Scottsdale: A Bruised Tale

Once upon a time there was a girl named Britt
She was always busy, she would never sit.
She wrote, she danced, she bounced up and down
Until she chanced upon a journey to a far away town.

To a castle in the desert, surrounded by palm trees and sand
The Fairmount Scottsdale Princess Resort, the fairest in all the land.
She left her midwest village and all that she knew
Twitter, Facebook, even her little blog, too.

Her knight would gather at the boisterous round table
Thus fidgety Britt must play princess in this curious fable.
She tasted many things she previously thought foe
Lobster, oysters, crab legs, even escargot.

Now you’re probably thinking these creatures are not from near
But armadillos and rattlesnakes do not to royalty standards adhere.
But the manners and servants were not to her liking
Best of all was an afternoon the court spent hiking.

Beyond the castle, she felt more comfortable in her skin
Though the lizards shunned her, she did her best to fit in.
Alas, a feast of all feasts was planned for that night
And she said farewell to the gallant sight.

Though you would think the bruised tale happened out here
On the dry treacherous landscape, Britt had no fear.
Instead in her silken gown and heels so high
Two steps before a fountain sent everything awry.


The pain made Britt swoon but she tried to save face
Little did she know she would soon need an ankle brace.
Britt’s knight in shining armor carried her in his arms
A damsel rescued from herself and her clumsy charms.

A bad sprain yes it was, a swollen shield so bruised
Laziness was forced upon her, she was not amused.
Hence the girl who would never sit now had no other choice
Propped up on a mountain of pillows, she did not rejoice.


The pina coladas did not console her on her poolside throne
She yearned for her simple life, to regain honor back home.
For who wants to be elsewhere when all is not well?
Vacation transforms into the cruel dungeon from hell.


Britt found solace in words, her chivalrous friends she could trust
She edited her book with her mighty sword pen, kicking up the dust.
Perhaps a jester is more fitting for a girl of this decree
For a princess of the desert, Britt shall never be.

P.S. For those who participated in the bobby pin poll last week, the correct answer is…drumroll please…88! Thanks for playing.

Come on, babe. Why don’t we paint the town?

And, all that jazz.

I’m not a musical theater buff in any shape or form. Harboring cheesy dance moves and peppy tunes that get eternally stuck in my head, I usually steer clear. However, there are exceptions.

I appreciate the dark and gritty, R-rated types…specifically Chicago, my all-time favorite. Give me glamorous femmes fatales and the unmatched genius of Bob Fosse any day.

Somehow I missed the boat, and have never danced to “All That Jazz”. Now you might be thinking…big whoop! But, it’s kind of against nature for a jazz dancer.

See, I was too curvy for tutus, too skeptical for interpretive dance—you know the kind where you’re supposed to actually be the tree—and too demure to crunk.

Jazz dancing has always been the right fit for me, a chance to sass and captivate. I could pretend to be back in the 1920s, a spunky cabaret dancer teasing the crowd and having a ball.

Recently, opportunity came knocking on my door.

Last Friday, RunUp 2012: The Roaring Twenties, a 1920s themed fashion show, gala, and costume party benefitting Froedtert and The Medical College of Wisconsin Cancer Unit, commenced at the Historic Pritzlaff Building here in Milwaukee.

Guess who finally got to perform “All That Jazz”?

A good friend of mine, Hannah (the striking blonde who looks like Roxy Hart’s twin) was choreographing, and offered up the gig to a select few—the Jazz hands experts. The four of us would serve as back-up dancers to Bjorn Nasett, a legendary entertainer making a comeback.

Last year I hung up my performance shoes. Enthusiastically, I took them down, tossed some fishnets on, and got my shimmying self back on the stage.

And, it was grand.

Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com

Sometimes I teeter on dualistic, an all or nothing kind of gal. This unexpected return to the spotlight taught me to rethink my stubborn ways, to be open to the right kind of opportunities.

Of all the times I’ve performed, I’ve only been paid once. Some years ago an envelope bulging with cash was hastily thrust into my hands before a ballet class, and it was weird.

Dancers don’t do it for money. The ones who do get paid earn peanuts.

As much effort as it takes, dancing for joy and pleasure has always made sense to me. It’s a special art I’ve known intimately all my life. It’s an honor to take people away, to make them smile, to encourage them to let go and have fun.

What happens on the stage is beneficial to everyone—the performers, the spectators, the choreographers and directors. To escape the grind for the sake of feeling good is a necessary perk of life.

In the words of Billy Flynn: “This trial…the whole world…it’s all…show business.”

If I can get my hands on some video footage of our performance, I will most certainly post. Until then, here’s a fun poll…I’ll reveal the correct answer at the end of next week.

Absinthe Trepidation

You know me. I’m usually on a health kick—carrots are the new chips, Yoga’s for everyone–you’ve even seen me hugging a water bottle.

But forget all that…let’s talk about absinthe!

Now I think of beer as my steady even though I engage in the occasional red wine flirtation. By no means am I an expert on absinthe, but I have always been intrigued by the Green Fairy. Haven’t we all?

For my second novel, Everything’s Not Bigger, Prague served as a primary setting. “Absinthe Trepidation” is one of the chapter titles.

When I was studying abroad in Germany many summers ago, a visit to the City of a Hundred Spires was imperative.

If you’re ever stumbled over my last name “Skrabanek”, know you are one of many, and you have my Czech heritage to blame for it. In elementary school, my principal called me “Brittney S.” during awards assemblies, because he just gave up.

An easy pronunciation trick—it sounds similar to “bubonic” as in Bubonic Plague. Forevermore may you remember me when you think of a catastrophic illness. Wait…please don’t do that.

Furthermore, Eastern Europe was one of my areas of concentration in college. And one of my professors said he would only give a recommendation for my study abroad application if I swore to go to Prague.

He called me “the proud daughter of the Czech Republic” in class all the time. So, I went.

Prague is certainly one of the most enchanting cities in the world. Miraculously unscathed during World War II, it boasts historic wonders like you wouldn’t believe.

Back in 2004, absinthe was illegal in a good portion of the world. As such, it was heavily marketed to curious American tourists like myself visiting the Czech Republic.

Too apprehensive to drink it on my own, my fiance (present day hubby) and I had the bright idea to smuggle it back to the States in a Listerine bottle, so we could try it together.

I know, I know. Bad, Britt!

I sweated bullets at Stuttgart Airport security, believe me. I’m one of those people who often gets caught, but it doesn’t always stop me from participating in crazy shenanigans.

But, I made it home with the forbidden loot.

Even though I had washed out the mouth wash bottle a thousand times, the absinthe and spearmint had morphed into one. Needless to say, trying a shot was deeply unpleasant.

We knew nothing about the rituals of absinthe preparation. Now I am aware of the calculated art to drinking the beverage…and we absolutely disgraced it. Hey, we were pups!

Knowing my shameful stint wasn’t much to work with, I decided to do some book research on the drink by watching Absinthe the documentary.

Automatically absinthe stirs the imagination, embedding visions of mad painters and conniving fairies dancing in circles with bulging, iridescent eyes.

Lo and behold that’s all a bunch of boohockey—early twentieth century propaganda. It was a formidable scheme cooked up by the green drink’s competitors of the time–the wine and beer merchants whose businesses had floundered during absinthe’s peak.

I’m mesmerized by the care absinthe lovers show to the rebellious drink, appreciating it for its rarity. More than anything, I applaud absinthe for its sustainability against all the odds, resurrecting after bans, enticing still to this day.

Absinthe has been said to bring out one’s inner poet.

I think it carries a romantic notion, a feeling of the past when Bohemian artists created zealously and lived with abandon. There is no other drink quite as controversial or mysterious. Even though the myths have been widely debunked, I think the elusiveness will continue for centuries to come.

What about you readers out there…have you tried absinthe?

San Diego, Day 3: Like…Chill, Dude

6:00am…I’ve only been asleep for three hours and I’m wide awake. Damn you, time change! My head is cursing me for my self-induced, nocturnal debauchery.

Being chic in San Diego comes at a price.

Comparable to the aftermath of an earthquake, I’m disoriented and shaky. The past two days have been a ten on the entertainment Richter scale—great company, incredible food, and fun in the California sun.

I’m supposed to drive up to Los Angeles for my final day, but my exhausted body is revolting. Sometimes too much fun has a debilitating effect.

I think of Winston, one of the dogs my friend Devon babysat this weekend. Would Winston run around in circles chasing his tail until he collapsed for the sake of enjoyment?

Nah. He would take one look at my non-stop vacation itinerary, snort, and go back to sleep.

A legitimate Cali pooch, Winston would speak human just long enough to say, “Like…chill, dude.”

Hence, the fatiguing, back-and-forth Los Angeles voyage is scrapped. Today is all about doing nothing, something I rarely remember to do.

Devon stays behind to tend to her platform shoe wounds. Naeiry and I decide to make a downtown day of it, leisure style.

After downing a magical elixir in the form of carrot juice and a few hours of gabbing, we stroll to Hash House for a late afternoon brunch, figuring it was the only way to get in the place. There is always an absurd wait (a.k.a. severely tasty grub).

It’s about a two-mile walk in mid-eighty degree temps, and I’m sweating out various beers and chintzy champagne from the night before. It feels good to get around by foot, an everyday activity I’m used to at home.

California harbors a car culture. My traffic highlight for the weekend…it took us forty-five minutes to go eleven miles. It kindly reminded me of one of the SoCal cons I can definitely live without.

Even at closing, we wait a half hour to squeeze in for brunch at Hash House. The portions are ginormous here! We share the mushroom, artichoke, and spinach hash and leave our biscuit untouched.

A doll of a waitress brings us a free Bloody Mary. I don’t ask questions, I just enjoy.

Now that the kitchen is closed, tunes are pumped up and the wait staff is smiling and dancing. Oddly, there’s a bit of a soiree.

Seated in the back corner, we crane our necks to investigate the source of cheers and applause in the main dining area. And, look at the cuties we discovered…

On the way home, we make a pit stop at Cremolose for coffee. Reminiscent of European cafes, I can’t ignore the chocolate cream puff calling my name in the cheerful case.

I feel that the next photo merits an explanation. Naeiry and I got on the subject of lips, and I explained that having larger lips as a child was a traumatic experience.

The boys made fun of me constantly. So, I spent a good year or two sporting smaller lips by sucking them in. This is our small lips attempt…

I round off my non-scheduled day grilling back at Devon’s house with her and her hubby. Rosemary chicken, scallops, trusty beer, and lounging around are just the reset I need before my long flight home, clear across the country.

Finally I’m relaxing on my vacation and wouldn’t you know it—it’s time to leave.

How many of us do this every time we travel? Museums, excursions, bar-hopping, restaurants, attractions…phew! Guess that’s why we feel we need a vacation from the vacation.

I miss my new home and must say goodbye to my old one. So long humiliating waves, pretentious art, endless traffic, and city noise.

I’m ready to go back to my little, quiet Milwaukee, where I can look across icy Lake Michigan, pretend it’s my very own Midwest ocean, and have my favorite piece of SoCal.

San Diego, Day 2: Chic’s Up

Yesterday’s romp in the Pacific seems like another universe—like I imagined it all.

I saunter into the lavender-lit foyer of the dazzling W Hotel. I’m out of my element, an outsider at the after party for the Art San Diego Contemporary Art Fair.

No more “surf’s up, dude”…only chic’s up.

Predicting cheap, bitter booze, the type always served complimentary at these glamorous shindigs, I take a hesitant sip of my champagne.

I swish and swallow. Oh, it’s cheap alright.

I fidget with my sequin skirt, the sparkling armor I borrowed from my friend Devon just for the occasion. I didn’t have anything that went with glitz.

Knowing my meager artist’s income can’t afford the creativity for sale, I pass the art auction downstairs. The rooftop is bustling with shiny, tan bodies and seductive tunes from the guest DJ. Nobody dances at an event like this—people stand around and look pretty.

I trade in my empty champagne glass for a standard $7 beer while Devon mingles with her other friends.

I rewind to earlier that same day when we attended the reason for the after party…Art San Diego at Balboa Park.

We had made a quick lap of the mishmash of visual art. One piece that caught my eye had a $200,000 price tag. The environment was stifling and the people were stuffy, so we burst back out into the sunny afternoon for fresh air.

Without remorse, Devon and I abandoned the tidy splashes of culture to begin a snow cone quest. After skulking around enchanting Balboa Park, we honed in on our refreshing treat.

To me, cozy conversation and a snow cone are higher on my list of priorities than meandering around overpriced art—some interesting, some laughable. That’s just me.

I shake off my recollective daze and I’m back on the W rooftop. The party has thinned out considerably.

We cab it into a more lively section of downtown to partake in some mindless clubbing. I grab a mouth-watering slice of pesto and cheese from Gaslamp Pizza to keep my energy up. I’m still on central time, and it’s well past my bedtime.

It’s amazing how four attractive women don’t have to wait in line or pay a cover. Married couples always wait and pay.

The highlight for me is when my sophisticated skirt gets tangled with another girl’s similar ensemble at the bar. Cool never lasts very long on me.

A lip-smacking delight of chicken tacos at Tequila 100 is the perfect end to my sassy heel marathon.

Although my feet are complaining, Devon battles her own demons in vindictive platform shoes. She could barely walk at this point.

I’m ready to curl up on the sidewalk, twinkling skirt and all, as we watch every cab barrel by with boisterous passengers.

A loud ruckus clamors from every direction as drunkards stream out of the bars–staggering, laughing, slurring, and flirting.

Fortunately, a rickshaw comes to our rescue. With numb feet, disheveled hair, and runny eye make-up our rumpled group rides off at a snail’s pace into the San Diego moonlight.

A futon mattress never looked so good.

Tune in next Tuesday for the final part…Day 3, San Diego: Like…Chill, Dude.