Who do you think you are?

Throughout the course of my formative teenage years my mother's favorite question was, "Who the hell do you think you are?" How exactly is one meant to respond to that?  Furthermore, was I really supposed to know? Failed attempts at answering resulted in a variety of responses. Among them: my being sent to my room (or running for cover, it's all about perspective), being grounded, her telling my dad, my phone privileges being revoked and once ended with a vintage, ten pound iron sticking out of the wall. My cat-like reflexes prevented bodily harm. I was a smart ass. Through the eyes of the mother I now am, I see how I could have single-handedly driven her to the brink of insanity. Genetics, a chemical imbalance, substance abuse and  poor planning helped her complete the trip after I left home.

As a grown woman I am far more sure of myself. I think I have a pretty firm grip on who I am, what's important to me, what makes me tick. She doesn't ask anymore but if she did this is what I would say,
"I don't know it all, like you said I thought I did, but these twenty-five things I know to be true. They may not define me as a whole but being a sum of all of my parts, it's a good start."

(In no particular order)


1. I don't believe in coincidences, everything happens for a reason.

2. I have a lifelong secret crush on Kenny Rogers. I can sing "The Gambler" by heart. "You never count yer money when yer sittin' at the table...they'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done..." Okay, stop laughing. I also know "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and "Sweet Home Alabama."

3. There is a good reason I was a dancer and not a singer.

4. The last birthday present my Daddy bought me was a guitar. I promised him I'd learn to play it.

5. If I were a doll my accessories would be: a yoga mat, a pair of fairy wings and a can of "kick ass."

6. My sweet-souled sister has been my best friend our whole lives. Jaime is an inspiration and all round quality human being. I adore her and miss her beyond words.

7. I have unfinished business with a few people in my life, amends to be made, truths to be told, responsibility to be taken. I am a work in progress.

8. Being a good mother is an enormous responsibility I take very seriously. My children inspire and humble me every day. I would fight a Grizzly bear for them...and win.

9. Nine is my lucky number.

10. I don't own a cat, she owns me. She sleeps with my sweet baby Jake every night. I have a dog that owns me too. I didn't really even like dogs with the exception of my snorting, wheezing, farting, dearly departed Pomeranian, "Emily." (May she rest in peace.) but somehow Coco, my chocolate lab has endeared her eighty five pound ass to me to the extent that I no longer find myself threatening a rehoming. I can't imagine not tripping over her while trying to cook dinner. She's a crafty one, that Coco.

11. I'd rather be Velma than Daphne.

12. I am not short. I am not petite. I am "fun sized" dammit. In a parallel universe I am 5'10" and built like Wonder Woman. I had a roommate like that once upon a time. I miss her.

13. I am writing a book about a really crazy time in my life and hoping the proceeds will spring me from the middle of this corn field.

14. I left my heart in San Francisco and will always call "the city" my home.

15. The first time I ate Wasabi I thought it was avocado and being with a kitchen full of people I thought were WAY cooler than I was I choked it down rather than look like an ass. I was going on "better to just appear like a dork than open my mouth and prove it." Eventually, they all knew me for what I was, takes one to know one...you may have been there.

16. I taught myself to crochet. Now I'm working on peeing standing up. JUST kidding.

17. Sometimes people tell me I'm funny. That's good, right?

18. I am married to a man who really knows me...and still loves me. I had the word "Angel" inscribed inside his wedding band because I truly believe he saved me, more than once.

19. I'm a joker, a stroker and a midnight toker.

20. If I ever run away I'm going to become a lavender farmer who raises miniature goats.

21. When I am lucky enough to catch the opening of "Ellen" I ALWAYS dance with her.

22. I have seen a full rainbow over Mt. Fugi from the bullet train.

23. I know what pride tastes like.

24. I make a mean meatloaf, drink the juice left in the pickle jar and recycle everything I possibly can.

25. I am well rounded. If you need proof just look at my ass.

From my Toes to Yo's...

Disclaimer: This is a recycled post.

So.

So, so, suck my toe, all the way to Mexico!

I gave it to ya once and it was so good I'm gonna give it to ya again. I'm calling it "re-gifted." Feel free to pass it along, re-wrapped, of course. Here goes...



It was recently brought to my attention that I post an unusual amount of photos of my feet on Facebook.

Yeah, what about it? You judging me? I'll own it.

It was then brought to my attention there are certain websites that cater to this sort of fetish.
"You should look into cashing in on those tootsies."
I actually thought about it, for an exorbitantly long amount of time too. I even tried to talk them  (My feet, that is. Come on now, keep up.) into it with the promise of new shoes. Pretty shoes. Sparkly ones. Heck, I woulda thrown in a spa pedi too. It was a no go.

"Ix-na on the oot-fa etish-fa imping-pa itch-ba!"

Yeah, they speak Pig Latin when they're really pissed. I hung my head with the shame no real pimp could ever feel. Guess I'm not that kinda playa, anymore. So, to make it up to them (Yes, my feet. You gotta stay with me, I can't drag you along.) I channeled my love into an ode and this is how it goes...


Ode to My Toes

Your feet, your feet, again your feet,

Is it a foot fetish or voyeuristic treat?
What’s your trip? What’s your deal?

Are you some kind of freak?

Or…are you for real?

Tell me, tell me, tell me right now

I’ve got to know, I’ve got the time

Make it fun, entertain me,

In the form of a rhythm…

I tilted my head and I grinned

Gave the smile with the dimple,

Cleared my throat, then I winked

I was ready to begin…

My justification for my fascination

Is really a form of appreciation.

For my feet that you mention, it is my intention

To call out by name

What is worthy of attention.

So sit back and relax let’s have a good time,

Let the clock tick and let the clock tock,

Put your own dogs up I’m gonna walk my talk.

With my head in the clouds and my feet on the ground,

It was time to convey what I wanted to say.

I closed my eyes, bowed my head, took a deep breathe and I prayed,

"This little ditty needs to be quite witty in the most amazing way."

‘Ode To My Toes’ was born on the spot,

I’d thought of it all and it was actually quite a lot.

My feet, my feet, they are so sweet,

I love them more than anyone you’ll ever meet.

They are at their most basic, not so much an inspiration,

But rather just my form of transportation.

It’s the things we have done, the places we have seen,

The people we’ve met and everything in-between,

That warrants my admiration, in consideration, of

All the miles we’ve logged and the road ahead,

Where we want to be barefooted and free.

                                                      

Me and my feet, you’re in for a treat

We’ve….

Kicked a ball, kicked some ass,

Raked the leaves and mowed the grass.

We’ve backslid and we’ve progressed,

Been photographed as evidence.

We’ve tested the waters, skated on thin ice,

Taken a wrong turn once or twice.

We’ve stepped out of the way and been stepped on,

My poor second toe hasn’t been right since.

We’ve tip-toed through the tulips, stepped in shit,

Eased on down the road and balanced a fence.

We’ve taken the high road, the low road,

come to the fork in the road, a crossroads

and chosen the path of least resistance.

We’ve done the right things, taken the easy way out,

Stopped on a dime and wandered about.

We’ve been there, we’ve done that,

Gone to the point of no return and yet… we found our way back

They’ve been soaked and scrubbed and rubbed down,

Painted, polished, filed square or filed round.

We’ve kick boxed and step-classed, cycled and spinned,

Piliated, viyassed, and samadhi’ed within,

But these are just a few of the places we’ve been.

We’ve gotten into trouble, gotten out of a pinch,

Made quick like little bunnies, looked at the stars from a ditch.

My toes, my toes, heaven knows,

We get cold as ice when winter snows.

(And that really fucking blows)

We’ve worn heels, flats, boots and everything in-between,

Some of the most amazing shoes I’ve ever seen.

From the Payless pumps to the Christian Loubotain’s,

From the Ugg’s to the flip flops, this list just began.

The five inch platforms with the mirrored heel,

On the catwalk or the sidewalk, yeah baby, we’re the real deal.

We’ve rocked and we’ve rolled on a dance floor,

Bikini small, heels tall, there are no angels in the centerfold.

We’ve got our groove on, we’ve gotten into the groove,

Music is an aphrodisiac, it makes my feet want to move.

We’ve hop, skipped and wiggled, we’ve shimmied and shaked,

We’ve escaped the Yakuza and survived an earthquake.

You might think this is it but don’t think you’re right,

The list of mischief could go on all night.

You still with me? You want to hear more?

Or should these honored feet of mine take me right out the door?

No? Oh good, I shall go on for sure…

We’ve been buried in sand on four different continents,

Pointed and flexed as I’ve stretched for a kiss.

We’ve walked down the aisle and been up all night,

Paced floors with my children, "Hush sweet prince, it is all alright."

We’ve jumped for joy, knelt in despair, and spun circles in the grass without a care.

We’ve jaywalked and cross-walked, ran like a bat out of hell,

With a prayer on my lips, "Please, please feet don’t fail me now."

We’ve been high class, we’re down home,

These dogs of mine have been all over the globe,

From the mountains of Alaska to the beaches of Jamaica,

"Respect mon, leave more than ya take-a."

From the pig farm in Japan, to the deserts of Saudi,

Me and my feet, one restless soul, one pixie-esque body.

So you see, for me, these aren't "just" my feet,

They are my constant companions for each day we greet.

The same is certain for yours too,

Think about it and you'll find it's true.

Your second verse isn't the same as my first,

It may be better, it may be worse.

You and your feet have a story of your own,

Knick knack, patty whack, give your dogs a bone.

Your feet will always... find their way home.

I'm baaack! Don't say you haven't been warned.

Guess who's back? Back again. Dani's back, tell a friend. Guess who's back? Guess who's back? Guess who's back...

(Fist pump and knuckle bump to the 8 mile trailer park kid done good. Love ya Rabbit.)

Did ya miss me? No? Awww, not the answer I was looking for. Wanna try again? This time with a little more feeling? I'll wait... Okay, not fair, I know. You couldn't miss me cause you didn't know I was gone. Truth be told, no one even knew I was here. 

You see, I'm writing a book and as every well informed unpublished author knows, you need a web presence. I started querying prospective agents for my book project and had a fairly amazing response in requests for reading a partial. Then, like a novice rapper at a mic I choked. I questioned every word I wrote, every line I spoke and this lil blog here was likened to a red-headed step-child that still wets her pants and picks her nose. I didn't want a prospective agent stumbling upon it and thinking for one moment that it was representative of the highest quality product I could produce. I mean sheesh, most of it was written here because Facebook doesn't give me enough available characters in my status updates. Damn them. I am not above a soap box style lecture to prove a point but let it be known that I only stand on that soap box because I am petite. No, not short. Petite dammit! Fun-sized, more accurately. Never known for my brevity I can be talk for days and there are times that a long-winded dissertation actually IS called for. I figure if I can't wear you down then I can wear you out and you'll surrender just so I will shut the eff up. I won't. Point being, I took down every post except for the little ditty about the county fair below. I figured it was a nice vanilla contrast to the hedonistic adventures of a "Hot Child in the City" who lived for almost decade as right hand woman-child to Dionysus. For the record, he's a leftie.

F.Y.I, I am still without a literary agent so if you happen to have one just laying around doing nothing please, please, please let me know. They are becoming notoriously lazy bastards now that e-books outsell print on Amazon. Hey slackers, some of us still want to smell the pages and last I checked my monitor here wasn't a freakin' scratch and sniff.

So, welcome to my party. Stay a while, or at least bookmark me so when have to leave you can find your way back. And you will want to come back, trust me. I'm going to knick-knack-paddy-whack throw you a couple of bones in the form of a few more posts after this one. I'm a giver, what can I say? Yes, you're welcome. I'm big on manners too so feel free to leave a thank you note for both my generosity and hospitality in the form of a comment below. You bookmark me yet? Whatcha waiting for? I'll wait...
How about just in case, you run and grab a Sharpie and write my info on your arm, or your leg, or your forehead if need be. I don't want to have to come looking for you, but I will if I have to. Don't say you haven't been warned...

I wanna be "that" girl.

The Monroe County Fair is one of the highlights of Summer here in the corn fields I call home. Now, if the cliche is true then technically home is San Franscico. I left a big part of my liberal, out of the box thinking, pulse racing, beating heart there almost nine years ago. But for the purpose of this storytelling we'll agree that I'm blooming where I'm planted and this sprout is a Michigander.

The earliest recorded Monroe County Fair was held in 1830. I imagine at that time it WAS the highlight of what must have been a very hot and labor intensive Summer. The farmers and families gathering in what is now Washington Square with their summer harvests and ready-for-slaughter chickens stacked in wobbling crates in the backs of their wagons, spring pigs (Charlotte couldn't save 'em all) in tow. A country girl in a summer bonnet and cotton frock hoping her Daddy would offer his hand to the boy in the straw hat with a penny for each of them. "Two lemonades, please maam." It was a different time then but the inherent magic of the county fair lives even now. I know because I've tasted that magic for myself...it was warm, sweet, sticky and made me smile. Oh wait, that was the funnel cake...

August 2007. Nica and I are walking through the midway, watching our children in front of us. They are shoulder to shoulder sharing a secret about heaven only knows what but it's making them both smile. Dylan's skin is golden brown and his hair has been highlighted by the sun in a way that women pay hundreds of dollars hoping, impossibly, to replicate. Savannah's freckles have made their way out of her fair skin and she's gazing at my seven year old in a way that earns her the honor and distinction of being, "the first little girl who ever loved my Dylan." The late afternoon sun is fading to an early evening glow and "THAT" girl catches my eye. I stare for a moment and then it hits me. I want to be "that" girl. I've been lots of girls in my life but NEVER "the girl leaving the fair with the biggest prize from the midway." In her case, the prize was a hot pink, hairy monkey that I am certain took up the entire corner of her "High School Musical" themed bedroom. Now, ocassionally logic will shatter my undisciplined knack for daydreaming and it immediatelty occurred to me that even if I had that monkey my 1450 sq. ft. ranch couldn't acccomdate such a creature. Whatever. I tell Nica what I'm thinking and she nods her head in excitement, "You should have Tom win you something." Here comes that damned logic again, "Nah, what are the chances of winning anyway."

Two times round on the Himilayan, one round on the big swings, a go on the Scrambler, a spin on the giant ferris wheel, a rambling ride on the little rollercoaster fashioned like a Chinese dragon, a couple of corn dogs, a lemon shake up, an elephant ear from cousin Jonny's wagon and a cruise through the goat petting area and we are on our way out. Sticky hands, dirty feet and bellies full of sugar we're happy to have been there and done that, another year at the county fair. As we wait for the kiddos to exit the house of mirrors, "the very last thing we do, please, please, puh-leasssssse" I'm looking at basketball toss. You know, the one where hoop is barely big enough for the ball. A pack of corn fed, teenage boys are spending their Daddy's blue collar paycheck trying in vain to sink the ball. Nica sees me eyeing the situation and elbows my arm, "You should try it." with her eyebrows raised and eyes twinkling with encouragement and I'm wanting to pick up what she's putting down. That logic monster is rearing it's unsolicited head even as I slide my hand into my pocket. Pulling two slightly damp and very wrinkled dollars from my pocket I know there's no way in Hell I'm gonna make it. One ball, $2. Three balls, $5. "Okay, okay, I'll do it." About this time Dylan and his little honey emerge from the mirrored mansion just in time to see the carnie bounce me the ball. "There's no way I am going to make it." Dribble, dribble, dribble, shoot. The ball bounces off the rim and pretty much right back to me in a "white guys can't jump and short, white girls REALLY can't jump" kind of way. Dammit, I hate being right. Tom hands the carnie a five dollar bill despite my being ready to just walk away and the carnie bounces me another opportunity. As I am standing there, ball in hand, who should stroll by but "that" girl. Her hot pink, hairy monkey riding high on her shoulders makes the whole of her plus the monkey at least nine feet tall. A nine foot reminder of all the girls I've been and those I still want and CAN be. Possibilty meets opportunity. I'm a dreamweaver by trade and "carpe diem" rings in my ears. Dribble, dribble, shoot...nice arc...the ball hits the inside edge of the back of the basket, swirls half way around and is squeezed by a net, not stretched from use, on the way down. My hand goes first to my open mouth as I spin on my heel and take in the faces of my cheering section and then to the outstretched, waving and waiting high-five attached to my first born son. Please never let me forget the way he was looking at me. "Dude, she made it!" echos from the farm boys and I'm in Nica's arms, a victory hug, she knew I could do it. Please never let me forget the way she was looking at me. She was a ribbon winning jelly and pickle maker that year but I was "that girl." My sweet souled angel of a mate said he knew I was going to make it. When asked how he simply replied, "faith." I don't know how I did it.

I walked away from the basketball toss with a ginormous stuffed penguin with a orange beaked smile. At that time my sweet baby Jake was obsessed with "Happy Feet" and being too little to go that night my prize became his prize upon seeing it. Please don't ever let me forget the way he looked at me that night.

I don't know how I did it.

As a five foot one and a half inch, white girl who grew up watching rodeo and old school NASCAR while tucked under her daddy's arm I am an unlikely basketball fan. I only swore allegience to the Piston's when they defeated the Lakers for the NBA Championship in 2004. My sister was in LA and I'd taken to telling her that her team "wasn't jack without Shaq" beacuse it had a nice ring. Little did we know then that Shaq's departure from the Lakers would indeed leave a hole under the basket where he had once stood. The Lakers had home court advantage and four future Hall of Famer's but the series became known as the "five game sweep." Chauncey Billups was named MVP and I was hooked. In my humble opinion the Piston's are one of Detroit's few redeeming qualities and that's a stretch. Though they have claim to the name they bounce their game balls in Rochester Hills. Oh, I digress. I have the attention span of a chimpmunk at times and a rambling tendency to let one good story meld into another.  (Note to self: Disect my love of bball in blah, blah, blah, blabber, blogger mouth, essay form at another time. To that I reply, "Duly noted. Thanks, Self.")

Again, I don't know how I did it. Luck? Fate? Who knows. Perhaps I just willed it to be and it was. That was the day my "list of girls I still want to be" was born. This past summer found me crossing another "girl I want to be" off the list as I was a second place ribbon winner in the photography division at, again, the Monroe County Fair. I sense a pattern here.

I find that with a little daydreaming and a bit of imagination my list grows with each realization of titles yet unfilled. "Girl with a part in a community theater muscial" has recently been postponed as my work boot wearing, tool belt slinging, hottie of a husband's work schedule will get crazy just as rehersals would get going. Above and beyond all that I still long to be I am a mother. I take the responsibility of raising my children very seriously and thus they will always come first. The part of Grace in "Annie" will have to wait, I have children to grow.

So what comes next?

I don't know, can't predict and love a good surprise enough to not even try guessing. That's the thing about magic, I never know where I'm going to find it next or... where it will find me. But, you could bet your last dollar that when it arrives I'll be ready.

I was in the right place at the right time, this happens to me quite a bit. Some would say it's luck but I know this much to be true...I live, at the very least, a semi-charmed kind of life.