Sunday Social, Volume Four.

Sunday means it time for another Sunday Social! These questions are accompanied by a plethora of pictures, but I think that makes this post pretty rad. If you want to join, link up here.

01. What do you miss most about being a kid? I miss having my only worries be what games to play with my friends, or what the next song on my mix tape would be. Oh, and the only bills I had to pay then were to buy BOP magazines + pencils for my pencil collection.

I was a stylin' little lady. Everyone looks so 80s, I love it!

02. Did you have a nickname growing up? What was it? My parents called me Mushkatelle. My dad gave us unique nicknames as kids. My brother’s nickname is Finster or Finster Michael [his name is Vincent Michael – yes, that is his first name].

I eventually grew into my ears.

03. What was your favorite thing to do at recess? I recall that I was a fan of the monkey bars + some jungle gym type dome on the playground.

Family wedding - my brother + I were in the bridal party.

04. What did you want to be when you grew up? A teacher or a lawyer.

Visting family upstate. I was OBSESSED with my aunt Pat's Topo Gigio doll.

05. What was your favorite toy? I had a bunch! I was a big fan of Teddy Ruxpin, My Buddy [I got him after I learned how to use the potty, haha] Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, Glo Worms + Potato Heads. I liked Barbie dolls as well. If my mom reads this, I’m sure she will comment + tell me what my favorite toy was - she probably knows better than I do.

My mom always made us the best Halloween costumes.

06. What is the funniest thing you did as a kid that your parents still remind you about? Hmmm, probably the time my brother pulled the mouth of my Teddy Ruxpin doll + I freaked out [saying I freaked out is an understatement]. Ever since then, I have been scarred for life + have never wanted to let people touch belongings that I hold dear, for fear that they would break them. I feel like there is something far funnier that I am unable to recall. Like I said, I’m sure my mom will remind me.

First name: Sassy. Last name: Pants.

I hope you enjoyed these tidbits + flashbacks. Relax + enjoy the rest of your Sunday! 

Following in My Father's Footsteps.

The summer after I graduated high school, a former flame told me that I would turn out to be exactly like my mother. I scoffed, telling him he had no clue what he was talking about. Twelve years later, and some self-reflection along the way, he is right - to a degree. I will catch myself saying or doing something, and say, "Ugh, I am turning into my mother." I don't mean that negatively at all, its just that I've always said, "I'll never turn out like my parents," which is a laughable statement now. I've picked up habits from my mother, but the ones that are usually unnoticed or not mentioned are those of my father.

Dad's family, 1986. Check out the parentals + their hair (far left), hah!

My dad and I have a unique relationship. I have so many vivid memories of him from my early childhood. Apple picking, dancing in the kitchen, eating ice cream, and watching The Muppet Show. I don't remember when it was, but I remember him calling the house, when Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called To Say I Love You" was on the radio, so he could sing it to me. Once I was in elementary school, I saw mom more than I saw dad - he was working, and mom volunteered at my school. By middle school, I was locking myself in my room, blasting the local alternative station, and ignoring my parental units as much as humanly possible.

By the time I got to high school, we developed a better relationship. It was never strained, but I wasn't his little girl anymore, and conversations were usually about school, marching band, or about how I needed to stop turning to dryer on to get the wrinkles out of my clothes. My dad would wake me up for school (twice, because I wouldn't get up the first time), iron my clothes if they needed pressing, then drive me to school. En route, he would stop to get me breakfast - bagel and a cappuccino. I was beyond spoiled and didn't even realize it. After football games (I was a marching band geek - I was forced to be at the games, only to watch our miserable football team lose nearly every game), my whole family would often go out to Applebee's, Chili's or Pizza Hut, along with a plethora of other band students and parents. He and my mom chaperoned at most of the time - even for away games, and my poor little brother was dragged along for the ride. If it was a home game and I was too tired/antisocial, my dad would make a food stop for me - nine times out of ten it was for a Nachos Bell Grande, with extra sour cream. 

Yeah, I had it made in the shade, folks. 

As I have gotten older, I have a greater respect for my parents. They are human, flaws and all - just like me. They also have quirks, which takes me to the reason for writing this. I have developed habits that definitely make me my father's daughter.

Whenever I listen to Billy Joel in the car or on my iPod, I almost always put on songs that my dad used to sing in the car. Music was also something we bonded over on those morning car rides. I can vividly remember him singing "She's Always A Woman," staying on pitch the entire song. My grandfather could sing and dance like a champ, so I guess this shouldn't have come as a surprise. When I put on Abbey Road, I go to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" first, as this is my favorite song on the album. Out of nowhere one day, I asked my brother what Beatles song reminded him of dad, and without hesitation, he said "Maxwell's Silver Hammer." 

Besides music and other little quirks that are my father, this last one would make him smile. Last year, I bought a pair of TOMS, which he would say are overpriced - even if they do give children in foreign countries footwear. Anyway, a few months into wearing them, I noticed that when I would wear them around the house, I was folding them down in the back. My dad did the SAME THING with every single pair of his slippers. He never purchased backless (?) slippers; he always got plaid loafer looking ones, that were supposed to cover his heel. As soon as he would get them, he would fold the heel in, and proceed to wear them until he wore them out. 

When I wear my TOMS with jeans or shorts, I fold them back up to wear in public, but they feel weird. I know it sounds crazy, but they are so much more comfortable with the backs folded down. My dad was onto something with those slippers of his. I'll call my dad tomorrow, while he is driving home from work, and tell him about my shoes. Its funny, I just realized that most of our conversations take place while we are both driving. Guess those years of talking in the car still exist.

Childhood Crushes and Davy Jones.

As a small child, I had countless crushes. Before I turned ten, I daydreamed that I would marry Scott Baio, John Stamos, Mark-Paul Gosselaar, Emilio Estevez, even Paul McCartney. Michael J. Fox and I had the same initials - he was my density (if you don't get that, please stop what you are doing and watch  Back To The Future  - immediately). I also fell in love with The Monkees - a late 60s television show, featuring legit musicians (although for aesthetic purposes, the musicians had to learn different instruments in order to make the lineup more appealing to the masses). 


The Monkees were Micky Dolenz, Davy Jones, Michael Nesmith, and Peter Tork. I had a collective crush on all of the band members, which could also explain why most of the guys I've dated were skinny musicians, each with a unique sense of style. I wasn't born when the show was in its prime, but thanks to MTV and Nickelodeon, the show made a comeback in 1986.

Credit: The Monkees official website

Sadly, on February 29, 2012, Davy Jones died of a heart attack in Stuart, Florida (the same town where my teenage self would drive aimlessly, in order to clear my cluttered mind). I waited a few days to post this, because I knew the internet would be flooded with posts regarding Jones' life and legacy. In fact, I thought about forgoing a post about this, because I didn't want this to be something that no one bothered to read.


Then, last night, I heard that my younger cousin, Marissa, had just discovered The Monkees, in wake of Jones' passing. She made a comment to her mom, stating that she thought he was cute. Ah, a girl after my own heart. Its funny, because I only recently reconnected with this part of my family, but its like she's a mini-midge, only eighteen years my junior. My cousins sat in the living room at my mother's house, The Monkees marathon blaring from the television, as they took turns working out on my mom's exercise bike. I don't know what the fascination was with the bike, but three of them took turns breaking a sweat, then complaining to the adults that they were sore. I told them to stretch, but I doubt they were listening to me. 


As I drove home, I thought about  how much I loved watching The Monkees as a child, dancing around to   the music, laughing at the situations the gents got themselves into. How could I not pay tribute? 


The clips below are from The Brady Bunch episode, Getting Davy Jones, which aired in 1971, and Last Train To Clarksville, which aired on The Monkees in September 1966 - gems I was able to feast my eyes on, thanks to the beauty of syndication.

Thank you, Davy Jones, for making so many people sing and smile. I will leave you with a fitting excerpt from Michael Nesmith's Facebook page, regarding the passing of his former bandmate and lifetime friend:

...let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. 

While it is jarring, and sometimes seems unjust, or strange, this transition we call dying and death is a constant in the mortal experience that we know almost nothing about. I am of the mind that it is a transition and I carry with me a certainty of the continuity of existence. While I don’t exactly know what happens in these times, there is an ongoing sense of life that reaches in my mind out far beyond the near horizons of mortality and into the reaches of infinity.

The David has stepped beyond my view causes me the sadness that it does many of you. I will miss him, but I won’t abandon him to mortality. I will think of him as existing within the animating life that insures existence. I will think of him and his family with that gentle regard in spite of all the contrary appearances on the mortal plane.

David’s spirit and soul live well in my heart, among all the lovely people, who remember with me the good times, and the healing times, that were created for so many, including us.

I have fond memories. I wish him safe travels.

Lemon Raspberry Frozen Yogurt Pops.

I have an extreme sweet tooth. When my mother was pregnant with me, all she wanted to eat was Carvel chocolate ice cream - nothing else. My dad would actually bribe her to eat healthy food - if she took five bites of her hamburger, he'd get her ice cream. Growing up, my favorite treat was was ice cream - particularly chocolate soft serve from Carvel. Coincidence? I think not.

Popsicles remind me of hot summers, running to the ice cream truck, barefoot and soaked from frolicking through sprinklers. They are a great treat year-round, and having a popsicle can even keep your eye on portion control.

I try to eat healthy, especially it comes to sweet treats. I have been experimenting more with fat free yogurt, because its good for you and actually tastes good. I recently tried Chobani's 0% Lemon yogurt, so I wanted to make a popsicle with it. I looked at all of my organic frozen fruit, and decided that raspberries would compliment the lemon well.

Lemon Raspberry Fro-Yo Pops

1 - 6 oz Chobani Lemon

3/4 cup Raspberries (fresh or frozen, doesn't matter)

Popsicle molds

Prep time: 5 minutes. Makes 3 popsicles

If you are using frozen raspberries, place them in a microwave-safe dish and nuke for about ten seconds in the microwave. If they are still a bit frozen, thats fine. Gently mash with a fork. Don't worry about mashing into oblivion, small chunks of raspberry are fine.

After Raspberries are mashed, stir in lemon yogurt, until ingredients are incorporated and all of the raspberry pieces are covered in yogurt.

Scoop mixture into clean popsicle molds. leave a bit of room on top, because the ingredients will expand a bit. Tap on the counter about ten times, to make sure you get rid of any air pockets. You don't want your popsicle to break in the mold. Attach lid and place in freezer for about seven hours. You want these to set nicely. Pulling them out too soon will result in the stick coming out, and it won't go back in. Trust me, I tried with my first batch. I was really bummed, but I learned for the future.

To remove pop from mold, place mold in warm water for about a minute (don't submerge the handle, just the part that you want to remove. Remove pop from mold. Enjoy!

These pops are simple to make, and are a great hands-on activity to do with children. Be creative with this! Choose whichever flavor yogurt you like (keep in mind, Greek is thicker - it works better) and have fun with the add-ins. Next time I make this recipe, I am going to add white chocolate chips in, for some extra sweetness and a texture twist.

What are your favorite popsicle recipes?

A Glorious Mix, Of The Running Persuasion.

Usually when I run, I use Pandora. Its not bad, but there are some pretty random and/or hideous songs that come on and just kill my vibe. Over the course of the last few evenings, I compiled a playlist that I could toss on while running, with music I actually like. 

Now, with that said, I chose a variety of songs. 103, to be exact. There was no real method to my madness. The first few songs that made it to the list were songs I thought of immediately. If I listened to it, and I didn't think it was upbeat enough, I chose another song by the artist. Sometimes, I would look at the suggested artists, chosen by Spotify, and pick songs from those artists. 

I made published the playlist for others to see and subscribe to. Even if you just peruse my song selections to create your own running playlist, or you check out artists that you've never heard of before.

Here it is, in all its glory: run like forrest. 

Like I said, its not an award-winning list, but it serves its purpose - upbeat tunes to run to. Some artists I don't usually listen to, but when I came across certain songs, they would definitely work on a running mix. 

In closing, I leave you with this picture of your favorite new blogger. Its a clip from a video that was shot last week. Thats all I can say, for now. But trust me, its going to be great. If you know Zack Jones, he is the genius behind this master plan. 

Clip from the best film of 2012, ha!

Happy trails to you,

Michele

A Long-Winded Story + Handwritten Letters.

The last time I wrote a letter, it was probably to one of my friends in high school. Folded up sheets of looseleaf paper, carefully decorated with colorful gel pens and highlighters. They were either stuffed in lockers, tossed at each other in the halls, or passed in class. Sometimes, to our horror, they were intercepted by teachers. Most of us were pretty observant when passing notes in class - no one wanted their teacher to read aloud the news to the entire class. I mean, sure, everyone would wind up finding out eventually (uh, hellooooo, its high school), but having a teacher read your note aloud was akin to your parents reading your diary - totally uncool and downright embarassing. While those notes were cherished (I have lunch boxes filled with notes at my dad's house), the most important letter I have ever written in my life was the one that I wrote to my grandfather, which was placed in his coffin at the wake I never went to.


My grandfather was dying of prostate cancer, so my mother decided to come up to New York to assist in the care of her father-in-law. We were living in Florida at the time, so my dad stayed home to work and take care of the house, while my brother and I joined my mother on Long Island. This was also convenient for my parental units, because they were having marital troubles and this was a pseudo separation, which my mom wanted, but would never say aloud to us. Because my mother was an active parent at both of our schools, we were allowed to miss a couple months of school, as long as the assigned schoolwork was completed. We had our work faxed to my aunt's house, and my uncle would FedEx the work to our respective schools.


We stayed at my Poppy's house (my mother's father), but split our time between the homes of my aunts and my grandparents' condominium. I was very close with my grandfather, so I did not handle his sickness very well. I used to pray to God that I would be a better student/daughter/sister if he cured my grandfather. At thirteen, I wasn't really a fan of religion. My mom's best friend, Bernadette, died of breast cancer when I was eleven, leaving behind three children. I was convinced there was no God, for doing such a horrific thing to a wonderful family. I figured if the man upstairs pulled through this time, he would redeem himself.


When my father flew up from Florida, I knew things had taken a turn for the worst. I started spending more time at my Aunt Debbie's house. I would spend time with my cousins, Catherine and Marie, do my homework, listen to my cousin Catherine's CD's, and occasionally go on the computer. My brother was with my parents at the hospital, where my grandfather had been moved to. After seeing Bernadette, bloated beyond recognition, fighting for her life in a hospital room, I refused to step foot in a hospital. I felt so lost and alone. Life was shitty, winter was cold, and had just found out that my boyfriend, Tommy, had cheated on me with my friend, Sara. My poor aunt. I'm sure I was surly and rude to her - I never dealt with disruption well, especially of this magnitude.


Finally, in February, my grandfather lost his battle with prostate cancer. This was the second time I had seen my father cry in my life (the first time was when I was in third grade and I got my waist long hair cut to my shoulders. He sat at the white table on our back porch, crying, six pack of Coors Light on the table, dealing with the fact that his daughter was starting to make her own decisions). I felt as if my entire world collapsed. I know this is a strong statement, but at this time in my life, I hated God. I was so mad at him for taking away two important people in my life. How could someone that my family looked to for guidance do such horrible things?


When it came time for the wake and funeral, I couldn't do it. I wanted to, but I knew if I saw my grandfather, lifeless in a casket, with that horrible funeral home makeup caked on his face, I was going to lose my shit. I'm pretty sure my parents knew the same, so when I asked them if I had to go, they said I didn't have to if I didn't want to. So I did the next best thing I could do - I wrote him a letter.


I don't remember my exact words, but I remember the sentiments clearly. I told him I was sorry that I couldn't come to the funeral, but that we both knew it was for the best. I promised I would never forget him and the memories I had of him - singing and dancing together, the time I refused to eat food because I was afraid I'd choke (grandpa was the one who tricked me into eating again), sneaking Jolly Ranchers when I was told not to, and watching Lassie together. I said how much I loved him, missed him so much already, and how life would never be the same without him.


I wonder if my parents ever read the letter.


I don't think I've ever really told anyone about this point in my life (unless they were around at the time to experience this firsthand) and I have never told anyone what that letter contained. I just wrote about it in a blog entry, for a plethora of strangers to pour over. Surprisingly, I'm totally cool with this. My mom would see this as progress; taking down some of the walls I put up to protect myself.


Now that the long-winded, emotionally charged part of this entry is over... I have been saying for weeks that I want to write real letters to people. I always relay congratulatory statements via text, email or Facebook. Not exactly personalized, and to be honest, pretty lazy. Now that I've stopped to smell the roses, I want to get back in the habit of writing letters. Everyone loves opening their mailbox and seeing a personalized letter or card. Most of what I find is junk mail, the penny saver and bills - all of which I could do without. This afternoon, I dug out my overpriced stationery that was collecting dust on the bookshelf. I wrote cards to family members and letters to my brand spankin' new pen pals.

Fun letters, cards + postcards!

I'm bringing the art of the handwritten letter back. All hail snail mail!


- Michele