The Chloe Monster

I was 19 years old, my roommate's girlfriend announces that her cat is pregnant, and asks me if I want a kitten. Ex-husband (at the time he was 'boyfriend') says no... is adamant about it... we are NOT getting a pet. I look at her and say, "if one of the kittens is black with blue eyes, I'll take it." I thought, no way that's going to happen. I mean, how common could it possibly be?

A couple of months later, she shows up on the doorstep with a kitten. Solid black, bright blue eyes, and I have a new pet.

Chloe was a ball of energy, and feisty... she had to be, living in that house with all those guys, constantly roughhousing... she filled the role of dog for quite a while. She was one of those cats that would come streaking into the room from nowhere, climb the drapes, then jump from the top and run out of the room again. More than once, I remember looking at whoever was sitting next to me, and saying, "did that just happen? crazy cat."

Every night (from her first night with me), she would curl up at my chest, and fall asleep purring loud enough to keep the neighborhood awake.

The one time she ran away, I was heartbroken. Two and a half weeks later I got a call at work, "I think I have your cat." She was two miles away, and had been living in someone's backyard, I was so relieved that she was alive that I sat down in a stranger's back yard and cried. From that day on, she was an outdoor cat. Still friendly and loving, she never left the yard or garage, but she wanted nothing to do with being in the house.

She lived 14 years.
Kinda makes me feel old to think that my first pet (after moving out of my parents house) died of "natural causes."
Makes me sad to find out a week later from my 3 1/2 year old.

About the Food

My first memory of a KitchenAid is of sitting in my maternal grandmother's (that would be my Nana's) kitchen watching the mixer spin round and round, while she did other prep work. I remember fresh whipped cream, fresh home-made pasta, food with such flavor... tastes I couldn't even begin to appreciate in elementary school. My grandfather sauteing mushrooms to go over the tender, juicy steaks he was grilling, big steaming bowls of baked potatoes, dishes with pristine white sour cream, creamy yellow butter, and vivid green chives.

My Nana had a "gourmet shop" (at least that's what we always called it), a kitschy little store in Vacaville that sold all kinds of appliances and cookbooks for "gourmet cooking". But, what I remember most clearly is the coffee. Giant bins of coffee beans. Coffee beans that would show up at the store in huge burlap bags, smelling fresh and strong, a smell I love to this day because it reminds me of the shop.

The only other memory of the store I have is taking cooking classes, learning how to make pretzels. I remember sitting at a table with some other kids and their parents, and watching my Nana in the overhead mirror, being so proud that she was the one standing up there teaching everyone else how to cook. Being proud to be her granddaughter, being proud to be standing there with my mom, being proud to be part of three generations of women who have the cooking gene.

I have a cookbook, with a handwritten message inside, addressed to my grandmother, and signed by Julia Child. I know there is a picture somewhere of the two of them together.

How does this translate to today?

I may not be a gourmet chef, I can barely call myself a "foodie," but I know what I like. I know when something is better than merely "good." And, I love to cook and bake, moreover, I love to cook for other people. I wouldn't want to do it professionally, that's too much pressure... I'd much rather cook for my family and friends, people I tend to understand, and like to think I know how to please.

I kinda think that's what a hobby like cooking is all about. Once you add strangers to the mix, you add pressure and stress. I'd rather do it on my own terms, enjoy the action, enjoy the reaction, enjoy the fruits of my labor.

I absolutely love being in the kitchen, and I have my Nana and my Mom to thank for that.

Hopeline

About the Dancing

NaBloPoMo is typically November, but, they've decided to try out a "post every day for a year" concept. I decided not to join in, though they are offering a "theme" for each month. So, if you notice a lot of "Food" posts this month it is because this month's theme is food. I might just attempt to post daily about food, but if I have something better to say, I'm definitely going to say it.

Oh, and I totally like food. Especially: Really Good Food. More on that soon.

*the above is my official July 1 mention of food*

So, I said I'd write something about dancing. And, really, I'd kinda like to do some more writing about my past, my childhood, and just some general insight on who I am today based on my past experiences. We'll see how that works out.

Memories of my childhood are spotty at best. I don't have those clear, beautiful memories of youth a lot of people seem to have. Yet, some experiences in my adult life will cause little flashbulb memories to go off in my head. Almost like Polaroid photographs, I have feelings, concepts, and little clips of memory.

Hearing CSB talk about deciding to dance with Bruno/Newcastle last year made me happy. Watching him dance, and seeing the smile on his face literally put butterflies in my stomach. Then I started to wonder... why is this making me so happy?

Yes, I love seeing my friends do things they love. I love seeing someone I care so much about doing something that makes him happy. I am a very empathetic person, and really enjoy that facet of my personality (even when it's difficult, and it often is). But, there seems to be more to this, I can feel it.

When I was in elementary school, I participated in plays, talent shows, and dance recitals, I was in chorus, and even played the recorder and then clarinet for a while. I, apparently, was not a natural at any of this. I remember "being" Susan B. Anthony for some kind of historic re-enactment/history project, and telling people all about "my life and times." I remember rehearsing to recite The Raven (Poe) for a talent show (fifth grade), auditioning to be a two-headed black widow spider (my own idea) for a nightmare sequence in a play (sixth grade - they offered "two headed unicorn, and I told them to suck it), and rehearsing Puck's monologue from Midsummer Night's Dream for an audition (seventh grade).

I remember being so excited about doing these things.
I remember wanting them so badly (I wanted to be Puck so bad I could taste it).
I remember wanting to be not just good but AMAZING.
I remember not living up to my own standards, and being so upset and stressed out that I made myself physically ill.

I remember a couple of dance classes.
I remember overhearing the teacher mention that maybe I should try out for "a sport" instead of dancing.
I remember not being good enough for myself.
I remember being embarrassed, and learning to make jokes to cover up for that self-consciousness.
I remember wanting the people who loved me to be proud, yet being too embarrassed to strive for goodness, so I gave up trying.

Flash forward a couple of years. High school. I knew a couple of people in each clique, and somehow find myself taking drama classes. I dive behind the scenes and the computer geek in me absolutely loves being involved in the lighting. Yet, during all the shows, I would sit and whisper every line... I knew the show inside and out, and didn't have faith enough in myself to get up on that stage and do what I wanted to do. So I ran the light board. And, I did a great job, always proud of myself for a job well done, yet, not exactly where I wanted to be.

And, if we're seriously going over 'dancing' related issues, I could mention that at my wedding, my ex-husband refused to dance. He was forced into the "first dance," but beyond that he was out drinking and smoking with the boys. He took me to my senior prom, and we danced once that night (because I begged). Not that we didn't have fun. Just that I can count on one hand every time he danced with me, and I had to force him into it. Even married, I was that girl sitting on the side, wanting to dance with someone special.... wishing someone special wanted to dance with me.

This is where I could, maybe even should, mention Newcastle Country Dancing. How for so many years I only danced when I was alone... that way it didn't matter what I was doing, and no one could judge me. But, if you've read some of my past notes, you know I've been enjoying it, and now you are seeing that it has meaning.

Flash forward to last weekend, a decent slow song comes on, and I say to CSB, "I'd like to dance at least once tonight." Next thing I know he is up and we are on the dance floor. Things are happening all around me, I mean, I know they are, but only when I think back on it later. In the moment he is the only one in the world (incidentally, I've realized this is why we 'aren't allowed' to country dance together, I can't focus on the things happening around me).

Near the end of the song, I hear him say, "are you ready?"
For the first time in my life I know what is coming, the dip.
And, I'm ready.