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 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.