Fun Webisode Series

Starting next Tuesday (3/3/10)

Wanna hear a great new song?

Click to buy Jason Castro's new single, "That's What I'm Here For," available NOW on iTunes and Amazon

Also, tune into The Bachelor: Jason and Molly's Wedding tonight on ABC to hear Jason perform it.

A Miracle Remembered

30 years ago today...a Miracle at Lake Placid occurred when the misfit, amateur hockey team for the United States beat the best hockey team in the world and heavily favored Soviet Union team, at Lake Placid. USA went on the win the gold the next day against Finland. But it was this game that punctuated a time when the world had changed.

Hear Me

My friend, Meg and I were talking last night and got on the subject of eating. As we were talking (well, as I talked) I realized and even said I should post this online...

I think tracking our food is a good thing. It helps us to really know what/how much we're eating. Too often we eat without being in the moment....munch while doing other things and don't realize just how much we're consuming. But there is a drawback to being hyper-aware of just what you're eating for the purpose of losing weight. Once again, it comes back to my beef with formal diets.


While eating is necessary to sustain us, thinking too much about it is every bit as troublesome as not thinking enough. Diets tend to teach us what to eat, how much to eat, and when to eat it. [i]What they don't teach us is how to eat intuitively.[/i] So you have success with losing weight because you follow a plan. Whether it's a calorie/point plan, or a eat this, not that plan. ..great! But when you're done with the plan (because generally, a diet plan is not a lifelong plan), you still don't know how to eat intuitively.

Intuitive eating in built-in at birth...it's a primary drive to survive. A baby cries when he/she's hungry. A baby stops eating when he/she is full (note to Greenie's in-laws ;) ). Somewhere along the line, whether it's because our mom's told us to finish our plates even though we didn't want more....or because we started eating when we were bored, angry, sad and not because we were hungry....or maybe it was simply that breakfast, lunch, and dinner are at "set" times, so we eat at a certain time of day, not because we're necessarily hungry at that time of day...whatever it was, the trigger mechanism of hungry/full got wonky.

Diets work because you eat according to plan. To eat intuitively means eating when your hungry....stopping when you're full. Sounds simple. And it is. But because it's an inherent trait...something we didn't have to learn, once we've suppressed it it takes some work for our conscious mind to recognize again.


The loop of intuition^^^

And this is where writing down what/how much you eat is so important. As you write it down, take note of the time of day you ate, what you were feeling at the time (hunger, boredom, etc.). When sitting down to eat, take notice of how much food is on the plate. How do you feel about the food (can't wait to shove it in your mouth!....meh, I HAVE to eat it because it's lunchtime, or because the diet said I should). Start getting in touch with your bio-rhythms. Are you never hungry in the morning? But you eat anyway because everyone says you're supposed to? Are you sometimes more hungry, sometimes less hungry? Are you craving certain foods? Are you hungry? Do you prefer meat over salad? Do you like dinner for breakfast and breakfast for dinner? Are you full, but keep eating because it tastes soooo goooood?



Maybe your body is trying to tell you something. Listen to it. Our bodies and our subconscious mind are so much smarter than we are. The body knows what it wants. The subconscious brain does too. But our conscious brain is stupid and our mouth is even stupider. It will eat whatever we put into it whenever we do it (most of the time). So listen and interpret and start to eat intuitively again.

I wrote the following statement in response to my friend telling a story about how her husband, who recently got his MBA, made her feel that she was wasting her degree being a mother and working as a bartender. She's chosen to not go back to school a few years ago for financial reasons, but he'd chosen TO go back to school so that he could make more money at work. She felt that whether she was a bartender or a lawyer wasn't the point, it was that he was measuring her worth by her paycheck. So I wrote this for her.

We, as women, are not defined by our professional life. We are miracle workers. We are the vessel that, without us, the entire human race would cease. We are homemakers, even when we work full-time. We are comfort. We are compassion. Our tolerance for pain is unmatched. Yes, we are capable of performing any job with skill and success, but as women, we are so much more than the ability to bring home a good paycheck.

I'm thinking of making a plaque...

Did a Bad, Bad Thing.....

If we were meant to always do the right thing, why did Ceiling Cat invent alcohol, cigarettes and the beach? This is where I got into trouble.

You see, back on Labor Day I spent a lovely 3-day weekend with good friends at our family beach house at the Outer Banks of North Carolina. My friend Terri, a lovely, petite, fun-loving woman with enough energy to power NYC, gave my husband and I a lovely basket of goodies, including his favorite spiced rum, and my Blue Sapphire gin, as a thank you for having she and her husband accompany us to the beach house. The only time Terri smokes is when she is drinking, so sure enough, after we'd made our cocktails and settled onto the deck to enjoy the beachy night air, Terri lights up. She offers one to me and I say "What the hell, we're on vacation!" and accept one.

My husband gave me the stink-eye, so Terri told him to leave me alone. That smoking on vacation is like drinking on vacation. You don't drink in real-life like you do on vacation, right? So this is just a temporary vice.

Riiiiight.

I bought a pack of cigarettes on my way home from the beach...because in NC a pack costs only around $3.00!! I smoked about 4 out of the pack before gagging. I ended up giving the pack to a co-worker.

Two weeks later, I drove down to Charlottesville, VA to see a concert with a girlfriend, and to go to Monticello the next day. As I arrived in Charlottesville, I stopped for gas, and saw a sign "Camel Lights - $3.50." I swear to cheeses there was a parting of the clouds and a voice spoke to me. So I bought a pack.

Since then, I've smoked a pack a week. I know that's not too much really, but heavens to Betsy Ross, I'm supposed to be a fitness professional! I profess Wellness in my daily 9-to-5! And furthermore, I haven't come out to my husband that this has become a regular habit. I'm living a lie!! Ceiling Cat, help me!

By the way, I don't blame Terri at all for my fall from grace. I"m responsible for my own decisions and actions. She just provided the opportunity. I made a pact with another co-worker that this weekend I will quit. Since doing that, I'm noticing the Camel Lights are barking back at me...I've actually gagged on the smoke twice this week. This is a good thing.

That's What I'm Here For

"That's What I'm Here For: The Road To the Debut Album" features in studio video and footage of the creation of Jason Castro's new CD. Watch it. Buy it.

Emptying Nest

I remember once sitting in my front room on the floor, playing with my son. He was maybe two or three. I remember thinking, damn, this is gonna go by so fast and I want to remember this moment...right. now. always. And I started crying then. He reached his little hand up to my face and asked "you sad mommy?" and I said "sometimes mommy's cry because they're so happy and I'm crying because I'm so happy I have a wonderful little boy like you for a son"

So here I sit, 20 feet from that exact spot crying just like I did that day.



Just a little sentimental, huh?

My only baby...my son, will be going off to college in two days. I've tried very hard to cherish our moments together. I could write about 500,000 of those moments. And I've been okay, until this morning when I remembered that one moment.

Now, I am at once excited for his embarking on his independent life and a little melancholy and nostalgic for that little blonde boy with the little hand that used to reach up for mine when we'd cross the street. I'm gonna miss the smoochy sounds we made toward each other as one of us was leaving the house. I'll miss his silly homemade Halloween costumes, and all the times he dressed up when it wasn't Halloween. I'll miss his text to let me know he got somewhere safely, or that he was on his way home.

But I couldn't be more proud of him. He's grown into a handsome, caring, smart and independent young man. Just what I wanted him to be.



On the other hand, I just know that my next blog will be me complaining how he comes home just so I will do his dirty laundry. I think I'll work on cherishing those times too.

Look out Julia

So. Am I the only one who pretends she's taping a cooking show?

I like cooking. I do! It's not really about taking good, fresh ingredients and making something delicious, although that's a plus. What I like about cooking is the process of cooking...the planning, the gathering, the combining, the equipment, the fire.

For years I didn't realize how having good cooking equipment could make such a difference to your love of cooking. Then I got my first set of Calphalon...Oh Em Geee! I could have had a When Harry Met Sally moment right then and there. Then I discovered KitchenAid! Henckels! Cuisinart! Pampered Chef!! And it's not just the names....it's the tools like my favorite cutting board, tongs,and measuring spoons! Not to mention cooking shows, cooking websites, all the food porn magazines in the Market's checkout line! Heaven. All this stuff made cooking FUN!!

Look out, Julia!!

My friend Dani related a story to me about her trip to the beach last week. It's been raining in New England all summer. Finally, there was a beautiful summer day, so Dani decides to set out for the beach. She slathered on the sunscreen, and laid face down on her towel for a wonderful, sunbathed nap, only to wake up and find she'd been totally sunburned. OUCH!

I can't wrap my mind around the whole SPF thing. I mean, probably 90% of the suntan lotions on the market today are filled with carcinogens. Yet I've been reading for years about skin cancer being caused by the sun's burning rays. And yet again, just 20-minutes/day of sunshine gives you like 10,000 IUs of vitamin D, and it doesn't store in your fat cells and causing problems like it would if you took that much in supplements.

So....cancer from sunscreen or cancer from the sun? I'm thinking that for thousands of years people have lived under the sun..and were outside much more so than they are nowadays, and only in the recent 50 years or so this has become an issue. I'm thinking if you're moderate about how much sun you get, you don't need the fucking sunscreen. If you go to the beach and use sunscreen and still burn, like my friend Dani did last week, then you've just doubled your chances of getting skin cancer.

Happy Father's Day

My dad was not a very good parent. He's amazingly charismatic and people are drawn to him without him ever trying to get attention. He's tall, dark and handsome, has beautiful eyes, a charming smile and the ability to laugh at himself. Plus he's a natural story-teller. He never, ever disciplined us...that' was mom's job. He was away a lot of the time. He was distracted much of the time. But when he was home, I was with him. I spent as much time as possible working outside with him in the yard. He taught me how to ride my horse, and how to play guitar. After my parent divorced, we didn't see him much at all.

One of my fondest memories was spending the summer of my 16th year with him in So. Cal. where he lived. My sisters are still bitter about the way he treated my mom, and probably because he was never much of a father to us. As my dad has aged, he's mellowed and he regrets not spending time with us and never really knowing us when we were younger...which of course has led to not knowing us very well as adults either. When I got married at aged 25, I made a decision to have a relationship with my dad, whether he was gonna try or not. It's paid off. Once Taylor was born, I worked harder at keeping him in touch with us. Now, he adores Taylor and they have a lot in common (a love of History, war stories, and music) and have easy conversations.

He's tried really hard to get to know our kids...me and my younger sister have forged adult relationships with he and his wife. My older sister never calls him and doesn't return his calls.

***********************************************************************************

My stepfather is an amazing, wonderful, grounded man. He's been a faithful husband to my mom for 25 years. He's a loving father and dotes on all his grandkids and stepgrandkids. He's a handyman and always fixes stuff when he visits (we save stuff up for him so he doesn't get bored). I love his New England accent. When we all vacationed in Cancun for my 20th anniversary party, Ronnie and I went snorkling together...just the two of us. It was the most bonding, alone time we'd ever spent and it was awesome.

Now I'm tearing up. I need to call these wonderful men who helped raise me and make me into the woman who's raised an amazing son as a result of their influence.

Wish I was there

Michael is in Mexico with his best friend from college. Taylor has been in Ocean City all week. And I've been babysitting the dogs and working as usual. Woe is me.
But don't pity. I have big plans for this summer...plans that include lots of music with friends. Stay tuned.

Milk Comes from Cows, not Cartons

Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve blogged. Sometimes life kicks you in the ass and makes it hard to do the things we like to do. We go at 90 miles an hour, acting and reacting on autopilot. This week, I’ve been meditating on slowing down.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about counting blessings. I'm not referring to blessings in a religious sense necessarily, although for some to count blessings mean using the ritual of prayer. This post has to do with consciously realizing and considering where our food, clothing, housing materials, etc. come from.

People work daily to make my life easier. From trash collection, to mail distribution, to water purification, there are billions of hours dedicated to me and I’m not even aware of it most of the time.

When I sit down to eat, do I ever think about where my food came from? There was a family in the market the other day and the little girl was complaining that she was starving! Her mother responded “Look around you! You’re in a GROCERY STORE! You’re not even close to starving”

Bravo Mama!

We have so many conveniences, so much at the tips of our fingers and with the whirlwind of our lives, we forget to think about how it comes to be.

We forget to remember the back-breaking work, the ridiculously early start to a ridiculously long day the farmer has. Besides the harvest, he has the planting, sowing, and cultivating. All so we can have fresh fruits and vegetables on our tables. Or milk to drink. Yeah, milk comes from cows, not cartons. Sometimes a machine helps, but still a cow was involved. There’s only one way to get it out of the cow.

We forget that an animal gave his life for us to eat it. Sure it might have been his destiny, but still, it was a life.

I planted the trees in my yard and have watched them grow over the past 16 years. I didn’t have to do very much other than trim them a bit if their branches got unruly. It was totally the tree and Mother Nature doing all the work. When I open a box of crackers or chips, I rarely think about the tree that was grown and now is the paper/cardboard holding my snack.

So today when I sit down to eat I’m going to stop for a few seconds and think about what is in front of me. And appreciate it. My aunt always says a prayer of thanks before eating. Now I understand what that’s about. A little thank you to the universe.

YOU are an idiot...ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

Yesterday I let the dogs out in the backyard, then went up to my bedroom to change so I could take them for a walk. I was putting on my socks when I heard someone (a man) say something. IN THE HOUSE. No one else was home. The TV was off. I was freaked out. I quietly closed my bedroom door, locked it, and sat down on the bed wondering what I should do. Since the dogs were outside, they would be no help. My cell phone was down stairs. I had no weapon.

So I grabbed a laundry basket. I figured if I had to, I could shove it at them and run out of the house. Opened the bedroom door cautiously and listened. Nothing. Holding the laundry basket in front of me, I tiptoed downstairs, opened the back door and let the dogs in. Then I proceeded to open doors...to the bathroom, the basement, the closed garage, and let the dogs sniff out anyone who might be there. No one.

Fast forward to just a few minutes ago. I was in the family room watching a recorded show. Suddenly I hear the voice again behind me coming from the office!! It's the same exact time of day as when I heard the voice from yesterday!

It was my Avast virus software saying "Your virus database has been updated"

http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/youare

Cakewrecks

If you’ve never been to the site for cake wrecks (http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com/) you really must go. Some of the most hideous looking disasters you ever saw. The beauty in cake wrecks is that someone set out to make a perfectly lovely cake and somewhere it went bad. I’ve always felt true beauty is in the flawed (see my earlier blog on beauty).

My friends decided this was the theme of my most recent birthday cake and they did an awesome job. Just look for the worst pre-made cake at the grocery store, add some “meaningful” dollar store items and viola! This was seriously the best cake I’ve ever been given.


Birthdays are more often than not disappointing, however. I don’t mean to sound like an ungrateful bitch, but if anyone knows me, they understand I am not about perfection. I would much prefer a homemade cake that is sliding just a bit to one side and has cake crumbs in the frosting than a perfect store-bought one. When my family gives me clothing it is generally very nice, but never something I would actually wear, generally because it either (a) has a picture or words printed on the front; (b) is not my laid-back style of comfort; or (c) is totally inappropriate. My husband’s aunt actually gave me underwear one year! I understand that I should be grateful I got a gift at all, and I try very hard to be gracious about anything that is given to me. I’m just saying that….

When you’re talking about gifts, it truly is the thought that counts. My friend Laurel gave me a homemade CD with music from one of my favorite artists. My friends Meg and Joan both gave me items scented like cinnamon, which has to do with a part of my nickname. Wine, vodka..heck, any alcohol is appropriate. I like to drink plus it’s a bonus that I might be able to forget I’m turning another year older!

The worst/best gift I got this year was from my son, who for the 2nd time gave me the world’s worst pajama bottoms. He knows I love to lounge around the house in my pjs. I swear these things are made from burlap. They are itchy and weigh five pounds. A thing of beauty I’ll never wear but will always cherish.

Lost Opportunity

I just found out that while I was randomly posting while drunk the other night because I was alone and all my friends were otherwise busy, a very good friend of mine from Georgia, nicknamed wickedone, who I know through a forum I belong to, was actually visiting about 20 minutes from where I live. She was literally down the street.

I hate lost opportunity! Whenever I miss an opportunity, I feel cheated...like a gift was just handed to me that I ignored.

It's easy to realize you've missed a big opportunity. But what about the small ones...like the chance to smile at someone who looks a little grumpy...like savoring the taste of that fresh spring strawberry and relishing it's juiciness running down your chin...like taking a walk on a blustery day and instead of covering up and looking at your feet, lifting your head and noticing how the trees move, how the birds still fly, how the world is in motion.

I quote one of my friends who used to always say, "some people say 'Good God, it's morning!'...I say 'Good morning God!" This same person also said "...another day waking up above ground is a good day."

It's all about attitude, isn't it? If you have the attitude of gratitude, it's going to be a good day. If you love all things, you appreciate every opportunity.

So I'm pretty bummed about missing wickedone. It's not really likely I'll get another opportunity to see her IRL again. But I'm happy that she got the opportunity to come up this way and see another part of the country.

In the meantime, I'll be practicing my readiness for whatever the day brings.

Random Drunk Posting

Another Saturday night and I ain't got no body...

The boys are working tonight and here I sit, browsing the internets trying to find companionship and someone to party with. Sad. My RL friends either live a pretty good distance from me, or have plans tonight.

I found some kahlua and some vodka and some milk, so I decided to drink and blog. Not sure if this is a good idea, as I might post something I regret.

Like how I initially kind of liked Michael Castro's audition on American Idol (he IS cute for the teeny-boppers in the world) but that I think his "ballsiness" is a coverup for being an insecure teenaged boy who isn't sure yet about his sexuality. And how his tryout begs for comparisons to his sexy older brother, Jason, who has inherently more passion about music. In truth, there is no comparison.

I might be less likely to keep my mouth (fingers?) shut about a certain co-worker for her negative attitude or how adorable I think a man who coaches my son's hockey team is.

I have flung sheep, thrown snowballs, sent drinks and little potted plants to every friend I have on Facebook and I'm hoping they'll still want to be my friend after tonight. I've left comments for MySpace friends (can you delete those?)

Random drunk posting is never a good idea. Random drunk anything is probably not a good idea.

Perfect is for Pussies

I just read a comment posted on another blog that has me thinking. The poster said it was the norm for her family to believe "thin = happy."

Wow.

Show of hands if you have believed, or currently believe that?

As a fitness trainer, as a woman who has struggled with weight my entire life and seen many people get into serious physical and psychological trouble while trying to measure up to some idealized perception of what beauty or happiness is, I am sick and tired of it. It's time to wake up.

Whatever happened to fat and happy? I mean, fat isn't healthy, but that isn't a good enough reason against which to measure one's self worth. Thin can be unhealthy too. And believe me, I've worked with clients who were once miserable and fat, lost weight and are now miserable and thin. Their focus changed. Now, instead of being obsessed with food, they're obsessed with dieting. Or realize even more they are in a shitty marriage. Or have pain-in-the-ass relatives to deal with. Or any number of reasons and experiences from which to experience misery. Most of these people are hiding behind their fatness to be miserable instead of dealing with what's really going on.

I also believe media has put into our heads that we are less than perfect if we don't fit a certain mold. We've come so far in getting equality in so many ways, and yet, we still buy into being less than. I know some absolutely stunning overweight people, in looks and personality, and in some cases both. They are lovely women inside and out and anyone would be hard pressed to measure up against their beauty. And yet, even one or two of these women feel inadequate because of their weight issues. I understand this intimately because I'm one of those people who has spent a lifetime of measuring my self-worth against the scale.

I had an epiphany recently that I blogged about. I realized I"d been covering up some emotional baggage from a couple of semi-traumatic events in my adolescence. This realization went a long way toward making me okay with the size I am...and by that I mean who I am. I've forgiven myself for being imperfect and realized that life needs to be enjoyed instead of wasted worrying about never measuring up. And guess what, I'm happier and healthier for it. I'm still not perfect. I don't exercise as often or as intensely as I probably should. I don't eat perfectly all the time. It's just too much pressure to keep trying to be perfect.

Perfect is for pussies.

Trying to lose weight because it makes you healthier is a goal, not a measure of self-worth. Wanting to exercise to tone up and look better is okay. We all have a little vanity. But neither fat nor thin equals happy. Happiness comes from inside your head and inside your heart.

Beautiful Loser

I've noticed that I'm naturally drawn to odd people. Or they to me. I'm not sure why, but give me odd anyday over normal.

Salma Hayak (of all people) once said "People often say that 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder,' and I say that the most liberating thing about beauty is realizing that you are the beholder. This empowers us to find beauty in places where others have not dared to look, including inside ourselves."

Perfect is not pretty, it's surreal. What is beauty if only perfection were the measure. We'd would never find it.

In Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, Lord Henry suggests that the only thing worth pursuing in life is beauty, and the fulfilment of the senses. He's a shallow dude...Henry not Oscar. Yet, we all pursue beauty to some degree: physical beauty, emotional beauty, and well spiritual beauty. Because in our perception, beauty is perfection.

But truly beauty is most astounding in imperfection..it's how nature intended it. It's what makes us fall in love. I think I see odd as beautiful because each of us has inherent oddness. It's what makes us unique. When you can find and appreciate something unique in a person, the more beautiful they become.

The Foam Cushion

It was Halloween night, 1970. I was 10 years old. My sister Debbie, two cousins, and I had been trick-or-treating for a couple of hours and we had finally arrived at my grandparent’s house. We were spent, our feet tired from walking the long country roads around my grandparent’s farm.

Just before finishing our annual candy-begging, my cousins decided to go straight to the farm instead of detouring up the little path to visit the neighbor boy (whose parents would surely have goodies for us). There was no moon and the path was dark and wooded. My sister and I giggled as we anticipated seeing the cute neighbor boy. We were safe, carefree.

Suddenly, there was a rustling in the woods near the path and before we could react, someone jumped out from the cover of the low brush, screaming like a wild animal. We answered with our own screams, just knowing we were about to be killed by some escaped convict/man/monster. Within seconds, the realization that this man/monster was actually our cousin, Billy, set in and we began laughing and crying and yelling at Billy for being so cruel.

We decided to skip the neighbor boy’s house and headed back to Mam and Pop’s house. It was Mam’s birthday, and the house was full of people. We laughed as we told the story of Billy’s Halloween trick and we prepared to sing and have cake. Mam sat at the big kitchen table, Pop sat next to the woodstove in his wooden rocking chair. Around the table was Debbie, Billy, my other cousin, Mike, my mother with my baby sister on her lap, my Aunt Jean and her two little boys standing nearby (they had lived with Mam and Pop since my Aunt Jean became sick), as well as Mam’s nephew, Bud. There may have been more people there, I can’t remember.

In hindsight, it seemed a little out of place to me that Bud was there. Bud lived in another town several miles away and didn’t visit often. He had a family of his own. His wife, “Sis” was talked about in whispers among the adult family members and known as the family bitch. Bud and Sis had four little girls (who surely were out trick-or-treating tonight…why wasn’t he home with them?) and in hushed voices, I often heard my mother and grandmother talk about Bud and Sis’s unsuccessful attempts to have a boy, as if it were a shame. I never really understood this coming from my mother of all people because she herself had three girls and no boys and seemed quite content with leaving it that way. (No one whispered about my mother being a bitch, did they?)

As the night wound down, it was time to go home. As I said earlier, we were quite tired…between all the walking, Billy’s trick and the birthday party, it was about all a 10-year old girl could take in one night!

We headed out to our cars. I walked slowly, with my bag of candy dragging on the ground, toward my mother’s car. Debbie helped get my baby sister into the car. Mom had promised to take Billy and Mike back home (My Aunt Dee had stayed home to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters…I’m not sure where my Uncle Bill was that night). Mom’s car was full before I got to it. There was some discussion of how this was going to work getting everyone home.

That’s when Bud stepped in and offered to take me home. I’d like to think that my mother asked him to take Billy and Mike, but he insisted on taking me. I really don’t know why my mother agreed except that I’m sure she trusted him. I also don’t know why my sister didn’t come with me in Bud’s car. Maybe I volunteered to go with him since I was the last one to the car. I don’t know.

My mother and the carload of people pulled out of the driveway and had already driven away before I had even closed the door to Bud’s car. I sat in the front passenger seat, which was pretty cool because usually Debbie got that privilege in our car. I sat my heavy bag of candy on the floor between my legs when Bud climbed into the driver’s seat. He turned the key and started the engine, asking me which was the best way to go. As I was about to answer, he interrupted me and told me I had to wear a seatbelt. I was unaccustomed to belting. It was 1970…we just never thought about it back then, and I wasn’t even sure I knew how to wear it. Bud seemed a little flustered and reached across me for the belt. He buckled it. Then a funny thing happened. He didn’t immediately go back to his spot behind the wheel. Instead, he began smoothing the shirt on my costume and slid his hand under the waistband of my trousers. He was murmuring about helping me, but I couldn’t understand him. He wasn’t satisfied with how he’d straightened out my shirt, and so he began smoothing it again, slipping his hand under the waistband of my trousers once again, but this time going all the way down and stroking my private parts. I was alarmed. No one had ever touched me there, and I know my mother had told me many times that no one ever should until I was married. I jumped and pushed his hand away. He reached for me again, and I pushed him away, pressing my back so hard against the door that the handle for the window dug into my shoulder blade. I tried to turn to open the door, but he kept reaching for me, and I was belted in and unable to turn. I kept pushing and even swatting at him and he eventually stopped, settling back behind the wheel of the car, breathing heavily. I told him I didn’t want to go with him anymore. He pointed to my grandparent’s house and showed me that the windows were dark. He said they were already asleep and I wouldn’t’ want to wake them.

I guess I felt like I just wanted to get home, because I didn’t try to get out of the seatbelt, nor out of the car at that point. As he shifted the car into DRIVE, I lifted my candy bag and sat it between us. He stopped the car, put it back into PARK and told me to move the bag or he wouldn’t drive me home. I argued for a minute, but I put the bag back between my feet on the floor. I pressed myself as close to the door as possible and imagined I had a foam cushion totally surrounding my body, protecting me from him. I just wanted to get home. He didn’t try to touch me again.

I’m sure he advised me never to tell what happened, but I can’t remember really anything beyond getting home that night, my mother thanking him profusely for his kindness and for going out of his way. And my relief that I was finally safe.

When I think about that night now, nearly 40-years later, I realize that Halloween night, along with my parent’s divorce a few years later, shaped so much insecurity and led to my having a weight problem. I’d been trying to find that protective foam cushion all this time. What’s really cool is that this was a revelation for me and started me on a new course. No longer am I afraid of what people think. I am me and that’s all I have to offer [/Jason Castro, sort of]. I am no longer obsessed with what I eat or how much. I am no longer worried about how I look. I just am. And in just being, I actually feel less insecure. It’s a comfortable place to be. I think maybe I’ve finally put away the foam cushion.