This Is Mimi

An Exerpt from my childhood diary

2007-01-23T11:41:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-13T15:10:00.000-08:00

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!

2006-12-06T11:13:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-25T13:56:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-27T11:54:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-04-26T15:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Wednesday's Jubilation

2006-04-14T13:07:00.000-07:00

My husband and I were invited to play at Second City this past Wednesday in a show called 4Play. It's three sets, each a different form, then the teachers jam; which is the portion we'd be playing in. Of course we were very honored to be asked, but to say I was a bit nervous is a major understatement.

I was having an "ugly day". My hair looks like I just got out of the pool and let it dry that way. My makeup looks bedraggled, and to add to it made it look cakey, but to smudge at it made it look washed out. I wore my "show clothes" to work, but had reason to reconsider when our friend from Second City advised me in an end of the day email to dress "casual nice." So much for the sweet tee and jeans.

Went home to change and though I didn't really like the way my clothes were looking, headed out anyhow; we had just enough time to get to the theater and figure out something in the area to eat for dinner before we went onstage.

It's 7:07pm and I'm happy to find a metered spot at the corner of Crescent Heights and Melrose; but the sign says "2 hour parking Except Sundays" - it doesn't say "Until 6pm" like the rest of them do. Whatever. We'll go ask the folks at the theater how long the show is and if they think the parking is cool etc. When we get there, there's a young guy sweeping the floor who advises us that the theater isn't open until more like 7:30pm.

I tell him Dave invited us and we just wanted to know A. if where we parked is ok, and B. what is this show exactly (at this point we don't know - we were just invited to "come play").

He assures us we're parked correctly then tells us to come back after 7:30 when they open. Fine. After considering all the closer meters that say "After 6pm" we move my car and decide to walk down the street to look for food. Guess what: there's no such thing as a grab and go type of restaurant for as far as my eyes could see. We walk a few blocks, I have to pee, my blood sugar is plummeting and with every storefront window we pass, I can see how not cute I'm looking. I'm nervous because I don't know what I've signed up for and I'm cranky as a baby and cannot even muster a half-assed fake smile or contribute to his elation at the impending show.

Bless my husband's heart for continuing to walk with me by the way; I might have given an Eeyore like myself the silent treatment at this point.

We realize that there'll be no eating before the show; so let's walk all the way back and check in again at the theater, and I can visit the restroom before I drown in my own urine.

The young guy with the broom greets us once more and we ask him if he's seen Dave. "Dave who?" "Dave Razowsky, he invited us. We're in the show." "You're in the show??" he looks very surprised and is eyeing me specifically. "Yes."
He blinks at me "Are you serious?"
"Yeees?"
"Seriously??" he presses, and I shrink inside myself.
"Yeah. So anyway, where is the restroom?"
"We actually share one with the Improv next door so just go over there and tell them to let you in."

A man with a clipboard is standing outside the Improv, and when I tell him that I am from Second City and need the bathroom he says "No I'm sorry I can't let you in." and just stares at me.
"Are you serious?" After an awkward silence betwen us he says
"Ha ha ha, no, go on in. You should see your face."
No I shouldn't.

There are two dolled up twenty-something girls walking into the restroom just ahead of me and they are in full chat mode as they slam the doors on their individual stalls. "Oh my god! I can't believe she said that to you. What did you do?" There's a pause and the other girl says "Uhhh...I'll tell you in a sec." then continues "OH, so Courtney went over to Jeff's last night!" "Reeeeally? And what did she say?" "Uhhh...I'll tell you in a sec."
Apparently these conversations are stilted on my behalf, afterall there's nothing separating me from them but a few panels of metal, and I might be from the press or something.

I'm sitting there shaking my head at these girls when one of them bursts out with "OH my god! I just ate sushi and my pee STINKS!!"
The other one shrieks "I know! Don't you hate that? I was talking about that with Jill the other day and she didn't believe me! It's totally true, sushi makes your pee fully stiiiink!"

What? How is it not okay for me to hear what some nameless girl did when another nameless girl said something that I didn't hear in the first place? Or what "Courtney" had to say about going over to some guy named Jeff's house - yet it's completely acceptable to let me know how noxious their pee is?

Flush. Flush. Flush.

We all scuttle over to the sinks at the same time, and though there were several available, only I and one of stinky pee girls washed our hands. While we stand there, girl one washes her hands next to me, and girl two stands by weakly smiling at me like you would at an elderly woman in front of you in the grocery line.

One more check in the mirror confirms that I certainly have looked better in my life, but I decide to go give 'em hell at Second City anyhow; and guess what? I had a really great show.

Back From Green Land

2006-04-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

So Tuesday night I had a real intensive class at my theater. I had just enough time to grab an order of california roll and shrimp tempura roll from the Chinese place across the street and eat it real fast (I know, Chinese sushi?). Anyhoo it was great, class was crazy and I slept just fine.

I woke up Wednesday morning feeling like someone had put a rotten brick in my stomache. I had driven Darrin to and from class the night before, so his car was still at the office; meaning I had to drive him to work, and drop off a few dvds that I had rented for work way the hell at the other end of Burbank.

Naturally I took every wrong route to get from A to B to C, and was in the car over an hour in total. With each block I drove I slouched over a little more and turned a richer shade of green.

When I got home I was shaking, hot, achey and nauseaus beyond belief. I put my hair in a ponytail "just in case" but all my troubles found a different exit if you get my meaning.

All in all I was in the bed two days, and during that time was only able to get down the equivalent of two meals. On day one I couldn't even go near the kitchen to get any water or sprite because there was food in there. YICK.

My big kitty Tiny sure enjoyed having me home I'll tell you. He showed me the fine art of catnapping for long periods of time which we both apparently really needed.

There is some debate among my friends and family whether it was food poisoning or some kind of flu. Though I couldn't even mention the "F" word (food) during my sickness, I don't think it was the sushi. Isn't it funny how we feel defensive when someone suggests we made ourselves sick by eating poisonous food? At least I do. But I've had a lot of friends get a nice 24 hour flu of late, so I'm going to go on record as stating it was the flu. Do I feel the need to patronize the Chinese sushi place anytime soon? Ssshhhhhh! No.

I'm back in the office today and better, if not well.

Teeth & Beauty Products

2006-03-29T14:36:00.000-08:00

I was at Cinema Secrets yesterday at lunch picking up some mousse for my husband, conditioner for myself and a bottle of makeup brush cleaner after overhearing the sales girl pitching it to an eager buyer.

I was standing at the register grappling with my debit card when a piece of folded up paper appeared in the center portion of my tri-fold pink camoflauge wallet. I opened it without a thought and "clack clack" something fell out of it and onto the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November 4 of last year.
Darrin worked hard and long on Chicken Little, and we flew out to Nebraska so that we could watch it with his folks on opening day, then again with the rest of his friends and family the following day. Nobody is in show business in Nebraska. NOBODY. And nobody knows anyone who is involved in show business so I mean to tell you Darrin was a local celebrity, and I was a lucky Hollywood Wife. Darrin was on the radio, spoke at his elementary school, talked to the kids at the YMCA, was featured on the evening news (right after the turkey hunting report) and was on the front page of the newspaper. I kid you not, the man was a king.

My wonderful parents-in-law took us to the local theater where the movie was playing. My mother-in-law was fit to be tied because of the two theaters in Kearney Nebraska, Chicken Little was playing at "the crappy one."

The sound was waaaay low. I mean low to the point of being afraid to laugh at jokes because you'd miss the next line of dialogue, and the sound effects weren't as effective either as a result. Darrin suggested to the proprieter that he turn the volume up the following evening because we would be selling the theater out; and Darrin's Grandpa Gene is extremely hard of hearing. "Just have him turn up his hearing aid" was the old fart's response.

So we're sitting and waiting for the film to start. I'm so happy for Darrin; and his folks are positively fluffed up with pride for their bigtime son the animator. His Dad springs for a huge tub of popcorn to tide us over until we can get to the Red Lobster after the movie, and we chit chat about the fun events still to come. I take a nice sized handful of buttery goodness and as I'm chewing - UH OH. Something's wrong. Have I bitten down on a granny seed? What is this in my mouth now? Why do I feel a sharp cutting sensation on the back part of my left cheek? It all adds up to something horrifying - and right before the opening credits.

I turn to my family who are all smiles and leaning back in their old timey theater seats enjoying a behind the scenes movie story from Darrin. "Something really bad just happened." I say with my hand in front of my mouth. They turn their collective gaze toward me "What?"
"A big piece of my tooth just cracked off in my mouth."

Not to worry! My tiny mother-in-law has a solution. She figures if Darrin agrees to draw pictures and sign autographs for her dentist's kids, then surely she will come in tomorrow morning (a Saturday mind you) to fix her daughter-in-law's broken tooth. Then my father-in-law says that his dentist has a father and son practice, and bets either one of them would be willing to come in on a Saturday. Each is confident that they have more pull with their dentist(s) and take it on as a competition.

I sort the piece of tooth out from the popcorn that's in my mouth and fold it up into the order form page of my checkbook and tuck it into the middle compartment of my wallet. I assure them that I'll be fine to sit and enjoy the movie and I do. I even kill an entire Ultimate Feast at the Red Lobster afterwards (chewing on my right side only of course).

The next morning my father-in-law scores an appointment with the son portion of the father and son dentists, and he meets us at the office first thing with his pretty wife. While the nice dentist assesses the situation in my mouth, there's lots of chat with Darrin about his being a famous Nebraskan, and my mother-in-law chimes in every so often to add to his list of accomplishments and make sure that the dentist has seen the front page of the paper. Seen the news? Listened to the radio?

I show the dentist the piece of the tooth and much to all of our surprise, it's a piece of a crown, not an actual tooth. He files down the offending sharp edge so that it no longer irritates my cheek, enabling me to go on with the press tour without worry and just deal with a new crown when I get home. He didn't charge us, and we invited him to that evening's big post movie reception and autograph signing. Mom asks him if he'd like Darrin to send him an autographed still from Chicken Little for his wall of famous Nebraskans when we get back home to California. Of course he wants one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hadn't thought about that tooth in a long time. And I wasn't sure what to do while standing at Cinema Secrets, hearing that piece clack onto the ivory tiled floor. The gal behind the counter was asking me to sign the receipt and there I was; holding the store's pen in one hand, the empty crown bindle in the other while frantically searching the floor with my eyes. Something inside me wanted to hold onto that little souvenir for some reason. It wasn't because I wanted to have it put back in my mouth; no, that wasn't even possible. It was sort of gross really, I didn't want to show it to people either.

I think I just wanted to hold onto even just a piece from the crown I wore during that week. The week I spent as the queen wife of the Nebraska boy who made good.

The Big Apple 1994

2006-03-28T17:08:00.000-08:00

In 1994 my sisters and I had the opportunity to tag along with my stepmom's high school theater group and enjoy 7 days and 8 plays in New York City! We'd never been there before and were quite excited at the idea of traveling to the big apple the day after Christmas and enjoying all that the city had to offer.
I imagined the the New York of movies; everything covered in snow and lit up with a million twinkle lights. We'd be bundled up and travel by taxi to all of our Broadway shows, dine in eclectic restaurants and diners, and perhaps run into the likes of Robert DeNiro, Martin Scorsese, Billy Crystal, Liza Minelli and who knows who all!

Christmas night I could hardly calm down to get any sleep. I had invested in some hats, ear muffs, scarves and serious gloves; and was more than ready to see my very first snowfall ever; and in NEW YORK for God's sake!
The flight seemed to take forever, and the movie was Forest Gump. I spilled some of my Bloody Mary on my good sweater during some turbulance but no matter, it would be covered in coats and scarves in no time once we landed.
As we taxi'd onto the runway the pilot announced "We are experiencing an unseasonably warm winter for this time of year with no snow in the forecast."
What? NO! WHAT?

It took us forever to get to our hotel. It was very late once we did get there and we were exhausted. My sisters and I had a room down the hall from my Dad and Dee Dee and we made quick work of dropping our bags and jumping onto our beds as soon as we got in. Ooooh it felt good to lie down. We had said goodnight to the parents and had all gotten into our jammies and were enjoying the in-room presentation of the Joy Luck Club when the hotel phone exploded with the loudest ring ever.

It was Dad. "I have a great idea" he said "let's go do the Empire State Building real quick."
We all groaned. "We'll do it tomorrow."
"Nooo! We've got the Whitney Museum tomorrow, dinner at that place in Tribecca, and then we're seeing Carousel. All the rest of the days are booked with a play or two too. If we don't go tonight we won't make it. C'mon kids, WE'RE IN NEW YORK! What a perfect thing to do on our first day here! I'll be there to get you in five minutes." and he gleefully crashed the phone down on its cradle.
"Mei Mei! Mei Mei" were the cries of the sweet Asian girl being tearfully separated from her sister in a very touching scene from Joy Luck Club. My sisters and I decided right then and there that we were now going to refer to each other as such.
We pulled our clothes back on and clumped downstairs.

Another thing Dad insisted would be part of the authentic New York experience was to ride the subway to the Empire State Building. I don't remember what the actual time was but it seemed waaaay late. There was what I assumed was a slightly insane gentelman facing me on the subway just staring. I mean staring. I was trying to act nonchalant when Dad thought it would be a great thing to do to take a snapshot of me on my first real subway ride. In the picture you can see the horror on my face as my father validates any ideas the other passengers may have had about us being lame tourists.

Here's something I learned - there's no such thing as doing the Empire State Building "real quick". There were loooooong turnstyles to wait in just get pack yourself into an elevator that had way over the legal weight in it, and was so vaporous with thick body odor that I choked and coughed while trying not to have a claustrophobia attack.
Once we got up there I remember being so tired and punchy that I just laughed and laughed and teased Dad for dragging us literally from our beds to do this "real quick" errand.
I have lots of great memories about that trip. Mei Mei Casey and me pantomiming the entire song "I Would Die For You" by Prince in the Harley Davidson store, taking pictures next to the stunning amounts of garbage piled on the streets, ice skating in Central Park, frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity's, seeing 8 glorious plays, and soaking up New York with my family.

I didn't ever see any snow fall in New York; and I've been there twice since ("unseasonably warm" again they said). But that sure was a magical trip; I became a theater goer, and I became a Mei Mei.

The Heavy Heart

2006-03-27T14:41:00.000-08:00

Over the last few weeks I've been having strange goins on in my chest. It feels like my heart has an invisible hand around it and that hand does a milisecond SQUEEZE which makes me flinch and a puff of air come out of my mouth.
I'll put both hands out onto imaginary steadying rails and look around as if to say "did you feel that" and then stand there for a few seconds to see if it happens again. It doesn't, at least not right away. I might have two in a 30 minute period, but that's it. And they have gone away for a day or two; just long enough for me to think that was the end of that nonsense, then BAMMO, the squeeze by the unseen hand!
My husband has been working a lot of overtime lately, and once I was home alone; just lying on the couch enjoying some Tivo - I got a few of them in a short amount of time. "Oh my god. Is this the little earthquake before the big tsunami? What if it really takes a hold of me and won't let go next time? Will I be able to phone the paramedics? Will I be able to get to the door to unlock it or will they have to smash a window? What if I go permanently unconsious like Terri Schiavo?" It went on and on like that for a while and needless to say, I was convinced that I needed to see the doctor.

I went to see Dr. Marsh last Thursday. They forewarned me that I'd be subjected to a blood test so I immediately put Darrin on notice that he'd be coming with me to hold my hand; or more accurately to allow me to squeeze the color and feeling from his.
I did not care for the blood pressure test that came first. Call me crazy, but something about having my arm strangled until I can feel and almost hear my own heart in it gives me the heebie jeebies. I crank my head into the opposite direction, hold that arm deadly still, and snap my fingers spasmodically with the other hand until it's over.
When the delicate latina beauty came in to take blood, I went right into my panic. Lots of inappropriate giggling, head thrashing, mouth covering, wide eyes and a refusal if not an actual inability to make a fist with the hand attached to the arm that she was about to poke.
To her credit, she did a great job but I was going to admit it. I still couldn't move for several minutes after she took the needle out and wasn't interested in pushing on the cotton ball she taped to the spot of injury like she asked me to.
"Do you have children?" She asked. "No." "Well, when you do, you'll get used to this." Apparently when you're pregnant you must surrender vials on a regular basis. Yick.
When pressed by my husband for just exactly what my problem is in the area of blood testing I can only recall my senior year in high school. It's 1988 and Debi Dodge, my new friend the cheerleader talked me into donating blood to the Red Cross. They were at our school and we could get out of gym AND get extra credit if we donated. Plus I could spend some quality time with Debi with our heads together in an "L" formation and talk about boys or whatever.
The rickety old lady in the Red Cross uniform hooked Debi up first. She seemed fine, although I made the mistake of looking at the needle, which resembled a silver toothpick that had been hollowed out. That thing was HUGE.
I laid there and tried to look cool while the old gal swabbed me with a chilly cotton ball drenched in alcohol. She tied me off, asked me to make a fist and OUCH I felt every bit of that damn needlepick. Puff puff puff, I was taking quick shallow breaths and my back arched up toward the gym ceiling. "Relax dear" the old girl said while she put a big "X" of surgical tape over the needle. "ITHURTSITHURTSITHURTS" I forced out between erractic puffs. "Just relax and it will stop hurting" she again tried to reassure me. Puff, puff "NO. (puff puff) ITSTILLHURTS!" Debi craned her neck up and demaned of our elderly volunteer "Why is it still HURTING HER?"
"Oh goodness, it's in a bit crooked." she said, and do you know what she did next? She slowly peeled the tape back, extracted the needle halfway, straightened it, then shoved it the rest of the way back in! I swear to god!
My back arched highter and I slammed my head into the papered table.

My arm developed a 4 inch bruise of many vile colors and a hard knot the size of a pea formed in the middle of my vein that I had to take antibiots for and apply warm compresses on for a week.

Meanwhile, back in my 2006 appointment, the lovely young latina mother gave me a quick EKG and sent the Dr. back in. He told me he that he did hear some straining sound in my heart, but it was NOTHING SERIOUS, and certainly nothing that would kill me even if it hurt. He said that althogh the EKG looked normal, he wanted me to do a 2D electrocardiogram on Monday (today).

Dr. Marsh didn't say so, but I'm relating these phantom sensations on stress. It's the only thing I can think of. I'm still a young girl, I don't smoke or drink, I don't use accessive amounts of salt, I don't do crack, I don't vomit, I'm not overweight; I simply cannot think of any other reason other than stress. So what could I have to be stressed about?
Let me think...in the last few weeks the following thoughts or events have occurred:

My cat Tiny got a bad infection that before his tests came back appeared to be some kind of brain tumor to the doctor; not to mention the heck of a time we had on the way home from the vet (including but not limited to him vomiting and poo pooing his carrier and himself, and the subsequent cleaning of such offending carrier and very sick kitty all by myself).

My husband expressed a slight worry about the new merger between his company and the one they just aquired which could adversely affect the picture he's on; and therefore his job.

As the kindly blood tester pointed out, I'm almost 36 and am painfully unprepared to have a baby, or address everything that that brings up for me emotionally.

My alpha boss had been prone to snappy comments and being an overall temperamental sniper of misdirected work anxiety; pointing and shooting at will - right at me.

My sweet sister got her feelings hurt really badly by a close family member and I just wanted to make it better for her; and could not.

We're remodeling our bathroom and will literally be flushing thousands down a brand new toilet, sink and tub.

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

This morning, as I sat in the waiting room of the Cardiology unit flipping through an outdated issue of USWeekly, I was overcome by the smell of cigarette laced clothing on the folks around me (who were all in their 50s, 60s, 70s and older). I was called in by a red headed gentleman who led me to my room past a noisy row of chairs with arm extenders. There was someone in each chair with their arm on the extender and a number of medical assistants attending to most of them. I wasn't allowed any coffee this morning so it took a moment to realize that all the slapping and smacking I was hearing was that of the arms of the folks in the chairs while their veins were being coaxed to come out and receive their iv fluids. EEEK! Walk faster. Walk faster.

The red head and I had our time together in silence. He stuck a few patches onto my chest and attached wires to them. Then he had me lie on my side, dropped the table out from under my rib cage, goo'ed up a wand and pressed it down firmly on different areas of my chest and ribs. I didn't care for the sensation of feeling my heart beat on this cold and goopy wand, nor did I care for hearing my heart every so often when Red would flip a switch to get a different type of swishing space age beat sound. I only took one look at the monitor and that was all I needed. The sight of my heart doing some crazy dance with different colors in different areas was nothing I could stand to look at. So I turned away. Tried to turn off, and found my eyes wet with exhausted tears.

Tiny's tests came back negative for anything serious and he's responding well to the antibiotics. He's about 99% better.

My husband reminded me that he'll take care of me and of us. No matter what. We'll be alright.

My sister brandished one of her new tools she picked up from watching Starting Over and pointed out that the family member is "who he is." And she lovingly accepts him as such.

I had a meeting with my boss and she agreed that she had been reacting from stress; not at all meaning to offend or upset me in the process and gave me a hug.

Growing up with the kind of mother that I did, I have never felt financially secure. At the age of 15 my Baskin Robbins paychecks helped us barely make the rent more than a few times; so of course I'm anxious around spending big amounts of money.

It'll take a few days to get my results back, but you know what? Since I had the test I have not been squeezed by an unseen hand. At least not around my heart. Not in that painful way. But I have felt a warm hand, and I have felt taken care of.

Opium and Gardenias

2005-07-20T15:51:00.000-07:00

My older sister Rina and I have had my Stepmom Dee Dee since I was wee; about four or five hears old, so that's over thirty years now.
I remember feeling a lot of mixed emotions about her. I was of course in a bit of a rivalry with her; seeing as she and her daughter, my new stepsister lived with my Dad, and I never had. If Rina and I wanted to just come over to spend time with Dad, it had to be well thought out and arranged in advance. When we tried to just call to see about an impromptu visit, it usually boiled down to whether Dee Dee had a a lot of papers to grade, or some other reason that always seemed to lead to her deciding if we'd have a fun day or weekend full of swimming in the pool, barbequing under the apartment stairs, seeing a movie, eating in a restaurant (El Coyote, The Old Spaghetti or Don the Beach Comber to name a few), playing endless games of "doggies look for food" "my kids are so lousy" or "help, the couch is eating me" with my stepsister - OR my sister and I staying in our apartment with my Mother and listening to her go on and on about how awful my Dad and Dee Dee were.

I can recall once going to the movies with them and Dad would need the aisle seat since he is a giant man of over six feet and needed the leg room. I jockeyed for the only seat next to him, and my Stepmom put the kabosh on that quick. She pointed out that with the hours he worked, she didn't see him very often either and took her place next to him. I pouted while I ate my flicks from a golden cylindar and elbow fought with my sisters for use of the armrests.

I was also fascinated by her. For many years she taught high school drama so once or twice a year there were exquisite shows that she directed to attend. We'd get dressed up in our ruffly Gunnie Sax dresses and Dad would drive us all the way out to Hacienda Heights in his yellow Toyota Corona for closing night. Because it was closing night, he'd remove from the refrigerator a beautiful and delicate gardenia corsage (Dee Dee's very favorite flower) in a clear plastic box that he'd place on the seat next to him. The box protected that gardenia from the warm air and our curious fingers; both of which he told us, would turn it brown.

Once we arrived at the little theater, we'd take our seats and get many smiles and were told by the student body how lucky we were to have Dee Dee as our Mom. The curtain would go up and I'd sit in my seat transfixed; drinking in the scent of the smoke machine and listening to the OLD high schoolers recite endless and fanciful lines from Dracula, Tartuffe, The Haunting of Hill House, Blythe Spirit and so many others. At the end of the show, after their bows, her cast would stand at the edge of the stage applauding her with their arms stretched out toward her in complete admiration and tribute.

Like the gardenias that Dee Dee loves, I remember her in those days being very fancy. One of my favorite things to do when I'd come visit on a pre-arranged weekend or holiday was spend time in her bathroom. It was simply magical in there and always had the lingering scent of the Opium spray that she used to perfume herself. On the walls there were Fiorucci ads in frames, pictures of faeries and an old timey red tray with an original coke ad on it.

Dee Dee had drawers and drawers packed with Chanel lipsticks and glosses, Yves Saint Laurent eye shadow kits in every frosty color of the rainbow (not to mention golds, bronzes and silvers), loads of makeup brushes and ornamental hair clips and combs. Dee Dee also had a packet of temporary tattoos that we girls would sneak into and apply to our arms, hands and faces. They were things like half moons, planets, stars and all things cosmic.

Once a year, for Halloween, we were able to get one-on-one makeup time with Dee Dee and her professional gear. One year I was thrilled to be transformed into a particularly effective Jellicale cat.

Dee Dee had a great sense of fashion too. If it was in style, she was wearing it; socks and heels, Norma Kamali, the "rags" look - all of it.
There was a period where she sewed too. My two sisters and I would reap the benefits of matching dresses (with handbags!) and gauze outifts with our spirit animal decaled onto the front. I think mine was a bird, Rina had a dolphin and my stepsister was assigned a penguin. I don't know why that was, but she did love to talk about Los Angeles Dodger Ron Cey (aka "The Penguin") more than your average 7 year old girl probably did.

Christmases were the best! Dee Dee would outfit us (of course) in lovely new dresses and make a delicious traditional dinner presented on elegant matching platters, serving dishes and plates that were cream colored with vines and plums painted on them.
We'd spend hours opening our presents. Each gift was carefully wrapped in assorted whimsical papers; all with matching tags signed by Santa, Mrs. Claus, Rudolph, The Sugar Plum Fairy, my stepsister's "Friend the Mouse", Jack Frost; the list goes on. Funny, the penmanship of all these holiday friends was the exact unmistakable style as Dee Dee's; which by the way could be sold as a computer font it's so beautiful.

For as much as I always saw her as a competitor for my father's attention, I realize now that during those years, she did in fact consider me a daughter. I on the other hand, used the word Stepmom whenever referring to her in conversation growing up. How else does a little girl whose parents have been divorced ever since she can remember refer to her Father's wife? Especially when her Mother remained imbittered over the demise of her marriage and all that that implicates?

A few years ago, my Mother and I became estranged for reasons that would take up way too much space and time to even begin in this blog entry, and yet through the years, I grew closer to Dee Dee. I began to really see that through it all, even during times that would alternate between being hard for me or for her, she had been a consistant figure in my life and loved me like I was her own. It became easy to talk with her, to have a great time buying her gifts that she might enjoy for Christmas or her Birthday, and looked forward to sharing good news with her when it happened, and be glad it was her who broke it to me when there was sad news to report, like when we lost my beloved Grandma Joyce.

...I had gone to Kauai by myself to see one of my best friends get married in October of 2003. It was just two months before my own wedding and I was busying myself looking through a bridal magazine on the plane ride home. It was a wonderful time for me for obvious reasons, but also a little melancholy because I hadn't spoken to my own Mother in a year at that point, and would be getting married without what one would expect to be the norm; both parents in attendance (even if they were seated across the room from one another as they were at my sister's wedding).

There was an older gal in the seat next to me who noticed that I was flipping through the magazine and said "Ohhhhhh, are you getting married honey?"
"Yes." I said and smiled at her. "Well! Your mother must be so excited."
My smile twitched slightly and my heart felt heavy and oddly damp; the way it does when your next breath might push some tears out of your eyes.
I took a breath, closed my eyes for just a moment, and pictured Dee Dee; so thrilled during this amazing time, and genuinely happy for me and my fiance.
I opened my eyes and said without another moment's pause,
"Yes. She sure is."

At my wedding there she was. In the front row. Smiling. Weeping. Beaming.
And all with a beautiful gardenia pinned next to her heart.

Hey Jude?

2005-06-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-01T16:42:00.000-07:00

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."