flibbertigibbet

A Mother-Daughter Bond: The Richard Simmons Effect

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 20:26:00 +0000

    A man brought us together.

    I was an independent, pompous, stubborn, know-it-all teenager; like all independent, pompous, stubborn, know-it-all teenagers, the relationship I had with my mother was volatile at best. As an old hag now of middle age, I realize in hindsight that the volatility of our mother-daughter bond was more a result of our being so very much alike than anything else.

    My angst came from a place of wanting to get out already, and hers from that desperate heartache of knowing her oldest baby bird simply could not wait to fly away.

    A car accident my senior year of high school grounded me to the confines of home for a couple of months while I healed. This housebound time equipped me with all the tools of becoming a proper young woman in the late 1980s: a paper bag filled with Dean Koontz and VC Andrews books, gossip rags by the vat-load, daytime talk shows, and the amazing sagas of The Young and the Restless. All passed down like a rite of passage from mother to daughter. Between you and me, those few months provided me with all the education I needed to leave the nest and venture out on my own drama-filled Jerry Springer inspired life. I did already know it all, after all.

    Ahem.

    One might think that a moody teen cooped up at home all day would intensify the sultans of swing and put a damper on the already testy mother-daughter dynamic in the house. Ironically, this was not the case. My mother cared for me during this time and made sure I was as comfortable and happy as could be. I suppose you could say she home schooled me in all the tool providing lessons outlined above.

    For a number of reasons, it didn’t seem odd when I cut the two-by-two inch square black and white headshot photo of 80s exercise guru Richard Simmons out of US Magazine and taped it to my mother’s bedroom door as a joke. What did seem odd was that she loved it so much, it became a permanent fixture. For more than twenty-five years, this little photo has remained affixed to the door with hospital tape. The photo, with its faded, curled edges, still graces the hallway of my mother’s home untouched—just as I placed it when I was a girl.

    I’m not sure if the timing was purely coincidental with my needing to be cared for and the fact that the sun was rising on the moment when I would fly away and begin my own journey as a young adult in life, or if the photo of Richard Simmons on my mother’s door simply signified a white flag and new silent understanding in our relationship, but it has brought us each joy and a continued remembrance of a special pocket of time when we formed a new bond on top of the stairway.

    We walk by Richard’s goofy, smiling face and laugh. We remember the time. We recall how funny we thought it was and how we giggled so together at his presence despite my being very ill. And when we weren’t basking in the joy that the photo somehow brought us, we were sharing our thoughts on the paperback books and gossip rags we read or curled up together on her bed totally engaged in the latest happenings of Y&R. She would fix me small bites to eat—my favorites like ice cream or english muffins with peanut butter—in hopes that I would keep some food down. She would sit up with me at night to comfort me as my head hung in the toilet as a result of not being able to keep those awesome snacks in my belly. She took me to doctor appointment after doctor appointment in search of an explanation for what was happening with me, and encouraged and supported the decision to allow me to go to my prom despite my nerves and chronic ailment. She defended me when told it was in my head, and she put my needs selflessly far ahead of her own.

    As mothers sometimes do.

    She did all these things all the while knowing that in a few short months, I would eagerly leave home and leave her behind with her memories and a faded photo of Richard Simmons stuck to the door. Before this, I was like any other teenage girl—completely and utterly transfixed on my own life, my own self, and my own needs. I kept things to myself and was so involved in outside activities that home was barely a pit stop, and questions from mother regarding my whereabouts, my life, my thoughts, my feelings were nothing short of a nuisance. My accident stopped all that, slowed me down, and gave us both the gift of having that time together. Time when I allowed myself to share, and allowed myself to be taken care of—something I don’t necessarily excel at in my psyche. Time when we could sit quietly and talk about the interests we shared. And when it comes down to it, our interests are very similar. My mother had much more of an impact on me than I think she even realizes today. Because of her influence, I am a dedicated mother, a strong independent woman, I find value in laughter, love, and creativity. I encourage my children to embrace their individuality, even when at times it endangers me to feeling left behind.

    As mothers sometimes do.

Richard Simmons and me - circa 1994

    A man brought us together, but it was the love of a selfless woman that made us strong.

    Several years later, just after college, I worked at CNN. Imagine my excitement when Richard Simmons came to our bureau for a segment with Larry King. I just knew I had to get a photo with him. I sat in on the interview and we had a Polaroid taken of us—not before singing show tunes together. Swear to God. If it hadn’t been for my special memory, none of this would have mattered, but in a strange way, it was kismet.

    Funny how as adults, we visit home and regress in spirit to our youth. When I walk through the upstairs hallway at my mom and stepdad’s house, and pass by the faded photo of Richard Simmons on my mother’s bedroom door, I always stop and smile—and even joyfully laugh—and feel the calm embrace of my mother from decades past as she nursed me back to health so I’d be strong enough to fly away from her nest.

    As children always do.

I thought I was an archaeologist...but I was just a nerd.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 08:04:00 +0000

There was a dark and twisted path that led between the edge of the Rec Park and a couple of haunted houses to short cut our way over to Pearl Street. Truly, it wasn't much of anything, but at eleven-years-old, one has a tendency to turn anything into everything.

We cut through the path after hanging out down at the park doing something amounting to not much of anything, but no matter. We noticed shiny bits and pieces poking up from the ground. Wide eyed, my friend Stephanie and I looked at each other and made hyper-excited, manic guttural sounds like a couple of spazzed-out losers on parade.

She grabbed a stick and I grabbed a rock, and we began our excavation. Befitting only because this was during my I want to be an archaeologist phase (like every kid in 1981). Of course, I also wanted to be an oceanographer or actress or writer or nun, depending on the day. Yeah, don't ask. This was right before I found out that archaeology was less about looking chic in khakis and quirky hats, and more about knowing, like, science and having to climb and dig a lot. And getting sweaty and dirty. And dealing with bugs. I'm just not the outdoorsy type, as sexy as this all sounds.

But treasure beckoned. Trinkets shined. And I knew. I just knew this was an ancient Indian burial ground replete with undiscovered relics from the days of yore. I thought to myself, what would Nancy Drew do in this situation? Yeah, that's right, Bucko. [Shout out to my main man Richie Cunningham, yo!] Nancy would dig. Nancy would investigate and she wouldn't stop until she got answers. I burrowed my knees into the gnarly path and christened the ground with my rock, stabbing at the soil relentlessly as Steph tackled a nearby spot with her stick.

"Hey, look!" she shouted, proudly holding up the remnants of what looked to be an old fashioned Coke bottle (likely from the year before).

We ran around kind of bumping into each other stupidly for a second, until we returned to pulling out pieces of broken bowls and rotten silverware from the hole Steph was focusing on. Oh my God. This place is a gold mine. We are going to be RICH!

I slowly returned to my excavation site and plunged my rock into the earth one last time, finally noticing something, something that didn't quite belong. Something that made my breath stop.

A pirate's smile crept across my face as I held the long jaw bone up for Steph to see.

I had made a pre-historic discovery.

I believe I suffered a slight stroke because I was drooling out of the left side of my mouth uncontrollably as we gathered and dug up all the dinosaur bones we could find and carefully cradled them into a makeshift gurney made of my friend's Gumby beachtowel.

Dude, we are going to be famous!

Of course, we didn't use the word dude back in 1981 quite like we would use "dude" today -- I'm sure it was the late 70s/early 80s equivalent of what one would refer to their female friend in a sassy broad, super casual sort of way. Perhaps something like, Disco Doll, we are going to be famous! I couldn't wait to get home to show my mother the treasure. Indeed, I was a true, real life archaeologist. I mean, this could totally make Ripley's Believe it or Not!

My mother was excited all right. But in a different way than I had hoped. Instead of praising me for my find, she actually acted grossed out that I would dig something like that up and then bring it home, what was I thinking? Blah blah blah. Bellyaching that I dug up some random animal bones out of someone's backyard. I mean, like, as if.

It's called a dinosaur, babe.

Uh, right? Errr...oh. Shudder. Oh, to be a child. I didn't know. I sincerely thought I had made a great scientific find. I didn't realize my great scientific find was really just me being kind of...blonde.

Well, that kind of ended my taste of wanting to become the she-Indiana Jones, which is probably a good thing. I needed that dose of reality...the lifestyle isn't at all suited for me. I'm far too prissy. And blonde. Ish.

God, no wonder I was such a nerd.

First Day Flirt

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 06:09:00 +0000

"Kristi's Concentrated Mood Swing" - G.B. Davis Elementary School, 1975

The glaring message flashed in neon:

Kristi is a flirt.

There could have been a worse sentiment I suppose, but despite glowing reports throughout the years of what a joy I was and how great I was doing in class, the flirt thing pretty much set the tone for my entire life going forward. Not that I care what other mothers think of me when I drop my boy off at school in the morning in my pajamas, Tina Fey glasses, and knotted hair standing on end...but suck it, Stepford Barbie(s)!

I wasn't so proud at the time, however. I didn't snicker at memories of the whole affair like a Grandpa Bob hearing about Billy getting caught drinking beer for the first time. I also did not find it funny that my indescretion and subsequent mood swing was captured in a photograph by The Malone Evening Telegram to be featured for all the world to see. Well, the town of Malone--cows, cats, horses and all.

It was September 1975. The air was crisp and damp as it normally would be that time of year in Northern New York. I could not wait to start school. I was so excited to start school, I nearly peed my pants (but not literally as the girl sitting behind me on paper towels did in the aforementioned newspaper photo).

My mother lovingly curled my hair and pinned the sides up with barrettes. I'm guessing she lightly blushed my cheekbones with a little color as well so that my fair skin would stand out against the frilly dress she bought for my first day. With new Buster Browns on foot and book bag in hand, Mom buttoned up my little trench coat and we walked to the end of Coolidge Court to await the school bus.

The first day of school remained a lack of sleep inducing nervous occasion from that first day of Kindergarten all the way through my last year of college. It made me a wreck, but I loved it as well...having night sweats planning my "first day" outfit and internal chants of this year it will be different while contemplating how this was going to be the year that I would find myself at the height of popularity. Ever notice that the kids who have discussions in mirrors with themselves about how the upcoming year is going to be different and plan their climb to popularity are the ones that quite never break through the interior of the circle? No matter--I had a ton of friends and, in hindsight, wouldn't trade being a circle floater for the world!

My teacher was the most beautiful teacher in the world. I stepped off the bus, unsure of where to go, but somehow was instantly ushered by Mrs. Kemp into her line. As we walked into the classroom, my eyes grew big at the stuff.

I love stuff.

There was a whole wall of "play kitchen" and easels, toys, musical instruments. A piano sat towards the back of the room, our seats were in a perfect U. Just as it was our first day of school ever, this was Mrs. Kemp's first teaching job (as I understand it). The paper featured a picture of her as well, and it captured how I remember her perfectly: a huge white-toothed smile, long, straight and shiny brown hair, kind eyes, and sitting at her piano -- where I would just die time and time again whenever she sang "The Name Game" (aka "The Banana Song"). She made the chicks on Romper Room and The Magic Garden seem like crack whores. And I loved those broads.

Towards the end of the day, just before bus line, we grabbed our coats and sat on the carpet for story time, the exact moment when the reporter from The Telegram (is a journalist reporting a story about the first day of Kindergarten the equivalent of small town cops rescuing kittens all day?) invaded our room. I sat against the wall in between two boys--Donny and Jerry.

We were giggling and--I have to admit--not paying much attention to Mrs. Kemp's story. But what is a girl to do? Attention is attention, man. I have no idea how we got there, and it moves like a slow motion train wreck in my mind, but Donny and Jerry soon discovered that little blonde Kristi was ticklish. She was ticklish all right and a natural giggler to begin with--so my little girl squeals stopped traffic at that moment, so to speak.

My beautiful teacher scowled and boy-howdy, she was sore. I do not recall the exact words she said, but the general admonishment was in reference to my being a flirt and I was sentenced to sit in the middle of the group well out of touching range of the other children. The way I saw it, it wasn't my fault that those two had tickled me. It tickled! How could I not laugh?!

The reporter's photo captures the very next moments perfectly. A portrait is painted of me sitting in the middle of the group with a big frown on my face--mad, eyes stinging from holding back tears (there was no way I was going to crack...not my style) with stubborn German aplomb, the caption of the photo reading: "CONCENTRATION." Oh, I was concentrating all right.

I mean, really. The girl behind me could piss her pants and be taken care of with a smile and a few paper towels from the art room, and I was punished...for being happy? And maybe a little giggly? And paying attention to Donny and Jerry rather than the story? Fie.

I think that was pretty much the only time I was chastised for anything in Kindergarten. (Donny did enter the picture again in 2nd grade when Mrs. Goddeau punished me by making me sit behind her desk while everyone else played outside, just because Donny thought it would be funny to swat me on the wrist with a ruler. How was that my fault? I don't get it. "Kristi is a flirt.")

I loved that first year of school, I adored Mrs. Kemp with her big smile and shiny hair, and I went bananas whenever she'd sing The Name Game at her piano.

When I look at that old crazy photo with my mood swing front and center, I'm filled with that feeling of warm nostalgia pudding. I wasn't angry for being punished, I wasn't mad at the boys, I wasn't concentrating...I was sad that I had disappointed my beautiful new teacher.

The second day of school was a whole new ballgame.

Donny and Jerry would pay.

Blaming Duran Duran.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 05:02:00 +0000

Hope you enjoy Blaming Duran Duran! For something a little different, check out my video reading of the piece. It's long, it's rudimentary, and I'm goofy...but I did it (and cracked myself up with my special editing "artistry" in the process), so here you go!

Somewhere in the bowels of summer 1983, a metamorphosis began.

Fading away were the days of Barbie and Ken love trysts and latch hook kits; the dawn of sneaking plastic cups filled with fine boxed wine from the fridge was imminent. In the midst of this change, in the hollows of my cocoon, the ‘tween years arose like a passing mist in the night.

Look now, look all around, there’s no sign of life…

Tonia and I bonded at the beginning of eighth grade, spending hours on the phone confessing innocent crushes via “guess who it is by the initials” game, roller skating, popcorn, and a mutual love of music videos.

But it was Duran Duran—a band—that created the electrified excitement with this new best friendship and would place itself firmly into the benchmark of my youthful memoirs as a defining bridge during those developmental years. A young friendship magnified by the enthusiasm of a shared interest. Perfectly timed with the "discovery" of boys, Tonia was really my first confidant—so to share bubbly, girlish, innocent excitement over our new found teen idols was only natural.

“Oh my God, he’s so cute! I am so going to marry him.”

Fact: Simon’s favorite car is an Aston Martin.

Fact: John is looking for a girl who is outgoing and has a sense of humor.

Fact: Nick’s birthday is June 8^th.

Fact: Roger’s favorite color is blue.

“I can’t believe he’s dating that Janine/Claire/Julie-Anne/Tracy/etc. witch—she’s such a hag!”

Those details appeared in almost every issue of Teen Beat, Tiger Beat and Bop in the early eighties. And the scary thing is, that was thirty years ago. And I still remember. I know their birthdays. Like, I know their birthdays. I don’t know why I know this…I guess for the same reason I can still recite a Catholic mass even after not going to church for about the same length of time. I was so engrossed in reading everything I could about them when I was thirteen, that I can still tell you the names of their ex-girlfriends. Dude, either I’m some kind of freak or that is really just messed up.

Let me be clear here. I am not a groupie, nor do I obsess about the band, and I haven’t read any “facts” on them in decades. Vogue is infinitely more appealing to me than Tiger Beat. I mean, I did grow up. Yes, I still love their music, but I’ve never even been to a Duran Duran concert. (Not that I wouldn’t want to…it just hasn’t happened that way!) Let’s face it…it was 1983. MTV was still basically uncharted territory—and they were among the pioneers. I was…thirteen.

I was…a Duranie.

Tonia and I spent the majority of our time collecting magazines, posters and pins, obsessing over new music videos, and learning everything there was to know about the boys. There was no internet back then in the olden days, and in Malone—well, there wasn’t much to do but drive to Plattsburgh to buy a felt John Taylor fedora or bleach your rat tail and bangs with peroxide. (But let’s not talk about that.) MTV was new, so we would spend hours waiting for a video to come on…especially Save a Prayer. You know, elephants.

If Tonia wasn’t at my house and they were to be featured on Friday Night Videos, I’d race to the big phone that hung on our kitchen wall, tripping over my feet, and dial her number as fast as possible. That phone was great. It had an extra long cord; it was full of knots. We spent hours listening to our tapes, rewinding, rewinding, and rewinding yet again to write down the lyrics of all the songs so we could memorize them. Remember when lyrics weren’t included with a record or cassette? Poor us. Kids these days (oh my God, did I just really use the phrase “kids these days”?) don’t know what they’re missing. I mean, when you’d get to like that fifth song on the cassette to suddenly hear slight warbling…you’d hold your breath and pray that you wouldn’t hear the squeal next, which usually meant that the tape was coming out all over the place, therefore leading to the inevitable emergency manual rewind with a pencil. Good times.

I had to spend a few weeks with my father at the end of the summer. Before my trip, on a lark and out of boredom, we each started to write a little Duran Duran story. Tonia and I sat next to each other out on the lounge chairs as my Rio tape blared ad nauseam, and began our adventures. What started as a few paragraphs became longer. “Every few pages we’ll share,” she said, and the more we wrote, the more we each eagerly anticipated the continuation of our stories. When I left to go to my dad’s, we were excited about our new assignment—to mail each other new pages every few days.

I was Alexa (Alex for short) and she was Tia. Naturally, we drove Aston Martins, suffered from all sorts of dramatic ailments, and life was a spiderweb of love, desire, near deaths and pain with the Fab Five. Alex married Nick Rhodes, had an affair with Simon Le Bon, and eventually found her soulmate in John Taylor. She got around. (Pretty creative for a girl who wasn’t even kissing boys yet!) Tia flip-flopped between Andy and Roger. The writings were melodramatic fantasies of thirteen-year-old girls and we wrote hundreds of handwritten pages each. And despite the love triangles, it really couldn’t have been more innocent. Hell, I think my Ken knocking up four Barbies at once was more scandalous. Whoosh.

Some people call it a one night stand but we can call it paradise.

In reality, while I’d like to picture myself a long-legged, tanned, sophisticated blonde babe who would have been John Taylor’s jail bait Yoko Ono, I have to honestly paint the portrait of the gawky dishwater blonde kid who may have had long legs, but they were probably covered in scabs and patches of straggly hairs that the razor missed.

I was a late bloomer.

You know you're something special and you look like you're the best.

Late 1984. Beginning to mature out of posters and pins....

As time passed, we couldn’t wait for the release of Seven and the Ragged Tiger—and Arena—and when the time came, we spent hours perfecting our “Simon’s Reflex dance,” learning new lyrics, and practicing essential Duran Duran artwork. (I said I was a late bloomer.) Although our interests were diversifying, we swooned over Do They Know It’s Christmas? and were still there for Arcadia and Power Station—perhaps in a more subtle, less hyperactive way, but we were still listening. And we weren't alone. We were only two small soldiers stranded in a typhoon of fans like us, ubiquitous references to Tiger Baby, suede booties, wicked basslines, and a penchant for dancing like Jack Sparrow on LSD.

I think about that time of my life and smile at the innocence of it. When I think of the bridge between my childhood and teenage years, I picture a Patrick Nagel emblazoned walkway.

People tell me I haven't changed at all but I don't feel the same,

and I've bet you've had that feeling too—you can't laugh all the time.

The first book I ever wrote was never published.

It remains in a tattered Seven and The Ragged Tiger folder in the same sea of assorted remnants and photographs from my youth under that bed at my mother’s house. In all its purple, bubble lettered fan-fiction cringe-worthiness, it was a blossom of creativity, imagination, and fun—including the super secret “folded” page—for a small town girl with stars in her eyes. I guess I should blame Duran Duran for playing a part in my life-long aspiration to become a writer. And to think—the evidence still exists. Under a bed in Malone, New York, remains a piece of my childhood. Of our childhood.

We started high school...and we crossed the bridge. We grew up. And boys and pizza and parties—well, they were just a little more tangible than posters were.

I think I'd die, I think I'd laugh at you; I think I'd cry…what am I supposed to do, follow you?

Although I’m an old broad now, I must confess I still get giddy. I play it cool, you know. But my thirteen-year-old self still lives somewhere deep inside of me, and when I hear a song or hear the name “Duran Duran” my heart sometimes skips a beat. Jesus, it’s like Pavlov’s Dog. In my defense, I love the remembrances of my youth. I’m a memoirist, it’s what I write about. And in this particular case, they played a big role in the formation of one of my best and most defining friendships in high school—in addition to one of my best and most defining friendships as an adult, which is another story.

Where is my friend when I need you most? Gone away.

And then, there was that time I actually did get to meet the men of Duran Duran.

Funny story, really....

In My Life.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 19:17:00 +0000

Grandpa & Kristi, 1973 - Saranac Lake, NY

It sure flies by, doesn’t it?

And while I’m the first to lash out at loved ones for viewing life in a pessimistic manner, I am self-aware enough to know that, despite my protests to the contrary, I am indeed the Mary Magdalene of Glass-Half-Empty. But you can just call me The Patron Saint of Losers.

Wearing only my bottom retainer and big black glasses, I sit here in my pajama bottoms and Yankees t-shirt wanting desperately to write something inspired, funny, poignant. Lasting even. But all I’m doing, really, is skipping stones into that little stream nestled deep in the woods where no one ever sees.

Why? Because I don’t leave that little stream nestled deep in the woods where no one ever sees.

Just past my forty-first birthday, and as every second passes, desperately further away from where I ever wanted to be. Like Alice spiraling down the rabbit hole, there’s nothing I can do but head trip on visions of marmalade jars passing by.

As I give into my freefall and stare in wonderment at those assorted passing jars, I reach out and feel the slightest whisper against the back of my hand: spots of time flashing before my eyes—accomplishments made, dreams lost, joys, disappointments, and quick glimpses of the portraits of my current longings. All taunting me until I hit the ground. It is in that moment, when my plummet comes to a screeching halt, that I think of the word. I know where I've been, what this hole is that I've fallen through, and I know there's a way to get through Wonderland to the other side. I have thought of the word that has caused my fall. That word...I scream it out loud, with bitterness and rage so it echoes, to ensure that I hear it and hear it well, in hopes that this time, perhaps this time, it will finally sink in.

The word? It’s that four letter “F”-word.

Fear.

He was a big man.

He could have weighed upwards of three or four hundred pounds at his heaviest for all I know, I’m not sure. But he was tall and big. He had kind eyes, and a loud hearing-aid enhanced booming voice that was somehow at times oddly high-pitched for such a big, masculine man. A lumberjack by trade was what I had come to understand his career had once been when he was much younger. In my life, he had always been retired and his career seemed to me to consist more of tinkering at his workbench, hunting, bowling, playing bridge, eating lots of fun foods, watching All In The Family, Sanford and Son or his "story" As The World Turns in his green vibrating chair, and enjoying a good highball.

His eyes sparkled with a certain impishness and love that I could never quite put into words. His laughter boomed and lit the whole town with electricity. His stomach shook like Santa’s. And when he ate, he made funny sounds with his mouth that sounded like, well, for lack of a less lady-like term…like…farting. Grandpa at the dining room table in his stained big man's t-shirt and horn-rimmed glasses, laughing and shouting and whooping it up at hearing aid decibels, making sure we had plenty to eat on our plates and were laughing just as hardily. "Pass the gravy" he'd shout in his way--that certain loud, excitable way that many other first and second generation aunts, uncles and grandparents from the Polish and German sections of factory towns spoke--followed by a mouth fart. Not a burp, mind you. It was like a tick of some kind...where you blow through your mouth and make your lips vibrate to until you deliver the music of choice. Granted, it wasn't intentional. I think it had to do with his false teeth slipping out, which was another massive treat that I loved, loved, loved. "Pass the butter--pfftttfffhhhhhhttt." It would simply send peals of laughter out of my brother and me, who were no more than just a couple of very young, innocent--and obviously immature--buffoon children who loved him with all of our hearts and souls. "Now take your teeth out, Grandpa!" we'd squeal. And with twinkling eyes, he'd oblige.

He was everything. And from the time I was a toddler, that man had a very special place in my heart.

A pig-tailed little girl walks up to the large figure lounging in the corner chair, her shadow outlined before him. She looks up in admiration with big brown saucer eyes and a toothless smile. His arms reach out to her, and without words, he urges her to jump up into his chair—knowing fully well she would start to push all the different buzzy buttons on the recliner, and ask him excitedly to take his teeth in and out. Maybe, or maybe not, knowing that when he hugged her tight, like a big black bear with no words, that his overflowing unconditional love would sometimes bring her to tears. She didn't know or understand at the time why she would cry, when all he did was make her feel so happy, so loved--so unquestioned and so safe. She knew he would never hurt her nor put her in harm's way. He was as gentle as they come, yet he was also fiercely protective of those he loved. Like a big black bear. Not unlike the kind he would often talk about coming across during his hunting trips, not unlike the kind that might just walk across your backyard one night in Saranac Lake. For his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his family, dear friends, he would fight--like a big black bear.

Thunder and lightning rolled in quickly, as it often did during the Adirondack summers. He took the girl's trembling hand, and led her out onto the covered front porch. It was a quiet moment. “Don’t be scared, Kristi!” he shouted. (Yes, it was a quiet moment, but remember, there was that hearing aid loud booming voice issue.) Grandfather and child sat down on the rockers and together counted the seconds between the lightning and thunder until the storm rolled out. And it made it okay. And it became their thing; whenever there was a storm, Grandpa and the girl would head straight for the porch to count the seconds, despite her odd paranoia that a lightning bolt was going to hit her in the ass.

When he died, a part of me died too.

I mourned the fact that I had lost this ability to be better about reaching out to people I loved. That I hadn’t visited my home, my family in the Adirondacks more. I mourned that my unborn son would not get to know my amazing grandfather and love him so infinitely the way that I did. To be able to hear his infectious laughter, the boom of his voice, or weep tears of joy away from the feeling of pure love when he bear hugged you.

At his funeral, they asked if anyone would like to say anything. In an unlikely move, I jumped right up. Not knowing what I would say, but also knowing everything I could say. I was heartbroken and didn't want to let go. I had to say something. So I opened my heart and spoke. He was everything. He was joy. He was inspiration. He was comfort. He was love. Even in his big grandpa panties and stained t-shirt, he was all of this and more. Plus he made the mouth fart noises at the table. (The last part savored only for my own personal inner monologue.) When I spoke of him, I recalled how he and I would go out for donuts in the morning for breakfast and always get secret ones for ourselves and pull over to the side of the road before going back to my house, to eat all the good ones. We loved these little cinnamon apple jobbies. But all the good ones. Didn't matter. Jelly...all of them. I left the coconut and the plains. We thought we were so sneaky and giggled like maniacs. And that spot of time? It belonged to us. And it still belongs to me. In that moment, when I told this story at his funeral to our close family and friends, I suddenly realized that he was creating that time with me, creating a life long bond that I would never forget even once he was gone. It wasn't about the donuts at all. It was about creating our spots of time together.

Tears and snot streamed down my face as I imagined one last bear hug. But he wasn't there. His body was in the room, but his life was not. There was no mistaking when my grandfather was present. He was bigger than life, he lit the room so bright with the glow of his personality. His spirit was unmistakeable. And he was a little bit on the devilish side. In a good way.

How I wish I could have been there to say goodbye.

And tell him that I loved him.

To not be afraid.

That dirty four letter word: fear.

Fear is keeping me from life. From all aspects of life. From the corners of life I should be living, prospering in, sharing, and not crying away.

I think the deeper I love, or the more I want something, the more fear paralyzes me. I fear my potential future mistakes and failures as deeply as I rue the past ones I've already experienced. I'm afraid of being in the same exact spot I was last year and the year before that. Afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to live. Afraid I won’t succeed, afraid if happiness knocks on my door, it’s only to eventually leave. Mistakes and failures are part of life, but if I don't open myself up, I'm also keeping out the successes and joy. I'm afraid if I don't bash this fear bitch in the face, she's going to eat away at me.

If Grandpa Daniels was still alive today, I’d take a little trip to see just him…Grandma too. I’d show up bright and early and insist on making them brunch just so I could whip up a big batch of pancakes. Because, after all, I used to kill Grandpa consistently in pancake eatin’ contests, thank you very much. Then, I’d love to take his hand and walk out on the front porch and sit in the rocking chairs where we would count off seconds between the thunder and lightning. And this would be my chance to tell him the things that I can so easily express when I write, but am a complete imbecile about when it comes to actually saying to someone’s face. I would tell him how much I have missed him, and how much of an impact he has had on my life, and how much I love him and think about him. All the time. All the time. About how I can still hear his laughter and sometimes that’s all I have to do to sometimes cheer myself up. I would walk him back up to his lounge chair, and stand in front of him, the shadow of a pigtailed girl – and he would outstretch his arms to me and give me a big bear hug. The kind that would bring me to tears. But this time, I stand back a bit, and I realize that such a hug—perhaps the pure hug from the love of a young child—sometimes brought him to tears as well.

I never knew.

I don’t want to lose this magic with anyone in my life. Each person has their own special place of course, we touch each other in different ways, and somehow I have to find my way back home. In my life, there are so many who play just as important of a role that Grandpa Daniels did, different stories, but my same heart. They had my same heart. And still do. It's why I love to write about the people I grew up with, who have touched me, the town where I was raised, and the quirks of that particular era--they have my heart, they make me laugh, they make me cry, but it's a comfortable, happy cry. I love and have been loved. It's the people I miss, as well as the girl in myself that I left behind.

So, I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have a wonderful family, a man who loves me, a beautiful boy, and the spirit of all those who have touched my life to give me strength. Besides, the girl really is a fighter. She’s got a bit o’ the lumberjack in her I guess, and a hunger to go out and attack her fear, like a big black bear.

People come and go in our lives. But it doesn’t mean they’re gone. For me, they all become a part of my written world, my history, my stories, some fictionalized, some not. Crafted just so. But all very important pieces to me, significant parts, the laughter and tears, and the breath...in my life.

"There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more "
~ In My Life, The Beatles

Motherhood: An Empty Nest.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 06:14:00 +0000

My mother and one of her baby birds (me), 1972

“I can’t wait to get out of this hick town!”

Words like venom.

“And I’m not ever coming back.”

Daggers straight to her heart. And I meant it. With every fiber of my fifteen-year-old being, I meant it. I was getting out of there and I was going to go someplace, I was going to be somebody, I was going to be…famous. Quicker than Frankie could Relax, I planned to get out of there as soon as I graduated from high school. Goodbye, good riddance, and hello world!

When you’re fifteen, you don’t know.

When you’re fifteen, you are so busy growing up, you can’t possibly even see. You can’t see her quiet tears at night, pained at the thought that all you want is to “get out and never come back.” You can't see her sitting on the sofa alone, thumbing through your childhood photos as she wonders, “Oh my gosh, where did my little baby go?”

I know at times it felt to my mother like I was abandoning her, turning my back. And perhaps, in a way, that was the case—but it was in no way intentional, nor meant to hurt her. In my mind, I was merely eager to spread my wings. I loved her so, and I still do. Everything I am as a woman and as a mother today is because of her strength and how much she influenced me. I admired her in a way that I could never put into words. Our personalities are so similar, especially in those volatile younger years, sometimes we would clash. Normal, right?

It wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I truly understood.

Even though I was angry, and sometimes a little surly, and always doing weird things to my hair with lemon juice and Frost & Tip ® , I was so proud of her. I was proud of the independent choices she made, and the examples she set. I admired and emulated her from the time I was a little girl—I thought she was a beautiful Indian princess who looked just like Cher with long shiny dark hair and ABBA clothes. Okay, I was a little imaginative, but—you know—ABBA was awesome. And so was Cher. She is smart and funny, talented, and full of love. And so is my Mom!

My only child is now nine.

He is only nine, yet now I know the fear my mother felt of that impending empty nest doom. As he grows into his own and his personality—which always been so fiery and independent—blossoms, I watch him with pride.

Recently, he began spending nights at his best friend’s house—and while I am thrilled that he is healthy and experiencing all that every young man should experience, it takes my breath away that he indeed is becoming a young man. I’m happy, proud, fascinated, and fear the day he will fly away. Just as I did. I hope he doesn’t fly as far, or with as equal fervor. But, on the other hand, I want him to grow wings. I want him to prosper. I want him to be everything he can be.

In my heart, I know I shouldn’t wallow the time away. Wish it away while spilling drops of red wine on sepia stained photographs. I don’t want to let go.

Is it…like not knowing what motherhood truly feels like until there is an unborn nurturing inside of you?

Is it…like not knowing the thrill of seeing that baby’s face light up when you walk into their bedroom in the morning? That light so bright, it’s what angels must be made of?

Perhaps a mother can’t truly know how the empty nest feels until her babies have flown. The fear could be greater than the pride of when the day comes, and your little one flies away on their own.

There is story I almost never share.

When I was pregnant with my son, a hummingbird made her nest atop a wind chime on our second floor duplex porch in the heart of Los Angeles. Being at the end of my third trimester, and newly laid off, I took particular interest in this nesting bird and her soon to be born babies. I saw it as a good omen. I saw it as so symbolic, and I was in love with my little mama bird. I watched her every day from the side window, and recorded her progress on our video and still cameras to keep in the baby book. Every day.

Right before I gave birth myself, mama bird’s eggs hatched. In this teeny tiny little nest resting on top of a very small wind chime, Mama took care of her two babies; she would often disappear for chunks of time, I assume to get food. How excited I was that in this spring, such wonderful symbolism of new birth and life occurred. I’m a writer. I get off on crap like this.

And then the storm rolled in. I woke up and fetched my camera, as I did daily, to record Mama and her babies. But they weren’t there. It was an unusual spring storm, the large tree that hovered in front of our duplex swung ominously back and forth, and I felt ill.

They weren’t there.

They weren’t there. It was too soon. Where were they? The wind chime swung in time with the wind, whispering an unkind tune. And then I saw it on the floor of our porch, a baby bird--still, gone. I couldn’t breathe. And although the wind had been kicked out of me with immeasurable force, I swung open the door with Wonder Woman strength, frantic as if I was the mama bird herself. Further down the steps, was the other baby. And at the very bottom, near the sidewalk, nature cradled the remains of a tiny egg.

And I sobbed.

Maternity hormones, creative imagination, human feelings overcame me. I called my now ex-husband in tears, and he was sad to hear the fate of my hummingbird family. He knew how transfixed I was on these birds, and he also found a certain odd delight in the symbolism of Mama Bird bringing life into the world at the same time I was about to.

I couldn’t leave the baby birds there. In a way, I had hoped they weren’t dead and that I could nurse them back to health or call a rescue. I put on gardening gloves to protect myself from germs, and went out on the porch. I don’t typically do well with this kind of thing. As I got closer, my heart sank as it became clear that they were indeed gone. I picked up each—while screaming—and put them into a shoebox. I spent the rest of the day standing at that side window like a crazy cat lady watching for Mama. She flew to the wind chime once, and I never saw her again. That nest sat there empty until we moved four years later. My ex-husband wanted to remove the nest for my own mental well-being, but I just couldn’t. What if she came back? Regardless, we did feel that we needed to remove my record of Mama and her babies from the videotapes and photos I was creating.

What struck me the most, and I realize that I’m inserting human emotion here, is how Mama bird must have felt to arrive to her nest, only to find her babies gone. An empty nest. And even before my son was born, I suddenly realized that one day I would come home, and my baby would be gone. There would only be an empty nest.

When my boy is not with me, there are moments when I pour over photos spanning his nine years; I marvel at his journey, and I can’t wait to see how he grows over the next nine years as well. I hope that when he is fifteen and telling me how he can’t wait to be on his own, that I’m able to take it with a grain of salt and not be hurt; I hope to take pride in the fact that I’ve raised an independent, unique, and incredibly talented young man who has the whole world in front of him.

I know that in her 60s, my mother still yearns for her babies. She still feels the pain of an empty nest. Perhaps we will all go through that. But, I think if we do, it means we did our job.

I know my own mother certainly did.

An Unexpected Love Note to the Memories of High School.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 05:45:00 +0000

**Originally posted April 2010

Dear Mr. Vernon,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong, but we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us...in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain...and an athlete...and a basket case....a princess...and a criminal. Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours,
The Breakfast Club

	Simple Minds - Dont You (Forget About Me) Extended

	Found at Dont You (Forget About Me) Extended on KOhit.net

I am often asked about my memories of high school. It occurs to me that while I spend a whole mess of time reminiscing about my childhood, there is a whole chunk of my life that I often skip over—high school.

To be honest, I spent most of my high school years wishing them away. It wasn’t that they were bad—but in my later teenage years, my obsession with leaving Malone—and Northern New York in general—ate away at me in a way that made me almost bitter, and in some ways, desperate.

Despite outward appearances, sharing my true thoughts and feelings with others never came easily to me. I’m certain even those who could confidently say that they were among my best of friends had no idea the hours I spent writing in my bedroom, my love of art and poetry, political ideals, or desire to travel the world. No doubt, I'm sure many assumed that I most likely wanted to be an actress and surely wouldn’t “settle down” any time soon. But how could they truly be sure when I was more guarded than I pretended to be? Ahh...so, so misunderstood! If only the paths we travel down in life could be as smooth and easy as we imagine them to be at sixteen.

How egocentric were we in our youth? I wasn’t the only one who dreamed of escape, nor was I the only high school student to ever take being deemed “different” as a bad thing, rather than extraordinary. And there was the actress thing—my giggles, smiles, and goofy demeanor all over compensated for a terrific amount of teen angst, insecurity and pain. Not that those traits weren’t sincere—they are indeed very much a part of who I am; I laugh, I smile, I’m daffy, and sometimes blindly dark.

But…aren’t we all?

I’ve come to realize that just as I sulked for many years about how oh-so-misunderstood I was and how—at times—unfairly judged, I was just as guilty for not only misunderstanding and unfairly judging many of my counterparts, but the spirit of an entire town as well. In part, I’m ashamed; in part, I blame the shadows of youthful ignorance. Each one of us—after all—was a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal: the heart and soul of the town, in the simplest of terms and most convenient definitions.

When I pull back the curtain of time, what do I see? No longer afraid, no longer bitter, no longer at war with myself—I shed my obnoxiously yuppie-lined sleep mask and recall that it wasn’t so bad at all, life was good, and laughs were plenty. So many things flood back to me. Why else would I find so much inspiration in it all?

So, when asked again, “What are your most vivid memories of high school?” I'll smile and respond that what I cherish most about those years is how carefree it was. What I wouldn’t give to have the most worrisome thing in my life be a requisite worry about what others think of me or what I’m going to do on Saturday night. There were no bills or failed marriages or job worries. No mortgage to stress over, every day errands to run. While life may have seemed dramatic at the time, it was just one long Friday night excursion to The Chateau. Pivans. Bambou.

And, if asked, “But what do you remember most about high school?” I'll take a deep breath and begin my list, in no particular order: chaos at The Cinema Plaza—our town movie theater where somehow I was the chump who always got the ripped seat held together with duct tape that fell to the ground a third of the way through the twenty-sixth showing of Top Gun; the Pizza Box—where the Pied Piper of Hamlin led all of the town kids to the back room where we would all eat pizza with floury burnt dough and spill pitchers of soda on the crooked floor; the Franklin County Fair—which held hours of entertainment riding the skydiver after a few bottles of Diet Pepsi and rum, and endless pages over the intercom for Mike Hunt to come to the front gate; bike riding out to the Whitten Road and back; stealing milk crates from the back of Super Duper for no good reason other than boredom; walking through blizzards in below zero weather to go hang at a friend’s house on snow days; utensil thievery from Pizza Hut…again, for no reason other than boredom (I will refrain from mentioning the-sworn-to-secrecy bubble gum machine extravaganza); skiing at Titus; "tennis" against the big wall at the Rec Park; raiding the liquor cabinets of unsuspecting parents of my friends; Skateland.

I remember laughter – the kind that would make me cry, pee my pants, and/or blow chocolate milk out my nose. Which burns like a mother, FYI. I loved acting in plays, I loved listening to music. I loved the group of upperclassmen who took me under their wing when I was a freshman. I loved the group of underclassmen who took me under their wing when I was a Junior. I liked hanging out in the computer lab at NCCC. The senior parade. Cruising up and down Main Street with absolutely nothing to do…which was sad, since the only thing happening on Main Street were the flashing red traffic lights after ten o'clock. But we laughed and had fun. Sneaking out of my house in the middle of the night to either cruise the blinking traffic light lit empty streets or sit on the swings at the Rec Park, for the hell of it.

I see the faces of all my classmates – students from 1984-1988 circling the hallways of Franklin Academy before that first bell rang. The quirks of some of the teachers—the way my algebra teacher would become nervously flustered and rapidly repeat my name to get back in my seat, the dry sarcasm and wit of my French teacher, the gray patch in the hair of my dreamy social studies teacher, all of my English teachers, how flustered my biology teacher would become when I would wander in 20 minutes late post-swimming (which makes me think of those god awful army-green semi-see through, muffin outlining, 1960s swimsuits that our grandmothers probably wore in our swim classes. I mean, really?)

I remember the laughter and goofiness and jokes of the students in my class, the way we would tease our teachers, how out of control we would get, and how we sometimes got away with murder. I remember snowball fights in the chorus room. Parties. Driving to Canada, dancing in the parking lot with cheap bottles of wine and beer. Every other year it seemed a new place would open up “for the kids to go” only to be closed six months later. There was “The Millennium” in the bottom of The Franklin Hotel as well as the no-alcohol-underage-dance-club which kicked off the whole trend in the building that prior was The Peppermill and after, Ponderosa. Next to Ponderosa was mini-golf, which I believe may have sunk into the ground after a year or two. The bowling alley, which reeked of beer, generic cigarettes, and stiff socks. Parties at the camps of local kids out on Lake Titus.

I remember that when Stereo Steve played "Stairway to Heaven" it was time to leave.

What I remember most about high school are the names and faces of all the people who were a part of my teen years, whether I was particularly close to them or not. We were a small town, and most everyone in that school touched a part of my life and helped mold me into the person I am today. I look back with a certain respect and know that each one of those young students had gifts and talents, dreams and insecurities. We shared a bond, and our histories mirror each other. Most everyone I was close to during those years have re-entered my life in some way. Many others who I didn’t seem to have as much in common with at the time, or grew apart from, or just didn’t hang out with too often outside of the walls of school have also re-entered my life. And there are some that I would say were as close to me as sisters or brothers, who I haven’t spoken with in years—yet they are never far from my mind. Every single loud, shy, smiling, obnoxious, surly, insecure, confident, smart, unguided student in that school contributed to what we had in a way I had never considered during that time of my life. I resisted the idea of reconnecting to my past for a long time, but I can say that I am proud to look at the lives of my former classmates and to see how they too have grown.

When you grow up in a small town and have shared the same classrooms with the same students—give or take—from Kindergarten through 12^th grade, despite who you were friends with, what your clique was, your interests were, or where you spent your free time, the thing you don’t realize until you are much older is that in those years, whether you liked it or not, you were a family.

Life marches on and for the most part we are no longer the same. But when asked what my happiest, most traumatic and completely random high school memories are—I suppose this is the answer. My family. (Love them or hate them...they are the ones that were chosen to be this part of my life. Love them or hate them...they were my family.)

When asked what my favorite memories from high school are, I close my eyes and see all their faces, hear their voices as if it was yesterday, all of them—the brain, the athlete, the basket case, the princess, and the criminal—in the simplest terms and most convenient definitions.

Does that answer your question?

The Folly of Heartbreak (2011)

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 16:18:00 +0000

Thirty-one years ago this month it happened. I wrote this piece last year, but am re-running it in Deanna's honor and have made a few edits. I've also added a couple more photos. Today I am thinking about an angel....

Yes. That's me in the mustard yellow tights.

Summer of 1979, Deanna & Kristi

And we did other things too. We spent time at Grandma and Grandpa Daniels' house, we played outside, played with Grandpa's big lime green motorized reclining chair (it vibrated!), we played dolls--she had Baby Alive, which kicked ass because of its--you know--bodily functions. My stupid doll just crawled around when you switched a button on her back. Boring. She was much more fun when you'd tie her up in a brown bag, legs twitching and all, and drop her off from the top of the stairs.

What?

We shared secrets and laughed until we cried. That kind of laughing just reeks of pure joy and love.

It was a great way to end the summer, especially since once school started, we wouldn’t be able to see each other as often.

	Art Garfunkel - Bright Eyes

	Found at Bright Eyes on KOhit.net

When my mother picked me up and we drove away, I was grateful I had the chance to spend that time with Deanna. The reason my feelings had become at times sad was that it was my first experience with the tauntings of depression. I needed Deanna, I needed a friend, desperately then. Mom and Dad had just separated, and this would be my first year in a new school, with many personal changes that ended up being not quite so graceful. Deanna had been through this before, she knew. And even if she didn't...she knew me.

Unfortunately, with the beginning of school, I knew it would be a while before Deanna and I were able to speak again. We didn't have computers and long-distance phone calls were taboo back then (in the olden days). Even though our towns were only separated by about an hour or so, in the dead of winter in the Adirondacks--in the 1970s--we may as well have been separated by states. And in the spring, we would see each other again, perhaps awkward or nervous at first, and within fifteen minutes back to our special bond.

Indeed, as it turned out, that fall of 1979 was anything but easy. I guess it's hard to follow up such a fun end of the summer -- but handling the changes was difficult, and for some time I became withdrawn into my then favorite book Watership Down. I would read it over and over. It's all I did. But eventually, time started ticking away. The dawn of 1980 arose, and soon the promise of Easter loomed, which also meant that summer was right around the corner. I was so excited. So excited. When Deanna and I had last spoken on the phone for the holidays, she told me about some of the fun things she'd discovered for us to do together around town; I couldn't wait.

She was the only person I believed who could see me for who I still was. Who could understand. Who knew that while I was sad, I could still laugh, and while I was happy, I could still feel pain. I think she even knew that my certain amount of goofiness would help create the person I'm proud to be today. I counted the days. Literally counted them until I could finally see my sister.

***

Why is mom picking me up? S'weird....

She never picked us up from school, unless we were sick. We lived very close, so rides weren't at all necessary. She came to the school early and, without a word, we walked to the car.

"What? What's wrong?"

My mother paused and began to speak, her voice cracking a bit, tears filling her eyes.

Something is very wrong. The fire I felt in my heart kept me from breathing. I didn't know what it was, but I felt my mother's pain, and it hurt like nothing I had known.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know how to tell you...." She shook. But what words needed to be said? How do you tell your 10-year-old child that her dearest cousin and best friend had been killed? A 12-year-old girl of beguiling charm, and the closest thing to a sister I had at the time, the innocent victim of a drunk driver as she crossed the street with her bike.

This was the first death -- and last one for a very long time -- that I had experienced by loved ones in my life. I went with my mother to the wake. Although I was only 10, my mom understood how close we were. It almost didn't seem real. Not until the next day when the postman brought a letter that was addressed to me, written in big purple bubble writing -- telling me of her day's adventure and some of the things we needed to do that summer together. I look at it it now, and its charm of a child with her polite and innocent questions, her first formal letter to me. She must have mailed it the very same day she was struck. My hands shaking. It remains in a photo album at my mother's house, the ink smeared with tears.

My first heartbreak.

I’m not quite sure if it was her death and the lasting memory of our time at the rink together that drove my young obsession with skating, but I loved everything about it. Not to sound, like, super weird, but I was haunted by it--by skating. My Grandparents had given us each a necklace with a roller skate charm the previous Christmas, and it was my most prized possession. When I would skate, if a favorite song came on, I would touch the charm and shut out the world, building up as much speed as I could finesse–and during those moments of solitude, I would talk to Deanna in my head and tell her, "This skate is for you."

In fact, I talked to Deanna quite often in my head when I was feeling down, or confused…and I did this for a number of years. What can I say–I missed her, and her ghost made me feel strong.

I tend to keep my emotions to myself quite often, and I’m not sure that anyone ever knew how deeply I mourned for the loss of my cousin and friend in my youth, or how much I think the event of her passing influenced the woman I grew into. Here it is, over thirty years later–and I still think about her. I still hold her dear to my heart. And I even look to her for strength when I need it, just as I did when I'd get lost on skates as a young girl. Over thirty years later, and I still remember her laugh. Over thirty years later, she lives on very much, every single day, within me. She's there. A guardian angel, proud as she watches me be strong, independent, urging me to be free, happy, and helping me understand that my pain does not mean that I'm broken. And when I feel a piece of her there like that, I can do anything I want and be anything I damn well please. I can move through life with grace and I can feel the air kiss my face as I proverbially skate.

Those who touch our hearts live on forever.

Riding in The Way-Way Back of the Station Wagon

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 08:31:00 +0000

*A re-post of one of my favorites from last year. Enjoy!

Kristi & Wendy sharing the "musical chair" on the far left.

He honked the horn and partially leaned out of the window giving an enthusiastic thumbs up to the family van in front of us—one of those cool 1970s retro numbers with a kitchen table inside and white leather covered wheel on the back.

His right hand reached for the radio knob and he pumped up the volume, much to the eye-rolling dismay of my mother in the passenger seat. I’ll never forget the song thumping through the speakers, and it will forever make me think of my Dad and our one big family vacation we took in 1978 to Old Orchard Beach, Maine; the song was Miss You by The Rolling Stones and my father honked and hollered throughout its entire play.

	Rolling Stones - Miss You

	Found at Miss You on KOhit.net

At eight years old, a road trip from Northern New York to Maine felt like a week-long trek across the country. What seemed like days was probably no more than a good twelve hours or so (if that), but I’m too lazy to do the math or measure it on a map or whatever. I recall Mom and Dad waking us before the sun came up. My brother Jason and I stumbled into the way-way back of our candy apple red station wagon with pillows and blankets to assume the appropriate positions for making faces at cars behind us, holding our breaths when passing cemeteries, and doing that hand motion thing at tractor trailers so they’d blow their horn, baby. Road trip vacations will never be quite like they were in the 70s—before seat belt laws were implemented or kids were able to camp out in the back and fathers were able to drive with beer between their legs. (Perhaps that was never quite law-abiding, but it certainly wasn’t anything taboo or out of the ordinary back then in the disco era.)

We rolled out of town following family friends Nick and Sharon and their two boys; we would be shacking up with them at the beachfront-ish apartment rented for the week. “I wanna ride in the van!” I whined incessantly. So wicked jealous of that van. I could just picture the boys sitting at the table playing games and eating Fluffernutter sandwiches and Jean’s potato chips, or something of the gourmet sort that I loved back then. Alas, I was not allowed to leave my post of blowing raspberries on the back window of our wagon or steaming them up with my breath to then make “footprints” with my hands.

Vacations are vastly different through the eyes of a child. I’m sure the recollections of my Mom and Dad are immeasurably different from mine, which flicker through my head in all their silent 8mm glory. I never returned to Old Orchard Beach after that trip, so I have no idea how big or small or crowded or quaint or “old” it may be. (Although I have a pretty good idea.) I think I remember my parents talking about a boardwalk, but I can’t envision it. At that age, I had only been to various spots around the Adirondacks—and Syracuse a couple of times (go Orangemen!)—so anything outside of those borders seemed foreign, big and bustling to me.

As we drove up the crowded drive to our “beach front apartment” – oh, yeah, let's try beach front-ISH apartment. Beach adjacent, if you will – I was in awe of the number of people, the children running around everywhere, and the ocean straight ahead. I’d never been exposed to anything other than Meacham Lake or Fish Creek, the Rec Park—any odd Adirondack lake or pond sporting floating pieces of bark and whatnot—so to see the ocean and experience the scent of fish, salt water, seaweed, seagull crap, and tanning oil was quite something. I suppose the closest I came was the St. Lawrence Seaway, but nothing like this.

We bolted out of the car. Funny the things that we remember as being particularly fascinating—things that we would never consider interesting in the least today…I spotted a vending machine and ran up to it. I was mesmerized by the deposit return signs, which I had never seen before. In fact, I’m not sure how many vending machines I had been exposed to. I don’t think many, considering it remains a significant imprint in my mind. Of note, I remember thinking that Tab was the neatest looking soda I had ever laid my eyes on. The can was beautiful. We didn’t drink much soda back then and when we did, it was usually bottles of RC Cola that we got from the town bottling company. Tab was like a city soda or something. I realize it’s odd that one could get so geeked out over a vending machine in 1978 featuring Tab, but whatever. It wouldn’t be the only strange thing I got excited about over the years. I took pictures of bus stops on a high school trip to Albany because it was “like, a real city.” I mean, seriously?

The building we were staying in was maybe two or three floors high. It was blue with white trim and kind of run down. We stayed in the top floor apartment with the other family—eight of us crammed in for the week. It was old and seemed to creak and echo at all times, but there was a large balcony, which was cool. We also soon came to realize that the entire place would rattle and shake every couple hours when the train whisked by. There was a small black and white television on a little metal stand, which provided for another first…watching Tom & Jerry. (It pretty much made its way up to the prairie not long after that.)

While our parents baked themselves silly on the beach every day, we kids ran amok all over the place – flying kites, riding the waves on our environmentally sound Styrofoam boogie boards, digging up sand dollars, and collecting shells, discarded pull tabs from soda cans and plastic six pack rings off the beach. I’d make a good bag lady. It also didn’t take us long to befriend the local little brats, dirty faces and their wily city ways, not unlike a scene from, say, Oliver Twist. You know, because it was Old Orchard Beach and all. (What do you want from me? I was an eight year old who hadn’t really been out of a town of more than 6,000 people at that point.) In all seriousness, they were just locals whose parents managed the various buildings in the area, and they were very friendly and welcoming to vacationing kids of the same age. We would run around, play tag, hide and seek, and even musical chairs in the parking lot. Put striped shirts on us and add in a round of Ubbi Dubbi speak and we could have been on ZOOM.

The first local broad I met was named Wendy. A saucy little nine year old with unkempt dark brown hair, and a neat bell-bottom denim jumpsuit. I love to bring Wendy up to my mother because, as I recall, she drove her nuts. I have to laugh because Mom never remembers this, but it’s true. She was seriously bugged by this bratty little dame hanging out all the time…it was crowded as it was. Wendy just would never leave. She’d be up on our balcony with us, eating with us, watching Tom & Jerry with us…she was always around. She’s even in a couple of our vacation shots—kind of like that character Rich Hall played in the 80s that always popped up randomly in the White House on Saturday Night Live. I was just excited to have a little friend—I was stuck with a bunch of boys after all. Sadly, the ebb and flow of our friendship waned. Perhaps Wendy found a new little vacationing friend. Or perhaps I did. Perhaps we simply just grew apart. Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives....

Everything else spirals into an amalgamation of white pants, disco shirts, lots of music, sun tans, soda, our train-rattled ocean front-ish apartment, and that place in the way-way back of the station wagon where my brother and I fought and/or harassed folks behind us. The colors of this portrait have always had a special place in my heart because it is the one vacation I remember taking with both my parents and my brother as a family.

On that trip, I fell in love with the ocean. I fell in love with the feel of the sun on my body. I fell in love with the beach. And I fell in love with vending machines. The next summer, my parents were no longer together and Old Orchard Beach was a distant memory, and one that for a long time I wished I could relive and touch again. In my eyes, and all I knew, was that it seemed like we couldn’t be happier on that trip. If we could just go on that vacation again, perhaps everything would be all right. I’d see my Dad with his floppy blonde curls giving the thumbs up out the window, honking the horn and sipping on his beer excitedly when the Stones played on the radio, I’d see my mom with her deep tan and reddened cheeks with her beautiful, shiny Cher-esque hair and relaxed spirit, I’d see my brother wandering around in the crowds and watching me fly my kite – well, sort of. I’d see my parents and their friends dancing and cooking on the balcony, I’d see Tom & Jerry on an old black and white television, a pesky little girl with unkempt hair and a denim jumpsuit named Wendy edging her way into our family snapshots, a gaggle of kids posing for a new entry in our photo album after a few rounds of musical chairs, I’d feel the rattle of a train, and I’d smell ocean, salt, fish, seaweed and tanning oil. I’d smile and run along the sand carefree and none the wiser. And everything would be OK. Everything would be the same. Nothing would ever change and we’d be frozen in time, and I wouldn’t feel sad and I wouldn’t miss my Dad.

But things do change and vacations don’t last forever. When I visited the ocean again when I was much older, I was mesmerized each and every time—often looking out at the waves for long periods, lost in my melancholy. I loved it and it made me feel sad all the same. Never quite put together why…but I think perhaps deep down it might be that it takes me back to that innocent time before life moved on. As I grew older, I understood—and it became clear to me that changes are essential for our growth in life and in our quest to find happiness. I wouldn’t trade the smile of my Mom once she moved on from that phase of her life for all the false promises of vacation in the world.

What a wonderful time, however, to think back on—for me. A lifetime of memories and lessons from one little trip which will always live on in the pages of my mind and in a dusty photograph album under a bed somewhere in Malone, New York. A place where children in bell bottom jumpsuits play… a place where Tab vending machines are still all the rage.

I'm No Leather Tuscadero

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 16:28:00 +0000


(KiKi) Definitely NOT Leather Tuscadero

Becoming a parent is the ultimate form of narcissism.

This fact can be certainly be debated by those who wish to view life through their Nanny Do-Good blinders on, but on some level--whether one cares to admit it or not--it is what it is, it is what it always has been, and it is what it always shall be. Secretly, we love to hear that our little one looks like us or is a chip off the old block. For the sake of being fair, I'll say fine. Maybe it's just me. I raise my hand...I'm the princess...I'm the obnoxious one who likes to hear that her boy has dimples and blonde hair just like her, and a wicked sense of humor! Do I get a secret thrill? Oh, yes. It's the passing of the baton (even though we all know I can't catch one to save my life), living vicariously--in a sense. I'm proud of what I made. And I'm proud when others compliment him, and that it is often followed by, "he takes after you!" Sue me.

That said, let me tell you a little something about my boy. He is a nine year old, uh, chip off the old block (if I must say so myself). As he comes into his own, it is fascinating to watch his intrigue of nostalgia grow. He has a definite retro-sensibility and a sense of humor that is well beyond his years. And I'm not just saying that as a proud mother. His most recent when-I-grow-up-I-want-to-be aspiration is to be the head comedy writer for Saturday Night Live. When he told me this, he apologized. He thought I'd be offended that he'd aspire to be something I always wanted to be--but never accomplished. First of all, Tina Fey did--and that's all that matters. Besides that, um, hello? I explained to him that sometimes one of the joys of being a parent is being able to see your child accomplish something in their life that you, for one reason or another, were unable to do.

Do I still dream of being a writer for Saturday Night Live (or any television show, for that matter)? Well..sure. But realistically, I know that it will never happen. It doesn't matter how talented I may or may not be. The stars just did not align. And that's okay. I'm perfectly fine with that. (Note--Tina Fey, if you are reading: I am available for a writing gig.) We all grow up. To a certain point. (And Tina Fey is my God.) (If you hadn't noticed.)

When you look back, there are certain things that add up to who we want to be when we grow up. Certain people, or characters, who inspired us, who were part of that equation.

As a young girl in the 1970s, for me, I could not be more perfect a woman than if I grew into Leather Tuscadero. She was beautiful, tough, feminine, masculine, strong, vulnerable, wise, yet naive all in one. Here was a woman who could take a breath away in a jumpsuit and the snap of a finger, yet needed a lesson in self-esteem to strut her stuff in high heels and a dress. She was a gorgeous geek. I watched Suzi Quatro play that character with awe, and although I was a square, wanted to be everything she was, everything she smirked about, everything she sang about--and I wanted to pass all my problems off with a snap of my fingers and a smile. The female version of Fonzie. Who wouldn't?

It sounds like a joke. But I truly credit the character of Leather Tuscadero and Suzi Quatro, the actress/musician, as being micro-instrumental (well, let's be honest here) in the inspirational canvas that influenced the woman I grew into. I probably even read a little more into the character than existed. I saw a complex young woman, one who struggled with a sense of self and a certain sadness. Yet she was also a very happy soul who wanted not much more than to live her art and to be...Leather.

I take that back.

She was a very happy, secure soul who wanted not much more than to live her art and to be...Suzi.

Unfortunately, sometimes being Leather isn't as simple as "being Leather."

But..

I tried at ten. I tried at twenty. And I still attempt it at forty. (Ish.)

There will never be as anything as cool to me.

Sadly, when I try to sing along to old Suzi Quatro songs on my iPod--and even just now when my retro-loving kid peered over my shoulder with a raised eyebrow and rolled eye--I suppose that means I am one of those square moms who can't let go of her glory days.

No...I guess can't.

But, I never really will ever want to.

So with a smirk, a slap on the thigh, and a flash of the finger gun-slash-snap...I, despite any personal struggles I'm facing, channel my inner Leather/Suzi, move forward in life with the most grace I can muster--even when Mrs. Cunningham has shoved me in a taffeta dress and pumps that just don't seem to fit.

Friction: I Blame 1983.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 22:39:00 +0000

I blame my mother.

I mean, that's what any self-respecting broad would do. Right?

That's not entirely accurate. In all fairness, even if my poor mother tried with all her might to keep me from leaving the house looking like a 12-year-old lilac colored Maxi Pad, I wouldn't have listened.

No. I blame 1983.

It was my first dance. The Junior High Spring Dance; I was in the seventh grade. I didn't know what to expect, but being a girl of high imagination, I'm sure I fantasized in my Barbie world something it probably wasn't. Regardless, plans were made to meet up with my friends at the gym, and I set out to primp like the purple passion princess I was determined to make myself out to be.

Hungry like the wolf....

My Olivia Newton-John hairstyle—or what I believed to be my Olivia Newton-John hairstyle—was only slightly outgrown. Looking back, it also wasn't quite as blonde as I deluded myself it being, but that's a whole other psychological issue. I didn't need to do much with the curling iron, as my Toni Home Perm crimped together in a nice tight frizz, which flattened out at the top of my head in the perfect de rigueur small town style. Otherwise known as the bad perm. I crowned the look with a delicate gold headband that stretched across my forehead, shining subtly beneath my mall bangs.

I stood in the bathroom applying makeup from my mother's arsenal as I rocked out to my K-tel albums, swaying my hips to a little Rick Springfield and Juice Newton. Oh yeah. I applied blue eyeliner and blushed my cheeks. My heart skipped a beat, excited to put on my brand new totally tubular valley girl outfit. It was going to be so wicked.

Let's get animal! Animal! I wanna get animal..let's get into animal....

My new outfit was light purple. I've always referred to them as culottes, but looking back, I'm not certain if that's the proper term. It was one piece, so that would be technically be a jumper. It wasn't a skirt...they were shorts-ish...but looked like a skirt. I don't know. The waist was adorned with a skinny purple belt. Enormous puffy shoulders. Enormous puffy everything. Enormous puffy hair. (Oh, right. We covered that.) Little white socks that folded down and flitted out, and...purple pumps. Rad to the max.

I am super duper wicked surprised I wasn't beating the boys off with a big puffy stick.

Again, I blame 1983. Show me a picture of anyone who didn't look like a damn candy colored granny panty-style sanitary napkin.

I walked into the back of the Junior High and immediately hunted for my friends. Kids were everywhere. The air was hot and sticky, and the echo of music filtered through the corridor of the school's back wing where the cafeteria sat dark in the shadows. My face was flushed as I entered the gym and felt the vibrations, took in the atmosphere of the dimmed lights, saw my fellow classmates—girls on the dance floor, boys looking surly to the side—all also dressed somewhat like idiots, but perhaps not as badly as I.

My friend Katie ran up to me in excitement, pulling me in, screeching to me about the live band.

Friction.

The fact that we had this live band of young men who seemed to be channeling rock stars in tight pleather pants here in our little town was simply beyond us, at least at that crossover age. With the dawn of MTV, seeing and touching and experiencing music was something we, as a generation, obsessed about. Granted, that's the way it has affected all generations on some level, but video killed the radio star. We grew up watching how it was supposed to be on television...and we fantasized about it. We grew up watching these bands, whether in the past or present, giving concerts and their fans screaming and singing and dancing, and we had never had exposure to anything like this before, especially in our little farm town. MTV had only been around for about a year at this point, but its impact was immense.

It sounds stupid, but this band was our band. This band played at our first dance. Not only that, but they had long hair, and the outfits, and the lead singer looked and sang just like Mike Reno. It doesn't get much more legit than that. They even had autographed black and white photos for sale in the lobby.

We freaked out. At some point early in the evening, the girls charged the stage. "Stage" being used loosely here. It was really just the section of the gym under the score keeper thingy, but it may as well have been Madison Square Garden that night. We ran up to where they were playing, just like it was a real concert instead of a dance. I distinctly remember them singing "Turn Me Loose." Maybe that's why in my head the lead singer looked like Mike Reno, he probably looked nothing like him. In my head, in my memory, he did. In my head, in my memory, he also sang just like him. I'm sure that's probably pretty debatable as well. But in that moment, it was everything. And in 1983, Mike Reno was pretty freaking cool. (And since most of my music during that time was also highly influenced from Canadian Top 40, that made him even cooler.) We went wild. We screamed. We went bat-shit crazy like they were mega-stars. To us they were.

We giggled and we laughed and we were jealous of the girls who brought cash and could buy an actual signed photo of the band, and boys? What boys? Where they even there?

It was so hot in that gym. The sweat dripped off of me. I had boob sweat stains on my little purple jumper and I didn't even have boobs yet. ("D'jou hear 'bout Kristi Walter? She's a carpenter's dream. Because she's FLAT AS A BOARD.") (My D-Cups are laughing right back atcha today, asshat. But thank you for making me feel completely self-conscious about my body at 13. I appreciated that, dawg.) My hair looked like an electrocuted poodle (except for the flat spot down the middle, of course), powder blue eyeliner ran down my face. I think the night was a success.

I'm sure at one point or another I had to run out of the gym, even at my first dance, to get air. It didn't take too many dances to figure out that I get panic attacks when I feel crowded in by too many people and get a case of the crazy eyes. The music starts pounding to the syncopated rhythm of my heartbeat, I see giant lips moving everywhere but see no faces, and hear everyone's voices at the same time. I can't breathe, my face feels like it is burning at 200 degrees, if that's possible without it exploding or death or melting like the wicked witch, or all of the above. After I act a little dramatic, run out, and get a little something to drink or fresh air and some good old fashioned attention, I'm good to go again. Not much changes over the years.

Friction, for whatever reason, became glorified because of that dance, and I'm sure we all remembered them to be cuter, better, and more talented than they probably were. Although it probably isn't fair of me to make assumptions or judgments based on the fact that they played a small town junior high school dance in 1983. They very well could have been even cuter and more talented than my memory serves, who knows.

I'm not sure they realized that for one night they really were stars to us. I guess I can't speak for everyone. I could be the only geek that felt that way, although I know I wasn't the only one standing in front of them screaming like they were the Rolling Stones. That night of my first dance, listening to that band with my friends and dancing and carrying on like it was a real live concert just for us in the gym of our school, I felt like I had gone from 12 to 13. From girl to teenager. I felt like I was growing up.

We didn't see Friction again until they played at our prom. I'm not sure who was responsible for that, but I do know that there were several students who agreed it was only fitting that the the band who symbolized the beginning of our teenage years would be the one to lead us out.

But that time I wore an electric blue satin number.

I blame 1987.

My "Happy" Massage.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 20:23:00 +0000

I really should have just turned around.

At the words massage parlor, I should have just stammered my way out of the situation.

But no.

She was so animated about it, the perky brunette ringleader of our group mom date. Groan. I stood there in the pouring rain wondering how I even managed to get roped into this evening. Don't get me wrong, I liked the company. I just didn't know them very well, being the mothers of my son's friends...and I'm not very much of a social butterfly. What can I say? I prefer to sit at home in my PJs, glasses, and unbrushed hair and think bitter things about the Stepford wives of the world. I'm a lazy bitch like that.

What a beautiful portrait I paint, non?

But there are certain times when you do it for the children. And I liked the mothers, so when the invitation was extended to me to come out for ladies' night and the boys would all hang out and watch movies with a dad...well, I figured it would be a good opportunity to come out of my shell and venture away from my comfort zone (aka "watching Hoarders with my cats and a glass of Cabernet").

We met for a quick glass of wine, but our ringleader arranged the rest of the evening as a surprise, instructing us earlier to make sure we wear comfortable clothes and tank tops. "Our appointment is at 8:00," she said.

We stood outside of the cafe after our quick drink as she began to detail our plans for the next hour. Further down the street, in the darkest corner of this Southern California valley town, lay our destiny in a strip mall with but a sole flickering street light marking its existence. Her eyes sparkled, and she spoke super-duper-extra fast. "Okay, so have you ever been to a Chinese foot massage? It's really great. It's a whole hour. Only $20. It's so great. You'll never want to go to Burke-Williams again. It's not a spa, but it's amazing. I go every week. To de-stress. You know. It's amazing. We go in groups. You don't have to get undressed. It's super relaxing. You'll love it. I can't wait to hear what you have to say. Are you excited?"

Silence.

"Oh, that sounds great!" said other mom #1, who is infinitely more down to earth than I.

"Wait. So wait..." (THERE'S my stammering!)

"Like...so...it's a foot massage?"

She was so excited. I was expecting her to start cheering. Ready, O-----KAY! "Yeah. There is a foot massage. But it isn't just a foot massage. It's a full body massage!" Her next words were very pointed, "for only $20!"

Full body massage. At this, I accidentally swallowed my gum. Which is really alarming considering I wasn't chewing any.

"And...what is the name of this place?" I asked, quickly adding a hardy smile in hopes that I wasn't sounding too skeptical or party poopish.

She waved her hand, "oh, Happy-something."

Happy something?

Happy something?

"Happy Feet, maybe?" she muttered. Kind of.

Oy vey.

The thing is, I'm not a prude. But I'm not a very touchy-feely kind of broad either. I'm not much of a massage fan. Ironic since I have a lot of neck and back issues, but massages tend to always make those worse...so I usually just opt to stay away. I think it goes hand in hand with the touchy-feely thing. I just can't relax during a massage. But I can be open minded I guess.

I wanted to fit in. I wanted to make friends, and I wanted to have fun. And I'm pretty easy going. So while I'm having totally insane crazy lady conversations with myself in my head, I smile and totally go with the flow of this program. Sure, I'm slightly skeeved. I would have preferred a Burke-Williams situation. I might not be a massage ho...but I love spas. I adore sitting in saunas and all that jazz. I don't have the money anymore for that kind of luxury, so I don't. But, whatev. I'll try something new. What the heck, this could open up a whole new...happy world. Or whatever that means. God, I hope it's not dirty.

We arrived at the strip mall tucked away in that dark little corner of the valley. The name of this establishment still remains a mystery as the sign above the door simply read CHINESE FOOT MASSAGE. There were a couple faded anime window decals that looked like they had nothing to do with anything. And neon. Lots of neon. That had nothing to do with anything. But cool. You know. That's cool.

Bells jingled as we opened the door into the dimly lit community room containing approximately three rows of five table/recliners (outstretched flat) with ottomans. I chose the recliner next to the mom ("down to earth mom") of my son's best friend. We were first instructed to sit on the ottomans. Our "masseuses" (and I use that term LOOSELY) each brought a plastic bag lined bucket of warm water for our feet. Cool. Just like my days of wadin' in de crick. They piled about five smelly pillows on our laps covered by a white towel I can only best describe as being about as luxurious as what your manly high school Ms. Gym Teacher would have thrown at you after class.

My masseuse was the one man in the joint.

Normally I'd be happy about this fact because if I am going to get a massage, I prefer it be with a strong hand. As he covered me with my bad breath-stenched pillows and sandpaper towel, I quickly came to the conclusion that his noisy, clanging janitor key ring and tuberculosis cough might prove distracting.

Oh my God. They gave me the janitor.

As my feet soaked in the leech bucket, he started "working" on my neck. My problem area. I knew he could tell this was my problem area. I'm not sure if he could tell because as I became tenser, my shoulders were pretty much aligned with my temples, or if it was because of the clicking in there, but The Janitor clearly decided he was going to go all Chiropractor on me. I grimaced in fear. As he obviously started attempting to crack my neck, I started imagining how I was going to be carried out on a stretcher. Stroke. Aneurysm. Neck break. I'm going to die!

Thankfully, he wasn't very successful, so he moved on to a new technique, one I like to call "that move where the nanny dislocates your toddler's arm out of the socket because she's too stupid to realize that you don't pick children up that way." (That's another story.) He lifted my arms up over my head, held me by my wrists and tried -- twisting me? I don't know. All I could say is it's a good thing I had a glass or two of wine in me, otherwise, on instinct I would have turned around and punched him in the balls.

As quickly as he nearly broke my neck, he finished. He then pointed to the "table." Oh, okay. I guess it's time for the body part. Great. This should be fun. I stood up, and like Lucille Ball stomping on wine grapes, I clumsily sloshed out of the water to plop my ass down...he wildly gestured, practically--is he laughing at me? I looked around...oh. Everyone else daintily swiveled around while still in the water and delicately slid onto the table. Oh, whatever. This is like a $20 recipe in getting my neck nearly broken, what do they want from me?

When he worked on my neck, at least I had things like the possibility of injury--while not funny--to focus on. Now, lying down, having to be quiet and relax...this is where I fell apart. The massage itself was practically irrelevant. Was it good? Well, no. I liked having my head rubbed, and that's about it. The rest of it was an exercise in having my body flapped around crudely, meaning I have a hard time believing he was certified in squat. But I was here for the experience and to bond with the gals, so okay. It was everything else that was killing me.

I have a thing about noises. Little noises. "Quiet" noise. The sound of whistling freaks me out. Gum snapping. Food chewing. Talking. Normal stuff, you know? Especially in situations where it is supposed to be calm and serene...I freak out. I need noise to concentrate. I can't have silence. I need regular, busy, loud noise to be calm. I have issues. Lying down, all I can do is hear things. I hear The Janitor's keys jingling. I hear him coughing in my face and the spittle of his mouth. The synchronized sound of the "masseuses" slapping their clients. Interesting technique. Which was totally funny. The Janitor in constant chatter with the "masseuse" dame directly next to him. Water sloshing. The washer and dryer in the back. People moaning, which is just gross. The bells above the door ringing whenever someone walked in. The phone ringing. I was also freaking out, praying that I...for lack of a better way to put this...wouldn't have, you know, lady issue problems arise on the cheap scratchy white Chinese parlor happy massage foot happy place or what have you. Yeah, this was totally relaxing. I tried to tell myself to shut all that out. Focus on something else. The music. Listen to the music. Or the...muzac. Madonna muzac to be specific. Where is the bubbling stream or whatever? Instead we are listening to a "Crazy For You" midi file? Friggin' AWESOME.

Just at this Crazy For You awe-inspiring moment, he lifted my arms above my head, like wings, and started slapping them together. As he attempted to make me fly, my middle aged under arm chicken fat swung back and forth with wild abandon. I couldn't control it -- I burst out laughing.

I mean, there's nothing like your own arm fat flapping in the air to break up the monotony, right?

My eyes were closed, and I instantly stopped myself. But the seal had been broken...it was like trying not to laugh in church. All I could hear was the Madonna music--excuse me, muzac--and slapping, and keys, and coughing, and arm fat flapping and could barely control the big fat parade smile on my face as I laid there praying for it to be over soon.

~~~

"So?! I'm dying to know what you thought!" She was just as animated as before we went in.

I paused. "It was...it was greeeeeat." I tried not to sound too phony. I'm not sure if I pulled it off very well. I didn't want to sound unappreciative. I know she just wanted us all to relax and thought we would all love it as much as she did. It certainly was an experience, just not for me -- certainly not very...happy. When I woke up feeling like my shoulder was dislocated, I knew for sure that it wasn't happy. It wasn't dislocated, but it was definitely messed up for a couple days.

As we walked away, down to earth mom leaned in to me and said, "I could have sworn I heard you laughing..."

"I was!"

"Was it when he was flapping your arms?"

Oh my God. How did she know?

Locked Out! (But I broke in without the help of cats, Nick Nolte or Dixie)

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 21:38:00 +0000

A 40-year-old-ish woman should have her shit together enough not to find herself in random predicaments such as the one I'm about to recount, but I suppose that it has already been fairly established that I'm not your average ordinary over the hill hag, oh no. Just sayin'.

Not So Long Ago
Suburbia, CA

I had just put my boy to bed and was fussing around downstairs. Not cleaning so much as just tidying up for the next day's round of procrastination. The art of creative pile placement. I was ready for bed, stylin' in my fuzzy robe and slippers, nerd glasses, and Nick Nolte mug shot hair. As I was about to waddle up the stairs to head to my elegant dirty laundry-chic boudoir to watch Hoarders, or something ironic like that, I thought to myself:

Self? It's garbage day tomorrow. Should I keep on waddling and chance missing the pick up and bring out the cans in the morning? Or should I just take the five seconds out of my night and bring them out tonight? Suck it up? Grow some balls and whatnot?

On a normal night, I'd opt for the lazy choice. But for whatever reason, only the devil and his spawn know, I figured I'd be proactive and roll the cans out. Not my boobs, but the garbage. But I suppose technically, my boobs came too.

Heading down the five steps I already waddled up (what?! shut up!) didn't take nearly as long. I picked up the plastic Albertsons bags filled with trash that needed to go out (because for whatever reason, I have this sick need to put trash in grocery bags rather than take the same amount of time to put trash in the...what do you call it? Oh yeah. The trash can thingy), opened the sliding glass door to my rear patio (connecting to my garage...like you really need to know that detail), closed it quickly behind me (or else I'd spend the next ten minutes chasing the cats around to go back inside), and heard a loud BANG!

I stopped in my tracks...what. was. that?

Slowly the words punched through my mind, but I knew. I knew exactly what it was and for that reason I did not want to turn around.

But I had to. I must.

Turning, I faced exactly what I didn't want to see. How many times had I told The Boy not to keep the piece of wood [my fancy lock for the sliding door] (what?) actually standing up IN the door frame, for that very reason! That it could potentially fall and "lock" the sliding door behind us. Or, in this case, me--since The Boy was...inside.

Okay. No sweat. The boy was inside, right?

Wrong.

1. The Boy sleeps like a truck. Almost worse than his mother does. We can sleep through anything.

2. His radio was playing.

3. I had the television downstairs on decibels only akin to the way the elderly in their 98 degree studio halfway apartments watch television...LOUDLY. Why I watch TV like I'm hard of hearing, I have no idea. I just do. Either I am, or it is a quirk, but this is the way I've always been. It's part of the enjoyment I guess.

I did not panic. I had a couple things to work with here. Okay, think!

1. The sliding door was able to open about an inch. At the top anyway. So I kept pressing my lips through it like a baby bird crying to its mama, attempting to beckon through the door for The Boy to come rescue me.

2. My doorbell! So, the woman who owned the townhouse before me installed this super obnoxious doorbell that I've been too lazy to replace (cue Gomer Pyle: "well, surprise, surprise!"). I rang that effing "I Wish I Was In Dixie's Land" door bell at least 500 times, no shitting you. I'm surprised the neighbors didn't come over and slap me upside the head. (The doorbell song is funny in itself...I mean...I am about as far from Dixie as they get, eh!) I rang the doorbell, pounded on the door, ran back to the inch space in the sliding glass door with my bird lips and screeched for The Boy, ran back and rang the doorbell some more. Mind you--I didn't have my front lights on. I didn't have any lights on. Not even the motion control ones. (Why? I don't know why do the things I do, man.) And I live in a canyon. So it was pitch friggin black. All I could think of at this point were the mountain lion warning signs that were posted up near our mail boxes just recently. Great.

Clearly "Operation Wake The Boy Up" was not working. So, I did the next best thing and rolled the garbage cans out.

Then I looked around the garage for ideas. Nothing. Went back to the sliding glass door. Sigh. I was a sight in that robe and those slippers. Good thing I had at least that on! Normally I'd be in something lighter and bare feet! It gets pretty cool at night where I live...would not have been very comfy. After about 45 minutes of this cycle, I started seriously thinking that I might have to sleep outside on the patio or in my car. I mean, the boy wasn't going to hear me. But then...wait. I started trying to go through my mind about the rules of sleeping in a car in a garage. What if I died of carbon monoxide poisoning? Can that happen even with the car off because of residual fumes? What are the rules on this? I don't know! I can't Google it! My nose pressed to the glass like a movie orphan staring longingly at the rich dining in a restaurant, I see my computer and iPhone in a beacon of light on the table. What the hell did people do before Google? Like, think?!

It was quiet and cold and damp. My nose felt wet. It was dark and spooky outside, and I could sense spiders hiding in the rafters hunting me. I could hear Ryan Seacrest's voice booming from my television; the interior of my home taunted me what with its warmth and electronics and toilet access and all that. I grabbed hold of the door handle and shook it with all my might, a she-hulk on steroids, as if by some hand of God the piece of wood laying in the door frame would magically sprout legs and skip away.

"Tina! Bring me the axe!"

At this point, my two cats are standing on the table like a couple of stone[d] gargoyles watching me. Bela is becoming upset. He hops onto the counter nearest the door, which is where my yellow hodge bowl sits. I usually keep my keys and assorted crap from the week in this bowl. He was howling as he sat right next to my keys.

Next. to. the. keys.

A cartoon light bulb totally flashed over my head.

You know how in bad slapstick comedies (like Titanic) when someone is trying to get out of a cliche jail situation and they see the keys but an arms length away and, somehow, some way, a nutty plan works to slide those keys right into their hands? Yeah, well, I was about to go all non-realistic movie slapstick here. What the hell else was I going to try? It was that or sleep in the car and be paranoid all night that I was going to die.

As I mentioned, the top part of the sliding door opened wider than the bottom. But that's just a technical thing. The keys were straight on the counter, one diagonal shot. The cat sitting right the hell on top of them at this point. Now, what would have been perfection was if he had picked them up in his mouth and trotted them over to me like Lassie.

I was so desperate I tried it.

"Bela! Bring me the keys boy! Come on! Bring me the keys!"

But no. He just meowed at me. Dumbass.

I tried a broomstick first. Too thick and unbendable. (That's what she said.) It made me nervous that I'd knock the keys off and not be able to fetch them from the floor. Next, I found a plant stake. That seemed a bit too flimsy maybe...very thin. (That's what she said.) Then I found an old silk flower...the stem looked perfect. Had just the right curve (I am SO not going to say it) so that when I picked up the keys, they could curve around and I wouldn't risk them flying across the room. Alas, it was too short. (Rinse, repeat.)

I took a break and tried the screaming, shouting, banging on the door, and ringing the doorbell a good 50 times again. Nothing. Damn. This was getting to be a desperate situation.

Not to be a Whiny McPoor-me-muffin, but I was getting cold. I didn't even have pajama pants on--just a little nightie under my robe. (Well, probably something old, ugly and flannel, but that's irrelevant.) (Even though I just wrote it.) I had to do something. Anything. It was getting late. I had been out there a long ass time now. So, I tried what seemed to be the best choice of the three and grabbed the plant stake. Just as I got back to the sliding glass door with it, Bela hopped off the keys, and when he did, one of the key rings propped up into position perfectly. In that moment, I flicked the stake through the top half of the door, through the ring, and got those keys into my hands in one fell swoop. I almost felt like Zorro getting something like...what Zorro might get on his sword...let myself into my house through the front door (pitch black) . TV blaring, radio upstairs playing "She Drives me Crazy" by the Fine Young Cannibals -- a song that always wanted to make me retch, and The Boy sleeping perfectly like a little Bela Lugosi.

Can't imagine what the neighbors thought. Seriously, every five minutes I stopped and literally screeched The Boy's name through the door, pounding and hitting that stupid Dixie doorbell, telling the cats to "run, Lassie, run!", but to no avail.

What I learned from my ordeal is if a ship is ever going down and I'm locked in one of the cabins, or in a position where I need to finagle the big set of keys out of the deputy's shorts at the county lock up, I think I have some raw, natural slaptick skills to apply in those situations.

But when it all comes down to it, when you think about it, we are all really just a gumball away from being a MacGyver...isn't that right?

Old Broads & Stale Coconut

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 21:22:00 +0000

Her name was Lottie Carter.

We randomly chose her.

It was a freak February day for Northern New York, extremely warm—much more like May than the dead of winter. My friend Stephanie and I spent the better part of the morning wandering around town aimlessly; we were 11 years old and bored.

It was barely afternoon and we had already done everything there seemed to do. We went to Newbury’s to stick our gum under the counter. We went to George’s Fruit Market and bought Funyons, Cadbury Cream Eggs, Hubba Bubba and Mountain Dew. We read our Tiger Beats. We swung on the swings at the elementary school nearby. Rinse. Repeat.

It was one of those friendships that only live and seem to survive in that ‘tween window, full of strange adventures and lots of laughter over much of nothing.

During Lent, we went to church every day after school. Not because we were religious, but because we were strange children. It was only a half hour service. Stephanie and I would sit in the front pew and laugh ourselves to uncontrollable bladder-levels at God knows what. (No pun intended.) I’m fairly certain there are teeth marks still on the back of the pew from my biting it. No, I’m not retarded. It was to keep my laughter and guffaw snorts from echoing throughout the church. Granted, it sounds completely disrespectful, but considering we were sometimes the only ones there—and Father Mark could barely keep a straight face himself—we didn’t feel we were doing any harm. He asked us once Easter passed—and our month long dedication to being good little Catholic girls (snort) was over why we weren’t coming to the weekday masses anymore. We meant well, but at that age the more serious the environment you were stuck in, the funnier having to act normal and reserved seemed. And deep down we knew that it was really meant for the people who needed it and were sincere about why they attended. We knew it wasn’t right.

So, on this February afternoon, we desperately needed to find some fun. Nothingness just wasn’t going to cut it for the remainder of such a great day. Something wild, something fun, what hadn’t we done? What to do?

To this day, I have no idea how we came up with our plan or why we even thought it was a neat idea…we decided…to hit up the neighborhood nursing home. Wild, fun and crazy indeed.

Holy Christ.

(No pun intended.)

Like church, I suppose it was a well-intentioned gesture. I believe we were on the quest to be do-gooders. Kind of rebel wannabe Girl Scouts without the lame uniform. We just…we just wandered in. Our mission was to find a random “old person” and talk to them. And try not to laugh in the process.

I don’t know what the rest of the home was like, but the wing we tiptoed around was actually, in hindsight, more of a half-way community. Probably a good thing. But, it still smelled of band-aids, jello, medicated cream, and boiled carrots. But anyway.

We picked a door and knocked.

For a couple of 11 years olds, we sort of had biggish balls.

Her name was Lottie Carter.

She opened the door immediately and smiled wide. She was bright eyed, and looked warm and cuddly. Like a grandma. “Hi, girls,” she said. We told her we were stopping by to visit, and without questioning it, she invited us in.

It looked like a tiny apartment. She had her little kitchenette, and her little living room. We sat down and she brought in a bag of coconut. She apologized that she didn’t have anything else on hand. Who am I to pass up free food, no matter what it is? We accepted the bag of baking coconut and each took a handful. Now, coconut makes me barf rocks, but I didn’t want to be rude either. It struck me odd that it was a bit hardened together in the bag, like when brown sugar gets old and becomes one fat solid cube. It took a lot not to vomit on her afghan, but I held it together.

We spent hours with Lottie. She told us all about her daughter and grandchildren in Poughkeepsie. She told us about her life as a young woman, and that she had been a widow for quite some time. She didn’t have any family in the area anymore. And she wanted to know all about us and listened with great interest.

We instantly fell in love with Lottie.

Stephanie and I left that nursing home feeling very good about our choice for the afternoon. We had grown from 11 year old nitwits to 11 year old nitwits with brass balls and big hearts. We visited Lottie several more times that year, usually for a half hour here and there after school, and she always pulled out that same stale bag of coconut for us to snack on. She took the place of our weekday giggle-thon with Father Mark, probably much to the hallelujahs of the nuns.

Stephanie and I grew apart, and after that year we never returned to see our Grandma-by-proxy. I never forgot Lottie and was saddened the day I saw her obituary in the local newspaper many years later.

Now that I’m an old dried up hag, I’d love to know what she thought of these two precocious little girls knocking on her door randomly. I never did have the heart to tell her how much I loathe coconut. I guess it made me much happier to see the light in her eyes when she would eagerly sit down to tell us stories about being a young woman in New York City…as we nibbled away on our snack.

__________
Originally posted Feb. 2009

Take, Take Me Home.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 18:05:00 +0000

And one day you grow up and realize…it was home all along.

I was born in Saranac Lake, New York into a rather large and creative family spanning across the Adirondack Park and into the neighboring foothills. I grew up believing my parents, aunts and uncle to be mountain royalty. This perception was spawned from my own imagination and pouring over mounds of yearbooks from the 1960s with photos recording family successes of popularity and being crowned winter carnival princesses and such, which was always regarded as somewhat of a big deal. Of course, as young children, it's not out of the ordinary to glamorize the youth of one’s parents—but I would also listen with great interest to my mother and equally glamorous aunts reminisce about their days as teenagers in Lake Placid and Saranac Lake flirting with boys, hanging out at the cantina, going to sock hops, boarding athletes in training. For a girl who lived primarily in the chaos of her imagination, such stories were what box office hits were made of. Somewhere along the way, I imagine near the border of childhood and adolescence, I grew out of the idealized apparition of my roots and became desperate to be anywhere that Northern New York was not.

Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten all of the wonderful and unique things that made my background, and my family, so very special. Small things, that as I’ve aged (and aged, and aged, and aged) I’ve come to realize as I sit on the other side of the country, are much more important than running from trees and bubbling streams, the beauty of freshly fallen snow, the elegance of birch trees in a sea of pine. Small things, such as the laughter of family during holiday get togethers, guitars and camp fires, summer nights at Fish Creek crowded in a lean-to with my cousins after a full day of getting lost in the woods. I remember how my heart would race with excitement as we approached Grandma and Grandpa B.'s home in the woods—smoke billowing from the chimney, the smell of cinnamon in the kitchen, deer in the backyard, and Jaspar—the tame crow—who would ride around on our shoulders in the summer. In a large family, there was no such thing as loneliness. There was love, there was warmth, there was always someone to talk to, tattle on, play with.

Somewhere along the way, I lost the recognition of its value, meaning, complex simplicity. I didn’t understand, or try to understand, when folks would exclaim, “you’re from the Adirondacks? It’s so beautiful there!” (Of course, then there was always the…"you're from the Adirondacks? That’s near Rochester, right?" But, I digress.) I recall playing at Grandma and Grandpa D.’s in the heart of Saranac—exploring the strawberry fields leading down the hill from their home to St. Pius X Catholic School. The woodsy scent that loomed in the air, the brisk kiss of wind, swimming in the lake.

And the things I took for granted, oh the things! Visits to maple syrup farms in the early spring…wearing those ugly green rubber boots because our feet would sink a foot into the mud, and we were always rewarded at the end of the trip with a paper cup filled with freshly sugared sap. Quebec was a stone’s throw away—and how lucky were we to have exposure to not one but two cultures? We celebrated winter in the way that only a town at the tip of the iceberg could—drunk and happy. Towns built ice castles, reveled proudly at their winter carnival revues and balls and actually looked forward to marching in below zero weather in a frozen parade. Winter sports—the skiing, the snowmobiling, the sledding, the ice skating…and in 1980, the Winter Olympics right there in the heart of it all, Lake Placid. I didn’t realize back then what a phenomenal experience it was to wear my Ronnie Raccoon pin and cross country ski through the heart of Olympic Village.

In my I-think-I’m-wise-beyond-my-years-but-I’m-really-a-jackass teenage mind, I didn’t see it. I didn’t see how rich the culture was, and I scoffed at it. Swore I would never return. Called the whole thing “backwards” and “soulless.” I don’t really know what my problem was, I guess for a period of time I was the one who was backwards and soulless, because now I miss it more than I ever would have believed I could. I see the richness, and I see the beauty. I hear the laughter, and I sense its heart. I admire the history. I cherish the people. And it has everything to do with the person I’ve become today.

But really, I’m not much different than the girl who used to run wildly through the woods with her cousins, swim in lakes, drink sap out of paper cups, talk to the crows and waddle around in a snowsuit and Vaseline-smeared face. I don't know if I'll ever return, but I wear my badge of honor with pride.

I grew up and realized that the place I once called home will always be my home.

“Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to” – John Ed Pearce

_______
*Originally posted March 2010

Depression's a Bitch...and so am I (sometimes).

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 06:01:00 +0000

At the risk of throwing vulnerability into the wind, I'm going to do something I almost never do and leave nostalgia aside.

It isn't easy for me to bare my own true self, so forgive me if I am a bit quirky about it.

I recently wrote an essay titled "Kicking It Right Where It Counts." I received so many unexpected complimentary remarks regarding my "not so dark take on depression." One one hand, this left me pleasantly surprised. On the other, I felt so hypocritical--and so, in a rare instance, I am going to swallow my pride and really bare my true feelings out there to the world. Switch over to a sports page or gossip column while you have a chance--I'm giving you an out.

The truth is, there is no light side of depression.

It isn't funny, it isn't easy, it is barely bearable. Little House on The Prairie reruns do not cure it, nor do Fruity Pebbles, or lip synching to ABBA in the bedroom mirror. While these things do provide temporary pick me up moments, don't get me wrong, I am not professing that they are cure alls by any means.

I look to laughter as a personal aid to healing, and it is also a part of who I am. That's my thing. But depression is something that afflicts so many people in such a serious manner that I want to be sure that my message does not belittle just how serious it is. See, I can make light of it because that is my way of coping--that is how I deal. But that is me.

Writing about the lighter side of depression--that was me masking horrific pain. That was me masking and pretending and being stoic and trying to get by and trying to prove to the world that I am a big strong girl who doesn't need anybody or anything. That was me with a fake smile.

Depression has robbed my life of healthy relationships. My career has suffered, my creativity has suffered, romance has suffered, and all really by my own hand. A lot of it by self-sabotage. Depression hits people differently. Some become hopelessly needy. Others...like me...well, how shall I put it? I become a hermit. I don't want anyone around me. I run away. I become quiet. Those who have known me for a long time maybe know that I'm in a "mood" because I've disappeared. But as I indicated in my lighter essay, I've also perfected the art of "it's ok." Not a lot of people know of my true plight. Maybe I'm delusional. Maybe they do know. Maybe they don't. But it's a real thing and it's a serious thing and it's something I've hidden for decades and have protected with my very being. I'm fiercely proud. I don't like to show my weaknesses. I'm not even sure why I'm writing this. I'm sure I'll regret it. I just didn't feel that I was sincere enough with what I wrote before.

It's hard. My feeling is people don't much understand. They mean well. But they don't understand how you can't switch it off. I mean, I've been confronted with arguments about my selfishness. How can I be depressed when I have a beautiful child? How can I be depressed when I have a good life? How can I be depressed when I have this or that? The thing is...it isn't about what you have or don't have. And that's what makes it horrible. It has torn me apart at times that I couldn't feel happy...when I should! And it had nothing to do with the people in my life or the place I was at. It just had to do with what was inside me.

I have fought for years, years, against this. And every so often I still want to believe that I can do it on my own. Just recently I went off medication, believing I could fight life on my own, I could face the demons on my own. I was wrong. That's the fucking joke. I am a strong, strong, woman. I am really incredibly intelligent. I am smart, driven, soulful, creative, quirky, kind of funny, and when I'm up -- really pretty obnoxiously cocky. Some people call that manic. I just call her Kristi. So, right now anti-depressants are what help me. Exercise helps me in a way that I can't even describe. Long walks outside not only make me feel great physically but get my mind reeling as well. It takes a lot to get me up and motivated, but eventually I come out of it and I do. I always do.

We are what we are. And, we all suffer through the tricks of life. There are paths we will have to choose from along the way. Difficult choices. We will be hurt, and we will have to hurt people we have loved as well. I guess it's all in the quest to live the one life we have to live in the most grand way we possibly can. When we feel up to it, that is.

For many who aren't afflicted with depression, it is seen as something that can be controlled. As an easy excuse, belabored sadness. Sadly, it isn't something that can be controlled, nor is it an excuse or belabored sadness. It isn't that easy. It is incredibly painful. It destroys lives, relationships, dreams. Personally, I live with nearly daily migraines that are debilitating. I have taken a step down from a fruitful career. Relationships have suffered. My creativity has floated in limbo. I'm a fighter. I refuse to let it bring me down. Every day I seek to find a way around it, rise above it, conquer, and all that queer ass crap. It takes a lot of work. I won't lie, I've fallen a lot along the way. But I always get up.

The one thing I know and the one thing I believe in is that I am one strong lady, and if I can find a way to channel that angst and energy I will. Because, check it, that depression--that sadness--that angst? That has been there since I was a child. Yes, that is a part of me. That is a part of me. It is a part of what makes me me, it is a part of what makes me unique, a part of what makes me special, observant, feeling, sensitive, understanding.

Not too many people know the just how painful my depression is. I hide it extremely well. Too well. Only those most intimate to me know the difference in my smile. But I love to laugh. I will always laugh, and I will always smile, and I will always look for the humor in life. That is how I survive. I'm a giggler! I'm infinitely goofy. It is really hard to explain. My smiles are always sincere. But the spark behind my eyes is different. When I am depressed, it's not there. When I am on...there is a glow.

As I said in my previous essay, it has gotten worse with age. I'm hoping that maybe with menopause down the road, the depression will get better. I'm only 40, so God knows when that will happen, but whatever. That said, for as much as I bitch about it, I do have a good amount of control over it. I can get through my every day. I function. I'm a great mom, I do things with friends, I am OK. I could be better at times, but I'm OK. I recognize when I'm faltering and I do something about it. Or I try to. I'm constantly working on it. Constantly working on myself, on bettering myself, on understanding myself, on enhancing myself -- so that I can be the best that I can be to me and to my child. One day maybe I'll even make someone a neat little wife.

Pardon the cliche, but depression hurts. It is painful and horrible at times, and I spit on being broken. I hate it. I veto it. It sucks ass. But it is what it is and it is there. So you can choose to fight against it and lose time after time or learn to respect it and learn how to live with it and manage it it. And that's what I've decided to do. It isn't always easy at times, but you learn from it and move on. With me, my depression typically presents itself in a very NON-EMOTIONAL manner -- completely devoid of feeling. However, I will admit to the world here right now that just this evening I had a complete Holly Hunter-style breakdown of sobbing tears for about two hours straight, but I am actually relieved because I realize the fact that I can write about it and think about it, and acknowledge it means that I'm not really in the throws of depression anymore. It means I'm crawling out of it and getting better and stronger, and friggin' on the way back up. It means that I'm self-aware and introspective and taking note of my feelings and thoughts. Yay, me.

The reason I am writing this is that there are so many people out there who suffer from this shit beast as well. You aren't alone. And there are others out there who understand that you can't just switch it off (and you would if you could!), that it isn't about being grateful for what you have--depression doesn't discriminate against the have and have nots--it isn't about being happy about the beautiful babies you have or the amazing art you create. Depression is lighting and it strikes. It is what it is, and it's fucked up, and whatever. So you wallow a bit -- listen to the ABBA, watch the Little House on the Prairie -- but you know what, figure out what you have to do to co-exist. For a long time I kept trying to figure out how to beat it. And what happened? It kept beating me. I'm no doctor -- I'm just a blonde Los Angeles fruitcake who likes lipstick and shoes and reality television -- but, again (I can't express this sentiment enough), I do know that what helped me was learning not to fight it, but co-existing with and managing it. I learned to respect my depression. The fucktard that it is.

Anyway.

Depression or not, we should never stop striving to better ourselves...life is beautiful, and it should be embraced.

Right?

	Vega 4 - Life Is Beautiful

	Found at Life Is Beautiful on KOhit.net

Kicking Right Where it Counts

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 02:48:00 +0000

"You know those days when you get the mean reds?"

"The mean reds, you mean like the blues?"

"No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"

--Breakfast at Tiffany's

For a writer, I am ironically much too guarded about my raw feelings and divulging personal tidbits about myself that are more difficult to laugh at and not as easily cast aside as "nostalgia" or childhood personality quirks.

Truth is, like most everyone, I am not much different than the awkward small town girl I have painted in my portraits. The insecurities, fears, and strangeness all remain; although I am now a grown up broad living in (or around) Los Angeles, deep down I will always be that different little girl from Malone, New York.

Along with a great number of our general population, I suffer from depression. Deep, dirty, and sometimes debilitating depression, or "creative chaos" as I like to call it. And as the character of Holly Golightly so eloquently noted in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" -- it's more than the blues. We are talkin' the mean reds. My moods have wavered in this manner for as long as I remember, since childhood. The depression has increased in intensity with age, however my ability to manage it has also matured. It can be difficult on loved ones, and it can personally take a toll. No one wants to feel this way--and it isn't as easy as "just snapping out of it" as some are so helpful to try and suggest, as if wallowing in it is the preferred cereal of choice.

Personally, I try to continue my growth in self-awareness and find more and more effective ways of managing the sea of sadness that washes over me from time to time. It could come from my acting background, but at a very young age I perfected the art of wearing a "The Show Must Go Own" smile on my face. My vulnerability I protect with stupid, stoic pride and I prefer to march with a created giggle than show my pain, or speak of my weaknesses. I don't want to weigh others down with my heaviness, I don't want to burden. I don't want to show how broken I can be during those times. Only my mirror and my cats get to see that lovely vision. Even more so, I simply prefer to laugh. Regardless, I simply prefer to laugh.

When I was little, my father had an innate ability to be able to cheer me up; he could make me laugh in a heartbeat. His Donald Duck impression would illicit peals of laughter from me, as would the goofy faces he'd (unintentionally) make when singing along to the Stones or ELO. As a girl, I was charmed by Dad's impulsive nature and his ability to make others around him laugh and smile. I followed him around whenever I could, wanting so much to just make him proud, and make him laugh too. We definitely connected through our mutual love of music; I remember sitting for hours in front of his stereo, oversized headphones hanging off my face, listening to all of his record albums and even discussing our favorite songs. He always seemed to know the songs I'd like and what would touch me. Around the time my parents separated, he would play ABBA's "Chiquitita" for me when he'd see me get sad. And although it would make my tears flow even harder, I'd always laugh and feel so much better for it. When I felt sad, I'd sit sit in my room and play my song again and again. (Don't tell anyone, but I still break out that song when I'm feeling low. And it still helps every time.) He never asked me why I was sad, he never told me to just snap out of it or be grateful for what I had, he never questioned why those feelings--that never do have explanation--would overcome me from time to time. He would just throw an album onto the record player while talking in his Donald Duck voice and make me laugh with the goofy faces he made while singing to me along with the song. A few years later, a new song entered the "cheer the gal up" rotation -- and that was Joe Dolce's cult hit "Shaddap You Face." It would make me sob/laugh like a little sissy girl (oh wait, I WAS a little sissy girl!) every time.

I'm not sure why exactly that my Dad in particular had such a healing way about him for me...but without trying, he has always been able to just...make everything feel better. Even with time, distance, and many, many miles between us. Even when we go months between speaking. That special thread will always be there, and I will never forget it. On a side note, every year between like 1977 and 1982, my dad would buy me a brand new pair of gaucho boots. I loved brand new gaucho boots. I would pair them with little macrame purses and felt like a true disco princess. I also seem to remember thinking it was cute to haul off and try to kick little boys where it counts with my boots, but let's not get into that. Clearly, I had power issues.

What?

Growing up in such a small, segregated town on the edge of nowhere--with, like, ten months of winter out of the year--certainly had a seasonal impact on my moods or feelings or whatever the kids are calling them these days. When the leaves would fall, so would dim my light. I blamed the locale at the time, but come to find out -- now living in one of the warmer areas of the United States devoid of the "typical" winter, that seasonal depression still has an impact. It doesn't matter how many leaves remain on the trees, or how warm it still is outside. (Mental much?)

Back then, aside from music, I found refuge in trudging down to George's Fruit Market to stock up on Funyons, Mountain Dew and Slim Jims (because in 1980, we all were just the essence of health consciousness, weren't we?), or nights at Skateland, or long bike rides out to the Dumas farm. I discovered how therapeutic creative writing could be, and I spent hours solidifying my place as the mediocre community theatre drama diva. Sometimes, walking around in a hot summer rain was all it took to ponder--to borrow from Milan Kundera--the unbearable lightness of being.

I think sometimes people try too hard to help -- they want so badly to save you from your sadness, when really, it comes down to the most simple things at times that can bring about a smile or laugh. Things that don't need to be over thought at all. For example, here is a list of ten things that may (or may not (hey, man, I make no promises here)) help brighten my internal light:

1. ABBA. ABBA can make anything better, transporting you from mediocrity to fantasy with one key change.

2. Little House on the Prairie. There is something to be said for bad television reruns. But the power of Little House is not to be underestimated.

3. Watching television theme songs from the 1970s and 80s on YouTube. I'm fucking showing my age here.

4. Making out with my cats. As studies prove--and I'm sure they must be scientific in nature, maybe--pets can be very healing to what ails you. I don't know about you, but my cats basically harass me when I've been feeling particularly down--cuddling, kissing and whatnot. Now if they'd quit clawing the furniture, I'd be super happy.

5. My boy. Because he's my little boy. And no other explanation is needed.

6. Mad Libs. How can you go wrong?

7. Fruity Pebbles and Soda. Because if you are going to wallow for a little while, you might as well be bloated and happy doing it.

8. Old pictures. I love to look through old pictures. Especially of myself. Because apparently, I'm hopelessly nostalgic (or shamelessly narcissistic).

9. Retail Therapy. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

10. Marilyn Monroe movies. She might always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop, but she does so with grace, charm, vulnerability, wit, comedic flair, and a strategic giggle.

Without the complexities of life, we couldn't enjoy these simplicities--they wouldn't give us the gift of what is light. Without our moments of sadness, of darkness, we wouldn't embrace our hopes and joys with the zeal of a new lover. Without our memories of what has made us strong, we could not have the promise of a future that will make us stronger.

Truth is, like most everyone, I am not much different than the awkward small town girl I have painted in my portraits. Sure, I get down in the dumps from time to time, but after taking in a few episodes of Little House and some Marilyn flicks, making out with my cats, laughing at my boy, doing internal Mad Libs (the "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" version), YouTubing it, and mooning over old photos from the 70s while shoving Fruity Pebbles and Diet Coke in my crack, I always get back up on my feet to kick life where it counts with my gaucho boots...smack-dab in the mean reds, and I do it with a smile.

_______
For Dad:

The Disco Cab Driver

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 19:02:00 +0000

Every now and then, it's good to take a rest from the memoir-oriented material and focus on some different-type shhhtuff. Simple Mary is a fiction project I've had on my plate to work on for quite some time. It is a series of stories based on the characters of (surprise, surprise) a small town. While loosely based on real people, places and experiences, I have certainly colored WAY outside the lines to create a new world in and of itself. It is written in a memoir-style format, but not a memoir. There is a lot of fleshing out yet to be done, so posting this is a bit of an experiment. -- K.

SIMPLE MARY AND THE IDLE ONES

The Disco Cab Driver

The horn of the car blasted with urgency.

My two counterparts and I giggled wildly with vodka and scotch induced dragon breath as we shimmied out the front door: me—tripping over my feet, bumping into the rails of the front porch with wild abandon. And that’s what the homes of my posse were for, dear friends, that aforementioned hard-core and well snuck (so we thought) liquor infusion that caused gnarly mouth air, the blindness of walking into walls, and endless guffaws that might otherwise superbly annoy anyone over the age of, say, 16.

But I really should use my adjectives selectively.

There wasn’t much else to do in a town on the edge of nowhere. Segregated from the rest of the world by a wall of mountains and cows, Nowhere provided not much by way of entertainment. As residents, we were obligated to create our own fun. We also walked ten miles uphill both to and from school every day in the snow. (I’ve always wanted to say that.)

As we stumbled down the steps, our chariot signaled its arrival yet again with the grace of a moose in heat. And you’ve no idea how ironic that statement is. It was a four-door low-riding piece of rusted puke green junk (although I don’t believe the “low-riding” thing was intended or as a result of trend). While I’d like to say it probably had a marker-scrawled sign in the window rather than a cab light, I won’t.

We could see her as plain as day, a beacon in the darkness, and we were spellbound. She narrowed her eyes and, although we were only steps away, she leaned on the horn again—the ashes of her cigarette glowing so far down to the butt it seemed as if she’d set her crotch on fire at any given moment.

The door flung open and a gravelly mucous-lined voice sung out, “youze call a cab?” [Insert 30-second long smoker’s cough here.]

Truthfully, we were no-good meddling kids with nothing better to do than break into parental liquor cabinets and then call Bud’s Taxi on a lark. Oh, we were going to go for a ride all right. Did we need to? No. We could walk anywhere in town we wanted to go, and usually did. Aimlessly. On this occasion, however, one of my friends came up with this bright idea as I was sticking my head under the sink faucet after guzzling something that pretty much lit my esophagus on fire.

Friend one: “Let’s call Bud’s Taxi!”
Friend two: “Yeah!”
Me, Debbie Downer: “But I don’t have any money. Where are we gonna go?”

The three friends pull their pockets inside out. Lint, a piece of Hubba Bubba, a dollar bill, two quarters, four dimes, and ten pennies spilled out onto the counter upon where their asses did sit.

Friend two: “Two dollars. Let’s do it!”
Me: “Where are we going?”
Friend one: “Wherever two bucks is gonna take us.”

Friend one—let’s call him “Sammy”—picked up the phone with a grin. He began to dial a couple times then would hang up because we were laughing so hard (which, in my case, meant snorting and running to the bathroom because I’d begun to pee my pants).

Finally, we matured enough for him to actually make the call.

“Bud’s [coughcoughcoughcoughhork] Taxi.”

Sammy cleared his throat, “Yes. Is this Bud’s Taxi?”

“Bud’s Taxi.”

Now, although downtown Nowhere only spanned about like three miles, the “dispatcher” sounded like they were speaking to us through a tin can tied to a rope.

“Yes, we need a taxi. [CLEARS THROAT AGAIN] Please.”

This is where I ran to the bathroom laugh-cry-peeing again. (I was a 15 year-old-girl in the heart of the 80s. This is what we did.)

Sammy gave the address of where to pick us up, and right before he hung up he added, “oh, oh, wait. How far can we go on two dollars?”

Amazingly, this was a non-issue.

~~~

As we piled into the back seat, we just stared ahead with big eyes. She was Large Marge, of Pee Wee Herman fame. Not literally, but close.

She was a rather—rotund—woman. A cigarette hung from her toothless mouth, and she had somewhat of a, how shall I put this…somewhat of a beard. And mustache. Not the kind that I joke around having for attention, but like a real beard and mustache. Non-intentional she-whiskers. And I seem to remember sideburns too. Or porkchops, lambchops…whatever the hell they were called. She had thinning salt and pepper hair, dark circles under her eyes and kind of smelled like my alcoholic Uncle Lou (consisting of a sweet mixture of Sloe Gin Fizz, pipe, and BENGAY®). Her eyes were very slitty (not to be confused with slutty) and we felt a little displaced as we sat much higher up in the back than she did in the front. The interior of the car was a perfect match to the exterior. The seats were bandaged up with duct tape. In other places, there were just gaping holes.

We didn’t look upon her as something to laugh at, but we were certainly intrigued. We weren’t scared, but maybe a little instantly sobered up.

“Where youze wanna go?” she mumbled.

Our ringleader Sammy responded, “Where can two bucks take us, doll?”

“Oh, cross town I spose.”

“Can you take us to the Pizza Box?”

“Yut.”

We sat in silence for a minute as our Bud’s Taxi cab jolted back out onto the road and headed to the local pizza dive a couple miles away.

Sammy was insanely confident and a natural charmer. With a shit-eating grin, he asked her name.

[Cough] “Clara.”

At the time, we had no idea what the inner-workings of Bud’s Taxi might have been about. I doubt it was any kind of huge conglomerate. (Well, I think we all know that it wasn’t.) If I didn’t know that their little dispatch office sat right next to Huck’s Bar on Main Street, I would assume that Bud’s corporate headquarters was situated next to the black and white rabbit-eared TV in the living room where Bud watched All In The Family and drank his Genny Cream Ale. I don’t even know if there was a Bud. All I know is that there was one room with a desk next door to Huck’s Bar and every time we called for a cab after that, we would ask for Clara and she would appear in her rusted low rider to take us wherever we wanted to go in town for $2.00.

~~~

Throughout the years, every so often, Clara the cab driver has come to mind. I have no idea what train of thought leads me to her memory, but as I’ve aged, my perception and imagination have also taken turns.

As a girl, I looked at her in drunken wonderment. She was a character out of a movie that we were intrigued with. It wasn’t her looks, but her personality. She was this spitfire of a saucy lady trapped in the body of a cartoon trucker. I didn’t think much about her circumstances then or before she got to where she was. I didn’t consider who she was as a girl, what her dreams could be, who her family was, or who she may have pined for.

Every person has a story, even the idle ones. Every person has a painted past, every person has a dream—of some kind—for the future.

	Thelma Houston - Dont Leave Me This Way

	Found at Dont Leave Me This Way on KOhit.net

Did she drive a cab because she needed to care for her children? Did she drive a cab because she needed to care for herself or an ailing parent? Did she drive a cab because she was lonely? Did she drive a cab because it was truly interesting to her and she enjoyed the people? Did she observe? Was she ever intrigued by others? Did she too make up stories? Did she too act like a total dumb ass when she was a teenager? Did she travel off to New York City in her youth to become an ingénue and spend wild nights dancing at Studio 54 only to have her heart broken and return to Nowhere, the place where she was born and raised? Wait. When she danced at Studio 54, did she have elegant legs like Liza Minnelli and shiny hair like Cher? Did she visit Andy Warhol’s pad for drugs and debauchery after-after hours? Was she carefree and full of life? Was she still? Did she go home after working and hug her husband, dance to music, and laugh like wind chimes flitting through the air? Did she simply work and go home, watch TV—and in all its searing simplicity just…love her life?

Was Clara sad?

~~~

She prances into the crowd, disco pounding, lights flashing, heart racing; her body thumps with the groove, matching movements surrounding her. She sees bodies in the crowd, but looks at no faces. The air is smoky and out of focus, but she feels the excitement and hears shouts and singing, glasses clinking, arguments, sounds of kissing and laughter; the air is electric.

She finds her place on the dance floor, the place she wants to be, and begins to dance; her sequined sizzler shines against her tanned legs, her hair wild. The makeup, the hair, the smile, the costume, the dancing, the wine, the music, the gregariousness—all covering up what amounts to a lonely, homely, simple girl. She takes a long drag of her Virginia Slims and feels destined for greatness even though a nasty part of her heart knows—and nags her condescendingly—that the only thing she is destined for is to hermit herself away in the middle of Nowhere.

Dancing harder, smiling wider, she fights against her confusion and screams to no one in particular, “I’m going to be somebody! I control my own destiny!” She giggles, but her eyes are downcast. Her demons, cloaked in strobe, charge at her—no matter how hard she tries, their shadows surround her—perhaps not sinister in their true intent, but devastating all the same.

Again she cries, “I’m going to be somebody! I control my own destiny!” but she is unheard—met with the empty smiles of others who can’t make out the fragments of her angst over the music. Ah, yeah. She looked upset but, surely, a good stiff drink, or spin on the dance floor, or kiss in the corner was all that was required to set her mind at ease.

An overwhelming grief washed over her as she realized that she wasn’t as strong to be as free as her spirit needed her to be. Indeed, she was an ingénue—and life was her greatest performance. She had no idea how to just be, and certainly did not know how to give her life the gift of selective selfishness. Maybe she wasn’t deserving. Or maybe…maybe she just wasn’t right inside. Why must everything be a struggle, a fight? Something wasn’t right. Her choices did not belong to her; she was not as happy as she pretended to be. It then dawns on her that perhaps she is her own worst enemy.

Hoots and hollers fill the joint as a new song is spun. Blasts of color fill the room, and a brilliant smile creeps upon her face. She accepts a vodka from the shadow in front of her, sips it earnestly with a grimace, balancing the glass delicately together with the remnants of her smoke candy. A wild glimmer flashes across her eyes and a wily grin creeps across her face. She begins to sway to the music and is once again lost, perhaps even carefree—at the very least from her thoughts. It can be lonely on an island—but it is what it is, and perhaps that is all it shall ever be.

Our ingénue becomes once again transfixed on her crowd and slides back into a river of calm. She is strong and confident. Lipstick stains a newly lit cigarette as she takes that first inhale and disappears into the broad strokes of the room. She is in control of her destiny, and she is somebody—whether gallivanting around somewhere or meandering the streets of Nowhere. Her smile is sincere, and her laughter rings true; her fleeting thoughts from the past few moments now water under the bridge.

Funny what one simple song can do.

~~~

“Kay, kids. Two bucks.”

Sammy dropped the crumpled bill and assorted coins into Clara’s heavily clod lumberjack glove. As she thrust the money into her pocket, we asked her if she always worked—if we could request her whenever we wanted.

“Yut,” she said. “Just ask for Clara. Two bucks, I take youze where’n ya wanna go.”

“Thanks, Clara babe!” flirted Sammy as we exited the car. As we hit the cold(er) air in front of The Pizza Box, we reverted to bumping into each other, stupid with intoxication. I laughed as I remembered the wad of gum I had stuck on the back of the seat. I hadn’t meant to leave it there. I was just sick of chewing it, and needed a place to rest it temporarily. Oh well. I wonder if there is a junkyard somewhere on the outskirts of Nowhere where the cab now sits, with a piece of well-chewed blueberry Hubba Bubba stuck to the back of the duct taped passenger seat.

As we began to walk into the restaurant, we heard the bellow of the cab’s horn one last time. As we turned back to look, we saw Clara waving to us—with a wild glimmer flashing across her eyes and a wily grin creeping across her face. She appeared strong and confident.

Clara was happy.

My Television Debut (Big in Japan!)

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 00:55:00 +0000

1975. My 1st play. It had to be halted because I threw up.

"Pull...slo-wahhh. Prease."

I looked up from the oh-so-ladylike squatting position in my candy red ballgown to five or six Japanese faces looking down on me, having a heated discussion in their native language. The moment was chaotic and surreal, but I was attempting with all my might to focus on what the interpreter was trying to relay to me rather than the fact that the slit going up the back of my dress was coming dangerously close to the crack of my arse.

The Time: Appx. 1995.

The Place: An estate in Pasadena, CA.

The What: A Japanese commercial for UCC coffee.

The Who: A selection of Hollywoodwannabees dressed to the nines (in a Melrose second-hand kind of way) for our call to represent an elite(ish) society party in Hollywood. Ish. What this boils down to is, in actuality, we were a bunch of struggling actors taking any extra job we could muster in the hopes of making a connection with a casting director, be rewarded with a few lines, or snag a golden SAG voucher. Like anyone, I opened every Wonka bar I could find in hopes of finding that golden ticket through the gates.

	Alphaville - Big In Japan

	Found at Big In Japan on KOhit.net

My agent at the time, Joe Whatever, called me one day with a flat rate offer for a non-speaking appearance in this commercial. Although I was a theatre actress, I dreamed of fame and fortune as any goofy idealist would and didn't blink an eyelash before accepting. It would be my first time on a true television(ish) set.

I arrived for the 5am call, sans makeup, with my cheap red satin number delicately stowed in a trash bag over my arm. I looked like a waiter from Night of the Living Dead, I'm guessing. I won't lie. I was geekily excited. I didn't know what to expect, but I loved theatre, I loved the people, I loved the life...how different could it be? At that time of morning in June, it was cloudy, cool, and wet. And there was a lot of waiting. But what makes any television set great is craft services. Food is the way to my heart. So what that I had to fit into this cheap, slinky little dress with my cheap black patent leather heels from Payless? There was sausage and bacon and fruit (no, scratch that), toast, juice, coffee, mmm-coffee, sausage, bacon, eggs, pancakes, donuts, bacon, donuts and sausage to eat. What? I was a growing girl.

Three by three we were summoned into the makeup trailer. I was in heaven. Makeup? Hair? And I get paid (like nothing) for this? Heaven. Heaven. Heaven times 10. OK, so the makeup artist gave me "tips" about the dark circles under my eyes. I'm sorry--check it, it's genetic, there is nothing I can do about my sad clown eyes. Nonetheless, hello, heaven. I was being pampered, I was going to be filmed, and I was being catered to. Both literally and figuratively. (Bacon? Sausage?) I emerged looking very Ann Jillian-esque. (I was more often compared to Shelley Long during this period of my life...which I'm not sure is a compliment or backhanded insult, given the fact that I was only in my mid-20s.) (Maybe it's my personality?) (Holy crap.)

And then...we waited. And waited. And waited. For the sun to burst through the Southern California June gloom. Oh, and we waited some more. During the wait, I sat next to several "actors" and horked down my sausage, bacon, donuts, eggs, sausage, and bacon. I was naive. I was. And that's OK. That's when the Beverly Hills 90210 wanna-be sat next to me. Looked at my plate. Looked back at his fruit. Looked back at my plate. Looked at my patent leather shoes. Looked at my boobs. Looked at my donut. And then he asked the ever-annoying question that I was asked more times in my 20s than I care to remember, "so, what have you done?"

A lot of daydreaming, I suppose. Some running. A lot of fantasizing (but not in a dirty way). Um, my hair? See...this is why I lost my passion for being an actress. Crap like this. The television and film industry (or pursuit thereof) killed it. Absolutely killed it. Dead. Buried. Took me years of struggling to get through a frustrating block in my performance skills (I just could not act anymore to save my life. But then, could I ever? Who knows.). I knew what he was getting at. As I've protested before (doth I protest too much?), I'm not as dumb as I pretend to be.

"Oh, I'm a theatre actress. I've done mostly theatre."

He looked at my donuts again. (Yes, that was plural.) He smirked a little and said, "yeah, well, I've only ever done television." (What? An extra in a bar scene on Melrose Place? Big fucking deal.) Granted, at that time--even though I was suffering from a major creative block--I was very much a diva, especially when it came to the theatre. Who cares if I had talent or not. I knew how to play the part, and I loved it. It was every part of my identity, it was my heart and soul. But I also knew that many more people in Los Angeles were television and film actors, which I had quickly learned was a different thing altogether. Some people could do both. Sadly, I could not. For--I am like Lucille Ball. On crack. Doesn't really work too well in this day and age.

Well, Frank Ithinkimhotbutimnot and I kind of had a disgusted stare down. I think he was revolted by the fact that I had no television (read: extraonmelroseplace) experience, and I was kind of disgusted that he had no theatre experience. I mean, how do you call yourself an actor? (So I thought at the time.) (Insecure much?) (And...inhale donut, end scene.)

The sun came out. Just in time to escape my new nemesis, the extra extraordinaire. (Dude, I could say this...basically, I was here as an extra.) (Is this a long story?) (Whatever.)

We were herded to the backyard, an elegant setting of round tables with umbrellas, and fine 99 Cent Store china (note that I did not capitalize China) cups. Filled with cold coffee. Black. And gross. (I take my coffee blonde and sweet, thank you very much. Like me!) (Cue groans.)

My table, by far, was the rowdiest. (Gee, I have no idea why.) All I know is I had befriended the guy next to me--much different from Dick Ilovemyself--he was down to earth and kooky. Just like how I like my friends. His name was Kip and we basically did UCC cold canned coffee shots over and over again so much as to create a hyperactive buzz only akin to an 8-year-old with ADD after inhaling a vat of cotton candy. Yeah, we were the crowd favorites. (Or so we thought.)

And we sat there for four hours in the afternoon sun. My favorite part was having the sunshades held over us--although I still left with massive sunburns on my shoulders.

At the end of the day, we were lined up in a row. Like a really fucked-up scene from The Bachelor, we were hand-picked to appear in the print work for the campaign. Calendars and billboards, so we were told. I was selected, along with most of my "group A--hyper personality" table. Maybe ten of us. Five men and five women. I might be making this up, but it is a nice even number for my story.

They then pulled the selected women aside, and asked us to put our hands out. I got really excited about this because I have an insane infatuation with the old 70s Palmolive commercials. But anyway. We held our hands out, and they motioned for me--of cheap red satin--to step forward. Despite the fact that I have long, perfect for piano and ballet, skinny fingers--as well as being kind of girlie--the one thing I really didn't care too much about was manicuring my nails. Sure, my hair looked like Jennifer Slept Here, but my nails looked like I was still parading around Malone, NY avoiding cows and whatnot. Nonetheless, for whatever reason known only to God, I was selected and sent to the makeup trailer. Everyone else was let go and told to return the next day for our print work.

The makeup dame filed my nails, cleaned out the farm girl gook, and put a fresh coat of clear paint on them. I was then sent out to film "my big scene."

As the selected hand model, my job was to crouch low to the ground (in the aforementioned cheap red satin gown with the slit up to the butt) and reach my hand out to open the pages of a storybook. (Doesn't that sound romantic?) They were shooting it from above, which is why I had to get low and level with the book itself.

I think it must have taken like an hour, two, three for them to film this 5 second segment with me. I just could not move my hand slow enough, or graceful enough (WHAT? I'm a theatre actress for crying out loud--it is extremely difficult for me not to do my best Gloria Swanson moves!), or precise enough. The men filming the commercial circled overhead, huddled in heated discussion every time I was given direction. It was like that episode of Seinfeld where Elaine gets made fun of at the nail salon. They would yell for five minutes and then the interpreter would simply say, "move slowahhhh." I'm not too sure they were very fond of my hand modeling abilities.

I walked away from the set that day with a tear in the slit of my cheap red satin dress, grass stains on my black patent leather heels, a crazy sunburn, and the realization that I make a pretty terrible model. Even if it was just a hand job. Of course, it could be that I couldn't sit still after drinking about 75 cups of canned coffee in the sun, but maybe this film and television thing was a lot more involved than I gave it credit for.

Never did see a copy of that commercial or any of the corresponding print pieces. But when I'm feeling down and like I haven't accomplished any of my goals, I sit back and remember that day...and tell myself that at least for a moment, I may have been big in Japan. Ish.

And, craft service sausage is to die for.

The Folly of Heartbreak.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 17:23:00 +0000

Yes. That's me in the mustard yellow tights.

Heartbreak doesn't discriminate, its only folly is loss. It preys on happiness, security and love, and strives to take them away. Sometimes you know heartache has been lurking beside you, lying in wait, but not unseen. Sometimes, it strikes out of nowhere without even a hint of its existence, attacking lovers, friends, families, parents, and even the most innocent of children.

I learned to roller skate during the heart of its heyday, when I was a pig-tailed, bright-eyed child of the 1970s.

The rink was one of those nondescript brick warehouse-like structures, which sat just near the edge of Saranac Lake. You couldn’t miss it, it was where the railroad tracks crossed by Lake Colby. (The tracks–like in so many small towns–are no longer used and have long since been covered many times over by years of pavement.)

During the summers of my elementary school youth, I would spend many weekends with my cousins Deanna and Georgie. Deanna was as close to me as a sister could be when we were little. Two years my senior, she was funny, gregarious, smart, and seemed to have a world of sophistication--in my eyes, anyway.

The two of us were just as I imagined twins could be. We could speak without talking. We understood our sometimes wavering moods, which at that age seemed to be nothing more than occasional brattiness or a sullen stubborn streak in one or both of us. She had a much better handle on her feelings. She was calmer and just a bit quieter than I was. But then again, I wasn't even a pre-teen. I was a little girl. But I do remember. I remember her to the depths of my soul. She and I -- we were more than cousins. We were sisters. I always knew that we would have hours of laughter and goofiness together, and I always knew that on those days where perhaps the mean reds were getting the best of me, she would understand that too.

I also adored Georgie. He probably goes by George now. But I haven't seen him in so long, I'm not sure we would even recognize each other if placed face to face. It's been so long that I'm not sure I could naturally call him anything other than Georgie. He was good to us too. He was much straighter and more practical, a typical older brother, but he was fun. Georgie left us alone to pretty much be girls when we were together.

It was the summer of 1979, and I was making my annual week or so stay with my Aunt Donna, Deanna and Georgie at their little house in Ray Brook. Their house was just around the corner from the custard stand that sat smack in between Saranac Lake and Placid.

Deanna was the one who brought me to that rink and taught me how to skate, and taught me about the thrill of speed, the fun of competition on wheels. I’m not good at sports, but on four wheels–on four wheels, I was an athlete. Quads were more natural to me than shoes; on foot I was clumsy, on wheels I was air. The day Deanna taught me to roller skate was one of the most memorable of my childhood. We laughed, we discoed, we played games, we raced, we drank lots of soda and we skated our little hearts out.

And we did other things too. We spent time at Grandma and Grandpa Daniels' house, we played outside, played with Grandpa's big lime green motorized reclining chair (it vibrated!), we played dolls--she had Baby Alive, which kicked ass because of its--you know--bodily functions. My stupid doll just crawled around when you switched a button on her back. Boring. She was much more fun when you'd tie her up in a brown bag, legs twitching and drop her off from the top of the stairs. What? I hesitate mentioning what else we did, it was supposed to be a secret we'd never tell. (And to be completely honest...it's a tad embarrassing.) Well, I'll just say, somehow, brought on by spending the afternoon with Baby Alive, we had a curiousity about what it would feel like to wear diapers. Don't judge, man, don't judge. Umm. Not to, you know, actually use them or anything...it was more of a...what does it feel like...thing. Yeah, I got nothin' here. Anyway, we baked up a couple diapers using powder, vaseline, and lotion--and then did our experiment. Gross, sure. But check it, I was like nine years old. It was stupid and goofy. And we were freaking laughing our asses off and having a blast. We were laugh-crying. And that kind of laughing just reeks of pure joy and love. And it's those kinds of moments that we've all had that we always swear not to tell anyone else in the world, but then for one reason or another, someone spills the beans.... The reason I would even go out of my way to mention this little secret tidbit is just to highlight how intricately similar our inquisitive--albeit strange--personalities were. Two peas in a pod, for sure.

	Art Garfunkel - Bright Eyes

	Found at Bright Eyes on KOhit.net

It was a great way to end the summer, especially since when school started, we wouldn’t be able to see each other as often, we didn’t live in the same town.

As I drove away, I was grateful that I had the chance to spend that time with her. The reason my feelings had become at times sad was that it was my first experience with the tauntings of depression. I needed Deanna desperately then. Mom and Dad had just separated, and this would be my first year in a new school, with many changes--that ended up being not quite so graceful. Deanna had been through this before, she knew. And even if she didn't...she knew me.

Indeed, that fall of 1979 was anything but easy. I guess it's hard to follow up such a fun end of the summer -- but handling the changes was difficult, and for some time I became withdrawn into my then favorite book Watership Down. I would read it over and over. It's all I did. But eventually, time started ticking away. The dawn of 1980 arose, and soon the promise of Easter loomed, which also meant that summer was right around the corner. I was so excited. So excited. She had been writing to me about some of the fun things she'd discovered for us to do together around town, oh, I couldn't wait. She was the only person I believed to see me for who I still was. Who could understand. Who knew that while I was sad, I could still laugh, and while I was happy, I could still feel pain. I think she even knew that my certain amount of goofiness would help create the person I'm proud to be today. I counted the days. Literally counted them until I could finally see my sister.

Why is mom picking me up? S'wierd....

She never picked us up from school, unless we were sick. We lived very close, so rides weren't at all necessary. She came to the school early and, without a word, we walked to the car.

"What? What's wrong?"

My mother paused and began to speak, her voice cracking a bit, tears filling her eyes.

Something is very wrong. The fire I felt in my heart kept me from breathing. I didn't know what it was, but I felt my mother's pain, and it hurt like nothing I had known.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know how to tell you...." She shook. But what words needed to be said? How do you tell your 10-year-old child that her dearest cousin and best friend had been killed? A 12-year-old girl of beguiling charm, and the closest thing to a sister I had at the time, the innocent victim of a drunk driver as she crossed the street with her bike.

This was the first death -- and last one for a very long time -- that I had experienced by loved ones in my life. I went with my mother to the wake. Although I was only 10, my mom understood how close we were. It almost didn't seem real. Not until the next day when the postman brought a letter that was addressed to me, written in big purple bubble writing -- telling me of her day's adventure and some of the things we needed to do that summer together. I can still see the letter -- she must have mailed it the very same day she was struck -- my hands shaking. It remains in a photo album at my mother's house, the ink smeared with tears.

My first heartbreak.

I’m not quite sure if it was her death and the lasting memory of our time at the rink together that drove my young obsession with skating, but I loved everything about it. Not to sound, like, super weird, but I was haunted by it--by skating. My Grandparents had given us each a necklace with a roller skate charm the previous Christmas, and it was my most prized possession. When I would skate, if a favorite song came on, I would touch the charm and shut out the world, building up as much speed as I could finesse–and during those moments of solitude, I would talk to Deanna in my head and tell her this skate was for her. In fact, I talked to Deanna quite often in my head, when I was feeling down, or confused…and I did this for a number of years. What can I say–I missed her, and her ghost made me feel strong.

I tend to keep my emotions to myself quite often, and I’m not sure that anyone ever knew how deeply I mourned for the loss of my cousin and friend in my youth, or how much I think the event of her passing influenced the woman I grew into. Here it is, 30 years later–and I still think about her. I still hold her dear to my heart. And I even look to her for strength when I need it, just as I did when I'd get lost on skates as a young girl. Thirty years later, and I still remember her laugh. Thirty years later, she lives on very much, every single day, within me. She's there. A guardian angel, proud as she watches me be strong, independent, urging me to be free, happy, and helping me understand that my pain does not mean that I'm broken. And when I feel a peice of her there like that, I can do anything I want and be anything I damn well please. I can move through life with grace and I can feel the air kiss my face as I proverbially skate.

Those who touch our hearts live on forever.

Please don't pee on my foot.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 02:09:00 +0000

At least he didn't opt to pee on my foot. That's all I'm saying.

Growing up, we had a fair selection of water-like areas to spend our summer days. Of course, there were standbys such as Meecham Lake or the Rec Park, Mountain View, Ausable River, Rainbow Lake, Fish Creek, High Falls Gorge, and any number of any assorted ponds, lakes, and rivers peppering the Adirondacks.

Being in and around (and at the bottom of) the mountains, said ponds, lakes, and rivers and/or streams were mighty majestic in their own right. Now, at the time, the beauty and serenity of these locales were pretty freakin' lost on me. I suppose I was blinded by the wanderlust of the region's mosquitoes, black flies, horse/deer/moose/dragon/cow/dog/pig/chicken/lizard flies, and unhealthy obsession with my mistress otherwise known as "getting the hell out of this town." As an old and withered woman with saggy boobs and rotting teeth, I have an appreciation for from-whence-I-came, and often wonder what the hell I was thinking in my youth. I was such a dang whippersnapper.

So, back in that late 1970s/early 80's era when tanning with aluminum foil around your face was de rigueur and divorcees were still a tad on the taboo side, yet exotic enough to have new age sitcoms centered around their plight, my mother would oft take my brother and me to any one of those aforementioned ponds, lakes, rivers and/or streams--sometimes with other divorcee friends and their children, sometimes with my soon-to-be stepfather Ron, and sometimes just the three of us.

When I was around 10 years old (that would be in 1980...I have no shame), a little spot known as Burke Falls became a favorite destination. On a side note, for as long as I remember we called it "Burke Falls" although I think technically its proper name is "Little Trout River [Waterfall]" I haven't been there in probably 25 years, if not more. I've no idea what marks its spot anymore, or how it has aged, but back in the olden days you looked for the little yellow church. (It may have also been a court house and recreation center, I can't be certain.)

I'll say it again: At least he didn't opt to pee on my foot.

****

EXT. BIG UGLY, LEMON-YELLOW MONTE CARLO WITH BROWN TOP.

KIKI (10) and her brother JASON (5) fight in the back seat as MOM and RON slowly cruise the bustling streets of Burke, New York searching for the little yellow church.

****

We spotted the church or whatever the hell it was (sorry, God) and slowly turned onto fancy gravel and dirt driveway. We parked. Behind the church (or yadda, yadda, yadda) was a dirt path leading through a cave of trees, thorns, and assorted small rocks that slipped in between your flip-flops and feet causing extraordinary pain. In 1980s-land, the dirt path seemed to go on for miles. I'm kind of thinking that in this new day and age, it probably is about a two minute hike, if'n that's what you want to call it.

When we got to the bottom of the path, we were presented with a vision that looked like--well, one of those things on Sesame Street that didn't belong. Imagine--if you will--four squares. In the squares are 1) Huck's Bar; 2) Kmart; 3) a half-burnt down Main Street; and 4) a bubbling stream with lush green trees, flat rocks with a silvery sheen, rapidly bubbling stream/rapids thingamabob, and a small but exquisite waterfall. So, which one doesn't belong? (Author's note: the four squares thing is from the perception of my younger more foolish self.)

Burke Falls was all that and more. Don't get me wrong, it was a very small area. The waterfall was tiny, and the rapids weren't exactly of the white water rafting ilk...they were kind of more of the white water sliding down the rocks on your butt variety, but beautiful it was. (Does that sound too much like Yoda?) There was no beach, but rather huge flat rocks that jutted out over the stream or little river (band) or whatever you want to call it. We found the biggest rock to throw our towels on and set out our cooler of lemonade, sandwiches and Jean's potato chips (the blue box).

Directly to the left of us was the waterfall. Directly in front was kind of a pooled pond-like area with deeper water. If you climbed up over the "rapids" section to the right, you reached a flat, rocky stretch with water that came all of about ankle high. In the summer, anyway.

Jay and I would immediately jump into the water. We especially loved to play under the waterfall itself, allowing the water to pound our little pea brains in. Mom would sunbathe on the big rock while Ron likely whittled away sketching the scenery into a piece of moss. He has always been creative like that (and an immense inspiration to me). In any case, the moss artwork sounds super cool today, but when you are a 10 year old looking for any excuse to not like your mother's new boyfriend, well...you know.

On this one particular day, I wandered up by myself towards the flat section. For whatever reason (maybe could be the fact that I am and have always been the. klutziest. person. ever), I tripped on a rock in the stream and scraped my foot. Doesn't sound too dramatic, I realize, but it hurt like a mother. And check it, it was bleeding. I'm no pansy (well, not back then) (okay, maybe a little), I didn't let it bother me. Either way, it was time for a chips and lemonade break. (I so was NOT into liverwurst sandwiches. And in the sun at that!) (Just kidding. They were probably egg salad sandwiches. No worries.)

****

EXT. FLAT ROCK

KIKI, dripping with water, approaches MOM who is sunbathing in her orange paisley bikini. Her dirty blonde hair is matted across her face, lips purple and face shivering.

                  MOM:

Ready for lunch?

                   KIKI:

Mmm-hmm. [SHIVERS]

KIKI slowly looks down at her feet and emits a blood curdling scream. Crows scatter from the trees over head, glass is heard breaking from the cars parked in the little church-or-whatever lot above.

****

It's all a blur really. But it didn't take but a nanosecond for my mother to start screaming as well. When my mother started screaming, Jay wandered over--looked at me--and started laughing. When Ron heard the screaming and laughing, he threw aside the moss-work and rushed to our sides. We all stood there--screaming--and staring at my foot. Which was covered in leeches. I think I may have had a mild stroke, which might explain all the migraines I get as an adult. (Just sayin'.)

As I was standing there with my blood vessels popping out of my head, and my mother freaking out, and my brother preparing to get friggin' clobbered by me once the bloodsucker situation was amended because he was laughing and making faces and fart noises with his arm-pits at me while I was in this dire emergency, Ron took the lead to quickly remedy the problem.

***

EXT. FLAT ROCK

               RON

They're leeches.

               KIKI

No duh. [ROLLS EYES THEN BURSTS INTO TEARS]

               MOM

What do we do?

(JAY crosses eyes at KIKI)

               RON

You get leeches off by peeing on them or...

               KIKI
(SCREECHES)

You are NOT peeing on my foot! No! No! No! No! No! Get them OFF!

               RON

Could burn them with a cigarette....

(KIKI wails. JAY guffaws. MOM looks horrified.)

Shampoo...

               MOM

Ron, we don't have shampoo...

               RON

Jesus, BJ, I'm trying to think!

               KIKI
(SCREECHES)

Get. Them. Off!

               RON

Salt! Do we have salt?

****

In all honesty, I have no idea if we went with the salt, or if Ron just resorted to pulling them off my feet. All I know is, they were finally removed and all I wanted was to get out of there. I was not happy. And, I'll tell ya, when I'm not feeling in a very happy mood--I'm not much fun to be around. Of course, I would have rather died or live an entire lifetime with leeches on my feet than have someone pee on my foot...yes, I was pretty mortified by that. Just to be clear, he was only going through out loud what all of the noted methods of removing leeches from the human body were. And in the end, he got them off and saved the day--either by salting them off, or pulling them...or a combination of both. Does it matter? I mean, I had leeches. On my feet. Leeches.

I never swam at Burke Falls again.

But I can still smell the wooded air, hear the crashing of the little waterfall, and see the rocks of the river(ish) in my mind's eye as if it was yesterday.

EXT. FAMILY WALKS UP DIRT PATH TOWARDS CAR. SON DRAGS LARGE STICK BEHIND HIM. DAUGHTER SCOWLS AS SHE HUGS TOWEL TIGHTLY AROUND HER. BOYFRIEND PLACES ARM AROUND MOTHER'S BACK AS THEY SMILE LOVINGLY AT EACH OTHER.

We were a family.

Adventures in Babysitting

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 01:00:00 +0000

I was fascinated by my babysitters.

As a young girl, I couldn't wait to be older like them--wear lots of makeup, feather my hair, play records, and flirt carelessly on the phone with boys. I even romanticized the idea of one day being a babysitter myself. (Oh, the excitement!) I considered it to be a chic profession, made expressly for teen girls of the sophisticate set. (This is coming from someone who ate Slim Jims and Funyons for lunch every day, so take that for what it's worth.)

Lights dimmed, incense burning, and candles ablaze in the ceramic Dutchmen sitting atop our floor model television (exotically bookending the fiber optic centerpiece) were sure signs of an upcoming night out on the town for my parents. Sandalwood-scented air meant that the gatekeeper (or is it keymaster?) of the evening would soon be making her grand entrance.

The first babysitters who made their mark on me--and weren't relatives--were two sisters named Cindy and Sandy. It didn't matter which one came to watch my brother and me on a given night because I adored them both. They seemed to be straight out of an after school television special, what with their Farrah Fawcett hair, high-waisted 1970s denim and macrame accoutrements. They were kind, loved to listen to music on my dad's stereo, and were both the embodiment of what I couldn't wait to be one day. They were the Obi-Wans to my Luke; I learned by observation the art of raiding refrigerators, bribing kids, manipulative negotiation tactics, and general kindness to my juniors--all while wielding a cherry flavored lipsaber and doing the hustle.

As pages of the decade turned and polyester was replaced by mile high shoulder pads and leg warmers, my attitude towards the pop tarts otherwise known as "babysitters" changed. Drastically. Did my latchkey farm town street smarts open up a bitter table for one? Perhaps. Did the annoying antics of my little brother--especially when mom was out of earshot, eyesight (whatever) cause anxiety? Could be. More likely, it was a symptom of simply being a bratty little pre-teen who was stubborn, sullen, and maybe a little too big for her flower-printed britches. Regardless, babysitters were no longer the Obi-Wans to my Luke. They were the Darth Vaders. Except, like, without that father thing. Or whatever.

Gone were Cindy and Sandy. In their stead stood the newer 80s model babysitting sister team of Trisha and Nanette. Nanette--aka "the sergeant"--was our regular sitter. Trisha, who was a couple years younger than Captain Crankypants, was a dream in comparison. She'd smoke, play cool music, and literally make me stay up with her to watch rated R horror movies. When we'd hear my mother pull up, I'd scatter wildly to my room and jump in bed. Being the spectacularly heavy footed clod that I am, I'm fairly certain that she probably heard the activity and caught on. Maybe.

Trisha and Nanette weren't with us too long. The sergeant went off to college and I was getting old enough to cook our own Tony's Pizza and sneak watching rated-R movies on HBO myself. Not just of the horror genre, but flicks such as Porky's, Tarzan King of the Apes (starring Bo Derek, of course) and other examples of cinematic excellence. As a side note, I'd just like to say that my viewings of such films at a younger-ish age did not taint (taint?) my intellectual growth or otherwise influence me in a negative way.

Is Mike Hunt here? Has anyone seen Mike Hunt?
-- Answer: Everybody in town, from what I hear.

Fine. Perhaps they affected my maturity level a tad. But come on -- that never gets old. Anyone dare me to have it announced at the Franklin County Fair this summer? I swear, I'll do it. For $100 I'll do it and have it filmed, put it on YouTube. Donations can me made directly to me -- 5 dollars, 10, 20...whatever. As long as I accumulate $100 for the task, this 40 year old with seemingly NO maturity level will have Mike Hunt paged to the front office. That darn tallywhacker.

OK, not really.

Um.
Where was I?

Oh right. So after a couple years of "watching" my little brother for a couple hours at night while my mom worked, seems my stepfather knocked the woman up. (My mother, not some random broad.) Yep, a newer baby sibling was preparing to jump out of her vat and be welcomed into the world in no time. They insisted on hiring a new babysitter--which at first was incredibly insulting to me as a 12 or 13 year old (I don't do numbers), but it was hastily explained to me that for a newborn, they just preferred someone a little more...oh, what was that word? Mature. Tallywhackersaywhat?

My mother assured me that Geri would not be there to watch me...just baby Jessi and--you know--that boy child that lived in my house and did crap like listen to my phone calls, breath heavily, burp in my face, and ask every guy I was friends with if he was my boyfriend. I mean, as if. The thing was...Geri was AWESOME. She never made me feel like she was keeping her eye on me...she was great with Jess, took care of everything. Her boyfriend Bryan played basketball on the intramural team my dad had coached, so we were already familiar with him. They were quiet. Non-demanding. Were young adults who weren't nervous acting or pushy or overly trying to be cool in any way. They just were. Usually they were busy feeding Jess, taking her for walks, or calmly watching television. They didn't even flinch at the antics of the cannibals otherwise known as my--ahem--friends, who just wanted to have a little prankster fun to the tune of throwing poor Geri's purse into the dryer and...drying it and everything inside. (I was innocent, I swear.) (Maybe.) On this one occasion, I thought I saw the very corner of her mouth twitch for a millisecond, but then she took it with stride, a sense of humor and with grace as usual...so we just got bored and left to find a new sucker. Geri was pretty special though. Even if she "wasn't watching me" -- she was really the best. There was no doubt one day she would make some child a fantastic mommy.

Where the hell am I going with this?

Right. The graduation. I finally graduated from being sat on to being the sitter. (Sittee? Sittay?) The work of my previous senseis did not go unobserved. It all soaked in. The good, the bad, the chaotic, and possessing the strategic acumen necessary to building an empire of my one. I, too, could be a babysitter for cash...and my maturity (or lack thereof, thank you...Porky's) made me all the more in demand. Why this is, I don't know. It was a farm town, yo. It just worked.

Seriously, I like to think that I took the better attributes from my past sitters and learned from them. I also hope that the negative things I observed--not that there were many--would also remain in my learning bank of What-Not-To-Do.

Luckily for me, we lived in a neighborhood filled with little rascals. The Hardy boys were my regulars--I would sit for them every day in the summer while their parents worked. They lived in the house behind mine and kept me on my toes, and that's a nice way of putting it. I adored them dearly, but they were--oh, how shall I put it? A handful! All boy, the both of them. While I wasn't busy watching reruns of The Monkees or the Spiderman cartoon, they usually had me out playing kickball with them and the rest of the neighborhood kids who I babysat for quite often as well. While I would like to think that they wanted me to play because I was the very essence of cool -- I think perhaps it was because of my aforementioned lack of coordination. They could pretty much kick my butt at anything requiring skill at kicking a 50 cent rubber ball purchased from the toy section of Grand Union. The best thing about babysitting for the Hardy boys was that their fridge was stocked with the best crap a fifteen year old sitter could dream of. While they played--or slept--I would keep my teenage figure in check (okay, not really) by sucking down cans of whipped cream, bottles of chocolate syrup, and Schwan's raspberry push pops. Thank God for having a fair-ish metabolism at that age.

In the house directly next door lived a brother and sister that I often babysat for as well -- Sherry and Josh. While I didn't sit for them as regularly as the Hardy boys -- they still play a big role in my memories of this time. Josh was the same age as my little sister, and they were the best of friends. Sherry ranged from about eight years old to a pre-teen by the time I left for college. She reminded me very much of myself at a young age when I looked up to my teenage babysitters and wanted to be like them. (Not that she wanted to be like me...we've already discussed my athleticism at any rate. I wasn't exactly cool.) While a bit wild in their own right, they were as sweet as can be--and it was very flattering the way Sherry wanted me around. Almost as if I was...Obi-Wan to her Luke. One night, Kari, another little girl from my neighborhood--who I babysat sometimes--spent the night in a tent in the backyard with Sherry. They were probably about 11 at the time. They came knocking on my door asking me if I'd come to their outdoors slumber party and hang out with them. Such a little thing really, but at the time--in a weird way--it was kind of like getting that desperate sort of approval one needs periodically from their boss. Back then, babysitting was not a terrific means of making money--but it was easy, especially if you liked kids. It was even better when every now and then the kids made it known that they liked you too.

Until I started working in one of our local pharmacies--all dolled up in that Kinney's Drugs midnight blue smock--I babysat the neighborhood kids as well as a slew of other hooligans around town, including the toddler of a strange Marine recruiter who spotted me in the lounge of my high school (I didn't quite find it as peculiar as it sounds today at the time). I was even hired as a vacation nanny for the Carkey kids when they visited Lake Titus and stayed in the spare bedroom of their camp. I thought that experience would be more like one of those R-rated movies I used to watch (being a new babysitter staying on a lake near other summer homes full of teenage kids scattered about, partying, hanging out on docks and whatnot), but it was pretty much 99% uneventful.

The best part about babysitting for the kids on my street was there were no awkward drunken rides home with dads at 2 in the morning...I could just meander across the driveway. My parents were a holler away, I knew where the whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and push pops were at, having my friend Paula help me every so often was never an issue since they knew us both (and Paula was really the only one of my friends who could handle the likes of the crew I watched...nobody else would come near me when I babysat), and all was good when they'd wander home and find me sprawled out on the sofa covered by an afghan and bored out of my mind by David Letterman (who I had not yet found an appreciation for) or avidly watching MTV.

Perhaps babysitting wasn't the chic profession it seemed to be when I was little, and although it could be tiring--and was crap money--it was so much fun. Tiring, but fun. I might even dare say that babysitting made me a bit more...mature.

Or whatever.

And in hindsight, I suppose it even prepared me to be a mother one day, which is also tiring--and is crap money--but so much fun. I think at this point, I'll leave mature out of it.

Brothels of Barbulousity (and one big head).

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 08:06:00 +0000

It was the holy grail of girlish treasures: The Barbie® Styling Head.

While the Barbie® Styling Head remained somewhat dignified in her mysterious allure, Barbie herself ended up being just a big fat quasi-ho-bag. Not to be confused with Quasimodo.

To some, frightening as a clown with her soulless eyes and synthetic hair; to me, she was beauty, class, the essence of chic, and as unobtainable as one of those large as life dolls that were always featured in the Sears catalog but were never delivered topped with a a big shiny bow.

I’m not sure why this treasure of mystery was never made to be mine, but I do know that I seethed with jealousy and contempt when I’d see her carelessly thrown into the toy box of a friend’s room. Here was this…this…head, and she was all yours to doll up (no pun intended) with her included makeup pallets and curlers and hairbrushes. More often than not, there she would be, upside down next to the Barrel of Monkeys, with what was left of her hair standing on end, and face stained with mother’s blue eye shadow and frosted lipstick. (Once “real” makeup hit her plastifabulous face, it never seemed removable.)

They were all ne’re do wells in my brothel of Barbulousity

If she had been mine, I would have carefully curled her tresses, and applied her makeup ever so perfectly. And I would have named her Erica, because when I was eight, I thought Erica was a wonderfully exotic name.

No matter. I had plenty a-Barbie, and all the makeup to practice with on myself that I wanted…courtesy of my mother’s dresser drawer.

I’d take a careless swig of my fruit punch Kool-Aid, followed by a shot of Easy Bake Oven cake mix, wipe the red stain from my mouth, and blast my K-Tel Dimensions album as I took a sly once over at the debauchery before me. Malibu Barbie and Malibu PJ were usually decked out in late 60s-inspired Barbie-wear and go-go boots. Assorted regular Barbies were half dressed in classy disco 70s fashions, many times with their boobage hanging out. Immoveable. Fake Barbies–the ugly hard plastic ones with bad yellow, orange or black hair that never bended and you usually got from an Aunt or family friend for your birthday–were rewarded with whatever butt ugly assortment of clothes were left over. My Golden Dream Barbie–she, now she, was dressed and coiffed just right. Golden Dream Barbie was number one, and she made Dorothy Hamill Barbie’s life a living hell. It’s tough to live in the shadow of a golden dream. Barbies with missing limbs were branded with nakedness, for they were less than superior in the Barbie world. There was no room for imperfection. What’s your damage, Heather?

I love my makeup. I line my makeup up on the bathroom counter (well, I really just sort of leave it lying around slobbishly) and sigh at its wonder. I love to play and experiment with it, and I love–when I have the extra cash–to buy it. Lots of it. Everything from the most expensive pot of lipgloss to a drug store has-been. I love the trends and remember the wonder that was Wet and Wild lip liner #666 in the early 90s as if it was a fond family photograph.

There was no room for imperfection. What’s your damage, Heather?

For me, it’s fun, and I love the feeling of playing grown up. I love to make different looks, and I look forward to one day being a crazy old throwback to Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I think makeup is a personal choice. For some, it has no impact. For others, it can be empowering. Does it come down to image and how we use our sexuality? Perhaps. Is it more a habit passed down from generation to generation? Could be. What I do know is, it is a statement, and one that makes me feel good and motivated and confident. Even when I doll myself up to simply watch TV.

And if I had a Barbie® Styling Head today? You can bet on the fact that every now and then–in the comfort of my own home, in my PJs and calvacade of beauty products, I would carefully curl her tresses and apply her makeup ever so perfectly.

And I might even name her Erica.

And then…then there was Ken.

Ah, Ken. One man apparently is not enough for a couple dozen of Barbie Brothel Babes…but no matter, these were disco days. It was about mad fun. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. Barefoot dolly pregnancies, affairs, and bitch-slapping were de rigueur.

Stop. Swig Kool-Aid. Shot of cake mix. Turn over record album. Cue Quasi-ho-bag alert!

So, if an obsession with the Barbie® Styling Head that I never had played part in the development of my love affair with cosmetics, what can be said for the sordid activities of the slutty, half-nekkid Barbie dolls that were actually in my possession? Clothes? No clothes? dry cake mix? My penchant for walking around barefoot?

Barbie never inspired me to become a stewardess or office worker or beauty queen, or brothel babe for that matter. (There is however that aspiration to do nothing but lounge by the pool day in day out, and a little Corvette wouldn’t be a bad touch either. Just not in gayass powder pink, thankyewferrymuch.) No, Barbie did not inspire any of my aspirations, as much as some like to insinuate the brand’s power over little girls.

But looking around my room, there is something that almost undeniably reflects the image that tints my memory of this time in my life. A coincidental replica of the Barbie scene…clothes scattered everywhere, as if carelessly cast off the body into a heap on the floor. Clothes, shoes, little plastic hangers, a purse or two. Even my own naked parts just hanging around. Just piled around.

Back then, my mother would have yelled at me to clean up after the Barbie love fest…at least shove all those doll clothes and assorted plastic shoes into a bag or box or whatever. But I never really aspired to clean up after Barbie’s sorry ass, either.

What's your damage?

It just never seemed like the dignified thing to do.

The Patron Saint of Losers

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Tue, 18 May 2010 06:45:00 +0000

I guess I was the Patron Saint of Losers.

Cinderella, dressed in yellow…

At least that’s what it felt like.

Went upstairs to kiss her fellow…

One by one they all found a reason to leave.

Made a mistake…

One by one they went home.

And kissed a snake…

And on my 11^th birthday, I stood holding my jump rope on the corner alone.

How many doctors did it take?

And I cried.

One, two, three, four, five, six…

One by one, they all went home.

***

I wish I could say that events like this that happened a lifetime ago to a little girl I have long since abandoned didn’t affect me today, didn’t leave a mark. In truth, it’s the small bruises in life that leave scars; sometimes you don’t even remember how they got there.

I’m hard pressed to put into words exactly why birthday parties are so upsetting to me. They just are, always have been. It’s one of those little scars. Nothing makes me happier than to celebrate others and to give. Funny—for someone who is a bloodsucker for attention, the thought of being the celebrated one stops my breath. I can't breathe, my chest hurts, throat tightens, and my eyes sting.

When the anxiety overcomes me, it’s as if I’m suddenly transported through a horribly cheap time vortex with psychedelic colors, not unlike something from The Land of The Lost. It always lands me in the same place—in front of the big yellow house on the corner of Frederick Street, standing alone, holding back my tears in a stoic, stubborn manner even though the pain shoots through my insides, cutting those scars a lifetime deep.

I loved going to slumber parties…big parties with lots of friends, camping out in living rooms with our Garfield sleeping bags, potato chips, flashlights, prank calls (is your refrigerator running? Better go catch it! Hardee-har) and naughty jokes. I had lots of friends, and I was outgoing—maybe a little too excitable at times, but that was part of my charm. I had always been happy-go-lucky, but when my parents separated, I struggled with a sadness that I couldn’t identify, nor could express. Not necessarily because of the end of their marriage; it simply coincided with my internal changes. Maybe it made me seem more sullen at times, or unpredictable. Maybe it didn’t come across as anything at all. Perhaps I internalized it well. Perhaps I was a victim of my own over-dramatics. But I don’t think so. I never had to worry about making friends before these changes took place, or being made fun of, or being different. I never had demons to struggle with until this point, or had to find moments alone where I could secretly cry, or places to yell, or a paper bag to hyperventilate into. So for my first birthday in our new apartment, what a nice thing it was for my Mom to suggest inviting a few girls over to spend the night. We could play records, dance up in my attic, eat lots of junk food, play outside….

But we didn’t even make it hours into the afternoon.

We were jumping rope. And we started to bicker a little, over who would go first and such. The first friend to leave left because of the fighting. The second followed not far behind, claiming to be sick. Another was afraid to spend the night in our big haunted house. The last didn’t want to be the only one to stay. They all left before we even had the cake.

Such a silly thing to let this recollection percolate over the years. But it was one of those events that happened at a time when this little girl I once knew needed comfort and friends and laughter—and to feel like she still belonged somewhere.

Of course, in hindsight, I now understand that the girls leaving this birthday party weren’t intentionally wounding me, and certainly meant no personal harm; I don’t think they even realized how devastated I was. These were girls who I mostly remained friends with throughout the next decade, but I never mentioned the party to them—or anyone—again. Life moved on, and we enjoyed other parties, other nights out, and growing up. (Just not at my house.)

Besides, to say something would mean exposing vulnerability. The horror!

Nobody likes rejection. I’m very lucky—I have so many friends and family that love me; I'm blessed. As much as I’ve tried to smother her to death, the little girl lost still lurks behind sometimes feeling a sadness she can’t control, sometimes a joy and over-excitability that overcompensates, sometimes masking a crippling anxiety, and often with pain rimmed eyes that stoically hide dry tears. But I embrace her. I embrace her, confidently knowing that she makes a complete woman.

I will never really be able to enjoy a celebration in my honor without feeling anguish. And that’s okay. I appreciate quiet, simple, intimate affairs—they make me feel calm, happy, and give me a sense of belonging. I would rather have that than wrestle with the anxiety of trying to face demons that have haunted me a lifetime. If it isn’t necessary, why bother? This is who I am. It's hard enough, year after year, planning parties for my own child—trying not to let my fear of rejection or abandonment show. But I do it, and every year it’s fine and I can relax again, and breathe. Which is good, because I can only hold my breath for so long.

Surprise!

One by one they all found a reason to leave. One by one they went home. So I grabbed my jump rope and skipped into the shadows of the big yellow house on the corner of Frederick Street. Lucky to have friends who can choose to stay or even choose to go. Lucky to have the strong arms of family. Lucky to be alive to feel the sting of pain.

Not at all the Patron Saint of Losers, but a normal girl (well, maybe a little crazy) feeling what she should feel…and in this life, happy.

Riding in The Way-Way Back of The Station Wagon: One Family Vacation.

noreply@blogger.com (KiKi) — Wed, 05 May 2010 08:06:00 +0000

He honked the horn and partially leaned out the window giving an enthusiastic thumbs up to the family van in front of us—one of those cool 1970s retro numbers with a kitchen table inside and white leather covered wheel on the back.

His right hand reached for the radio knob and he pumped up the volume, much to the eye-rolling dismay of my mother in the passenger seat. I’ll never forget the song thumping through the speakers and it will forever make me think of my Dad and our one big family vacation we took in 1978 to Old Orchard Beach, Maine; the song was Miss You by The Rolling Stones and my father honked and hooted throughout its entire play.

	Rolling Stones - Miss You

	Found at Miss You on KOhit.net

At 8 years old, a road trip from Northern New York to Maine felt like a week-long trek across the country. What seemed like days was probably no more than a good 12 hours or so (if that), but I’m too lazy to do the math or measure it on a map or whatever. I recall Mom and Dad waking us before the sun came up. My brother Jason and I stumbled into the way-way back of our candy apple red station wagon with pillows and blankets to assume the appropriate positions for making faces at cars behind us, holding our breaths when passing cemeteries, and doing that hand motion thing at the tractor trailers so they’d blow their horn, baby. Road trip vacations will never be quite like they were in the 70s—before seat belt laws were implemented, kids were able to camp out in the back, and fathers were able to drive with beer between their legs. (Alright, perhaps that was never quite law-abiding, but it certainly wasn’t anything taboo or out of the ordinary back then in the disco era.)

We rolled out of town following my parent’s friends Nick and Sharon and their two boys; we would be shacking up with them at the beachfront-ish apartment rented for the week. “I wanna ride in the van!” I whined incessantly. So wicked jealous of that van. I could just picture the boys sitting at the table playing games and eating Fluffernutter sandwiches and Jean’s potato chips, or something of the gourmet sort that I loved back then. Alas, I was not allowed to leave my post of blowing raspberries on the back window of our wagon or steaming them up with my breath to then make “footprints” with my hands.

Vacations are vastly different through the eyes of a child. I’m sure the recollections of my Mom and Dad are immeasurably different from mine, which flicker through my head in all their silent 8mm glory. I never returned to Old Orchard Beach after that trip, so I have no idea how big or small or crowded or quaint or “old” it may be. (Although I have a pretty good idea.) I think I remember my parents talking about a boardwalk, but I can’t envision it. At that age, I had only been to various spots around the Adirondacks—and Syracuse a couple times (go Orangemen!)—so anything outside of those borders seemed foreign, big and bustling to me.

As we drove up the crowded drive to our “beach apartment” – oh, yeah, that was beach front-ISH apartment – I was in awe of the number of people, the children running around everywhere, and the ocean straight ahead. I’d never been exposed to anything other than Meacham Lake or Fish Creek, the Rec Park—any odd Adirondack lake or pond sporting floating pieces of bark and whatnot—so to see the ocean and experience the scent of fish, salt water, seaweed, seagull crap, and tanning oil was quite something. I suppose the closest I came was the St. Lawrence Seaway, but nothing like this.

We bolted out of the car. Funny the things that we remember as being particularly fascinating—things that we would never consider interesting in the least today…I spotted a vending machine and ran up to it. I was mesmerized by the deposit return signs, which I had never seen before. In fact, I’m not sure how many vending machines I had been exposed to. I don’t think many, considering it remains a significant imprint in my mind. Of note, I remember thinking that Tab was the neatest looking soda I had ever laid my eyes on. The can was beautiful. We didn’t drink much soda back then and when we did, it was usually bottles of RC Cola that we got from the town bottling company. Tab was like a city soda or something. I realize it’s odd that one could get so geeked out over a vending machine in 1978 featuring Tab, but whatever. It wouldn’t be the only strange thing I got excited about over the years. I took pictures of bus stops on a high school trip to Albany because it was “like, a real city.” I mean, seriously?

The building we were staying in was maybe two or three floors high. It was blue with white trim and kind of run down. We stayed in the top floor apartment with the other family—8 of us crammed in for the week. It was old and seemed to creak and echo at all times, but there was a large balcony, which was cool. We also soon came to realize that the entire place would rattle and shake every couple hours when the train whisked by. There was a small black and white television on a little metal stand, which provided for another first…watching Tom & Jerry. (It pretty much made its way up to the prairie not long after that.)

While our parents baked themselves silly on the beach every day, we kids ran amok all over the place – flying kites, riding the waves on our environmentally sound Styrofoam boogie boards, digging up sand dollars, and collecting shells, discarded pull tabs from soda cans and plastic six pack rings off the beach. I’d make a good bag lady. It also didn’t take us long to befriend the local little brats, dirty faces and their wily city ways, not unlike a scene from, say, Oliver Twist. You know, because it was Old Orchard Beach and all. (What do you want from me? I was an eight year old who hadn’t really been out of a town of more than 6,000 people at that point.) In all seriousness, they were just locals whose parents managed the various buildings in the area, and they were very friendly and welcoming to vacationing kids of the same age. We would run around, play tag, hide and seek, and even musical chairs in the parking lot. Put striped shirts on us and add in a round of Ubbi Dubbi speak and we could have been on ZOOM.

The first local broad I met was named Wendy. A saucy little nine year old with unkempt dark brown hair, and a neat bell-bottom denim jumpsuit. I love to bring Wendy up to my mother because, as I recall, she drove her nuts. I have to laugh because Mom never remembers this, but it’s true. She was seriously bugged by this bratty little dame hanging out all the time…it was crowded as it was. Wendy just would never leave. She’d be up on our balcony with us, eating with us, watching Tom & Jerry with us…she was always around. She’s even in a couple of our vacation shots—kind of like that character Rich Hall played in the 80s that always popped up randomly in the White House on Saturday Night Live. I was just excited to have a little friend—I was stuck with a bunch of boys after all. Sadly, the ebb and flow of our friendship waned. Perhaps Wendy found a new little vacationing friend. Or perhaps I did. Perhaps we simply just grew apart. Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives....

Everything else spirals into an amalgamation of white pants, disco shirts, lots of music, sun tans, soda, our train-rattled ocean front-ish apartment, and that place in the way-way back of the station wagon where my brother and I fought and/or harassed folks behind us. The colors of this portrait have always had a special place in my heart because it is the one vacation I remember taking with both my parents and my brother as a family.

On that trip, I fell in love with the ocean. I fell in love with the feel of the sun on my body. I fell in love with the beach. And I fell in love with vending machines. The next summer, my parents were no longer together and Old Orchard Beach was a distant memory, and one that for a long time I wished I could relive and touch again. In my eyes, and all I knew, was that it seemed like we couldn’t be happier on that trip. If we could just go on that vacation again, perhaps everything would be all right. I’d see my Dad with his floppy blonde curls giving the thumbs up out the window, honking the horn and sipping on his beer excitedly when the Stones played on the radio, I’d see my mom with her deep tan and reddened cheeks with her beautiful, shiny Cher-esque hair and relaxed spirit, I’d see my brother wandering around in the crowds and watching me fly my kite – well, sort of. I’d see my parents and their friends dancing and cooking on the balcony, I’d see Tom & Jerry on an old black and white television, a pesky little girl with unkempt hair and a denim jumpsuit named Wendy edging her way into our family snapshots, a gaggle of kids posing for a new entry in our photo album after a few rounds of musical chairs, I’d feel the rattle of a train, and I’d smell ocean, salt, fish, seaweed and tanning oil. I’d smile and run along the sand carefree and none the wiser. And everything would be OK. Everything would be the same. Nothing would ever change and we’d be frozen in time, and I wouldn’t feel sad and I wouldn’t miss my Dad.

But things do change and vacations don’t last forever. When I visited the ocean again when I was much older, I was mesmerized each and every time—often looking out at the waves for long periods, lost in my melancholy. I loved it and it made me feel sad all the same. Never quite put together why…but I think perhaps deep down it might be that it takes me back to that innocent time before life moved on. As I grew older, I understood—and it became clear to me that changes are essential for our growth in life and in our quest to find happiness. I wouldn’t trade the smile of my Mom once she moved on from that phase of her life for all the false promises of vacation in the world.

What a wonderful time, however, to think back on—for me. A lifetime of memories and lessons from one little trip which will always live on in the pages of my mind and in a dusty photograph album under a bed somewhere in Malone. A place where children in bell bottom jumpsuits play… a place where Tab vending machines are still all the rage.