Girlhood

Ever since the season finale of Mad Men and the use of the Paul Anka (fun fact: Paul Anka sang his hit  song Diana to me, at my table in the Riviera Showroom in Las Vegas, when I was twelve!) song that I’ve not heard since I was a teenager, Times of Your Life, set to flashbacks from the show’s 7 seasons, that there’s been a slide show of flashbacks of my own life in my mind, each slide no longer than a nanosecond each.

Mad Men series finale trailer

On top of that, this was the last week of David Letterman. THE David Letterman, for whom I cut classes at SUNY Stony Brook  in the spring of 1983 to take the LIRR to see him tape an early episode of Late Night (just a few months before the most pivotal moment of my life (read on to learn what that was). Late Night with David Letterman my talk show, not my parent’s (Johnny Carson’s) talk show — and now, moments after Mad Men abandoned me,  it was retiring.  Time. It’s all going by suddenly so fast…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PsRDBGOzn8

But back to me.

It all started with a diary. Like most young girls, I confided in one. All my secrets, desires, rants, what I really thought about __________. Next came the scrapbook. When I was old enough to start attending events that left me with ticket stubs in my back pocket; proof that I was there for that incredible concert/show/movie premiere. Then came the photo albums that were my own, not my parents, and the books and the music that showed me new worlds I couldn’t wait to discover for myself. And the magazine picture clippings of the guys who gave me my first hormonal surges, matchbooks from the bars I was able to sneak into and drink and smoke underage, secret classroom notes from friends, letters from boyfriends…

At some point, I needed a chest for all of this stuff.

(side note: would someone growing up today even have a diary/ticket stub/scrapbook/photo album/magazine clipping — or have we lost all of those things to the digital age and cloud-based storage?)

Then I went to college and forgot about collecting stuff. There was barely enough room in my SUNY Stony Brook door room for a 2^nd towel, let alone keepsakes. Besides, I was too busy actually having new experiences and meeting exciting new people — not just reading about them in books or hearing about them in songs — to care about ticket stubs or a picture of Bucky Dent in Cosmopolitan.

And then my mother died, rather suddenly, when I was 19. I was just at that age where the relationship was segueing from mother-daughter to friends. She was beginning to tell me things about herself she couldn’t tell me when I was a child: that she had been married before my father (his Greek family thought it somewhat scandalous to marry a divorcee, so that never got talked about), and how she first went to Las Vegas to get her divorce (which no doubt had some influence on my parents decision to move there when we were young children).

The author, age 19.

We were just scratching the surface of her past when she died, and now there were so many unanswered questions. And I had no one to ask.

I knew I’d have a daughter one day. I didn’t have a strong desire for children, no biological clock ticking away, that’s just what you did, right? Had children? And I was going to have a daughter because that’s what my mother had, and that’s the relationship I wanted, what she and I had. Don’t question my logic, I was young I and I knew this was what was to be.

But now I had to prepare: What if I had a daughter, and then I too, died suddenly? I didn’t want to leave my daughter with unanswered questions about me, who I was before I started wearing the labels of wife and mother, as my mother had left me. I wanted her to know me at her age, whatever age she started having such thoughts. What were my dreams, my goals, my favorite songs and books; who were my crushes? So I started saving things again. The magazines that covered important events of my time (Curt Cobain’s death), the ticket stubs (U2), the matchbooks and trinkets from my travels. I would leave her with no unanswered questions.

But she never came, my daughter. For various reasons, I never had children.  And now, I have this trunk of me. My youth and young adulthood. And I don’t know what to do with all this stuff. I used to think that if I got famous or did something remotely noteworthy, my biographer might harvest this trove of insight into my life, my heart. But I’m beginning to suspect there may be no biographer. True, it ain’t over ‘til it’s over. But let’s be realistic.

So what to do with all of it? Every ten or fifteen years or so I pop it open and pop out maybe one or two things, a photo or my sash of Girl Scout badges (some still yet to be sewn on); but I have never –and have no desire to – spend time with it and really explore all that’s there. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’ll find, beside what’s in plain sight on top. I already spend more time thinking about the past that I care to; better to think about the future and live in the present.

But the past, the contents of this trunk– it’s what makes me who I am now. I feel like I’m looking at a young me, when I glance in there: pre-setbacks, divorce, doubt, death, disappoint, rejection, disappoint, doubt, etc. I want to be her again. Me, before The Fight (aka Life). When it never dawned on me that there was anything I could not do.

I’m realizing as I write this that I need to keep that trunk for now. Because I am her. And The Fight, I need to reevaluate that – because it didn’t kill me, did it? And what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, doesn’t it?

Just moments after our first encounter.

Ah, to be a mother.

I don’t have children, never had that strong drive, that ticking timebomb in my uterus. That said, I always assumed I’d have a daughter, and a second child (one of them would be a girl, because… well, just because). Two because being an only child seemed so lonely. And because so much life-learning comes about simply by virtue of being a sibling: sharing, choosing your battles, compromise, conspiracy, etc.

But it didn’t happen. I had my chance, was married to a wonderful man in the prime of my child-bearing years. But we were traveling, and being struggling artists, so the time was never right. We didn’t try for one, but we weren’t hell bent against it either. It didn’t happen and eventually we divorced and so it all worked out for the best, right? Right?

Then I got Picard. How he came into my life is a whole ‘nother story you can read about Here.

And, I got it. Motherhood… I got it.

This love, this – for lack of a better term, maternal (parental works too, but I’m sticking with maternal, as it is Mother’s Day) love that runs deeper and stronger than any love I’ve ever known. I’ve had crushes and gaga love that feels this intense – but the excitement wears off, the hormones wane, you look back and go, “What was that?” But this Maternal Love, this is hardcore. This is the Real Deal.

Queue the naysayers, with “Loving your dog is not the same as if it were a child.” You’re right, it’s not the same. Because my dog is pure, as a child is in its early, pre-verbal years. But children, being human, grow up, and learn to manipulate and say cruel things and test us and break our hearts. They learn to hate and they learn to hurt. Hopefully they outgrow that sort of behavior in their teenage years, but I know far too many adult assholes to know that not to be the case.

There are no asshole dogs.  They manipulate and test us and break our hearts – but never for that purpose alone. It’s always, only to get something they want or need from us, that they know we alone can give them. And they’re not a dick about it if we say, “No.”

Their love is pure, so our love for them is pure. They remind us of our own innocence. They have the power to reinstate our innocence. Their love is perfect.

My heart swells with this love for Picard every second I look at him: when he’s there staring sleepily as I wake up, when he’s waiting not-so-patiently for me to feed him, when he plays with his bunny (which makes this inane musical noise when he plays with it) because he KNOWS when he successfully makes that sound happen, I will drop everything, whatever I am doing, to DO THE BUNNY DANCE!!!

IMG_4619

So yes, I am a mother, and this Mothers Day is for me. Mother’s Day used to be very sad for me, as I lost my own at 19 – you can read about that Here and Here. I could not be more proud of, more in love with my “child” if he came out of my uterus. I cherish every second with him more so than if he had come out of my uterus, because unlike a human child, I will outlive him.

Aye, there’s the rub. There’s the one thing that makes my love for him all the more intense and all the more painful: it has a short shelf life. His puppy years are over. He’s five. How the hell did he get to be five already? But he’s small and curious and extremely healthy and active (his well being is the most important thing in my life), so he still seems like a young dog. And I swear, all the love I have for him, he feels the exact same way about me. He lets me know. He’s the one thing in this world, the one decision I made, that I got 100% right.

But for now, we celebrate Mother’s Day. Our 5^th together. And I wish a Happy Mother’s Day to all the others out there who didn’t get the conventional Mother-Child relationship they thought was a guarantee: To the pet guardians, the single dads, the foster parents, and all the teachers/leaders/mentors/neighbors/friends/siblings who step up and give the world “That Mother Thing.” Happy Mother’s Day to all of you!

The Spark.

The reality has set in. Even if we’ve not fully recovered from the shock of Robin William’s suicide, we’ve accepted it. And in its immediate wake, there is much talk of depression (though I believe bipolar disorder would be more accurate, in his case), and the need for the depressed to “reach out” and “get help.” What exactly that means, I’ll address later.

I’ve not been diagnosed with depression, or bipolar disorder for that matter. And I don’t believe I suffer from either in that way you hear of people being crippled mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, for months or years on end. What I suffer from is extreme sensitivity. Not in a thin-skinned way; far from it. More like a heightened sense of empathy and compassion. I’ve understood loss since I was very young, before I even knew what true loss was. The songs on the radio that had to do with loss — with pining for something you could not or could no longer have – I got those songs, connected with those artists. Songs like “Puff The Magic Dragon,” (hold the snarky “Dude, it’s about weed” comments – this song is ONLY about Puff being abandoned as far as I’m concerned, do not speak to me of alternative interpretations); and “Layla”, which frankly doesn’t even need lyrics — the guitar-driven, impassioned plea of the first half, and the piano-lead, liberated surrender of the second half, make you feel Clapton’s pain even more than you hear it in the lyrics, if that’s possible. And we know from the man himself that Clapton suffered the addiction that often accompanies depression and bipolar disorder.

Everyone assumes Robin William’s suicide was driven by depression (combined with a history of addiction, the two often come as a package deal; see Eric Clapton, above). And according to all accounts, he was guaranteed, certified, diagnosed depressed.

No other mental disorder is romanticized like depression is. The blues, sorrow, melancholia, sadness, woe. Picture the tortured artist, alone but for their pain and suffering often serving as muse. Honestly, if Van Gogh were happy, he’d be making love in fields of sunflowers, not painting them in the saturated sunlight of his imagination. Ian Curtis would have been partying at clubs, not holed up alone in his room writing the songs that would make others dance to them. And, perhaps, Robin Williams would still be here.

I suspect it’s a wee more complicated that that. I suspect what makes great artists great is not their depression, blues, sorrow, melancholia, sadness, or woe; but rather, their extreme sensitivity – which I can relate to. Compassion and empathy cranked up to 11. But when joy and sadness go up to 11, that’s getting into bipolar disorder territory. Contrast the euphoria felt when someone tells you they’ve truly been touched by your play, song, book (or tens of thousands have applauded your performance),  to the devastation of knowing (rightly or wrongly) that you’ll never be able to achieve that again, a fear many performers who’ve known tremendous success face regularly. Robin Williams’ latest TV show, “The Crazy Ones,” was recently cancelled. Just sayin’.

Few famously sadder figures than Miss Judy Garland.

It’s that sensitivity that makes them great artists. Their emotions are never far from the surface, always accessible. Great for an artist at work, but difficult and painful on a daily basis, when navigating day-to-day life. There are pills that kill the pain… and kill the spark. Not an option when your work is better, is in greater demand, because of the spark. Williams himself spoke of the spark. He knew all too well the importance of the spark.

It was especially heart and gut wrenching to watch this video (of Yazidis in Iraq being rescued from ISIS) juxtaposed with the breaking coverage of William’s suicide (which is when CNN aired it). These people have lost it all — homes, loved ones, identities, country, belongings; everything they’ve ever worked for — yet they desperately want nothing but to live. Then there’s Robin Williams, who truly had it all — admiration from his peers, awards for his achievements, money, the privilege of working with amazing people in a career where he’s touched so many lives, family — yet he desperately wanted nothing but to die. Or at the very least, to stop hurting. Most people can’t imagine that kind of hurt, from one so blessed; or so it appeared.

But that’s just it: I know that when I feel myself slipping into darkness, seeing images of people like these Yazidis — fighting desperately for life, despite so much loss and suffering — actually makes me feel worse about myself; how pathetic am I that I can’t appreciate all the good things I have and have had (which doesn’t even come near the career success or fortune that Williams enjoyed)?

Watching Picard touching others brings joy beyond words.

Sometimes it’s just having that one little reason that you must stay here, that one little thing to get you through the moment. Like taking care of my rescue pup Picard, so I can continue to share him with the folks at the hospice center he lights up during our weekly Animal Assisted Therapy visit, and the children who read to him through the SPCA Puppy Dog Tales program. Eventually you come around, and realize the storm is subsiding, the pain is passing. Sadly, Robin wasn’t able to find that one little reason, that one little thing in that crucial, fateful moment. I’ll never know, I wasn’t there. But that’s what I imagine might have happened.

I wasn’t a fan of William’s standup routine, or when he was a guest on a talk show. Sure, he was a genius. No one even came close to his brilliance at improv. But it gave me a headache, like the one and only time I ever took speed my freshman year at college, studying for finals. More like a steady, fast headthump than a headache.

But, those parts Williams played so convincingly in “Dead Poet’s Society” and “Good Will Hunting” — I loved him in those roles.  The protector; a calm, stable figure that gives reassurance and hope, who makes us smile a little when we need it most – it’s as if he played those parts so well because that’s what he himself needed most in his life, for those people to exist. We all need for those people to exist. Whenever I need one, I know where I can forever find one. O captain, my captain.

As promised, back to “reaching out” and “getting help”:

My friend Rick went to a funeral on the day Robin Williams committed suicide, the funeral of a  friend of his who had also committed suicide. Rick learned, too late, that his friend suffered from depression. Initially Rick was sad and felt guilty, that he didn’t know about his friend’s condition. Then he was angry, that his friend didn’t reach out.

“Do you think you could have saved him?”

We’ll never know.

My friend Matt posted this on Facebook, later that same week:

Lately I’ve had a powerful sense of impending doom.
Frankly, a lot of the recent news hasn’t helped.
A friend & teacher lies in a coma. 
Dad’s 88 and forgetting more & more, eating less & less.
And all those famous folks who meant quite a bit to me dying pulls at my reserves too.

I’m gonna have some coffee now

And I though that was cool of him, to “reach out, ” in his own way. But then one of his friends commented this:

Hugs. Try to spend some time in the sun today.

Hugs. Time in the sun.

If someone gave me that advice when I’m down, I would know they meant well, and for that reason alone my only response would be, “Thank you.” But in terms of effectiveness, they might as well tell me to dance with fucking unicorns on fucking rainbows. Because anyone who knows me knows I’m not a unicorns and rainbows kinda gal.

But that’s just me.

How one finds their way to effectively (very important qualifier there) reach out and get help is as personal as our fingerprints. Knowing yourself and what works for you – and, most importantly, sharing that information with others – is key. Because what works for some might have the completely opposite effect on others. Hugs. Try to spend some time in the sun today. Fuck you.

Here’s what I suggest:

Find what works for you, something you KNOW makes you smile a little. A panda video. A goat video. Your favorite Robin William’s movie. Maybe a unicorn dancing on a rainbow video. Be specific. Then, tell all your friends. I mean, really put it out there. Especially tell your friends who make you smile a little just by being themselves. I’m not suggesting this as a cure. Rather… just something to get you through that really, really dark moment. You know the one.

As for me: If I ever reach out, please do NOT wish me social media hugs, or tell me to spend some time in the sun today. Here’s why: Because seeing shiny happy people get off just by being in the sun makes me feel completely impotent that I can’t get it up and be grateful for the blessing of that miracle that is the sunny day. Which makes me feel shittier. Maybe you agree. Maybe getting some sun works for you, and that’s great. But for me, just hearing those words, in that state, makes me cringe.

Instead, quote me some Blazing Saddles or early SNL sketches, or really bad ’70’s song lyrics. That usually helps a little.

A final word on Robin Williams.

By all accounts, he was that rare celebrity who, when people encountered him, went out of his way to make sure they were okay, easing their pain or fear, or just making sure they had a reason to smile that day. Because he understood, perhaps too well, pain and fear – and the importance of having a reason to smile.

May you be smiling now, Mr. Williams. And thank you for the smiles, so many smiles, that you gave.

Me and mine: Our first Mother’s Day together.

I hate Mothers Day. That’s not true, I don’t hate Mother’s day.

But I did. And it’s not because I don’t have a mother. Okay, I admit, that’s a big part of it. Mother’s day is a big brunch holiday. And nine times out of ten, the family looks miserable. And it pisses me off.

There are the reunited siblings who can’t stand each other; silently tolerating one another for the duration of this brunch for mom’s sake. There’s dad, cranky because there’s no goddamn steak on the brunch menu. Then, there’s Mom. She’s young and relishing her new title of Mother. Or she’s middle-aged, and relieved that they chose a decent restaurant with good Bloody Marys. Or she’s old, and grateful that she and her husband are still alive to enjoy Mother’s Day. I want to sit next the old mothers and put my head on their shoulder.

I have an overwhelming urge to go up to every one of these tables, every one of them, and say: Do you know you lucky you are, you idiotic ingrate, that you get to spend time with your mother?

But then I remind myself: Not everyone has the mother I had. She died of a brain aneurysm when she was fifty. I was nineteen. I never got the chance to ask her all the life questions, questions I could never have anticipated at nineteen. Questions that come up when you’re first engaged; when you’re going through a heartbreaking divorce; when you’re told you’ll never be a mother yourself. And no matter how old I get, the hurt never lessens, when one of those Mother questions comes up (do they ever stop coming up?) Or when I see a Mother at the head of the brunch table on her special day.

Not every moment of those nineteen years was perfect. We fought. She embarrassed me (as most 12-15 year olds are embarrassed by everything about their parents). But I swear, she was one of those people who truly made life magical. My father was overly protective of his only daughter, the youngest. To the point where his auto-response to everything I asked permission to do was “No.” He meant well. He didn’t want to see me fail, or get hurt, or whatever. That sort of constant “No” could have resulted in a pretty broken spirit, an “I-can’t-do-anything” mindset in a very insecure woman. But my mother was there at the opposite pole to balance things out. If I said to her “I want to fly to the moon.” She’s say, “Okay, how are you going to get there? What’s your plan?” Nothing I wanted to do was immediately impossible, or no. She’d ask “How?” first. And if it was impossible, she knew I’d see it for myself if I thought it through a little longer.

She always wanted a daughter, and she and my father agreed on three children. Firstborn: boy. Secondborn: boy. Thirdborn: boy. But he died. I don’t recall if he was stillborn, or died shortly after birth. So they tried again: girl. Me. Needless to say, I was destined to be spoiled by my mother. She was the oldest child of Norwegian immigrants who barely spoke English (with twin siblings eight years younger than herself). Her own father was a drinker and would disappear for periods of time. She was forced to be an adult at a young age. With me, she rediscovered the joys of childhood, of having a future ahead of you where anything is possible. Something that was taken from her that she made damn sure I had.

But she died almost thirty years ago. And I think about her less and less… and I hate it. I don’t want to forget. Sometimes I force myself to think about memories that don’t have any photographic evidence to support them, just so that they don’t fade away. But at this point, my life memories that don’t include her far outnumber those that do.

Back to Mother’s Day. What to do with Mother’s Day when you don’t have a mother? There’s the obvious: Call all the mothers in your life that you cherish: friends, cousins, neighbors; and tell them all that you love them. But that always reminds me of her absence — that I’m trying to make the most of the situation. Mother’s Day needed new meaning for me.

Last year was the first happy Mother’s Day since 1983. It was the first with my newly-adopted rescue pup, Picard, who has aroused some long-dormant maternal instincts in me. Providing love and a happy home to another is indescribably satisfying, life with Picard has taught me.

This year I have a whole new celebration planned: A girlfriend, also motherless, has re-entered my life after a few years of estrangement, which began shortly after my ex-husband and I separated. I’ve come to learn that she was going through a separation (and eventually, divorce) of her own during that time. So we’re going to spend Mother’s Day together. Cooking, eating, drinking, catching up, and celebrating our Mothers with the joy and gratitude that I wish those miserable-looking people at brunch could appreciate.

That’s where I feel lucky, because I had the greatest mother that ever lived. I’d rather have the nineteen years I had with my mother than ninety years of anything less. I just wish you could have met her.

A NEW THREAT TO HOMELAND SECURITY

Stories of animal abuse and neglect are nothing new. But in San Francisco, there

is a new threat to pets that is especially alarming, as it is more akin to an act of

terrorism aimed at dogs and/or dog owners. Even worse, there are no suspects

in the cases of this cruel new trend.

In July of 2013 and February 2014, strychnine-laced meatballs were scattered in

parts of the city’s Twin Peaks neighborhood, tucked away in carports, stairwells,

curbs, and bushes; places your pet — or quite possibly, a toddler — is likely to

get into before you can shout, “No!”

The incident in February resulted in the death of a 7-year old dachshund, and

several other dogs needing treatment. Fortunately, the latest discovery has

resulted in no deaths, as diligent residents have been on high alert. The Animal

Legal Defense Fund, SFDOG, and Yelp CEO Jeremy Stoppelman – himself a

San Francisco resident and dog owner – have teamed up to offer a $25,000

reward to help track down the perpetrator(s) responsible for distributing the

poisoned meatballs, which is a felony.

San Francisco is one of the most pet-progressive cities in the nation, where,

according to 2010 census figures, pets outnumber children 120,000 to 107,000; a

trend not exclusive to the City by the Bay, as evidenced by the explosion of pet

boutiques, events, and services throughout the United States. But not everyone

is pleased about this movement. Landords, park conservationists, and

environmentalists all have legitimate reasons for not wanting dogs in buildings,

parks, or natural habitats.

Are such attacks the new hate crime; the start of a growing trend of terrorism

against dog or dog owners? The director of the Animal Legal Defense Fund’s

criminal justice program, Scott Heiser, seems to think so. “Sadly, we see these

cases all too often throughout the country. The twisted, sick and, in most cases,

sociopathic individuals who engage in this sort of conduct present a very real

threat to not just the pets in a community but to the humans as well. These

offenders see themselves as answering a higher calling. In their narcissistic

world, it is a short leap from poisoning dogs to culling the community of other

‘unwanteds.’ They can justify almost any conduct in the name of ‘control’ or

‘restoring order’ and that strained logic is more than troubling when used to

legitimize any killing.”

Back in San Francisco, pet owners carry on, cautiously. “It’s been scary for a lot

of people,” says Lena Bella, founder of K9 Master Dog Training and volunteer

organizer at Rocket Dog Rescue. “Many of my clients and adopters have been

walking their dogs with muzzles to be safe. It has made many people very

nervous and uncomfortable even walking their pets.”

If you have information relating to the identity of the person or persons involved,

please contact the Animal Legal Defense Fund at 707-795-2533, x1010.

How Tom Laughlin & Billy Jack raised the bar for men.

Death had a goddamn field day this week. Today I learned that Tom Laughlin, creator of the Billy Jack character/films, passed on Thursday. This is one of those deaths that affects me more deeply than most. I first saw Billy Jack when I was around nine. It was the first adult film with a strong political/societal message that got me in the gut. I’m certain the director Peter Weir felt the same, because the famous

“O Captain My Captain” scene at the end of Dead Poet’s Society

is pure homage to the final scene of this film. I became a little obsessed with the movie, and the song, One Tin Soldier, which did — and I just learned, still does — make me cry upon every listen. Plus I had a huge crush on Tom Laughlin. Or Billy Jack. That might have been the imprint of my “ideal man”: fair minded, stoic, tender, dark eyed, and one will stop at no means to stop — rather, will beat the shit out of — anyone who threatens who or what is dear to him.

It’s so random. Why do some things, some people, affect us so very uniquely and profoundly; and the random chance of simply those things entering our life. How the hell did “Billy Jack” even get on my 9-year old radar? Trust me, it wasn’t my parents or my brothers. I’m just grateful it did.

How topless showgirls and Charleton Heston’s bare ass informed one 4 year old’s view of adulthood.

We left Brooklyn in the summer of 1968.  Watch any episode of The Brady Bunch from that summer, as I did religiously at the time, and you’ll see that the miniskirt was a staple of any young girls wardrobe 1n 1968. In fact, if you watch any episode of any sitcom from back then (think Mary Tyler Moore), you’ll see that the miniskirt was the staple of any grown woman’s wardrobe as well. So Vegas didn’t have much to do with my already miniscule hemline.

What little girl didn’t want to grow up to be Mary Tyler Moore!

But it had a lot to do with how I would grow to view beauty and the effect of well-packaged femininity. I was hypnotized by the mystery, the fantasy, that was inspired by the dress of the women in Vegas. In stark contrast, back in Brooklyn, the women I knew (most of whom were Greek housewives who also happened to be my aunts) didn’t bare much skin. It’s also much colder there than in Vegas, so perhaps the women of Brooklyn knew what they were doing.

Glamorous cocktail waitresses came in all shapes and sizes.

But in Vegas, there were plenty of grown women whose hemlines were short like mine. They wore beautiful gauzy mini togas, They wore sheer genie costumes, just like I Dream of Genie on television! Their never-ending legs were sculpted in fishnet; their hair, teased to infinity — and beyond! They ruled the world, I was convinced; with their confident smiles and the way they floated and strutted simultaneously (something I’m still trying to master) in their strappy stilettos. Everyone looked at them with admiration and appreciation whenever they approached.

They were the cocktail waitresses, and I wanted to be one of them. Or at least dress like them. They get to dress like that for work? How fun!

And then it got even better.  I discovered The Showgirls, and they took glamour to a whole new, stratospheric level.

Lido de Paris!

When we had company in town – and it was their first time in Vegas (back then, it usually was) — my parents would oftentimes take them to see one of the shows on the Strip. Shows with dancers: Follies Bergere, Lido de Paris, Jubilee. Sometimes some of the women were topless. I couldn’t go to those shows, because… I never fully understood why. I mean, I knew why; because the women were topless. But I didn’t understand why that was bad for me to see. Boobies. My mom had boobies, I’d seen them. My grandmother had boobies, I’d accidentally seen them. I thought they looked funny, and had no idea why the dancers didn’t want to wear one of those pretty sparkly bras in the first place to cover up their funny-looking boobies. But I did get to go to the shows where the dancers did wear the pretty sparkly bras, and on top of it (literally), ginormous headdresses. Feathers! Rhinestones! Boas! I loved looking at the showgirls so much. I don’t recall wanting to be one – they didn’t really dance so much as walk around, which looked boring – but boy, did I love looking at them. Maybe I could just… dress like them. Just a little.

http://youtu.be/9HTddFxc9Ow

The trifecta of Things That Greatly Shaped My View of How I Would Dress When I Grew Up is completed by the discover of the Miss Universe Pageant, which opened with the contestants parading about in their “native” costumes. I decided which countries I’d travel to based on who had the most stylish native costume. Didn’t everyone?

Clockwise, from top left: me as Cowgirl; me as Indian (yup, that’s what we called it then);me as Genie, me as Maria (from “The Sound of Music”); me as a Swiss Miss (I’m the blond in the yellow skirt, on the right); me as Burger Queen.

I just liked the idea of “Dressing As…”, so I started doing so myself. I never dressed “As Cocktail Waitress” or “As Showgirl” or “As Miss Universe Contestant.” Although I did come close to the last one, when I was in a figure skating show at the Ice Palace in Commercial Center, one year the theme of the annual show we performed was “It’s a Small World.” I performed in the Swiss and the Chinese numbers. But in daily life, I just tried to tszuj it up a bit with accessories. I went to school as a cowgirl. I went to school as an Indian (as we labeled them, back in the day). I played Burger Queen (Burger King gave out these free paper crowns, and I rocked it). I watched the above mentioned Brady Bunch in pajamas that I accessorized to make me a dead ringer for Barbara Eden in her iconic role.

No Disney princess — not Cinderella, not Snow White, not Sleeping Beauty — could influence my four year old take on The Ideal Woman. But cocktail waitresses, showgirls, and Miss Universe contestants did. The things that were targeted at me had little appeal. Grown-up fashion, grown-up conversation, grown-up music, just seemed much more… interesting.

Perhaps it’s no surprise that the first celebrity who made me feel that tiny tingle in my tiny vagina (what is that!?!)  for the very first time was not an age-appropriate teen pop idol — not Donny Osmond,  not Michael Jackson, not the kid from H.R. Puffenstuff. No, that special honor goes to Charlton Heston. Yes, Charlton Heston. The memory is a foggy one at best. Of course, the place is Vegas. We were at the drive-in – we’d never been to a drive-in before, another “only in Vegas” wonder, I thought at the time. There were five of us, my parents. two brothers, and myself crammed into my father’s supercool new baby blue Volkswagon (people didn’t need so much personal space in cars back then, apparently). Being a runt and the only girl, I insisted on that coveted tiny space behind the backseat.

Yup, this is the scene that started it…

The movie was “Planet of the Apes,” and I have a vague memory of Chuck being buck naked. But I have a  very clear memory of this mystery feeling down there, like being tickled only… it was weird; and I was too frightened (and oddly delighted and ashamed, which really confused me) to mention it to anyone. Somehow, women’s boobs were taboo, but CHARLETONFUCKINGHESTON being naked and igniting this, this, “What is going on in my sissy!!!” fear/euphoria was okay???

Perhaps scientists can learn from this. As an early indicator of sexual orientation, show four year-old boys and girls images of A) topless showgirls; and B) naked Charleton Heston Whichever one lights up electrodes on their itty bitty genitalia, that’s your answer.

I consider this to be my first Sexual Experience (unbeknownst to my entire family, who were right there at my side); though I had now idea of what sex was at the time. But I digress…

Actually, I don’t digress. I think moving to Las Vegas, and its late 60’s glamour, made the adult world seem sexier, more exciting, more (here we go again) interesting. The women I saw  in Brooklyn  wore traditional hemlines and sensible shoes; the movies I saw in Brooklyn didn’t feature a naked CHARLETON FUCKINGHESTON, like movies in Las Vegas; rather, they all seemed to feature Julie Andrews in traditional hemlines and sensible shoes (I even dressed up like Maria in The Sound of Music, complete with guitar and travel bag — see above). Even though she was in movies, she seemed more like a mom, not a movie star, not a cocktail waitress,  not a showgirl, not Miss Universe…

…and certainly not the new me for that matter; the Las Vegas Me, that couldn’t wait to grow up. Look out, world: I had arrived — and I wasn’t even five.

I love driving alone. That’s usually when things come to me, even when I don’t call them. Like today, driving to see a friend, I got the clearest message out of nowhere: “My heart is trying to tell me something.” End of message. Don’t ask me what that means, but it’s something to think about. And then my friend told me something that kind of… made my heart grow a little bit for a few different reasons. And driving home, I sang along to “Blood on the Tracks” at the top of my lungs for for the first time in far too long. I love driving alone.

Nice thing about long flights: sometimes you sit next to a 74 year-old man who just drove 52 hours straight, transporting horses cross country (“you don’t stop when you’re carrying horses, just for gas and maybe a sandwich for the road”) who’s now flying to Lihue to see his childhood friend — with whom he rode horses when they were young boys — probably for the last time, because the friend has cancer. He tells you he has three raccoons (two of whom are blind), a parrot, three cockatiel, and a few more you can’t remember. And he makes you laugh and smile the whole time, and you wish your journey together didn’t have to end so soon.

I had dinner with a girlfriend the other night. She and I have a few things in common: We share the same birthday. We’re both writers. We’re both lefties. We’ve both had a shitty past few years. And we’re both getting it together now and feeling good. It was a great seeing her. She was radiant.

After we parted, I took Picard out for his evening constitutional. It was pretty late on a weeknight in the mission district of San Francisco, the only people out seemed to be twenty-somethings weaving their way home from the bars. I saw two young women walking toward me. They were adorable, holding hands, engrossed in a quiet conversation. It felt tender and sweet and intimate. I don’t know if they were lovers or just friends and it didn’t matter; what mattered is you could see there was love between them. It was pure. I was sort of swept away by them.

There were also two young men walking just ahead of me, also, I’m guessing, twenty-something. They were not adorable, just average looking. Maybe less than. Doughy guys. All beer, no gym. Nothing about them was notable, until we they passed the girlfriends — who were too engrossed in their own conversation, their own reality, to notice the guys noticing them. This must have upset the guys, because when we passed, one said to the other, “Probably fourteen year old lesbians.” At that moment, the only thing notable about them was that they were dicks.

I don’t know if they were annoyed that the girls they were noticing didn’t notice them back — and thus they had to cut them down (in their mind), or offer the only “logical” explanation, “The must be lesbians, why else wouldn’t they look at us?”

I do know that it pissed me off. I was caught up in my own “version” of these girlfriends, and these mooks came along and polluted my perfect stolen voyeuristic moment. I didn’t want the moment to end on that note.  So I took the moment back. I went after the girlfriends. I… had no idea what I was going to say, I just knew I wanted to remember that walk in a lovely way, not focusing on the snarky lads with mean things to say about people who they’ve never met and are minding their own business.

I chatted the girlfriends up (Picard is a great ice breaker when I want to approach a stranger). They were indeed tipsy. They were a little bitchy when I asked to take a picture. But then I said the magic words, because when I told them I’m a writer, they instantly warmed up to me (as usual, Picard had already won them over) and wouldn’t stop talking. The only thing that could have made the encounter more perfect is if my own girlfriend from dinner were still with me for this encounter. That might have been like entering a lovely parallel universe, encountering these younger versions of ourselves (one blond, one brunette) out lighting up the night; still unacquainted with disappointment, but yet to learn that girlfriends only get better with age.