An Exerpt from my childhood diary

1984 Diary entry which I'll type verbatim, spelling errors and all.

D.D.
Well how are ya? I feel great! I have a new hairstyle. And a new style of eyeliner. I look like this: (then I drew a picture of a beautiful woman wearing a stylish outfit with huge hair. I can promise you, I never looked like that. I spose I had body dismorphic disorder in the opposite.I really thought I was glamourous but the truth was that I was a severely awkward 14 year-old).

Well life around me as I know it is changing drasticly. Kristy has an eighteen year-old boyfriend of whom she frenches out with. What's worse is she tells him, and everybody that she's 14. Somehow I feel like she's using MY age to get what she wants, I know it's not just my age, but I feel like it is. Oh well. Who said life was fair?

Well Kelly is coming out to visit us. I am trying to coax my sister into letting me see him. After all we were almost boyfriend and girlfriend. He did ask me. But stupid me said no. I swear I could kick myself! Well maybe I can go with everyone when they go dancing.

Well gotta go. It's 11:17!!!

Bye!

My Dad Makes Me Smile

I just returned from a vacation to the Bahamas with my family. I mean my whole family. Dad, Mom, husband, sister, stepsister, brother-in-law and my sweet niece and nephew. We had a great time and my husband has been working every night since our return making a dvd incorporating all of our pictures and movie-lets. As I'm watching this footage my heart is warmed. Of course my niece and nephew are hilarious, and there is the usual mugging done in steady rotation by myself, my sister et al; but what makes me smile the most is watching my dad.

He wouldn't want me to tell you how old he is, but he's old enough to have had me who is 36 and my sister who is 38. He would however, want me to tell you how young he looks for his age. In fact, if you know him at all, you've certainly had the pleasure of him regaling you with the story of when he took my sister to the Father/Daughter dance and nobody believed that her "date" was actually her dad. They really didn't. He has always looked that great.

Dad's always been dramatic too. He is like the father in a Christmas Story with the unusual cussword combinations he can come up with at a moment's notice. I remember one afternoon we girls were playing some game of grab-ass and cutting up in the living room while dad was having a bowl of hot soup. He was seated at the end of the dining room table, which had a drop leaf at either end of it. He hollered a few times for us to settle down, and when we didn't he got up to go make sure we heard him. Only in doing so his legs bumped into the drop leaf. His instinct was to sit back down and swivel out from under it; but that released the drop leaf, thereby dumping all of his soup onto his lap. I believe "JESUS F#%K!" was his interjection on that one, and we scattered like roaches.

My dad is also hilarious, sometimes without trying. Example being the time he and I found ourselves "trapped' in my apartment elevator for all of three minutes back in 1995. He had come over to connect the television to the entertainment center so that we could have our annual Oscar night party in stereo! He had arrived armed with the proper wiring; or so he thought. "This is the one" he'd say as he attached the wire, then realized it was not, and headed out the door. He had to make not one, not two, not even just three, but several trips to Radio Shack to try again and again.



When dad was all finished, I got into the elevator with him to walk him to his car. We were giggling about what a bear of a job that turned out to be as the elevator doors shut. We kept talking for a few seconds before realizing that we were no longer moving but the doors hadn't opened. I looked at the doors, the buttons overhead, the side button panel, then back at dad; and when I did, I saw the color leave his face. By that I mean not so much slowly drain, as quite literally disappear in an instant. His lips fell to a lower location on his face as if the muscles inside his cheeks had been cut. Beads of sweat popped up like wild mushrooms in a time lapse film, and he started pulling at the buttons on his shirt while puffing air wildly out of his mouth.



I hardly had a second to tell him to calm down when he crouched down and darted his eyes up toward the 2 foot by 2 foot sealed opening in the ceiling. His eyebrows quivered as he started in a low voice which built in to a downright scream of "That space is too small for ANYTHING TO GET OUT!" He spun around and started pounding on the emergency call button with one hand while fluttering his shirt back and forth with the other.



Someone arrived outside the elevator in a flash and called a directive into us through the closed doors. Whatever the guy said required a response. Dad turned to me and whispered "What did he say." I knew right away why he was whispering, and when I asked him after this whole ordeal was over if I was right he said "how did you know?"



The reason my big 6 foot 3 father was crouching and whispering to me was because he didn't want to use up whatever oxygen was in this elevator with unnecessary chatter. I'm not kidding.



He stood in the corner shaking and pulling at his sweaty shirt, blowing quick spastic breaths out of a puckered mouth while I followed the directions that the man on the outside shouted at me. I parted the doors, and when they opened I saw that we were between floors and there was a good 3 foot drop down to the ground of the second floor landing of my apartment building. I started to go toward the opening to suss out the distance, when suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder shoving me out of the way. I stumbled to the side as my father threw himself out of the elevator and landed in a heap on the hallway floor. Again, this ordeal lasted three minutes tops.



My father is precious. He's become a doting grandfather who started a Disney video collection even before any of us even thought about trying to provide him with grandchildren. He hosts Summertime Wednesdays at Grandpa's so that he can swim with the grandkids and fix them dinner (then let them pick a video to watch in special little chairs he's bought them next to an ever-growing basket of toys he has handy for them).



Dad's earned his retirement and spends his time fixing up his house, taking pictures of his cats, organizing pictures of the family on the computer, cooking for my stepmom, shopping for the grandkids and planning trips.



Yes, dad likes to gamble (responsibly) and he likes to hit some type of hotel or resort that has a casino either onsite or within short driving distance once every month or so. He has also begun a yearly tradition of the family vacation. So far we've hit Paradise Point in San Diego, gone camping in Ventura, and as I mentioned earlier, he just styled us with an extravagant Thanksgiving trip to the Bahamas.



I have a father who cusses like a sailor. Freaks out in elevators. Loves his grandchildren. And spoils us all like today were his last day on earth.



I sure am lucky, and I know it.

Wish Me a Merry Christmas!

While I fully appreciate and respect that there are all sorts of holidays going on right now, I personally miss hearing the words Merry Christmas.

It also seems that everyone is so afraid of guessing wrong when they give you their wish, that the phrase "Merry Christmas" being said is scarce at best.

Sure, Happy Holidays is fine in a non-specific greeting card, or sprayed in fake snow on the window of a storefront, but I don't really say it to people out loud.

I will glady wish a Happy Hanukah to my jewish friends (and some of my family who is of that faith).

You better know that if I knew anyone who celebrated Kwanza they'd get a big Happy Kwanza (for now I just sing it with the Whitney Houston song where she belts it out at the end).

I can't however, bring myself to say Seasons Greetings; especially living in a city where there is no such thing as a season. It also feels like something a martian would say. OR might have the word "Salutations" right after it. Who says that?

Long story short, if you would be agreeable, I'd love to get a "Merry Christmas" from you!

And to you, I wish you one of the following:

Merry Christmas!
Happy Hanukah!
Happy Kwanza!

Missing Paloma

As my husband and I got more serious in our dating I worried about the eventual merge that would happen. I don't mean the merge between he and I, but rather between his one cat Paloma and my two, Tiny & Mulder (and between Paloma and me too if I'm being honest).

Paloma was an older lady, part Siamese and part tabby with beautiful blue eyes whose lids were heavily shaded in white, making her look like a little bespectacled ghost when it was dark. Her fur was mostly white with black and gray tabby markings and a ringed tail that never stopped darting around feverisly, even when she was resting.

"Don't pet her!" Were the first words out of Darrin's mouth to any visitor. Even if she draped herself all over your legs you were warned that if you did succumb to her flirtations and put your hand down to touch her, you'd pull up a bloody stump.

She wasn't "mean" although that's how we had to describe her to my young neice and nephew to keep their limbs safe; she was just quirky and untrusting. Her eyes were a little jiggly in their sockets and I can count the number of times when her pupils weren't dialed out to ten. She needed to build trust before anyone other than Darrin was allowed to touch her. We were dating over two years before she laid down next to me, closed her eyes and put her head down by my hand. She did this several times before I could be convinced that I wouldn't be bitten or scratched. Darrin would watch me cautiously put my hand on her head and he'd smile and say "See. She's sweet."

Lest I forget I had to be invited, I was swiped at and shown ears pulled back into a point with a muffled growl when I tried on my own. OK Paloma, you let ME know.

She was willful too. Darrin lived in a small studio apartment for a while and to save space he got himself a full sized loft bed that was about 5 feet off of the floor. Though Paloma was used to sleeping with him, he was ready to say goodbye to the fur that his bedmate left there through the night. Not long after he got the bed he found himself being awakened by the sound of some rustling on the ladder. Sure enough, Paloma had had enough of being denied her rightful spot, and from then on slept with him atop the mighty loft. She had a way of marching around on the bed that earned her the nickname "Stompsy McNeedlefeet".

After our engagement Darrin and I sequestered Paloma in the office and propped the door open just enough for her little nose to peer out and smell the two new cats who were at first happy to meet the new co-habitant. They sure did cuss each other out for a number of days, then all were turned loose in the house to either get along or work it out. And they did. Sort of. Paloma hissed and growled for months, then they all adopted a sort of "I don't see you" and "you don't see" me way of passing each other in the common areas.

We've had a great three years together, then in July of this year Paloma was diagnosed with kidney disease and lived the next three months on borrowed time. She was so sick at the onset, then proceeded to fool us into thinking she was better than ever and would outlive us all. I'm so glad we had that time with her happy again. Feisty and loving, and always wanting to be wherever Darrin was. But if she couldn't be in his lap, she was more than happy to take mine (even sharing my outstretched legs a few times with Mulder - pretending she wasn't there of course, but still).

I could pet her whenever I wanted, and I kissed her on top of her head every day during her iv fluid treatments. I could even pick her up at any time which was something I never thought she'd let me do.

We lost Paloma Monday, October 23rd, and after being strong for a few days, I think I just realized today that she's actually gone and I'm really sad. It had taken a long time for Paloma and me. A long time for her before she felt safe enough with me to show me the same type of belly up love that she had for Darrin, which I was so honored to have finally earned.

I really loved her so much. And today I was thinking about her and a few things came to mind that were so uniquely her.

The way her fangs hung below her chin so that you could feel them if you were scratching her under there.
Boy did she love to come out on the patio with us at night and enjoy our outdoor firepit.
Her insistance on drinking from the bathroom sink and the perpetual drop of water that she always had on her chin.
How she would let Darrin do whatever he wanted with her and she'd put up with it (to a point). Things like raising her up under her arms and having her do a happy dance; or playing "baby" and holding her just like one until she fell asleep in his arms.
She liked to eat things with a good sauce, be it barbeque or spaghetti.
Her willingness to be spooned during sleeptime where she'd let you put your arm around her and hold her feet in your hands.
She would "bless you" with chirpy noises, squinty eyes and clacky teeth whenever we would sneeze or cough. She really would. Every time, even if she was half asleep.
Paloma had the LOUDEST purr I've ever heard.
It used to keep me awake, and now I'd like to have just one more dose of it if I could.

Just My Size

Last week was stressful. Real stressful. We are in the middle of our bathroom remodel and I must say, the novelty of using the neighbor's toilet in their garage had just worn off. I had a doctor's appointment where I was handed a referral to get a blood panel to screen for diabetes (which I promtly threw into the backseat of my car to deal with later). I got a gnarly headache on the same day my husband got his first nasty bug and we weren't able to make it to perform in a show we were invited to, nor were we able to get a hold of anyone to explain our otherwise confirmed attendance, plus I was dealing with the pressures and trials of producing a show that was to debut that Saturday.

I know what I should do (so I thought), go buy some new clothes, that'll make me feel better. See, I hate pretty much everything I own, and though my closet is so packed with clothing I no longer need hangers, I seem to only use about the first quarter of what's in there.

Some of the articles are "classic" pieces that I cannot let go of even though they have far surpassed the "if you haven't worn it in a year, get rid of it" deadline; like the sea foam green Giorgio Armani tunic I bought at a Cybill wardrobe sale in 1995. Some hold sentimental value; example being the pink hand knitted sweater with flowing collar and sleeves that my mother wore to the courthouse when she married my father. Some items keep re-introducing themselves as worthy when I grab them by the hanger during my semi-annual purgings, and we promise to spend more time together (a lie we have been telling each again and again for years now).

My 2006 New Year's resolution is to dress like a girl. I used to when I was in high school. I sure did in 90s too. But something has happened in the 2000s however. Somewhere along the line, the skirts, dresses and sassy ensembles seem to have given way to long sleeved tee shirts, track suits, jeans and drawstring finery that have somehow become my uniform (and much to my husband's disappointment I might add). I always say that I will wear some of the backless numbers I have packed into my closet and in the far reaches of my dresser drawers "when it gets hot" - and I rarely do. I don't ever seem to be warm enough. Or my legs aren't tan enough. Or I don't have the right shoes to rock that look...etc. etc. etc.

So back to last week and my trip to the mall - I decide to first look for dresses! I really don't have but about two that I wear with any regularity. One is a stretchy navy blue number that I wore in 1997 when I was the bachelorette on The Dating Game. I questioned three weirdos from behind the great flowered wall, picked THE WEIRDEST one, and let my free trip to Seattle expire rather than agree to see that freak again. P.S. His exotic Irish accent disappeared the moment we were off camera "Well, I was born in Ireland, but grew up in Canada". Oh, and did I mention he and I were wearing the same shade of mocha nail polish? Chuck Whoolery had us thrust our painted hands side by side into the camera and congratulated us on our obvious kismet and I fakely enthused through a plastic smile "VERY cool" Ick.

ANYWAY, the other frock I own is a gorgeous albeit extra fancy black dress that my Grandma Joyce left me that's from the 60s. I wore it to my engagement party, my friend Jennifer's wedding and the Chicken Little wrap party. I really do feel like a million bucks in it.

I go to Macy's first and try on a pricey but fantastic flowered number with a vintage feel and wonderful flowing A-line skirt. It appears suitable for an outdoor party, summer evening fete, or a wedding. I figure if it fits and it's that versatile, I'll invest in it and get great use out of it. Alas, the zipper goes up, the waist fits beautifully but the bust is empty as a kitchen size garbage bag with a child's throw pillow in it. NEXT.

How about this pair of sweet khaki capri pants with a drawstring? I should have known by the 1 1/2 inch zipper that my back porch wouldn't be benefitting from any kind of coverage if I should ever decide to actually bend even the slightest bit forward. I turn around to see what's going on back there and the dang pockets are practically down on my mid-thigh area they are so low. Who am I - Buttney Spears? NEXT.

It goes like that dress after dress, skirt after skirt, pants after pants, shorts after shorts.

I'll be honest. I have a lovely figure. I am not fat, nor am I skinny. I am a thin girl and always have been. Where I'm a freak is that I do not follow the new guidelines for clothing making. I have broad shoulders, a tiny cage, petite waist, ample bottom and actual as-God-intended hips. I might pick up a pair of khaki pants from one store in a size 4, a pair of jeans from another in a 6, or even a size 8 depending on the manufacturer. It's a crappy crapshoot each and every time.

I've bought dresses a size or two too large and had them basically re-made to fit me, and I've spent over $30 dollars altering a $25 pair of jeans that fit everywhere but the waist. One kind alteration lady noted while pinching together the 5 inches of gaping waistline denim just above my buttcrack "You know I usually only see this in african american girls." Then there was the time I was in my friend Larissa's wedding...

The shop she sent me to was your typical bridal boutique with hundreds of silky confections in various shades of cream, taupe, pink, lavendar, red and blue. The gal who came over to help me had a thick middle eastern accent, a faceful of dark Cleopatra makeup, and tall tall blackened hair that was teased within an inch of its life on the top, and twisted up the back.

She grabbed the file for Larissa's wedding, led me over to a rack of lovely taupe dresses and asked me what size I was. "Um, I'm not sure."
"Yoor nut shoor?" she asked, rolling her R's most exotically.

She produced a measuring tape from around her neck, snatched a pair of golden framed glasses from somewhere inside her hair and placed them onto the tip of her nose. Then she hustled me into a dressing room and slammed the door behind us.

"Pleece, take uff yoor tupp and pents so I ken get accurrette measurements." She stared at me with such clinical force that I didn't have time for modesty and quickly stripped down to my bra and underwear.

She measured me around the bust, waist and hips and then just stood there staring at me while pinching her chin with her acrylic fingernails. She muttered something under her breath and then disappeared to fetch a sample for me to try.
"Here" she said while handing me the dress "Try theece on."

I pulled the dress on and zipped it up the back while the lady waited outside the door. "Ready?" She barked, and before I could say yes, she was in the dressing room walking a cirle around me. Again she pinched at her chin with one hand and grabbed at the dress with the other.

"I heff never seen ennytheeng like theece before" she announced and immediately called for the other woman on duty in the shop to join us.

So there we were, all three of us in the dressing room beholding me in the ill-fitting bridesmaid dress. They spoke in another language to each other for a few minutes before sharing their befuddlement with me.

My lady grabbed me by the shoulders and pointed me at the mirror and said "You are a size two on the tupp, and a size eight on the buttum! See.." She noted the smooth fit on the bodice of the dress, then spun me around to show me my constricted derriere under the taught fabric "Look at the febrick! See vere it's pull?"

I ended up buying a large size and having it cut down to accommodate my unique pysique, and I had to endure another dissertation on what a tailoring oddity I was when I picked the damn thing up.

So to sum up my shopping experience of last week; I came home with a short but sweet drawstring cotton skirt, a lovely peasant top and a few pairs of kicky summer sandles.

I'll find the room in my closet for these new items. And I'll have another conversation with the current tenants on whether or not they will be moving out so that I can replace them eventually with some pretty girl clothes. But here's what's hard. Though these old clothes aren't exactly in fashion, or maybe some remind me of an old job that they were worn to, or whatever is stopping me from wearing them; the truth is, they fit. I don't have to go out and be reminded that they don't make 'em like me anymore, and consequently it's near impossible to find clothes for someone like me.

The outfit seems to be either half empty, or half too full.

I'll keep trying. I'll keep looking. And I'll keep having things altered if that's what it's going to take. Let's face it, apparently they really have broken the mold with me. And that's gotta be a good thing? Right?

Road Rageous

Road Rageous
I like to think of myself as sweet, peaceful and kind. Thoughtful of others and that I wear my Live and Let Live hat 24/7.

Then there are times when people just get to me. Take yesterday for example. It's 12:30pm and I've got my girl Carla loaded in my hooptie and we're heading out of our work parking lot to pick up some vanilla lattes at Starbucks. As we near the exit of the parking lot, I see that some fool has left his white work truck parked within the parameters of the entrance/exit dip in the sidewalk. I don't mean that the fender is slightly entering the area, I mean that the entire length of the truck is sealing off the exit portion. I am forced to veer around it and exit through the entrance (risking some speed demon coming back from lunch and hitting me - it could happen). I become so incensed that I give the truck a blast of my horn. Wait, let me do another one. Then another one. Then I literally lay on it as I drive down the block so that if this jerk is in Gevork's Garage (the place of business next door to our office that has unlawful parkers infringing on us daily), then he can hear my wrath and know that this honk's for him.

The rest of the drive goes without incident and Carla and I have a lovely time dancing in the Starbucks while we wait for our lattes. I show off my pop locking moves and Carla and I do a full verse from some 80s rap song that now escapes me; but it sure did make the barrista giggle.

Into my car again and I put her in reverse. I'm a cautious driver mind you and I'm not so much accelerating as I'm easing off the brake when this puke colored Beetle comes barreling down behind me and gives me a terse "toot toot" of his horn! "Are you kidding me?!" I shriek, as this yahoo exaggeratingly steers around me like I could have killed him. My response to this of course is to honk my way out of the parking lot, once again, making sure the offender knows, that honk is for them.

The day is long but lovely (it is Administrative Professionals Day and I receive lots of flowers, a cupcake, a pizza party and a swell lipgloss and nail polish set) but still, 6 o'clock can't come fast enough.

Light rain drops hit the windshield on my way home and I'm calm and relaxed knowing that I don't have a single plan except to lounge and enjoy American Idol with perhaps a nice fire going.

I'm in the home stretch as I arrive at a small stop signed intersection just a few blocks from my house singing along to "The Wizard and I" from Wicked. It's one of those intersections where the distance between the four stopping points isn't quite equal, and the folks stopped to the left of me are a little further away than those to the right of me. I stop just after the far person on my left, and as I enter the intersection; the fool behind that first left man figures he'll go right on the heels of him without waiting for me to go. I don't want to get hit so I don't continue out much further but you can best believe that I gave him a full, and long lasting blast while yelling within the confines of my car "OH NO YOU DON'T! IT'S MY TURN!!"

I'm quiet the rest of the way home wondering if people have always been such terrible and inconsiderate drivers, or if perhaps I'm becoming an old lady who's now prone to using my horn to scold or "talk back" to my fellow drivers who make the mistake of misusing their horns on me.

In preparing to type out this blog today, I asked Carla to refresh my memory on who the first victim of my wrath was yesterday, and her response was "Wasn't it that old man who honked at you at Carl's Junior?...Oh wait, that was the day before."

Bless my heart.

Toadstools anyone?

When I was wee, I hated mushrooms. Hated them! I would NOT eat a mushroom no matter what (even though I'm pretty sure I hadn't even tried one), I specifically remember making a big deal about refusing them in any form.

One sunny afternoon when I was about three years old, my five year old sister Rina and I were playing in our backyard. Rina was sitting atop her majestic rocking horse "Penny." Penny was a great and beautiful animal; made of thick plastic and suspended in an aluminum frame in which she rocked back and forth by means of a squeaky coil and spring system. Penny was necessary to any game of queen, princess, maiden or any make believe situation where one required a quick getaway on a plastic steed - her hooves tucked under her as if frozen in full gallop. Being the older sister, Rina always seemed to win the race to claim Penny as hers during our play sessions, and this one was no different.

I was off frolicking in the grass when I came upon a patch of forbidden toadstools (a fancy name for the poisonous wild mushrooms our mother warned us to steer clear of). I picked one and examined it. I remember the look on my sister's face as she screamed "DON'T EAT THOSE LORELEI! DOOOOOOOON'T!"

Don't eat it? Hmmmmm....I slapped my hands over my ears to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that I indeed was not listening, and stared right at her while I chewed up the sandy toadstool with a grinning open mouth.

I can still see my sister clearly in my mind, perched on Penny with her face in total panic. The memory becomes silent because my hands are over my ears, but I can see her mouthing the word "MOMMY!"

The next thing I recall is sitting on a high hospital bed with the bars raised so I don't fall off (or perhaps can't make a break for it) and there's a big nurse looming over me foisting a kidney shaped bowl in my face. Beside the nurse stands my mother, her friend Borghild and my Gramma. They are all frowning and shaking their heads at me in a "you did this to you" sort of way.

I know I threw up a lot. Not sure if it was induced or natural; but I'll tell you this; I never ate another toadstool, no matter how much fun it appeared to be.