At home in the Fun Zone

Art Saves Lives so do Friends

This is Chalk art that I made about 15 years ago. It says "Art SAves Lives" which is a phrase I have tattooed on my body.

I often stamp my dollar bills with rubber stamps that I've had made- One of the stamps says "Art Saves Lives". For a while I misplaced the stamp and would search for it from time to time, when I found it I sent my friend a text message that said "I found my Art Saves Lives stamp." He saw this text on his phone when he pulled it out to take a photo of something he saw while driving in Oxnard. This is the photo:

Yep, that's right, it says Art Saves Lives right on the wall!

So then he sent the photo to my phone and continued to drive to the Dr.s office and when he pulled into the parking lot he saw this:

Guess I was on his mind a lot that day- or the world was telling him I should be on his mind or to contact me?

Funny how sometimes we have friendships that glow and grow and then fade and flicker while others are always just there- constant, comforting, continuous and dependable.

I've needed my dependable friends a lot lately. I am thankful for them. During times of trouble it's nice to have friends. I think this week these close friends have probably saved my life.

Friends Save Lives.

Thank You

survival

I have watched many friends die from drugs or alcohol. I miss them all. I mourn for their families.
At what point is the line crossed from support to enabling to letting people drag you down? This is what I am struggling with this week, which leaves very little time for self indulgent essays, although I do love to do that. I have a cool story about an eel I am working on.
So- if anyone has advice- where do you draw the line in the sand? I wonder if I should go back to al-anon meetings? How much time do I commit to someone else's life anyway?
So many of my friends who have died, I sat at their funeral wondering why I didn't try one more time to talk to them, to get them help, to do anything possible to keep them on this earth.

Do you help people as long as they say they want to help themselves?
Do you help people till they are no longer helping themselves?
Do you help until their lifestyle is putting yours in jeopardy?
If my friend was drowning, I would jump in even though I am a poor swimmer. I would try to save them.
Isn't that the same as helping someone even though you may not be able to help or they don't want help and will likely pull you down with them?
And just in case you are concerned- Duke and Chris are just fine-
It's the extended "family" I may need to "cut my losses" with. Other people I love who are falling fast.

Every night I pray-
Please God- don't let anyone I love die tonight or sink so deep into a bottle that they can't see out.
I can't stand the thought of burying another one of my friends this year...

See the following:
Another friend gone
May 6 2009

Peer pressure

My parents moved from Manhattan Beach to Wilmington when I was 5 years old. They had decided it was better to live like kings in a big 5-bedroom house in Wilmington than live like paupers in a 2-bedroom house in Manhattan Beach.

We lived at the end of a cul-de-sac and I attended a very diverse private school. I took piano lessons and went to the nursery with my Mom to buy flowers for the yard. We had a 2-room playhouse in the backyard - so my brother and I didn't have to share... and a tire swing in front yard that we shared with all the neighborhood kids. Every Christmas the kids from the neighborhood would get Big Wheels and we would ride for hours in the street- there were rarely any cars and the parents would keep their eyes on the kids.

Every night before 4th grade I would sit on the floor in front of my Mom as she would carefully wrap my super straight, thin hair into pin-curls. I would sleep with my head covered in hair clips so that it looked like I had a metal colander on my head. In the morning I would brush it out and style it into two "Cindy Brady-esque" pigtails before school. I really wished I was a Brady- from a big family where I would have options on what sibling I would hang out with. At that time my life did seem to resemble a television sit-com, we had popcorn on Friday nights while we watched "the Rockford files" and we toasted marshmallows in our fireplace. Even more nostalgic to me now was that there seemed to be easy solutions and prompt and final resolutions of problems.

My parents pinched their pennies and saved their money and we never took family vacations and we never had the newest and best things but we always had enough and we always seemed to have more than anyone else in our neighborhood. That was as close to a Brady existence that I would ever get.

By the end of 4th grade my parents announced that we would be selling our home at the end of the cul-de-sac in Wilmington and moving to a tiny home at the top of a hill in Torrance. I remember the night we drove by the property in Torrance and I couldn't imagine how I was going to get anywhere living at the top of a hill. It was obvious to me that my Big Wheel days were over.

We moved during the summer and I didn't meet any kids I was going to attend school with the coming year. I showed up for my first day of 5th grade wearing my red gauchos and curly pig tails. I was met with scrutiny and criticism. I was questioned by girls "What kind of pants are those!" and I replied "Gauchos" not understanding the question. They wanted to know what BRAND they were, not what style. I had entered into a world I knew nothing about. When the girls said Dittos- they were not referring to copies of a paper from a teacher, When they said Vans they were not talking about an automobile.

From the moment I walked onto the campus I was an obvious outcast. These girls were so much more sophisticated than I was. They had feathered hair and Dittos and high-heeled Cherokees and I had gauchos and sandals and Cindy Brady hair. The girls in this more affluent neighborhood didn't necessarily purchase happiness, but they certainly sold their childhood. They were little women at 10 and 11 and I needed to grow up fast.

I remember walking home from school crying. I was 10 and couldn't verbalize the problem or imagine a solution. As an adult I understand I was feeling betrayed by my parents- how could they not know what they were doing to me? Why didn't they give me the tools I needed to succeed in that world? All I could do then is cry, and when my Mom asked me why, I didn't have any answers.

My brother was a bit more astute and able to quantify his needs. Within the week he had his O.P. shorts, Hang ten shirt and Vans on his feet. I would lock myself in my room and put a Barry Manilow or Olivia Newton John album on my record player and cry. I didn't understand why I couldn't fit in. I do remember asking my Mom for Dittos and being told that they were far too expensive and form fitting for a girl my age- and as a Mother of an 11-year-old, I agree. The child inside of me longs for those tools of acceptance. Please Please Please buy me some friends!

I remember there was a boy that many kids made fun of; his name was Bobby and he suffered a minor physical deformity that was the subject of conversation and harassment. This was 1978 and back then bullying wasn't yet a prosecutable crime. Bobby and I had in common that fact that we were both Polish and he was nice to me despite my offensive clothing. I imagine now that Bobby is a very successful man, having survived the cocoon of school he probably emerged a victorious butterfly. I know that's such a typical analogy, but when I think of the people who's apex of the greatest moments of their life ended at High school graduation.... well, you get my drift.

I did eventually make some friends like Stacey and Tracey. They were nice girls who were neighbors and had the advantage of having older sisters who had already navigated training bras, curling irons and leg shaving. To this day these girls are nice- they had more going on personality wise and could therefore risk, at the tender age of 10- being friends with an outcast.

With the help of their friendship, I did eventually, temporarily, superficially fit in. I quit having my Mom pin curl my hair and got a curling iron. I ditched my gauchos and eventually scored some dittos. I got the short Cherokees because my Mom would not allow me to have the tall versions, my short ones were stamped with the correct brand name and I was on my way to social acceptance.

I remember the day Tracey showed me that her legs were shaved and I began to do the same. Shaving at 10 was one of the first secrets I had to keep from my Mom- that paved the way to many more. I have scars on my legs from my attempts without an adult's help. The cuts were like a right of passage I guess, and when I sat on the grass hill and my legs stuck out from under my pants, I was no longer humiliated by the unsightly peach fuzz on my 10 year old legs.

My inability to read social situations and social cues has always caused problems. When I asked for something all the other kids really did have, I remember my Dad telling me "Why do you have to be like everyone else? Why can't you be an individual?" But a few years later, when my parents no longer had the money to buy me the tools necessary for public school acceptance I found my individuality in thrift shops. It is easier to look like you don't care- and fit in with the punk rockers than it is to ask for another $30.00 pair of jeans. And then as I begun to act out because my Brady Bunch word fell apart. I was able to misbehave under the banner of Punk Rock and still be accepted into some social group. Then my Dad would tell me "Why can't you be like everyone else?" By then I had already resented everyone. By then I didn't identify with everyone else. By the time I was a "punk rocker" I hated everyone else.

Now I am a Mom, and my son goes to a school where the kids have brand name clothes. I think all neighborhoods have those status symbols now to some extent. I do make sure he has similar clothing as the rest of his peers. Part of me feels like a sell out. I don't really want to have to buy his friends or acceptance. I wonder if I am making life too easy, not allowing him to learn that clothing does not actually matter. Maybe I am enabling him to be one of those 30-year-olds who thinks the best time of their life was High School. I need him to know there is more to life than that, but I don't know if sending him to 5th grade in out of fashion clothing is the answer.

I want him to be friends with the jocks and the punks and the cheerleaders- or whatever the groups are called these days. I want to invest on his insides, more than what goes on the outside. There was something magical about aspiring to be a Brady- wanting a certain feeling in my life, rather than a certain look.

Determination

When I was 16 years old I was in High school but secretly living on my boyfriend's boat. I say secretly because I had to hide it from his parents, because they did not have a "live aboard" slip permit and they didn't really want to "Harbor a runaway" anyway. I had to hide it from my school because as far as I knew if they found out I would be kicked out; that happened to me when I was 14 and ran away from home and still tried to attend school. I had to hide it from my parents because if they knew I had a place to stay, they'd blow it for me, so that it wasn't so "easy" for me to be out on my own away from them. So- I lived on a boat several miles away from my school and I would get up every morning and roller skate to school. My first class was Volleyball during "zero period" at 7 am. so I had to get up very early to get to school. I was always warmed up and ready for Volleyball, while all the other kids were whining about how tired they were and how cold the gym was, I was relieved to be indoors- out of the fog- in the light.

I was in an honors English class, and I only mention it was honors, because I am trying to talk of determination and motivation and integrity and responsibility and I believe that having made it to honors English when my home life obviously sucked so bad is a testament to those traits. I loved that class and the teacher; Mrs. Wickstrom, because we got to do a lot of creative writing and that was an amazing outlet for me. From reading my papers, Mrs. Wickstrom could glean that I did not have a typical home life, but she never let on and would just encourage me to continue writing. I always got A's on the content part of my page, and B's on the execution. This was back in the day when there was no computerised spell check and I didn't have a parent's help or even a dictionary on the boat. I know so little about writing now, I am surprised I got B's in that category. (Maybe she liked me and was just going easy on me.)

One day I got to the boat and did my homework then fell to sleep especially early- leaving my backpack and roller skates on the floor. I woke up to discover the floor of the boat had inches of rainwater- and my skates and backpack were in that water. My school papers were in my backpack, and therefore also wet. All the clothes I owned were either in that backpack, or in my locker at school, so the only solution was to put on my wet skates and get to school early so I could change into a different outfit then the one I was wearing. High school kids and teachers notice if you wear the same thing two days in a row and it's a sure tip-off that you are not living with dear old Mom and Dad.

Wet homework is another sure tip off, and I had an English paper that was very wet and damaged and I certainly couldn't turn it in like that. I went to the public restrooms at the top of the dock and unrolled about 3 feet of paper towel and took it down to the boat. I copied my barely legible wet story onto the paper towel and rolled that up into my backpack, put on my wet skates and headed off to school.

Roller-skating in the rain is not as bad as you might think. Once you commit to it, it's actually fun. Visually, when you skate in the rain, it's like driving in the snow- you can see the drops coming down but you are skating towards them, it all seems to look like it's coming at an angle- so it looks like you are skating into a tunnel. Once you surrender to the fact that you are going to be wet when your skate is over, it's not as cold as you may think- as your clothes get wetter, your body is getting warmer from the skate, so that kind of cancels each other out and you are just about the temperature you started with. Skating on wet pavement just makes you go faster than usual and creates a super sound effect like an amplified whoosh whoosh that makes you feel like you are skating even faster still.

When I got to school I had dry sweat pants and tennis shoes waiting for me in my gym locker. I was so grateful to be at school and it was such a safe haven for me that listening to the other kids complain really started to annoy me. I would often reply to their whining with comments like "If school is too hard for you then why don't you move out of Mommy and Daddy's palace and get a job!" My ability to keep my "situation" under wraps was waning. And now, I had an English paper written on a paper towel.

I showed up for English class a few moments early and told Mrs. Wickstrom that I did my homework, but it had gotten rain damaged and would she please allow me to fix it? I planned to borrow some paper from a friend, copy it onto dry paper and hand it in by the end of the day. I showed her my paper towel assignment so that she would know that I wasn't trying to get away with anything. She told me it was okay, and that this once I could just turn it in on a paper towel and she would grade it like a "normal" paper. I apologized and folded it neatly on her desk so that no one would know it was my homework. As I turned around, to my horror, a boy who sat in front of me had seen, I knew I had been caught.

I sat down and tried to play it off. As class filled up he was shielded in the anonymity of the class, he began to tease me for bringing my homework in on a paper towel. I was so mad that I got caught. I was so mad that the teacher was gonna cut me some slack but one of my peers would not. I was so mad that I just couldn't control myself and ignore his comments. I jumped up and yelled at him- for the entire class to hear; "I bet you have a solid oak desk at your house, with piles of multi-colored paper and pens and pencils falling out of the drawers! I bet every day when you get home, your Mommy has home made cookies and ice cold milk in a frosted glass that she serves you, and I bet- even with all that help, you still didn't do the assignment, and I did it on a PAPER TOWEL!" Like you would expect a bully to do in a situation like that- he just sat there- shocked that I would stand up to him at all, or draw the rest of the class' attention to the fact that I DID MY HOMEWORK ON A PAPER TOWEL.

In front of the whole class and the teacher too- I challenged him loud and clear to a duel; I bet, on the very next assignment, I would get a better grade than him. I bet him 5 bucks that even though he had everything he needed to succeed, and I had no resources available to me at all, I bet him that I could get a better grade than him. He shook my hand and I sat down, and Mrs Wickstrom was so bewildered and amused by what just happened that she chose to ignore the whole thing and just started in on the regular lesson.

It was a few days before the next assignment grades came out, and I imagine this boy forgot all about the bet. He had to because otherwise wouldn't he have worked extra hard to get the very best grade possible? When the papers came around with all the red pen marks- I asked him what grade he got. The class got quiet. I raised my voice; "I got an A in content and an A in execution- what did you get?" He shows me his paper, and I had the better grade. "Pay up" I demanded as I put my hand out to him. "NO!" he replied. "I'm not giving you anything!" I couldn't believe it. I was so mad, I felt taken advantage of somehow- I lost my temper and jumped out of my desk and brought my fists down on his back- cursing at him. He was cursing back. It was just a flash of insanity- I think they call it a "crime of passion" I had already re-gained my senses by the time Mrs. Wickstrom yelled at us. She sent us both to the principal's office. As we walked across campus we talked- He didn't really care about the 5.00 or his grades. I was more worried about being kicked out of school than I was mad at him. We went from fist fighting to allies- trying to figure out how to get into the least amount of trouble at the principals office.

The principal wasn't there- only the school counselors. Back then there were many counselors employed by the school, and "your" counselor was assigned by your last name. For instance-all students with the last name starting with A-F got to go talk to "Mr Smith" if they needed something. Usually this was for planning what classes to take, more than talking about trouble at home. I remember my boyfriend always saying that Mr. Schneider was awesome,but he wasn't assigned to my last name, so I never went to see him.

Well, this time only Mr. Schneider was there, so we had to go to him instead of the principal. After the boy explained that he had reacted in self defense- he was excused from the office and Mr. Schneider said he was going to have to call my parents. I told him he would have to call my boyfriend, since I was living on his boat, but that my boyfriend always spoke highly of him and perhaps he could help me out. We talked for at least an hour- I explained that I had not lived with my parents for months, but that I wanted to continue in school and get my diploma to spite them- in spite of them. I guess he was moved because he didn't call my parents, and he gave me special tickets so that I could get a free breakfast every morning after zero period and before first period. Now I had food and an adult on my side who would keep my secret.

I don't know why I had such determination to complete High school. Perhaps it was because I had already had several jobs by the age of 16 so I knew that if I didn't get an education, I would be doing the same thing forever. Perhaps because school was so much easier than working at the burger stand till midnight. I didn't see any reason to NOT succeed in school. Perhaps I did it because I felt alienated from all the kids at the school. They seemed to have such an easier life yet they complained about it. I wanted to finish school so I could be away from them, at least enter the "Next world" on a level playing field with them. I couldn't stand the thought of them being superior to me forever. I know I did it because my parents thought I couldn't and wouldn't. That was certain. But I had so many opportunities to give up- perfectly good reasons to just say "Oh my skates are wet, I'm not going to school today". It's not like I would have been in trouble with my parents. They were not there to drag my ass out of bed and drive me to school. By my senior year, many of the kids who had their parents driving them didn't get their diploma.

I don't know how to teach determination. I don't know how to help my child have it. I don't know how. School was easy for me- you show up, you do the work, you get the grade. It's like work- you know what is expected and you just do it. Parenting is so much more difficult, and so much more important. You can always get a different job or re-take a class or re-do an assignment. But every little mistake you make with your child is a black spot on their perfectly sunny light. I need help to teach my son the values and morals that have helped me be okay- in spite of my homework being wet. I had that within me before my parents kicked me out. I had that by the time I was 16. How did they teach it to me? Where did I learn it? I am now determined to be the best mom possible, but I don't know how to do it- and I fear determination alone isn't enough.

Thank You

Thanks to all who commented on my last blog entry. The support and love that came my way during that sadness pulled me out of the darkness quickly. I usually drag that gloom along for much longer. I am grateful to have such love and support and understanding from so many. Kind words and hugs mean so much to me.
I want to share with everyone something else that meant so much to me; a gift. A surprise gift from my friend Jerome T. A super cool guy with a super cool business: Picture My Pet
I was at our mutual friend's studio and our friend said "Oh yea, Jerome made that for you" and kinda shrugged over towards a plastic bag. When I opened it up, there was this awesome little miracle for me, the most thoughtful of gifts! Jerome Rocks and I just wanted to take a moment to tell you all that he made this shirt for me:

It made me cry. But in a happy, happy way. Words fail me. I wish I knew how to tell you all what a wonderful gift this was. It was so unexpected. I guess, if you read my last blog, you would have a pretty good idea.

So, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone! And thanks to Jerome for the lovely shirt. If anyone can use his awesome services over the holidays- Click here to check out his awesome printing services you can give someone a shirt that might make them cry. In a good way.

"It's only stuff"

These are my Grandma's Ladles. Circa 1950? They have that awesome vintage design on them-perhaps it's called a mid-century-modern Atomic Starburst? In my home we refer to that star-like shape as "dings". The sound effect from a commercial when your floor would sparkle after using a special product advertised. Back when it was still okay for a woman to feel accomplished if you made your floor sparkle.

The designs back then were "futuristic" or what was imagined the future would look like. Think- 'Jetsons' and hover cars. In that era, there was a general feeling of promise and hope for the future. There was pride for a job well done, and hard work was respectable; not something you suffered through if you weren't wealthy or smart enough to hire someone else to do it for you.

My Grandmother was a hard working woman. She had jobs in factories and cleaning hotels and also quite often when the money would allow; she got to be "just" a Mother and Wife and Homemaker. She was an amazing cook and seamstress. She taught my Mom how to sew and also tried (unsuccessfully) to teach me. My Mother died before my Grandmother. The greatest gift I ever gave my Grandmother was my son because he was her living proof that her legacy would live on. He was that part of her, that part of her daughter, to continue on in the world.

So- when Grandma died, I couldn't keep all her furniture, all her stuff, because I already had all my Mom's stuff. I kept Grandma's photos and I kept her ladles, and the coffee pot with the 'dings', and her dishes. I didn't have room for much more than that. I have so many things.....

I know that these are just things- that the things don't actually contain the memories. I know that the memories are still there if the things are gone. But in the same way you can hug your Mom or Grandma to make yourself feel good and safe- I only get to hold these things. So I want to always have them. And I want to give these things to my son so he can hold these things.

Eventually the idea came to me to have these 'dings' on my body- near me, like a hug, but forever. I knew exactly where I wanted them, and how they would look on me and how it would feel to have them placed on me. I was ready to get the tattoo with the only exception being that I didn't have any discretionary income to buy a tattoo. I knew when I got some "extra" money, what I would do with it.

I sometimes work in a big building with individual private offices and at the end of each floor are two bathrooms. Early in the morning, as I walked into the women's bathroom, I found a hundred dollar bill on the floor. I picked it up and checked to see that it was real. I checked each stall and there was no one else in the bathroom. I walked the entire floor and there was not a single person in any office. I walked back to my office and wrote a note- "If you lost something in this bathroom, please call to identify and I will be happy to return it". I taped the sign to the bathroom door and waited all day for a call that never came. When I got off work I called my tattoo artist and said "I found a hundred dollar bill on the bathroom floor- do you want it?"

I love this tattoo so much. I think it is pretty and very fitting for the area and I love that it is my ladle tattoo that I found on the bathroom floor. I know my Grandma and Mom didn't share my love of tattoos, but I feel that somehow they gifted this tattoo to me anyway.

I still love having the ladles- and the other "stuff" that I can hold in my hands and pass on to my son. I hope to raise him to be the kind of person who knows his history and values hard work and taking care of irreplaceable things.

We are moving now, into the first home that we own as a family. I have been packing and sorting and letting go of a lot of 'things'-because I can't take it all with me and I don't want to be a hoarder, or pack rat. We have been in our rented house for 8 years and have acquired a lot of stuff. But there are still so many things that I don't want to get rid of. Like the ladles. And the dishes. I decided to quit waiting "till I grow up" to use Grandma's dishes. After all, I am 42 years old and I would derive so much pleasure from seeing and touching her things every day. So I pulled the dishes out of the attic to assess what I had and prepare them to take to our new home.

When I picked up the box it rattled like an evil maraca. When I opened the box, this is what I found:

The sadness that came over me was so overwhelming. I know, they are just things. I know it shouldn't matter. Yet, I feel so sad. Adding to this sadness is the fact that TODAY is my Mother's birthday, and I can't buy her a cake or give her a hug. I can't eat from her mother's plates. Almost the entire set is broken- completely broke and damaged beyond repair. Even looking at that photo makes me feel like I have been punched in the stomach. So- I have been crying on and off, over some stupid "stuff". Silly, right? I still have the memory of my Grandma- what I don't have is the idea that these things of hers were safe in my attic and there for me some day when I was grown up and ready to use them. So my advice to anyone who will listen, is: DON'T STORE THIS STUFF! Use your nice things and hold your loved ones close and hold their things often. I would have rather used these for years and eventually accidentally broken each one, than to have found them all as a broken pile of dishes to use when I grow up and deserve nice things.

And now I am consumed with this idea that I should ignore all my moving and packing obligations, and forget my financial responsibilities and go get this pattern from one of the few unbroken dishes tattooed on my body. After all, what better day than today- since it is my Mother's birthday.

I hope as I get older, I continue to have things of beauty all around me, things I can pass on to my kids. Things they will hold and enjoy and most of all- use daily. Things that will be helpful to them, not just to be packed and stored and eventually broken beyond repair.

Perhaps as the rest of this day unfolds, I will miraculously find tattoo money on the ground.

Sorry Grandma.

Happy Birthday Mom.