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.

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.