Almost Famous

My dream when I was nine was to make Katy S. a household name. I had just acquired my soundtrack for the Broadway version of Annie, and like any respectable girl in circa 1981 North Jersey, I spent the better part of my free time acting out every song in my driveway. On rollerskates. Wearing a purple leotard. And a pink boa. After all, living a half hour from New York City, a top acting agent could have driven by my house at any time, searching for new talent. With the genius idea of merging Annie with Xanadu, I considered myself well on my way to stardom.

I can safely say that none of you ever saw my name in lights. Still, every now and then I fall into a daydream of myself belting out a diva-song to a packed Broadway venue. My few brushes with fame have never been that dramatic.

Witness:

1) My dad's friend was dating a chick that used to be on The Edge of Night. She, in turn, used to date Randy Travis from WKRP in Cincinnati. Therefore, I was a mere three degrees of separation to the kind of fame that got people on Battle of the Network Stars.

2) I shook hands with Mohammad Ali when is was three. All I remember is being terrified of this massive hand coming at my face. I'm sure I wasn't the first to feel this way upon encountering the man.

3) My friend had asked me to take a knitting lesson with her, waaay before knitting was cool, so she wouldn't feel like such a dork. I obliged, under the condition that she breathed not a word of it to anyone. Unfortunately, that was the day the reporters showed up to profile the Trailblazing Generation X Knitters. Lo, my hands and mug took up the entire top half of our local paper's Living section. And yes, everyone saw.

4) When we lived in the hip and trendy part of the city, a 14 yr old boy was shot by police at the end of my dead-end street, as he was trying to run over a cop with a stolen car. No one was allowed off the street that day, and since a friend of mine was a local TV reporter, I was obliged to give her an interview on camera. I kept my answers brief and appropriately somber.

5) When I was five months pregnant with the twins, my OB put me on bedrest and told not to lift anything over 5 pounds. The next day, I decided to have one last hurrah with my older son at the beach. Feeling confident that I wasn't being watched, I picked my 30 pound son up by the arms an swung him out over the water--- about 15 times. To my horror, when I opened the local section of the paper the next day I found that, once again, I was taking up the entire top half of the paper, quite obviously not on bedrest and lifting something most definitely over five pounds. Not only did my OB call me to scream, but so did my former boss. See, I'm an OT who used to specialize in arm and hand rehab, and the number one thing we tell parents is to never lift or swing a child by the arms.

6) A few months ago, when exploring model homes in Canada with my friend's wife, a news team (yes, another one--- the paparrazzi's interest in me is international, apparently). The hottie reporter told us he wanted to interview us for a story about the impact high energy costs have on the decision to build a new home. We reluctantly agreed, because, again, he was HOT, and spent a few takes after my interview doing staged shots of Cathy and I walking in the distance together, looking at properties. Afterward, the guy thanked us, and asked us,

"So how long have you two been together?"

So in the end, no, I can say that I haven't found fame and fortune yet. But we're moving to another country this summer, and I'm sure the Canadian public is dying to know about the lesbian knitting American who can't stand high gas prices and likes to pretend she's throwing her son into the lake.

Space Age Love Song

When I lived (briefly) in Syracuse in the early-eighties, I busied myself at becoming the hippest sixth grader at the skating rink. I spent the better part of my Saturday mornings in my room, prepping myself for my grand entrance into Empire Skates. With "Beat It" blaring in the background, on went the purple eyeshadow, the cut-off lace gloves and the Aqua Net (pink can, naturally). At the time, those barrettes with the ribbons woven through were all the rage. They usually were made with two colors of ribbon.

But I had my secret weapon to get myself noticed.

I had a pair with seven ribbons each--- one for every color of the rainbow. No one else in town had them, and when I paired them with my rainbow striped dolman sleeved t-shirt, well, let's just say I was IT, baby. A final spritz of Love's Baby Soft, and I was out the door.

I have only a couple of clear memories from the rink. Somehow, each afternoon went the same way:

1) Clammer into the rink with about five friends.

2) Ignore ticket lady as she rolls her eyes at us. Clearly, her time had past, and she was JEALOUS of our fabulousness.

3) Race to the benches to put on five identical pairs of the blue-skates-with-red-stripe-and-white-pompon-with-bells combo.

4) I would try to lift Pam T's Member's Only jacket, unsuccessfully. Mine was flesh colored, and sucked (thanks mom).

5) Skate round and round to a mish mosh of Cool and the Gang, Flock of Seagulls and Rick Springfield.

6) Slowly skate off the floor when Couples Only skate was called, looking like I didn't care at all that no one ever asked me to skate. I was too cool to care.

7) Roller Limbo contest. Kristie S. was a gymnast and about two feet tall, so she always won. But one week, some random guy beat her, and it was the scandal of the week. Kristie was hysterical, and we all threw hexes at the poor dude that beat her.

8) Picked up by parents on the corner waaaay away from the rink. Stephanie's dad picked us up once in front of the rink ,and we, like, almost died.

Ward is also from Syracuse, and we spent one day early into our marriage drinking and laughing over the enigma that was Empire Skates. Seriously, everyone went there. Ask anyone currently in their mid-thirties that even passed through the damn town, and I'm sure they'll know the place. It was like a pre-teen Studio 54.

Together we remembered the drama of the place. The music. The social structure. The ticker lady. The limbo contest.

"Yeah," he said. "There was this little chick that won every week, and one week I kicked her ass."

I didn't believe that Ward was that same kid---until he got down on the floor and demonstrated the infamous sideways Shoot the Dog move that toppled Kristie from her throne.

Still trying to pick my jaw up off the carpet, he blew me away again with, "Yeah, and I was always too shy to ask anyone to skate. There was this girl I always had my eye on, but I never went over...

...she wore a rainbow shirt and had these really cool rainbow ribbon barrettes...."

Mother's Day

Dear Mrs. S.,

Every Mother's Day since Leslie died, I think of you. I want to send flowers, or a card, or something to let you know that I haven't forgotten her, and to thank you for raising her to be the kind of person she turned into.

When ever I find myself entrenched, as I often am, in following the straight and narrow, I imagine what she'd say to me. I went from college to grad school to marriage to babies. Never diverted off course. I sometimes wish I had.

I remember when I was holed up studying on the first warm days of spring, Les would drag me off to the quad to snooze in the sun. As I lay there next to her, I wondered how she would get through finals if she kept taking breaks like those. But she always did.

She also grabbed me from studying to go have a quick smoke in the back hall of the KD house. At the time, I thought we were being so rebellious, and I was sure Les would die from lung cancer one day.

I remember how she took an extra year to graduate, not because her grades were bad, but because she took her time. Time to do other things like play and think and dream and laugh. And a the time, I felt proud that I stuck the course and graduated right on time. Sure, I didn't have as much fun as she did, but I got the job done.

I remember how right after she graduated, while I was stuck in lecture halls in the midwest, she up and moved to New York City without a dime in her pocket. I had always dreamed of doing the same thing, and I promised her that I would join her. Just as soon as I was done with grad school.

While I spent my time agonizing over whether or not each guy I dated was The One, she was throwing herself head first into relationships, falling in lust over and over again. And while I fell apart with each breakup, she took hers in stride. She picked herself up, dusted herself off, and went off searching for an adventure, with or without a man. And then she would fall in love all over again. Or not.

I promised myself that one day I would travel, just as soon as I had enough on my bank account from my first job to do so. Of course, the rent and the student loans had to be paid, so it never happened. Meanwhile, Leslie charged tickets and traveled all over the world. At the time, I thought she was reckless and just a tad irresponsible.

I got married right after grad school, having never moved to NYC, never traveled, and never spending a single unscheduled moment in the sun. We drifted apart as she kept on being her, and I became more "grounded."

At the time, I was proud of playing the part of Good Girl, and was sure that Leslie's carefree lifestyle would catch up to her one day. I knew I'd be there for her if it ever did.

Ultimately, it wasn't recklessness that killed her, but a stupid freak fall. She wasn't don't anything careless, she was simply posing for a picture while on vacation. We hadn't spoken in about six months, simply because I was busy with the inane details of my life. So in the end, I wasn't there for her at all, and I couldn't forgive myself.

I never got the chance to tell you this, but I found out that Leslie considered me to be very much a part of her life towards the end of hers. Two days after I got back from the funeral, I received a post card from Puerto Rico, and when I saw that familiar back handed writing of hers, my heart lurched. She mailed it the day before she died, and in it she let me know how much she'd been thinking about me lately, that she missed me terribly, and that she would call just as soon as she got back so we could plan to see each other. On the front of the postcard was a Matisse painting, and I had the exact same one framed on my desk in college. She remembered.

Thank you so much for giving her the space she needed to grow into herself. She was larger than life, and you gave her enough guidance and love to ground her. You supported her no matter what she did, and she loved you more than you know.

By living each moment to the fullest, Leslie was able to cram into 29 short years more than most people ever do in a lifetime. She taught me to loosen up and enjoy life, and not to get mired down in the details. She taught me that the straight and narrow isn't that much fun and that we all need time to snooze in the sun.

I know that you must have hoped that Leslie would one day pass on to her own children all of the values and love for life that you instilled in her. I hope it gives you comfort to know that I am trying my best to pass those lessons on to my own children, and that the memory of your daughter guides me every step of the way.

Happy Mother's Day,
Katy

How it Went Over (update on last post)

So the Dixie Chicks were on full blast, and I hollered, "So what do you think?"

And Ward said, "I'm just wondering why you're listening to this. "

Turning around slowly, he said, "Wait a minute...... is this about Johnny Cash?"

Excellent memory, that one.

Will He Still Love Me Tomorrow??

I hate Johnny Cash. At least I used to, until I developed a mad crush on a certain Joaquin Phoenix. But loooong before Walk the Line came out, my sweet, sweet husband, whom up until then I thought would listen to nothing but old alternative, goth and techno, whipped out his hidden album of the Man in Black, and proceeded to make my ears bleed whenever we were in the car together. I could usually make it through about two songs before I took matters into my own hands and snapped off the CD player, folded my arms across my chest and simmered in silent fury. He just thought it was so damn funny.

I relayed this to my parents when they came to visit towards the end of my last pregnancy. Expecting sympathy from my mom, the Motown Queen, I absolutely seethed when she came out of the closet as a Johnny Cash lover. Upon hearing this, Ward clapped his hands together, did a little hop of glee and bounded off to get his CD. I waddled out of the house,muttering, to avoid the noise.

While I was gone, Ward and my mom explained the situation to my dad, who then scurried off to grab his cell phone. Walking back in to the house, panting but refreshed, I had his phone shoved into my face, the ringtone singing "I Walk the Line."

A few nights later, I heaved myself into the car after everyone else. As soon as I settled into my seatbelt, my parents locked the doors and blasted "Ring of Fire." Three of them just thought they were a hoot.

Little does my husband know, I've been holding my own cards close to my chest, waiting for the perfect moment to put them into play. See, I used to date a guy from Arkansas, and because of Bubba, I spent about two years listening to country almost exclusively. I'm not proud of that time of my life, but it was what it was.

Tomorrow, Ward wants me to go with him to take our son to see Thomas the Train---Live!!! Woo Hoo!!! I really, really don't want to go. I want to spend the day here, puttering around the house and not having to play 100 Questions with our son. But for reasons I can't go into here, he begged, so I'm going.

And little does he know it, but I've downloaded and burned every Dixie Chick, Garth Brooks, Faith Hill and Lorrie Morgan song that I've ever heard in my life. The man hates country. But this time I'm at the wheel, and I control the stereo and the doorlocks.

Touche, my love.