Hey Jude?

Being the daughter of divorced parents is all I have ever known. I was just a few months old when my folks split up so I never had the heartwrenchingly tragic experience of knowing my parents as a loving married couple one day, and bitter feuding exes the next.

I even remember meeting my Dad for the first time when I was about four years old. I know that we had actually "met" before; I've seen pictures of my birth, and I see him in them so I know he was there.

My birth.
They planned to have me at home all along, and even found a doctor with a midwife who did that sort of thing. I was born on Tuesday, June 23, 1970. It was game day. The LA Dodgers were playing the Atlanta Braves at the Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. The reason that this game has any relevance is both because my Dad loves the Dodgers, and because his buddies did too; in fact, they all came over to hang out and catch the game - regardless of the fact that coming to watch the game meant walking past the delivery that was taking place on the dining room table.

Mom and Dad had a weirdo mutt named Robin the Rotten Dog. While my Mother lay spread-eagled on the table, her focal point was that of Robin; barking and jumping straight up and down like a pogo stick outside the sliding glass door directly in front of her. Every so often there would be a neighbor, a friend, or some hanger-on sauntering through. They'd pause and say something congratulatory like "Oh. Hey, havin' the kid? Right on." and proceed to the idiot box to enjoy the sights and sounds of Vin Scully, organ music and the popping of bats mixed with the roar of the crowd.

I hear that I was turned around inside there kinda funny with the cord wrapping itself a way that it ought not to. The good doctor poured olive oil on his hands; slid them in, turned me right, and out I came. DODGERS WIN 7-0!


Picture taken by Dad.

I'm wiped down, suctioned, spanked, and handed to my Mother. She and I are taken into her and Dad's bed for drinks. Mine is milk, and hers is an entire glass jug of Tropicana orange juice which she guzzles straight from the container. "It's not sterile in here." she says to the doctor "Best she get used to germs right away" he said "she'll be healthier for it." With that, the doctor leaves them with some paperwork to fill out as soon as they figure out a name for their second daughter.

Yes, I'm a girl. A girl? They were assured I was going to be a boy. They had been expecting a boy. They had the name Jude all picked out special for me - their son.

No name comes easy. They consider Veronica, but quickly veto it assuming I'll be teased as being a character from the Archies comics. I'm called "Baby" for weeks. By the time they finally fix on a name for me, Lorelei (pronounced Laura-lie, no possible teasing to be formed there right?) they are unable to part with Baby. So I become Baby Lorelei for years and years and years.

Hungry Eyes

I'm in my co-worker slash new best friend Carla's hooptie today for an Ikea and Chipotle lunch run. As we drive down San Fernando Blvd. in Burbank, the 80s tune "Hungry Eyes" plays.
"HUNgry eyes. One look at you and I can't disguise, I've got...HUNgry eyes!"

It's 1988. I'm a senior in high school, and my mother and I have found ourselves renting a room out of a house in a ritzy neighborhood in the Burbank hills. The room is tiny but the bathroom is tinier. There is a stand up shower, a toilet jammed up against a tiny sink, a litterbox that our two cats use and scatter litter all over the floor. There are two doors in the bathroom. One door goes to our "bedroom" and the other leads to an entry way which also has two doors. One leads outside; that is the door we are to use when entering and exiting the house. The other is connected to the kitchen in the actual house. We are never to use this door.


A view from the beds to the bathroom. In finding these photos I was reminded that we indeed lived in squalor.

Our sleeping quarters consist of a very small bedroom. Again there is a door that leads from the bedroom into "the house" but we've hidden it by placing a standard sized refrigerator in front of it. We figured it made sense as far as room design, but it also blocked out any temptation we might have to journey into forbidden territory.


Me in front of the fridge, in front of the door.

Our pad is adorned with a tall skinny dresser, a slim closet, side table, and twin beds which form some sort of trundle situation in the corner. There is a square center table that is just higher than both beds, so that when they are not in use, one bed may be slid halfway underneath the center table to give the casual appearance of a couch and chair chatting station (but with a big color television; on top of which are two vcrs and a record player). Both beds are encased in horrific orange, green and yellow flower patterned covers, and each have a big foam back rest that has been apholstered in the same crazy fabric.


My side of the beds.


I have no idea why I am on my Mother's bed.

Our room has yet one more door that leads out into the backyard/pool area, but we never go out there. There is a certain danger that we might see or be seen by our landlords. I feel sort of like Cathy in Flowers in the attic; but instead of hiding out with my three blond siblings, I am living with my mother and our two cats.

My best friend is Eva. Eva and I spend every weekend together and this one is no different; except that it is. This weekend Dirty Dancing has become available on vhs! We have my mother rush us to Video Supreme and we giddily check out our very own copy.

Eva and I lie on my half of the crazy twin set and braid our hair together so that we are literally joined at the neck. We watch our movie and smoke Virginia Slims Lights 120s one after the other while my mom lies on her half of the beds and smokes Winstons.

Once the movie is over; we rewind and rewatch. At some point Mom puts on her old school headphones, closes her eyes and blasts records directly into her head. I have to tap her on the foot which startles her into a voluminous yet tone deaf "JESUS what?!" and ask her if she'd please turn it down, she's interrupting Baby's sister's audition piece for the talent show. "...bring me a pineapple that doesn't sting a bird that swims a fish that sings, I wanna I really wanna, bring me a volcano that blows up all the molten jama and a blue banana, I canna canna"


Mom blasting her tunes. Note the discarded neckbrace next to her. What's that about?

Eva and I smoke, watch, sing along, assign roles , recite dialogue, rewind and repeat until my mother finally loses it after 2am and tells us we must turn it off for the love of God.
Eva and I giggle quotes and sing each other to sleep in my tiny twin.

Mom and I somehow have enough of, or get kicked out of the back end of the big house and I end up living out the rest of my senior year in Eva's bedroom. We share a brass twin bed in her Burbank flats house on Keystone Street. Eva's mother Maria and her common law husband Eddie live in the main house. Maria is a fanatastic cook and always has something wonderful simmering on the stove or fired up on the grill for us. She lets us smoke her Kent cigarettes when we run out of our own (we've switched to Marlboro lights at this point thank you very much), and at least once a day cracks open the door, fans her hand in front of her face and tells us in her thick Spanish accent "Oh may Gad Eva! Openna weendow in herrre, eets so smokey I can harrrdly see you twoo!"

Each morning we blare KIIS fm, put on lots of makeup and make our hair as big and crispy as we can. As soon as we hear the beginning cords of Eric Carmen's "Hungry Eyes" the shit stops! Eva and I dance in her room. Sometimes I'm the Baby, and sometimes I'm the Johnny, and every time, someone is accused of having spaghetti arms.


Mimi & Eva in all our 80s glory.

Hi Mimi

This is my first posting on this thing (hopefully). I keep trying and not really reading any directions. That goes against what my Dad (whom we all now call Poppi) taught us as kids. Whenever we'd receive a new toy, game, gizmo etc. he'd say "Don't try to use it until you've read all of the directions." Let's see how I do.

First off I'm real mad that Mariah Carey's latest album is entitled "The Emancipation of Mimi."
To me, the name Mimi is sacred, and Mariah Carey, is not.

Mimi: The name my wee neice Sarah gave me as soon as she could communicate. Her Mommy would point to me and say "Who's that?" and she'd coo through a big baby-toothed smile "MIMI." I'd then point to Sabrina "And who is that" "MAMA."

One theory is that Mama and Mimi are very close phoenetically. Another, and more mystical theory is that she; being a Jewish little girl, somehow knew that the Yiddish term for Aunt is in fact, Mimi (though neither of her parents knewit - now you tell me).

Sarah was scarcely over a year old when I came home to a message on my answering machine... "Hi Mimi. Hi Mimi. Hi Mimi."