Twenty Four At Heart

Love Means

I look back at my life, at the people and places I've loved, and it seems, time and time again, love means letting go.

I remember, vividly, letting go of my mother's hand, at age four, when I began kindergarten.  I still remember the bittersweet expectation of exciting things ahead of me, and the knowledge things would never again be the same.  The scent of crayons and play-doh hung in the air and I knew right then, by releasing her hand, I was letting go.

A few years later, a best friend moved hundreds of miles away.  We swore we'd stay in touch and be best friends forever.  Of course, we didn't.  I still think of her now and then, all these years later.  I wonder if she's led a happy life.  I wonder if she remembers me at all.  It was my first experience at letting go of a much loved friend.

Sadly - only a year later - one of my first school crushes died of a childhood disease.  He was nine.  I remember shedding tears over the loss of my "boyfriend."  Other children and parents cried with me.  Once again, I learned the very difficult, heartbreaking, lesson of loving and letting go.

Like everyone, I've had the heartbreak of lost friendships.  My best friend of several years got lost in a world of drugs and gangs in high school.  We parted ways and I watched helplessly as her life crumbled around her.  

And crumble it did ... ending with a suicide.

There was nothing I could do.

In my twenties, a time of transitions, there were good friends, and lovers, who eventually all moved on with their lives.  

As I moved on with mine.

Eventually I found myself with a husband, a family, and a new set of friends.

I gave birth to a little girl.  A few years later, I held her hand as I walked her to her first day of kindergarten.  She looked at me with the bittersweet expectation of exciting things ahead of her, and the knowledge things would never again be the same. The scent of crayons and play-doh hung in the air and I knew right then, by releasing her hand, I was letting go. 

Her first day of kindergarten was followed, eventually, by those of her two brothers.  Our family had grown.

The years went by in a blur of school, and sports, and activities, and busyness.

Time and again, throughout it all, I held their hands, hugged them, and encouraged them to chase their dreams.

This month my two oldest children left home for colleges over 3,000 miles away.  As they left, they looked at me with the bittersweet expectation of exciting things ahead of them and the knowledge things would never again be the same.  

As we said our good-byes, I hugged them once again.  I cried tears of pride, and sadness, and excitement for the lives they have ahead of them.

It seems to me ...

Love means letting go.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Malibu

**  The contest to win the statement bracelet is open until 9 p.m. Pacific time, tonight.  I will announce the winner tomorrow.  You may enter as often as you like by clicking here.  **

Recently a friend of mine was vacationing in California.  He rented a little cottage on the beach in Malibu for a couple weeks.

I'm sure you've heard of Malibu, right?

It's the land of the extremely rich and the most famous of celebrities.  It's also the place of ongoing fires and mudslides.  Such is the terrain of Malibu ....

 

When I was a kid, and before the area was so exclusive, my paternal grandparents used to have a house on the sand in Malibu.  We'd visit every summer.  I have a lot of childhood memories of playing on the beach there with my siblings.  It was a time in my life when everything was safe, secure, and carefree.  Of course, it probably wasn't that way for the adults, but I was a kid and, for me - the youngest of three children, it was a time of fun-filled beach days.

I thought about all of these things, and more, as I made the two hour drive from my house to Malibu last week. 

My host had invited me for lunch.  He loves to cook and his cooking abilities far exceed those of anyone else I've ever known.  He told me to relax out on the deck while he worked on lunch.

Well ...

If you insist ....

 

He brought me wine, homemade, fresh salsa and chips to enjoy as he cooked.

What diet? 

Did someone say low-carb? 

I don't know what you're talking about.

While he was busy cooking, I began exploring with my camera.

There were steps leading down from the cottage.

It was a breathtakingly, beautiful, day. 

The steps led to a lower deck.

 

I wanted to move in.  Right then.  That very same day.

 

If I had an unlimited budget, I think I'd rent out the cottage for a few weeks.  It was so quiet there.  I would spend my time reading, writing, and roaming the coast with my camera.  It would be heaven. 

In the winter, being alone in the cottage, would be powerful in an isolating, haunting, and fantastic way.  I can imagine the waves crashing against the rocks in a storm.

I love the ocean.

I love the beach.

Visiting Malibu was a little bit like going home ...

Back to my childhood.

© Twenty Four At Heart

My Past

Yesterday was a long, emotional, day.

This is the house I lived in until I was 17 and left for college:

 

It's tucked up in the foothills above Los Angeles.  

 

The house doesn't look exactly the same now, of course, but I was tempted to walk right in the front door anyway.

I didn't.

I stopped by my elementary school.  There was a man standing outside and he asked me all sorts of questions.  He was curious, and cautious ... and maybe just nosy?  

"Your photos aren't going to end up on that innernetzz, are they?" he asked after getting my entire life's history.  

"That Facebook thing or something like that?" he inquired.

"No," I lied answered.

I admit, I wanted to laugh when he asked me that. 

Me?

Put a photo on "that innernetzz"????

Never!

It was really strange, I seemed to attract attention everywhere I went.  I think people see a professional looking camera and instantly assume "journalist."

The old neighborhood looks pretty much the same:

I had a sudden realization as to why I settled in my current home with mountains, once again, looming behind me.  Mountains feel like home.  Some parts of my childhood are etched into my soul.

I stopped by my old middle school and high school also, but I won't bore you with those photos.  

I also visited the (very) cute town of Montrose.  When I was a kid it was a big deal to go to the movies in Montrose.  The theater is long gone, but many of the businesses remain the same.

 

The day was a jumble of memories leaping out at me.  Some of them hurt, some of them made me smile, and some of them were completely unexpected.

There were a few demons to face also, but I'm not sure I did.  I think, maybe, I just averted my eyes and thoughts from the scary places they still hide.  

I suppose life sometimes is best taken in baby steps.

Did I mention, Montrose is utterly charming?

© Twenty Four At Heart 

Stepping Back in Time

Deep breath!

Today I'm not here.

Instead I'm visiting a small community north of Los Angeles.  It's a community nestled in the foothills near the Angeles National Forest.

I'm stepping back in time to visit the place where I grew up.

In reality, it's only about seventy miles from where I live now.  

In L.A. drive time that means an hour and a half ... or much, much, longer.

In my mind, it could not be further away.

For many of you, a day-trip like this would be no big deal.

I haven't been back to visit the home I grew up in for over twenty years.

There are reasons I haven't been back to visit.

My body tenses at the thought of returning and my stomach clenches in knots.

For me, this is a Very.Big.Deal.

It is something I've been saying I would do, but putting off, for several years.

Logically, I know there are many good memories left behind.

But there are painful ones also ... very painful ones.

Why is it the painful memories always supercede the positive ones?

I left for college when I was 17, and I never came back.

Oh, I came back to my family (they moved), but I never came back to the place.

I've never gone to any of my high school reunions.

I, intentionally, never listed my high school on Facebook so there would be no chance of anyone from my past finding me.

I don't want to be found.

I've worked very hard not to be reminded of the past.

I've stayed in touch with exactly *one* person I knew in high school.

I left, and I made a new life.

No regrets, no looking back ....

Except, today, this is something I know I need to do.

I'm not sure why, but I know I need to go back ....

I'm scared ...

In fact, I'm terrified.

Have you ever faced down painful memories from your past?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Yaaaaay Lakers!

Um, when I was supposed to be writing yesterday, I was at my son's painfully long baseball game.

And then I came home and watched the most edge.of.my.seat basketball final game ever!

Go Lakers!

I love watching basketball and I'm a long time Lakers fan.

I am not, however, a big Kobe fan.  I do realize he's a phenomenal player.

(Sorry - please don't hate me, but I've never quite gotten over the whole RAPE thing.)

**  The hate mail is already coming in, isn't it?  **

Here's some Twenty Four trivia I haven't previously shared:

When I was in high school I kept the stats for the boys basketball team.

I think I originally agreed to do the stats because the coach asked me to and he was very, very, hot.  (Coach Perry - sigh!)

I also played girls basketball for awhile so I knew the game already.

Then one day, as I was keeping stats, a player fell to the floor shrieking.

He was HERE ...

But his leg was ....... OVER THERE SOMEWHERE.

He had dislocated his knee and it was an ugly, ugly sight that left an indelible image on my brain.

One of the coaches came over and snapped it back into place and the boy SCREAMED.

**  Shudder  **

After that, I watched the remainder of the season's games with my eyes closed so I'd never risk seeing such a horrible thing again.

The end.

On a happier note, I wanted to show you my pretty, pretty necklace.

I've been into turquoise lately so I made this purchase awhile back:

 

I think it's both fun and funky.

Come to think of it, that pretty much describes ME, doesn't it?

© Twenty Four At Heart

I Don't Think I've Ever Mentioned ...

Once upon a time, I went to college at the University of California at Santa Barbara (UCSB).

 

It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.

I was on the Dean's List and an honor student.

I partied a lot too.

I majored in beach parties communications.  I also got a degree in beach parties communications.

When I wasn't studying, I was working to pay for school.  I worked a lot of hours, out of necessity.  For some reason, all that work didn't interfere with my beach parties learning.

I guess you could say, I enjoyed college.

When I wasn't studying or working to pay for school, my college life could be summed up like this:

  

I bet you understand me so much better now ....

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Joys of Childhood

 

Orange County has its faults, but there are some wonderful memories to be made for those who grow up here.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Fattigman Cookies

I spent yesterday baking.

And baking.

And making some treats which needed no baking at all.

I had help but, nevertheless, it was an epic accomplishment with my bum arm.  I produced several types of goodies, but there was one particular treat I was thrilled to be preparing.

For the first time since my car accident, I made fattigman.  (Pronounced, at least by me, as fot-a-min.)

What is fattigman?  It's a, sort-of, diamond shaped, traditional, Norwegian cookie.  Cooks often whip them up at Christmas time, but they're not exclusively a "Christmas cookie."  You can make fattigman anytime you want.  In Scandinavia, they're also known as Poor Man Cookies.

One other important fact, fattigman are fried to create a light, crispy, exterior.

Yes, I said fried.  No, I don't own a deep fryer.  (I live in California, remember?  We're all about healthy eating here.)  I just fry fattigman in a regular old pan.

I'm an improviser.

Before you dismiss fattigman based on the terrible sin of being a fried food, can I just say ... nom, nom, nom?!!

Also?

Some foods are made to be splurged on once a year.

My mom used to make fattigman cookies around the holidays.  I've always loved them even though mine never come out perfectly shaped.  They're so different from most cookies.  They aren't overly sweet, but they have just enough sweetness to be satisfying when you're craving a little sumpin-sumpin.  (They're also very good with coffee or hot tea.)

I mentioned fattigman on Twitter and it generated several requests for me to post about these delicious treats.  There are many variations to fattigman recipes, but here's the one that has been handed down in my family:

Ingredients:

4 eggs

1 cup sugar

4 Tablespoons cream (heavy cream not half and half!)

1/4 cup (1 stick) melted butter

1 pinch of salt

4 cups of flour (plus some extra flour for rolling the dough)

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon cardamom (you can substitute a mix of cinnamon/nutmeg if you can't find cardamom)

Powdered sugar

Oil for deep frying

Directions:

You will need two bowls.

In one bowl beat the eggs.  

Add in the sugar, continuing to beat the mixture.  Next, add in the cream and melted butter.  

 

Beat until the ingredients are well mixed.

In a separate bowl, sift the flour, baking powder, salt and cardamom.

Gradually add the dry ingredients to the wet ones until well mixed.  The dough will be sticky.  Add in more flour until the dough is soft and ready to be rolled.

Roll the dough very thin.  (Thank you to my daughter for helping out with this part!)

 

Cut the dough into diamonds.  (There is a special fattigman cutter you can buy, or you can just use a pizza cutter like we did - or you can even use a table knife to cut the dough into diamonds.)

 

Cut a slit in the middle of each diamond strip and pull one end through the slit.  

 

Fry briefly - they cook very quickly.  They should be a light golden color.  (Seriously, you need to watch them closely or they'll burn.  Not that I would know anything about that ....)

Allow the cookies to drain and cool on a cookie sheet lined with paper towels.  Finally, sprinkle them with powdered sugar.

Voila!  

 

Fattigman cookies!  

(My son was inhaling them as fast as I could make them.)

© Twenty Four At Heart

Facebook

I'm still on pain meds - but I *think* I'm making more sense today.  

Honestly?  I was drugged out of my mind yesterday!  I have never, ever, before attempted to write with that level of drugs in my system.

I apologize.  (Even though a lot of you wrote to tell me you laughed quite a bit at yesterday's post!)

By tomorrow I, hopefully, won't need to be taking pains meds anymore.  Today I'm still a little looped, but I'm only taking one pain pill at a time ... which is still a lot because they're very strong, but not as much as yesterday.

Rambling much?

Last June I wrote about my college boyfriend finding me via Facebook.  It came as quite a shock because up until that time I believed I was invisible.  Sort of.

I don't get on Facebook very often and my facebook account is primarily there as a writing tool.  When I joined FB I didn't enter my high school or college info into my profile because I didn't want anyone finding me.  I wasn't interested in delving into the past.  Over time, however, some non-blogging friends have found and connected with me there.

The other day I was checking facebook and on a whim, without even a millisecond of thought, I typed the name of a long ago friend into the search box.  Up popped the friend - right in front of my very eyes.  It's a male friend, of course.  Ninety eight percent of my friends during my life have been of the male persuasion.

The friend is someone I knew from kindergarten through high school graduation.  This is someone who I was very close to until about 10th grade when we drifted apart as we got involved in different things in high school.  He got interested in things like being Class President, Head Jock, and Valedictorian and I got interested in  .... hmmmm???  

Being an awkward teen?

My old friend is now a doctor and lives in the mid-west.  Once I found Mr. Doctor, I glanced at his friend list and saw many of my old high school cronies.

First I looked for Bitchiest Mean Girl.  This particular girl was the meanest female ever to walk on the planet earth.  She took pride in shredding girls like me to pieces with her finely manicured nails.  She was evil incarnate.

She now looks like hell and I couldn't be happier about it.

Next, I couldn't resist looking to see if my first-ever crush was listed on Mr. Doctor's friend page.  They had been best friends.  

He was.  

I pulled up Crush's profile.  The "boy" who dumped me for a cheerleader (boo hiss!), the first boy to break my heart ... was in a photo right in front of me.  Did I mention Crush also proceeded to stomp on my heart repeatedly and, seemingly, with an immense amount of pleasure for several years?

(Not that I remember it or anything.)

Now Crush looks twenty years older than I do.  

I'm not exactly a prize myself, I realize that ... but!

Honestly, I am in my forties twenty four (as is he) and his picture makes him look like he's at least in his mid-sixties.  

Am I a terrible person if I confess, seeing his picture gave me a small sense of satisfaction?

This isn't a photo of him, but the good looking boy who once held my heart now looks very similar to this man:

You think I'm joking, don't you?  

I'm not!  

It took me a few minutes to fully comprehend it was the same person I once knew and, I hate to admit, longed for.  I stared, and I stared, and I stared a little longer at his photo in an effort to get my brain to accept what my eyes were seeing.

Have you experienced this type of Facebook Time Warp?

I just can't get over it!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Mr. Bad Ass

I don't usually post on weekends, so in honor of Father's Day I thought I'd share this picture a day late.  It's a photo of my dad from before I was born.  I think it was taken in the late '50's but I'm not sure.  He looks like a regular bad ass, doesn't he?  Between his car, the jacket, the cigar in his hand and his, "I'm too cool for the world," posture, he leaves little room for doubt.

I could write a novel about my father.  He's currently in his 70's and he's had a very, very, interesting life.  He's quite a character and it's impossible to describe him in just a few sentences.  Due to a rocky childhood, he moved in with his best friend's family as a teen.  Intellectually gifted, he went on to work for NASA for most of his career.  

Yes my dad, Mr. Bad Ass, is a rocket scientist.

When I was young my dad was a strict disciplinarian.  I remember being scared to death of making him angry.  In turn, he remembers me as the only one of his children who would stand up to him, look him in the eye, and declare emphatically, "No!" with full defiance and no outward sign of fear.  (Inside I was quaking with concern over repercussions from my rebellious attitude, but my fear apparently never surmounted my boldness.)  

I was an adult before my parents informed me he respected my daring and that it was all he could do not to laugh at my obstinance.  Oh, how I wish someone had told me that when I was five!

My dad is now a grandpa several times over.  He's the biggest softy imaginable.

Happy Father's Day dad!  I love you!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Breaking Up is Hard to Do - The Story of Big Weenies and More

I dated the same guy through most of college and for a year or so after.  For the sake of today's post let's call him Big Weenie.  On occasion Big Weenie and I would break-up and date others, but for over five years he was pretty much the man in my life.  (And yes, it makes me cringe now to think I wasted all my college years on ONE person!)

Although?  Big Weenie.

Nonetheless, at the time Big Weenie and I were close and we got to know each other's families quite well.  His family took me along on vacations and my family took him on trips too.  I think a lot of people figured Big Weenie and I were destined to end up married someday.

Alas, it was not meant to be.  My feelings changed significantly once I got involved in my career.  I was living in my own apartment, supporting myself, trying to climb the corporate ladder and suddenly ... I didn't feel the same.  Big Weenie was busy with law school and still in student mode and we drifted apart. 

Eventually, Big Weenie and I broke up. 

I moved on.

Shortly after, I began dating someone new.  (No, not Briefcase ... he came along later in my life.)  Big Weenie would still call and sometimes we would meet "just for coffee" or "just to talk" but our lives were separating more and more.  I became quite infatuated with Mr. Electric.  We had electric (hot, magnetic, amazing, sweltering!) chemistry together.

At the time this was all taking place, I temporarily lived in Sacramento.  I had a favorite, very authentic, Chinese restaurant I loved near my apartment.  One night I suggested to Mr. Electric he would also love the food there and we decided to stop in for dinner. 

We walked into the very tiny, one room, restaurant and the hostess pointed us to a table.  To my surprise, and embarrassment, Big Weenie's family was seated at the next table.  The entire Weenie family was apparently in town visiting.

Can you say awkward?

I said hello to everyone.  The Weenie parents were confused and thought I'd been invited to join them and chosen to bring along a "friend."  My new flame, Mr. Electric, looked puzzled and then gradually the realization of who these people were began to sink in.

After saying hello to everyone and explaining to the confused Weenie parents that no, sorry we won't be able to join you tonight I announced, "We were just leaving."

Never mind that we had just arrived.

I grabbed Mr. Electric's arm and we turned and walked right back out of that restaurant.

It's a scene I've never forgotten. 

I think a tear might have dripped out of Big Weenie.

** Ahem **

Maybe that didn't sound quite how I intended it? 

It's a scene that was brought back to me in vivid detail recently.  My daughter was home from college a few weeks ago.  We decided to take our family, and her new boyfriend, out to dinner.  We walked into a restaurant and were seated at the table next to her high school boyfriend of three years and his family.   She broke up with Boyfriend #1 a few months back.

Boyfriend #1 used to practically live at our house for the three years they dated. He is far from over her.  He followed her to the same college.  He's renting a house only a few buildings down from hers.  Everyone who knows him has told us he "can't" get over her. When she broke up with him, he reacted in anger and quite honestly it got a little scary for a brief period until he seemed to collect himself.  They run into each other at college once in awhile, but not often.

As in my situation, our families had become friends too.  We greeted each other with hellos and hugs and then sat back at our separate tables right next to each other.  It was made more awkward by the fact that Boyfriend #1 is so dejected.  My heart went out to him.  How terrible to have to sit through a meal and watch the love of your life at the next table with your replacement?

Gah!

Later, after we left for the evening, we realized something even worse.  It had been Boyfriend #1's birthday.  He was out with his family for his birthday dinner celebration when we arrived.

How terrible is that?  We ruined his 20th birthday.  

I can't get over the pain in his eyes.  I can't get over the tremor in his voice when he hugged me and told me he misses our family.  I know everyone gets their heart broken eventually, but it doesn't make me feel any better for the poor guy.

Have you been in a situation like this too?  What's the most awkward new flame/old flame situation you've found yourself in?

** As an addendum to this post.  I've decided to leave the anonymous comment entered this morning calling me a California whore.  Initially I was going to delete it, but I figure you should have the opportunity to witness the negative side of Internet writing too.  Still wondering how a California whore is different from a Florida whore though.  What do you think?  **

©  Twenty Four At Heart

Inadequate? Why, Yes I Am!

I've mentioned before, I'm sorely lacking in all some of the girly genes.  All my male readers should thank God they aren't involved with an inadequate female. Decorating, shopping as a form of entertainment, sewing, fabric in any form whatsoever, it all makes me hyperventilate. 

I'm a pretty good cook.  My brother, however, is a better cook (and he's a better cook than the vast majority of women I know too).  I can tell you when I see a house decorated in a way I love, but putting a house together myself is a completely different matter.  Clearly, I spent way too much of my childhood playing baseball with my brother and his friends when I should have been learning girly shit.

I just never liked all the girly shit.

One year when I was in school, I was required to take a class titled, "Creative Stitchery."  I don't believe the teacher had ever seen stitchery quite as creative as mine.  Over the course of the class, we had to embroider, crochet, knit, and sew.  I want to go on record saying I did okay with the crocheting part.  Meaning, that was the only part I didn't fail.  At the end of the course, the teacher agreed to pass me if I agreed not to sign up for any type of stitching or sewing class the following year.  

It was a win-win.

One of the wonderful things about writing Twenty Four At Heart, is I've met a ton of fantastic people all over the world.  One of them, is my friend Linda and she excels in areas of stitchery which stymie me.  I've seen pictures of Linda's creations and I'm astounded at her talent.  I have no talent.  None, whatsoever, in any area.  Linda is an artist with a crochet hook in her hands.

Awhile back, Linda offered to make me whatever I want, a hat, a scarf, or whatever. She did this because she's an amazing person and a loyal reader and friend.  She recommended I pick out a yarn I love and said she would do all the work.  I decided on a scarf, but I didn't get around to going to the yarn shop until last weekend.  Linda lives in South Carolina and she knew where my nearest yarn shop is here in Orange County.  The woman is talented!

On Saturday I found myself parked outside the yarn store, trying not to hyperventilate prior to entering.  Once I walked in, my heart nearly stopped.  There were fifteen women seated around a huge table taking a knitting class.  Young women, and old women, all holding knitting needles and skeins of yarn.  They were girly women, not impostor women like myself.

A sales lady approached me to see if I needed help.  Panicked, I looked around the store at the hundreds and hundreds of skeins of yarn.  I pulled a paper out of my purse and read to her the quantity and type of yarn Linda had recommended.  The class was amused.

The sales lady asked me a few questions, none of which I knew the answer to.  This seemed to amuse everyone even more.  Then she escorted me on a tour of the shop.

As we walked aisles, she said things like, "That's a very nice Alpaca, but we don't have enough for what you need."  Or, "These are wools, but you can't ever clean them."  Or, "What did you say your requirements are again?"

My requirements were 1) I wanted something soft and 2) I was leaning toward brown for the color.  

"Soft ... and ... brown?" she asked.

I glanced at the knitting class and noticed the ear splitting grins.

Maybe they were just impressed with my in depth knowledge of yarn?

I ended up with a soft, and sort of lime-ish green yarn.

Won't that look pretty once it's made into a scarf?  (It's real-life color isn't as bright as it looks in this photo.)

I was only at the store about 30 minutes.  Something happened during that time, however.  All those women taking the knitting class?  They were all laughing their asses off by the time I left.

I'd like to say they were laughing with me.  Unfortunately, they were most definitely laughing at me.  

One by one they started turning their attention away from the class they were taking to the inadequate blonde woman trying to pick out a SOFT yarn.  A few of them offered suggestions.  One woman tried to talk me into taking a knitting class.  

I gulped.  I explained I'm recovering from a car accident and I only have one working arm, but thank you anyway.  I did not tell them about my experience in my Creative Stitchery class.

Unfortunately, hearing I only have one working arm got more people interested in me.  I was becoming the pied piper of the yarn store as more and more women followed me in my quest.  Everyone wanted to help, but mainly they wanted to laugh at my running commentary as I wandered the store.

"I met an alpaca last week in Oregon," I said as I fingered some, soft, lovely, yarn.

(Laughter.)

"Oooh, this is soooooo soft," I moaned as I groped a skein of something blue.  "I'd like to go home and sleep with this one."

(Laughter.)

"I thought about making a sweater once, but I knew it would come out with only one arm."  

(Guffaws.)

Looking wounded, I added, "I'm not joking!"

(More laughter.)

Eventually I filled my arms with skeins of the yarn pictured above.

"Will this work?" I asked.

The ladies laughed again, and then they assured me it will work just fine.  I think they were ready to adopt me at that point.

So tell me, are you talented?  Can you knit, crochet, or sew things?  (I'm asking you too Mr. Goodfather, and Mr. Allan!) 

Or are you like me?

Inadequate.

Once Upon a Time ...

My parents are in their seventies.  They're retired. This holiday season my mom mailed me two old photos.  The photos are in bad, bad, shape.  I've been working on one of them.  The colors were badly distorted and the picture looked extremely grainy.  I am far from a photoshop expert, but I was able to improve the photo quality tremendously with the little bit I do know.

Here it is:

That's me in the blue dress, being held by mom.  Man, she was HAWT, wasn't she?  All my life, I've wished I got her height.  I'm guessing I was about 18 months old at the time of this photo.  My paternal grandmother is holding the dog, my paternal grandfather is next to me.  The little boy is my older brother, the girl next to him, my older sister.  My great grandmother is pictured next to her.  

I'm assuming my dad is the one who took the photo. It looks like it was taken at my grandparents home in La Canada/Flintridge.  For you non-Californians, La Canada is an upscale neighborhood not far from the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.

I could tell you stories upon stories about my family (and Briefcase's) and the stories would make you laugh and cry.  The problem is, my family members do NOT like their lives written about on the Internet. Imagine that!  It's really too bad because there is so much great writing material there.  (Briefcase's family doesn't even know I write and it's best left that way!)

I can tell you a little bit about the people in the picture though.  My grandfather (wasn't he handsome?) was a gangster.  He did quite well for himself too, and there is even a street named after him (in a city I won't disclose).  He didn't go around killing people (I don't think), but he did get involved with some illegal shenanigans in the gambling world.  He became quite wealthy as a result.

Should I use parentheses a few more times, or have you had enough?  () ()  I really seem to like them today!

Where did the money go?  Who knows ... but it was long gone, many years ago.

Apparently, at one point my grandparents had lots of "help" in the form of servants.  By the time I came into existence they had downscaled to just the use of a housecleaner.  From the stories I've heard, they lived a country club lifestyle.  They had two children; a daughter as their firstborn, and then my father.  Their relationship with my dad was rocky for many years.  As a teen, he left home and lived with his best friend's family.  Later, when my dad was an adult, their relationship was reconciled. 

My grandfather died when I was about ten years old. My grandmother was a strong and independent woman.  His death nearly crushed her initially, but she pulled herself together and went on with her life in a manner I've always been proud of.  She did a lot of volunteer work, including spending many hours reading to the blind.  She signed herself up for tours and traveled the world all by herself.  

Traveling the world alone as an elderly woman was not common place in her day.  I've always admired her courage, spunk, and independent spirit.

How about you?  Do you have a grandparent or relative who made a strong impression in your life?

The Funny Farm

When I was a kid, my dad would joke a lot about The Funny Farm.  My dad, in general, has always been a jokester and his comments about people being carted off to The Funny Farm were an ongoing thing.  The problem was, when I was very young, I was not always able to determine how much of what he said was fact vs. fiction. 

When I was only four, I imagined The Funny Farm as a place where all the funny people hung out and told jokes to each other.  I pictured a traditional farm with a big red barn and lots of laughing people standing around.  By the age of five I knew that some of the people at The Funny Farm were odd, and that funny had more than one meaning.  I thought that "ha ha" funny people were there, but also odd people that made everyone want to laugh with their oddities.

Mental illness was not an acceptable topic in those days, at least not like it is now.  Also, it was definitely not a topic to be discussed with, or in front of, children.  My dad joked about The Funny Farm, but as I got older I realized The Funny Farm was a scary place I didn't want to be taken to.

We had some family friends with a swimming pool.  Every summer they invited us over and I looked forward to visiting them.  We didn't have a pool.  As everyone knows, it gets quite hot here in Southern California.  When I was around seven we were invited over for a swim and our friend's daughter, who was only twelve, was not home.  I was surprised and disappointed. 

While I swam, I heard snippets of the adult conversation.  It was enough to know she had been sent away somewhere and no longer lived there.  They didn't know if she'd be back.  Everyone was very somber and quiet, and the conversation was hushed in an attempt to prevent me from hearing.

When I had a minute alone with my parents that day I asked where she had gone.  My dad said, "She's at The Funny Farm."  This time I could tell he was not joking and that it was a very bad thing indeed she was there.  Instantly I became afraid of The Funny Farm and the possibility that I might get sent there too. 

But for what?  I wasn't sure.  For being funny?  For being odd?  For not being funny enough?  Could it be a place where you learned to be funny?

My parents hushed me, and told me we would discuss the matter later after we left our friend's house.  I spent the afternoon on my best behavior, afraid I might also be sent away to The Funny Farm at any moment.

On the drive home they told me that the girl had "been very afraid of bugs" and imagined them crawling all over her all the time.  In my mind, her fear of bugs was why she went to live at The Funny Farm.  My dad said something about men in white coats coming to take her away and having to put her in a straight jacket.  As an adult, I realize now she had some type of psychotic breakdown and imagined all those bugs.  At seven years old, however, their comments terrified me even more. 

I have always been afraid of spiders, even as a young child.  I instantly worried my fear of spiders might be just the ticket to send me to The Funny Farm.  After all, wasn't that the "crime" of the twelve year old girl?  Being afraid of bugs?  Also, a lot of people told me I was funny.  I made people laugh and I was afraid of spiders, and therefore I just knew the men in the white coats would show up and want to take me to The Funny Farm too.  

A few nights later I got into bed.  I felt something hard bump against my leg.  In my dimly lit room, I reached down and grabbed a small hard object, pulled it out from under the sheets and peered at it closely to see what it was.  Then I screamed.  It was a small clear glass jar with a huge, live spider in it.  (Courtesy of my older sister, the demonic prankster of our family.)  I ran from my bed to my parents who sat in our family room.  I was yelling and screaming and my sister stood there laughing till tears ran down her face.

My parents chided her for her prank, but I think they had a hard time not laughing themselves.  No one sent me to The Funny Farm for having freaked out at the spider in my bed.  I started throwing the sheets back and checking my bed for sibling-pranks every night before I went to sleep.  I did, however, stop worrying about being taken to The Funny Farm.  If my parents kept me even after all my hollering that one night, I knew I didn't need to worry anymore about being sent to The Funny Farm. 

Then The Cops Arrived

Hmmm.  Well, one thing is for sure.  When I pick a topic to blog about I don't always get what I expect in the way of reader feedback.  I am very glad so many of you like my teeth.  I never thought I'd be getting teeth comments from yesterday's post.  I'll have to thank my parents again for the orthodontist they hired when I was eleven.  I don't think I've ever been called "elusive" before either.  I'm extremely grateful you don't think I look like a marshmallow.  I passed that observation on to The Torturer, and I won't bore you with his long-winded (yawn!) response.  Lastly, no, I won't be posting any pictures of my cleavage anytime soon.  Thank you for asking anyway.

My daughter, TR, starts college classes this Thursday.  She's been living in her apartment in a town of nearly all college students for about two weeks now.  Apparently every guy for miles around has realized there are seven very pretty girls all living in one spot.  Their house has become the gathering place.  TR tells me "the guys all show up around dinner time wondering what we are cooking."  They arrive with gifts.  Gifts like a six pack of beer or similar romantic gestures.

Men are so sentimental at that age.

One male neighbor arrived with "weed" as a house warming gift for the girls.  They informed him they don't partake.  He arrived the next night with a tray of shots.  They refused.  The next night he brought over beers.  (He's a very persistent guy.)  If he was hot I imagine they would have been a little quicker to accept at least a beer from him, but apparently "he's a creep" and so his gifts keep getting rejected.  TR said the rejections aren't preventing him from appearing every evening.  I gave her nice motherly advice which included, "Don't ever open the door to him if you are alone in the house." 

Because I'm paranoid that way.  And maybe overly protective.

TR thought it would be best to inform me of her recent encounter with the police by instant messenger rather than through a phone conversation.  I'm sure it was just more convenient and not because she was afraid to tell me six cops had felt it was necessary to arrive at her house the night before.

There is a tradition at her school to "water balloon" the incoming freshmen.  The freshmen moved into their dorms last weekend.  All the parties are held in the adjacent neighborhood right off campus.  Returning students have big parties, hide out on their balconies, etc. and blast the freshmen with water balloons as they walk the streets looking for parties.  Harmless fun, right?

Apparently not.

TR's house has a big front yard which is unusual in her neighborhood.  It has a fence going around the perimeter.  A big front yard makes for big college parties with an excessive number of guests.  A beer-pong table is prominently displayed in the front yard also. 

Excessive guests equaled an excessive number of water balloons equaled an excessive number of drenched freshmen and a huge mess out on the street.  Six cops showed up to break up the party.  They were a little surprised to find seven cute co-eds at the center of the mayhem. 

The cops made them drag all the water balloons out onto the street and pop them right in front of them.  ("Did they have vodka in them?" I asked; she said, "No!")  Then they made the girls and their many party guests clean up the mess on the street.  They issued them a warning, did not even comment on the massive amounts of visible alcohol everywhere, and left.

TR said the party "resumed in about thirty seconds," but without water balloons.  I asked her again, "What day do classes start?"

I'm wondering how soon she'll be busy with school and have less time for fun and debauchery. 

TR is at my alma mater.  I'm quite sure I never had any encounters with the police when I lived there.  Ahem ... well, no encounters which were noteworthy really.  Or maybe just none that I care to mention.  (I never went to jail, alright?) 

I did have two male friends who were convicted of a felony.  It sounds terrible doesn't it?  What type of delinquents did I hang out with?

Actually they were two very nice guys.  Both of them were smart (?) and very good students.  They decided one night after a few beers to have an adventure.  There was an avocado orchard not too far away.  They went to the orchard, hopped the fence and went crazy picking avocados.  They filled up bag, after bag, after bag, of avocados.  Don't ask me why.  Both boys lived in a dorm and they had no access to a kitchen.  They didn't pick the avocados to eat, they just felt like picking them.

Do you know what the price of an avocado is?

They came back showing off their wares and inviting us all to share in their bounty.  No one wanted their avocados.  We all lived in a dorm and had no kitchen tools and no way of making guacamole.  The avocados sat in their car overnight.

It turns out the owner of the orchard had seen the boys leaving and recorded their license plate.  The police showed up and the "evidence" was still in their car.  Those avocados were worth a lot of money and their "prank" resulted in both boys pleading guilty to grand theft.  My friends were convicted of a felony.

Did you ever have an encounter with the police when you were in high school or college?  Did you have an almost-encounter with the police?  Or maybe you should have had many encounters, but got lucky?  Let's hear it!

Snarky and Judgmental, That's Me

Let me be honest.  I'm going to be a snarky, judgmental bitch today.  Are you surprised?  

I'm going to share with you a true story even though I know you will initially think it's far-fetched.  I promise you, it's true.

One year when I was in college, I went into a "blind" roommate situation.  I was living in a rented apartment adjacent to my college.  There were multiple people moving in and I only knew the girl I was sharing my room with.  My roommate, and friend, was Jo who remains my friend to this day.  She is actually a reader of Twenty Four At Heart.  You may have read some of her comments in the past. 

Jo and I were friends, the others were strangers. 

As it turns out, one of my house mates was a girl named Tia.  On our first day living together Tia hung a beautiful photo on her bedroom wall of a huge hotel perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean.  It was spectacularly beautiful.  I complimented her on it.  She informed me that the beautiful hotel was actually her home.  It was a house not a hotel.  Tia is a member of one of wealthiest families in California.

There is a major city here in California named after Tia's family.

The year I spent living with Tia was very educational.  Her family's wealth was beyond most people's comprehension.  As a parent, I have told numerous Tia stories to my kids over the years.  Tia has been invaluable to me as an example for so many things.

Tia was the only house mate who had her own, private, room.  Tia had strikingly beautiful facial features, but was probably at least one hundred pounds overweight even as a 19 year old.  Tia was the most miserably unhappy person I think I've ever met.

Tia did not know how to make her own bed.  She had never done it herself because her family had an entire staff on hand to do things like that for her.  She did not know how to turn on the stove or oven.  Tia left her dishes on the sink counter.  She maybe thought her maid would come for a visit and wash them?  She had to be shown how to wash her own dishes.  Tia did not know how to survive or function without her "staff."    

Tia would sit in front of the TV watching soap operas and eating entire family sized rolls of refrigerated pre-made cookie dough in one sitting.  (Gag!)  She did this on a frequent basis. 

Tia had no friends.  She could not relate socially to anyone.  She had been surrounded by adults and staff members her entire life and had no concept of how to make friends or socialize with her peers.  One day Tia told me she had fallen in love.  It turns out it was a boy she saw walk by and had never spoken to.  And she never did.  He never even knew she existed.  She obsessed over him for months.

Once over a holiday break I needed to reach Tia.  She was at home with her family.  I called and talked to several staff members before she finally took the call.  It turns out the President of the United States was arriving that evening for dinner and things were a bit chaotic at her house that afternoon.  The fact that he was arriving was not a big deal to Tia.  She took things like that for granted.

Another time Tia went into childish temper tantrums.  She had been invited to learn to scuba dive by Jacque Cousteau's son at some remote, tropical locale.  The event conflicted with college finals.  Most of her professors allowed her to take her finals early, but one professor refused.  He had a "no exception" policy.  Tia flipped out.  She called her parents.  They called the university.  She ranted "does he know who my family is?" a lot.  The professor stuck by his policy.  To this day I have great admiration for him.  I can't even imagine the amount of pressure he got from her family and the university administration.

Tia personally owned several vineyards as a 19 year old teenager.  She went to visit her vineyards once in awhile.  I have a hard time picturing that still.  What happens when a 19 year old multi-millionaire owner shows up to visit her vineyards in Napa?  And she is not legally old enough to drink in California?  I imagine the staff jumps through hoops for her.

Recently I was at the Money Town Starbucks with a friend.  (I think I need to start a whole series about things that happen at the Money Town Starbucks.)  My friend is a nice Money Town resident.  She doesn't care that I make fun of her town and, in fact, she says it makes her laugh.  Anyway, it turns out she knows Tia.  I haven't seen Tia since my college days, but my friend has met her as an adult.

I have always wondered what happened to Tia.  She would be easy enough to find based on the stature of her family, but to be honest I've never wanted to.  I pictured some man taking advantage of Tia and marrying her for her money somewhere along the way. 

Well, it turns out that Tia had an affair with a biker (?) and got pregnant.  I got the impression it was a one night stand or something along those lines and (shudder) I don't care to hear the details.  In any case, Tia is not married but she does have one child who is a boy.  Tia chased after the biker and even followed him to another state, but apparently he got away. 

The Biker Who Got Away.  It sounds like a made for TV movie, doesn't it?

My friend tells me Tia's son is an incorrigible delinquent.  I think she might have called him a demon-spawn.  Are we surprised?  She also said Tia is grossly obese, extremely disliked in her community, and a total shrew.  Tia has no friends.  Still.  My friend prattled on telling me all about the adult Tia she knows.  Tia sounds like the exact same person she was back in our college days. 

I find the Tia story terribly sad.  Her parents gave her everything, except whatever it is she really needed.  She has, in turn, apparently done the same with her own child. 

I was reminded of Tia when I read today's newspaper.  This week the son of one of The Real Housewives of Orange County pleaded guilty to nine drug charges.  He was sentenced to eight months in jail.  No, he is not Tia's son, but there are so many similarities.  It made me start thinking about the children who grow up in "highly privileged" homes.  It made me wonder why these parents can't see their kids need something from them which is far more valuable than material possessions.     

Comments will remain open on yesterday's Torturer Interview post through Sunday evening.  Your questions for him so far have been absolutely hilarious.

Call Me Mr. Dick

His name was Mr. Dick.  His first name was Harry.  Actually, the spelling of his last name was Dueck; I believe it's French in origin.  He emphatically told his students that the correct pronunciation of his name was Dick.  Mr. Dick.  Yes, he could have chosen to pronounce his name Mr.Doo-eck if he wanted.  Harry chose to be called a dick his whole life.  That choice tells you a lot about the man himself.  Mr. Harry Dick.  Being typical teenagers, the entire school called him Hairy Dickhead.

Mr. Dick taught U.S. History my junior year of high school.  I knew all about his reputation as the worst teacher ever from my brother and sister who both had been subjected to him in prior years.  The stories they recited seemed too far-fetched to be true.  If a teacher was truly that bad, he would have been fired, right?  My siblings taunted me also, as only siblings can, about the dreaded possibility I might someday suffer a year with Hairy Dickhead myself.

U.S. History turned out to be my last class of the day my junior year.  On the first day of school, a pale man entered the room, wrote his name on the chalkboard and announced, "I am Mr. Dick."  Mr. Dick was pale skinned, with brown hair grown into some sort of mullet-ish style.  He had a walrus mustache, carried a paunch around his middle, and always dressed in nice slacks, a collared shirt, and left a worn jacket thrown over his desk chair.  To this day, Mr. Dick is the single worst teacher I was ever forced to endure.

Every single class consisted of Mr. Dick sitting on a stool in front of the class at a podium and reading a chapter out of our text book in his monotone voice.  The same chapter would then be assigned to us to read at home each night.  It is important to note, Mr. Dick was reading the same chapter six times each day to the six history classes he taught.  He had been reading those same chapters for years and years.  Mr. Dick fell asleep almost daily while reading to us. 

I walked into class each day, stayed for roll call, and snuck out the first moment he dropped off to sleep.  Usually that meant I wasn't in class for more than 10 minutes.  By the second semester I had found a way to circumvent roll call.  I missed 35 days of U.S. History in second semester, but was only marked absent 3 times. 

I had an "A" in Mr. Dick's class the entire year.  My disdain for Mr. Dick could not have been higher.  In true, narcissistic, teenage manner, I was constantly patting myself on the back for outsmarting Mr. Dick, and the system in general.  How many people can pull off an "A" in a class they almost never attend? 

There was a storm one winter day.  I decided to attend class, because the weather was too poor to enjoy ditching.  Lightening in Southern California is not a common occurrence, but it happens on occasion.  Lightening hit the school tennis courts and was followed with building-rattling thunder.  Mr. Dick woke from a deep sleep, pulled out his Bible (public school - no Bibles allowed!) and yelled in his loudest voice, "God is coming!"  We were all nodding off too, and he flat-out scared the shit out of us.  Mr. Dick went on to read out of the Bible and preach (yelling!) to us his very extreme religious beliefs for the next 20 minutes.  That alone was a firable offense.   

One day my high school counselor caught me exiting campus when I should have been arriving in Mr. Dick's class.  He escorted me to his office, informed me he had watched me leave for three consecutive days and it was time to have a chat.  My heart started racing in my chest as I envisioned my strict parents (my mom was a teacher!!) finding out about my truancy.  My counselor's name was Mr. West and he was young (in his 20's), very good looking, and fortunately for me, kind.  Very good looking being the key component in my mind at the time.

Mr. West informed me that he knew Mr. Dick was a dick, and a terrible teacher too.  He didn't think he should be allowed to teach.  He also told me I needed to attend class anyway.  Mr. West had done some research on me and quoted back to me my high test scores on standardized tests.  He told me I was too smart for my own good, I was using my intelligence for the wrong things, and he wanted to know how I circumvented the school's attendance system. 

After a lot of hesitation I spilled my guts.  After all, it was hard not to brag about how I not only pulled one over on Mr. Dick all year, but also carried an "A" in a class I didn't go to, and manipulated the "full proof" school attendance system.  I thought Mr. West was right about how smart I was.  I was quite taken with my ability to get away with pretty much anything I put my mind to.  Sixteen is the age when you're convinced you're bullet proof and too cool for the universe. 

Mr. West was genuinely impressed with my not so admirable accomplishments.  Most importantly, he was hot, and that was a very cool thing to my 16 year old self.  It's difficult for a 16 year old girl not to spill her guts to a hot, slightly older, man who is flattering her with talk of her brilliance.  We talked for over an hour.  When I left he made me promise to go to class the next day. 

The following day, as promised, I went to Mr. Dick's history class and he didn't fall asleep.  Instead he surprised the crap out of me by returning a homework assignment to me with a big red "F" on it, as he did to all 30 students in that class.  It turns out, it had come to his attention that we were all writing journals about everyday events on our homework.  No one in the entire class was writing about history topics.  We had been doing this all year because he never read our homework; he just graded based on how much writing filled up the page. 

Mr. West had busted Mr. Dick.  Mr. Dick was on probation and I had, unknowingly, provided the very ammunition Mr. West had been looking for to get rid of a teacher he knew should not be allowed to teach.  Fortunately for me, Mr. West left my name out of all discussions and never reported my truancy's.

Ironically, Mr. Dick chose me as the only student to be called up to his desk that day.  He looked mortally wounded as he told me that out of all his students, he was most shocked to discover I had participated in this "homework scheme".  Mr. Dick had a grievously incorrect impression of me.  He thought I was a good kid, a focused student, an honorable person.  I was none of these things at sixteen. 

I looked everywhere except Mr. Dick's eyes and I apologized to him.  I told him that "some of the kids" had told me I could get an "A" on my homework by just filling up the page with writing.  It had been terribly wrong, but I had been short on time and had done it just this once and omigodiamsosorry Mr.Dick.  Mr. Dick forgave me.  He said he was disappointed in me, but it had only been this one time and he knew I was a good kid.

I, of course, had been filling my homework out the same way the entire school year.  I was personally responsible for teaching all the other kids how they could get away with doing what I did.  In fact, I had taught all of Mr. Dick's classes to write personal journals on their homework each night.  I was a leader even then, heh.

Mr. Dick ended up losing his job, but it didn't happen for awhile.  I think he taught for one more year, while on probation, before they got rid of him.  Sometime soon I'll tell you how Mr. West went on to singlehandedly turn my semi-delinquent life around.  You should know one more thing about Mr. Dick though.  He had a daughter.  Her name was Rosie.  I'm not even kidding.