Aug 10, 2012 |
Waiting for Rain
In the midst of this heatwave,
My cats are drinking ice water
And I’m keeping all windows and blinds closed.
It makes it darker. It makes it cozier.
And it makes it almost okay to listen to
What I call “Autumn” music:
Those tunes by Diana Krall and Harry Connick, Jr.
That bring to mind Autumn in New York
Crisp leaves, caramel apples, and Central Park.
In the midst of this heatwave,
Dot is far away
Camping in the Sierras
And sending daily reports
of amazing photos and adventures
That don’t involve heat stroke.
In the midst of this heatwave,
The house is still getting clean
and organized
But not as fast as I’d like.
I’m watching more television
than usual
and I’m now caught up
on the junk they call “news”.
My checkbook is balanced
but the paperwork is scattered
And I think I’ll get more done
at midnight
when it finally cools down
to a balmy 85 degrees
But that is finally when
the cats and I
decide
to fall asleep
And dream
of cooler days.
First Morning
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Feb 29, 2012 |
Davy Jones is dead. For some of you, this means nothing. But for those of you who get me, who grew up in the 70’s, who liked bubblegum music before it was bubblegum music… it means everything.
Davy Jones is dead.
And I’ll never be the same.
My memories of the Monkees are far more than being a young girl sitting on the floor on summer afternoons watching the TV. More than rushing home from school in time to catch a snack while singing along. They are milestone moments: connected to events, feelings, growing, being.
And now all these memories and moments are rushing back in a flood. I haven’t been called “Mouse” for decades, until Chuck posted on my facebook wall with his sympathies. I haven’t sung “Daydream Believer” for months. And now I can’t stop.
For as long as I can remember, I was in love with Davy Jones. The two girls next door, another friend, and I each had our own favorite so there was never any fighting. I was the one who always got to pretend to be married to Davy. He was short. Cute. Adorable. And the lead singer. This boy was IT.
In sixth grade, they called me Mrs. Jones. In junior high, I didn’t care to outgrow my infatuation.
In high school we moved to California and I was filled with daydreams. I met my two best guy friends in my senior year (and they still kinda are), who in turn introduced me to their family and friends. I’ll never forget how often Debby, Shawna, Trinity and I used to walk the length of the Mall doing our “Monkees” walk. You know: arms around the shoulders, holding each other up, stepping right leg over the neighbor’s left… People had to get out of our way. Cuz we weren’t separating for anything.
In 1988, the Monkees had their 20th Anniversary Reunion Tour, sans Michael Nesbitt. My friend Traci had an extra ticket and guess who got to go! (Okay, I’m pretty sure I remember blackmailing her to get it, but hey… it worked.)
There we were, two young women who arrived hours before the concert at the Universal Amphitheatre in Hollywood. We arrived so early, in fact, that we beat security.
Yeah. You know where this is going…
We were too afraid to try to actually break into anywhere, but we learned to conveniently hover. In particular, right outside the secure parking entrance. Lo and behold, soon enough a tour bus pulled up. Unfortunately, we were on the driver’s side so we didn’t get to sneak around to the door until the occupants disembarked. By that time it was too late… or so we thought.
Traci and I argued about who’s cuter. I stood up for Davy, of course. She preferred Mike. But Mike wasn’t even at the concert, I told her, so he just loses points as a matter of principal. She still stood up for him. I admired that (but would never tell her!).
There were a few band members on the bus that we ended up chatting with. They weren’t allowed off the bus and there was no way we were going on, so it wasn’t a real conversation. But it was during a moment of “What? I can’t hear you?” and “Don’t you understand?” that we took a few steps back
and literally
bumped
into
Mickey Dolenz. MICKEY. DOLENZ. !!!
He was walking from another car into the building, and ever so politely apologized to us for us getting in his way. Seriously! I turned, and he’s inmyface. And all I could do was stammer something along the lines of “huhnnahuhnnana” to which he responded, “Sorry, excuse me.” And he walked around us. Which was followed by our girlish squeal. Many. Girlish. Squeals.
And then… (I know, like it couldn’t get any better, right?!) Peter Tork comes on scene from the other side of the bus. So we’re starting to realize this bus isn’t The Bus. It’s just a bus. The roadies had their laugh at us: two teenaged girls holding hands, squealing with delight, shrieking noise that only dogs can hear… I often wonder what we must have looked like.
We began to calm down and talk in normal pitch when, yup, you guessed it… a family comes walking by. A family! Really?! Here?! Ah, but it was obviously no ordinary family. As we glanced their way
my
heart
stopped.
Pretty sure I swooned as Davy Jones waved and said something. I can’t tell you what he said. I don’t remember. I’m not even sure I ever heard it over the blood rushing in my ears. I think it was something mundane like, “Hey”, or even “How are you?” before he turned and walked away. Who. Cares. Who cares what he said?! He spoke. To. Me. ME!!! Davy Jones finally acknowledged that I exist and we had a connection.
Life just doesn’t get any better.
Finally the big parking garage door opened to let the bus in so it rolled slowly away. Traci and I stood there, waiting for something more to happen. But there couldn’t be anything more. We’d seen all the Monkees there were to be seen. Mike wasn’t on tour. So no joy for Traci.
Oh, yeah?! Just as we decide to turn back toward the Amphitheatre a limo pulls up. A limo. A long, shiny, dark blue blackish limo. With personalized plates. Traci had been saying all along, Mike lives in L.A. How could he not join the Monkees this weekend? She held out hope, and it proved her right. I don’t remember what the license plate read. I know we never actually saw Mike in person. But we did scream at the limo and were greeted with a friendly wave wearing a ring that we recognized as one that Mike has worn in photographs.(It was later on the news that the Monkees reunion had a nice surprise when Michael Nesbitt joined them onstage!)
The concert was fantastic. We had nosebleed seats but we didn’t care. It was the time of our lives. Traci kept trying to tell me something about the people behind us. There were two guys and a girl. I couldn’t hear her over the music. Finally, one of the guys tapped me on the shoulder and said, “She’s talking about me.”
You know those moments that seem too good to be true? Here’s another one. Sitting behind us (which I always thought was weird, cuz you’d think they could afford better seating)… were Darrel Maury and Robert Pierce: “Mario” and “Bingo” from the TV show, “Joanie Loves Chachi”. And sitting next to them was Maureen McCormick and her husband. Marcia from “The Brady Bunch” was sitting behind us, talking to us! Robert invited us to the after-party and Darrel was all for it, but Maureen apologized, saying it was invitation only. Way to crush our dreams, Maureen… otherwise, they were all very nice.
We all talked about music, acting, dreams, California dreaming… I remember Robert asking how young we were; surely nobody born as late as us could really know the Monkees. Reruns, Robert. Reruns! When I told him I was born in 1968, he said that was a “Watershed Year” and asked if I knew what that meant. I admitted I did not. He explained that it meant a turning point, a critical moment when things begin to change. I always remembered this, because it made me feel important by association. I was born in a watershed year. I was going to be important. And someone else knew it. Thanks, Robert.
And then we went our separate ways.
On the ride home (Traci’s mom had picked us up), we played our cassette full blast with the windows rolled down and, I’m sure of it, made utter girlish fools of ourselves. But we didn’t care.
Shortly after leaving the concert, a limo drove tandem with us for a few miles. When we had to diverge, the rear window lowered, and Davy Jones waved and blew kisses at us.
Our night was complete.
***
But not our weekend.
Two days later, Traci heard that the Monkees were doing an autograph and photo session outside Licorice Pizza in Hollywood. Licorice Pizza was one of the greatest record selling stores. It was huge. Three stories tall. And they carried everything. Naturally we had to get new Monkees albums, so why not drive ninety miles and an hour and a half away to do so?
So we did. My first time driving on a freeway. Ever. And we drove all the way to Hollywood. It struck me when we got to the intersection of Hollywood & Vine. And Melrose Place… just like the TV Show. I was in awe.
We missed the Monkees, but not the car. We bought our records, and posed. This is me, in 1988:
We decided to see if we could make it to the concert again. They were sold out, but we figured if we went around back again, we could get in this time. Unfortunately, the security guards were already in place. We were sobbing. Sobbing! And this woman, dressed in a skirt and jacket, came over and asked to talk with us. Unbeknownst to us in our moment of drama, we were going to be on the Eleven O’Clock News. She asked why we were crying and we explained that we just “love them so much” that we had to see them again or our lives would be over, but they refused us. We were ultimately devastated, and there we were, pouring our hearts out to the local newscaster about it.
Sure wish I’d seen that interview. But when it aired… well…
You remember my history of California freeways? Yeah. They don’t like me much. Traci’s mom had told us, “When you’re heading down, just go west and south. When you’re coming home, go north and east.” But nobody told us which numbers to pay attention to. Oh, and did I mention, during this entire venture my mom thinks I’m only five minutes from home?!
The 101 North could be a lovely freeway… could be. But to two lost girls who find themselves in Ventura instead of Victorville… notsomuch.
We pulled into a Shell Gas Station, shaking as all get-out. The patrons and the clerk took mercy on us. We explained our foolish endeavors and were greeted with “aww’s” and “ohh’s”. Two mean each paid $5 to put gas in the car (for those who don’t realize, Ventura is three hours north of home for me. And I hadn’t planned on doing any driving that weekend to begin with, so the gas tank was a little thirsty by then). Another gentleman wrote out very easy directions that would get us home the “back way” which meant long empty desert roads, but quicker. (I kept those directions in my glovebox for 20 years. I think I might still have them somewhere…) And a married couple offered to stock us up on hot dogs and drinks. The sodas we took but we were took nervous to eat.
I called my mom from the gas station:
Me: “Uhm. Hi. It’s me.”
Mom: “Hi?”
Me: “Yeah. You wanted me home by ten. I’m not going to be home on time.” (It was a little after 9).
Mom: “Okay. Why?”
Me: “Well… we got a little lost.”
Mom: “What do you mean?”
Me [deep breath, one word]: “Traci-and-I-drove-down-to-Hollywood-to-see-the-Monkees-and-we-got-our-picture-taken-with-their-car-then-tried-to-go-to-their-concert-again-but-they-wouldn’t-let-us-in-so-we-started-home-and-got-lost-but-it’s-not-my-fault-because-her-mom-didn’t-give-us-the-right-directions.”
Mom: … … (not expletives, just breathing.)
Me: “Mom?”
Mom: “Where are you?”
Me: (gulp.) “What?”
Mom: “Where. Are. You.”
Me: “… Oh. We’re in Ventura. … … Mom. Mom?”
Mom: “Get in the car and come home. Now.”
Me: “Okay.”
Mom: “I’m waiting.”
Me: Gulp.
It didn’t take as long to get home as I thought it had. It seemed like it took all night. It was just over 90 minutes til I walked in my mom’s house.
I was grounded.
It was worth it.
Rest In Peace, Davy Jones. You were an integral part of my growing up.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
[This post was featured on BlogHer.com on February 29, 2012]
Jan 28, 2012 |
The pollen alert today (Friday) was ridiculous. Only Southern California could have a weather alert for high pollen warning.
I never had allergies in my childhood. We lived in the Midwest, fought mosquitoes in the summer, sled on frozen rivers in the winter, and enjoyed cherry blossoms in the spring.
Then we moved to the desert. The forsaken, empty, barren desert. You’ve heard this story before. Okay, it’s not that forsaken. It’s growing. And we have several Starbucks, so we must be okay on someone’s map.
Our winters are different. We get a light dusting of snow (if we’re lucky). A few rainstorms (if we’re really lucky). And all the dead leaves from the fall get blown away with the Santa Ana winds.
This year we haven’t seen the snow or much rain yet. But the Santa Anas are back in force. And that means dirt and dust and dried up leaves and anything else that wishes it had wings, does. Even the tiny pollen.
Did I mention I never had allergies? Yup. That’s right: past tense. Because ever since I’ve lived in the desert, guess what: Spring hates me. Sad. Sad. Sad.
But that’s okay. I’m one in a million. Literally. Because I am the only person I know who is verifiably allergic to prescription allergy medications.
True story.
Can’t breathe? Too bad! Eyes running like the Nile? Invest in Kleenex. Stuffy nose? Yeah… the whole mouth-breathing thing is not attractive, but it works. Headache? Well at least for that I can take an ibuprofen.
But an allergy pill? No way. Not this body. They do weird things to me. Allegra. Claritin. I forget what other brands I’ve tried.
But after my fourth yearly trip to the E.R., the doctors finally figured out that I’m just one of those lucky people who can’t take allergy medication. They give me heart palpitations. They make me dehydrated. Irritable. Incoherent.
And in one case, caused me to pass out.
In public.
At the Courthouse, no less.
Yeah. That was a fun one.
It was about ten years ago. I was a legal secretary and had to file papers with the Court. I walked across the street after having taken my morning allergy pill. By the time I stood in line for five minutes I knew something was wrong. Thankfully, I recognized our Process Server. She later told me I asked her to call my boss before I went down. All I remember was being in and out of consciousness for over half an hour. I woke up in the E.R. with an oxygen mask and two IV’s.
Not scary at all…. right….
There was a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo about platelets and blood counts and Oh-Two and stuff I didn’t understand. But what I did understand was that I can’t take allergy pills again. Ever.
Now and then I conveniently forget. Now and then (about once a year) I get so miserable I figure an over-the-counter Claritin can’t be that bad. And now and then I puke my guts out. And then I remember.
Why am I telling you all this? Well first, I’m desperate for writing material because it’s midnight and I have to have a decent post up in five hours. (How’d I do?) Second, and I should hope this is fairly obvious, but the Santa Ana winds are a-blowing which means I’m a-sniffling and a-sneezing. Third, now that my sad story is out there for public consumption, I’m reminding myself ahead of time to not take any allergy pills this year.
No matter how miserable I get. No matter how stuffy or watery or scratchy or irritable I get. This, too, shall pass.
And I’ve made it my goal to not get in any accidents and not have any hospital visits this year. Hey. I’m almost through January. That’s pretty good in my calendar.
Now if I could just take a deep breath and relax…
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Jan 8, 2012 |
No sooner do I commit to Daring to Be an Awesome Orange, when the Fates decide to test my resolve.
I won’t go into great details, because it’s a horrifically long story, but the same day I choose my Three Words was the same day I ended up getting lost on the freeways of Southern California. Again. I will post that entire story some other time, but let’s just say that while I wanted to just pull over and call a cab, I didn’t have the money for a personal driver and then that darned word kept humming inside my head. Dare, it said. Dare to be daring. I dare you. And all I could think of was, this is pretty much the first adventure of the New Year. How would it look if I failed?
So I quickly got my bearings, turned around, and made it to my destination. The beauty of where I live is I could end up at the Beach, in the Mountains, or in East L.A., and still be just over an hour from home. Once I got on the right freeway, I took a deep breath, turned up the Frank Sinatra, and sang my way home. It was Awesome.
24 hours later, I got a call from Julie (for those of you new to my blog, Julie’s my best friend, my VIP, and next to my mom, she’s my Go-To Gal for relationships, parenting advice, girl talk… and coffee!). She needs my help next week in a big way. While she was telling me this, I found myself holding my breath.
I’m not opposed to helping out my friends, fundamentally. But when it comes down to it, I’m afraid of trying to help some friends, because I’m also afraid of letting them down. What if I make mistakes? What if I don’t do it right? What if I screw things up? I don’t want that hanging over our friendship. I don’t want to be un-friended on facebook for that. I want to keep my friends. And add new ones to the list.
But if I don’t step out and help Julie, she’ll never know that I really treasure her. I can’t keep our friendship in a bubble. She means enough to me to do things that make me nervous. Because I know she’d do the same for me. And I again had that word humming in my head. Dare. Dare. Dare! So I dared to say Yes. Yes, I can help. Yes, I can do a good job. Yes, our friendship will withstand the little mistakes we make. Yes.
And yes listening, really listening, to Monique, whom you’ll hear about soon. We’ve rekindled our friendship and she’s going to be a plethora of information as she and her fiance’ delve into the world of writing, formatting, publishing, and marketing together. I’ll be on the sidelines, cheering them on. Because I know when it’s my turn they’ll be doing the same.
And I bet our Pom Poms will be orange.
Who could ask for anything more?
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
