Good Friends Are Like Stars...

...you don't always see them, but you know they are always there. -- Confucius

We went up to Massachusetts to spend Thanksgiving with my family this year. While there, I decided to help my parents by clearing out some of my old junk--stuff that's been cluttering up their space for the twenty years that they've lived in the house. The two nightstand drawers in my old room were crammed with letters from the late eighties and early nineties--these were my college years when I would go back home over school breaks and summer vacations.

I've been going through the letters slowly, trying to decipher my friends' almost-illegible scrawl. My goal was to throw out most of the letters, but yet keep a representative sample that would sum up the place and time, as well as each friend's individual personality.

A large proportion of the letters were from my freshman year at college. I guess this is because my old high school friends and I had yet to form any close friendships with kids at college, so we were, understandably, clinging to our former lives. 

Summer of '88: Me and a few friends, back together
 after our freshman year of college.

As I read through the letters, I wasn't surprised by all the mentions of cute boys, classes, partying, and roommates (whom ranged from awesome to awful). But what did surprise me, what I wasn't expecting to read, was so much written about our friendships with one another--what we missed, what we meant to each other, how close our bonds were, etc. We were surprisingly introspective young women considering we were just out of high school. 

For example, here's what one friend wrote to me in September, 1987, just after we'd gone our separate ways to different colleges thousands of miles apart:

"My problem is I meet a lot of people but have no close friends. I wish in a way you and our other friends were with me. Though we'd all be trying to break away from each other, we'd still have each other there.... I miss you, Sue! I talk about you a lot. It's so weird to be starting new again! I like it, but there are certain security things I miss, like our group."

That is pretty self-aware for an eighteen year old, if you ask me. 

In another letter, a different friend wrote:

"Sue, I really miss you and I know it sounds dumb but I really wish that you were here because you truly have been so strong for me on so many occasions. You are truly my best friend (a term I no longer use so lightly!) and I don't know how come I deserve you sometimes."

I love you, crazy girls.

Twenty years later, I'm blown away by the level of intimacy in these letters. I'm sure at the time I didn't think much of it; it would've just been how things were, how we felt about one another, and the way we communicated and responded to each other. But because I'm so far away from that time, and my focus is on family rather than friendships, it just seems so, so remarkable that we felt that strongly and deeply about each other.

I still love these ladies, though we remain geographically isolated from one another. I miss having them in my life on a regular basis, but even more, I miss having a gang of cool, smart, interesting, and fun women around to whom I can talk, vent, and bitch, and who also completely have my back. My husband and family are wonderful and supportive of course, but it's not the same.  

So if any of you lovely ladies--my dearest friends from childhood and beyond--are reading this, I just want to thank you for all the love, laughs, hugs, support, and advice you've given me over the years.

I couldn't have made it through without you. And I miss you so much it hurts.

I Love You, Dad

Father's Day is coming up, and it's got me thinking about my dear ol' dad.

My dad is the greatest. Thanks to him (and my mom) I had a wonderful, stable, secure childhood. My dad was (and still is) reliable, consistent, and loving--when I was little, he was always telling me how much he adored me, that I was beautiful, that I was his "little dahling" (Boston accent).

He was exceedingly proud of my academic achievements, so in addition to feeling loved and beautiful, I also felt smart. He assured me I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up; however, that didn't stop him from telling me what he thought I should be.

When I was seven or eight, I informed him that I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up (I'd just read an inspiring biography of Clara Barton).

"Oh, no, no, no, honey, you don't want to be a nurse. Being a nurse is such difficult, thankless work. Nurses empty out bedpans and bathe patients. If you want to go into the medical field, be a doctor, not a nurse."

I considered his advice...and decided I wanted to be a doctor instead (though that didn't last long).

Yes, my dad has always been reliable and consistent, yet he's also human and occasionally makes mistakes. One of my most vivid childhood memories was one of these mistakes.

I was around eight or nine. My dad had taken the day off work because he had some sort of important luncheon. Much alcohol was imbibed. Now, this was the 1970's when three-martini lunches were pretty common, but my dad didn't travel in those circles and was never a big drinker. But for some reason, he drank way more than he should've that day.

I was upstairs playing in my room when my dad got home (drunk driving--nice!). I must've been bored, because when he stumbled upstairs to change clothes, I said, "Hi, Daddy!" and followed him into my parents' room. I don't remember exactly what happened or what he said, but it went something like this: My dad slurs/yells at me to leave him alone, lurches by, falls onto the bed, and passes out.

I ran back to my room and cried--and have never forgotten it to this day. See, my dad hardly ever yelled at me (he saved it for my brothers); I only got it if I really, really deserved it. Which wasn't too often because I was a good kid. This event traumatized me because I hadn't done anything wrong, and besides, my dad looked weird--he was all disheveled and crazy-eyed. He scared me.

My dad in 1984, not long before boys started
messing up our relationship.

That was pretty much it for traumatic fatherly events during childhood. High school, however, was a completely different story. Once boys came into the picture, my dad became THE ENEMY. He was super-protective and strict, and I hated him for it.

One of his crazy rules was my weekend curfew: 11 p.m. if I was on a date, midnight if I was with friends. (Yet my brother, who was only one year older, had no curfew at all.) So, yeah, once or twice, I lied. I said I was out with friends when I was actually with my boyfriend. Of  course I did! It was a terrible, unfair rule that deserved to be broken.

Because I was a good girl by nature, I wasn't great at subterfuge--I didn't inform my friends of my plan to lie, so unfortunately, while I was out with my boyfriend, the friend I was supposed to be with called the house. As this was before cell phones, my dad had to wait until I got home at midnight to ream me out. I have blocked out most of the ugliness, but the one thing I do remember is him hissing: "You lied to us! Look at you! Look at your face...those lips have been kissed!" He said it like I truly disgusted him. By the sound of it, you would've thought he had found me naked in the back seat of a car. He made me feel so dirty.

I yelled back: "You made me lie! It's totally unfair that I have a curfew while Alan gets to stay out as late as he wants!"

"It's different with boys."

Arrggh! That was his favorite argument, and I deplored it. Whenever I argued that lots of my friends were allowed to stay out past 12 a.m. he'd end the discussion with, "Nothing good happens after midnight." It sucked, because when I was out with friends, it always felt like I was leaving just when things were getting good (and by good I mean bad).

But now I'm all grown-up, with kids of my own, and my dad and I are close once again.

And here's what I want to say to him: Although we had a few rough years when I wished you were more of a pushover, thank you, Dad, for always letting me know that you cared about me, worried about me, and were watching me. Because, although I hated every minute of it, your discipline led me to behave better than I would have otherwise.

To paraphrase Chris Rock: Thank you for keeping me off the pole.

Freaks, Band Geeks, and X-Rated Movies

The other day, I was telling/yelling at one of my kids to "C'mon, do it, already! Do it!" (about who knows what), and then later on, I found myself humming "Do it, do it" under my breath. I started laughing because it reminded me of a funny story, which I will now tell.

Yes, that's really me, circa '86 or '87

Back in high school I played the clarinet in the band. Yes, I know I've just crushed the image you had of me as a confident, sophisticated, well-dressed, popular teen, but the reality is that I took A/P classes and was in the marching band. But in my defense, I was as cool as a girl with a plume coming out of her hat could be.

Our school's band happened to be excellent, so we occasionally traveled to competitions where we had to stay in hotels overnight. After one competition (to Quebec, maybe?), we were all on the bus heading back home, when some boys in the very back started singing a song: It started softly, almost a whisper, "Do it, do it, d-d-d-do it, do it," then got louder, "DO IT, DO IT, D-D-D-DO IT, DO IT," and on and on, louder and louder.

Turns out it was the theme song from a porn flick they'd ordered at the hotel. Thirty seconds into it and just about every boy on that bus was singing along. Yes, they were all under 18 and yes, they got into trouble (well, sort of...not really...they just had to pay the porn rental charges.)

Bus ride home after a band trip to Quebec, 1986. This
may (or may not) have been the "Do it, do it" ride.

It was one of those crazy moments that are both hysterical and educational. Sure my girlfriends and I laughed and laughed, but we also learned something: Teenage boys do actually like to watch porn! I don't think we ever knew that for sure before that day.

Fast-forward 15 years or so, and my then-boyfriend and I were renting a movie from my local place in the West Village. (Remember that? Renting movies?) I don't recall what movie we had rented, but I'm sure it was rated PG. The reason I know this is because of my shock when the following happened: We popped in the DVD and the opening credits came on, accompanied by blurry, flesh-colored images that were back-lit in blood-red. Then we heard,  oh-so-softly, "Do it, do it, d-d-d-do it, do it," and again, louder and louder.

Something went ding! ding! ding! in my brain, but not until the blurry images came into focus and we were able to see that they were actually naked bodies, did the pieces fall into place. It was THAT MOVIE! I hadn't thought of the high school bus episode since it had happened 15 years earlier but, wow, that song brought it all back in vivid detail.

Yup, an X-rated DVD had mistakenly been put into a PG-rated, family flick box.

I don't recall if my boyfriend and I watched the whole flick. I don't think so--I'm sure, like all porns, it was lacking in plot and got boring after the first 15 minutes. But what I do remember is marching back to the video place and blasting them for their mistake: "Do you realize this is a family film?! A child could've been watching! How could this have happened?"

The slacker dude (this was in the 90's before hipsters were invented) just sort of shrugged and thanked me for pointing out the mistake. I was disappointed because I thought I'd at least be offered a free rental for my troubles. But no.

I wish I could remember the name of the "Do it" porn movie--just for old time's sake, get your head out of the gutter!--but I can't. And a quick Google search of "'Do it, do it' porn song" did not yield any web pages that I dared click on. So here I am, left wondering.

Unless anyone can enlighten me? Anyone?

A Carnival of Memories

There is an event I look forward to every year, and it's finally here! I'm talking about the pop-up carnival at our local church, which features all kinds of entertainment: the Tilt-a-Whirl, Ferris Wheel, Scrambler, Dizzy Dragons, Bumper Cars, Ali Baba, Funhouse, games galore, and cotton candy.

I love every single thing about the local carnival: the lame rides which are only scary because I literally watched them being assembled three days ago; the fact that we can walk there and laugh at all the people driving around searching for a parking space; the sound of tweens screaming on the Tilt-a-Whirl (which we can hear through our bedroom window because we live that close); running into friends unexpectedly; the fact that it gives hoards of middle-schoolers, who are yearning for independence, a chance to safely roam the fair grounds unsupervised; and last, but certainly not least, how excited my kids get about it every year.

I didn't experience my first local carnival until high school. Of course, I'd visited amusement parks many times before, but there's something particularly magical about a local fair, especially during a girl's teenage years. I remember feeling so free and alive--wandering through the fair grounds at night, the paths lit by bright, blinking lights; the excited screams coming from all over the park; the sense of anticipation while waiting in line for the scariest ride; the wind whipping through our hair while a steel contraption flung us around and around and around again.

But the best part by far was the sheer possibility the night held. It was as if anything could happen. Pretty much the entire high school was there, including my closest friends and, more importantly, the cutest boys. While at the fair, my heart never stopped racing, either because of the thrilling rides or the close proximity of my latest crush.

I remember one fair in particular: It was June 1987, I was about to turn 18, my high school graduation was mere days away, I was heading off to college in the fall, and I was heady with the idea of my impending independence. I could taste it. The fair was our last high school fling, and for me, the perfect way to kick off summer.

I remember I was on the Ferris Wheel with a friend, and each time we rose high in the sky, we'd scan the fair grounds and check out who was there. I spotted this boy I was sort-of dating. He and I had gone to Prom together a few weeks earlier, but I wasn't sure what was going on between us. I waved down to him, and he waited around for the ride to end. We chatted and flirted for a little while, and then he leaned over and kissed me right in the middle of the teeming carnival, as people streamed by us. It was ten times more frightening and thrilling than the rides, and completely unforgettable. Twenty-four years later and I still remember that the kiss tasted like his cinnamon gum.

Fun on the Ferris Wheel
with my little lady

Nowadays, of course, it's all about how much fun my kids are having at the fair. But I will admit this: While on the Ferris Wheel with my daughter yesterday, I couldn't help but scan the fair grounds, wondering who I might see below....

Elementary, My Dear Watson.

For the past few years, I've observed parents of soon-to-be Kindergarteners freaking out. What, I thought to myself every time, is the big freakin' deal?

Well, now I know. And, no, the big deal isn't that your "little man" or "baby girl" is embarking on a new phase of life or that his or her well-being will suddenly be in someone else's hands for most of the day. The big deal is the insane amount of forms to fill out, orientations to attend, and brochures to read.  

My five-year-old is starting Kindergarten in the Fall. And this past month alone, I've had three events to attend at the elementary school, plus numerous forms to sort through and complete. Registering your kid for K is practically a full-time job in and of itself. Medical forms, dental forms, tell-us-about-your-kid forms, please-join-the-PTA forms--it's never-ending. 

I'm pretty sure entering Kindergarten didn't require this much parental effort back in the olden days (the Seventies). Back then, K was just a half-day, and nap time was still a reality. Kindergarten then was more like how preschool is now. Play-Doh has been replaced with flash cards. Back in the Seventies, there was probably just a quick tour of the school and maybe a parents' night sometime in late August or early September.

But with four months to go before school even starts in the fall, I'm already stressed out. I know my son will do great--he's smart, friendly, kind, polite, and a voracious learner--so it's not him I'm worried about. No, I'm worried about ME. If this orientation process is any indication of the next 12 years to come, I'm going to have to start mentally preparing. 

And when I say "mentally preparing" I actually mean "stocking up on wine." It's going to be a long 12 years. Or maybe it'll go by in a flash. One or the other. Or both.

A House Divided

I've been toying with the idea of moving to the town next door, which my husband and I love for its cute downtown, eclectic stores, artsy cinema, bars, walkability, parks, sidewalks, and liberal population. We moved to the town we live in not knowing much about it. Basically, we found a house we loved, the commute into the city was doable for my husband, and the school system was supposedly pretty good. But there's no downtown to speak of, nowhere to walk to, no sidewalks, and the population is a bit too conservative for my liking.

However, it's school quality that's really making me think about moving. The reality is that most schools in Westchester are good. The super-highly-rated ones, like Scarsdale and Chappaqua, are (from what I've heard) pressure cookers for the poor stressed kids who attend. Navigating school seems challenging enough these days without the added academic pressure these schools put on kids. I don't want that for my little darlings. Besides, property taxes in these towns are insane.

So when we were looking to move to Westchester, we overlooked these high-pressure towns for more low-key, (relatively) poorer, and less snobby ones. The town where we ended up in is nice--it's a solid-family-values and strong-work-ethic kind of place. Except, apparently, for many of the high-schoolers;  I've heard they aren't exactly the highest achievers.

And of course that concerns me. Because while I don't want my kids to be subject to such insane pressures that they burn out (or worse), I do want them to be sufficiently challenged and surrounded by students and teachers who are all trying their best. I want my kids attending schools where curiosity and a hunger for knowledge are encouraged and valued. Our town's K-Gr. 2 program is universally praised as one of the best in the county, but unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the middle and high schools.

The general consensus is that Grades 3-12 are better in the cute town next door.

So what do we do? Do we stay here and hope the middle and high schools continue to improve (as they've been doing)? After all, our son isn't even in Kindergarten yet so time is on our side. Do we stay here until the kids have completed the acclaimed K-Gr. 2 program, and then move? Or, if we're planning on moving eventually anyway, wouldn't it be better to do it now so they aren't uprooted partway through their education?

Further complicating matters is the fact that my son currently goes to school in the next town over and 90% of his friends live there. Kids are flexible, I know, and I'm sure he'll make new local friends at Kindergarten next year, but still, he won't know anyone going in. Also, house-wise, you get less for your money in the cute other town. Do we accept a lesser house as a trade for a better school system?

And finally, there's this: I've recently begun infiltrating the "cool" group of moms who live in the cute town (I've written about them before). So far I've found out that they have Meet-in-the-Park Wednesdays with wine and pizza, and on Friday and/or Saturday nights they get babysitters and a bunch of couples meet up at one of the local bars (get this, they walk there!). We were invited to join them last night, and it was really fun (we were the only ones who drove). We could have a real, active social life if we moved to that town. People where we live now just don't do fun stuff like that.

So while I don't know what we'll end up doing, I do know that I'm looking at a couple of houses next week. I mean, who knows, right?