HS Reunion, The Finale. And Happy Birthday To Me

I'm thirteen in this picture, about to enter 9th grade. My bangs are self sheered and the color of my hair is bleached by the sun, not by lemon or straight peroxide like we used to use back then. This picture was taken about three months before I pierced my nose with an ice cube and a sewing needle which in 1982 was out there because even though the punkers were elbowing their way onto the scene, piercing was not a big part of their look yet. I self pierced my nose -- which took several excruciating attempts -- after I went to an African festival at UCLA. Missing from this picture is the woven red and blue Nigerian skull cap I wore almost daily. We call this the When-I-Was-African stage. My expression in this picture seems to fall somewhere between smart-assery and complete tragedy; and I didn't realize that my face gave away so much. Around this time, I wore huge army surplus pants and aprons as an accessory, and for god knows what reason I spray-painted my entire bike silver; tires, chain, handle bars, every single inch of it. It looked fantastic to me though I got a lot of shit from other kids for that one.

According to the consensus at my 20 year high school reunion on Saturday, this is exactly how my classmates remember me. Back then, I felt like an odd and quirky outsider even though I couldn't fathom acting any other way than what I was oddly driven to do. At the time my classmates also thought I was a little weird, but they told me at the reunion they now remember me as creative and cool. As a teen you would've loved to hear that, but you can't expect other 14 year olds to give up that kind of praise. They don't know how yet.

The most interesting part of the reunion was that when my classmates found out I brokered semiconductors for a living and that I lived in Orange County and that Husband traded stocks, they concluded that I was a major sell out. They believed I was the last person that would live the life that I do. They felt that I would most likely have a creative profession or an activist's one. And I thought, you know what? So did I. It doesn't matter that I have nine tattoos because I look extremely polished compared to my teen self. It doesn't matter that I am a writer because I didn't say that's What I Did. It doesn't matter that I'm a radical at heart or that I stroke my inner hippie daily because I don't put that side out there for target practice any more. And I gotta say all of this is mildly upsetting, to say the least, -- because today is my 38th birthday. Crisis anyone?

So, that's what floats to the top days after the reunion, but all in all I had a great time. It's a cartoonish experience to talk to people whose 16 year old image is tattooed in your mind, but they now have a slide of baldness or wrinkles or more padding placed over this image. The craziest part is that the original image still comes through the strongest.

Other things realized at the reunion:
1. A black strapless dress with an A-line skirt that hits at the knees is a smash at any age. And boys that you had a big crush on 25 years ago will seem very intested in you when you wear it.

2. High school was a dangerous place. I mean, I was aware that drugs and alcohol and gang violence were going on, but JESUS. Or maybe it's that the older I get (read: the older my daughters get) the less funny all these little fucked memories become. "I did three lines of coke before finishing my homework." What? "I fucked Mr. SoNSo." The swim coach? "Rob got shot." Yeah, I heard that.

3. You spend a little more time than you really want at the 20th reunion talking about who's died from high school.

So, back to my crisis . . .I have well-thought out reasons for not being a homeless writer or painter that still rents single rooms from friends. And I don't usually make excuses for wanting to make enough money to not only support my daughters but to give them comfort. It's the internal battle that most don't see -- The Grand Battle of Balance: Sheltering Them Too Much vs.Handing Them Too Much. Instilling Responsiblility/Discipline vs. Yielding to Creativity. Respect/Diplomacy vs. Staying True To Oneself. I'm teaching them the Balance Game now because I know it's a hard one to play and because personally I prefer the Fine Line than letting that 13 year old unintentional maverick pictured above slip through the cracks. And I prefer it over letting my internal, innate weirdness make me completely disappear into myself.

Right as my crisis was hitting critical mass this morning, on my birthday (the 38th one which seems dangerously close to the 97th), I received my Writing Well Is The Best Revenge tshirt from Mrs. Kennedy. And somehow this made me feel much better. I guess mainly because this phrase means - to me - that all of what I do is not for nothin': The Fine Line, the Battle of Balance because I HAVE NOT STOPPED WRITING. When the kids are asleep and when the semiconductors are bought low and sold high, when I'm done nodding and yes'ing other TaeKwonDo moms in Orange County . . . I still write. I yield to the creativity and am true to myself.
Happy Birthday to Me. My face still reveals all.

High School Reunion, Part Dos

When my mother went to her 10-year high school reunion, I was only 10 years old -- whoops, did we all just do the math? -- but I remember specifically her freaking out about what to wear. She was on a mission to prove that the Grenada Hills High bad ass had turned into one classy lady. She chose a white jump suit with rhinestones lining the zipper. AWESOME. A JUMPSUIT. WHITE. WITH BLING. It was 1977, but still a rockstar statement.




Mom?


For the entire month of August, I have been stressing about what to wear to my reunion. I'm embarrassed to think so hard about it, but that's part of the dilemma; I want to wear something that looks great, but also looks like I'm not trying too hard. Mission not accomplished.

I am an expert on-line shopper. I blow on my fingers and dazzle others with my ability to buy perfect fitting clothes AND SHOES by looking at the 2x2 picture on the internet. It's a bizarre talent, a mystical touch from the gods. I bought a dress on line for the reunion that I thought would be Understated Elegance. It was a brownish-purple wrap-around dress, 3/4 sleeves. It was nice -- corporate hot, but a little stuffy. So, I decided to do some live shopping. The reason I took up on-line shopping is because if I go in person, I am no longer focused on the task at hand. I, all of the sudden, need damask cowboy boots or paten-leather bathrobes. I have no control. The internet allows me to focus and though there is quite a bit of surfing, it's not the same as the maddening bombardment of beautiful clothes and must-have shoes that swarm and circle around me in a hallucinogenic haze the instant I enter Nordstroms. Must. Have. (Fill in the blank.) But I braved my madness and went. I found a beautiful, black strapless silk dress with an A-line skirt. A little nicer than I anticipated on getting, but simple enough to downplay. There was, however, this bow with a stupid rhinestone ornament attached at the waist of the dress that I immediately razor-bladed off when I got home. That's a good way to to ruin a good dress; by adding rhinestones. This dress did not need such jazzing up. Though I was focused during dress shopping, I did not escape the pull of the shoe department. I mean, come on. And I bought the most gushy dusty light-blue wedge heels with a rounded toe to go with my dress. I was in love with myself in my new outfit. I can't wait to reveal to the Samo High class of 85 what a classy lady I've become.

High School Reunion, Part Uno

Saturday is my 20 year high school reunion which is ridiculous to say aloud. It seems just an eternity ago that I was a goofy but unintentionally cool (in hindsight) weirdo that attended Santa Monica High School. My style of dress alternated from punk (almost solely because thrift stores had the cheapest clothes) and a homeless-jock look which comprised of tattered, paint-splattered sweatpants and hand-me-down tshirts. I was the MVP of my basketball team and was even approached to play ball on a partial scholarship to Cal State Northridge; however, I couldn't figure out in my 17 year old mind how I was ever going to cover the partial not paid for . . . that aside, girls ball bored me. Back then they coached girls to play a mind-numbingly slow type basketball, just as Dr. Naismith had intended I'm sure, and if we had worn skirts for a uniform (might as well have), they would've stayed neatly in place. BTW, we were called The Lady Vikes. Do I really need to explain my disdain for this name or the endearing nicknames we were called? I couldn't wait for the girls season to be over so I could practice with the boys varsity team which I was invited to do by the coach in my junior and senior years. In 12th grade someone gave my mom a pair of pink and white striped dolphin shorts (um,1985, hello) which I snatched up because they bore my favorite quality in clothes: Free. I didn't really realized that the boys team saw me as a girl . . . until I wore those shorts to practice. Later I would think, Did I really wear pink and white striped dolphin shorts to the boys' varsity practice, in a sauna like gym where they were practically sweating sperm and running layup drills with hard-ons? Why didn't I just complete the outfit with a New Balance half top, high-heeled Cherokee wedges and a feathered roach clip in my hair? Because I didn't get those for free, that's why.

My best friend in high school and still one of my closest friends, Betsy called me yesterday about the reunion. She said, "I don't have any shoes for Saturday." I said, "You don't have shoes other than flip flops and sneakers." "That's what I just said," she said. I visit Betsy once a year to bear witness to her fantastic, adventurous life in Lafayette, a lush and quaint suburb above Oakland.





This is how Betsy lives her life.
That's her and her man, Jim jumping off a 10-story building apparently, into Utica Lake.








Betsy says, "How's the vegan thing going?" I haven't seen her since last November which was pretty much the exact beginning of Holiday Gorge 2004. The first night of my visit, she and I gorged ourselves at the Peruvian phenom restaurant, Limon in SF. We ordered page three of the menu. Maybe some of page four. I said, "I've discovered that veganism is a breeze for me. I love it." She said, "So, are you all skinny now?" I said, "Well, maybe 5lbs lighter." Fucking only 5lbs gone when I eat unprocessed plant-based stuff all day long even if I'm still working on that "portion" thing. "My skin is amazing though," I admit. "And my hair looks great."

After Betsy and I finish our conversation, and before I can snap my cell phone shut, I sprout 3 or 10 new pimples on chin. One is right above my lip which hurts like a bitch. great. That's always the way, isn't it? The one time you brag about yourself and it immediately goes to shit as the words leave your mouth. I was on hair-loss watch the rest of the night. Ten minutes after the phone conversation, my stomach bloated up in happy anticipation for my period.

Class of 85, here I come!