What if I told you... TODAY?

What if I told you – today?  What if I told you something I should have told you - or someone - ANYONE - for that matter, a long time ago? 

What if I told you - today... that I have been sexually assaulted and sexually molested by both men and boys in my life, some who were close to me, and some whom I didn't not know at all. Many times. 

And I never told you. Until today.

What if I told you – today…that I was 31 years old before I told ANYONE that anything had ever happened at all?  

And that it was dismissed. As if what happened to me MEANT NOTHING AT ALL.

What if I told you - today… that it’s only been in the last few years I have told a few people, a very small handful of my nearest and dearest, what I just told YOU?

I can still count on just my two hands the number of people who know (a very little bit) about what happened to me. And I’d still have fingers left over.

Well, that is… until a moment ago. Now, everyone knows.

So…what if I told you – today - what I just told you? What I just told everyone?

Of course there’s more I haven’t shared with you...

What if I told you – today… that my earliest childhood memory is of being sexually molested? What if I told you… it happened more than once? 

What if I told you it happened more times than I can count?

What if I told you I was molested by someone you (thought) you knew? What if I told you I was abused by more than one “someone” you (thought) you knew?

What if I told you I was ALSO molested by someone you didn’t know, someone I didn’t know either? Someone else's "someone."

What if I told you I was sexually molested as a toddler and as a young girl, by a number of men- not boys, but MEN - until I was finally old enough to understand that it wasn’t normal or okay, and was able to actually - amazingly - put it stop to it.

But of course, there’s still more…

What if I told you…. I was forced to have sexual intercourse against my will for the first time at the age of 14 at a party with my friends with a boy I barely knew, and today I can’t honestly remember his name?  

What if I told you I was actually RAPED?

Yes, I said that forbidden word – RAPE - because isn’t being forced to have sexual intercourse against your will the very definition of RAPE?

What if I told you I was unable to stop the RAPE because I’d been drinking? Yes, I was 14 years old. Yes, I was at a party I probably shouldn’t have been at. Yes, I was with a boy (and other friends) drinking. Yes, I was a moronic 14-year-old girl.

Does that mean I didn’t say NO? Does that mean I didn’t try to fight him off? Does that mean I wanted to be raped simply because I was physically unable to stop it?

Does that mean it wasn’t RAPE?

I never told you before today. Since I’m now 51 years old, that means I was raped 37 years ago. But I never told you…    

Actually…. I never told anyone.  Not One… Single… Person… 

that I was RAPED at a party, in a ditch, beside a random country road, at the age of 14. 

Until today...

Does that mean it didn’t happen because I didn’t tell you? Does that mean that I wasn’t forced to have sex with someone against my will at the age of 14 in the filthy ditch of a country road?

Is that painful scene seared into my memory banks actually just a false story, something I just made up? Just because I didn’t tell anyone then?

It didn’t happen yesterday. It didn’t happen last month. It didn’t happen last year. I was RAPED 37 years ago… and I never told you.

So…what if I told you – TODAY?

You see, I’ve told very few people in my life that I was sexually molested as a child and young girl.

And I’ve told no one the full extent of what actually happened to me as a child, and then a young girl, at the hands of both men and boys.

And I’ve never told anyone - NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON –that I was raped at 14. But I'm telling you today. 

So what if I told you - what I've told you - TODAY?

Would you - do you - believe me? Or does it mean it didn’t happen because I never told you?

Would you deny me my truth just because I haven’t told you before today?

Would you denounce me because I haven’t broadcasted it for all the world to judge prior to this moment? Would you look at me in a new, or different light? Would it change your perspective of me? 

Would you believe me? And why do I care? 

Because now that I’ve told you, I want you to think about your reaction and your response to what I have said… very, very carefully.  

I’m guessing that there will be many of my friends and family who will have strong reactions to what I have just told the entire world. I’m sure there will be many questions, doubts, and suspicions about what I have just said.

What if I told you I don’t care what judgement they may pass. 

I tell you my story now, though, because I want you to think about the experiences that other women are now sharing. 

Experiences that the women you love haven't shared with you, even though they happened 10, 20, 30 or more years ago. And emotions and pain that is triggered by these long-hidden stories. 

Because it’s time that the stories are told. My stories, your stories. The stories of all women who have been sexually assaulted or molested. They matter. Their stories need to be told. They should have been shared long ago.

I’ve waited too many years to tell mine already. 

Maybe you ask, why didn't I tell anyone before now? Well that's a story for another day. 

But I can tell you it would have ripped to tiny pieces the very tenuous and delicate hold I had on any semblance of "normal" life. My world would have come unhinged. And I, along with it.

At any rate, I can't make a difference for me today. But perhaps telling my story today will make a difference in how someone else's story is received tomorrow.  

And that is why I’m willing to be one of the first to start sharing my experiences. I've shared my story, right here, with YOU, today. I hope it will help just one woman have the courage to share hers.

So….what if I told you – TODAY? Would you believe me? 

What if SHE told you - TODAY? Would you believe her? 

I would. I most certainly would. 

It Just Doesn't Work Like That, Dorothy….

So, a few nights ago I was flipping through the tv channels when I got sucked into a reality show. I won’t name it, but it consists of a “celebrity trainer” – let’s just call him “Jackass Trainer” - who shames, manipulates, and psychologically pummels the participants of the show into losing massive amounts of weight in just 365 days to “makeover” their bodies.

I usually hate these types of shows, but I be lying if I said this particular episode didn’t reach out and grab me right by my cold, hard as steel heartstrings, and reel me right in.

Damn it.

The story began with a pair of twenty-something twin brothers. Years before, while still just barely teenagers themselves, they had taken over the care of their younger siblings when their mother went to prison and their father walked out on them without a word.

Somehow, against all odds, these two young boys picked up the pieces and managed to finish raising themselves and their siblings all on their own. They finished their own schooling, worked odd jobs, paid the bills, and kept their family together without the support of either parent, or any other adult for that matter.

Well into young adulthood now, the boys realized they had taken care of everyone else for years, but had neglected to care for themselves. The twins were nearing 400 pounds each, and they were desperate to lose weight.

Enter aforementioned Jackass trainer and his camera crew, stage right.

As the show progressed, it showed the twins as they worked out fanatically, changed their eating habits, and supported each other. In the first few months, they trained hard, had some real success, and were happy with their initial weight loss results.

So far, so good, right? Heartwarming even. But,…  

You knew there had to be a “but”…. 

Soon, as it often does, months into their journey, the weight loss started to stall. Sigh…

This is where “genius” Jackass Trainer concluded that finding the father who walked out on them, and confronting him for abandoning them, was the ONLY way for them to get “closure” on their issues and move forward with their weight loss.

Because, well, you know, Jackass Trainer is a psychologist too, right?

The next scene shows the boys and Jackass Trainer in a car. Mr. Jackass goes on to surprise them with the news that the producers had found their father, and revealed he was taking the twins to meet with their deadbeat dad at that very moment. (Who didn’t see that coming?)

The twins, now grown men, cried in the car as they prepared to meet the man who had left them to their own resources before they were men themselves. And they weren’t ready to meet him.

Because even after acknowledging all the good they’d accomplished in raising their family, they stated they still felt “not good enough” to confront their absentee father, or to let him know what a piece of shit he was, because even after all they had accomplished, their bodies were still “imperfect.”

They wanted to wait be perfect on the OUTSIDE before they revealed to him the beauty, strength, character, and courage they had obviously already had on the inside.

Out of everything on the show, this is the thing I could identify with. The thing that felt so oh, very very real. Feeling unable to move on with their life or feel good about themselves, because their bodies weren’t perfect. They were doing great things, they were strong, they were healthy. But they didn’t feel perfect. I felt their pain.

And it broke my cold, almost dead, life-hardened heart.

The next clip showed the twins meeting with their father, telling him how much he hurt them by leaving them all alone. The father saying many times how terribly sorry he was, saying he had always loved them, and that he needed them in his life.

At this point, the voices in my head started speaking up, “WHY DOES HE NEED THEM IN HIS LIFE NOW, BUT NOT BEFORE??!! HOW CAN HE SAY HE LOVES THEM YET HE ABANDONED THEM??!!” But nobody asked the questions. At least not on the show.

The twins cried some more, and deadbeat dad swore he would make up for his mistakes - if only they would let him. And boom, just like that, he was welcomed back into their lives. And the young men went on to lose a metric shit ton of weight, perfected their bodies, and lived happily ever after. The end.

It’s all so very fucking touching, isn’t it? (Insert dripping sarcasm here….)

My fur-kids Kitti and Bunni, who were sleeping peacefully next to me on the sofa, looked at me in alarm when I suddenly exclaimed, “THAT’S JUST FUCKING BULLSHIT!”

Please, excuse me while I wipe the venom off my screen…  

While I know it makes for good ratings, this emotional little scene of remorse and forgiveness, and the staged reunion, just makes me want to vomit. What bullshit.

Why, you may ask? It’s such a happy ending for everyone, isn’t it? They all got their shit together didn’t they? And everything was perfect! Why isn’t that fantastic?

Because it’s all just highly scripted, emotionally manipulative horseshit, intended to give viewers that “everything always works out great in the end” vibe. They tie it all up with a nice little bow in less than an hour.

Because I’m here to tell you, it just doesn’t work this way in real life.

How do I know this? Well, I’ve had more than one person do something truly awful to me in my life. And I know all too well the fantasy of confronting and telling off those assholes, and wishing that in doing so it would make everything in my life all better.

Listen… I know we all want to believe there will be a point in this fantasy confrontation at which our wrong-doer will dramatically fall to their knees, wail and cry, profess their remorse, and beg for forgiveness -- just like on the show.

We think that after this confrontation, we can finally have the perfect life, perfect body, perfect whatever.

I know because I’ve thought about exactly the same scenario my entire life.

But here’s the thing…

In real life, the situation rarely plays out as well as this short and sweet moment did on screen. Not only was this interaction poorly scripted, uncomfortably stilted, and overly dramatic, it’s surely only a tiny portion of the entire conversation, which I am certain was NOT so pleasant.

Look, I get the whole “waiting for my body to be perfect before I do things” storyline. I really do. Believe me, I’ve been striving and yearning for that perfect body and perfect life for decades myself.

But what I’m calling bullshit on is the perpetuation of the fantasy that confrontation of past wrongs will equal closure, which in turn will lead to the perfect body, the perfect life, the perfect whatever.

Scenes like these, with all the ugly parts edited out, lead people to believe that if they only confront the person(s) who wronged them in the past, all their struggles will be over. They will get everything they want or need, become magically thin, beautiful and rich, and live happily ever after.

And, oh yeah, have a “perfect” life.

I can say from experience is, this isn’t how it works, people. This is rarely ever how any of these scenes play out in real life.

“Closure” is rarely, if ever, the magic bullet that leads to a perfect life.

I know because I’ve been there, done that. A confrontation doesn’t always lead to an admission of guilt or an apology. Sometimes the apology is blatantly insincere. Sometimes the wrongdoer refuses to admit fault.

Sometimes the wrongdoer turns the tables and makes themselves out to be the victim, leaving the wounded one feeling even more raw than before. Sometimes the evildoer is never found.

And sometimes, the evildoer simply up and dies before the wounded one gathers the strength and courage to confront the bastard.

And then, you just gotta figure out how to live with that, walk on, and live your imperfect life anyway. Fat and broke and imperfect.

So you see, I don’t believe those two young men had to confront their deadbeat dad in order to lose the weight and move on with their lives. It’s great that they did, and if that’s what they wanted, I sincerely hope it made them feel better.

But they had already proven to be responsible, brave, and courageous men by gallantly stepping up to the plate when every other adult had failed them.

They didn’t need their dad back in their life to lose weight. They had nothing left to prove. They already had the ability to do whatever they wanted, including losing massive amounts of weight, inside of them all along.

They didn’t need their deadbeat dad’s remorse, love, or even a belated relationship with him, to lose the weight or to be “perfect.” Having him in their life again was never the magic bullet that made it all better.

Just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, their strength, and their victory, and their perfect life, was already there the whole time, they just couldn’t see it.

It’s in me, and it’s in you too.

And that’s no bullshit.

Is THIS The Day I Will Die?

One month ago last night, just four short weeks, a mere twenty-eight days, my life was changed dramatically.  Because it was the first time I ever truly thought I was going to die.

If you know me, you might remember I’ve had many near-death experiences in my almost 48 years on this earth. These include a burst brain aneurysm that left me in a coma for five days, several near misses on my Harley, and a four-car pile up that should have been fatal.

And, there was that time the parachute didn’t open correctly while I was skydiving. Oh, and that fuel explosion on our boat that left me with 2^nd and 3^rd degree burns. And the time we got rufied at a bar and both woke up in jail with no memory. Of course, I'll never forget our close call with the tragic events of 9/11.  

But I can honestly say I still had never really had a moment in all these events where I had time to consciously prepare myself for death. I had never actually thought to myself, “I’m going to die RIGHT NOW.” Contemplating the possibility of dying was always in hindsight, just a mystifying afterthought.

That is, until four weeks ago.

I'm sorry I can’t make this short. I’m a storyteller, and to exorcise my demons I must tell this story the way I experienced it. And it is this:

One month ago, at 11:15 p.m. on Friday, April 17, 2015, my husband, Dick, and I were confronted and attacked at our home by a masked intruder armed with a machete. And that is when I had my first conscious thought that I was going to die.

It started off as an ordinary Friday evening at home. Dick hadn’t been feeling well, so he went to bed about 8:30 p.m. That’s not an unusually early bedtime for him. He works very hard in the tropical heat, and often falls asleep on the couch or goes to bed shortly after having his dinner and a shower.

It’s also not unusual for me to sit up and write, surf the net, or watch TV in the front room for hours after he goes to bed. I’ve always been a night owl, it’s when my brain is most active, and I can’t fall sleep until the wee hours of the night. 

It was about 10:30 p.m. when I heard noises outside, so I grabbed the big Maglite flashlight and went out to look, literally, around the outside.

We live in a rather odd, roundish-octagon-shaped house that sits up on cement stilts. It has sliding glass doors on five of the eight sides of the house, all of which are flanked by louvered glass windows on each side. It also has a covered veranda that wraps around the entire house. And I literally went to look "around" the outside. 

So, I took the big flashlight, and shined it around the veranda, and down to the canal in our back yard, checking the dock to see if maybe someone was trying to steal Nemo, my tiny but beloved little boat. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary and hearing no more noises, I came back in.

A few minutes passed, maybe ten or more, and I heard more noises. Once again, I took the Maglite out and shined it around the other side of the wrap-around verandah. The motion lights had not been set off and I still saw nothing, but our “yard dog” Foxxi did. She growled, and at first raised her hackles, but then immediately dropped her body posture and wagged her tail.

I thought she had just seen a table that had been broken recently by some workmen and was still lying on its side in pieces on the veranda. I didn’t see anything unusual, and she didn’t react strongly, so I didn’t either. My thoughts were that the broken table had startled her, but that she then she realized what it was. I thought it was nothing.

I didn’t know at the time how very wrong I was.

Another ten or fifteen minutes after returning inside, I heard noises for a third time, and what sounded like a grunt or a quiet, gruff voice. But Foxxi was not barking and none of the outside motion lights had been set off, and the sounds seemed to be very close by. And that's when I finally went and woke the hubby up.

Since he hadn’t been feeling well, he had not been sleeping deeply. He said that he thought he had heard something, too. 

This time, we both went back out on the veranda. While Dick took the Maglite downstairs to look around, I smoked a cigarette near the front door, thinking how mad he was going to be at me for waking him up to look around for no reason. Finding nothing amiss downstairs, he started to return up the stairs.

And this is where I should remind everyone that I’ve always been terrified of the dark. I’m always hearing noises that don’t seem right, and sometimes I wake Dick up to check things out. And in every case before now, it’s always been nothing. Always, just me being a scaredy-cat.

I offer that information as the reason why neither one of us thought to grab a weapon, many of which I have hidden strategically throughout the house.

And yes, I AM a freak like that. Look, we live in a small village Belize in Central America, but this isn’t just about that. I did the same in Iowa. See, I know from working in the prison system that terrible things happen to people everywhere. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories, and personally know people who have had horrible things happen--in all parts of the world--who were thankful to escape with their lives to tell the story. I had always hoped to do the same.

After finding nothing, Dick started coming back up. And just as he got to the top of the stairs, I saw a vision that will be burned into my memory for the rest of my life. It was like something out of a Stephen King story.  A man with no face, brandishing a long machete, appeared from around the corner of the house. 

It is an image of terror I will see in my nightmares forever.

The intruder had been hiding on the other side of the verandah the entire time Dick was downstairs and I was standing there, alone and unaware, smoking my cigarette. It was at that moment that I realized Dick and I were also unarmed.

As I watched, in what seemed like slow motion, the intruder moved up to meet my unarmed husband at the top of the stairs with his machete. For a moment, I stood terrified and frozen in my tracks, unable to make a sound or move a muscle.

It was at this moment that the thought hit me, “This could be the day that day we die." 

Events such as this have happened to plenty of others all over the world, and I had no reason to think our story would be any different.

The guy was covered from head to toe. He had an oversized hoodie pulled in a small, tight circle around his face. He had something over his face, like a thin cloth or a mask, so that you couldn’t even see the whites of his eyes, his skin color, or anything distinguishing. He even wore gloves, pants and shoes, not the typical attire for Belize. He had, it seems, put a measure of thought into his plans.

He said not a single word, and didn’t immediately attack, but grunted and gestured, pointing with his machete, indicating that we should both head into the house. As I backed up, fear took over and I broke into a run for the door. At the same time, Dick yelled at me to lock the door. And then Dick turned, and did the unthinkable.

I watched in horror as Dick rushed at the assailant. As I slammed and locked the sliding glass door, I started screaming “CALL THE COPS!!” as loud as I could in hopes that the neighbors would hear. I ran to find my phone and grabbed the first huge knife I could find off the magnetic strip in the nearby kitchen.

Meanwhile, my husband and the assailant were wrestling on the veranda. The only sounds I could hear were from the struggle between the two men, grunts and groans and bodies connecting. If any of our three dogs barked, I never once heard them. I honestly can’t even say where they were during any of this.

By the time I returned to the door with butcher knife in hand, trying to dial the number for the police, the scuffle was already ending. As Dick ran towards the front door, I unlocked it and let him in. The attacker had already turned and ran down the stairs. 

Later, the neighbors told us they heard footsteps running on their dock, and then a splash in the water in the canal behind our houses. There was also a boat that was heard speeding away from the area shortly thereafter, but we’ll probably never know if it was carrying him.

Dick was understandably shaken up, and pumping adrenaline. I was terrified he would be cut up, stabbed, or worse. As I checked him over, we could not believe he was not bleeding from anywhere. He had a couple lumps on his head where the guy had hit him while they grappled with the machete, and a couple scratches, but no serious injuries.

Relief washed over me, as I had been envisioning myself making a panicked, wild drive in the dark on a shitty excuse for a road, to the tiny hospital an hour away. I imagined myself watching as the love of my life bled out in the truck before we reached help.

Thankfully, that was not to be.

Afterwards, Dick told me that when he turned on the assailant, he grabbed the machete by the blade, and all he could think was “thank god it isn’t sharp.” Apparently the assailant had made a dull choice for a weapon. While they struggled over the machete, Dick said he held the blade with one hand while he punched at the perpetrator, and the intruder did the same.

It wasn’t until three days afterwards that we found the thin, almost imperceptible slits in the screens of the windows that flank the sliding doors in the spare bedroom. One was at the exact same height needed to slide a hand in and unlock the sliding glass doors. The other incision was at the lowest part on the other side, where a hand could reach in and pull out the wooden brace placed in the track to prevent the door from being slid open.

We also found out afterwards that the motion light had been unscrewed at some point. We’re still not quite sure when.

Whoever the assailant was, he knew EXACTLY the steps we take to try to protect ourselves from an intrusion. And he knew our dog too. Even more telling was that she knew him as well. She does not let strangers approach the house unannounced. 

If the intruder had not been interrupted, I believe this story may have ended very differently. Who can say?

But late at night, when I’m trying to sleep, it’s all I can think about. And even though we have have installed even more advanced security and alarm systems, and keep our weapons even closer, I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep through the night, or feel safe, again.

And every noise I hear, while I lie awake in our bed at night, begs the question, “Is THIS the day I will die?”

Shit I Made Up - One Pot Pasta - A Party For Your Tummy!

For those of you who read along before I got disillusioned about writing and abandoned this blog, hold onto your hats, I'm changing things up. Yes, again. 

For those of you who don't know me…. brace yourselves. 

You see, I've talked about writing a book about the way I'm learning how to cook. And I've talked about how comical it is that I waited to learn to cook until moving to Belize a few years ago, at the admittedly advanced age of 45.

And yes, I've written parts of the book. And parts of the stories. And parts of the recipes. And I've talked about it in vague terms to several friends who ask what I've been up to. But I haven't let anyone see any of it. 

Til now. 

You, dear reader, are now and in the future officially privileged to be my test kitchen for the anecdotal "cookbook" I'm writing. 

Ok, so it's really more like a hysterical guide to "how to make shit up in the kitchen when you don't even know WHAT the stuff is you're cooking with" -- than a real cookbook. Hence, the title of this anti-cookbook-guide, which will be entitled, "Shit I Made Up." Cuz it mostly is.

Ok, and yes, it's also a sly reference to my dear hubby, who happens to be a fantastic master plumber. And yes, he really does know his shit, unlike me in the kitchen.  

Fair warning for the newbies - in case you haven't noticed, I swear. Sometimes, a lot. It's who I am and it's damn sure a huge part of my attempts at learning to cook. I make no apologies.

So, without further delay, here it is, the first "recipe" I've decided will be included my future "Shit I Made Up" learning-to-cook-book. This “One-Pot Pasta” is a tasty and filling hodgepodge of goodness I made when friends were passing similar recipes around on social media. 

It’s a dish that can stand alone, but also plays well with others as a side dish. I have made it many times so I know it holds up well to substitutions, omissions, and just throwing shit in on the fly. And you can do the same.

The best part of this little "pasta-fiesta for your tummy" is that it’s all made in one pot. Minimal effort. And thank fucking god for that. Seriously. When it’s 100 degrees with 98% humidity in Belize, and you have no air conditioning, who the hell wants to spend hours cooking, and more hours cleaning up tons of pots and pans along the way? Not this bitchy, menopausal, hot mess of a wife.

I don’t want to have to wash any more dishes than necessary. Hey – don’t judge. I don’t have kids, slaves, or trained monkeys to help out. And those tiny little bed-hogging, four-legged soul suckers in fur coats I have lounging around my house all day, they won't lift a furry toe to help... unless it's to lick up some food I inevitably spill on the floor. 

Have you ever stood at the sink with sweat burning your eyes while you’re trying to wash dishes? Then you wipe it away with a soapy hand and now you’ve got both sweat AND dish soap in your eye? And it's always the soap advertising "Extra Bleach!" Yeah. Not my idea of fun. Probably not yours either. So just stick to cooking easy stuff like I do. You'll thank me later.

I guess this serves about four people, depending on how hungry y’all are. And whether your plumber likes shit you make up, and will eat leftovers. My plumber will eat anything and loves leftovers. Personally, I won't touch leftovers. Ever.

At any rate, here’s what ya need, followed by the “how to” for making this shit up. 

4        Large boneless, skinless chicken breasts (optional-see "how to")

1        Large onion – I like white onions, but use whatever kind of onions you like best. Onions are onions.

3-4   Cloves garlic, diced up. Or, just use garlic powder instead. It's like magic. I use that shit all the time.

4-6    Tablespoons of olive oil or more – enough to sauté the onion and garlic. I like a lot of oil. Some people don’t. Do whatever the fuck you want – it’s not gonna make or break this pot of shit you’re making. This is a party for your tummy. Feel free to go wild!   

2         Cups or so of chicken broth, white (or blush) wine, or even just water. Use whatever liquid you have on hand. Seriously. You can even use pink kool-aid. I won’t tell. Oh, and you’ll need another 2 or 3 cups of warm water later.

2       15 oz cans of diced tomatoes. Of course, you can cut your own fresh tomatoes up, but who wants to fuck with all that shit. Tiny little seeds and tomato juice all over your counter. Jeezus Pleezus - what a mess. But hey, it’s your kitchen.

2        4 oz cans of Salsa Casera (or any kind of pre made salsa). I use Salsa Casera on everything, and it's cheap. I'll never make anything I can buy cheaply. If you’re feeling ambitious, feel free to make your own damn salsa and use it. Or, be lazy like me, and just buy cheap salsa. It’s all good. No one will know. Or care.

1       4-6 oz can tomato paste – or more, but only if you want your “sauce” to be a little thicker. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. I’m kinda funky that way.

1       16 oz package linguine. And if you want to use some other fancy-schmancy kind of special pasta, by all means, get DOWN with your bad self! I just prefer linguine and we can almost always get it. But I have heard of people using bowties, macaroni, or just plain old spaghetti. Truth is, this tastes so good, the type of pasta you use really doesn’t matter. So, just make this shit up with whatever you have handy. That's what it's all about. 

1         Large handful fresh basil leaves, cut roughly. We hardly ever get fresh basil here in our village, so I often use a gigantic handful of spinach leaves instead. Tastes good either way. If you’re a kale lover, try kale. Who knows? You might have the next superstar-award-winning recipe! Me, I’d rather die than eat kale.

Finally, the good stuff! How To Make This Shit Up:

First, get your self a good sized spaghetti sized pot, one like you make soup in. I think they call those stock pots, but I don’t really know. But any good sized, deep pot will work. Put it over about medium heat. Don’t ask me what temperature that is - on my stove knobs it's a "5" - so just turn your damn stove knob to roughly “the middle.” 

Put your olive oil in the bottom of the pan, and throw in your diced up onion and garlic- that is, if you’re not too fucking lazy like I sometimes am to cut all that shit up. (*You can use onion and garlic powder if you want, I do it all the time. If so, add that in later with the other seasonings instead of here.)

Saute the onion and garlic until it’s soft, a couple minutes. This will smell so goddamn good. But don’t spoon too much of that good shit into your big fat mouth, or they’ll be none left for the main dish. Once soft, toss your 2 cups of broth, koolaid, wine, or other liquid into the pot. If you are using the boneless chicken boobs, this is where you want to throw them into the pot too. Did I mention this dish is tasty with or without the chicken boobs?

By the way, if you care to know, we don’t even get truly "boneless, skinless" chicken boobs in our village. They come frozen, and yeah, they say “boneless” on the package. But I have YET to get one that didn’t include some kind of bone or disgusting, gristly shoulder joint or something. And feathers. Always at least one feather. Oh, and they are never skinless. 

Photo Credit: Debbie Simorte

Dis-GUST-ing. Before living in Belize, I wouldn’t touch a piece of raw chicken meat with my hands. Now I wrestle that nasty, slimy skin off those chicken boobs and pluck feathers like a badass. I've really progressed so much in three years. I also boil that shit up to feed my little four-legged soul-suckers. They love that crap. But, I digress. Sorry.

So, add your two cups of liquid, and if you’re including chicken boobs lower your temp a little bit or the boobs will get tough. And nobody likes tough boobs. On my stove knobs, that’s about “3”. Let the boobs simmer in the onion, garlic and liquid for a while. Turn once or twice while simmering, but only simmer until they are about ½ to ¾ cooked through, maybe 10 minutes, because they'll continue to cook along with the rest of the shit you're gonna toss in.  

Then it’s time to really get the party started! Dump in your canned tomatoes and juice, the Salsa Casera, the tomato paste, and the linguine. You’ll also want to add about 2-3 more cups of liquid or water at this point. Add any seasonings you want. You can use basil & oregano flakes, salt, pepper, or red pepper flakes, and this is where you can throw in the powdered garlic and onion if you were too lazy to cut up real ones. 

Of course, don’t forget, salt and pepper to taste. I like lots of salt and lots of spices and I like to put lots of shit in my shit --because the plumber and I love really flavorful shit. Sometimes I throw in jalepeno powder or cayenne. Who wants boring shit for dinner? But you don't have to add any spices if you don't want to. It's your party. Be boring if you want to.

Then, crank that heat up to high, on my stovetop that's "10,"  until it starts to boil. You’ll want to stir it a few times while you're waiting for it to boil so the pasta doesn't stick to itself. Once you get it to boil, stir well one more time, and cap a lid on that pot. Turn your heat back down to about 3 or 4, and then just let 'er sit. 

Check and stir every 5 minutes or so until pasta is tender, and the sauce has cooked down and thickened up. Should take about 15-20 minutes or so to finish. Right before calling everyone to the table, just drop in your roughly cut basil or spinach, stir well and serve. BOOM. Dinner is ready. All hot, and all in the same pot.

And that's it. I'd love to hear if you try this recipe and how it turns out for you. Just remember, I take no responsibility for either good or bad results, because the truth is I seriously just make this shit up as I go. 

Most of the time it turns out fairly good, but every once in a while, it's a real shitshow. I'll tell you more about THAT next time.

Now if I could just get someone to wash the pot…...

I Dreamt of You Last Night...

I dreamt of you last night. I’m not sure why.

It was one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had, and I woke up crying, overcome with emotion. It’s been hours, but I’m still thinking about it.

In my dream, I was alone at a small town festival. You know the kind I’m talking about, you’re from the Midwest too. Whether sweet corn festival, rose festival, pumpkin patch festival, grape harvest festival, etc. -- they’re all pretty much the same.

I wasn’t expecting to see you there. This was not your small town, it was mine. So when you ran up and gave me a great big bear hug, smiling from ear to ear, my heart overflowed with joy.

Public displays of affection and showy bear hugs are not the way we usually greet each other, as much as I might secretly wish we did. But I was so overwhelmed to see you, and I happily returned the hug.

Tears of joy shimmered in my eyes but I looked away before you could see. Showing our emotions is not something we do.

As the dream continued, we explored the festival booths, rode the rides, played the carnival games, ate the food, and talked and laughed until the hot summer sun dwindled into evening twilight. The hours we spent together were magical, wonderful, and it was just like the “old days” - as if we had never been separated by time or distance or lives that took different directions.

Finally, as darkness fell in my dream world, we found ourselves standing upon the rooftop deck of an old Victorian home. We gazed in awe of the sky, each making a silent wish upon the first star of the night, then laughing as we tried to guess the other’s wish.

But that's where the idyllic moment took a dark turn. All at once, there were a dozen angry men in black clothes, armed with machetes, rushing onto the rooftop. I don’t know how, or why, but we knew they were there to kill us without a word being spoken. No, to MURDER us.

And they were blocking the only exit from the rooftop. You and I stood frozen in terror.

Our only possible chance for survival was to jump. But as we looked over the edge of the deck, we saw the distance to the ground had grown inexplicably, from a hundred feet to what looked like miles. Our choice was to stay and be killed—murdered--or jump and maybe, somehow, live.

In a split second our eyes locked. We made our decision, still without words. Joining hands, we leapt over the railing, and now, finally screaming in fear.

Once in midair, it was as if we were floating on a cloud, yet hurtling towards the ground at a thousand miles an hour at the same time. My heart felt as if it would explode. I was certain I was going to die. I knew it was going to be extremely painful, and I was afraid in a way I’ve never been before, terrified in a way I can’t describe.

But I was also strangely calm, almost happy too, because if my life were going to end, it would be with you by my side, where you’ve always been when I really, truly needed you.

I can’t explain what happened next, but somehow two incredibly tall, but equally scraggly, pine trees appeared where none were before. As we neared ground level, the pines were wrapped with beautiful white linens, which also hung decoratively from their scrawny branches.

And as we sped towards the ground, tumbling head over heels, we were able to catch hold of the linens blowing in the breeze. This slowed our speed, and allowed us to get ourselves upright. Finally, as we each released our hold on our very last linen, we dropped the last few feet to the ground, gracefully landing on our feet.

When I looked at you standing next to me, my own eyes wide in disbelief, I was surprised to see you had the most beautiful, triumphant smile on your face.  And I loved you for it.

A huge crowd had appeared, as they magically do in dreams, and they all cheered for us. Hundreds of cars lined the roadway in each direction, with people honking their horns and waving at us as if we had just completed the most magnificent stunt. I suppose we had.

We waved back as if we were festival royalty. But when I turned to smile at you again, you were gone. Not there. No goodbye, no big bear hug, no laughter, no wish upon a star.

Just gone.

The last I saw of you in my dream was your beautiful face with that gorgeous, triumphant smile. I missed you already.

And then I woke up. It was raining cats and dogs, as it often does during rainy season in Belize, thunder crashing and lightning streaking the sky. Thankfully, the noise muffled the sound as I softly cried myself back to sleep.

I’ve heard it said before that if you dream you are falling, and hit the ground in your dream, you will die in real life. Thankfully, that didn’t happen to me. Or to you.

And I am glad.

I hope the next time I see you, we greet each other with a great big bear hug. And I hope you have that beautiful smile on your face.

I Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer…..

I'm giving away my age by telling you I grew up smack-dab in the middle of the 80's, graduating from high school at 17 years old in 1985. I lived with my depression-era grandparents in a nice neighborhood in a small, comfortable town in central Iowa.

Although I wasn't an angel by any stretch of the imagination, believe it or not, I was painfully shy and secretly afraid of getting into any real trouble. My small social circle included cheerleaders, "preppies," the French Club kids, and lots of teens in Izod polos. You probably couldn't have been any more "whitebread" than I was, at least at that time. 

To say I wasn't a big fan of the heavy metal "Hairbands" mania that was sweeping away all the young people during that decade is an understatement, even if it's not that surprising.

But heavy-metal bands sporting their wild, long hair (hence the "hairbands") were at the pinnacle of their popularity during that time. Most had brutal, rough, and shocking names like Slaughter, Twisted Sister, Def Leppard, Guns'n'Roses, Poison, Motley Crue, Quiet Riot (and so on). Their dirty, trashy clothing and loud, harsh, screaming style of music simply did not appeal to me. 

I tended to lean more towards Top 40 music like Cyndi Lauper, Adam Ant, Culture Club, Flock of Seagulls, and of course, the soundtrack from "Footloose." Being raised by my grandparents also gave me a greater appreciation for older and different types of music, even though I was probably the only kid my age who actually enjoyed Johnny Cash, Elvis, Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra, and Benny Goodman. 

Dear hubby on the other hand, who graduated just five years before me in 1980 (in southern Indiana), was enjoying his youthful heyday during that decade. He spent the better part of the 80's and into the 90's doing his best to become a connoisseur of all things "hairbands" and thoroughly enjoyed the experiences of a young man coming of age in that era. And after attending bartending school (yes, he graduated!), he happily spent a great deal of his youth mostly occupied with hell raisin' and girl-chasin', and quite possibly even a little chemical experimentation. 

Who in that wild and crazy decade didn't--besides me? 

 Naturally, the hairbands and their brutal songs, with their shrieking guitars, grinding bass riffs, and pounding drum solos, became a constant soundtrack to the most beloved memories of his wild and free youth. The problem, for me anyway, is that he never got over it. To this day he is still a HUGE fan of all things "hairbands." It's always his first choice when I ask "what shall I play on the Bose today?" 

But since I adore my dear hubby, as a gift about ten years ago, I bought him a CD called "Monster Ballads." It included some of the most popular, if softer, heavy-metal love songs from that era. I dreaded the thought of him actually playing it, but I figured maybe I could endure it once in a while in between some of my Top 40 tracks. Unfortunately, he played that disc over and over, from start to end, for the better part of our last decade together. Until some days I thought my ears would bleed. 

But what's funny is, somewhere along the way I fell in love with those "monster ballads" as well. 

I'm still not a fan of the entire repertoire or the even the genre so much, but after listening to the heavy-metal love songs of our era (over and over again, thanks to DH), I've had a shift in my perspective. After hours spent soaking in the words to the songs and their possible meanings, I've found some beautiful and wonderfully poignant memories. And on the days when I'm missing my friends and family and familiar surroundings that I left behind in Iowa, or I just need a little reminder of my own happily misspent youth, I can often find a bit of solace and comfort in their lyrics. 

Turns out, nearly 30 years after my time (& theirs), I've become a "Hairbands" groupie after all. I still don't want to like them. But I do. At least their ballads. And sometimes on days like today, I give in and listen. 

So today I will pull up my iTunes account and play me some heavy-metal monster ballads. Because as REO Speedwagon, another great (if not truly heavy-metal) 80's band would say, "Baby, I can't fight this feeling any more." 

I'm thinking of you, dear hubby. And all my 80's pals. Rock on, my friends! Rock on!


REO Speedwagon's "I Can't Fight This Feeling" (circa 1985). 

I can't fight this feeling any longer.
And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow.
What started out as friendship,
Has grown stronger.
I only wish I had the strength to let it show.

I tell myself that I can't hold out forever.
I said there is no reason for my fear.
Cause I feel so secure when we're together.
You give my life direction,
You make everything so clear.

And even as I wander,
I'm keeping you in sight.
You're a candle in the window,
On a cold, dark winter's night.
And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might.

And I can't fight this feeling anymore.
I've forgotten what I started fighting for.
It's time to bring this ship into the shore,
And throw away the oars, forever.

Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore.
I've forgotten what I started fighting for.
And if I have to crawl upon the floor,
Come crushing through your door,
Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore.