing to sing, or play a song or tell jokes to people not knowing if they would be laughed off the stage or embraced as artistic geniuses. Doing that, being that vulnerable, seemed to me to be the ultimate act of courage. I never saw myself doing anything like that. Frankly, I just didn't think I had the balls.

So why in God's name am I sitting at the bar in East End Cafe, downing vodka in preparation to bare my soul to what seems like the entire city of Cincinnati??

Let's rewind. In making my list for this project, I wanted to pick a few things that would really put me out of my comfort zone, things that I would NEVER do if not forced. There were no shortage of things to choose from, but one came to me right away. I have always loved to write and have been writing for years, Mostly poems, but some short stories and the occasional really bad song. I write about what I am feeling and thinking, about the people and situations in my life, basically I put my soul on paper. Thus you can see why I have never been eager to share this with others. Criticism is never easy for me to take, but I felt like if I shared my writing and people laughed, or didn't get it, or didn't feel what I was trying to convey, that somehow that would be a personal failure. And since we have already established that I have deep seeded perfectionist issues, I was not about to give anyone the opportunity to not like what I wrote. So I kept it mostly to myself, sharing it with some friends but never, ever reading it. I had no problem letting some people read it, but it felt almost too intimate to read it in my own voice, to hear my feelings out there, naked with no protection. Not gonna happen. At least not until this project came along.

I have watched many a poetry slam and open mic night where people get up and put incredible voice to their work and I was always in awe. As much as I fantasized about being up there, I could never bring myself to get out of my seat and do it. Part of the reason is that I felt like I did not write things that people wanted to hear in the middle of a bar or coffee shop. See, I am a hopeless, sappy, ridiculous romantic, so mostly I write about love....new love, lasting love, unrequited love, unhealthy love, lost love, found love, (are you hearing Forest Gump's voice in your head too?)....basically anything that has to do with love, I have written about. Most of the poems that I had ever heard were socially conscious poems, poems about issues, about serious things, not about love! So I used the excuse that the venue was never right, that it was never the right time to read about love. But tonight, I will let go of that excuse....

I look up open mic nights in Cincinnati, which is not as easy as I had imagined it would be. After tons of searching, I find a calendar that has a list of open mic nights in Ohio and figure out that I really have two nights to choose from. I am not familiar with either of the bars that are holding these events and I am pretty sure they don't get a lot of poets fighting for stage time. I chose the one closest to me that has its open mic night on Tuesday. I figure Tuesday is my day that I teach a night class so I will work and then head over to the East End Cafe to take my opportunity at the mic.

As Tuesday approaches, I am so nervous I feel sick. So I block it out. Hey, denial works people. I just stopped thinking about it, tried to forget that I was setting myself up for potentially the most humiliating night of my life. Good times. All of a sudden, Tuesday is here, I am packing my bag for school and at little voice from the back of my head says, "Hey Einstein...do you even know what the hell you are going to read tonight?" Oh yeah, that. This is why denial is not a good strategy: Now I have about five minutes to get out of the house so I am not late for my first class and I haven't picked out a damn thing to read at this open mic night. I know I will not have time after class to find something and at this moment I don't know where the hell my notebook that holds all my latest writing is. Frantic, I find my old book of poems that I put together ten years ago and throw it in my bag, hoping that I will have time to find something suitable between classes. Great, I am finally going to read my stuff publically and it's not even my GOOD stuff! Dammit!!

Never as a professor, have I been as distracted as I was today. I seriously could not even tell you what the hell I lectured on today. All I could do is look at the clock and count down the hours until I would be on that stage with everyone looking at me and expecting to be wowed. Seriously. What the hell was I thinking? All I want to do is chicken out and say screw it, but I am committed to this project, and the fact is, I have no backup plan for my "thing" for today. This is it. Shit or get off the pot.

My night class ends way sooner than I would like and I find myself on my way to my doom. I called my babysitter to ask if she could stay late so I would be able to do this. Part of me REALLY wanted her to say no so I would have a legitimate out, but, of course, she says she can stay as late as I need her. Fabulous. I arrive at East End Cafe about 30 minutes before the open mic session is scheduled to start. The entire way there, hand shaking, all I can think is there is NO WAY I will be able to do with without vodka. Lots and lots of vodka. I can't remember the last time I have been this nervous. I pull up outside what can only be described as a dive bar and at this point I am really rethinking my choice of venue. Something tells me that the clientele in this bar may not want to hear a dorky girl standing on stage reading about love. But I gotta do it. 35 days or bust! So I hop out of the car and walk into the dimly lit bar. Good sign: there are not very many people here. In fact, there is like NO ONE here! I love it! This may not be so bad after all. I make a beeline for the bar and before I can even sit down I order a lemon drop. Vodka is my friend, vodka is my friend.....


I down my shot and order another drink while I take in my surroundings. There is a stage with drums and microphones in the room adjacent to the bar. I can see it from where I am sitting but can't see the rest of the room (this becomes important later, trust me). I can feel the vodka warming me up and for the first time in several hours I am able to take a deep breath. I notice the two women sitting next to me and decide I better start chatting or this will be the longest thirty minutes EVER. I tell them about my 35 days project and they seem more excited than I am. They are so supportive and keep telling me that it will be great and I think I start to believe them. The bartender overhears our conversation and tells me that I need to sign up for open mic night. She is nice enough to bring over the girl who is running it all and she shows me a clipboard FULL of acts all preparing to perform tonight. I assure her that I will NOT be needing 15 minutes (good lord, it will be a miracle if I make it through 15 seconds!) so she agrees to let me go after the second band. Which means I have 30 more minutes to wait. UGH! ANOTHER LEMON DROP, PLEASE!!


After what seems like two seconds, the organizer chick is standing next to me telling me that the band before me is on their last song and I am up in about a minute. BIG. LUMP. IN. MY. THROAT. WANT TO THROW UP. NOW!


I seriously have no idea if my legs are going to support me when I get off of the barstool but the next thing I know, I am following her to the stage. She introduces me and then I am standing on stage, alone with the microphone and clutching my book for dear life.


Remember how I couldn't see the rest of the room where the stage was? Yeah, well it's FULL! FULL!! There are people everywhere and they are all looking at me.


"Uh, hi." I say. This is my first time doing this so be nice to me!"


That gets a few chuckles and then all eyes are on me...waiting....


At this point, I am not sure where my nerves went but they are GONE! I open my mouth, and the words just come out. My words, my feeling, my heart floating in this room of strangers. I finish and look up from my book to see a room full of people clapping and whistling. And now the nerves are back. Get me the hell off this stage. I'm trying to hustle my way off, when a couple of guys from the front yell, "Aren't you going to do an encore? You have to read another one!" Un-freakin-believable. I shake my head and try to keep walking but they start clapping and whistling again, so I figure why not?! I read another and now I am really done. I make my way back to the bar and collapse into the stool.


I cannot believe I just did that. And they didn't laugh. Better yet, they freakin cheered and asked for a damn encore. Now I am not arrogant enough to think they really wanted to hear another one, I am sure they were being nice to me but I'll take it. That was amazing. More than amazing. I was vulnerable, I put myself out there...and what I got back is immeasurable.

Whenever I have talked about my writing in the past, I have always said, "I write"; I just didn't feel like I could really call myself a "writer". You have to earn that title.  But tonight, tonight I'm owning that. Crazy....it took the validation of a room full of strangers for me to feel like I can call myself a writer.

P.S.  In case you were interested, here is the poem I read....

Nothing Without You

Can you show me
what you see
in me?
That strong and
beautiful
stranger
that is me
to you.
If I am the poet,
you are the poetry,
if I the song,
then you the melody
building me
chord by chord.

It is only through you,
with you,
because of you
does this strength,
this beauty
unfold.
Because there is no poet
without her poetry,
no song
without her melody,
no me
without you.

.583? Not too shabby! - Day 22 of 35 days to 35

My dad didn't really want me. Okay, maybe that is a little misleading. My dad wanted a boy. Just one boy. He didn't get one. Five years after the death of their second daughter, my mother got pregnant again. My dad was convinced from the start that she was having a boy, as if his opinion actually had any bearing on things. In her eighth month, they found out my mom was having twins. At this point dad is totally convinced that at least one of the babies would be a boy...he said God wouldn't be that mean to give him all girls. Mom had made it clear after nine months of growing TWO babies, she was closed for business. So this was my dad's last shot at getting that son he had always dreamed of. I can't help but think he must have been just a little disappointed when he was handed two screaming girls (especially considering how ugly we were!). He decided that day that since God wanted to be funny and deny him a son, he would turn his twins into the biggest tomboys ever. It worked.

Charlene and I grew up being very active, shunning most "girl" toys and instead choosing to play tackle football in the snow with the boys in the neighborhood. It helped that we were amazons who were bigger than just about all of the boys. We ran shit. And we loved it! We played everything...football, basketball, kickball, dodge ball, street races....everything, that is except baseball. Now this should not have been a big deal given our enviable skills in all of the other sports (no grandiosity there!), but it broke my dad's heart. He was a fantastic pitcher in his day and to hear him tell it, he could have played in the majors (which begs the question why then would you join the Army??). All he wanted was for use to play catch with him and to be able to pass on his skills to us, his pseudo-sons. But we weren't having it. I HATED baseball. It might be because I was forced to play catch and coached hard (read yelled at) when I sucked, which was often. I am not sure if I would have liked it had it not been forced on me but my inkling is no. For starters, that ball is hard and most of the time there is a good chance that it might hit you in the head. This is not a situation in which I would readily place myself. Secondly, there is the whole batting situation. See, the thing that I love about most team sports is just that, you are on a team and thus someone is out there with you and has your back in case you mess up. But in baseball, it is just you and the bat. And it is a LONG DAMN WALK back to the dugout when you strike out. It only took a few times of me making this walk during a neighborhood game to realize that A: I sucked and B: I really didn't want to play anymore! So I spent my childhood resisting my father's pleas, urgings, and not so gentle pushing to join a softball team. I had no desire whatsoever to play and the harder he pushed, the further in I dug my heels. I won. I never joined a team.

As I grew up and all of my friends were joining these fun summer softball leagues complete with beer and good times, I began to regret my choice of not learning the elements of the game. It seemed as if EVERYONE had some experience with "America's pastime" (maybe that nickname should have been a hint?) and I the odd man out. It was too late now. There was no way I could subject myself to the humiliation of joining a league and displaying my horrendous softball skills (if you could even call them that). So every spring I came up with some creative excuse as to why I couldn't join a team (my personal favorite being that I just couldn't find a glove that was comfortable...I don't think they believed me). I did want to play, but how could I? I was terrible. Truth be told, I hadn't swung a bat in too many years to count and the idea of making an ass of myself terrified me. I hadn't even been to a batting cage, which had always kind of intrigued me....


So here we are, on the cusp of 35, planning my very first trip to the batting cages. Clearly this would have to be a solo trip. I am not delusional enough to think I will actually be able to hit the ball with any consistency and didn't really need an audience for this fiasco. I found a place fairly close to my house and planned to squeeze in my first batting session in the free hour I had between work and picking up Sammi. It's snowing and dark, which means that everyone in the city is driving two miles an hour and breaking for no damn reason, so it is taking me forever to get there....but it is not where I think it is. I drive and drive and drive down what I am sure is Old State Route 74 but all I am seeing are lovely suburban neighborhoods. I drive further than a sane person should before I finally pull over and call the place. Turns out I have no clue where this damn place is. I get directions that seem clear at the time, finally find Old SR 74 but still can't find anything that says Backstop Sports. My hour is quickly dwindling and I am beginning to freak out. I hate to be lost, and even more that than, I hate when I have something perfectly planned and it gets messed up (you can see why I am a stress case most of the time). I call Backstop again the guy on the phone isn't even hiding the fact that he is laughing at me. This time I am on the right road but have gone about ten minutes past where I am supposed to be. Great. Freakin fabulous. And it seems like every car in the eastern part of the city is on this road, right now, and driving slow as molasses and costing me valuable batting time.

I finally arrive at Backstop Sports and walk in to see a smirking older man behind the desk. I realize that he must know I was the frantic woman on the phone since there are no other females in the building. There are several dads there with their pre-teen sons looking very serious and clearly devoted to reliving their glory days through their unsuspecting offspring. I tell the man behind the desk that I have never been here before (to which he replies "No! Really?!" It takes all of my self control not to reach over the desk and karate chop him in the throat) and ask how the whole thing works. He explains that each of the six cages can pitch softballs or baseballs and do so at different speeds. He asks me what speed I want and I give him a look that I hope expresses my mounting irritation. If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking your advice, now would I? He suggests that I start at the cage with the 45 mph baseballs. I feel dumb because the boys half my age (but twice my skill I am sure) are at the cages with much faster balls, but my pride is not such that I will walk into the 60 mph cage just to look cool. I purchase my tokens for 60 pitches (twelve pitches per token), which seems like a lot to me, grab my lovely (required, ugh!) helmet, choose a bat and head to cage 5. I can feel the eyes of the dads on me as I put the token in and push the start button. I try to block them out and concentrate on taking all of the frustration of being lost out on the balls that are about to be flying at my head.

The first ball comes so quickly that I don't even swing at it. The next one comes and I swing for the fences. Nothing. I miss the next one. And the next. I finally get a tiny piece of my bat on the ball and I am ecstatic because that means I will not have completely failed on my first round of pitches. I whiff the rest of the pitches and turn to head out of the cage. Mr. Laugh at the New Girl is there and tells me that I am holding my right elbow too low and if I put it up I'll have a better chance of hitting the ball. Yeah yeah yeah. I don't want to listen to him because, well, I hate him, but I don't want a repeat performance either, so I put in my next token and step back into the cage. Right elbow up...ball coming at me...swing....CRACK!

YEEEEEEEEEES!!!!

Okay, maybe it wasn't a "crack" per se, but I hit that ball and it felt amazing. I felt powerful. I hit the next one too...harder! And then I missed a few. But I didn't care because I was having a great time! I didn't care who was watching, or that I was missing more than I was hitting, this was awesome. The feel of the bat connecting with the ball was unlike any that I had felt before. My irritation from the inadvertent detour was long gone, and all I wanted to do was keep hitting the balls. I thought 60 balls was a lot but in what seemed like five minutes I was reaching for another token only to find my pocket empty. Damn that was fun! My competitive and perfectionist spirit would not let me just hit the balls and have fun. I was keeping track of how many balls I hit even though I didn't want to. My best round was 7 out of 12. Hey! Wait a minute! That's a batting average of .583! I'm a freakin' stud! That is hall of fame shit right there! And I thought I sucked! God bless a sport where you can succeed less than fifty percent of the time and still be considered great.

Baseball....where have you been all my life?

Julia Child who?? - Day 21 of 35 days to 35

As I said before, I think if myself as a pretty good cook. Granted, my menu is not very extensive, but the few things I do cook I think are pretty good. The problem is, the things I cook are not from any written recipe. Most of what I know how to cook I learned from my mother over the phone. Yes, over the phone. I haven't spent much time at my parents' home since I left for college at 18 when the extent of my cooking was scrambled eggs. So as the years have gone by and I wanted to eat more that eggs, takeout and ramen noodles, I would call my mother and ask her how to cook this or that. Here's the problem. My mom cooks NOTHING from written recipes. Her idea of teaching me how to cook was to use "however much you need to make it taste good." Ummmm, not at all helpful, thanks. So through much trial and error, I have perfected a few dishes (my mac and cheese is to die for!) but you can only eat the same things so many times. I need to add to my menu but every time I look at recipes I get so intimidated I chicken out. None of them are detailed enough for me. The perfectionist in me needs to know exactly how long to whisk things or exactly how think the sauces is supposed to be or exactly what the meat is supposed to look like. Recipes give you a vague idea and expect that you are bringing some knowledge to the table. Don't the writers of these cookbooks know what happens when you assume?! But given my success in yesterday's cooking class, I am feeling kind of confident. I think I can face the challenge of cooking a meal, a real meal, from a cookbook with no help. But I should probably make sure to eat a snack first...just in case!

My first decision was picking out the recipes for the evening. My mother has given me a few cookbooks over the years (I tried not to be offended by this) so I some pretty good choices. I wanted it to be a little challenging, but not so much so that I had NO chance for success. Each time I thought I found one, I ran across a word that I didn't recognize (like blanch...what the hell is that??) or realized that most of the ingredients were on the "I don't eat that crap" list. After about an hour of scouring the books, I finally settled on Lemon-Linguini Shrimp Salad and Fresh Fruit Compote with Basil. NO freakin clue what compote is but it looks like something I can manage so I figured why not?!


First things first, I have to go to the grocery store because I have like nothing that I need for this. Do some people really keep fresh parsley and basil on hand? I write out my list of things I will need and head to Kroger. It takes much longer than anticipated, probably because I wasn't quite sure where to find half of the stuff. Where exactly would corn starch be? By the flour? After wandering around looking like a lost puppy, I think I finally have everything I need. Sixty five dollars later I am leaving Kroger thinking that I paid this much for the cooking class, so I just spent the same amount to cook a new meal with no freakin guidance whatsoever. There is something not right about that.


I get home and lay out all of my ingredients. I am starting to get really excited....I feel like a real chef. Damn, I wish I had an apron! I look around to make sure I have everything but I keep feeling like something is missing, something important. WINE!!! Who can possibly cook without wine? I pour a hefty glass of Riesling and start to chop up my fruit. Given what we learned in cooking class (I love saying that!), I decided to start with the dessert since it was going to need to chill some. I am certain it takes much longer than it should to cut up this fruit as I know my knife skills are subpar, but I finally get it all done. Maybe the wine isn't helping....


The next step is to melt a bunch of stuff together and add slurry. Yay slurry! Twice in two days I get to say that silly little word. I don't know why I am so tickled by it, but as I am mixing the cornstarch and water I just can't stop giggling. So I am mixing and stirring and the book says this mess is supposed to get thick. How thick? It doesn't look thick to me at all. I keep stirring and it keeps looking the same. Shit, did I mess up already? I read back over the recipe and it looks like I have done it right. Maybe by thick they just mean thicker than it was...though I am not sure we have reached that level either! I don't think it is going to get any thicker even if I continue to stand here and stir so I guess it is time to just go for it. I combine the probably-jacked-up mixture with the fruit and stir. Then it calls for "1/3 cup of shredded fresh basil". Okay, I kind of cheated here. I found the fresh basil at Kroger but I wasn't really sure what they meant by shredded so I opted to by the dried kind from the spices aisle. So I pour a third of a cup (which seems like an awful lot of freakin basil) into the fruit mixture and stir it up. Something doesn't look right. All I can see, and smell, is basil. Maybe it was too much???? I put the lid on the bowl and stick it in the fridge. If it's messed up I'll deal with it later. On to the pasta!


Now this recipe really doesn't seem that bad. And it even has vegetables! Luckily it's asparagus, one of the three vegetables I actually eat, so we're golden. I am chopping away, boiling the noodles, sipping on my wine and feeling like a chef. I do really like to cook and it is kind of neat to think I am making something totally new. Admittedly I am a little scared to try it. Too bad Sammi is so picky, I'd love to make her try it first, but I guess I will have to be the taste tester.


The half-empty wine bottle tells me that things have been going pretty smoothly, so I figure it is time for something to go wrong. Right on time, the buzzer goes off telling me that the noodles should be about done and it is time to add the asparagus. One problem. These noodles are nowhere close to done. Looking in the pot, it looks like half of them are still pretty stiff, so I try one and can barely get the stickiness out of my teeth. I know the book says to add the veggies now but I am gonna be a rebel and make my own timetable. I don't want to eat half-cooked noodles just so I can say I followed the stupid recipe! I let them cook a bit longer then add the asparagus. I realize now that I am kind of winging it and have no idea how long it will take for the asparagus to get done. Uh oh. Another sip of wine and my inner Julia Child starts to emerge: It's just food! I can so do this! I let the linguini and asparagus cook a bit longer then decide, with confidence, that they are done. Time to make the "oil", which I am pretty excited about because I get to grate a lemon peel. Cooking rocks! As it's all coming together, it is starting to look really good! I put it all on a plate and try to make it all pretty like in the cook book. Not as perfect as theirs, but pretty damn good I think.

After staring at it for about five minutes I realize that stalling is not going to make me less nervous, so I dig in. As I am taking the first bite, all I can think is “God please don’t let this taste terrible!” I eat the first bite. Not bad! Not bad at all!! I can tell I am beginning to puff up with pride. I DID IT!! And it is not only edible, but really freakin good! I so can’t wait to make this for someone other than myself! I polish off the first helping (which was pretty small because I was so afraid it would be disgusting) and pile another plate high with my new favorite dish. I am basking in the glory of my triumph when I remember the compote. Damn. Damn damn damn.


I finish my yummy dinner and head back into the kitchen to deal with “the compote situation”. I take the bowl out of the fridge and as soon as I take the lid off, a wall of basil smacks me in the face. Yeah, I messed this up big time. Which is kind of a bummer because I was really looking forward to desert and I spent a lot of time chopping that fruit. I pick out a couple of pieces to taste and can sort of see what it should have tasted like. If you can get past a mouth FULL of basil, it is pretty tasty. The garbage disposal should enjoy this. I decide that I will for sure take a another crack at making this…but maybe I should find out what the hell a compote is…and use fresh basil next time.


Hey, one for two ain’t bad!

Cooking for Dummies - DAY 20 of 35 days to 35

Admittedly, I am a very, very picky eater. That's why I learned to cook the (few) things that I really liked to eat. My aversion to vegetables and well a lot of other things, made it easy to learn to cook, after all, I only had to master like five things. But the things I do make are pretty damn good. So I consider myself a fairly good cook. And I do really enjoy cooking, especially cooking for other people. I get a very satisfied feeling from cooking something well, it makes eating it that much more enjoyable. I also love the look on people's faces when you have made something that they absolutely love. And I really love to eat, so I know there is nothing better than a really fabulous meal. Because I know my menu is limited, I have tried to venture out and learn new things. It NEVER works. I think of myself as a smart person but when I am reading recopies it is like my IQ is cut in half. I am not sure if I am intimidated by the unknown or if I am just recipe stupid, but they never, and I mean never turn out the way they are supposed to. For starters, they don't look anything like the pictures in the cookbook. Now I know those are made by professionals, but shouldn't mine at least look like it contains the same ingredients?! And I am fairly certain that whatever I have made is not supposed to taste like soap or dog food or any other inedible things that my failed recipes resembled. So I have pretty much given up trying to learn to cook new things and resigned myself to a life of baked chicken, mac and cheese and the occasional fish dish. That is until I decided to include cooking classes on my journey to 35.

Signing up for a cooking class sounds like it should be an easy enough task. Just get on my bff Google and find a cooking class in the Cincinnati area. Easy enough. Well....not really. Turns out you actually have to plan ahead if you want to get into a cooking class. I knew I wanted to do a hands on class as opposed to a demonstration class (if I wanted to watch someone cook I'd just stay home and watch the Food Network!) but these classes fill up very quickly. There is pretty much only one place in Cincinnati that offers hands on classes and they were all full through the end of February. See what procrastination gets you!! I was determined to include this in my project so I would just have to cast my net a bit wider and see if I could reel in a cooking class from somewhere. I searched Dayton. No dice. Columbus. Uh uh. I finally had some luck in Louisville. There was one place that offered hands on classes and they had one class open between now and February 7th so I got on the phone immediately to schedule it. It wasn't until the middle of the conversation that I realized this cooking class was called "Date Night"....meaning that everyone else would be attending the class as part of a couple. The woman on the phone said I could attend by myself but she hadn't ever had anyone do that. So I paid for two classes with the intention of dragging one of my unsuspecting friends with me to harness our inner Iron Chef.

Colleen agreed to go with me (I think she felt sorry for me after I painted a very bleak picture of me being in a class of couples all alone. Hehehe), so we set out on our way to Louisville to make some magic in the kitchen. We arrive early and stake our claim to one of the tables closest to the chef. He is busy preparing something in the front of the kitchen/classroom. Our station is complete with a gas burner and little containers with numbers on them which I am guessing corresponds with each course of our meal. The owner of the places hands out the menu and I am anxious to see what meal I will be mangling this evening. The first course is a Warm Spicy Tomato Soup with Shrimp. Yummy yummy. Then we move on to Honey Poached Duck Breast with Port Wine Sauce. Hmm. First thought: that sounds just complicated enough for me to really screw up. Second thought: I am not so sure how I feel about duck. We end with a Fresh Fruit Napoleon for desert. I am fairly sure that like 95% of normal deserts, this will somehow include chocolate that I will have to pick around (I'm allergic to chocolate but not sad about it because I don't like it anyway). But I am all about the fresh fruit so I am sure I will enjoy dessert too.

The menu packet says our instructor is Chef Michael Cunha who teaches at a local culinary school. He looks very serious and is flying around the kitchen like a hyper puppy. He seems to be in his own world as more couples join us in the kitchen. As the couples start to trickle in, the owner brings around wine which I very happily take. I am unsure of my culinary skills and it becomes clear that if I miss up (which I will), the four other couples at the tables next to ours will have a clear view of the damage. More wine please.

Everyone is kind of standing around nervously smiling until a cute young couple join us and immediately introduce themselves. We start chatting and I am pumped because we are SO gonna be the fun side of the room! Now I won't feel like such a dork when I burn/spill/catch something on fire...after all, we've bonded now!


The class gets underway and Chef Cunha tells us that we are going to start with the dessert. I knew I liked him! I look at the menu and about halfway down the ingredients list a word jumps out at me and I almost spit out my wine. "One ounce slurry". What the hell is slurry and why do I think it is so damn funny. I just like saying the word. Slurry. Hearing him say it makes me laugh harder. I am not sure if the wine is making it funny or if it really is a funny word, but is has made my night. If I learn nothing else, I will have cooked with slurry (which is just cornstarch and water, by the way. Why not just call it that then?).


We make it thru the slurry-containing desert and move on to the tomato soup. This actually seems like something that I might be able to handle making. I am sure it was easier since Chef Cunha had already chopped up all of the vegetables for us, but still, I was making soup from scratch which is pretty damn impressive in my book. . The best part about cooking class (given that you are not a horrendous cook) is that you get to eat what you make, and the tomato soup was to die for. I felt badly because Colleen doesn't eat seafood so I was forced to eat her portion of the soup. I am not sure how I will deal with the guilt....

Next comes the hard part, cooking the duck. I had never seen duck before let alone cooked it so this would be a whole new experience. Not only did we have to prepare the duck but we had to make a port wine sauce as well. The sauce consisted of cherries, port wine, and a bunch of other stuff including duck confit. Confit. Yet another funny little cooking word. I have to try to fit that into everyday conversation. We add all of the ingredients for the sauce in the pan as Chef Cunha is coming around to check our progress. He tells me that I should swirl the sauce in the pan and takes it from me to demonstrate. All I can think is that he has a rather violent swirl. I take the pan back and try to mimic his swirl but sauce threatens to come flying out of the pan. So my sauce will have to survive being daintily swirled. I am hoping that does not threaten the integrity of the sauce. Then it is time to poach the duck. Colleen and I take turns cooking and are feeling quite proud that we have done such a great job so far. Nothing has been spilled or burned or anything. Ooops, spoke too soon.


I turn over our duck breast which we are supposed to be searing and it is black. Damn. That wasn't supposed to happen. I look around the room and other people mildly over cooked theirs but ours is definitely the winner. Thank God for wine or I'd be all uptight that it was perfect. Instead, I decide that the extra searing gives our duck swagger. Yeah, we'll go with that.


Throughout the night, Chef Cunha encourages us to season all of the food with as much salt and pepper as we want. It is then that I am introduced to the coolest cooking accessory EVER: the automatic pepper mill. This thing is awesome. You push a button right at the top and pepper comes shooting out of the bottom. I think a fight may break out among the tables to decide who gets to use it first. Even though I don't cook much, I will have to seriously consider buying one of these puppies.


Once we are finished poaching the duck, we get a little break while the chef finishes the duck in the oven. We are encouraged to browse around the store connected to the classroom and look for any cooking items we just have to have. We are even given a 10% discount. I make a beeline for the automatic pepper mill and find that it sells for fifty bucks. Hmm....I like it, but I haven't had THAT much wine. Looks like the automatic pepper mill will live only in my cooking fantasies.


After the break, we go back to enjoy our masterpieces. Chef Cunha slices the duck and it is serves with a side of squash plus a wonderfully cheese grit casserole. Colleen and I exchange glances and I notice that we both start eating the sides. I don't say it, but I am waiting for her to taste the duck first.


"It's good." She says.


I look at her face for any sign that she is just trying to be nice but I think she really means it, so I take a bite. It is good. Much different than anything I have ever had but I like it. We add some of the port wine sauce that I swirled so delicately and that made it even better. I am very proud of us!! We made one hell of a meal...the duck tasted great, swagger and all.

After we polished off the duck, it was time for dessert. Our fruit mixture from earlier was to be layered on puff pastries that had been drizzled with chocolate and homemade whipped cream. I couldn't eat the pastry part but I was all ready to tear into the fruit and whipped cream. Colleen and I dig in before I remember that I wanted to take a picture of the beautiful concoction. Luckily, Jaime and her husband, who were at a nearby table, were not the vultures we were, and had not devoured theirs yet. They were kind enough to let us take a picture of theirs.

We left the class with all of the recipes and a sense of accomplishment that I wasn't sure I would earn. The class was so fun, we met some great people and made some amazing food. I might actually try to make some of what we learned tonight....okay maybe just the soup and the dessert, minus the chocolate. But hey, I can say I made duck now, which is pretty cool.