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February 24, 2010
Living In London
We were going to live in London for a year. I still remember the feeling when my parents told me that. It seemed like a sudden bubble incased me, and I started bobbing through my life, muffled bumps guiding me along. Everything we did, every decision we made took London into the equation. We would not buy it unless it was going to London. Could we use it in London? Funny thing was, not much was going to London. The list of restrictions was long. We could not bring our dog; the quarantine was a no go with my “I love animals more than humans” mother. Then there were the weight rules. No box or trunk or suitcase over certain # of lbs per person. That began the onset of my brother’s arrogance. Though he was only 5, the discussion about how he was as important as an adult, due to the luggage allowance he provided, was the basis for the ensuing ego bloat. Not only was I being stripped of my belongings, but now I had another full person to contend with.
Due to the strength of the dollar against the pound we ended up in quite a ‘posh’ neighborhood. Every adult conversation I heard over the first few months included a comparison of the $ and pound. Lucky us, we apparently got a lot more stuff because of our buff money. Good thing, I thought. At least it helped balance the ribbing I got for having a ‘peanut farmer for a president’. Weird what they focused on. Yeah, we lived in a neighborhood that was famous because it was home to a very popular serial on television. I believe it is early evidence of successful reality television. I liked it for other reasons. We got deliveries of milk in a bottle every day. There was an awesome sweet shop on the corner, and a pub down the block that I could actually go in. The location was fab, because it was central to everything. Inside it was so- so. I had to share a bedroom with my brother, but there was also a long skinny hallway with no windows that was perfect for a super game of dodge ball. -
February 4, 2010
Peace, please
Now I know this comment is a little after the fact- but it is still relevant. I was a bit nervous posting it because of the political subject matter. Even some of my own family members disagree with some of my views. Still, I’ll risk it, proud that I live where I can express my opinion.
I had lunch with a friend, someone I hadn’t seen in awhile. Lots to catch up on, we talked much more than we ate, and sort of glazed over a multitude of topics. Kids and schools, movies, crazy events, what’s called news- the usual. After our 2nd try at goodbye, when my friend really had to get back to her job, she said “Oh, we didn’t talk about Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize Speech”, and she said it in the way that meant she hated it. That was surprising. My main thought on the drive home from downtown was I need to get a copy of that speech. I had seen parts of it from an airport lounge during a particularly stressful trip. To me he seemed regal and distinguished, though I kept scanning audience shots for Will and Jada Smith. Weren’t they supposed to be there? (That seemed such a random choice of guests, though if I was president, I’d have my lists of wannameets too- you know they are not gonna turn down Oslo on Air Force One!) While driving the typical traffic jammed late-afternoon roads, it occurred to me that I couldn’t recall any part of what he actually said, nor why there is any sort of discussion that needs to be had with my fellow Obama supporter. -
December 2, 2009
Horror movies have never really been my thing. I think it has something to do with THE OMEN. I was just a kid the summer that came out. I spent much of every summer with my grandparents on the Jersey Shore. Pretty idyllic memories of being barefoot, and sandy. I knew all the kids on the block. Some were summer kids like me, others lived there all year round. All day it was fishing, crabbing and clamming, swimming and boating. Evenings were spent sitting on the fence at the corner, hanging out and comparing tan lines. Some of the kids were older. They were the ones who told me about THE OMEN, told me how I definitely had to see it. The way they said it, I felt like I had to too, then I could talk about it and tell other kids to go see it.
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November 2, 2009
My debut as an actress happened at West Street School in the 2nd grade, according to me.
According to my parents, my debut was the day I was born. All the women in my family were young when they had children. Hence, when I came into the world I was surrounded by doting aunts, uncles, grand-parents and great-grandparents. Family get-togethers inevitably morphed into a giant circle with me in the center. Everything I did was met with ooohs and aaahs.
Regardless, in the 2nd grade I was on a stage. The play was “The Wiggly Worm,” and yes, I was that worm. I remember my mother made my costume out of some swirly orange and white material that used to be one of her hippie tunics or dresses. It was a simple costume, probably just a tube I stepped into, otherwise she couldn’t have made it.My Mom was not much of a homemaker. I did the dishes and we all cleaned the house for a couple of hours on most Saturday mornings. I used to complain that when my friends came home from school they would find pans of Lasagna (remember it’s a predominately Italian town), and fresh baked brownies on the counter. I would come home to some healthy crap like dried apricots, piles and shelves of books everywhere, and an animal or two that needed to be walked, fed or something. Not even a tv. The only one was black and white and tiny enough to fit on the dresser in my parent’s bedroom.
The fact that my parents were incredibly smart, interesting people that I could talk to about anything hadn’t become important yet. The famous story told over and over has me announcing in no uncertain terms at ten years of age they “were the intellectual type, and I was the social type!”
Anyway, I’m onstage, in the school’s cafeteria, as the orange and white worm, and my/our performance is a smash hit. Supposedly I loved the applause so much that I stood beaming long after the rest of the cast had exited stage right. My teacher had to come escort me off.
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September 16, 2009
Growing up in Geneva, NY: My house, my neighbors, my bully
The next house was ‘a double.’ You know, the same house divided in two. It seemed huge to me. My parents had to make furniture because we didn’t have enough to fill it. First, Mom got carpet remnants - big squares of shag in cream, green, and orange that she sewed together with thick thread. So the carpet looked like a really big checker board which frequently needed new stitches. Those squares had a habit of coming apart. Next, out came the paint and shellac. Two orange crates were painted green and made shiny. Voila! Our coffee table. A picnic table was brought inside. Each wood board was painted a different color and shined. The amazing Technicolor Dining Room.
To a little girl, my house was beautiful. It never occurred to me that my young parents did not have much money. My room was in the front of the house. My bear and I were quite comfortable, barring the few problems with wild animals. There was the occasional bat that would escape from the attic. My Mom would scream, and my Dad would finally catch it - usually with a tennis racket and a laundry basket. Then there was the time that a mother squirrel was hit by a car while leading her babies across the street in front of our house. My Mom rescued the little orphans and fed them from a medicine dropper. She let me keep them in a big cage in my room. That is until one day I came home from school and found them loose and snarling in my room. I’ll never forget the sight of the biggest one stretched out across my big, white bear’s face. Gripping on with his claws, bugged out wild eyes, and hissing at me. I’m not sure what happened to them, but I don’t think it was as simple as being scooped into a laundry basket with a tennis racket. There was also the time I opened my door to find my beloved cat, Puck, dead on the floor. His eyes were white, his head still with the neck of my goldfish bowl around it. The rest of the glass was smashed and strewn across my soaking wet wood floor, my goldfish limp nearby. Traumatizing.
My Neighbors
The other side of the house was occupied by another professor and her sons. The boys were named after great writers. I think they knew that was pretty pretentious, and seemed burdened by it. We were kind of friends, but really only because they had a trampoline…way better than the babyish rusted red and white swing set in the backyard on our side. Across the street there was a girl who was a couple of years older than me. She went to the Catholic school. We were friends unless she had someone over; then she would ignore me. When she didn’t have a friend over, we would walk to the corner store, Monaco’s, the most wonderful place on earth. When Mom gave me money and sent me there to pick up an item for dinner (maybe even buy a piece of candy), I felt big. Really big. Like a teenager. When my friend from across the street and I would go in together, I knew they were all thinking how grown up we were.
I walked to school everyday from that double house, usually with G. She was super-tall and I was super-short. My pediatrician wondered if I would make 5 ft. No one thought so, including me, until the summer of 8th grade. I grew eight inches, and my parents had to rub my legs every night because they hurt so much. Anyway, G. lived around the corner and we were in the same grade. Not only was she like a foot taller than me, but she was the best student in our grade. She wore glasses and overalls, and had these long fingers that wrote the most perfect printing I had ever seen. She also had a brother and sister who were twins, and that was fascinating to me.
My Bully
G. also protected me, except on the days when she had her piano lessons. Then her mom would pick her up at school, and I would have to walk home alone. There was a girl who would hide somewhere on my route home, jump out and taunt me, push me, generally scare the crap out of me. By the time we got to junior high she had graduated to sticking me in the butt with a hat pin in the hallway when we changed classes. I knew it was gonna be a really bad day if she made a fist at me in the morning. That went on until the beginning of ninth grade when I came to school much taller and she came to school much fatter. She didn’t bully me much after that.
If G. were there, no one would bother me. She would give them "the treatment." That meant holding them up by their ankles and shaking them. Sometimes money would fall out of their pockets and we'd take it. We were like bad characters out of a Steinbeck novel. Problem was, my bully was too tough. She didn’t get "the treatment." I think that meant we took it out on those less tough. Looking back, I’m not sure how I rationalized that one.
Anyway, at the top of the hill on our street there was a little park. Actually, it was a "square" with a statue in the middle, surrounded by gardens, multi-colored townhouses and a Presbyterian Church on the corner. That square is where I tried my first cigarette. It is where years later, when I was coming out of my girlfriend's wedding rehearsal, my bully came running at me, arms outstretched, screaming my name, seemingly ready to pummel me yet again. But no, she just wanted to throw her arms AROUND me, to take a picture WITH me. I was now on "All My Children."
To be continued… -
June 16, 2009
My childhood began in Geneva, NY ...
Not that I was born there, no that was Bristol, Pa. I lived other places before Geneva as well. I vaguely recall a white house with brown shutters. Then there was the little house with the HUGE yard (would I still think so now?). The people who owned it lived up the road. They had a big red barn and lots of golden retrievers. We had a garden, a water well with a pump, lots of places to find snakes (which I did often), and a stream where I could watch my Dad flyfish. It was also where I met my first friend, whose nickname was Kiki. We both went to the same lady’s house after school. If we mis -behaved, she would put us in time -outs in separate rooms. Unknown to her, we would situate ourselves on furniture so that we could see each other across the hallway. The time -outs weren’t so bad. Kiki and I both loved Bobby Sherman, and she was born the day after me. I have no idea where she is now, but every year on October 29th I wish her a Happy Birthday.
