Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

Four words. Four simple, nonsensical, pointless words. Ziggy. Zaggy. Zoom. Zoom. The four words that have continued to haunt me since 1979. The four words that made it known mistakes would not be tolerated, and any sense of normalcy or mediocrity or adequacy was simply not encouraged, accepted, or allowed.

In 1979, I was in kindergarten, and my crippling panic and anxiety was already well established and in full force (though it would be DECADES before it was actually acknowledged and successfully treated). Since I can remember, I experienced severe stomachaches, night sweats, day sweats, pounding heart, sweaty palms, debilitating insomnia, and fingernail biting on the daily. What a delight I was! The thing is, I hid it so well, no one ever knew because I didn’t want to be “different” or let anyone know I was suffering the way I was. Not only did I already know that trauma was exclusive to my mom (and her only), I was desperate for approval amongst my peers to fill the lack of it I received at home. I didn’t want to be singled out because I was constantly stressed, which only managed to stress me out even more.

I knew my role, and that role was to not make waves, make sure mom was appeased, and do whatever it takes to make other people happy. And I was really good at it! As troubling as people-pleasing can be, I know that, in this life, I have made the people I love (and even those I don’t know well!) feel special with sincerity, and have never gone out of my way to be mean to anyone for any reason, and that is something I will never be ashamed of. It also means I developed a stress ulcer by third grade, requiring nauseating medicine that tasted like chalk, which I had to take during the school day, thus singling me out for all the reasons I tried to keep secret. But I digress.

Ms. Chamberlain was the only teacher for the ‘gifted’ kindergartners and she’d been doing it forever by the time my class reached her. She did real estate on the side, which would quickly become her main focus throughout our school year, and her joy for teaching was clearly lacking by the time we entered her lair. It was clear she was burnt out (and look, I get it, and I don’t blame her. I was a teacher, and it’s not for the weak), but boy, was she mean. I taught middle school and high school and I don’t know if anyone knows this, but those ages are WILD, especially when it comes to school, and I still couldn’t imagine putting my beloved students through what she did us.

Every day, we would do your standard curriculum. Numbers, colors, shapes, etc. I remember one time, she asked the class what letter could also sound like ‘S.’ Always eager to please, I raised my hand, she called on me, and I said, “F?” She was visibly irritated. I agree, it didn’t make any sense, but I wanted to be involved! The letter was C, and none of us got it. Again, we were five!

It also didn’t help that I was left-handed. People are always shocked when I tell them that being left-handed in the late 70s and early 80s (and even today!) was super frowned upon, to the point the select few of us were singled out, given green rubber scissors (which were the absolute WORST! You could never actually cut anything, then the teacher would get mad because the paper was so choppy after every attempt), and dealt every eye roll known to man. When I was in fourth grade, I broke my left wrist. My teacher had no mercy and insisted I still participate in handwriting (today, known as cursive, but I don’t even think that’s a word students understand anymore), so I adapted and learned to write with my non-dominant hand. I am only ambidextrous out of necessity. But you should see my right-handed penmanship. It’s something to behold!

As was the standard at the time, part of our day was dedicated to coloring. Pictures of animals, buildings, autumnal scenes, sunshine, florals, etc. At recess, which is typically a time to take a break, regain steam, take a deep breath, and get ready for the rest of the day ahead, Ms. Chamberlain would instead give each of us a stick of chalk and instruct us to draw a circle on the playground. If said circle contained a ‘tail’ (meaning, if you drew a circle but finished with a mark inside or outside the circle upon completion), it was wrong, and you had to do it again.

When we returned to the classroom after being berated for failing to draw a perfect circle, we were given crayons and paints to make whatever pictures were in front of us perfect. And there was a song. To this day, I have to remind myself that it is okay to color outside the lines, and that those who do are typically the most mentally stable people walking among us.

But first.

One day (out of the five we were in her care), Ms. Chamberlain asked us, as a group, to hold up six fingers. As expected, the majority of my class held up their right hand with five fingers, and their left with their thumb. Well, I’d already failed at the ‘sounds like S’ test, but I refused to give up the good fight of proving I belonged in this ever-elite program.

I knew how to count to six, and I knew there was more than one way to hold up six fingers. So instead of going along with the rest of the class, I held up my index, middle, and ring fingers on each hand. One, two, three…four, five, six. It was six fingers and I was sure of it. When I tell you this did not go over well with Ms. Chamberlain. The look on her face would have you believe I had just clubbed a baby seal and wore its skin as a trophy. Her eyes became black, just like a shark, and her lips pursed so tight it looked like she had just eaten a lemon raw. She stopped the class, looked me square in the eye, and through gritted teeth and a tone I only ever recognized from my mother, said, “Do. It. RIGHT.” But, hadn’t I? She said to hold up six fingers, and I was holding up six fingers!

As I held back tears while the whole class stared, I retracted the three fingers on each hand and dutifully put up five on my right hand, and my thumb on my left. I felt so embarrassed at the time and I could feel my face burning as my tummy began to rumble. I cried myself to sleep that night, because I couldn’t figure out what I had done to make her so angry. Now? I remain furious on behalf of that little girl who did absolutely nothing wrong.

Needless to say, I was on her shit list, and she made it no secret. Just another quick reminder here that we.were.five. FIVE! Wasn’t kindergarten supposed to be a joyous time where kids learn how to “do” school (none of us are born knowing what to do the moment we enter a classroom. We’re also learning to deal with separation anxiety, while trusting that our parents will, indeed, be back for us at the end of the day)? I mean geez lady, give us a break! My standardized (dare I say biased) tested IQ had nothing to do with being a sensitive little kid who just wanted to be liked and cared for!

An activity like coloring in those early elementary years should be fun and exploratory and free from scores or judgment. I firmly hold the belief you cannot grade creativity. Putting a letter on someone else’s attempt to express themselves is counterproductive at best, and soul-crushing at worst. Who cares if the whole picture was colored with aqua blue, or sunshine yellow, or even burnt sienna? This is the time to let the juices flow, be yourself, and spend some well-earned energy on less structured assignments. At least in my book. Certainly, learning to color within the lines has its place, and serves as more of a metaphor for things that present later in life, but drilling it over and over, to the point hands are shaking out of fear the scarlet red fruit might have a ‘tail’ seems excessive.

We sang this song while coloring. Over and over. (We also had to be sure to use only appropriate colors. Nothing drab or dull; everything had to POP!) Here’s how it went:

“Don’t Color Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

Don’t Color Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

But Color STRAIGHT!”

And when she said straight, she meant it. No sideways coloring. No different patterns. Total uniformity. The fact I still love to color is a wonder! Even though I sometimes find myself correcting “mistakes” or abandoning a picture because I actually colored in the wrong direction. But I’m working on it!

It’s bonkers the things that stick with us. This is a song I learned 47 years ago, and it still plays clear as day in my head. It goes to show you how much words really matter, and it’s our choice whether to put positive or negative ones out there. I will always choose positive. Regardless if it’s self-serving or not, making others feel good about themselves makes me feel good about myself. I don’t see that as a bad thing! I often wonder whether Ms. Chamberlain ever did any self-reflecting on her teaching style, or if, at the end of the day, she wrapped herself in her gold Century 21 realtor’s jacket and sold her methods elsewhere. I would assume she was wildly successful in sales. I would buy from her just to avoid her wrath.

Thankfully, for all the littles who came after, she retired from teaching after our school year. We were the last to serve under her regime. What I took away from that fateful year was never let anyone tell you how to put those six fingers up, and color as Ziggy, as Zaggy, and as Zoom Zoom as you want. Life is too short to stay within the lines.

The Old Lady Under The Bed

There are certain things from our childhoods that stick with us forever; something so vivid that it feels like it just happened any time it makes its way to our frontal lobe. Obviously, as we get older, our minds start to soften more, and the superfluous tends to see its way out. But those core memories remain, and can transport us back to a different place and time in an instant.

As a child, my Grammy lived in downtown LA, a stone’s throw away from the Los Angeles International Airport, aka, LAX. From her little house, you could watch the planes take off and land, which never did anything to quell my fear of flying. My parents, aunts, uncles, Grammy, would all say, “Just look at how many planes take off and land in the time you’re here! That tells you how safe flying really is!” Well, sorry to tell you, Uncle Jim, but I was born and raised on the GROUND. Where I can feel it beneath me. And there’s no (or very little?) possibility I’m going to drop hundreds of thousands of feet at random to my impending doom while my tootsies are planted firmly on the silky, luscious, plush green grass. So, as much as I appreciated these pep talks, curbing my anxiety over flying was never going to happen.

It didn’t help that the first time I did fly, at eight years old, we were on our way to Mexico City and the airline used real glasses instead of plastic. For some reason, said glasses were left on the counter during the steepest takeoff ever (and I mean STEEP! It was like we were on a rocket ship headed for the stars), and they came crashing down in a blaze of glory, creating a cacophony of sound that would make Beethoven wince, only to be told by my darling brother, “That was the engine. WE’RE GOING DOWN!”

I almost took my dad’s finger off from squeezing it so hard. I remember looking down and his thumb being purple, then gazing up at him to ensure we were safe and him sporting a very convincing, though obviously superficial, smile that said, “This is fine, everything is fine.” We also all got Montezuma’s Revenge on that trip and ended up going home early. But not before my mother left our passports and birth certificates on the breakfast table of the hotel, as the customs officers offered a deal of leaving me behind with them while they looked the other way for the rest of my family to get on the flight home. I don’t know how they got out of that one, but I’m very glad they did. I’m also very glad my parents chose not to sell my hair. Because there were lots and lots of offers for that, too. Geez.

Back to Grammy’s. I can still smell her kitchen; it always smelled like something fabulous was cooking, even though I don’t think I ever saw her cook anything. I can taste the frozen chocolate chips in the cookies she kept in the freezer for my brother and me, and the tart taste of the Diet Cherry 7-Up she kept in her Frigidaire that we were only allowed to have if we agreed not to fight with each other. I will never forget the feel of the bulky and brilliant Sears catalog always set atop her fancy coffee table, where I would pick out my “grown up” outfits for my future as a “successful woman” (at what, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I’d be dressed to the nines for it), while silently screaming for her to unmute the TV after the commercials were over and Jeopardy was back on. I can feel the softness of that weird, crocheted doll that held the toilet paper on the back of her pink toilet, surrounded by dishes of potpourri and tubes of Ben-Gay.

My mother used to say that her mother was the worst, but I didn’t see it. Sure, she was blunt (she once asked why I was dolled up in stage makeup when I was 13 and we were in a public setting. I wasn’t, I was just experimenting with using makeup at the time. She told me I looked like a hooker and to do it better if I didn’t want to be taken for a floosy. I ditched the blue eye shadow right then and there). She was also quite fond of my brother and me. We were the youngest set of grandkids (in a very big, Irish-Catholic family – honestly, if someone came up to me on the street today and said they were my cousin, I’d likely believe them because our extended family is massive, and it tracks), and by the time we came along, she had very few effs left to give. We made her happy, and she made us…aware of her quirks.

When I was 12, I contracted mononucleosis (and no, NOT from kissing!) Someone in our grade had it, spread it, and I got it. It was brutal. One minute, I felt fine, the next, I felt so tired, I could barely get from my bed to the couch. I wasn’t mad about the time off from school, but I was mad about being sidelined for so long. I’m not good at being sick. I’m too squirrely to sit or lay down for more than twenty minutes at a time (unless I’m sleeping), and to be forced to rest is just not my scene.

For some reason, I decided I wanted my Grammy to come stay with me while I was convalescing. Both of my parents worked full time and my brother couldn’t have been less interested in me being ill (he had various other reasons for ditching school, none of which included caring for his sick little sister. There were malls, and skate ramps, and waves to be explored! I couldn’t blame him).

My mother was the youngest of eight children. The next youngest to her was ten years older than she was. My Grammy was 44 years old when she had my mom, and in the 1940’s man, that was wild. I don’t ever remember my Grammy looking like NOT a Grammy. She had wrinkles like a Shar Pei, and an attitude that commanded respect. She was not to be messed with, and we never did. My mother had a commissioned piece of art next to their phone box in the dining room of a dragon breathing fire to remind her that, when her mother called, dragons weren’t real and she’d get through it.

So, when Grammy came to stay, she made her presence known. She taught me how to play bridge and hearts, she made me egg salad sandwiches, and she let me watch her game shows during the day. It was the best! Grammy didn’t have any patience (a virtue I was also born without!) and she didn’t like that I didn’t feel good. She stayed a whole week and I felt like I was on top of the world! Los Angeles to Lakewood doesn’t seem far, but in actuality (and with traffic), it is, and I’m sure she missed her chair and her TV, and her lovely little kitchen. I know my cousins probably had much more time with her than my brother and I did, but that week was (and still remains) so special to me. She was old! And she still agreed to be my babysitter simply because I wanted some “Grammy time.”

Around the time I was 18 years old, Grammy started to decline in health. She was in her late 80’s and was struggling to remember faces and places. During that time, the family decided to place her in a nursing home; it was one of the best in California, even though it was a two-hour drive away. I had agreed to support my mom through navigating this new chapter in her life, and went with her every weekend to visit (despite the hit to my social life as a result). Sometimes, she was lucid as could be and would ask me about school, boys, theater, whatever. Other times, not so much, and she would talk to me about “Mary” and “Joseph” and doing right by “Marie” (my mom’s name); one day telling me she wasn’t afraid to die, the next, that she wasn’t ready to go. It was a mindfuck for me, and I wasn’t sure if my being there was any help. But I still went, and I still ate pudding with her, and I still told her about the goings-on of her late-teenaged granddaughter, and I still held her hand when she felt scared. It meant a lot to me, and I’m glad I had that time with her before she passed.

She died there. And it was sad, but it was also expected. I remember when she passed, I felt a relief for my mom, even though she didn’t seem to feel the same. I sang at her funeral, and didn’t feel blue because sheesh! She’d lived a really long life! I remember some of my cousins being so sad at the funeral, and I wanted to comfort them, but just didn’t know how. My brother and I were so much younger than all of them, and decided it was better to speak softly, and carry a big stick.

I still miss her sharp tongue that only a Grammy could get away with.

Now, my mother had a way of waking dramatically, and I mean EXTREMELY dramatically, when awoken by another. Despite this, she would insist my brother and I wake her upon returning home from a night out, in order to ensure we’d made it home by curfew. When we would walk in, whether together or separately, we would have to wait at least three times before she awoke, and when she did, it was always jarring. We’d first whisper, “Mom. Mom. Maaaaaaahm!” Then we’d have to turn up the volume to a full blown “MOOOOOM!” And she’d thrash, throw her covers, fling herself up and say, “UGH! Don’t DO that!” We had gotten so used to it, that we knew if we were coming home that night, mom was going to have a nighttime fit of epic proportions before we could retire to our rooms and go to sleep.

The night after my Grammy died (and before the funeral), I went out with some friends to lament and blow off some steam. It had been a really long week, and I was spent. I just needed some girl time and a round of karaoke to put myself back together. I hated seeing my mom sad, I hated the idea of death in general, and I hated how sad I felt about the whole thing.

My mother, still insistent on us letting her know when we were home, was sound asleep. I probably got in around midnight, maybe a tad later. Per usual, I went to her and my dad’s room to let her know I was home safe, and within curfew limits.

A vector illustration of a woman’s worrying.

At this time, I had a cream-colored, brass daybed, which contained a trundle bed underneath for my guests. My mom was very big on this, as well as having full designer control over my room in general. She insisted on a chair rail, floral wallpaper above it, and a solid “Disney blue” paint color below it, despite the fact I was almost 19. I managed to hang my James Dean posters and pictures on my closet walls, but the rest was out of my control. Any time we moved (which, tended to be a lot. My mother was never satisfied with where we were. She always wanted to go bigger, better, and more. And the first thing she always did when buying a new house was decorate my bedroom. It never mattered if it was my style or not, because it was her style for me. And what she said, went). But, on this night, the underbed mattress and pop-up box spring was not there. I’m pretty sure my mom had loaned it out, which again, I had no say in, so it didn’t really affect me.

With the absence of the underbed, though, meant a huge, wide-open space under my bed that I wasn’t used to. There was nothing stored under there, because it typically held a bed. Without it, it was just a whole lot of nothing. Had I had this bed during the Night Stalker’s presence, I would have been ecstatic. Lots of room to hide. But at this point, I couldn’t have cared less; I just wanted to go to sleep.

So, I get home, hang my purse, quickly splash my face with water, and prepare to wake my mother. I hadn’t even changed into my pajamas yet, because I didn’t want a lecture about being two minutes late. It was always better to let her know we were home first, before we did anything else, because she would definitely count the minutes to use against us. I stood in their doorway, ready for the flailing, deep sighs, and protestations to not do that to her after the third or fourth time I loudly said, “MOM!” Except, she didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, the first time I whispered to her, she silently sat straight up in her bed, as if she was being operated by a remote control, looked me dead in the eyes, raised her arm and pointed directly at me. She squinted her eyes and scrunched her nose (which was not typical, since she required bifocals and could otherwise not see two feet in front of her), and very calmy said, “I see the old lady. She’s peering at you from under your bed.” She then slowly laid back down, curled her blanket over herself, and went back to sleep.

I.Was.Stunned.

WHAT? What old lady? Was it Grammy? Was Grammy under my bed? And why was she peering at me? What was actually going on, and why was I involved? I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to make my Grammy mad (other than beat her at Jeopardy, which I did. And she wasn’t happy about it.) But in the afterlife, was Grammy still pissed I knew the calendar date that began the 20^th century?

Here I had all this new space under my bed, and now I have to think about my dead Grammy not only being under it, but peering at me as well? I stood in my parent’s doorway for what felt like a decade before heading to my room. When I opened my door, I immediately turned my light on and tried to see under my bed from across the room. It was dark under there, and I couldn’t see shit. Even with the light on. So…with my best Mary Lou Retton impression, I bounced from my doorway to my bed in one fell swoop. I don’t think my two feet even touched the ground before I was safely in the middle of my bed, curled into the fetal position, with the remote control to my TV in hand. Luckily, I had my own television, equipped with cable, in my bedroom. Sitting in the bright lights (which included my ceiling light, and a vanity light set next to my bed), I had also turned the TV on to soothe my wary soul.

Eyes wide open and constantly surveying, I watched MTV for the entire night, staying awake until the sun came up. My dad always woke early, and I knew once he was awake, I was likely safe. Still, I wasn’t ready to exit my bed, just in case Grammy was still there. When my mom woke up and saw my door open and my lights on, she asked me what I was doing (as I was still in the fetal position in the exact same spot I’d been for the last 8 hours). I told her I still hadn’t recovered from the night’s events before. She asked, “What events? What happened?’

I was aghast! How did she not remember what she said to me?

She had zero recollection and couldn’t believe the story I told her. She managed a “My goodness! That must have been scary.” YA THINK? YES, it was scary! It was terrifying! And then she said, “well…it certainly sounds like something my mother would do. Be sure to watch your step.”

This did not help! Be sure to watch my step? I needed to know if Grammy was coming for me, and if so, why? Then I thought, hmm…maybe it’s just Grammy having my back. Like I said, she was always really fond of my brother and me; maybe this was just her way of letting me know I wasn’t somebody to be messed with and she’d be under my bed if I ever needed her. That thought somehow gave me peace.

From then on, any time I made egg salad, or smelled potpourri, or saw an airplane in the sky, I thought of Grammy. I still do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t currently FULLY use the space under my bed for storage, negating any space for dead old ladies to reside.

I’m sure Grammy would approve.

Fear and Loathing in Long Beach

Anyone who lived in Southern California and/or the greater Los Angeles area during the months of June 1984, through August 1985, will immediately freeze, hunch, and have a story to tell if you mention the words “Night Stalker.” Who we originally referred to as “The Walk-In Killer,” The Night Stalker became a terrifying part of our lives for over a year, leaving us sleep-deprived, fearful, anxious prisoners to a reign of terror not seen in California since the Manson Family murders. It began during the summer of my transition from fifth grade to sixth. And it was tortuous.

For those who don’t know (though I find it hard to believe anyone could be unaware of one of the most notorious serial killers in recent history), Richard Ramirez was convicted of murdering 13 people, as well as 14 burglaries, 11 sexual assaults, and 5 attempted murders. I don’t like to refer to these types of people as monsters, because it gives them some element of fantasy instead of the cold, hard reality that awful people exist. This was a human man so filled with hate; he took it out on others who didn’t deserve it. Some people are just…bad. Without a conscience, without a heart, without a second thought for others and their humanity. He was a selfish waste of space. Monsters aren’t real; HE was real.

I can remember my classmates and I coming to school with black circles under our eyes because we couldn’t sleep the night before. There was so much lore surrounding him, such as: he looked for yellow houses off the freeway; he never went after kids, only their parents; he left a Satanic symbol at every kill site in the hopes of cursing any survivors (that one was actually true). He would kill in San Francisco one night, then Los Angeles the next (a 10-hour drive one way). We never knew where he was going to be, and the amount of anxiety it caused was unbearable.

At the time, I had a custom-made, wood canopy, single-sleep waterbed (I say custom because they typically did not make single waterbeds – they were a pain in the ass. All waterbeds were!) Because yes, waterbeds were DEFINITELY a thing! My parents had one, my brother had one, and I had one. With a waterbed comes a lot of pumps and gadgets and tubes, etc. These things are typically hidden under the bed, which is then enclosed by a wooden box for aesthetic reasons. All this to say, there is no space under the bed to hide or store things, because the space is taken up by all of these accoutrements. While no child (or even adult!) should have to map out an escape plan from a serial killer, in order to calm my mind, it was essential. I completed a full-scale drawing of my room, including where my bed was located, in order to carve out an escape route during the middle of the night, should he stumble upon our house. I decided that, because I was short and small, I could potentially cut into the side of the wood under my bed and hide myself amongst the waterbed paraphernalia. He would never think to look there, and I would outsmart him.

Ever elusive, he continued to terrorize our state for months on end. We sort of got used to it, because it was simply our reality. But none of us were the same. Always looking over our shoulder, always suspicious, and (to this day), always waking up at the same time every night when he would typically attack, hoping we weren’t next. As the months dragged on, we capitulated and went on about our normal lives.

As I’ve said before, both of my parents worked in education. My mom was a reading specialist who worked with myriad kids to bring literacy to life. At the end of the school year, educators are often given gifts by their students and parents to show their appreciation for the successes gained during those nine months. One year, my mom was gifted a fabulous gold key ring adorned with a whistle. It was old-timey and huge. It almost looked like a jailer’s keychain: it was a big round ring, with a whistle that dangled. It announced its presence with authority! I loved it so much and convinced her to put not only her school keys on it, but also her house and car keys, because if there was one thing my mother ALWAYS misplaced, it was her keys. I figured this thing was so big and so prominent, she’d never lose her keys again! Surprisingly, she agreed, and from then on, this big, gold-ringed keychain was canon.

Like most boys his age, my brother was a faithful Boy Scout, and my dad was one of his Scout leaders. Every year, they would travel to Camp Tahquitz for their annual week-long pilgrimage, with extended family (mom and sister in our case) welcome for the final night. This also meant that mom and sister were home alone for four nights during the week they were away. This was nothing new; they’d been going to Tahquitz for a few years already, and we appreciated the time without the boys in the house, if even just for a few days. I would always sleep with my mom in their glorious, king-sized waterbed, with the caveat that I was doing her a favor, when in actuality, it was one hundred percent for my peace of mind. This was amped ALL the way up when my brother and dad left during the killer crisis of ’85.

My dad was a depression baby. Though my grandparents were well-off for the times, my dad still had that mentality of waste not, want not. Save. Don’t spend what you don’t have, and don’t tax the environment by abusing its resources. He was the quintessential environmentalist, and did not take lightly to the Earth being abused. He was all about nature, and had been recycling and fighting for sustainability long before it was En Vogue. I can remember crushing cans with the “can crusher” since I was six years old. It really mattered to him, and I’m so grateful, because he passed it on to not only my brother and me, but our kids as well. In the same vein, he was vocal and clear about not using electricity when unnecessary. If he thought a light needn’t be on, he turned it off. Air conditioning? Only when temps hit 85 degrees Fahrenheit. Pool heater? NEVER.

Like many parents (and me, now), he’d often say, “We’re not trying to power the whole neighborhood! If you need light, go outside!” We were very much in the practice of having only the lights on in the room we were in, and turning them off when we left said room. Our laundry room was part of the detached garage, and he wouldn’t even let me turn the floodlights on in the back when it was my turn to take the wash out of the dryer, even though I was deathly afraid of the dark! Call me Forrest Gump, because I never moved so fast as when the laundry was done at night and it was my turn to bring it in.

To bring this all together, after a year of exhaustion, still gripped with fear, the upcoming trip to Tahquitz had my mom and me on edge. The boys were leaving us for five whole days and four whole nights while there was a psycho killer on the loose! Qu’est-ce que c’est? My tummy was full set to rumble, and I figured I’d puke at least one of the days they were gone due to my wildly unregulated nerves. And I did. But I had a good reason!

My mom and I devised a plan that the second my dad and brother were out of sight, we would turn on every single light we had, including the garage lights and the backyard floodlights. She said we’d worry about the aftermath later, but we were going to be so lit up that the Walk-In Killer wouldn’t dare approach our house because he’d be seen immediately. We had a very long driveway, with a carport next to the equally long porch to the front door, then a garage at the end of the drive. On the porch, there was your standard porch light, as well as a very bright emergency floodlight that pointed straight at the door, so there would be no trouble finding the doorknob and lock if necessary. We enabled that one, too. We did this during daylight hours, so we didn’t realize just how bright our house appeared until the sun went down. It looked like the house from Christmas Vacation on steroids. I’m surprised none of our neighbors complained!

We were feeling good! I actually breathed a sigh of relief for the first time in what felt like a lifetime and was not afraid to go to sleep for once! I was sure that for the first time in a year, I wouldn’t wake up petrified between the hours of 2am-4am (which is when he would typically strike). Being in the dark was bad, being in the light was good! No throwing up for THIS gal!

We went about our normal day, ran some errands, had dinner, watched TV, all the normal things you do on a boring summer day. When it was time for bed, I assured my mom I’d keep her safe by sleeping in her room with her, and she let me have the win. Hoo boy, when I tell you the true and glorious rest I got that night! I woke up so happy, feeling refreshed, knowing my next sleep would be the same because I felt.so.safe. I made my way into the kitchen for some cereal and was at the dining table when my mom came in and asked if I’d seen her keys. Her giant, gold, jailer’s ring keychain containing her car and house keys. I hadn’t seen them, but I wasn’t surprised. Like I said, she was always misplacing them and frantically looking for them (she usually didn’t realize they were missing until it was time to go, so she was always in a mad panic to find them. Saint Anthony can only do so much!)

We turned the house upside down and inside out and just couldn’t find them. We checked everything twice! They were simply nowhere to be found. Then I had the idea that she may have locked them in the car after we arrived home from our final errand the previous day. It wouldn’t have been the first time (and certainly not the last). We decided to walk out to the carport and check the two-toned Vanagon for signs of the big ol’ keychain. When I opened the front door, I heard a jingle.

My heart dropped and I immediately developed nervous toots. I knew exactly what that jingle was.

There, perfectly situated in the lock to the house, with the brightest floodlight possible shining directly on it, was her keychain. IN THE DOOR! Nothing says, “Welcome! Bienvenue! Come on in! See these lights shining on the locks?The DOOR IS OPEN! And when you’re all set, go ahead and take the Vanagon! It’s yours!” like leaving your eye-catching keyring with the keys to every bit of safety and security you have in your home dangling from the door.

I immediately threw up. And then I started to cry. Shout out to my inherent and ever-present panic and anxiety disorder!

We were both stunned and could do nothing other than look at each other, mouths agape. At the time, I had never been so mad as I was right then. My mom knew it and tried to smooth things over by saying, “well hey…we left him an open invitation and he left us alone! We live in a super safe neighborhood, so it all worked out, amirite?” I couldn’t WAIT for my dad to get home!

We continued with the lights for the next three nights (and I made sure to have eyes on my mother’s keys at every moment), and we made it through. But that security I felt that first night never returned. I was back to waking up between 2am-4am, planning my hiding spot, and sneaking into my brother’s room to sleep on his floor.

Richard Ramirez was arrested on August 31, 1985, in downtown Los Angeles after residents recognized him from the wanted pictures blasted across every media outlet and telephone pole. He had no idea he had been identified as the Night Stalker, and these HERO residents chased him and beat him senseless until the police arrived. He died on June 7, 2013 and every single person I grew up with who understood our shared Hell rejoiced. This sigh of relief was REAL. It was over. Finally.

Still, I will never have an unlocked window, I will always know where my keys are, I’ll never live in a yellow house by the freeway (just in case!) and have accepted the fact that I will instinctively wake between the hours of 2am-4am for the rest of my life.

Student Council

Since I was a child, I’ve been civic-minded and understood the importance of making my voice heard at the polls, thanks in large part to my outspoken, politically active parents. They taught me well, and I always believed them to be on the best side of the often-jagged party fence. Anyone who knows me, knows where I stand…even my handedness aligns. They instilled in my brother and me the importance of community, human rights, giving back, and appreciating and acknowledging the good things you have, no matter what they may be. All this to say, even though we were very comfortable, material things were never as important as service to others was, and to this day, I appreciate those values. While I may never get past my good, old-fashioned, well-earned Irish-Catholic guilt, I’ve got the giving going for me. Which is nice. I hope I’ve instilled the same in my kids (not the guilt part!), because it makes this life a much more enjoyable ride.

We were also taught to treat others the way we would like to be treated, even when others don’t treat you the same in return. Well…have I got a story about that! But first, student council.

The elementary school I attended was split into two sides: the “Big Side” and the “Little Side.” The Little Side consisted of grades 1-3, and the Big Side made up grades 4-6, and the sides were separated by a cage-covered bridge (so, on two separate properties, with a street in between). When we were on the Little Side, we often wondered of the untold magic that was on the ‘Other Side,’ as if the bridge somehow would transport us into some grown-up world of secret knowledge and sophistication. The truth is, given the size of the state and city we lived in, it was simply a necessity to split the two buildings for crowd efficiency.

But it wasn’t until you got to the Big Side that you could run for student council. When I got to fourth grade, I hit the ground running. In fourth grade, you could run for Secretary of Treasury, in fifth grade, Vice President, and sixth grade, President. And, in order to garner votes and get your name out there, the school put on an assembly where the candidates performed skits they wrote for votes. Well…needless to say, this was my WHEELHOUSE! Write? Cast? Direct? PERFORM? Sign me up!

As a candidate, we were able to pick between 4-6 people we wanted to be in our skit. I forever chose my BFF’s, plus two (I had such an amazing group of girlfriends for whom I will always be grateful). I remember feeling like The Godfather, as friends in my class came to me bearing gifts, requests, and reasons why they deserved to be part of my skit. If I haven’t mentioned it before (but will mention forever more until therapy finally releases me from the burden), I was what, at the time, was considered “gifted.”

As young kids, we were subjected to an IQ test (which I took the first time with a 103-degree fever, likely explaining how my goofy ass got in), that determined whether we would be part of the GATE program (Gifted and Talented Education) or the regular, normal, well-adjusted ‘others.’ Needless to say, the ‘others’ (they weren’t. We were.) were not very fond of us, and us ‘gifted’ kids were stuck together for seven years in the same group; same kindergarten class, first grade class, second grade class, etc. etc. etc., until junior high. We KNEW each other because we’d all been together since we were five.

For my skits, it generally ended up being the same six people every time, and every time, WE DELIVERED! (Huge shoutout to Melissa’s dad, Dave, who remains one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He helped out, wrote hilarious material, and always turned our funny into hilarious.) It was the skits that got you votes.

And I got the votes.

Much as I hate to admit, part of my devotion to said civil service was the fact we got out of class to go to meetings. As good as I was at school, I wasn’t that interested in it. I was bored, tired, and would have rather discussed the theater rehearsal I’d been to the night before. I LOVE to learn, and I continue to pursue it to this day, but the traditional method of it has endlessly frustrated me. I’m that person who loved exam days in college, because it meant I could go in, take the test, then leave. Give me the info, let me take it in, then leave me be.

Now, this is where I’ll mention that I am a natural redhead. When I was born, it looked like someone had dipped a paintbrush in a bucket of red and painted the top of my head with it. It has gotten less intense over the years, but is still very much red and, to brag, I have never had to dye it or seen a gray hair in my 50-some years (look…I’m an otherwise walking recessive gene, so the fact my hair has stayed itself is a major win in my book).

While I’ve heard told of my fellow gingers being taunted and teased over the color of their hair, I never was. I loved (and still do) being a redhead and with my bounty of youthful insecurities, my hair was never one of them. There were times I cursed how thick it was because I couldn’t wear a cute ponytail or side braids like my friends (bless the trend of the messy bun), but the color was what made me…me.

When I say I was never taunted or teased over my hair, I meant before that dreaded day in sixth grade when on my way to perform my job as president of the student council.

Fresh off my win, I was feeling great and ready to replace the water fountains with Coca-Cola and have hour-long recesses implemented like I’d promised during my campaign. Mostly, I just couldn’t wait to get out of class, where my teacher was often exasperated by me, repeatedly telling me, “I don’t know HOW you’re going to make it in junior high.” She also told me girls are bad at math so it didn’t surprise her that I had trouble with my 12s times tables, which stuck with me, so she can get bent.

It’s funny how some things just stay with us. Just a friendly reminder here to not be a dick and be kind to others. It’s not hard!

Giddy to know my meeting was about to start, I dropped my multiplication chart and gathered my things, ready to saunter off to the auditorium. The Big Side was entirely outside. There were no halls, no cafeteria, and every door to every classroom lead to the always sunny outdoors. This meant that when kids from other classes got in trouble, some of the teachers would sit them outside the door against the hot, stucco-adorned wall as punishment. Like a time-out for big kids. I say “other classes” because I can’t recall any of us getting banished to the outside. We probably just got more homework, or a stern, “you’re never going to amount to anything, and it will be your fault” instead.

An angry teacher holding a composition book and pointing a ruler.

Again, the other students were not very fond of us (and very aware of where our lone classrom was), and had no problem making it known. Most of them just ignored us, but every now and then there would be a comment made or a book bag thrown. That never bothered me because I got it. We could barely stand ourselves. But I never went out of my way to make anyone feel bad, and I never would because that’s mean, and I don’t like mean.

Dressed in my super cute blue jumper with a white tee underneath and very big, black rope, Mickey Mouse statement necklace I thought set me apart from the rest, I exited the classroom door, which was at the corner; the first of the following sixth grade classrooms. With a pep in my step, I took in the sunshine with a smile on my face, excited about all the change I was going to make for our school and my peers (which was none. I made none.)

Two doors down, I noticed a boy sitting outside his classroom door and I knew he must have done something to earn his big kid time-out. I wanted to offer solidarity because screw authority, amirite? I didn’t know his crime, but I was sympathetic to his time. As I gleefully approached, I just knew a smile and a nod would help make his already crappy day just a little better. I felt so good about myself for even thinking of this gesture, and was ready for his appreciation of such a kind deed.

I strolled up, nodded, and gave my best close-lipped smile (I didn’t want him to think I was relishing in his punishment with a big ol’ toothy grin. I read the room, and this was the way to go). I was ready for his nod and smile back, but that’s not at all what I got. Instead? I got:

“Hey yo, FUCK YOU, ANNIE!”

Did he….did he just refer to me as Little Orphan Annie? Did he mistake my kindness for gingerness? Did he just insult MY HAIR??? When I tell you how the pep immediately left my step.

What did I do to him? I nodded! I close-lipped smiled! I was on.his.side! And he’s going to come at me with THIS? Needless to say, I wasn’t quite as exuberant the rest of the way. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I did to make him so mad. The only thing I could come up with is that he definitely did the crime and ABSOLUTELY deserved the time!

There was only one other time, at the same elementary school, that someone insulted me over my hair. My best friend and I were sitting on the lawn waiting for my mom to pick us up, and at random, two boys came over to bug us. We weren’t having it and we made it known, so one said to me, “I’d rather be dead, than red on the head” and the other said to my best friend, “Your mom lives in a two-story Doritos bag.” And, well….I can’t stop laughing about it to this day. My brother often reminds me that he, too, would rather be dead than red on the head, and the giggle I get from it immediately puts the pep back in my step.

The Time I Broke My Ass

When I was a kid growing up in Southern California, my family would often take mini-vacations. Both of my parents worked in education, which meant summers off and the same school vacations my brother and I had. When we were kids, this was a blessing (not so much when we were older and wanted our summers to ourselves sans parents, but still).

At the time, I fancied myself a seasoned world traveler, even though our destinations were typically a 2-10-hour drive from our house (except for the time we flew to Mexico City and Guadalajara and my brother and I were *thisclose* to being electrocuted in a pool and we all caught a case of ‘Montezuma’s Revenge.’ But we’ll get to that later. You’re welcome in advance.)

California was cool like that, because you could find yourself in the desert, the mountains, or historical forests that resembled those you read about in fairytales in the time it takes to sit through a crappy movie you wasted too much money on, without the requisite “buttered popcorn” bellyache that always seemed to follow. At least for me anyway (I told you I had a weak stomach). We had a few “regular” places we visited. We would camp at the same grounds in Santa Barbara, stay in the same tiny, off-the-beaten-path, incredibly charming motel where we were on a first name basis with the owners in Palm Desert, and the same rustic chalet in Bass Lake.

Bass Lake, CA, USA, April 11, 2023: Waterscape, beautiful sunset on Bass Lake.

Fun fact about Bass Lake: the classic 80s film ‘The Great Outdoors’ starring the incomparable John Candy and Dan Akroyd (along with one of my earliest 80s crushes, Chris Young) was filmed in the EXACT tiny town we used to stay. One year when we arrived, my brother and I saw flyers posted all over the little village (which looked more like an Old West movie set) alerting townsfolk and visitors that said movie was being filmed there and if anyone wanted to be in it as an extra, they were welcome, without pay. We were beyond excited and I immediately began writing my “Best Extra in a Movie Ever” Academy Award acceptance speech, only to learn filming had wrapped the week before and they had just forgotten to take down the flyers.

As disappointing as this was, I did take some comfort in knowing had I been given the opportunity, I totally would have snagged that Oscar.

As I said, we used to stay in the same chalet every time we went, but this particular time, my parents decided they wanted to shake things up a bit and surprised us with a fancy, technically ‘three-story’ chalet. I felt like royalty…”What did you do on your Spring Break?” they’d ask when I returned to school. “Who me? Oh, my family and I stayed in this darling three-story chalet on the lake for a week. No big deal. It’s just how we do things.”

In actuality, it wasn’t much bigger than the previous chalet we used to stay in but it had stairs and for some reason, I’ve always had a thing for stairs. I love them. I will always love them. Not necessarily in buildings when I have to walk six flights because I’m afraid of elevators and am immediately reminded I desperately need to remove the clothes currently hanging on my treadmill because I’m short of breath after the first five steps, but in houses (or chalets)? Absolutely. I don’t think I’ll ever NOT be excited when I see a staircase. I make no apologies.

Back to my family’s regal chalet…yes, it had three stories. However, those three stories were made up of a main floor, which is where the front door, kitchen, living room, pull-out couch, door to the deck, and TV were (another thing about me…I must be able to locate the TV and the bathroom in any and EVERY place I visit before I do anything else.) It sounds palatial, but all of this was crammed into about 700 square feet of space. Behind the couch was a staircase (YES!) which led to the master (and only) bedroom and bathroom.

The space below was about as big as the main floor, which for a single room and bathroom seemed pretty big to me, plus, I had to use the STAIRS to get to the bathroom. I was enchanted.

“But what about that third story?”

When we first walked into the chalet, we did notice a hand-crafted wooden ladder affixed to the wall as we surveyed our cooking space, whether or not the TV was equipped with a VHS VCR (though my dad preferred Beta-Max…he was always on the cusp of the best technology, and very disappointed that VHS won out), and which one between my brother and me was going to get the couch-bed or the floor. Once we dropped our luggage and settled in a bit, we realized the decorative ladder actually led to a nice-sized loft, equipped with a bed, electrical outlet and window overlooking the lake. My brother called dibs before I could even open my mouth. I cried foul, but my parents rationalized that he was, after all, three years older than me, and my time to climb through the tree-house-like hole into nirvana would come soon enough.

Well, I don’t think an explanation is necessary when I say I was livid. LIVID! Not only did he get stairs in the form of a cool ladder and an entrance that resembled crawling through a secret passageway that led to untold treasures, he won. Just because he was older? No matter how many benefits there are to being the “baby” of the family (and there are many), there were just as many injustices (in my mind).

At the time, I was 13 and my brother was 16. Did my parents not understand how much effort and time went into looking as ridiculous as I did? (I mean, it was the 80s. I had bangs that went on for days thanks to my curling iron and cans upon flame-inducing cans of AquaNet, and a VERY specific makeup routine I would begin hours in advance of anyone else waking up because clearly, the entire world was looking at and/or judging me if it wasn’t on point. I would have sooner become a hermit than drag the trash to the curb without my “face” on at that age. This was serious business.)

Once my brother called it, he wasted no time in setting up camp in “his loft.” Oooh, did that burn. He was rubbing it in my face! (No, he wasn’t.) On a side note, I absolutely believe in karma. However, when it came to my brother when I was 13, that wasn’t necessarily the case. I mean after all, I got the pull-out couch WITH the TV/VCR. I had the power to change the channel or press pause at will. But at the time, I clearly didn’t appreciate the bigger picture. Had I thought about it before acting upon my childish behavior disguised as teen angst, I would have realized I made out WAY better. I HAD THE REMOTE! (That’s another thing about me. While most people have a security blanket or plush stuffed toy, my comfort comes in the form of holding the remote. I know, but it is what it is.)

Apparently, that wasn’t enough for my goofy, newly-teenaged self. No. I had to go and climb that ladder, pop through the passageway and make my way to my brother’s space, solely for the purpose of annoying the shit out of him in a tantrum-filled brat attack.

It didn’t end well.

As my brother tried desperately to ignore me by listening to his “heavy-metal rock music” on his super sweet Sony walkman, I refused to give up the fight. I was on my game that day for sure. I taunted, teased, messed with his stuff, and talked so loudly (which isn’t hard for me to do), I overpowered his music until he finally responded with a resounding, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

What I didn’t realize was that as I was taunting, teasing, messing with his stuff and loudly vocalizing my righteous indignation, I was also moving my body back inch by inch, with no regard for the opening to the loft. Oblivious to my impending doom, I continued to match my laughter with his increasing frustration until suddenly, the world around me came to a slow-motion halt.

Up until this point, I had been positioned on my knees with my arms on the ground for support in a typical snot-nosed, little sister pose. When I felt I had sufficiently irritated him to the point of defeat, I began to move my arms from in front of me to the back in order to sit on my bum and relish in the ruin I had created. Except that while my bum was searching for a safe place to land, it very painfully learned there wasn’t one. Instead, there was only the open space leading to the handcrafted ladder below the opening to the loft.

In what I remember as taking hours because I watched the entire incident in a my-entire-life-flashing-before-my-eyes montage, I fell through that hole, ass first, onto the cold, cheapest-carpet-ever covered cement floor.

Illustration of woman falling from the sky, surreal abstract concept

Oh, and I managed to kick my dad square in the face on my way down.

My dad had a habit of getting mad when he was scared. Whenever my brother or I got hurt, his first response was to yell, because he was afraid. What’s funny is, he never yelled at either one of us when he was actually mad. Instead, he would raise his hand in the air and silently begin counting on his fingers – one….two….thr-…I don’t think he ever actually got to three because my brother and I would get to our rooms as fast as possible because we knew we were in trouble.

My parents didn’t believe in spanking (phew!) but it was customary for my dad to “ground” us to our room for five minutes. FIVE MINUTES! As kids, this seemed like an eternity and we couldn’t believe what a meanie our dad could be. I remember asking my dad when I was older what he would’ve done had he actually gotten to five on his fingers, and my brother and I didn’t move? He deadpanned, “Counted to six.”

With arms akimbo and a generous amount of flailing, I managed to land with a perfect thud right on my coccyx, effectively cracking the bone upon my (dis)graceful dismount. Usually when people say they “busted their ass” while doing something, it’s considered admirable. They worked hard, put in countless hours, sacrificed their time and energy in an effort to deliver successful, high-quality results. However, in my case, I literally busted my ass. I suppose I did work hard doing it – taunting your older brother can take a lot out of a gal.

I don’t know if people regularly consider how often they use their butts (although, what people do on their own time with their butts is none of my business), but in terms of effective body functionality, it’s a lot. Most of us sit down for a good portion of the day, whether at school, work, or home on the couch binge-watching the latest, greatest show on Bravo. At the time, I was in seventh grade. What is now referred to as middle school was known as junior high back in those days, and it’s quite possibly THE WORST TIME in an adolescent’s young life, largely due to a little thing called puberty.

Everything matters during these formative years. On top of the rollercoaster of emotions that shift on a dime, your body is constantly changing, not necessarily in unison, your skin can’t decide if it wants to be dry, oily, clear or broken out, and others’ opinions of you matter more than anyone is ever willing to admit. Sure, it would be great to say I was 100% comfortable in my own skin at 13 and whether or not people liked me for me was irrelevant because I liked myself so much. As lovely as that sounds, it just wasn’t the case. Image. Was. Everything. and I had no intention of singling myself out just because I broke my ass.

Given we were in such an isolated vacation spot when it happened, there wasn’t a hospital nearby and my parents figured it was probably just a bad bruise that a little ice and some time on the couch could effectively fix. My mom would have been the first to tell you I was the type of kid who would complain about a hangnail for a month, but when it came to a broken bone or other such injury, I kept fairly quiet, only mentioning in passing that it still “felt a little sore.” When I was 11, I fractured my left wrist (which happens to be the hand I write with) and didn’t see a doctor for a week because I made such a small deal about it. And really, after the initial incident, it didn’t hurt all that much. It just kind of ached. When we found out it was, in fact, fractured, my mom went ahead and filled out the forms for Mother of the Year herself. Pretty sure I got a new Culture Club tape and a couple boxes of sugar cereal (an absolute no-no in our granola/carob chip/healthy food only household) out of the ordeal, because she felt so bad. Who was I to look a Count Chocula in the mouth?

As I lay on the couch in the chalet, I was in so much pain I couldn’t even speak, but I had ‘The Goonies’ (and my new crush Sean Astin…Chris Young, who??) to distract me as my family went about enjoying our vacation in the great outdoors, checking on me in between activities. It wasn’t until we arrived home that I went to see the doctor because I was having trouble even standing upright. No amount of ibuprofen or Tylenol was helping with the pain and the mere thought of sitting down brought insta-tears to my eyes and a tsunami-sized wave of nausea. I’m fairly certain I threw up a couple of times, but it could have been for totally unrelated reasons because that was just how I rolled back in the day. Thankfully, my dad had a very strong stomach and never uttered a complaint when I puked (I very rarely made it to an actual bucket or toilet, which meant my dad was usually saddled with cleaning up the aftermath.) The only thing he couldn’t handle was when we were sticky, which for some reason, cracks me up. He’d had students vomit all over his desk, into his trash cans, and on his boat, (not to mention his own daughter tossing her groceries anywhere and everywhere like it was her job) but the second we had sticky fingers, he passed us off to mom. My mom didn’t mind the sticky, but had a hard time with puke, so you know…quid pro quo.

Upon examination, the doctor confirmed that I had, indeed, fractured my coccyx. The only problem was, you can’t really put a cast on an ass, and you can’t avoid putting pressure on it because even when you’re lying down, your bum is still in use. I knew I would get at least a few days off from school until I was able to at least stand up without wincing, but I would eventually have to return to those dreaded, grooved, saddleback wooden chairs attached to each desk in every classroom. I wondered how this was going to happen because like I said, you can’t cast an ass (although if they could have, I would have dropped out of school then and there and never looked back). I asked the doctor if sitting in school would delay the healing process and he seemed to get really excited.

Huh? Why was he excited about this? Was he taking some kind of sick pleasure in my broken butt? With a great big smile and a look that suggested he had a wonderful surprise in store for me, he said, “It would affect the healing process if you sat directly on the wooden chair, but lucky for you…you get to use THIS!” I still shudder when I recall what he presented me, all as he seemed to believe I would be just thrilled.

It was an inflatable donut that I was supposed to carry around with me and set on my chair during each class. It wasn’t just any inflatable donut (which was already horrifying enough). No. It was an inflatable donut with images of Donald Duck all over it. DONALD.FLIPPIN.DUCK! I sat there, mouth agape, eyebrows raised, staring at this reputation-ruining ass-pad; the doctor seemed to mistake my expression as one of delight. He exclaimed, “I know! Isn’t it fun? You’ll be the coolest kid in school! Who doesn’t love Donald Duck?” I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Me. I don’t love Donald Duck.”

Look, I don’t have anything against him and sure, I enjoyed him very much as a little kid, with a very strong emphasis on little. (We’ll get to that later. As I said, karma is a crafty mistress.) I just didn’t love him in the form of a rubber accessory to go with my meticulously crafted hair/makeup/clothing ensemble. In what warped, twisted universe did this guy think I would be the coolest kid in school walking around with a Donald Duck donut tucked under my arm? Like I wouldn’t then have to explain WHY I had the damn thing in the first place, which would have been humiliating enough. Falling out of a loft while taunting your older brother resulting in a fractured ass bone is not necessarily the kind of thing that wins popularity points, if you get where I’m going with this.

Needless to say, I didn’t use the donut. Instead, I spent the rest of the school year pretending to pay attention in class while acting like I wasn’t in excruciating pain, and that the only reason I moved so much was to show off the Guess label affixed to the pocket of my ultra-trendy acid washed jeans that matched one of my Forenza tees. In hindsight, I understand I should have just sucked it up, sat on the damn thing, and spun that shit to my advantage, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this entire experience, it’s that my ass has never been the same. Well, that…and the fact I’m still, and forever, infatuated with Sean Astin.

The Interview

Job interview — Scene from the movie *Office Space;* image courtesy via *Alignmentality*

“My considerable lack of enthusiasm for this particular job?” That’s what I said when the LPE (Latest Potential Employer) asked me what I believed my greatest weakness was. It’s not that it wasn’t true, because it was. It was more that while my brain was doing its best to come up with a sorry-not-sorry weakness that would both charm and impress the interviewer, my mouth had already instinctively formed the words and released them like a warm fart in a crowded room.

I could almost see the answer lingering in the air, funking up the office for much longer than it should, knowing I couldn’t do the “it wasn’t me” look while not-so-subtly gesturing to wave away the smell. It’s safe to say he did not share my same sense of humor, given the look on his face.

TV character Elaine Benes; image courtesy via *A Norwegian Blog*

We both sat silent for what felt like a full day, which began to make me worry I would follow up my already brilliant answer with an actual fart, until he uttered a “Welp” and a sigh. At first, I wanted to kick my own ass for lacking the necessary filter mandatory to charm and impress in such a situation. I can’t count as high as the number of times I’ve wished I could have preemptively slapped my hand over my mouth to prevent it from acting like a muddy puddle in the street gutter someone drives through too fast, effectively soaking that one person filled with hope while dressed in Sunday’s best. Then I thought, “Who does THIS guy think he is?” He sighed. He shook his head. HE SAID WELP! As a Midwest transplant, there is no truer sign that it’s time to leave than when the host slaps their knees and says welp. It was official. I was cooked.

Plus, why did he even care? Was I the only unemployed, underpaid, over-educated person applying for this barely minimum-wage job I was far too qualified for? Even if that WAS the case, then why bother with the interview process at all? Why not just hand me the shitty job on a benefit-less platter, refer to me as “doll,” and call it a day?

The interview lasted for another equally cringe-worthy 20 minutes, until it came to an end with the proverbial, “Do you have any questions for me?” I did. I had a ton of them.

Like, “Why is there so much oil all over the stack of papers on your desk when this establishment does not deal in anything oil-related?”

“Do you really believe the pay you’re offering matches the seemingly ENDLESS (and quite honestly, RIDICULOUS) duties required of this position?”

“How long has that sandwich been on your desk?”

Lastly, “How in the Hell is anyone supposed to answer that ridiculous, lame-ass, filler fluff, ‘greatest weakness’ question?”

I didn’t ask any of them, much as I wanted to. Instead, I stood up, shook his hand, thanked him for his time, and left. When I got in my car, I pulled out my notebook and made a little check mark on my to-do list next to “fail miserably at interview for job you didn’t want to begin with.” Nailed it.

I received a call two hours later with an exuberant offer to join “the team.” I actually took that job and worked it for a whole 10 days before I realized I’d rather pour warm bleach in my cereal bowl than be told what a “useless see-you-next-Tuesday” I was because I wasn’t able to dispatch a repairperson to fix a semi-leaky dishwasher within the next five minutes.

Tina_fey_eye_roll — TV character Liz Lemon from 30 Rock; image courtesy via dailykos

These days, I’m lucky to even be invited to interview for a job, much less one in my professional field. When I was younger and before I went to college, I would see a “help wanted” ad in the classified section of the newspaper (remember those?), walk myself in, and get the job. Every time. I don’t even think I had a resume at that time and if I did, it was most likely my community theater resume. While I had a good number of leading roles under my belt, I’m fairly certain “chorus member #3” was what really sold me. Team player. Supportive. Willing to work hard for very little recognition.

Now? I’m lucky to snag an interview for every 30-40 resumes I send out. Which, to be honest, doesn’t make sense. I have much more practiced experience, a solid (dare I say, impressive) college education wherein I graduated with honors, maintain a side of to-this-day monumental student loan debt, and a steadfast and prideful work ethic. But, for whatever reason, the phone just doesn’t ring. While I love being (and made the conscious decision to become) a freelancer, I’m beginning to question…is it me? (Don’t bother…I already know the answer.)

I can’t just sit around doing my best to look busy when I know I have so much more to offer, and I won’t work twice as hard for several thousand dollars less than I made 15 years ago. FIFTEEN YEARS! Trust me, I do not believe I am above anyone, anything or any job.

I once applied for a position at a world-renown hospital (which so happens to be five minutes from my house), transporting bodies to the morgue because it offered steady pay, a nice daily workout, and enviable benefits. I didn’t get the job because I had “too much experience and should look into applying for more jobs in my field, but thanks anyway! Good luck in your future job search!” Apparently, they didn’t realize I’d already done so at the very same hospital for every single opening that matched my qualifications, only to receive a variation of the same email six months after having applied for each position.

Which brings me back to those interview questions. Those asinine, non-relevant, what-do-you-want-me-to-say-and-I’ll-say-it questions potential employers never fail to ask. “Tell me about a time you (insert a problem you encountered on a job that somehow relates to the this one) and how did you solve it?” “How would you handle (insert potentially horrible situation you’ll probably encounter during your employment here) to yield the best results? “What do you consider to be your greatest strength (insert lying through your teeth with big words to prove how invaluable you would be to the company while maintaining complete and total humility)?” And my favorite…”What do you consider to be your greatest weakness?”

michael-bolton — Movie character Michael Bolton from *Office Space*; image courtesy via *Imgflip*

I’ve read all I can read about how to answer this question. I’ve asked friends, family, professionals, people who’ve gotten jobs after having been asked this same thing: I’ve done.my.research. I’ve answered it in countless ways. I’ve spun it to become a strength. I’ve done the, “Sometimes I can be hard on myself because I want the job done right.” “I’m often as enthusiastic about the small things as I am about the big, which leads me to work as hard on both, thus sacrificing personal time.” “Sometimes I put others’ successes above my own because I believe in the team as a whole.” I’m not saying these things aren’t true, but they’re garbage answers and provide zero insight into who I am and how I’ll fare in the position.

You know what else is true about my greatest weaknesses? I’m terrified of spiders to the point I’ll mow down anyone in front of me without regard for their safety to ensure my own, because spiders are proof that Satan exists on earth.

Not today — Wall hanging; image courtesy via *Etsy.com*

I’m also afraid of the dark, which results in a higher electric bill because I have to sleep with my TV on at night so the monsters under my bed will be too entertained to eat my ankles when I get up to go to the bathroom.

If I say I’m going to throw-up, MOVE, because I’m going to throw-up, which can happen at will if I’m nervous, overtired, or you look at me funny and I’ve been that way since I was a kid, so I don’t see it changing at this point.

I have a delayed reaction to fear, in that when I’m startled or caught by surprise, it takes a full three seconds to register, resulting in body spasms that begin at my toes and make their way to my very full head of red hair standing straight up, and ending with a sound that could only be described as a group of prepubescent boys warming up for a dreaded school choral concert.

Are these the kinds of answers I should be giving? I feel like they say a lot more about me than, “Sometimes I work too hard.” Maybe I should start answering like this (assuming I actually receive another invitation to interview.) Physics dictates for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Perhaps it’s the opposite action that would yield me the equal and best reaction.

TV character George Costanza; image courtesy via *Pinterest*

Of course at this point, it could be my complete and total apathy toward the application/potential interview process that’s the problem because it’s always the same job that is rarely (if ever) in my professional field. Maybe I should remove “Ready, willing, and able to sniff out the bullshit before it starts to stink” under the “Skills and Attributes” portion of my vitae.

Then again….