CSquaredPlus3

Spit

I was sweet on a neighborhood boy.  He was in the sixth grade, I was in the fifth.  A younger girl rarely caught the eye of an older boy in those days.  He was popular and had a little sister who knew how to make pom-poms out of tissue paper.  She was pretty and he was athletic.  They were a sibling power couple.

"Kirk's such a fox.  He's tuff," I remember saying to a friend within earshot of my dad.  "He's the best basketball player in the whole school."

Basketball is a religion in Indiana, or at least it was in the 70s, so the fact that my little Hoosier crush played the game well, elevated his celebrity.

"You like Kirk?" my dad asked.  "That kid spits all the time."

It was true.  Kirk was a spitter.  Maybe he still is.  But the way he spit as a kid was neat.  He'd walk down the sidewalk, sometimes dribbling a basketball, look to the side and spit with speed, force and precision.  He spit with equally precise frequency, like a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, ticking methodically across the grass.  It was awesome.  It also might have been a compulsion, but it melted my butter.

*****

I was looking at family video recently.  Chris and the two older boys braved a thrill ride at a local amusement park in August. The five-year-old boy [he was actually still four when the video was taken] and I are a crack team of backpack watchers and videographers.  It was the end of the day, which is my excuse for putting a four-year-old in charge of belongings.  I think he bummed a smoke from the people next to him, and karate-kicked potential abductors in the stomach.

"Spit" is a small part of the video, but I know my family will appreciate it.

Soaring and Spit from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

When A Dog Goes Down and Why I Hate Team Sports

Sitting in the office, my back to the french doors leading to the front yard, I noticed a person running quickly towards our house in the reflection on my computer screen.  I turned around and saw a tall man wearing a Snowbird baseball cap taking long, purposeful strides.  He resembled James Taylor.  I felt safe.

I met him at the front door as he reached for the door bell.

"Do you know who's dog that is?" he asked as he pointed to the too still, cream-colored, fluffy animal lying in the street.

I looked where he was pointing.  "OHMYGOD!  YES!"

Our neighbor's dog had broken through his electric fence and was hit by a car.  The tall man witnessed a white truck hit the dog, throwing the dog several feet.  The truck didn't stop.

I called my neighbor and spoke with one of her sons.  When her son told me his mother wasn't home, I didn't tell him what had happened to their family pet.  The dog was still alive but had clearly been seriously injured.  I called my neighbor on her cell phone several times over the next ten minutes, as I simultaneously fetched a towel, wrapped the dog, and had panicked discussions with the tall man about where I would take the injured animal for help if my neighbor didn't answer.

I finally reached my neighbor and she and her husband were only a moment away.  The tall man and I were hunched over the dog when they pulled up in their car.  Within a couple of minutes, the dog was on his way to the nearest animal hospital.

I'm not a dog person, mostly because I'm busy... and a neat freak, but I have tremendous compassion for animals.  We have Mary and I joke about my desire for her to wear underwear [for hygiene purposes].  Chris still claims he plans to make a hat out of her when she passes because he spent $8,000 to save her life one summer.

There's nothing worse than seeing a dog suffer.  When our neighbor's dog had been hit, I was numb with fear and panic.  I managed to do what needed to be done but my heart was pounding and I felt like I might faint from the overwhelming emotions.  I wanted to yell at the tall man, "Help him!  Fix him!  He's hurting!"  I might have actually yelled those things.  It's kind of a blur.

It's a good thing I'm not an ER doctor.  I'd be no good at that.  It's not that I don't want to help -- because I do -- it's that the intense empathy I experience nearly cripples me.  It's also the fear of not knowing precisely what to do.  Analysis paralysis.  I don't want to do the wrong thing, especially when the stakes are high.

Just like team sports...

Volleyball terrifies me.  I've never learned how to hit the ball without hurting my forearms.  I'm the one you don't want on your team because even if the ball comes directly to me, I'll scream to my teammates, "GET IT!"  We've declined many invitations to play on a couple's volleyball league.  Chris knows better.  He's seen me panic in backyard pool volleyball games.  I can't handle the pressure.

It's the same with softball.  I have vivid memories of playing left field for the Green Eyed Ladies in Winchester, Indiana, when I was a kid.  Hated it.  The ball would land and roll practically to my feet -- I'd look at the right fielder and scream, "GET IT!"  I threw like a girl [still do] and struck out every time I was at bat.  A couple's softball league is also out of the question.

Had the neighbors not been so close to home, I would have managed to get the suffering dog to the animal hospital.  My adrenalin kept me moving, although I was spinning a bit, and asking the tall man redundant questions and repeating, "This is terrible.  This is terrible.  This is really, really terrible."  Babbling seems to frequently be my modus operandi.

I spoke with my neighbor and the dog is alive.  His condition has been changed from critical to stable.  When he returns home, I'm requesting that they up the juice on his electric fence.

I may not be able to be crowned The-Queen-of-Grace-Under-Pressure, but I'm always well-intended.  If history repeats itself, I have a shot at being the next Nobel Peace Prize winner.

Barbie Dream House And The Chocolate Room

The little girl I used to strip with in Winchester, Indiana, -- Debbie -- recently found me on Facebook.  It was a glorious day!  We fell out of touch nearly 35 years ago, but the memories are crisp, warm and happy.  I LOVE when it's a mutual Facebook connection.

I forwarded Debbie the post I wrote about our stripping. [Read here.]  Thankfully, she liked it.

Debbie was more than a childhood stripping friend...  I loved playing with Debbie because she was smart, fun and imaginative.  She also had the nicest mother who was permissive but not in a reckless way.  As a single parent, Debbie's mother did a wonderful job providing structure, surrounding Debbie with love, encouraging her... and giving her the coolest room and stuff.

Debbie had a canopy bed in her girly-girl room and all the best girly toys.  She received a Baby Alive doll one year for Christmas along with a pack of real disposable baby diapers.  We fed and changed that doll again and again and again.  I think we may have clogged her plumbing because we didn't always provide the doll with the recommended bottle of water between spoon feedings to wash out the red and green Cream of Wheat-like food.  Debbie's mother gently warned us, always with a smile, "Girls, Baby Alive might not work properly... and she might start to smell... if you don't follow the directions."  But she allowed us the choice to gorge Baby Alive.  And gorge her, we did.

The item I coveted most of Debbie's was her Barbie Dream House.  I think it was technically the Barbie Townhouse, but it was MY dream house.  It had three stories, an elevator, and cool girly decor.  If I could have twitched my nose like Samantha on Bewitched or blinked like Jeanie on I Dream of Jeanie and made myself Barbie size, I would have been prancing around that dream house in my tiny, tight, high-heel Barbie shoes, and my mini-skirt with figure flattering blouse, dusting furniture while sipping a cup of tea from a teeny-tiny cup and saucer.  Trust me, I tried.  I twitched and blinked so often as a kid, I'm sure I appeared to have a tick.

I would have twitched or blinked Debbie into the scene... as Skipper.  Sorry, Debbie.

Today my dream house would look much different than the Liberace-style house I desired in the 70s. [Although a part of me still enjoys sequins, feathers and over the top opulence.  Like a part of me would also like to live in Willy Wonka's factory, or the land of Oz.  Fantasy.]  I've learned that bigger isn't better.  It's more to maintain.

I never had my own Barbie Dream House, but I'm thankful to Debbie for graciously sharing hers.  I'm also thankful for Debbie's willingness and shared desire to explore our fantasies, stretch our imaginations and her mother's appropriate and loving support.

I was saddened to learn that Debbie's mother passed away in 1999.  I would have liked her to know that a day with her and Debbie, was like entering the Chocolate Room.

Like a Training Bra

I was in the orthodontist's waiting room, thinking... Eighteen months?  Do I really want these on for eighteen months?  The Today show was on the television and I half listened to President Obama talk about the swine flu.  yeah, yeah, yeah... the CDC and the WHO don't know what the hell is going on yet...

The women behind the front desk were coiffed and smelled good.  Their voices dripped with the sweetness of saccharin as they spoke to one another.  Look. At. You!  I don't think I've EVER seen you in pink before... Gosh, you look pretty today!  When one woman would turn her focus back to a computer screen or files on a desk, the others would take in every detail of her appearance.  They all took turns participating in the covert operation of sizing each other up.  I stared at their teeth.

I got braces on my teeth last week.  Not Invisalign, but the old fashioned, silver, train track braces.  They're only on my top teeth with plans to add them to my bottom teeth in a month or two.  I've never had braces, nor have my kids, so this is a new experience for me.

I told Mother I had made the decision to get braces a few weeks ago...

Mom:  What's wrong with your teeth?!

I explained.

Mom:  Well... so much for saving money.  I thought you kids were trying to save money.

Me:  We have extra money this year in our tax-free medical spending account, Mom.  If we don't use it, we lose it, so I've figured out a moderate and responsible plan to contribute to the braces without draining the account in case we have an emergency.

Mom:  I still don't see what's wrong with your teeth...

Several of my friends have had braces and a few are wearing permanent retainers.  I've had plenty of people to call upon for encouragement, support and to answer my questions.  I'm comfortable with my decision and after nearly one week, I have no regrets.  Only 77 more weeks to go!

A friend asked me how my mouth was feeling.  The braces had only been on a couple of days.  I told her it was like my first training bra...

***********************************

When I was in the fifth grade I wanted a bra so badly.  I didn't need a bra.  At all.  Many of the popular girls were wearing them, so I believed I needed one too.  Mom took me shopping and we bought a training bra.  I loved how when I bent over to reach for something, the back straps were very visible.  I felt like a 35-year-old.  It was awesome!

I didn't wear the bra all the time, just when I wanted to look 35, like when I went to the skating rink on Saturday afternoons to skate.  Boys were there.  Lip gloss?  Check.  Pom-poms for skates?  Check.  Training bra?  Check.  Tight, satiny shirt so bra strap would be visible when I flexed my back?  Check.

Mom and I were going shopping one afternoon.  It was a big deal for the two of us to have a shopping day.  We had to drive from our small town, Winchester, to Muncie [Indiana] so we could shop at a real mall.  We usually dressed up and ate lunch in a restaurant.  I decided to wear the training bra.

Mom:  Chrisy, if you're going to wear the training bra, you need to wear it... all day.

Me:  I will, Mom.

As much as I liked having visible bra straps under my shirt, the training bra irritated me after about an hour.  If I was with Mother, she found a bathroom so I could remove the bra and she would carry it in her purse.

After an hour of shopping on this particular day, I couldn't take it anymore.

Me:  Mom, will you carry my training bra?  It's hurting me.

Mom:  Chrisy!  C'mon, you're fine.

Me:  I can't, Mom.  It's tight and rubs my skin funny.

Mom:  Take it off, but carry it in your own purse.

Me:  My purse is too small...

Mom:  Maybe from now on you shouldn't wear it when we leave the house. [Crushing, because that was the whole point, for THE WORLD to see that I was old enough for and possibly needed a bra.]

She took the bra and I don't think I wore it again for at least a year, maybe two.

***********************************

The braces?  Not uncomfortable at all for the first day.  Now?  My mouth is irritated, my teeth hurt, and I'd like my mother to carry them in her purse... for just a few hours.

Image of Darla from "Finding Nemo" courtesy of Google Images.

February 1978

My family moved from the small town of Winchester, Indiana to Fort Wayne, Indiana the middle of my sixth grade year.  I said good-bye to kids I'd gone to school with since kindergarten and known for even longer.  Kids who had joined me in playing house, office, doctor, hide-and-seek, Monopoly and 45 rpm records.  Kids I fought with, had crushes on, dared to do things and who's dares I often accepted.  It's where my dreams of becoming a stripper took root.  I walked the same path to and from school for nearly seven years in that little town.  It was all I knew.

Dad had received a job promotion that resulted in a transfer.  He and Mom both acknowledged the fear and uncertainty involved in a move while giving my brother and me positive things to hold.  The new school is great!  We'll have a larger home!  The neighborhood is nice and there are lots of kids your age!  We'll visit Winchester, and you can be pen-pals with your old friends...

We made the move during our school's two-week Christmas break.  I returned to a new sixth grade classroom in a new town after the holidays.

My teacher was wonderful.  He was a man.  I'd only had one man teacher prior. [Except for a man music teacher, but that one didn't really count.]  My new man teacher had been raised by deaf parents so he made it a point to teach all of his students sign language.  I still remember quite a bit of it.  My maiden name is Hautem [sounds like scrotum, not autumn], and he called me Hauty [ho-dee].  I melted.  Thought it was the coolest thing to have a nickname from a smart, funny man teacher.

Valentine's Eve 1978
I covered my shoebox in foil, carefully glued cut-out pink and red hearts to paper doilies and taped them to my Valentine box, which had my name in large, purple letters above the slot in the lid.  As the new girl, kids were still calling me ChrisTy instead of Chrisy.  I always politely corrected them.  "No, there's no "t".  My name's Chris-ee, not Chris-T."  In my mind they were two very different names, and the kids might as well have called me Sue, if they called me Christy.

The Valentines I'd selected and addressed for my new classmates were ready to go.  I'd chosen each one purposefully for the recipient.  Studying the graphic and little saying to make sure I didn't convey the wrong message to anyone.  I decided the over-sized, special Valentine [there used to be one in every commercial box] would go to a taller than average, blond-haired boy named Ryan. One day he looked at my face for a long time, then he said, "Your eyes sparkle," and walked away.  [More like skipped away.  He turned out to be gay and wear lip gloss and flowing scarves around his neck every day in high school.]

Valentines Day 1978
It was time for the party.  Cupcakes, cookies, punch, conversation hearts, atypical noise in the classroom.  There was nothing like the feeling of a party at school.  Teachers were happy, and sometimes I could overhear them talk about real things with each other, and laugh.  "We were playing Bridge last Saturday with the Jamison's, and you wouldn't believe Richard's opening bid..."

I distributed my Valentines, timing the delivery of Ryan's when he was very far from his desk.  I had two close friends in class, so the three of us giggled and chatted while eating treats.  The end of the school day was approaching, and the buzz of the party was calming.  I returned to my desk.

A few kids were still delivering their Valentines.  I didn't want to appear too anxious, so I discreetly lifted the lid of my foil-covered box and quickly peeked inside.  There were only two Valentines.  My heart started to pound.

I understood exactly why it happened.  I was old enough to follow the logic.  My name wasn't on the new class list.  It was an innocent oversight by 11-year-old kids, maybe even teachers and parents.  I was still mortified and didn't want anyone to know and feel sorry for me.  It was a giant feat to not cry, or sweat, or have my voice waiver.  I worked hard to manipulate every conversation and social interaction away from my Valentine box.

Ten minutes prior to dismissal backpacks were ready, coats and hats were on, and most of the class had dumped their Valentines on their desks and were rifling through them.  My man teacher walked around and told everyone to put their "love notes" back in their boxes and get ready for the bell to ring.  He saw me sitting there with my tidy desk and nervous smile... waiting.

"You didn't open your box, Hauty?"

"I'm going to wait 'till I get home."

He knew.

I walked home, had a good cry in my room that afternoon, with a solid understanding that it wasn't personal, yet unable to deny the pitiful scene I'd just played the leading role in.

February 15, 1978
I returned to school, grateful to have Valentine's Day behind me.  Ryan skipped around the classroom and I tried to make eye contact with him so he could see my "sparkly" eyes.  My beloved man teacher called upon me for every task that required a lovely assistant.  I wrote things on the chalkboard.  I erased things.  I distributed worksheets, and collected them when students were finished.  I walked important papers to the Principal's office, and was selected to help the girl who broke her pelvis sledding, get her hot lunch from the cafeteria. [I didn't know her very well, and the body cast intimidated all of us.  She only came to school three days a week.]

He knew.  And I felt better.

Have a Happy Valentine's Day.

Hey. That was my idea.

I've had a few good project ideas over the years.  I didn't have time to get them from my mind to the paper, but I thought about them real hard.  OR, someone beat me to it...

1989  All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten - My idea.  I wasn't comfortable writing anything with sex, drugs, or foul language because I couldn't bear the thought of revealing to my family that I had any experience or exposure to these things (little did I know they were already aware).  I could however, write a collection of wholesome, witty essays entertaining people with things I learned as a young child. Jerry Seinfeld was emerging with his "clean" humor - the time was right.  Robert Fulghum got in my head.

1995 Now and Then - My idea.  Marlene King wrote the screenplay for this movie (which wasn't very good - because I didn't write it) based on the neighborhood in the small town where I lived in the 1970s.  It was the Gaslight Addition in Winchester, Indiana (the movie was almost called The Gaslight Addition).  Marlene lived in our neighborhood and I played with her younger sister Angie but Samantha Kelly was my best friend.  Two of the main characters in the movie are named Samantha and Chrissy (thanks Marlene - stole my idea and my name).  Marlene named the girl loosely representing her sister Angie - Angie.  I was devastated when I was told the film was being made and that Demi Moore was one of the producers.  I was robbed again, by one of my own people.

2002 A Girl Named Zippy - Mine too.  If Marlene King didn't nail the growing up in small-town Indiana experience, I could write a true memoir - a collection of simple short stories about my childhood in Winchester, Indiana.  Haven Kimmel heard my head spinning so hard and fast, jumped on it and wrote her memoir about growing up in Mooreland, Indiana.  Bless it.

Edgy Grittier Essays - This was what the world needed.  I'll forget about my reputation, and write gritty, edgy, real humor.  I've got tons of material that's funny, and relateable - I've done interesting, crazy things.  My closest friends know, they laugh, they love my stories, why not share it with the world!?  What?  Who the hell's David Sedaris?

2004  I am Charlotte Simmons - My.  Idea.  This is a very big book, not well received by the critics but I liked it, because it was my idea.  I could write about my college experience in a way that was fresh, honest and raw.  Exposing the intellectuals, the athletes, the frat boys, sorority girls, the ethnic, money, alcohol, drug, pretty/ugly girl issues.  I dated the white athlete on the mostly black basketball team just like Charlotte Simmons.  I saw how the athlete's really spent their free time.  This was my material.

Dooce - I was gonna do that.  My husband kept saying, you should write, the Internet provides an instant audience and an immediate writer's experience. I could have been Dooce.  I had food and body image issues, depression, questions about faith, was a good girl, gone bad, then good again (sort of).  It's just not fair.

The Internet - I totally thought of that.

When will this end?

Just keep throwing pennies, Debbie!

When I was young [8 years old maybe], living in Winchester, Indiana, I discovered Gypsy Rose Lee.  Because of the reference to her in my bio, and the post titled Girls Gone Wild, I get hits on this blog from Google Search, where the subject is "girls gone wild", "gypsy girls gone wild", "wild gypsy girls", etc...  Understandably, the people who stumble on this site are disappointed.  Sorry boys.

The Discovery
I was watching TV with my friend Debbie M. in the early 1970s.  We found an old movie that seemed to be about a girl who sang, danced, removed a few articles of clothing [looked like she was trying to get more comfortable - made sense], and people threw money at her.  The movie was Gypsy and we didn't catch the entire show, but enough to be able to sing "Let Me Entertain You", and know that stripping was in our future.  The word "strip" was benign to us.

The Record
Not too long after discovering our future job as burlesque dancers, something we thought was respectable and easy, Debbie and I were riding our banana seat bicycles around the Gaslight Addition where we lived. We found a garage sale.  Several 45 rpm records were on a long table.  One of those 45s had "The Stripper" on one side - an incredible jazz instrumental that you would recognize immediately if you heard - and the other side had "Let Me Entertain You".  We. Were. Thrilled.

The Bit
We began our practice sessions at Debbie's house.  I had a large glass jug filled with pennies.  I gathered as many articles of clothing as I could fit in a grocery sack, wearing several layers on my body, and drug my penny jug, record player and the new 45 to Debbie's house.  We set up our stage in her garage and got dressed.  First a few bathing suits, then shorts, shirts, pants, more shirts, sweaters, winter coats, hats, scarves, gloves AND mittens.  We figured the longer it took us to strip, the more money we'd make.  Deductive reasoning: remove clothing while singing and dancing = money thrown at you.  Worked for Gypsy Rose Lee.  Sometimes it took four playings of one song to get down to the final bathing suit, which was always left on.  "Just play it again, Debbie!  Keep throwing pennies!", I shouted.  We were gonna be rich some day.

We took turns being the stripper, then the record manager/penny thrower.  Eventually word spread in the neighborhood that Debbie and I were stripping [we still weren't sure what the big deal was] and some of the little boys gathered in the driveway.  The garage door was shut but there were windows along the top.  The boys jumped and lifted each other to see.  Debbie's mother taped newspaper over the windows so we could practice without disruption.

The Day the Music Died
I'm not sure when our stripping fizzled.  Some days it was too hot to practice - wearing ALL those clothes while singing and dancing, then trying to remove them gracefully.  It was tougher than we thought.  I was bossy.  "Debbie, you're doing it wrong.  Go slower.  You're just takin' things off and throwin' 'em down.  That's not how Gypsy Rose Lee does it!  No more pennies for you until you do it right!"  Debbie quit.

Neither Debbie's mother, nor mine clued us in on the fact that we were doing something provocative.  They continued to help us find "private" places to practice - always ready to tape the newspaper over windows when an audience surfaced.

Today
I haven't spoken to Debbie M. in at least 30 years.  I have never stripped...for money.  As I got older, I researched Gypsy Rose Lee.  Neat gal.

Apologies again to the boys who've stumbled onto THIS post via a Google Search.  My hunch is you haven't made it to the end of my story...

Toss a penny if you're entertained...

Dad, Cher and Lassie

I spent my early childhood in a small town in Indiana - Winchester.  My Dad was born and raised in nearby Marion, Indiana. 

When I combine memories of Dad and Winchester in my mind, the following are a few of the search results...

I remember Dad coming home from work for lunch on occasion.  His office was close enough he could do that.  He always wore a suit and tie, and smelled clean.  I remember him walking on his hands in our small, family room.  If I threw-up, he called for Mom because it would make him faint or throw-up.  When I was home sick from school, he would come in my room after work (in his suit, still smelling clean), ask how I was feeling, visit, and give me a sticker book.  That was a big deal then.  If I bought him a Marathon Bar he ate the entire thing like it was the best gift he'd ever received.  He always accepted the occasional offer of bubble gum and chewed it with me.  We both liked to watch the "Sonny and Cher" show - because we both liked Cher. 

I loved the "Lassie" show which usually aired while Mom and Dad were cleaning dinner dishes.  The end of the show had Lassie sitting with one of her front paws lifted, her hair gently blowing in the wind, while the Greensleeves melody played in the background.  I cried every time.  It was Dad's job to listen for the end of the show so he could turn it off before the dramatic, but predictable scene played.  He rarely timed it right.  The music would start.  Mom would yell, "Hurry, it's the end of Lassie!"  Dad would come jogging around the corner to turn the television off.  "Chrisy, don't cry.  Lassie's not hurt.  She's just saying goodbye."  It didn't matter.  If I'd heard even a couple seconds of the music or Lassie's little whimper, I was wrecked.  Killed me.  I think it kinda killed Dad too.

Happy Father's Day Dad.  I love you.