TOOT YOUR OWN HORN

My mother was a linguist (some might even say a cunning one at that, wink wink, nudge nudge). Language, and the way it was spoken, mattered to her a LOT, and therefore, the language my brother and I used mattered even more. It was an unspoken rule that we were never to embarrass or make her “look bad,” with her main focus being on me.

She was a natural teacher, and she was really great at it (so good, in fact, she received her doctorate in it; namely in early childhood literacy). When I look back on my childhood, I am so grateful she taught us so well, because I went on to do the same with my own kids. Every eye roll I gave behind her back or “WHAT-ever” I felt when she would distinguish certain words from others, and how they came across in polite conversation was, as an adult, not worth it because she was right! Language DOES matter and I turn into Judgy McJudgerton when I hear particular words that could be replaced by softer ones. Now, don’t get me wrong, my mother also swore like a sailor, and often, whereas my dad only ever did so in traffic, and very rarely. I definitely take after my mother in that respect.

Here’s just a few examples of what I’m talking about (bear with me; they really do relate to what I’m about to admit to):

Growing up, my mother referred to bathroom business as Big Potty. It still makes me laugh, but I taught it to my kids, too (though as a teen, swore I never would if I ever had kids)! I remember being at the park one time, and I must have made a face, because she leaned down and asked, “Do you need to go big potty?” The giggle I gig whenever I replay her saying it is worth it every time. The other kind of potty was tinkle, but I feel like that one is pretty standard. She was not a fan of words she found crass, such as (and I swear, she’s going to know from the grave that I just wrote this word and I’m gonna get in trouble!) “caca,” which she told us only dirty kids say. And not in a perverted way…kids with literal dirt on them.

*I never actually saw any, but much like dudes on street corners pushing free drugs on kids in the 80s, I knew they were out there. Probably doing drugs and saying caca.

While I find ANY word with a “k” sound funny, I am still not able to speak that word without blushing because it really is so gross! I cannot imagine my mother leaning down to me at the park and asking, “do you need to go caca?” Just doesn’t hit the same.

We were also not allowed to say the word fart. She said it was tactless and classless and just because everyone has a bit of gas at times, there were plenty of other words to convey what was meant. I couldn’t agree more. Fart is such an aggressive word, and there is no way to say it politely. So, instead we said toot. As in, “pardon me. I must toot.” Or “Forgiveness please, as I have just tooted.” A good friend of mine from college and I have a running joke about the type of people who say, out loud and without shame, “HHWHO FORTED?” It just feels so icky leaving my mouth and never rolls off the tongue the same way “I tooted” does. Look, who is going to get mad at you when you delicately say you’ve passed some gas as opposed to shouting that someone farted and it might have been you? I dare my husband all the time to fault me for tooting when I have so kindly let him know? (He repays me in the most toxic, dare I say verging-on-the-brink-of-biological-warfare gas of his own. I have a theory that he releases any and every stinky demon through his toots because otherwise in life, he is really lovely and sweet!)

*I’m going to say something about my husband really quick: he spends a lot of time silently smiling at me, and never in a condescending way, whether it be from across the table, couch, bed, or wherever because he knows my stories and I so often repeat them to him, yet he still, somehow, refuses to tire of me! He doesn’t get bored or tell me he’s already heard this one. Instead, he listens like it’s the first time he’s heard it every.single.time. Whatever it was I had to go through in my life to get this lucky was worth it because…this guy.

Stone Cold Stud. This is my favorite picture of my husband ever. My mother-in-law made this amazing suit, little stitched trees and all!

I could go on, but that’s not what this is about. This is about one of the most embarrassing events of my life, which then led me to let every single fella I’ve ever dated (or even just spent 10 minutes with) know that I am a person who toots, and if they have a problem with it, now is the time to run. I never, EVER want to be in a situation ever again where I am surprised by a bodily function and try to perform my way out of it rather than just coming clean. Also, when I was a young woman and performing in Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella at the Depot Theater in California, my beloved David Frederick Fogg, who played the prince to my wicked stepsister, always reminded me how important it was to pass that gas, because no one wants to get butt cancer. May his beautiful soul rest in peace (and no, it wasn’t from butt cancer. Because he tooted!)

Only David Fredrick Fogg would understand this reference, and I love that for us

I actively deal with extreme social anxiety, though no one who knows me would ever believe that statement. Mostly because you’d never know it from my behavior. I can talk to anyone, and I really DO love getting to know people from every walk of life and am truly interested in every single person I know and/or meet. I’m gregarious, I understand social cues, and the majority of people I know would describe me as the life of the party. And I love that! But that doesn’t mean I’m not constantly questioning myself or having to pump myself up for hours before I interact with others, then kicking my own ass after said encounters because “why did I say that?” or “could you have been goofier?” I still have conversations with myself over things I said in third grade that one time, soooo…As I’ve said before, therapy is amazing but I’ve got a whole lot to unpack! The social anxiety thing is so far down the list, I’ll be lucky if we get to it before I turn 100.

My job as a kid was to tap dance within an inch of my life to save the situation or quell any silence (which there wasn’t a lot of until there WAS a lot of). Mom was sad? Time step. Mom was mad? Triple time step. Mom was raging? Shuffle off to Buffalo and hope you make it out alive.

I was well aware of how to entertain. Except this time, when the Glamour Shots guy told me to “make love to the camera.” I was 16.

My dad was a big tech guy. Which always made me laugh, because he was such an outdoorsman. Total pacifist. Major hippie. But he was also a scientist. And he LOVED new tech breakthroughs. We were always the first on our block to have the latest. We had a McIntosh before they even hit the stores. We had a very nice VHS player (he sprung for the good one because he wanted it to be as good as a Beta Max, which it never was and he told us why often). We were literally the first customers at California Video to rent a movie (there was a picture of us on the wall and everything. We rented Close Encounters of the Third Kind). CD player? He spent $900 on one (and then several more for the giant ass speakers that helped amplify the sound of the ONE-DISC player).

Mind you, this was all in the early 1980s. We lived a good life! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it for the rest of time; TV is my very best friend (and again, sorry, Lori. I love you and all, but…TV. It’s not like you don’t already know!) I love it. So, SO much! Movies, sitcoms, dramas, dramedies…I want it ALL! It’s my security blanket and always has been. The only real reason I wanted to buy a generator for when the power goes out is for my treasured TV (and my husband is very well aware of this. He may not say it out loud, and he would never throw me under the bus, but…he knows). Seeing the TVs I have in my house now make me wonder how I ever survived the 80s because they’re…not the same. While I sit and stare at 80 inches of awesome, with the power of the remote in my hand, younger me was ecstatic to have a 35-incher in the den WITH A REMOTE (that you had to plug into the TV…but still!)

And that 35-inch TV in the den is where it all went wrong. We’ve established that the remote for this TV had to be plugged in, yes? So, it wasn’t like you could just change the channel willy nilly from the couch. Sure, if you were sitting in the bentwood rocker or one of the recliners that were set a mere few feet from the tube, you could. But our den was pretty big. It was an addition before my parents bought the house, and I do believe the first ‘man cave’ of its time. It was sunken from the rest of the house (and there were stairs to walk down to get to it! Only three, but I didn’t care because STAIRS!), my parents put a pool table center stage, and off to the side was the TV/stereo/CD player. Back against the wall was the sectional, and while very comfortable, it did still require getting up and walking the route to the TV to change the channel.

This felt more like an accordian than a remote

One night, while my parents were out and my brother was either at Alicia’s or in his room, I had a very cute boy over. He was a grade older than me and I really, REALLY wanted to impress him and this was kind of like…a date? I have always been boy crazy, yet perpetually surprised when said boys liked me back. I never wanted to assume anything, and definitely didn’t want to make this fella feel uncomfortable in any way. Maybe he just wanted to hang out! If that was the case, I was cool with it! But then…he kissed me. And it was GREAT! The chills on my arms didn’t retract until days later. This very cute boy was KISSING ME! We played a little more tonsil hockey, then returned to our regularly scheduled programming of TV and pizza. And then he asked me to change the channel to see what else was on.

Kids. This was before streaming, even before CABLE, when you only had 13 channels to sift through and hope you landed on something worthwhile. And I had to physically walk myself to the TV to change it (because of that remote and all). Personally, I wanted to find nothing and keep making out, but I *also* wanted something better on the screen. I just knew What’s Happening was playing in syndication on some channel, and I was determined to find it! So, I rose from the couch and made my way to the remote. Except when I got to the TV/remote, with my back and butt turned toward him…

I tooted.

Unexpectedly.

Loudly.

Very, VERY loudly.

My bottom acted as the star trumpet player of a symphony I never intended to compose!

WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

Frozen, I had to think quick. This guy was so cute, he was older, and I just blasted ass in his general direction.

So, being the ‘tap dancer’ I was, I came up with a plan. I decided it would be a good idea to turn around, start snapping my fingers, and make raspberry noises with my mouth all the way back to the couch. I walked all the way back, pretending to have made the toot noise with my mouth by blowing raspberries, and snapping my fingers like I was some jazz musician, all in an effort to cover up the fact that some gas had just passed out my ass.

Friends. NEVER DO THIS. Learn from me.

Now, I wasn’t privy to the initial look on his face when the actual toot McGooted. As I told you, I froze, and for probably way too long (which undoubtedly gave me away), but the look on his face as I returned blowing toots out of my mouth and weird snaps from my fingers said it all.

SHOCKINGLY, he realized that “something suddenly came up” and he had to go. What’s worse is, he didn’t leave right away. He probably thought, “Well, she just gassed, but I can’t let that be the reason I randomly leave” and in the age before cellphones, he couldn’t fake a text or call. So, we just…. sat there. Awkwardly. For like 20 minutes.

I wasn’t really on the phone here! See how good I was at acting? How did he even know I tooted?

And if he had just heard me out! If I could have just said, “Forgiveness, please, for I have just tooted” everything could have been fine!

I never saw him again (not even in the halls) and I think it’s better that way. He was the make-out king who changed my life in that, from there out, I never, EVER kept a boy in the dark about my bum boosts. And I’m so grateful that my mom taught me so well that I’ve never once said, whether in good or bad company, WHO FARTED?

The Van

My best friend’s mom is a smoke show. She always was and always will be. She glows, and at just shy of 80-years old, is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. You should see her – she looks like she’s 50, acts like she’s 20, and still mows her own lawn. In the 1980’s, she was the epitome of fabulous and had an air about her that made me understand why I was so enchanted with her kids.

She. Defined. Cool.

Growing up, my best friend killed at softball. And when I say killed, I mean it. She was terrifying on the field as a pitcher, and nobody wanted to go at bat against her. I’ve never seen a ball leave someone’s arm so fast as I did with her (and I once dated an actual MLB pitcher!) and, as a result, I knew to stay on her good side. It was like she had a canon for an arm.

I was not good at sports (and had zero interest in participating in them, apart from my Saturday AYSO soccer games where Heather Osborn and I made plans to hang out afterwards, while on the field, during the game). I was a goofy theater kid who knew how to triple time step while singing show tunes as I chanted, “Go sports!” at her games. The following pic is my attempt at pitching. As you can see, we were not cut from the same cloth. *The amount of torment I received from my brother, who was very good at baseball throughout his youth, after this picture was taken will haunt me forever. I do believe that was the exact day I kicked my tiny, left-handed mitt to the curb. Even sadder, I found that mitt not too long ago when cleaning out my mom’s house and…it still fit. I mean, I guess I should be happy that my small hands match my equally small, Hobbit-like feet with toes my husband affectionately refers to as his “lil’ smokies.”

I’m FINE! Why are we still talking about this?

My brother looking cool and me with my zipper down trying to emulate ‘throwing a pitch’ (Ignore whatever substance has stained this picture)

Lori is tall, impossibly beautiful, smart, and so, so funny. She’s been my bestie since we were 12, which means I know her family just as well. When I first met her mom, I was enchanted! She had this magnificent hair that was permed to the nines, gorgeous big brown eyes, a smile that could weaken the strongest of men, and an attitude that let everyone know she was not to be messed with. She cooked dinner for her family every single night, which was on the table by 5pm. Her house was immaculate. The sheets on the beds smelled like clouds, and the couch in the cozy and welcoming living room felt like a hug. Everything about that house on Bellflower felt like home, and I was so happy to be a part of it. There was just something about Nancy that made you feel good and like you belonged.

While she was ADAMANT about not wanting Lori to have the new Aerosmith album for her birthday (it was called ‘Pump’ and she found it inappropriate. But don’t worry…her dad bought it for her. And he probably bought it while he was IN HIS VAN!), she also had words for me after watching a video of my boyfriend and me. Lori and I used to videotape ourselves all the time. We were YouTube LONG before YouTube (and I wish I still had the footage!) – anyhow, one day, my boyfriend and I filmed ourselves talking about his laundry and how many Bounce sheets he had to use trying to get the smell of sweat out of his wrestling singlet, and then we kissed. A simple, closed-mouth peck on the lips! Big Nanc told me she’d watched my ‘pornographic video’ and I immediately felt like I’d failed her! Her approval was everything, and it still is, and to think I had disappointed her was the WORST! But it also made me giggle and feel pretty special that she cared enough about me to want to protect me from any too-young-to-engage-in debauchery. I promised her there was nothing sordid going on, and that was the truth!

I blurred his face so as not to embarrass him with our cringeworthy 80s attire. And for privacy, too, of course!

When we were 15, my mother was NOT about letting me drive for any reason (even though we had gotten our permits, had taken private driving lessons from Sears, and had passed our written exams with a perfect score. BOTH OF US!) But Big Nanc was.

Nancy used to show up to Lori’s games in her bitchin’ Camaro (shoutout to my fellow ‘The Dead Milkmen’ fans) , complete with her lawn chair, visor, and sugarless gum. She could pop and smack a stick of gum like nobody’s business, and she looked like a supermodel in her gingham-style seat doing it. Every dad (and jealous mom) in the crowd noticed Nancy (as they should!) and she couldn’t have cared less. It was not a secret she was a show stopper, but she never felt the need to flaunt it. She would pull up in that car, set her chair on the sidelines, and cheer Lori on with pride.

Not her actual car, but close enough and still as fresh

One night, Lori, her older brother Frankie (whom I was terribly in love with), and I went to see a movie. Frankie had received free passes while he was picking us up from school by some guy randomly handing them out. Turns out they were ‘Screener Passes,’ which meant we got to see the movie before its official release. It was a ‘gauge the audience reaction’ type of thing to see what needed tweaking, what worked, what didn’t, etc. We were so excited to go because not only was it free, we were the ‘deciders.’ We had to leave feedback about whether we liked it or not, how much we laughed, were there things we would change? What should they keep/nix? It was the closest I’ve ever gotten to the Academy, and I’ll always believe I personally had a hand in the way Weekend at Bernie’s turned out. Still waiting for the recognition of my written contributions regarding that classic film. Any day now!

When Nanc came to pick us up from Lakewood Center, she handed me the keys.

To the Monte Carlo.

Not the small, cute, easily maneuverable Camaro. No. To their other car: the black and white sea vessel on wheels.

Does anyone even understand how big this car was? It was a boat, and the wheel felt like something nautical to my tiny hands. What I’m telling you is…this car was HUGE!

While my mother would shout, cry, and eventually demand I pull over (even though I hadn’t even made it out of our neighborhood), Nancy stayed calm, smacked her gum, and reminded me I was “doing just fine. Relax!” I drove us home, somehow got in the left turn lane a few times (despite feeling petrified of doing so), and she never even broke a sweat! She just smiled at me and told me I was a great driver (I can assure you, I’m not). That alone could have sent me into a panic because praise for being good at something was uncharted territory for me.

I must also mention that Lori and Frankie sat in the backseat like this was normal. No fear. And they KNEW ME and how I was/am! I tell her all the time how I don’t understand why she chose me as a friend: I am a nightmare! I freak out, have terrible anxiety, react loudly and with a fair amount of flailing at the smallest of things when I’m scared, and she just remains…. calm. Always! While I’m throwing whatever’s in reach at the wall, she’s looking at ways to solve the problem. I will yell while stating why it’s never going to come together, then she’ll say, ‘Well, here’s a different way of looking at it.’ When the problem is solved, we’ll laugh and I’ll pretend I didn’t just lose myself, then say, “We really got through that together!” And she never disagrees.

I don’t deserve her.

The two of us doing our GQ pose in Palm Springs

The two of us doing our GQ pose at my dad’s work

The two of us *trying* to do our GQ pose in my backyard, but were too cold (despite it likely being about 65 degrees) Hey…it was Southern California! We weren’t used to anything under 70!

But this isn’t about us. This is about THE VAN. And Frank. Who was Lori and Frankie’s dad, and Big Nanc’s husband. And man…he was the best.

There’s no real way to describe Frank. If cool was a person, it would be him. He was funny, he was handsome, he was chill. He was (simply) the best. To see him and Nanc together, you understood their pairing (as well as why their kids are so stunning). They were breathtaking.

He even made reading the Yellow Pages look cool!

Frank was a goof. He loved to make jokes, many of which were dad-themed, and he was always up for taking Lori and me to high school in his cool-ass van. This van was EVERYTHING. It had curtains. It had carpet. It had a stereo (that Frank was ALWAYS willing to blast).

As we sat in the back, he would play the best rock music for us, turn around, and tell us not to tell Nanc, then give us a rascally smile and wink. He would tell us how much he loved dropping us off, how driving us to school made his day, and he would always say, “Stay cool, cats!” Whenever I was over at their house (which was a lot because Nancy was, and still is, an INCREDIBLE cook and made the best dinners ever, which for some reason, she welcomed me to join), Frank would walk in from work, greet his family, then point to me and say, “What’s new, Susie Q?” It made me feel like a million bucks.

When Lori and I were 16 years old, her family moved back to Pennsylvania (and I eventually settled with mine in Michigan from California in my early 20s), however; we maintained our friendship, speaking to each other nearly every day (and even to this day!) We’ve actually been “friends apart” longer than we were friends together, and it’s one of the most important relationships of my life. We had to want to maintain it, and we worked hard to do so (before email, before cell phones, even before Caller ID!) Still, we managed to be there for the big stuff always, and now make it a point to not go more than a few months without seeing each other. It’s the best! (Even IF Frankie says, “you’re still here?”) If no one else gets that, he will. Wink, wink.

First Ocean City Trip together, 2011 (now a yearly tradition involving many a kaftan and lots and lots of crab cakes)

When she got married, it had been decades since I’d seen Frank. I was excited to see him, but also didn’t expect him to remember me because Lori and I had both grown so much.

I was an adult, a mother…I wore mascara and had figured out my eyebrows! I no longer looked like a little kid (and may I just say, thank LAWD for that. Me without makeup is a terrifying tale. As a natural redhead, I have blond brows and eyelashes, which means sans makeup, I look like a fly. Or some other such unsettling insect). My husband, who welcomes me every single morning with, “Hello, gorgeous,” has very gently and kindly encouraged my love for brow filler and mascara. He would never say anything to diminish my confidence, which makes me love him even more, but somehow always has the budget for my eyebrow and lash enhancement products that make me feel better about myself. A gentleman and a scholar, he is. My children, all three, know I do NOT get cremated until I’m 1) DEAD dead. Like…three or four days gone and, 2) unless my eyelashes and brows are done.

As Joan Crawford once magnificently stated, “If you want to see the girl next door, go next door.” I am who I am. I don’t take out the trash without my face on, and I make no apologies! Glamour, darlings. Glamour.

When I first saw Frank outside the church, I instantly felt like a kid again. I was so excited to see him and wanted to run right to him. Then I remembered, “he probably doesn’t remember me at all. Who do I think I am?” As Maid of Honor, it was a bit harder to keep a low profile. I’d only gotten into town the day before and had lots of formal duties to catch up on prior to the ceremony. Then, to my delight and surprise, Frank tapped me on my shoulder (my back had been turned to him at the time), and, in all his big and burly glory, asked, “What’s new, Susie Q?” I still happy cry just thinking about it.

I will never, ever forget those mornings in the van, and will cherish every memory of him I have. It’s so wonderful to see his son (whom I still love dearly and will never forgive for saying I reminded him of Shelley Duvall – I kid. In truth, it was a fabulous compliment, and we’ve already had this discussion as adults, so stop bringing it up!) look so much like him, share so many of the same gentle mannerisms, and be such an amazing Uncle and Great Uncle to the lucky kids in his life. It’s also incredible to see Lori’s son, Frank’s grandson, look and act so much like him. That kid (which he isn’t anymore, but I’m allowed to say he is because there’s no way he’s already grown into the charming young man he’s become) makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, just like his grandpa did.

Great Uncle Franco, and sweet baby Mylah

Her daughter and granddaughter are just as precious (though her daughter looks more like me than Lori. We’re looking into it, but I’d swear she’s mine and I love everything about it. Because it would also mean Lori’s perfect angel baby granddaughter was mine, too. Which I keep trying to convince the baby of every time I see her. We’ll get there).

Cheers to this amazing family I’m so lucky to know and feel a part of, and that marvelous van I was so fortunate to cruise about town in. I can still smell that shag carpeting and feel the rush of Led Zeppelin blasting through the speakers.

*And for the record, Nancy is STILL a smoke show who effortlessly puts the rest of us to shame.

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.