Kiss today good-bye

The first time I kissed a boy I was 13.

Well, to be perfectly honest, the first time I almost kissed a boy I was 13.

I had been "going" with Scott for almost three weeks. My father almost had a heart attack when I came home from 7th grade and announced that I was "going" with Scott - a new boy in my school.

I'd met Scott on the first day of the new term after Christmas. He was very nice and very handsome, although about two inches shorter that I was (keeping in mind that I've been my current height of 5'5" since 5th grade!).

I remember thinking he was nice and smart, but being totally surprised when a gal-pal told me that Scott "liked me." Unlike my sisters - and most of my pals, I simply wasn't the sort of girl that boys noticed.

So I was taken totally by surprise, when, one day, in the hall between classes, Scott asked me if I would like to "go" with him.

My reply was instantaneous: "Go where? Music class?"

I missed the nuances completely. Luckily for me, Scott was kind and gently explained that he wanted me to be his girlfriend. I agreed and a 7th grade romance was born.

In 1979, a 7th grade romance consisted mostly of Scott carrying my books to class, sitting next to me at lunch, and the occasional telephone call to my house. To the best of my recollection, we never had what could be considered a date...and he never laid a finger on me (just my books).

The school year was winding to a close, and with it, a big event -- the Junior High Dance. As neither of us drove, we agreed to meet at the dance.

I well remember the event -- in the high school cafeteria...with streamers hanging from the ceiling and a DJ playing songs like "My Sharona" and "MacArthur Park." We danced, and talked and drank Kool-Aid out of a punch bowl.

At the end of the evening, whilst waiting for our parents to pick us up, Scott decided to make his move. I wondered if this would be "the moment" I'd been dreaming of since Donny Osmond first burst through a mylar curtain on ice skates...would this be my first kiss?

I could hear the Village People, in the distance, singing "In the Navy" -- and Scott and I were holding hands and looking into each other's eyes...and looking...and looking...

Finally, it became clear to me that this was not going to be "the moment." And I started to turn away from him - to look for my Mom and the Grand Torino.

But, just as I started to turn away, Scott decided that he was "ready" and leaned in for the big moment.

And actually ended up kissing the collar of my coat.

In front of most of the school...and my Dad -- who decided to come pick me up.

Pop pretty much laughed the entire ride home. Probably mostly relief that his eldest child was not in any danger of "real" romance.

Scott moved away again a few weeks later. And no one attempted to plant one on me again until almost five years later, during my senior year.

Canadian writer Thomas Haliburton once said: “There is the kiss of welcome and of parting, the long, lingering, loving, present one; the stolen, or the mutual one; the kiss of love, of joy, and of sorrow; the seal of promise and receipt of fulfillment.”

I wonder how he would classify the kiss of the coat collar?

Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes

I spent the better part of my youth "looking" for my baby sister.

In our family, with four kids, "holding hands and sticking together" took on real meaning. And when the family was out and about, my Dad would often shout "Partners!" which translated to the four of us pairing off.

As the eldest, this meant that I was to grab my baby sister's hand and hold on for dear life. Paula and I were always "partners" -- as were my sister Kathy and brother Jeff.

For whatever reason - Kathy and Jeff never had any issues with 'holding hands and sticking together.'

But Paula and I were another story altogether.

Almost everywhere we went as a family, Paula got "lost." Theme parks, malls, baseball games -- you name the place, and my baby sister probably got lost there.

I wish I could put the blame squarely on her little shoulders, but I cannot.

We always started out with the best of intentions - truly, we did. Dad would shout "partners" and we'd grab hands, smile at each other, and pinky swear that we would NOT separate.

I think our 'best time' was about 15 minutes of togetherness.

Then, at some point, I'd realize that I was no longer holding her hand.

The first few times it happened, much terror ensued -- security called, parents hysterical, etc. But after several years, it became such a common occurance that we all knew our parts: Dad would start shouting for her, Kathy would find a policeman or security guard, and Mom would pointedly ask me "how in the world I managed to lose her AGAIN?"

And I wasn't losing her on purpose. Really.

I'd just get distracted...or we'd start singing and dancing and eventually drop hands. Or she'd stop to blow her nose and take a drink... and next thing you knew, she was gone.

We always found her.

When she was around 4 or 5, I taught her a song to sing -- so that if we got separated, she could sing the song until we found her:

"Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes - hey has anybody seen my sweet Gypsy Rose!"

I told her that if she'd sing the song, loud and strong, I would always find her.

It was as close to hanging a cow bell on her as was appropriate.

To her credit, she never seemed to panic when she got lost -- we'd find her with a policeman, singing her little heart out.

And she'd look up at me with these big green eyes and shout, "I knew you'd find me Lolly!"

To this day, I can't hear that song without thinking of searching for Paula in Hersheypark...or Disney World...or Veteran's Stadium...

And I'll freely admit that all these years later, when the two of us are out together, I have to resist the urge to take her hand in mine and hold on tight.

But I'd probably lose her in about 15 minutes or so...

...and then Nipsey Russel saved me!

Around 4 a.m. this morning I almost learned the "meaning of life."

I was in that half awake, half asleep part of my consciousness known as The Dream Zone.

In my dream, I was standing in the center ring of a three ring circus - with all the giant cats around me, up on their stands. I was not scared and in complete control of the situation and I quite clearly recall thinking that "this is certainly interesting."

Then, into the ring walked Gunther Gebel Williams! Let me tell you -- he looked pretty good for a fellow who's been dead for eight years. He was dressed exactly as he was the last time I saw him and had his whip in his hand.

He walked over to me and said "I'm going to tell you the meaning of life, Laura."

Needless to say, I was very excited -- who knew what insights GGW might have?

He leaned over to whisper in my ear -- I could actually FEEL his breath on my neck.

He started to speak...

And I woke up -- with a collie nudging my ear with his nose.

All day I've been wondering what Gunther might have shared with me, if not for a dog that needed to go out.

Sigh.

I do tend to remember my dreams in vivid detail.

My personal favorite and the one that landed me on national TV is my now famous "Nipsey Russell" dream.

Now, please keep in mind. I am NOT a Nipsey Russell fan. He has never factored into my life in any way, shape or form -- except for this bizarre episode.

In the dream, the end of the world is coming -- missiles launched from silos -- the whole shebang. I am running through an old house, trying to hide -- trying to save myself and the people I'm with...
...
We are finally hidden in some kind of storm cellar, thinking we are all going to die soon, and a door opens in the ceiling, a hand reaches down for me -- pulls me out and to safety...and it's NIPSEY RUSSELL!

Yup -- Nipsey Russell saved me.

Now on the TV show, the supposed 'expert' in dream interpretation tried to tell me that this was me crying out to resolve old issues with my father.

Hogwash.

I think I probably just ate ice cream too close to going to sleep...with The Wiz on the television.

At least I looked good on national TV!

Sixteen going on seventeen...

By my family’s standards, I got married late in life.

I was 28.

Both my sisters married young – I don’t believe either was of legal drinking age when they tied the knot.

If you asked my Dad, he would have told you that “Laura is SO picky.” And I was. He was always the first in the family to “fall in love” with one of the guys I was dating. Well before the term “bromance” was popular, my Pop adored David…Gordon…Chris…Matt…Henry (I think he may have gotten choked up when I broke it off with Henry – they had much in common!).

I was always looking for something elusive…something I couldn’t quite put my finger on – until I met Brad.

Within two or three dates, it was crystal clear – the missing link was that the other guys “weren’t Brad.”

Who would have thought that a mind-manner school teacher from New Jersey would capture my affections?

Now, as we celebrate our 16th anniversary, it’s still Brad.

Brad who makes me laugh…Brad who supports me no matter what. He understands my fiercely independent nature, my wacky sense of humor, my love of all things Superman, my need to make a difference, and my propensity to break into song without warning.

I think a lot of people are “in love with the idea of being in love.” They require fireworks 24/7. When the initial “wow factor” wears off, they get bored…or worse, go looking elsewhere for new fireworks.

Now, don’t misunderstand -- I enjoy fireworks as much as the next person (Oooo….Ahhhh…) but I am a believer that sometimes love comes softly.

When I think back on some of those ill-fated relationships, I can see that it wasn’t the fellows that were the problem – I was the problem. I was the one adapting myself, my personality to suit THEM. In effect, I was playing the role of “Henry’s Girlfriend” – not being my true self.

With Brad, from day one – never an issue. In fact, with those in my inner circle – not an issue.

Sixteen years later – still not an issue.

The love that came softly was the love with staying power.

Once upon a mattress...

I love to sleep. At the end of a day, long or otherwise, little pleases me more than to climb beneath the sheets and settle in for the night.

When I was first married, my new husband and I shared a double-bed. He had been single for some years and it was brand new – he’d purchased a lovely Oak bedroom set weeks before we’d started dating.

The subsequent purchase of a king-sized bed some months into our marriage probably saved us from killing each other.

When it comes to sleep, we are polar opposites – he climbs into bed, assumes the position, and doesn’t move for the rest of the night. I climb into bed and begin what he calls my nightly gymnastics exhibition. I’ll admit it – I’m a sleeping mover and shaker – a cover hog who both talks and sings in her sleep and has been known to grind her teeth when stressed. He likes a firm mattress…I prefer to cocoon myself in a feather bed.

I generally go up to bed three hours before he does – so most nights when he enters the bedroom, he says he must physically move me to make room for himself. He then climbs in, back to me, and hangs on to the night stand for dear life.

As soon as he’s in the bed, I am drawn to him – no -- get your mind out of the gutter – it’s his large bare back – better than a space heater when it comes to warmth. But what I view as snuggling, he views as me trying to push him out of bed. Keep in mind, throughout all of this, I never actually wake up.

He has literally worn the finish off his nightstand – holding on to it whilst he sleeps these last fifteen years.

And when I am asleep – I am ASLEEP. As a child our neighbor’s house burned to the ground – and I slept through it. Many is the morning when hubby will say to me “how about that storm last night?” and I am thinking “what storm?”

But there is one area in the world of the master bedroom in which we agree – we are linen snobs. We both absolutely love 400 thread count sheets, pillow cases, and duvets. We didn’t start out that way – our early sheet sets – most likely wedding gifts – were fine – honestly I don’t think we ever thought about sheets one way or another. And then, about five years ago, we noticed that our sheets were actually wearing out – fitted sheets falling off the bed, etc. So I bought some new linens.

A life changing experience. Truly.

I put the new sheets on the bed and climbed in that first night – nirvana! So much so that I got out of bed and went downstairs to tell him how wonderful the new sheets were – much to his amusement. I know he thought I was nuts, going on for ten minutes about sheets.

That is until he climbed into bed a few hours later. His positive commentary actually woke me up! And the next day I heard him on the phone with one of his friends – “you wouldn’t believe these sheets Laura got!”

That Christmas everyone on our list received – you guessed it – “the sheets.”

Converts all.

It’s gotten to the point where Sunday night – known as Clean Sheet Night at our house – is my favorite night of the week.

Even the dog isn’t allowed on the bed on Clean Sheet Night.

Hey Monkey Boy!

Every girl should have an Uncle Mike. But you can’t have mine – he’s … well … MINE.

Uncle Mike is my birth mother’s brother and was one of my Pop’s best friends. Many of my earliest childhood memories involve Uncle Mike.

Ever see the 80’s sitcom Full House? That was us – me, my sisters, my Pop and Uncle Mike.
And he was the best.

He always treated me like an equal – even when I was five or six and he was, well, NOT. He never talked down to me, told the absolute best stories, and always seemed to have such great ideas. I loved listening to him and my Dad talk about books they were reading, books Uncle Mike was writing, movies, politics, you name it.

He had a sense of theatricality about him and whimsy. And the most soothing voice – to this day he is among the most recognized voice-over talents in our region.

He would chase us around the house and really play with us – wasn’t afraid to get down on the floor and play dolls or tell us ghost stories. We’d climb all over him, ride him horsey style and beg for piggy back rides – he never said no…was never too tired.

When he got his first recording equipment – with individual tracks – he spent hours with me (I must have been around 12) showing me how it worked and letting me test it out by singing Karen Carpenter songs.

Sometimes – particularly during my teen years and early twenties, years might pass with little physical contact between us. It was a non-issue – we always picked right up where we left off. I can talk to him every day…or twice a year … it matters not.

In later years he’s become something of a mentor – keen business sense, great advice and probably the most genuinely creative person I know. He is always present.

It amazes me sometimes that he seems to know when I need him…a phone call or email out of the blue, just as I am thinking “I need a little Uncle Mike today…”

One of the final conversations I ever had with my Dad was about Uncle Mike – Dad said he wanted to speak to me privately and then basically told me that he was turning the reins over to Uncle Mike – that Uncle Mike would always be there, no matter what. He said that he trusted him more than almost anyone he’d ever known and that Uncle Mike had shown him time and again what friendship really meant over the years.

Pop was right. But then he almost always was.

I could fill up this entire blog with stories and ways that Uncle Mike has helped me over the years – some of which he probably isn’t even aware of.

One of my early memories of Uncle Mike involved a stuffed monkey – a toy that you could wind up and it would bag cymbals. One day, in anger, Uncle Mike pretty much tore up the monkey. I’m sure he thought I was upstairs in bed, but I saw it happen – and called out to Uncle Mike in a way that only a precocious six year old can and told him “well now you’ve scared me for life!”

We’ve laughed about that line for years.

And it’s a scar I wear proudly.

Happy Meals

The first meal I ever made for my husband was a concoction called Turkey Lasagna Roll-Ups.

He spit it out.

Literally.

I mis-understood the recipe, not realizing that cooked ground turkey was the main ingredient, and substituted sliced turkey from the deli counter.

A week later I decided to surprise him with stuffed potato skins – a treat I knew he enjoyed ordering in restaurants when we were dating. I mean, really – how hard could it be? I scooped out the potato innards, filled them with cheese and bacon and put it under the broiler for a few minutes until all golden and bubbly.

He was surprised all right – apparently you are supposed to START with cooked (boiled, baked, whatever) potatoes. I served him raw potato with melted cheese and bacon.

We eat out quite a bit, as I’m sure you can imagine.

As the years have passed, I’ve certainly gotten better – although still best known for my appetizers and desserts – I can make rumaki and pastry with the best of them. But Brad still reminds me to “keep it simple” at least once a week.

Somehow the culinary gene missed me. I come from a family of really great cooks. My Mom’s creamed turkey on biscuits…Aunt Kathy’s cranberry salad or even better her homemade chicken noodle soup…Granny’s cornbread (haven’t had it in 20 years but still dream about it!). My Dad even hosted a radio cooking show!

Apparently none of this rubbed off on me.

My husband’s favorite meal would involve a steak or even meatloaf and potatoes. I like sauces and ethnic food. He likes soup the way his Mom used to make it – I tend to load it up with extra carrots. I love to read cookbooks and try new things. He wants to know EXACTLY what is in something before he brings his fork to his mouth.

I look at dining as an adventure – he just wants his supper.

Even what we would consider comfort food differs. I love homemade mac and cheese or chile in my big pot…he likes Stouffers Lasagne.

But in 2008 we found one dish I can successfully make that we both love – we have agreed on my fried chicken as my best homemade meal.

I actually found the recipe online – it’s Italian fried chicken served with homemade pasta sauce that has both basil and bacon in it. Delicious.

And – I haven’t, as Brad would say “messed with it” – I make it exactly as the recipe says. (What can I say? I do love to tinker with things…)

Its official name is Chicken Bill Conte – but in my mind it’s actually Chicken Switzerland – the one dish on which we can both agree.

Email me for the recipe.