My First...

My First...

    In the aftermath of the Forty By Forty project and blog, I have gotten many requests for MORE BLOGGING. It seems the musings and ramblings of a year's worth of adventures leading up to my fortieth birthday have been missed. To be honest, I myself have missed pouring my heart out about the various challenges, embarrassing moments, euphoria, and sense of accomplishment that became "every day" stuff for me last year. 

    I asked for suggestions for what my new blog could be about and got some great ideas. Anayat contributed "Biggest Regrets Revisited," and it was the front runner for a while, but when it came down to making that list, it turns out I have something in common with Edith Piaf, other than that crazy vibrato I do only when I have tonsillitis. I don't regret a whole lot. 

    Then there was the "Drugs I've Taken" idea, but I counted and it wouldn't be more than 5 posts. I don't like to kiss and tell so "Boyfriends Through The Years" was nixed right away. Also, because I know some men would hate to be blogged about, even if I gave them fake names.

    I decided on "Firsts," a suggestion from Mary Smith, a fellow blogger. She threw it out there casually, one day. I listened and the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea because it could be so many different things, things from yesterday or from twenty, thirty or even forty years ago. It could be sweet things, uncomfortable things, sad things, happy things. 

    So, without further ado, it is with great pleasure I am announcing my new blog: My First...

    "My First What?" you may ask. Exactly. Like in the Forty By Forty, I am taking suggestions. Last week at dinner, I started the list with John Kazlauskas and Michael Hundgen; good friends, Forty By Forty participants and fellow bloggers. I plan to add to it, and the way I'm challenging myself with this one is, I promise to blog about every single item on the list.

    With Forty By Forty, there was always a choice; I knew I wouldn't have to do them all because there were so many. But in this blog, if you suggest it, and I have done it, I will blog about it in the next year. I might even take on doing some new firsts if the suggestion is interesting enough and if it seems like it's something most people have done. Email me with your ideas for firsts and I will include them. And try to keep it clean, people.    

    Thank you to Mary for the idea, to John & Hundgen for getting the list started...and to Amber, Cliff, Diane, Dory, Heather, James, Karen, Karin, Radha, Ronny and Zoe for adding to it...

1. My First Kiss
2. My First Time Being Caught in a Lie
3. My First Celebrity Crush
4. My First Husband
5. My First Car
6. My First Day of School
7. My First Tattoo
8. My First Pet
9. My First Best Friend
10. My First Groundlings Performance
11. My First Pair of Shoes
12. My First Concert
13. My First Flode Is
14. My First American Boyfriend
15. My First Diary
16. My First Photo Shoot
17. My First Wedding
18. My First Kiss...with a Girl
19. My First Favorite Thing
20. My First Cigarette
21. My First Lillebror
22. My First Date
23. My First Time
24. My First Hangover
25. My First Time Being Bullied
26. My First Heartbreak
27. My First Fight
28. My First Funeral
29. My First Wave
30. My First Time Getting Published
31. My First Love
32. My First Camping Trip
33. My First Ride on the LA Metro
34. My First Time Voting
35. My First Wet Wednesday
36. My First Knit Item
37. My First Month as a Scorpio
38. My First Record
39. My First Gay Kiss?
40. My First Job
41. My First Role Model
42. My First Trip to America
43. My First R Rated Movie
44. My First Roadtrip
45. My First Mixed Tape

My First Gay Kiss?

       

        I go to a really fun dance class on Wednesday nights, Wet Wednesdays, and will sometimes find myself at Bar Stella afterwords for a well deserved drink. This particular night, a couple of months ago now, I couldn't get the bartender's attention, even in the skimpy top I was wearing, so I suppose I bitched about it a bit. Out loud. Because let's face it, there's nothing more surprising and frustrating than being a blonde in a low cut top and not get what you want. 

        A charming young gentleman leaned in and explained that the bartender was gay and offered to help me out. He winked, got some attention and shortly thereafter, I had my beverage. Not surprising, I quickly became best friends with my knight in shining armor, who was adorable, outrageously entertaining, in his early twenties, and also gay. 

        When you're single at a bar, everything is always about sex, and I guess I don't usually mind but this was a nice change. He didn't want to have sex with me and I didn't want to have sex with him. So the pressure was off, and I wasn't afraid to throw the harsh verbal punches I've been told not to throw men, (because it's not feminine or enticing). So it was a night of harsh jargon and hilarious banter and at the end of the night, we exchanged phone numbers so we could hang out again. 

        We texted a lot and I got excited everytime he texted me because he was so funny and so was I. I was with my friend Maya one day when I got a text from him, and as I beamed while writing a witty response, she rolled her eyes at me, and said something like, "you know he's not gay, right?" Her argument was that no single gay man in their right mind would spend their day texting me or asking me to have drinks. I was so offended. "Well, why not? I'm fun. I can be a great friend to someone gay." Maya said, "Mmm-hmm," and shook her head. 

        A week or so later, we met for drinks, this time at Covell, which is my "home" bar for a myriad of reasons. The cool design gives it a great vibe without being too hipster, the staff is super attractive and doesn't make you feel stupid about wine. Of course, the most important reason, (no, not the wine) is that it's exactly two blocks from my place, which makes things way easier when you are are a light weight. 

Did I mention he was blonde too?

        It was another great night with my new gay BFF. We got to know each other better, and the witty banter was there right away. I made fun of him for ordering the "tulip beer" from the board (that's the glass some beers are served in) and he made fun of me for something, which I can't remember, but I laughed like a hyena because it was funny and also because I was on my second glass of wine. Did I mention one and a half is my hard limit?

        He walked me home and after we talked about seeing each other again, he gave me a hug and kissed me on the lips like a good gay BFF. Then he stuck his tongue in my mouth. It took me a beat to figure out what was happening. My drunken mind couldn't compute, and started to throw random thoughts at me. "What?"  "Wait!"  "Is he or isn't he?" "Could he be gay AND be French kissing me right now?" "Did I make up the whole gay thing?" And then of course,  "What do I do right now?"

        I opted to not pull away like a scared animal, because that would be rude, but to swiftly finish what he had started, and a bit more gracefully, if I may say so. Then I walked into my apartment and started laughing. Not at him, but at the situation because I suppose this is what happens when you decide something about someone, which may or may not be true. I laughed at myself and how completely checked out I am sometimes. 

         In hindsight, there were signs, other than Maya's opinion, and I suppose I was about as oblivious and clueless to those as I am when straight men are hitting on me. Which I guess is what this really was. Or was it? 

        I guess I should have known when he talked about watching "the game" and drinking beer every Sunday, although I know gay guys who do that. I guess I should have known when we played "Fuck, kill or marry," and he looked completely flabbergasted when I pointed to Shaughn the bartender, and two male patrons to choose from. I guess I should have known when Ellen, another bartender, whispered "You're on a date, right?" as he went to the bathroom. 

       In my defense I was pretty drunk. So drunk that when I woke up the next day I discovered that the "wrap" I had carried home was in fact not my wrap, but one of Covell's cloth napkins. A wrap for really tiny people. Thinking back and trying to remember the things he did say that made him gay to me, I can't think of a single thing, other than he got the bartender's attention at Bar Stella that night. Which doesn't really make him gay at all. I guess I just had a blonde moment that lasted for a couple of weeks... 

My First Record

        Music is everything to me. If someone asked me what is the one thing I couldn't live without, it's music. Nothing makes me happier than to sing and dance, and there will always be a part of me that wishes I could have made my life all about music. Don't get me wrong, I think writing is what I'm supposed to do in life, and the truth is, singing and dancing on my own works just as well. It's a huge part of my life even though it's not my career. But still...music is my first love. 

        And that love has gotten so much bigger since learning to play the guitar, because I can now access music in a different way. I can accompany myself when singing my favorite Beatles songs, and even make my own. Although I will say, it's hard for a screenwriter to write songs. I am used to having 110 pages to tell the story. Gently, slowly unfolding, with subtext and nuances. In music, you get a couple of verses, a bridge and the chorus to tell your story. So it's all right there. Boom. Potent. Intimate. "I loved him. He didn't love me. And now I'm left crying." (Sounds like a country song actually. Maybe I'm just in the wrong genre?) 

                                            

        Back to my love for music. I wake up and roll out of bed and immediately turn on this Shamanic music which overnight guests find creepy. It's deep and dark and has a heartbeat-like bass line, but to me, it's the perfect thing to start the day with. Breathe, relax, have some tea, open the curtains and come to life.

        Once I'm awake, it's always the Beatles, although after a recent visit by my brother Ulrik, who does work in the music industry, I've found myself switching out Rubber Soul and Revolver for Swedish rap. I know. Weird. But it's fun to listen to overpriviledged Swedish kids rap about life, and it does keep me knee deep in Stockholm hipster language which I think will prove quite helpful when I go home, since I'm always teased for using 90's jargon around my family. 

    

        When I feel stressed and need to calm down I listen to Grizzly Bear. At work I listen to The Black Keys or Radiohead. A little Mumford. When I clean it's always to Stevie Wonder, because his music makes everything feel good. Even scrubbing and mopping. When I write, I have something instrumental on, otherwise I'll sing and dance instead of write. Then there are those special albums that come along and just change everything. You can't go for long without a listen, so they become your everything albums. You go to dinner with good friends and all you can think is, "how long before I can get back in my car and sing?"

        I'm obviously talking about Justin Timberlake's "The 20/20 Experience." And if you are rolling your eyes, you obviously haven't heard it. There's no other explanation. It's brought myself and Christie Hooks from Post more joy than anyone can experience in a lifetime. And a lot of office dance parties. In just under 10 days. So imagine what it can do for you. (Note: There is nothing I won't do for tickets to the JT/Jay-Z show.)

                                             

        So after this long introduction, on to my first record, which took some recognisance and research because my memory failed me. Which is a first. So the truth is, there doesn't seem to be one first record. I remember a few records in the beginning, but I don't remember which came first. I had the Sountrack to Grease (released 1979) which I loved because of the handsome Mr. Travolta on the cover, and his "why ay ay ay" in the song "Sandy." I also had the Soundtrack to Hair (1979) and knew all the words to every song even though I didn't understand what the words meant. Considering the somewhat adult lyrics and subject matter, my not knowing English was probably for the best.

        It wasn't all musicals though. I also had - or rather, my brother Ulrik had which gave me access to - the record "Tonarsdrommar" (teenage dreams) by the Swedish punk rock band Noice (1979 again.) They were just a few years older than we were, and still in school. They wrote about issues that teenagers have, and although I wasn't one yet, something about their angst touched me. Sadly, fame at such a young age changed their lives, and not for the better. After a couple of years, the music no longer had the same angst and they got into all sorts of addictions, which had two of the original band members die fairly young. 

        I will say that U2's "Out of Control" was the first time I remember feeling something really deeply about music. It came out in September of 1979 just like the albums above, so I was almost 9. I think I heard it at my Grandparent's house in Helsingborg. My Uncle Ulf is only 5 years older than I, so he was still living at home at that time, and was getting into U2. I think it was more my lingering around his bedroom door than him sitting me down and playing their songs for me. He wasn't all that interested in spending time with my brother and I back then.  

            I remember being an angry kid, and I remember hearing that they were angry, even though I didn't understand what they were singing about. I think my anger was about having divorced parents, a new step-dad, a fairly new brother, and living in Stockholm, which was far away from my Dad. I had finally started learning English that fall, but we were learning things like "Jill is skating. Bob is playing ice-hockey." (I guess winter words worked best for Swedish children.)

        So my brain wasn't equipped to deal with Bono's angry, politically charged lyrics, but they gave me solace and made me feel understood. I stuck with U2 for a long time because they were there for me when I needed them most. Seeing them live was almost like a religious experience, but then I had to brace myself for the post-concert blues that always followed. I'm still sticking with them even though these days, their lyrics aren't as potent and they seem to have lost most of that raw anger. I have too though, so I can't really complain. I guess I listen out of loyalty and to remember how I felt then. 

        To quote a Swedish band I've been listening to a lot lately, The Soundtrack of Our Lives, music really is. Every song has a memory, an era, a person connected to it. Music takes you back to happy times, sad times and in my case with U2, angry times. You hear the song and you're back there. It's like when I smell Fahrenheit on a stranger and follow them for blocks, gently sniffing without being too conspicuous, because all the cute boys wore Fahrenheit in the 80's. It still makes me crazy love sick. Instantly. 

Bjorn, me, Dalit and Benny

        ABBA reminds me of the "shows" my friend Dalit and I used put on in her living room; she was Annifrid (known in the US as "the dark-haired one") and I was Agneta ("the blonde one.") The Beatles remind me of my Mom, because that's what we would dance around to with her in the living room, U2 obviously reminds me of my Uncle Ulf and but also Richard Zamet, who serenaded me with songs from The Unforgettable Fire when we were teens in London. 

        

        When I hear Soft Cell's "Tainted Love," I start to do the dance combination my 5th grade friends and I choreographed to it. Pretty impressive considering that song doesn't lend itself to any kind of choreography. When I hear the Prince album "Sign of the Times," I think of that night my high school friends and I spent sleeping outside in a very cold Stockholm, to get tickets to see Prince live in concert.

        I learned how to roll joints with my friend Rowena Cokayne (yes, that's her last name, but no, she preferred weed) to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" in London in the 80's. I hiked up to Machu Pichu with Simon & Garfunkel. Not bad company at all. Bob Dylan makes me think of my brother Simon, who wasn't blessed with good pitch like the rest of us. But for obvious reasons, when he sings Bob Dylan, you almost can't tell.         

Bruuuuuce in Stockholm

        When I hear Springsteen's "Thunder Road," I'm back at my very first Bruce Springsteen concert at Staples Center. I had been told by my friend Ronny to listen to every Bruce album ever made to get ready, since I wasn't a huge fan at the time. I was feeling lost because I hadn't recognized any songs, when all of a sudden I heard just a few familiar chords and screamed at the top of my lungs, "IT'S THUNDER ROAD" like a crazy person. The rest is history. I've seen Bruce almost as many times now as I've seen U2. The highlight was in Stockholm on my birthday a few years ago. And we hung out with the E Street Band at the Grand Hotel after the show. 

                                                               

        I'd like to think my music taste is varied and sophisticated, but the truth is, there are some Britney songs I just can't help but love. And let's be honest, that's not sophisticated at all. I couldn't put myself in any one music box if I had to, although as my brother Ulrik said on a recent visit; "you always preferred the dark, depressing stuff..." I suppose I find depth and melancholy a bit more interesting than "happy fluffy music." 

        It would be easier to say what I don't like. I am not a fan of Country Music. Or Heavy Metal. And I guess I don't listen to a lot of Blues, Techno, New Age or Christian. And Easy Listening isn't at all to me. Jazz, I like some of the old stuff. Other than that, anything and everything goes, and by the way, I'm still catching up on all the American Music I missed out on by not growing up here. When I got here, I didn't know Crosby, Stills and Nash. Or Young for that matter.

        Thank god for my musically sophisticated friends who through the years have introduced me to the likes of Johnny Cash, Lou Reed, James Taylor, Janis Joplin, Tom Petty, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison (thank you, Joey) and many more. I can't remember who played Tupac for me, but god bless them. I would have been ok without The Beach Boys. Just saying.  

My First Month as a Scorpio

        This is a weird first. But I had a session with a new astrologer recently and found out I'm a Scorpio and not a Sagittarius as I have believed my whole life. It was so upsetting to me that I couldn't focus on anything else he said. (It was good that the session was recorded because there were a lot of valuable things discussed.) Turns out most varieties of astrology haven't taken into consideration that the earth wobbles, which causes the astrological signs to shift slightly. This doesn't affect everyone by the way, just some. I'm one of the lucky ones. 

        Now, if you're one of those people who thinks astrology is crap, (you know who you are) you should probably stop reading now. And by the way, it's not like astrology is an exact science or religion to me, but I have found it comforting and helpful that some of the ways I feel and act are outside of me, and has something to do with energies and alignments in the universe, and not with some dysfuncion or emotional shortcoming of mine. Admittedly a bit of a cop-out. 

        I've made a pretty good life for myself as a happy, optimistic, freedom loving, independent Sagittarian. I've needed to travel the world so I have and still do. Half man, half horse, always on the go. And I've been able to shrug and explain to those who wanted more than I could give in a relationship that "Sagittarius is the bachelor sign of the Zodiac..." I've been loving people up, just in shorter increments. I've been friendly. And open. 

        Scorpios on the other hand, are PRIVATE. Secretive, sensitive, mysterious and really intense, and if you wrong them, they will sting you HARD. Don't get me wrong. I love Scorpios. I really do. I have evidence in the form of a long list of boyfriends, lovers and even an ex-husband. It just isn't for me, you know? So I'm gonna be honest with you. It's been rough month being a Scorpio. Real rough.

                                                                     

        For those of you who don't know much about astrology, or the difference between Sagittarians and Scorpios, my recent dilemma is like living your whole life in Gryffindor House, with Hermoine and all the red freckled Weasleys, and then waking up one morning discovering that you really belong in Slytherin. And there's Draco Malfoy with his creepy stare in the bed next to you. So I've had to come to terms with the whole good and bad thing. Is it possible that it was bad to be good? And can it be good to be bad? 

        I had to reorganize my brain. And when I started to, I realized that I'm supposed to get along with a whole other slew of signs than when I was a Sagittarius. When I was a Sagittarian my best friends were Aquarians, Leos, Libras and Arians (never Aryans because I'm Jewish.) And now I'm supposed to have affinity for Cancer, Pisces, Virgo and Capricorn, a.k.a. "the moody crowd?" Ugh. And who are these people anyway? Because if my sign shifted, I have to work out who else's sign shifted so I can figure out who in my life I'm supposed to have a newfound affinity to. That I have perhaps avoided in the past due to astrological incompatibility.

        All this reorganizing and obsessive Sagittarius vs. Scorpio overanalytical thinking had me feeling like my brain was about to explode, which in turn had me discover that I'm actually really intense. Hm. So maybe there is something in this new diagnosis? I checked around with some Scorpio friends to see if I fit into their category of dispair and darkness. The consensus was that I was ok to be one of them, as long as I didn't send THEM to the Libra box. Turns out everyone is as comfy in their box as I am in mine. 

           And in subsequent discussions about Scorpio traits, my intensity (sexual and otherwise) and sensitivity did come up. And how obsessively private I am. I tried to defend myself by claiming my blog is so clearly the antithesis of privacy, but I was shot down quickly. "The blog is a pretense...sure, it's you sharing openly, but only what you want, and god help anyone who discusses something about your life that wasn't pre-approved by you." Yep. True Dat. Privacy is important to me. I've had entire relationships without anyone ever knowing (in most instances the gentleman in question had some knowledge.) 

        Which leads me to the next revelation. Because if you talk about my private business, or wrong me in some other way, I don't know that I'll sting you, but you will definitely be out of my life in about three seconds without the obligatory "good luck in your future endeavors" Sagittarian optimism. It's more like "I hope you have no future endeavors. But if you do, let me make it clear I will not be part of them, nor will I spend a second thinking of them." I guess that's a version of a sting.

        So now what? I have no idea. Like I said, it's been a rough month. But it's also been interesting. It's not often you learn new things about yourself, and it's not often everything you thought you were, got thrown out and replaced by a whole other set of attributes and ways of being. By the way, I'm well aware that none of this is the truth. I'm clear it doesn't really mean anything. I do find it helpful to shift the context from which I operate from time to time, so that I can see and get access to a different side of myself, and all of this provided that opportunity. That's all. 

        In conclusion, I have a lot of boxes, for myself and for others. They make me feel safe and protected. Because I know what happens in my box. (That pun really wasn't intended.) In my box I can control my destiny and that's reassuring. But I can see now that I also use my box (or boxes) as an excuse to not have to be responsible for my life. It prevents me from taking risks and leaves me too safe, even complacent at times. So this was a good way to shake things up and force myself out. (And into the crazy box, which most of my readers have probably put me in after reading this.)

        Last but not least, if you want to see what sign you REALLY are, you can go here. You'll most likely find it to be confronting at first, like I did. Or my friend Maya. She was the first one to go to the fantastic astrologer and was told she was no longer a Gemini, but instead a Taurus. She was quite adamant and stubborn (like a Taurus) that she was a Gemini, but now she can't see herself as anything but a Taurus. So, after things settle, you might find things to love about your newfound astrological self. Or not. Take what you like and leave the rest. That's what I'm doing.

My First Knit Item

        A cute young gentleman dared me to knit him a sweater a couple of months ago, after I had uncomplimented the one he was wearing a few too many times. In my defense, I was quite drunk and really just wanted him to take the sweater off, so insulting it seemed like a good option. He promised "three days of goodness" in return for a home made sweater, so the next morning I eagerly signed up for my first knitting class. Well maybe it didn't happen exactly like that. But pretty close.

        Truth is, I'm so crazy competitive that I will do anything I'm dared or challenged to do. Especially if suggested by a member of the opposite sex. And knitting has been something I've always wanted to learn, but have felt too young for. (My apologies to Ellie Schwimmer, who has given me many beautiful home made scarves over the years...)

        Someone actually tried to add "knit something" to my Forty by Forty bucket list, but I nixed it right away. It seemed so senior/geriatric/boring/lame. Not the kind of adventure I was looking for then. But now, well, now it's different. I've had plenty of adventure, and perhaps it's time to settle down a bit. And be the kind of person who doesn't throw themselves out of a plane, into a boxing ring or dance at Jumbo's Clown Room, but the kind of person who knits things. 

        Like my grandmother (who perhaps not so coincidentally became a grandmother when she was the age I am now. Oy.)  Being forced into those itchy matching sweaters she knitted my entire childhood didn't exactly inspire me to pick up knitting needles, so maybe that was also part of my earlier disinterest. And having had a somewhat itchy childhood, can I really subject someone I know to wear my creations? 

Marla, Sule, Zoe and friends...

        But there I was, eager to move away from the past and learn something new, because learning is important and fun to me, and it's been a while since I took on a new hobby. I arrived at Zoe Zeynep on Melrose for my Beginner's Knitting class and met Sule, a beautiful and fun Turkish woman who designs, knits and crochets pieces for some very cool and well known designers while running the knitting store, named for her sweet tween daughter, Zoe. 

        I was excited to find that I was the only student there, because it meant one-on-one instruction. And also, I could safely become the teacher's pet without alienating fellow knitting students. My teacher, Marla, gave me purple needles and a ball of yarn and I quickly learned how to cast on. Casting on is that first row that starts everything and it's important to make sure you get the width right for what you're making. 

        Next was the basic knit stitch and after Marla showed me, my hands just naturally started doing it. I was knitting, comfortably and quite fast I might add. Maybe it's hereditary? There was a lot of "oohing" and "aahing" over my knit stitch. And I was asked if I'd like to move on to the purl stitch, way ahead of schedule. I wasn't surprised. After all, my perfectionist, competitive, driven personality is as helpful when it comes to physical activities as it is detrimental to my personal life. I've gotten used to it by now and gladly take the victories where they are given, meaning, I'll happily become an expert knitter at the cost of a fulfilling love life. Because at the end of the day, I'll have a scarf, or a knit cap, or even a sweater in my little Swedish hands. Yay me!

        The purl knit was no challenge for MacKnit, which was the nickname I gave to myself quietly while knitting away at the store. After a while of the purl, I was offered the more advanced garter stitch, but declined because I didn't like the look of it, although its name might imply I would. But other than that, I was the hit of the store, of the day, and Marla even said I might be the best student she's ever had. 

        In light of all that, it was time to pick yarn and start knitting my first actual item, so I looked at all the yarn in the store before settling on one in (fifty) shades of grey. It would have been just like me to go from never having knit anything to tackling a sweater, but I'm trying to be less intense and driven, so I decided to start slow and easy with a scarf. Recipient TBD. I opted for a cable knit, which is two knit stitches and two pearl stitches alternating. It's actually not as easy as it sounds because the stitches are quite different, so it's harder to get into a rhythm than if you were just doing the same stitch over and over. 

A rare photo because the couches are usually occupied by knitters...

        I sat and knitted there for a while after my official class was over, because that's what people do. There are comfy couches and good music, so people come and knit when they have free time or if they get stuck and need help. And people who wander in to buy yarn, end up staying and knitting for hours because everyone is so friendly, supportive and encouraging.

        I went home and did fairly well on my own for a couple of days, but then I made a mistake, and since I didn't know how to fix it, I went back and learned how to fix mistakes. The more I knitted, the faster and better I got, and everytime I dropped into the store, I would get compliments over how nice and even my stitches were. (Of course I did.)

        I knitted my way through a weekend course, I knitted in front of the TV and at the car wash. I knitted in a director's chair in between takes on set, which reminded me of my days working on Friends, where Creator/Executive Producer Marta Kauffman started a knitting craze among the crew and cast, having decided that down time on set was a good opportunity to create something other than a fantastic sitcom. So it turns out it's a good "Hollywood Hobbie."

           At first I was dragging my yarn and the start of my scarf around in a paper bag, but after some discussion about the proper "carrying your knit work" etiquette at the store, I found a retired purse big enough in my closet, which became my knitting bag. I know. It's official. 

        With the risk of sounding old-fashioned, knitting has been quite soothing and relaxing. It takes whatever extra energy I have...and I have a lot...and channels it into the scarf. (Note to scarf recipient: Sorry about the abundance of energy woven into the scarf.) Also, it gives me something other than playing guitar to counteract the cramps I get from writing, and exercise my fingers a bit. And being part of the knitting community is really cool. No, it's not. I can't write that with a straight face. But I do love it, even if it makes me a dork.  

        All of a sudden, the moment I had been waiting for came. I had felt like no matter how much I knit, that ball of yarn wasn't getting any smaller, so when I finally got to the end I was really surprised. And a bit sad actually. My scarf, which had become a security blanket of sorts, was done. Well not completely done, because I needed to go back to the store and learn how to finish it off, so I left a bit of yarn at the end. I dragged this part out a bit, like I usually do when something is nearing the end and I'm not quite ready to say goodbye.

Me, my scarf and Marla...

        When I was ready, I went back to the store and was greeted with love and enthusiasm for both myself and my scarf. It was a quick bind off that finished up my first knit item. And that was that. I'm happy to have stumbled upon this creative pastime, and definitely ready to move on to my next creation. With some new knitting needles that set me back about ten dollars. Turns out knitting is a very inexpensive hobbie. Do it. It's awesome. 

        Oh, and I got some really soft yarn for the sweater. I hope he likes pink... 

My First Wet Wednesday

        I had a feeling that would grab your attention. It certainly grabbed mine. It sounded really fun and a little dirty when my friend Karen suggested it, so I decided to tag along, being adventurous and open to the somewhat unclean. It felt like it was time to try something new and exciting, and it was definitely time to blog.     

The irritatingly insightful Mr. Mailer

        Friends have been asking why I haven't blogged in a while, and I've been saying I've been too busy, but the truth is I haven't been in the mood. I know. As Norman Mailer put it, "being a real writer means being able to do the work on a bad day." It's just that blogging connects me to my friends, family, acquaintances and to the world and lately I haven't wanted to connect. Sometimes when I'm working through something, I don't feel secure and grounded and connecting during those times makes me feel a bit too vulnerable. So I've been taking a break.

        Nothing devastating happened, I just saw the new year as an opportunity to start from zero, so I chose not to move all my regular activities, hobbies, projects, friends and even lingering romances over to 2013 without careful examination. I looked at where I didn't have power and freedom, I looked at where I wasn't experiencing love and affinity and joy, and I did all those things that everyone does to get clarity; yoga, meditation, even transformational workshops and astrological guidance. And after all of that, my first Wet Wednesday re-affirmed that I was indeed ready to re-enter the world and open my heart, which has been closed for maintenance for a bit.  

        But back to Wet Wednesdays before the suspense kills you. It's a dance class, although that doesn't feel like enough of a description for this extraordinary experience/phenomenon. 

        Perhaps if I tell you a bit about Ryan Heffington, who leads the class, you'll get a better sense. The feast of character that is Ryan Heffington, has a list of accomplishments so long and impressive that he is worthy of a googling. He is on the smallish side, with long curly hair tied in a bun on top of his head, and festive dance wear. Definitely an original. I wouldn't say he's my type in any way, yet there is something strangely sexy about him; his being/spirit/soul is beautiful, his passion and love for dancing beams out of him like the sun, and I've never seen anyone more free in their body. 

        I walked in not knowing what to expect, but was still pretty relaxed because I had been told people who go are cool and there's no judgment. At least not until I showed up. Actually, I'm not judgy either, but I do have a fondness for categorizing people and things, putting them into neat boxes so I know how to relate to them. This proved impossible in the Wet Wednesday crowd, so my brain went through some short circuiting before it quieted down. Which worked in my favor. Because there's nothing more refreshing than when I can't put people in boxes.  

       The class was a mixed bag. Some dancers in varying levels of expertise, some regular people there to get a good workout, but all pretty hip I would say from the colorful and interesting attire. Bright tights, over the shoulder sweatshirts and even some leg warmers. Which wasn't strange because The Sweat Spot, where the class is held, is located in Silverlake, which Forbes Magazine recenly named America's Best Hipster Neighborhood. (Before Williamsburg nonetheless, which I guess has become so hipster it negated it's own hipster factor.)

        Anyways, I felt a bit dull in my lululemon pants and matching tank top, which made sense because I have always struggled with the hipster identity that comes along with living on the east side, and always seen myself as plain. Maybe "classic" is a nicer word. Don't get me wrong, I love the east side, and it feels like home to me more than any other place I've lived in LA. And I want to wear vintage clothes, not wash my hair every day and just braid it six ways to Sunday, or do something else that's really artistic and interesting with my hair or face or body. But I can't because I end up looking ridiculous. Not sure if it's the Jewish part of me or the Swedish part of me, or if it's just that I grew up kind of preppy. 

        Are you exhausted yet? Welcome to my overactive and overanalytical mind. You now know why I needed this dance class. Well, it started. And it only took about five minutes for my face to develop a giant grin. Probably the biggest grin I've had in months. There was a warm up sequence with funky music and as my feet moved around, it just made me burst out laughing. When I looked over at Ashley, who I had dragged along, she was doing the same. Just laughing. But that good kind of laughing. Not laughing at anyone or anything, not because something is ridiculous, but laughing because life is short and there's so much fun to be had. And when you find something that lets you get out of your head for a bit, and makes you feel free, you feel deliriously happy. 

        So there we were, making grand arm gestures, jumping around and doing sassy dance moves across the room without a care in the world. We were laughing so hard we started crying and I think that's when Karen ran over to us exclaiming, "Yes! You get it!" I can't imagine anyone not getting it. Who doesn't want to prance around without any concerns to cool music? And it's a fantastic workout. 

        That was the first part. Then came the second part. Or the hard part. Or the part that made me feel crappy about myself. But that has more to do with the pressure I put on myself to be successful in EVERY endeavor than the actual dance class. There was some steps to learn. And when I say some steps, that's an understatement. It was a very tricky dance combination that many people picked up quickly and some were a bit slower to get. I was in the latter group. Which, if I think of it in hindsight made perfect sense because it was MY FIRST TIME. 

        But there, in the moment, I felt defeated and my brain saw an opportunity to start picking on me.  "I can't believe you're not getting this...you should be able to do it...after all those dance classes?" I tried my best to argue back, "That was jazz...in the 80's in Sweden...c'mon...leave me alone...be quiet and let me focus." My internal dialogue didn't make following along easier, but that's when Mr. Heffington decided to crank up the volume and it got so loud, I couldn't hear myself think. Thank god. 

        I did my best. I got some moves down and managed to look somewhat cool while doing them. Others not so much, so I got a bit frustrated and impatient with myself. But all in all it was ok. Great even.  To learn to be gentle and kind and patient with myself is one of the things I have to work out in this life time. And that's not going to happen if I only participate in activities I'm already great at. After all, it took me a whole month to nail the "Flashdance...What a Feeling" dance sequence all those years ago, so maybe give myself a few more Wet Wednesdays?

        At the end when the class was winding down with some cooling down stretches, I felt happy and proud and once again, looked over at Ashley who beamed right back at me with such joy. Then all of a sudden a stretch turned into a movement that looked like everyone was sprinkling fairy dust on themselves. So I did too. And that feeling of pure bliss came back. I really loved my first Wet Wednesday and it won't be my last...it's very addicting...

My First Time Voting

        About two weeks before I voted, I realized I hadn't received anything in the mail and started to panic. I've looked forward to this day for years, and it would be so typical if I didn't get to. I feel really strongly that if you live in a country, that you should participate not just by paying taxes, but by engaging in the political process. It's a right but also a duty, and I don't take it lightly, probably on account of my being born and raised in Sweden, where these things are treated with the utmost importance.

        Swedish Parliament 

        In the last election in Sweden, which was in 2010, close to 85% of the population voted. In Sweden you don't have to register to vote, and voting always happens on a Sunday, so they make it easy for you to participate. Also, you vote for whatever party you affiliate yourself with instead of an actual person, so you tend to know what to expect as far as how they are going to vote on things (they follow party lines.)  The party has a list of candidates they are sending to parliament, and depending on how many votes a party gets, a certain amount of the candidates on the list make it in. The first person on the list is the leader of the party, and that person becomes the prime minister if their party is forming the government. Pretty easy. 

        I actually stopped voting in Sweden a while ago, so I've been out of the voting loop altogether for a bit. The last time I voted in Sweden, I polled my family and voted with the majority of them, which didn't exactly seem "right," (especially if you know my family,) but it's tricky to keep my finger on the pulse of the happenings in Swedish politics while living here. Unless they do something ridiculous and embarrassing like voting to grant Palestine non-member state status in the UN.

        Come to think of it, I don't exactly have my finger on the pulse of the Swedish language either. I don't have an American accent when I speak Swedish like Dolph Lundgren of "Rocky" fame, but my vocabulary hasn't grown or developed since the early 90's when I moved here, to the delight of my brothers who never miss an opportunity to tease me for using 90's jargon and words whose hipness factor apparently expired many years ago. 

        But back to the U.S. where I've held citizenship for a couple of years now, and to my special polling place. Some people vote in schools, some in churches, but I get to vote at the Los Feliz Fire Station on Hillhurst. I recognized some of the fire fighters from their morning runs, which by some miraculous coincidence always seem to take place when I walk to my car to go to work in the morning. I always say hello and smile, because I think that if I ever need them for fire reasons, they'll remember that, and will work so much harder to save me. (I also say hello and smile because they're hot and I'm single.) Unfortunately, my friendly antics didn't get me anything on Election Day, as far as cutting in line, so I went to work and came back during my lunch break, when the line was a bit shorter. 

         I had re-registered online, since I hadn't received my voter card or voter guide, but I was still nervous that I wouldn't get to vote. This country isn't exactly known for having it all handled when it comes to voting, so I was prepared for a potential argument where I would scream about being a US Citizen and having the right to vote. Sure enough, my name wasn't on the list, and I started to clear my throat, getting ready for my big speech.

        Before I could start, I was interrupted by an Asian man, a voting volunteer, who asked me where I voted last time. I proudly said "I've never voted before, this is my first time!" which of course made the woman behind me shoot me a super snarky look of disapproval. She thought I had finally gotten off the couch, having been eligible to vote for years. Sigh. So I proudly added, "I just became a citizen," which made her relax a bit, and ask, "Canadian?" I nodded. Because I sound too American for my own good apparently. 

        They found me on the provisional ballot list. They explained that after everyone else's vote is counted, they will count mine and the other provisional ballots only if there's not a clear winner. Great. So, my vote really didn't count, because it was probably not even counted. Great first time out!

         But back to me in the little booth feeling important. I fastened my ballot, provisional or not, and started punching. I knew exactly what to vote because I had done my due diligence, researching the issues online, reading a friend's voter guide, and talking to Marjorie David, who is knowledgeable about all things political. I suppose one could say I voted according to party lines, with no real surprises. I decided to let the porn industry manage themselves and their potential health issues. That felt like a strange issue for me to vote about, but I suppose that's the political process.

        I will say that I felt, (and still feel) very strongly about the GMO initiative and I was surprised and horrified that it didn't pass.  Who says "no" to the question "do you want to know if your food is genetically modified?" I just don't get it. Even if you didn't care about that...if you didn't think there was anything wrong with genetically modified foods, why wouldn't you just let the people who do care about it know? 

           I sat glued to the TV on Election Night and was actually a bit fearful. I'm not 100% aligned or thrilled with everything Obama has done for the last four years, but the idea of someone becoming President and being against gay marriage and abortion is so bizarre, and far from where I think the world should be in 2012. Or at least the country I've chosen to live in. Turns out there was no reason to worry, everything was fine, and in the end, because some of the initiatives on the Los Angeles ballot were close, my ballot was counted. So my vote was needed and important after all...

        Proud first time "I VOTED" sticker bearer!

My First Ride on the LA Metro

    

        I have this friend, Assaf, who is always beyond appalled when an LA landmark or east side hipster place comes up in conversation, and I haven't been there. So when he suggested we take the Metro to The Black Keys at Staples Center the other week, I wasn't going to tell him I'd never ridden the Metro. But then I realized that he might be reading this blog, (against all odds, because he's beyond opinionated about blogs too,) so I fessed up that it would be my virgin journey to eye rolls, huffs, puffs and the usual "What's the matter with you?" 

        I actually love public transportation and I always take trains, buses and subways when I travel, but for some reason I've never tried the Metro in LA. I had a lot of assumptions about it, most of which turned out to be untrue. "It doesn't go anywhere I want to go," "there's not a station anywhere near me," and "only weird and creepy people take the Metro in LA" to mention just a few. Turns out it's pretty convenient if you are going to a show at Staples Center, and there's a station within walking distance from my apartment. 

How many Israelis does it take to buy a TAP card?

        You get a TAP card, which is like an Oyster card for those of us who ride the Underground in London. And you fill it up and tap it and go. Pretty easy, although Assaf struggled a bit to get his out. (Pun intended). And for whatever reason it only worked once, so I got in by doing one of those cool jumps over the steel bar that you see in the movies, when there's a chase through a New York street and the killer all of a sudden runs into a subway station. Assaf thought it was overly showy, since there was an open gate to walk through, but my flair for drama and being cool got the best of me. Planking we call it in Swedish. Getting in somewhere without paying. 

        The ride itself was like any other Metro Ride in any other city I suppose, and lucky for me I got to be right about something - that weird creepy people ride the Metro - when a toothless guy in a wheelchair offered his complete set of rules for how to make a marriage work. As if he had read my mind, he proudly held his hand up, and sure enough, there was a shiny wedding band on his ring finger. "Four years" he exclaimed excitedly, so I figured I should listen to perhaps finally understand what I should have done differently, but alas, there was no new information or special magic trick he knew of that shed light on my marriage failures. Although I did like Number 6, and decided to try it out at least once before I die. "Let the man be right once a month."  

        Before we got to Staples Center, we had sausages at Wurstküche, which was also a first! People who know me well know that my passion for sausages (hot dogs) knows no bounds, especially in conjunction with sporting or music events. I will proudly mention that my record for most hot dogs eaten in 15 minutes is four Dodger Dogs, which I think is pretty impressive for someone of my size. I could obviously never do that at a Laker game, their wieners are way too big.

Not a first. Not because I've had these before, but because I don't ever want to. 

          So obviously, this was the perfect thing to do before the show and Wurstküche's sausage selection was different than anything I had ever seen; buffalo, duck, bunny rabbit, alligator and rattle snake, to mention a few of their exotic flavors. I played it safe, ordering a smoked chicken & turkey dog with sun dried tomato & mozzarella. Having worked up a bit of an appetite drinking beer, I enthusiastically sunk my teeth into the sausage, which was loaded with sauerkraut and some other delicious things that I can't remember, but that ultimately contributed to the party taking place in my mouth. A few days later, I had the pleasure of recounting my delicious experience to Tyler, one of the owners of Wurstküche, at a friend's birthday party. He seemed genuinely humbled by my enthusiasm. 

        Next up. Staples Center for The Black Keys. The third first of the night as I had never seen them live before. We had good seats courtesy of friend and co-worker Shana Stein, who after purchasing her tickets, had been upgraded to fancy seats and backstage visits by and with some very influential friends. 

        The Black Keys are really really awesome. I love their music. And they looked cool and sang all the good songs. A great time was had, I enjoyed it all thoroughly; drinking beer, singing and dancing. But, I will say - because I'm spoiled when it comes to concerts, having seen some of the most incredible artists in the world play arenas both here and in Europe - that because it's mostly just the two of them on stage, and they don't put on a crazy big show with a lot of cool visuals, or have a stage presence that reaches 20,000 people...that perhaps a smaller, more intimate venue might be a better fit for them. So there was that. But again...great night. 

        It was cool to not have to find a car, and try to get it out of a packed parking lot after the show, but to just be able to walk to the subway. And plank again. It reminded me of taking the subway to see shows at the Globe Arena in Stockholm growing up. The difference being that on nights that there are shows at the Globe, they have a train coming every minute, so that you don't have to wait. In LA, not so much. We waited a loooong time. And it was hot and clammy and full of hipsters. I've never seen so many women in high waisted short-shorts and heels, and hope I never have to again. 

        All in all, a great night of firsts. Three to be exact. תודה רבה, Assaf.  

My First Camping Trip (or Ode to Thom Yorke)

        The camping idea was one of the things someone put on my Forty By Forty list, but I weaseled my way out of it because I had a picture in my mind of what camping was like. And it wasn't a pretty picture. An army type tent and you struggle to pitch it...it takes hours and everyone is tired, cold and hungry. The kids cry, Dad swears and Mom pleads to go stay in a motel. The tent is tiny and it's freezing and raw outside and you have to sleep in your clothes, with double socks in a sleeping bag and under blankets, or you'll freeze to death. And you can't shower for days. 

        I realized that my view of camping is based on camping in Sweden, which is interesting because I've never camped there either. My parents weren't/aren't exactly outdoorsy, and I'm not sure if that's because we were Jewish and the word camp had a different meaning, or if they just preferred sunnier vacations where other people made the sleeping arrangements. Not surprising, camping was nothing like my picture, Swedish or otherwise. In a good way. 

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night...

        So, Coachella was coming up, and although I wasn't really sure what Coachella was either, someone had sent me a link of Radiohead playing there during the first Coachella weekend, and I had been mesmerized and transfixed to my computer for hours. Having recently discovered Radiohead, I decided I had to go see them.

        When I say recently discovered, I'm not kidding. I've only known about them for about a year and a half, since my friend Andrew had "From the Basement" on his TV while I was visiting him in New York. I couldn't look away, or leave the apartment for that matter. Before then, I even went to parties with Thom Yorke and I know I've asked friends more than once, "who's the guy with the weird eye everyone is fawning over?" Of course, the new me, the Radiohead me, wants to shoot the old me in the face for ever having asked that question. Ugh. 

        So, without really making too big a deal about it, I decided to go to Coachella for the second weekend, and upon finding out my dear friend Vincent was going, attached myself to him and his plans, which "lucky" for me, included camping. Vincent had already made camping arrangements, brought a tent, sleeping bags and even pillows, so all I had to do was show up, and walk in. Which proved to be quite difficult actually.  

        I arrived Saturday morning and when I got to the front of the line to get into the big Coachella area, I was asked to open my bag. I asked what they were searching for, and when the woman said "anything illegal... drugs...weapons," I froze. Now, I'm always concerned bringing up weed in these blogs, because not only does my Uncle Ulf read them, but the whole weed thing will so clearly come back to haunt me when I'm running for office. However, it's part of the weekend so I can't really skip it. And, as ridiculously naive as it might sound, I assumed a place like Coachella would be ok with people having weed, so I was now freaking out. Especially because there were two police officers up front.

        I took a deep breath and helped the woman get everything out of the bag, so my clothes and whatever else I had brought was now on a table. I had two small identical makeup cases in my bag, one with weed and one with sunscreen. So I felt around among the clothes and found the one with the sunscreen and handed it to her. She unzipped it and looked inside. All good.  Then I somehow did the old switcheroo, and managed to put the other one back in my bag, so when she opened the sunscreen one again, she said "oh, I saw this."

        With my heart racing, I saw Vincent coming towards me in his Burning Man gear, and quickly calmed down. We walked through some of the craziness and then he took me to the camp site, which was far away from where everyone else had set up their tents. Somehow, someone knew someone, and so Vincent had gotten a special spot for his tent, next to a man made lake, that was not for swimming, I was told sternly, several times.  

        

        Not only was it beautiful, but as luck would have it, just outside our tent, there was a pole with an outlet on it, so we could charge our iPhones. Score. And there was a public bathroom that had a sink about a hundred feet up, so I knew I'd be able to brush my teeth in running water. 

A lot of people nap at Coachella 

         It's hard to explain Coachella. Or, it's hard to explain Coachella and make it seem sophisticated. And I'm not sure why I'm feeling the need to class it up. Basically, there's a giant field. A bunch of stages. Food stands and beer tents. A charging station for your electronics. A weird "club" tent. And a strange mix of people of all ages who are drunk or stoned for the entire weekend, many of whom are just passed out on the ground. 

        We headed into the concert area, in about 106 degree weather, and there was no shade to be found other than in the beer tent, but for someone of my size and with my alcohol tolerance level (close to zero) drinking beer wasn't really an option for staying cool. I knew if I drank or smoked anything at this point, I'd be passed out before any of the good bands started playing. So we walked around and found some cool bands to watch, had something to eat, and danced while being sprayed by giant water guns at the outdoor techno area. 

        The Saturday night lineup was amazing. The Shins, Bon Iver and then Radiohead. I was nervous I wouldn't be awake and alert for Radiohead after a whole day in the desert sun, so I paced myself with the illegals, mixing it up with a lot of snacks and water and rest. The Shins were great as expected and for Bon Iver, Vincent and I just sat in the grass with our eyes closed and listened. It was sweet and soulful and I would probably say that my evening would have been quite complete even without what came next.  

The glorious Thom Yorke...

         Because nothing could have prepared me for what came next. Radiohead was all I had hoped for and more. Thom Yorke was in rare form, shaking, twitching and spasming his heart out and I was deliriously happy for what seemed an eternity but was probably more like two hours. I was close to the stage for the first few songs but that's always tricky for someone of my height, so after the initial enthusistic jumping up and down, I found a little grassy spot off to the side where I just sat down and listened.

...twitching

        I had lost Vincent and whoever else we knew there and my phone had died so I couldn't meet up with the cute guy I had met earlier, but that was alright. It was all about Radiohead now, and it was glorious and heavenly, possibly because I was quite high at this point, but also because of how mesmerizing Thom Yorke is. It had been a while since I had been to a concert or show, so I had forgotten how moved I get by live music and how it stirs and opens my heart, and just makes me feel good. I wasn't anywhere but there and I could have stayed forever. 

        How I found my way back to the tent I have no idea. My phone was dead, and I was not exactly clear headed and sober, far from it actually, but after a long while of aimless walking, I saw the dirty little lake, unzipped the door to the tent and laid down. I remember thinking that perhaps this wasn't our tent at all, but I really needed to close my eyes and so it didn't seem that important. The confirmation came a few minutes or possibly a few hours later. I had no idea how long I had been lying there when I heard Vincent come in and exclaim to a friend, "Oh my God, NO WAY, she made it! She's here!!!" As impressed as I was with my internal GPS system, I guess Vincent was even more so. 

        Waking up the next morning, I was exhausted, hot, hungover, but happy. Pleased with myself for having survived a night in a tent without dying, although I hadn't been clear headed and conscious for the actual sleeping part. I do know that it never got cold and raw, in fact, it had gotten quite sweaty in there, so there were no need for the sleeping bags. It took everything I had, and more stellar warnings, not to jump into the lake when we got up. So instead I took a sink shower in the bathroom up the road.

     

        Soon it was time to pack up and this time I helped. Sort of. I zipped up the tent case. Thank you, Vincent, for making my first camping trip so awesome! 

My First Love

    

    I've been blessed to experience love in my life. A lot of love, and in fact, it started sort of early, so I wasn't sure who I'd write about until a few months ago, when I found a diary from 1986 which detailed my meeting and ultimately falling for the young, handsome and slightly dangerous Mr. Tony Zucker. 

    Finding the diary while packing up my apartment to move was thrilling at first, so I dove into it excitedly, curious to connect with a younger, less cynical Marika. Then, as I read more and more, I was struck by a nostalgic melancholia that I couldn't shake for days. I met Tony when I was 15, so the pages are filled with hopes and dreams, and excitment about love, for Tony in particular. Not necessarily sad, but I suppose I always gave myself a bit more credit when it came to men. That maybe I wasn't one of those girls who would give up wants, needs, opinions, and goals for some guy. But boy was I ever.  

        The diary is quite something, because it's detailed in more than matters of teenage Marika's heart. I wrote about what I wore - a turqoise skirt with a zipper in the back, I wrote about his hairstyle - dark brown hair in a quiff, and how cool I felt wearing his beat-up leather jacket when I got cold. I also wrote about how handsome he was and about how much I wanted to kiss his fantastic lips. I drew hearts around his initials, and wrote my first name with his last name over and over, so I would be ready to sign my new name when the time came. Which of course, it didn't. 

       He was 17 and I think he had a girlfriend at the time. Let me rephrase that. He had a girlfriend. For sure. It was 26 years ago, and I'm trying to seem less of a home wrecker by fudging the truth. Emma, if I haven't apologized before, let me do so now. So, Tony and I met at a pub with mutual friends although I was way too young to be drinking. We talked and I found him mesmerizing beyond belief. I sat in Mike Newman's lap and he leaned over and said he was jealous. 

Tony & Marika, 1986

         At the end of the night, my friend Abigail said "Tony thinks you're horny," and I was offended and embarrassed, not understanding that "horny" was a term for "sexy" in British English at the time. I was flattered when it was explained to me. We saw each other at a party a couple of nights later, and my heart started beating faster, until I realized he was there with her. At some point, we both found ourselves in the kitchen just as someone dropped a bottle of wine on the floor.  We bent down to pick up chards at the same time and our heads bumped together. According to my diary, at this point, he said "I think you'd feel better if I kissed you, but you probably don't want that." He obviously didn't know me at all. 

    A day or two later Emma had gone on holiday, so we met at Golders Green station, the local meeting place at the time, and went to the cinema, but ended up not seeing much of the film. People smoked in the movie theatres in those days so there was a giant smoke cloud blocking the screen. That and the snogging. There was another night with a bottle of his parents' Bollinger and the Tracy Chapman record everyone listened to back then. Fast Car. And then it was time to go back to Sweden and start writing longing letters to Tony, at 46 Brim Hill. 

    Over the course of a few summers, I came to London and would spend time with Tony when he didn't have a girlfriend or was away at University. Or Richard. This is the part I don't know how to write about. Because there was also Richard, and it impossible to write about my summers in London without including Richard. Tony and Richard were best friends and although I met Tony first, I loved them equally and however things unfolded, there didn't seem to be a lot of jealousy in this "love triangle."

Richard & Marika, 1987

         Tony smoked, was arrogant, had a self-assurance that was dangerous, and he never replied to any of my letters, while Richard played the guitar, sang, and had a depth and a sweetness that made you never want to leave his side. I still have his letters from 18 Sheldon Avenue. It was a time of delirious happiness and fun beyond my wildest dreams, but like all stories of teenage love, this one - or both actually, had to fade at some point. When it did, Tony took off on some adventures while Richard and I settled into the sweetest of friendships. With a few of exceptions, I've seen Richard in London on my way to Stockholm every time I've gone back home, and have always felt at home with his family; his mum Susan, sister Kate and her Markus, and of course his son Sebastian, who is a beautiful, feisty mini-Richard. 

Tony, 90's

        As for Tony and I, we had a quick romance resurgence during a visit to London in the mid-nineties, which had Richard, who was now married, thinking Tony and I would end up together after all. But I was already in Los Angeles, and Tony was Tony, so it ended up just being a nice visit with someone I had loved since I was 15, with a bit of swoony email correspondence after I got back to LA. 

        This story of first love(s) came full circle this past March, just a few weeks after I had found my old diary, when I traveled to London for Richard's (second) wedding. Tony, who is now happily married with twin boys in Colombia, where he is an emerald dealer of all things, was of course there. He was just as arrogant, but with a lot less hair, and the cigarettes he used to suck on had been replaced by rechargeable electric ones. An emerald ring adorned his pinky finger, and to be diplomatic, he was just slightly less fit than he used to be. Still, when I looked at him, all I could see was my Tony at 17.  

Rachel & Richard Zamet        

        Richard and Rachel's wedding was undoubtetedly the most fun wedding I've ever been to. Held at The Landmark London, the food was kosher AND incredible, the band soooo good, and Rachel was a stunning bride. Most of all though, it was being with Rachel, Richard, the rest of the Zamets, and the old "Golders Green" gang from my summers in London that made it so special. I sat with Tony, Julian, Mike Newman - whose lap I sat on that night 26 years ago, his lovely wife Lucy, The Solomons - Dan & fun, fantastic Tara, and Paolo & Karen Rodrigues, who put us all to shame with their dance moves.

The drunk Zees the night before the wedding

        Even with that, I have to say that the night before the wedding is the night that will go down in history as a night of fun by epic proportions, as well as heart warmth. How I got to be the lucky (and only) girl to spend the night before Richard's wedding with Richard and Tony, I have no idea. We drank 8 bottles of champagne between the three of us at Richard's local pub, and stories from the good old days were pouring out of us with each glass being refilled. And refilled. And refilled. Anyone who knows me at all, knows how drunk I get on just one glass of champagne, and given I probably had two bottles, well you can probably begin to understand my demeanor towards the end of the night. And inability to speak clearly or stand up. The hangover was definitely in proportion to the alcohol and fun intake. But if there's anything that warrants that sort of indulgence it is a solo night with The Zees (Zucker and Zamet.) 

Tony & Marika 2012

        When I told Tony that I had found my diary from the summer of 1986, and started to tell him that I had even written down what I wore the night we met, he looked at me and without missing a beat, exclaimed "a bluish skirt with a zipper in the back!" My heart skipped a beat. 

My First Time Being Published

 

        I had an internship at The Jewish Journal while I was in college. I was majoring in Political Science because I was fascinated with American politics, but I had always been a writer at heart, and wanted to see if I could minor in Journalism. An internship at a paper was a step in the right direction, and interning at a Jewish paper seemed appropriate since I was attending the University of Judaism. The staff was a mix of quirky, brainy and fun Jewish writers, lead by Editor-in-Chief Gene Lichtenstein, who was also the founding editor of The Jewish Journal.

Monsieur Bob Sagét

        I suppose Gene was your typical editor-in-chief; part curmudgeon, part intellectual, interesting, funny, and a bit of a Francophile, if I remember correctly. My fondest memory of Gene is when during a staff meeting, we were discussing a Jewish themed event that Bob Saget was hosting. Gene wouldn't stop referring to him at Bob Sagét, as if he wasn't a douchey comedian making sexual jokes about the Olsen twins, but a sophisticated, historically significant French literary figure. "Who is this Bob Sagét?" he said, and scratched his beard, while a few of us burst out laughing. 

        The internship was a great learning experience, and I must have done well because I landed a part-time job there, after graduating from college in 1996. I wrote mostly obituaries and calendar items but from time to time, I would be sent out to cover some local Jewish event, and that always made me feel like a legitimate reporter. If the Macabee Youth Games were the Olympics, that is.

        In digging around my files, I found an article that I believe is my first official non-obituary published item. I was sent to cover an event called "Challahpalooza," which was sponsored by Davka magazine, and held at Canter's Deli. I'll let the work of 25-year-old Marika speak for itself. 

The note outside the door says "Mira, this sucks. I'm next door ordering a shake. Come by, Linda"

        It's pretty funny, it sort of reads like my writing, just a bit rougher, and slightly harsh. If I had written it today, I may have been a bit more subtle in getting my point across, but it's definitely me. I guess I have a style of writing, and I guess it's been around for a while. That's cool. I remember getting into the office in the morning and opening the paper eager to see it. And the title. Contributing Writer. I loved it. 

        Best of all was the letter Gene Lichtenstein received in the mail a couple of weeks after my review was published. Gene called me into his office, and handed me an angry letter from a Jewish Journal reader. At first, I was embarrassed and concerned. I looked up at Gene, worried I'd be in trouble, but he just smiled. I suppose you're not a real writer until someone gets so riled up about what you've written, that they take time out of their day, sit down at their type writer, and bitch about you. I handed it back to him, but he told me to keep it. I'm glad I did. 

My First Wave

        I have a complicated relationship with the Pacific Ocean. I'm singling the Pacific Ocean out because it's overwhelmingly powerful, temperamental and super salty. And because I had what I refer to as a "near death" experience in it. You know, one of those experiences when you're drowning, and your significant other thinks you're waving. So they wave back to you, and continue doing what they're doing. As your head is bobbing up and down, under and over the surface. As you panic and swallow a ton of water. As coral is cutting your legs and the tide is pulling you around like a rag doll.

        The problem with the argument that happens afterwords, on the beach, is that no matter how much you emphasize the danger you were just in, or how hysterical you are, they win, because after all, you didn't drown. They find the whole experience funny and cute, and there you are, having just stared death in the face, which isn't funny. I remember wishing I had died, just to be right. 

Where I "learned" how to swim, Rösjön

        But let's start from the beginning. I cheated in swim school. I took swimming lessons in the local lake where I grew up. The water was dark and so was the bottom of the lake, so the teachers couldn't really see what was happening with your feet, just whether or not your arms were breast stroking. So there I was, breast stroking with my arms, and walking on the bottom, because I was too lazy to make the effort. At some point I had to learn how to swim, because it was widely assumed I already could, and that was really hard. The other swimmers had moved onto more complicated and flashy strokes, but because of my earlier laziness, I got stuck with the breast stroke. For life, I figured. 

My Australian crawl...

        Until my honeymoon in Cabo San Lucas. I had a swimming lesson every day, which was weird, because I hadn't signed up for it, but that's how great the Palmilla resort is, I suppose. I learned the Australian crawl, and couldn't get out of the pool until my "teacher" was happy with my progress. Yeah, same guy who would wave at me while I nearly drowned in Tahiti, a couple of years later. I will say that the involuntary lessons paid off, because I got more comfortable being under water and actually started to feel like a real swimmer, having more than the breast stroke in my repertoire. 

        Months and months ago now, I was talking to the sweet and multi-talented Conor Gaffney, after a Makepeace Brothers gig, and the topic turned to surfing. "Do you surf?" he asked. It was a harmless and geniune question, yet, I couldn't answer. And not just because I had partaken in some herbals. I wanted to say yes, but the correct answer was no. And when you can't answer yes or no to a question, you know there's something to work out. In this case, it was my relationship with the Pacific Ocean. 

Vincent, River and Linda...

        The lovely Linda was visiting me from Sweden at the time, and we went down to the beach a couple of times, where she ran into the ocean fancifull and free, without any preparation in the form of breathing, counting or clenching of fists, making me insanely jealous. Without thinking, I grabbed Vincent, one of the more grounded people I know, and went in. Not as fast as Linda, but at a steady pace for me. It was great. Fun even. I swam. Went under the water. At some point a huge wave came toward us, and I quickly yelled "uppie" like Vincent's son River does, jumped into his arms, and stayed there until the wave had passed. 

    There were many attempts to move from swimming in the Pacific to surfing in the Pacific, but none worked and it was mostly my hesitation to jump in. Pun intended. Until my friend and Exhale super yoga teacher Cristi Chistensen started her Yoga & Surf Camp for the summer. I figured doing yoga right before swallowing copious amounts of salt water would make me feel "ready to calmly swim into the light," if that was my destiny, so I signed up for the next to the last class of the summer.  

Cristi in "surf pose"

    Starting the day doing yoga with Cristi is always a treat, and doing it with just the right amount of sun and breeze, next to the beach was definitely the way to start Surf Sunday. It made me calm, relaxed and sufficiently warmed up. Next up: The Pacific Ocean. 

    If you ever have to follow a surfer dude to a beat up van in a parking lot in Venice, it helps if he's hot, as was the case with Luke. He came and got us at the grassy area we had practiced at, and lead us over to the Aqua Surf van which was filled to the brim with boards and wet suits, and this is when my nerves got a little funky. I started to think of the ocean and how much I hate being under water, and was seriously doubting myself and my ability to even get in. It was at this exact time the universe sent Luke over to help me get into a skin tight wet suit. It helped. 

Before. Very scared. Doing some sort of surf hand gesture...

    After a quick land lesson in the sand by Alan, consiting of faux paddling and faux popping up, which I mastered quickly, I put my banana yellow board on my head and walked down to the water with the other first-timers. The more experienced surfers were already in the water, doing that cool-looking thing where they straddle the board and wait for a wave. Envy.

    As I got closer to the water my brain caught up to me and I started to giggle. I can't surf. I mean, don't these people know me? The answer was of course, no. And perhaps I could use that to my advantage. Perhaps I could pretend like I was comfortable and happy in the ocean like everyone else. So, I got in the water and sort of did what everyone else did. Paddled out a bit and then attempted to turn my board around.

    The Aqua Surf instructors were all over the place, so it didn't take long to get help. I think it was Luke who first came up, turned my board around, and attempted to help me catch a wave. It went so-so. And when I say so-so, I mean, I fell off, I got water in my eyes/nose/mouth and tumbled around a bit and then got hit by another wave. Not a great start. 

What my wipeouts probably looked like...

    After a while of trying and failing I thought...well it's not the end of the world if I don't actually catch a wave. The blog could always be about what happened when I didn't catch my first wave, like some of those cool documentaries that start off being about one thing, but then turn into something else, something more riveting even. That's when Peter, another instructor, found me and took charge. He was firm but gentle. Explained a couple of things Alan had gone over in the sand, but that made more sense hearing on the board, in the water. 

    I got closer. And every time I failed, and I felt like I was in a washer on spin cycle, I got right back up on the board. It turned out the best way to learn to surf was with people I didn't know, so that I couldn't be coddled or pitied or babied as someone who has trouble in the Pacific Ocean. Peter yelled, "get back on the board" and I did. Every time. I blew salty snot out of my nose and crawled back on. Paddled, paddled, paddled, and fell. I even got run over by another surfer and her board and just shook it off, like I imagine a real surfer would. 

It felt like this...

    I wish I had a photo of myself on the board when I caught my first wave, but of course we left all our belongings in the van. Peter told me to breathe and relax. I did. Then I paddled, paddled, paddled and when Peter yelled "pop up" or "stand up" or whatever it was he yelled, I did. I popped up. And I stayed standing. And there was a momentum and a feeling and a connection that was unlike anything I've ever experienced. It was glorious.

    When there was nothing left of the wave, and I ended up in the water, not only did I have the most ridiculous grin on my face, but also what my friend Debbie Dancer calls "a bhakti moment." How I know I'm having a bhakti moment is, I get goose bumps all over my body, waves of joy come over me, and I burst into tears of happiness. Given how cynical I am, it's a weird experience for me to have, but at the same time a nice relief. For a few seconds I experience life with a quiet mind, and that's worthy of tears in itself, as my mind has so much noise usually. 

After...    

    During Forty by Forty days, I would have these moments almost every week because I was having so many fun and exciting adventures, so I was used to it. Today, however, I was not prepared. So I stood there, in the water, with a surf board attached to my foot, just letting a few happy tears mix into the salt water, sand, and snot on my face. And then went back in for my second wave. And my third. And my fourth. And then I was tired. From paddling, and popping up, and being unafraid, and from swallowing water.  

    So I sat at the edge of the water for a bit, while everyone caught their last wave, and just smiled to myself. Surfing has always been that scary thing that I'd never be able to do. And today I did it. 

 

 

My First Funeral

    I was about 15 when I walked into my Mom and stepdad's bedroom with a tray of tea. If I remember correctly, it was a Sunday, and I think my Mom and I were going to hang out and read in her bed. As I walked in, she put the phone down and had a strange look on her face.  She told me my father had just called, and I remember thinking it was weird that he didn't ask to talk to me. Since my parents divorced in the early seventies, they hadn't exactly had a warm, co-parenting relationship. The twice yearly drop-offs in the south of Sweden were never happy family reunions, more somber transactions I think. 

    The explanation for the call came a few seconds later. My mother asked me to put the tray down and come sit with her, and then she told me my Grandpa Allan had died from a blood clot in the leg. I was confused and I suppose sad, but mostly confused. This wasn't just the first grandparent to die, this was the first person I knew who had died period. Also, I wasn't sure what a blood clot was, and my Grandpa Allan was probably the grandparent that I had the least close relationship to, so I really wasn't sure how to feel.  

In Grandma and Grandpa's backyard with stepmom Monika

    Don't get me wrong, spending summers at Grandpa and Grandma Lundins' house in the south of Sweden was magical and exciting. Allan and Agda had a big house with a huge yard, on account of him being the head of a farming union or co-op, so there was a lot of room to play and discover both inside and out. Also, my uncle Thomas, who was just a few years older than Ulrik and I, still lived at home which we thought was so cool. We worshipped him, but it seemed our attemps to hang out in his room and be part of his life was probably more irritating than anything.

Playing Dominoes with Grandma Agda

    The best part of summers in Ljungbyhed, which was what the litte town was called, was Grandma Agda. She was patient and kind, playing cards and other games with us, and of course there were her baked goods. She baked the most heavenly of cinnamon rolls, mocca squares and cookies and there seemed to be an endless supply for us, without us having to do any chores. Thinking back on it now, I think the summers spent there were some of the happiest times of my life.

   But back to Grandpa Allan. I don't know how old he was when I was a child, and I don't know how old he was when he passed away, because to me he was always the same age, which I suppose was simply "old." Not sure how to sugar coat this next part, so I won't. He drank and smoked a fair amount, and could be quite tough to be around. I don't think he was always kind to Grandma Agda, or his five children. It was complicated because on the one hand, if he was in a great mood, he'd be really fun and he might send us to the store to get cigarettes, which meant we'd get to buy candy with the change, but he could also be quite moody and harsh if we played too loudly in the house. 

Monkeying around with Grandpa Allan

    The funeral was held in a church in the south of Sweden, so we took a train down there to attend. In Sweden there is no separation between church and state, which means everyone is automatically born into the Swedish Church, unless one is Jewish and asks to leave it. So although the Lundin clan isn't particularly Christian or religious, it made sense that the funeral would be in a church. Except for I had been raised Jewish, and had never been to a church before, so it was a bit strange to me.

    There was always a part of me that was conflicted about this growing up. We lived in Stockholm with our Mom and stepfather and kept kosher, but in the summer we'd spend time with our father and his side of the family, and then we'd eat pork meatballs and whatever else was served. And it had never been explained to me by either of my parents, so I was left religiously confused, while my brother didn't seem to think it was a big deal.

    Going to church for a family member's funeral on top of all of that didn't make me any less confused. There were crosses and stuff. Hard benches. I think Bibles or some sort of prayerbook. I remember thinking how interesting it was that the praying was done in Swedish, simply because my praying was always done in Hebrew. It was new and scary although the songs were pretty, and I suppose this was the beginning of my understanding that there was this other part to me that I didn't know or know about. Not necessarily a Christian part, but a Swedish part, which included some aspects of Christianity. I found it interesting and still do.

The Lundin cousins at a later gathering; me, cousin Jonas, sister Jessica, brother Max, cousin Andreas, cousin Daniel, cousin Pelle and Jessica's daughter Nova.

    All of the Lundins were there; my uncles Arne, Lars, Thomas and my sweet aunt Ingrid, my siblings Jessica and Max, the big and little cousins, which was really nice, because I hadn't seen many of them in years. After the service, we went somewhere and had a smorgasbord of Swedish delicacies and beers. It was a nice afternoon and there was talk of Grandpa Allan being a "son-of-a-bitch" but in that festive, fun meaning of the word.

    I think Allan was cremated and had his ashed scattered. Maybe I'm making that part up, but I vaguely remember being told, I think by my aunt Ingrid, that Grandma Agda didn't want anyone to feel forced to come around and visit them in some plot after they were both gone. Or have to come and plant things. It sounds like something Grandma Agda would say, for she was someone who was truly selfless and lived to make everyone else's life a little easier and happier. 

My First Fight

        I fought a lot with my older brother growing up. Or rather, he would hit me if he found out I had been in his room, or even worse, worn one of his sweaters to school. In the eighties, oversized sweaters were all the rage, so naturally, I had tapped into the supply in his closet on the sly. His sweaters were preppy and expensive, since he was working part-time and buying his own clothes. I particulary enjoyed the navy knit Lacoste, and the grey Bjorn Borg, both V-necks of course. I would pair them with parachute pants, or, as they were called in Swedish, balloon pants, and voila...ready to go! 

The cause of beatings...

        We went to different high schools so it sort of worked out. I would wait for him to leave for school, grab a sweater, then head to my high school and look really cool. Then I'd hurry home and put the sweater back.  The fights would happen if one of his sweaters smelled like my perfume, which at the time was the very pungent YSL Paris. Needless to say, it was a frequent occurance. I would cry for help from my mother who rightfully pointed out that I could just stop wearing his sweaters...

       But other than the sibling stuff, I suppose there is a "fight" that stands out. I was in junior high and had this really cool and cute boyfriend, Per. He was half-Korean, great at writing love letters, and well endowed. It's funny the things you remember twenty six years later. We never actually consummated our relationship, but this was around the time, age wise, that you start to get to the point when kissing isn't enough, but you've got nothing else in your "tool belt." So you kiss and kiss and find different positions to kiss in. And in most of them, private parts are pressed up against each other. So I got a sense of what was in his pants, so to speak. 

Some of Per's love letters from the mid-eighties

        We were in the same grade but in different sections, so we didn't have any classes together but would see each other at lunch, on afternoon breaks, and after school. We'd go to his house since his Mom worked late most of the time, and he had no siblings. This meant his house was a bit more chill than mine, which always seemed full of siblings and drama. We would kiss and kiss for hours. 

        There was a girl at school who liked Per. She was in his section, so she got to spend all day, every day with him, which of course I didn't like at all.  They also shared the same last name which was sort of cute, some people thought. I was not in that group. This was a time when my life was ruled by the need to be cool and popular, so in regards to romance and boyfriends, I was radically different from who I am today. I know today that you can't own or control people, or make them love you, but then, not so much. 

        So back to Jessica and the time when my life was driven by insecurity, jealousy, and pettiness. When I used my powers to do more evil than good. Even though Per was my boyfriend, and all my friends told me I was prettier, I naturally hated her, and made her life difficult whenever I could. Probably because deep down I was afraid to lose him. It was mostly cold stares in the hallways, or rude comments and loud laughs with friends, when she walked by. It's weird because I see myself as such a small and harmless person, and have never really considered myself a bully, but I think at this time I was. 

        One day after school, I saw her riding her bike towards where I was walking, and decided to do something. I wasn't quite sure what, but as she got closer, I could feel my blood boiling with rage. My mind was providing me with justifications and fuel to hurt her in some way;  "who does she think she is, riding her bike here?" and "look at her and that stupid grin."

        As she rode by me, I pushed her bike, and whatever she had in back fell off, and she sort of did too. She didn't get seriously injured, but she had to get her bike back up, and gather her stuff before getting back on and riding off. At which point I might have yelled at her to stay away from my boyfriend and/or that she was a whore. Yeah. Pretty sure I did.

        I'm not sure this constitutes as a legitimate fight, but it feels like it's in that category. I picked a fight with someone for a pretty lame reason, using mean and immature behavior to make them feel shitty at school, and then pushed them off their bike when they rode by me. Now that I'm thinking about this, imagining being in her shoes, I'm filled with regret, embarrassment and sadness.

        I decide to see if she's still around, to maybe check in and apologize. I go on Facebook and a couple of clicks later, there she is. Two mutual friends. I'm immediately intimidated by her profile photo which has her looking quite powerful on a big motorcyle. I'll think about it. 

 

My First Heartbreak

        I love heartbreaks. I know. Sounds crazy. It wasn't always that way, but after navigating through quite a few, the experience has not just settled with me, but also settled me. There's something beautiful that happens when I have my heart broken. Or, as a result of it. I feel raw and open and my whole being wakes up. Not that I'm subdued, or on auto pilot other times, it's more like my life is set up and organized to follow a certain path, on which there are both highs and lows...but then, when there is a heart disturbance, it's like someone slammed their breaks right in front of me without warning. I get jarred out of my space and need a time out. I nurture myself a bit more than usual, and that's always good. And by the way, my heart hurts almost just as much when I break up with someone as when they end things. 

        I suppose one could say I'm good at heartbreak. I'm good at taking a disappointment in love and turning it into an opportunity to feel and think and communicate and grow. Like making lemonade. I love love, and tend to jump in with no hesitation, like jumping out of a plane. I love to explore and connect and play and see what happens. I love feelings. The whole wide range. Happiness, sadness, fear, anxiety, joy, pride, and even anger. So I love living on the edge of my heart. It riles me up. It makes life interesting, and surprising, and full. Makes me feel alive and vibrating. Sometimes I have the most extraordiary trysts, relationships, flings, affairs, and heart connections. 

        And, sometimes it all blows up in my face, and usually because I've ignored warnings from concerned and supportive friends. They can hear the ticking, but I'm not done until I SAY SO. And then it happens. BOOM! The funny part is, I'm always so shocked, like I didn't see it coming. After the initial blast, I gently down shift my gears and get to work. Regroup. Think. Investigate. Reach out to friends. Communicate. It's never about reaching a conclusion or getting a question answered, but instead about dwelling in that beautiful place of vulnerability, trying to distinguish the ego bruise from the heart bruise, and finally, after enough has been said, getting to the final piece.

        The golden nugget. The reward of the whole experience; a better understanding of myself and my heart. That part always happens with friends, and I'm fortunate to have collected some of the most insightful, supportive and loving friends through the years. Friends who can hear it in my voice when I call, and quickly tell me I am super hot and desirable, take me to the movies, or get me drunk on mojitos. Or, friends who can hear it energetically, and check in on their own, bathing me in sweetness and love, until I'm happily drunk on that. 

        After that I usually tweak my "what I want" list. Sometimes it's completely shallow, like I decide "he" has to be taller, or not have an accent for things to work. Sometimes it's something simple but important, like "he" tells me I'm beautiful. Sometimes it's more serious, like "he" should probably not be addicted to a substance or that really kinky behavior. 

        My new favorite is the "two-hour heartbreak," a phrase recently coined by a beautiful friend during a very funny conversation. It's when someone tells you it's over, and you get surprised, because you didn't realize you were going out in the first place. And your heart gets a bit bruised but it's really mostly ego, not actual heart. How you know you're having a two-hour heartbreak is, two hours later, you can't remember what you were so upset about.  

        I didn't always see the opportunity in heartbreaks. They used to mess me up for months and months. The first really big one happened a few months after I had arrived in LA, so I was about 22. His name was Tony and he was my age. I hesitate to write too much about him because he had a somewhat difficult life before we met, and it feels a little strange for me to air all that out. I bring it up only because it explains some of the more destructive behavior that happened later. What I will say is, Tony was the first in a long slew of beautifully troubled men that have made their way into my heart.

        Tony was creative and artistic and hilariously funny. Handsome and manly, with a body that was quite addictive. We met at something Jewish, he wore a red shirt, and I couldn't stop staring or desiring or crushing, or whatever it's called when you meet someone and you know. You know there is a mutual "like" or attraction, and not much needs else to be said. There is an understanding that at some point in the near future, alone time will be had, and most likely spent staring, talking, exploring and connecting. So we did.

        We became an item quickly and spent quite a bit of time together. He lived in a guest house in West LA but had a studio where he worked on his art, just down the street from Santa Monica College. He took me to the shooting range on one of our first dates, and the kissing afterwords was explosive. (Pun intended.) He introduced me to the TV show "Kung Fu," and I introduced him to Swedish pancakes. I found him fascinating, especially the broken part, and wanted so much to heal him, fix him, and  just love him up. So I did. For a while.

        I became aware of some of the darker parts of his personality, and some vices too, but it was such a slow and gradual process, that it occurred like just a few little things here and there. Had I added them all up, I would have understood that this was probably not going to end lovingly and amicably. But I was blinded by love I suppose. And 22. And newly arrived in the United States. 

        I think this was before cell phones. Because I remember calling him at home and leaving a message on his machine, confirming our plans. I was supposed to come over to watch a movie. I didn't hear back, so I tried again a half-hour later, and this time he picked up. He sounded really strange and I got worried. I asked if everything was alright and he was cold and rude. And in hindsight, clearly on something. I drove over because I was worried, like a good Swedish, innocent girl. 

        Tony didn't answer the door, although I could hear he was home. I can't remember if I waited there, and how long, but I remember that there was another car parked behind his, so it was clear he had company. I drove home and probably had some sense of what was coming. It came the next day. He called me and told me that his friend so-and-so had been over and given him head, like it was no big deal. BOOM. I had no idea what to do or what to say, but it was clear to me this relationship was over, and I remember losing my breath for a moment, and then getting that panicked feeling. It spread all over my body.

        I wanted to scream but I couldn't. I felt death and panic and devastation inside, and in fact, like I wanted to die. I knew I couldn't handle this and death seemed like an easier, more viable option. My heart was pounding, I was breathing faster, I needed help, I was nauseous, I was losing my mind, terrible thoughts were going through my head, and I was clear that my life was over. Thinking back to this time is hard even now. I remember not being able to go to school for a couple of days. I remember not being able to eat, or sleep, or get a full sentence out without bursting into tears. 

         I remember being nurtured, taken care of, nursed and comforted by my room mate Rachel Kramer. She was an angel, although I suspect she had seen the writing on the wall, as she had known Tony a bit longer than I had. I laid on the floral couch in the living room of the apartment we shared on Stanley Avenue, and cried for what seemed like months.

        It didn't take me long to find my break-up album. Because every heartbreak has an album connected to it, at least for me, and certainly during this time, before iPod shuffles, Pandora and XM Radio. Sade's "Love Deluxe" had just come out, and I spent my days crying while listening to her soulful voice and fitting lyrics. It seems a bit cliche like now, but then, I really felt like every word was true for my experience with Tony, and written for me. And like a Pavlovian dog, whenever I hear any of the songs from this album, I think of Tony and the floral couch which soaked up so many of my tears.

I gave you all the love I got 
I gave you more than I could give 
I gave you love 
I gave you all that I have inside 
And you took my love 
You took my love

        At some point, life got easier, as it does with heartbreak. I slowly got my appetite back, and my ability to sleep returned, although there were panic attacks sprinkled into my existence about this for months to come. A while later, after things had settled, Tony and I tried again, but it wasn't the same. My innocence was gone, my sweet adoration and respect for Tony had dimished almost completely, and all that was left was sadness. The sadness you feel when you try to re-create an experience that isn't available to you anymore, simply because you know better. I wanted to feel the same delirious exhilaration when we kissed, but I didn't. And that was perhaps the best thing that could have happened, as it helped me move on completely. 

My First Time Being Bullied

        This is a hard one. My heart is already heavy and I haven't started yet. When this was first added to my list, I wasn't sure what I'd write about. I wasn't sure I had ever been bullied. But as I've been writing more and more about my childhood and teenage years in this blog, I've started to remember more. And that's been mostly great and fun. This will be the exception.

        The year was 1982 or 1983. I was attending Hillel school in Stockholm at the time, and because it was a Jewish private school, every year the six graders went to Israel for two weeks. So I went to Israel with my whole grade, probably about 25 or so other students. The trip was structured so that we traveled around for a week and then stayed at a boarding school for one week for the more studious part of the trip. 

 
                                                 The Wailing Wall & Masada

        I remember the traveling around part was pretty cool. I think we went to see the wailing wall in Jerusalem, and I remember Masada because someone dropped their camera close to the top. And we probably visited the Dead Sea as well.

        Then it was time for B'nei Brak, where the boarding school was. I remember the school was quite religious, and that whatever classes we had were boring, compared to the traveling around part. I remember that there were stray, skinny cats all around the school, which we were told not to pet or feed. Of course we did anyway.

        I remember that we were divided into foursomes for the sleeping arrangments. I was with my three closest friends at the time and we had pushed two large beds together to make one giant bed, which we all piled into like sardines. The first night I slept on the edge, which I really didn't like, but we had made arrangements that we would switch each night, so that each of us would sleep in each position.

        After that first night my three friends decided that they were happy with where they were sleeping and that we wouldn't switch. Not the biggest deal in the world, but I was a bit upset because I really didn't like where I was sleeping and had only agreed to sleep there the first night because we were switching. So there was a set up, or a feeling already, that my opinion didn't count, or I wasn't important or my discomfort didn't matter, and that certainly didn't make me feel good.

        What came next made the whole sleeping thing seem quite silly. The next day I was wearing a romper. It was one of those terry cloth strapless numbers. Mine was white and it had dots in all the colors of the rainbow, all over it. I loved that thing. My three friends pulled the top of it down and shoved me out in the hallway where all the boys were playing. They shut the door behind me.

        There I was with the top of my romper at my waist. I didn't really have any boobs at that time, but it was humiliating and embarrassing nonetheless. Everyone was laughing at me, including my friends from the doorway of "our" room. I think I pulled it up, ran off somewhere crying, and I don't remember much else from that day, or the last few days of our trip.

        I do remember refusing to go back to the same school because of that Israel trip, so after our summer break, I started a new school, a public school, in the suburb where we lived. That was a big change and adjustment for me, and I had a bit of a rough go of it there too, before I found my groove. Ultimately there were both good and bad things to come out of it, but I suppose my first choice would have been to remain in my first school, where my brother Ulrik was.

        If I had to pinpoint a specific life lesson or realization to come out of that incident, it was probably something about not being able to trust women. That women can have this sort of cold, evil, competitive, or dramatic flair, and it's stayed with me throughout my life. I don't think it's a coincidence that I have more male friends than female; men make me feel safe, relaxed, calm and nurtured. Of course, that could also be attributed to the fact that I have four brothers and probably attempt to replicate those relationships wherever I go, to have that feeling of "home."

        I'm 100% responsible for my life, so there are no hard feelings or hate towards my friends who bullied me back then, even though it's a bit tricky to revisit. It was something that happened that impacted a lot of things in my life, but I firmly believe that it is the sum of all my experiences that makes me who I am, whether those experiences are happy, sad, or traumatic. 

My First Hangover

        We had been planning it for almost a week. The getting drunk part, not the hangover. I don't even think I knew what a hangover was, but supposedly getting drunk was fun so that's what we were going for. I'm not sure exactly who was in and who was out, but I was around 15 or so, which means the girls were most likely one or more of the stellar group of girls I hung out with in junior high school - Tessan, Lulle, Missan, Åsa BT, Tendai and Åsa Karlsson.

Missan and her brother

        Tessan was the super happy one, who loved to sing and dance, Lulle was more advanced than any of us and already smoked and had boyfriends, Missan was who I was the closest with, as we ended up in the same class in both junior high school and high school. Åsa BT and Tendai were inseparable and Åsa Karlsson lived in the row of houses right behind me. 

        There was a dance at the school's after hours youth center, which I think was called "Ringen," ("The Ring") and I had already gotten into an argument with my parents over what bus to take home. The dance was over at midnight, so naturally I wanted to take the 12:20am bus, so I could be there for when the lights went up, and walk to the bus stop with everyone else that lived where I lived. My parents insisted on the 11:50pm bus, which would have me miss the end-of-night excitment, having to leave the dance early. The issue was resolved when I sneakily obtained permission to sleep over at Missan's, who of course had a much later curfew. 

"Witch Mix"

        My parents had a cabinet well stocked with alcohol at all times, which was perfect as the most popular - and clearly most idiotic - beverage at this time was called "witch mix." Witch mix was basically when you took a bunch of different alcoholic beverages and mixed them in a smaller bottle. It was easy enough to take just a little bit from each bottle in the cabinet without fearing discovery, and I knew better then to add water to any of the bottles. 

        There was no soda, juice or water added, just a mix of hard liqor, which sounds completely disgusting, but back then, in the eighties, it wasn't about enjoying the taste, it was about reaching teenage intoxication, three years before we were legally allowed to drink. I don't know who's bright idea it was to smuggle the alcohol into the dance, as opposed to drinking it beforehand, but somehow I ended up with the actual carrying of it into the dance. Bags were searched, so I had wrapped the bottle in tissue, then in a shoe box that I covered in gift wrap and a bow.

        Once we got to the front of the line, the doorman searched my back pack and naturally found the "package." He asked what it was, and I replied that it was a birthday present for one of our friends inside. He commented on its heavy weight and asked me what was inside, to which I replied "a clock radio," adding, "our friend is always late for school." Satisfied with our response, or perhaps just amused by the sheer idiocy, and gusto it took to concoct such a bizarre story, we were let in with our bottle of witch mix. 

        We headed straight for the bathroom where a few of us took turns drinking the mix in a tiny stall. Not surprising, it was not delicious at all. I mean, who in their right mind drinks a mix of rum, Campari, vodka and whiskey straight up like that? Obviously, we got drunk pretty quickly and I remember feeling like I was on a boat, because everything moved all around me even though I was completely still. I don't remember much more, like if any of us had any fun, if we danced and socialized, or if we were just all nauseous and sat around. 

        At some point, towards the end of the dance, we must have sobered up enough to walk to Missan's house, where her older brother showed up, delighted to hear about our drunken adventure. He was a few years older, so legally drunk, and definitely enjoying our somewhat confusing evening. I remember waking up the next day, not sure what had happened to the inside of my mouth, my head or my stomach, but feeling cool and accomplished.

        Missan's parents, who were supercool and laid back, often enlivened by alcohol themselves, seemed to understand what had taken place the night before, but didn't make a big fuss about it. Her mom made us breakfast, and her brother insisted milk would solve everything, and poured us tall glasses of it, which we gulped down quickly. Then Missan walked me to the bus, and we re-capped the adventures of the night before while giggling.

        I threw up on the walk from the bus stop to my house, proving that the Swedish "Milk Cures Hangovers" theory and myth of the 80's had some flaws. Turns out milk doesn't magically take away the alcohol in your stomach, it just makes you throw it all up. Not a problem for me, as it ultimately made me feel well enough to face my non-suspecting parents and tell them all about the "fun" night at the dance...

 

 

My First Time

         This seems weird to say, but losing my virginity was a two-parter of sorts. There was the time I tried to have sex, but was unsuccessful, and the time it worked, probably partially because I had tried once before. I apologize in advance to those of you who will think this is a bit too intimate. On the one hand, it is a bit personal, but on the other, it was so many years ago, so although I'm experiencing discomfort writing this, hopefully my readers will find it endearing and amusing, instead of gross. 

        It was one of those things that was getting a bit frustrating. It seemed everyone else was doing it...and so naturally, I wanted to do it too. I didn't want to be the only one still a virgin. The year was 1986 so I was 15, about to turn 16. There was no pressure from anyone but myself, but for those of you who know me well, you know I'm my best "pusher man," being both highly competitive and eager for new experiences. Couple that with the eagerness to fit in that most teenagers experience, and you get where I was at. 

        His name was Omar, and he was Swedish, but his family was most likely muslim. Perhaps that was why it didn't work? He worked with me at Clock, which was a Swedish McDonald's type hamburger chain in the 80's. I was a cashier and I think he worked the fryer. He wasn't tall or short, so somewhere in between, and very cute. We had flirted a lot and perhaps even kissed once or twice. 

        My two friends, Pia and Claudia, who were a year ahead of me in high school, were throwing a party one weekend, and since they also worked at Clock, they had invited Omar.  The party was in full swing, and I wish I remember there being a romantic set-up, but the truth is, I found myself in what I think was Pia's bedroom, with Omar.

        Before I knew it, his pants were off, and we were going to have sex. It was weird. I don't think I was super into it. Meaning, I was a little bit taken aback by the whole "we're in someone else's bed and there's a party happening in the other room" element. I guess it's embarrassing that I decided to do it anyways, that I was a 15-year-old girl more concerned with upsetting Omar, then taking care of myself and my honor, but so it goes. Sigh. 

   

        People who know me, know that I have a slightly overactive obsession with safe sex. Not only have I been known to scare the crap out of friends, by lecturing them incessantly about the various diseases one can pick up even without intercourse, but I've also been known to buy my more promiscuous and careless friends condoms, to ensure their health and safety. 

        Given all of that, it's surprising that I don't remember Omar having any protection whatsoever, even if this was before AIDS. Safe sex was being discussed in schools and all around us, but perhaps this was another one of those "teen Marika not wanting to rock the Omar boat" moments, where I put myself second, and a teenage boy's libido first. 

        To get to the awkward part, he tried to "get it in," but couldn't. A combination of his size and my being a virgin. It really hurt, so after a couple of tries, he stopped, quite frustrated. Whatever moment of excitement and bonding there had been, it was over now, and Omar quickly got dressed and re-joined the party. I stayed back to make the bed, and to my horror discovered I had bled a little bit on Pia's bedding. I pulled her and Claudia aside and apologized, and they were quite gracious about the whole thing.

        Cut to a few months later, I had turned 16 and went to Gothenburg to attend a party and visit friends. It was February of 1987, and the party was hosted by my old boyfriend Joachim Rosenberg. It might seem weird that I had an old boyfriend already at 16, but Joachim and I had started our romance in 1978 at summer camp, and it had carried on for a few years.

        I had fallen for him because, at 7 and-a-half years old, he was the most obnoxious boy at summer camp. He dressed in Hang Ten pastel polos and shorts, and, perhaps most importantly, he came from Gothenburg, which seemed exotic to 7-year-old Marika, living in Stockholm.  

        He once sent me 23 post cards, each with just one word. I had to put them in order to read the message. He was 13 at the time and my parents thought the gesture was flashy, but I thought it inventive and romantic. We were girlfriend/boyfriend during the summers at camp, and wrote each other sweet letters and cards the rest of the year. In 1983, I was Joachim's date for his Bar Mitzvah, and wore a festive grey number, with a fluffy ribboned collar. 

        But back to 1987. I can't remember what the party was for, but it was an official sit-down dinner followed by dancing, and having been seated next to him at his Bar Mitzvah, I was upset to find some other girl seated next to him at this party, while I was seated with his best friend. In case you are wondering, yes, a lot of thought and planning goes into seating arrangements in Sweden, not just for weddings, but pretty much every party you attend whether you are 12 or 17. 

A slightly older Joachim, just as obnoxious...

        I felt slighted because although Joachim and I weren't officially seeing each other at this point, I had come to Gothenburg for this party, and was his longtime, old time girlfriend. Therefore, etiquette should have prevailed, and I should have been given the place of honor, next to the host. We spent some time arguing about it, and after much groveling, I forgave him and things were sweet and happy. 

        We went back to his parents' house where I had spent the night many times over the past few years, but there was something different about this night. We were both of that age. Joachim had already had sex but wasn't weird or boastful about it, so there was no planning or scheming or sleaziness.

        We were downstairs on his parents' leather couch talking, listening to music, and making out, and at some point, things progressed quite sweetly and naturally. Everything went smoothly and when it actually happened, I was surprised, because I was expecting it to hurt, but it didn't at all. In fact, it felt really good. This is going to sound so cliche, but he was considerate, sweet and loving, and made the whole transition into "womanhood" a truly great experience. 

        Perhaps Omar had done the "prep-work" or perhaps this just went well because I really loved Joachim. He was my first love, before I really understood what love was, and I don't think you can ask for more, for your first time. 

My First Date

        There was probably a time when I was very young, and did something date-like with a boy in Sweden, but since I didn't really understand or participate in the concept of dating until I arrived in the United States, I thought I should write about what I consider my first official American date. And yeah, it was pretty official as far as dates go.

        To give you some background, Sweden is one of those countries where you tend to melt in and out of relationships without the formality of a date, or a series of them. You meet with or without friends, go out and have drinks and dinner just like on an American date, but it tends to be a bit more relaxed than here. Then you're in a relationship for a while, and it's good until it isn't, at which time you melt out, and melt into something else with someone else. Swedish (and most European) men are charming, polite and behave like gentlemen, and in my opinion, it comes out a bit more natural than it does with American men, because that official date element isn't there. 

        I had just moved to California when Richie asked me out on a date. I think he even used the word date in the actual asking, to make it clear. I wasn't sure how I felt about Richie, who was a cute, all-American, Jewish guy around my age, but was told that's what dates are about, figuring out one's feelings, so I said yes, and he got tickets to a Dodger game. Another first. My First Baseball Game. 

        Before we get to the actual date, let me say a few words about my relationship to baseball. I don't get it. And when I say I don't get it, let me make clear that I understand the rules and objective of the game, but having grown up without baseball and its long standing rivalries, I don't get into it like real Americans do. I think it's a lot of hours spent for little to no action. Especially if you compare it to ice-hockey, which is a quick, and sometimes deliciously violent sport that Sweden is great at. I can get quite passionate and riled up during a world cup game of ice-hockey, but baseball just isn't in my slightly chilled, Swedish blood.

        I'm now realizing that I'm going to come across as an impossible-to-please, bitchy girl in this post, and I hate that. Especially because I'm fairly easy to please in reality. I have made it clear in life (and in previous posts) that I believe in gender roles, and that I think men should be men, take charge, and treat women like women.

        I'm not necessarily contradicting that now, but I am saying that it's not just about doing the right thing, and taking charge on a date, but it's how you do it. It's all in the nuance. And perhaps a bit in the wrist. And the bulk of the Americans I've dated, have unfortunately made up for their lack of that natural, easy "je ne sais quoi," with an overly confident and sometimes boastful edge. Sigh.

        Richie picked me up and opened the passenger door for me and this is where it all went wrong. I know he was just 23 or so, but this perfectly appropriate and sweet gesture was done in such an overly "datey" and showy way, that it made me a bit uncomfortable. I had certainly had doors opened for me before, but in this case, it didn't feel like I was spending time with a new friend, who had gently opened my door, instead, it felt overly stiff and official. 

          We got to Dodger Stadium and found our seats. I don't remember who the Dodgers played that day. Or any of the players. Or if they won or lost. I remember that Richie asked me what snacks I wanted, and then went and got them, while I was to stay in our seats. I remember that Richie got up to escort me to the bathroom when I needed to go, and I subsequently told him to sit down because I was fine going on my own.

        I remember that I made a big mistake on my way back from the bathroom. I had declined a soda when Richie offered earlier, but walking by the concession stand, I found myself wanting one, so I got a Coke on my way back to our seats. Richie got visibly upset and asked why I hadn't told him I wanted a soda earlier. I know, I know...he was a perfect gentleman, eager to please and willing to make my first Dodger experience the best one ever, but it was in a way that seemed so awkward, and unnatural, perhaps even controlling at times.

        I remember that Richie tried his best to explain the game, the purpose of the 7th inning stretch, and other baseball related facts I probably should have been interested in. But I was 22 and this was all really boring to me. Conversation didn't flow easily and I tried to infuse it with a joke here and there about some of the things going on at the game, but that wasn't appreciated. At some point, when I understood we were going to be there for a few hours, I remember wondering if it was obligatory to stay for the whole game, but definitely understanding that it wasn't really appropriate to ask. 

                                 

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks...I DON'T CARE IF I NEVER GO BACK.

        Finally, at the end, when Richie asked me if I wanted a program, I said something rude and sarcastic, and interestingly enough, I can't remember it now...I suppose my harsh edge came out as I just didn't get the point of having a program to a game that was already over. Richie mumbled something like "to remember your first baseball game," and I felt like an ass. (I told you I would come across as a bitch.)   

        Richie's only crime was to take a young "uninterested-in-baseball" Swedish girl to a Dodger game. Once there, he did do all the "right" things a young American man would do on a date, and any American girl would probably have been thrilled with the somewhat formal attention. I was being taken care of and adored, and even though I felt the manner lacked a bit of ease and playfulness, it was a true American date and in hindsight, I do appreciate it very much. 

        In conclusion, there are two things discussed in this blog I still do, with equal discomfort and reluctance;

Number 1. Go to Dodger Stadium and see a game every couple of years, and Number 2. Go on dates. Although I still don't see the real benefit in either, I've found something to look forward to in both. At the game it's the Dodger dogs...

My First "Lillebror"

        The word "lillebror" means little brother in Swedish. Getting a younger sibling, after having been the youngest for seven years was a powerful experience. I had a younger sister, Jessica, but she lived in the south of Sweden with my father and his new wife Monika, so this was my opportunity to get an "in-house" doll. A sweet girl to dress up. A little Simon arrived, but that didn't stop me.

Happily helping with little brown seventies mittens

         I made him my own. I happily helped with diapers, and dressing him, because I wanted someone to play with, someone that I could be in charge of, and pick which games to play, as I'd had about seven years of playing what Ulrik wanted to play. 

        That's exactly how it went. Simon became my sweet little toy, doll, baby brother, and play mate. We played every game I wanted to play. Which usually entailed him wearing a dress or some other costume. I would also straddle him and do the hanging spit thing over his face, and some other torture tricks, if he was "bad." And sometimes even if he wasn't. Just to exert my power. 

         Simon was a happy, content child, with a hint of arrogance. He ate well...almost too well, and was in and out of chubby stages for much of his childhood. He was spoiled, being the first child of Nicke, my step father, and the first grandchild of Nicke's parents. I suppose there were times it bothered me, but Simon was always such a sweet child that it never got in the way of our relationship.

 

        He admired and listened to me. In his teenage years, I used my powers for evil from time to time, perhaps because I could. Simon would come down the stairs ready to go to school, and I'd just look him up and down and shrug. A few seconds later, he would exclaim;  "MOM...I can't wear this." My mother would come into the hallway and stare me down, saying "did you have to do that? You know how much your opinion counts."

   My lillebror Simon, a stranger to hard labor, cooking, cleaning, organizing & sports but with a big, open heart and a highly developed brain...

        Having been given a bit of a nest egg by his grandparents, Simon developed an interest in money early on. He read about stocks and bonds, and as a young teen made decisions about investments for himself, and advised his grandmother. He would emphasize that while Ulrik and I had gotten "the looks," he had gotten the money, and that would last way longer. 

         During an internship at a Swedish financial publication, Affärsvärlden, Simon wrote an article, got some attention, and subsequently became a staff writer. He stayed there for a few years, combining his articles with frequent TV appearances, and as a result, became quite well known in the finance world. So much so, that he was offered a job using his vast knowledge to manage money for private investors and companies. 

        In other words, Simon grew up to became quite the brilliant man. He's kind and sensitive. He still can't cook anything and is by far most practically challenged person I know. But he's a sweet husband who can't be away from his wife Miriam for more than a few hours. And he is a very engaged father to Bruno, the happiest boy in the world, and most recently little Lilly.

Bruno, happy and sweet, with just a bit of wildness...    

        It turns out, Bruno has inherited not just Simon's positive and happy outlook on life, but a bit of his arrogance. Not too long ago, Simon was trying to give Bruno medicine and promised him a present if he swallowed it. Bruno, his father's son, not missing a beat, said "Good bye, Daddy." When Simon asked him why he was saying goodbye, Bruno's response was "Daddy is going to buy a present now," and gulped down the medicine.

        Oh, and did I mention Simon was recently named the eighth sexiest man in Swedish finance? I'm not just including that because I'm a proud sister, but also to show I still have the power to embarrass and humiliate my sweet 'lillebror', from thousands of miles away. 

The motivation reads; "Simon Blecher is the type of finance guy who knows everyone and everything, and who is known as 'a nice guy.' He loves the spot light and participates eagerly in interviews and seminars, where he happily analyzes companies and tells you what his current favorite stocks are. A success story, he truly shines in his expensive suits. Next time you see him, he's probably having lunch with a big CEO at Sturehof."

 

 

 

My First Cigarette

        I remember it well. I was fourteen and it was a stolen cigarette. I had taken it from my mother's pack, which she kept in the fridge. The brand was Prince and I think it was a Swedish brand because I've never seen them anywhere else. Friends from school were smoking on the breaks and I knew there was some talent to it, like you couldn't just light one up and start puffing. I had seen friends do that, and they looked stupid, especially when the coughing fits started.

        I walked outside and went to the side of our house, where there were bushes to hide behind. My intention was to try to learn how to smoke. I had already decided I wanted to smoke, and now, all there was to do was to figure out how to do it. I brought one cigarette and a box of matches and off I went. I lit it, puffed on it, coughed and got nauseous. I must have inhaled because I felt dizzy and like I wanted to throw up.

Smoking at summer camp in the late eighties...

        But I kept on going, because when I want something, I don't let anything get in my way. And this was important. It could change my whole high school experience.  The nausea subsided and I started to move the cigarette around with my fingers, to figure out what looked cool as far as holding it. It wasn't long before I was a secret smoker, "sponsored" by my mother without her knowledge. She always kept packs and cartons in the fridge, and I helped myself. I can't remember how long I smoked before my parents found out, but the way they found out was quite funny.

           I would hide the pack of cigarettes in a box of "Salty Bears" candy. The box was just a hair bigger than a pack of cigarettes, so it fit nicely, and allowed me to carry my cigarettes in my jacket pocket without fearing discovery. One evening my step dad asked me if he could use my house keys for something, asking where they were. I yelled down from my room that they were in my jacket pocket, and didn't think anything else of it. Until I heard, "Yum, Salty Bears," coming from downstairs. If there was anything I had underestimated in my clever cigarette camouflage plan, it was my step father's love for licorice.

        Smoking with Jack on New Year's Eve 1997

          The next thing I heard was, "Elise, come here for a minute." I could hear my mother's footsteps downstairs and low talking. So I did what any mortified teenager would do, I turned the lights off in my room and threw myself on the bed, pretending to be asleep. It's funny, if I had thought about it calmly, I would have realized how ridiculous it was to pretend to be fast asleep, a minute after I had yelled down about the keys. But this was about survival.

        My parents came upstairs and with every step I grew more nervous. They came into my room and stood in the doorway for a minute. Then they said something. I can't remember exactly what it was, but it wasn't at all what I was expecting. They weren't happy I was smoking, I know that much, but they didn't go crazy either. It was like everything else they said when they discovered something they didn't know about me, or found out I had done something that I was too young to do, or something that was considered "bad." 

Smoking (and most likely drinking) in London in the late eighties...

        And whatever it was that they said, through this blog, revisiting some of my "bad" behavior as a child/teen/young adult, I'm starting to understand that there really wasn't anything "bad." They were well aware what my friends and I were up to, and they were merely just making the point that they were right there, not freaking out about it. They would much rather know what I was up to, and have me do it at home, then out on the streets of Stockholm. And I think that made me feel like I really COULD tell them anything and everything if I wanted to. And there were times I did and times I didn't. 

Smoking at my college graduation....

           At some point my step dad and I were walking somewhere in Stockholm, and I lit up a cigarette and he said "you know, it's not very ladylike to walk the streets smoking." That stuck with me, and for all the years I smoked, you'd never see me walking down the street with a cigarette. At a restaurant, bar, cafe, in my car, at parties. But not walking down the street. 

        I smoked for a lot of years. Like twelve or thirteen. It's hard to remember. Like my mother and grandmother, I was a social smoker. I could never roll out of bed and light a cigarette, so perhaps I wasn't a real smoker. But after lunch, or an afternoon coffee, or with a drink, I loved it. Driving in LA. I smoked about a half a pack a day, a full pack on a drunken night out.  

Smoking with Heather & Ozzie, fellow FRIENDS assistants at an EMMY party in the nineties...

        I smoked until the day I had a cigarette while having bronchitis. I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't breathe so I had my boyfriend at the time take me to Cedars Sinai. They put me on a breathing machine for the night, and as "luck" would have it, my friend Jill's brother was the Doctor who treated me. Dr. Fishkin had treated me for a car accident injury a few years prior, and was happy to see me, although the circumstances weren't exactly ideal.

        Before sending me home with an inhaler, he looked me in the eyes and said "if you don't stop smoking, you will die from emphysema." Something about a week bronchial and lung area. That stuck with me so I quit right away. Although I don't have an overly addictive personality, it was really hard, which only made me more determined. I decided that nothing would have that sort of power over me, then, or ever. I decided that I am above addictions. That I am stronger than any need or craving for anything or anyone.

        Which is probably what gets me in trouble with the gentlemen. Sometimes when I get in too deep, when I find myself really attached, I let go just to prove to myself that I can. I leave because I don't like the feeling of needing someone, of being completely vulnerable, of someone holding that kind of power over me. 

The only thing I smoke now...

My First Favorite Thing

        The red and white gingham checkered pillow. I loved that thing. I leaned on it in my stroller, slept on it, and also did this other weird thing with it. I didn't just suck my thumb as a little girl, but sucked my thumb and also managed to shove my index finger in my mouth. This "contraption" meant there was a fair amount of drooling going on, and the drool naturally landed on the pillow. Which made it wet. And unfortunately, it doesn't end there. If it was a warm summer night, I would rub my cheek on the wet spot of the pillow to "cool" down. 

Dad and I, and my pillow!

         I took it everywhere, so needless to say it became increasingly difficult for my mother to keep it fresh and clean. I can't remember which had to go first, my pillow or my ability to suck my thumb (and index finger,) but I think it all happened around the same time. I say "my ability to suck my thumb" because a thumb isn't something your mother can throw away, like a pacifier, when society thinks you've become too old for it.

        My mother had to get creative. She tried putting salt on my thumb, which didn't work at all. Like any Swedish salty licorice loving kid, I didn't mind the salty taste, and, it was gone after a few seconds, after which I continued to happily enjoy my thumb. I think there was some bribery too, but I probably just promised to be a big girl and then, after the light was turned off, filled up my mouth with my exquisite thumb and index finger, and proceeded to drool on my pillow.

        Finally my mother sowed these little cloth bags. They were like mittens except for the whole hand went in, and the fabric was quite festive and colorful, if I remember correctly. The idea was that I'd put my hand in them, and there was a tie around the wrist so once I was in, I couldn't take them off. Nor could I get to my thumb. I don't know how she got the idea, but I must say, points for creativity. I'm sure people are now imagining little Marika in a straight jacket, but they were really quite cute and inventive. And eventually, after shoving my whole "mitten" covered hand into my mouth a few times, I gave up.  

Ulrik and I, and my pillow!

        All great things must come to an end, and so did my time with my favorite pillow. I had enjoyed it for many years so perhaps it was time. I don't remember how it all went down, but I remember asking for it, and being told it was old and had been thrown out. Knowing myself back then, I probably screamed, cried, and mourned it for some time, but adult Marika will never blame my mother for it. 

        You see, my mother grew up in a home where nothing was ever thrown out, regardless of its expiration date. To me, grandma Celina and grandpa Norbert's house was a treasure trove. It was (and actually still is) a place where you find all sorts of interesting gadgets and items; old newspapers and chocolate from the nineties, mixed in with feathery boas and salad tongs. Visiting was fascinating as it gave me the chance to go treasure hunting on a daily basis, but I imagine living in that sort of environment must not have been all that great.

        So when it came time for my mother to have her own family and create her own home, she did things the opposite way, like so many people do when they have their own children. She was a happy, fun Mom who danced a lot, found creative ways to get her daughter to stop sucking her thumb. And she threw things out when they got gross. Nothing wrong with that, unless I'm now supposed to rebel against it and become a hoarder. 

 

My First Kiss...with a Girl

        I was twenty five years old when I made this new friend. I'm going to call her Sarah for the purpose of this story. We had seen each other at the gym a few times and ended up always talking, and before we knew it, we were spending almost every waking moment together. She had a boyfriend at the time, and preceded to introduce me to many of his super interesting and handsome friends, which I didn't mind at all.  

        Sarah was (and actually still is) smart as a whip, funny, charming, well educated and a good, honest, sweet friend. Almost every Sunday we would go to Kokomo, which was located in the Farmers Market at the time, close to my apartment on Hayworth. There we would talk about the previous evening's sometimes crazy adventures over Eggs Sardou and their delicious coffee cake, with a varied crowd of friends.

Twenty-five year old Marika at Kokomo (photo credit: Sarah)

        On this particular Sunday, it was Sarah and I, and a male friend of ours, who I'll call Mark. We had brunch as usual, and then drove Mark back to his apartment which was pretty close to the Farmers Market. Mark asked us if we wanted to come in and hang out for a bit, and since it was a lazy Sunday, we both said yes.

        What comes next is going to cause male readers of this blog to admire Mark greatly, as it took some skillful scheming to get two innocent twenty-five year old girls to make out. Ok, maybe not entirely innocent. Still, at the time, it didn't seem manipulative at all, and I think therein lies the talent that many men would dream to possess, or pay to acquire. It was one of those natural "one minute we're all hanging out and the next, we're all kissing" sort of situations.

Mark "suggested" we play a game... 

        Mark suggested we play a game. It was a kissing game that required  a blindfold, and as "luck" would have it, Mark had a scarf close by and off we went. Mark offered to go first and as he put the blindfold on, explained the rules of the game. He said the person who was blindfolded will get kissed by one of the "players", and has to guess who is kissing them. Simple enough. My mind didn't move ahead and think "well, there's just one boy, so how will it work when Sarah or I get blindfolded?"  

        Sarah and I took turns kissing Mark and he guessed right after "needing" a second round, after which, Sarah put the blindfold on, encouraged by Mark, of course. Mark proceeded to kiss her and I was still sort of in the dark about what was coming next, naively. She guessed that it was Mark which obviously was correct. Then Mark motioned for me to kiss Sarah. 

        I should stop here and say that if you were ever in a situation where you'd be presented with the opportunity or invitation to kiss a girl, as I was in this case, Sarah was the girl you'd want to try that sort of thing out with. She was, and still is, ridiculously beautiful. Tall, lean, and with coloring quite opposite from mine. A perfect body, beautiful hair, rosy cheeks, bright eyes, soft lips...you get the picture. And a free spirit without hang ups, like me. 

        I leaned in and kissed her. It's been a long time and I only vaguely remember the kiss itself, but I remember thinking I'd never felt anything so soft and magical, kissing wise. It was a gentle kiss, without the force and push that men tend to bring. More like soft, relaxed lips and tongues playing without an agenda. I was kind of tantalized by the whole thing. And was happy to be next up to be blindfolded.

        I remember that we played the game for a few rounds before it was time to leave Mark's and go about our respective Sundays. We walked outside and said good bye with no awkwardness at all, which was cool. I definitely walked away impacted by it, like somehow mesmerized by the feeling of having had my lips pressed against "girl lips," yet I didn't feel the need to overanalyze it, or worry about whether or not this was going to effect our friendship. And it didn't. So, in conclusion, and to quote Kate Perry, "I kissed a girl and I liked it." 

My First Wedding

        Yeah, sorry. Not mine. The first one I attended. It was my mother's. It was her second wedding and it took place on June 6th, 1976, so 35 years ago tomorrow. Interestingly enough, there are no photos of me from this wedding. It seems strange now, in an era where children from previous marriages are included in wedding ceremonies with new partners, to make sure they don't feel left out. But that's exactly how it was. We were left out. No pink dress or flower girl responsibilities for me. I wore a denim overall dress and sat in the benches, with other guests. I remember crying. Why? Why was this other person coming into our life? Why was he "taking" our mother?

        And after? Ulrik and I were taken home by a baby sitter. No party for us. I remember my mom and Nicke (my stepdad) getting into a limo or some other fancy car, and I ran up to it, wanting to get in with them. But I wasn't allowed and they drove off. I was five and a half, and hysterically crying. For all I knew, they were never coming back. So, I don't have fond memories of this day, on the contrary, it was a traumatic experience for me because I didn't understand what was going on, and I don't remember anyone explaining it to me. My mom says she doesn't know if we understood what was going on or not, but that everything worked out.

        The ceremony took place at the "big synagogue" in Stockholm. For those of you familiar with Stockholm, the synagogue is located right behind hotel, restaurant, and night club, Berns. For those of you familiar with "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," the scene where Officer Bublanski is interrupted in the middle of praying, was filmed here. This is also where a few years ago, a cantor forgot to turn his microphone off, and stepped out to make a phone call to his girlfriend, which was then heard by the entire congregation over loudspeakers. Including his wife. 

        There are three synagogues in Stockholm, two orthodox and one conservative, and the "big synagogue" is the conservative one. It's called the "big synagogue" because it's by Swedish standards, very big. Definitely bigger than the other two. It features an organ and there has been a bit of a debate through the years about whether or not to play it on shabbat and holidays, as this is a conservative synagogue and not a reform one, but it's typically used. 

        The "big synagogue" is where I had my Bat Mitzvah and if was after that, in 1982, that Ulrik and I were invited to join the choir, which we promptly did. We were the youngest members of the choir, and I'd like to say we joined because we were inspired to sing Hebrew prayers, but I think our reasons were a bit more shallow than that.

Bat Mitzvah girl, December 4, 1982

        Singing in the choir was an exclusive way of attending services. We were seated on the highest balcony, which meant we could see everything and everyone. We were also separate from our parents, who would insist on our following along in the praying. Up top, no one could see us, so we could read comic books if we wanted. And we did. Finally, we got paid, maybe ten or twenty dollars per service. Enough to make us way excited to go to temple.

       But back to the wedding. My mother felt she should probably not wear white as she had been married before. And she loves green, so that's what she picked. She swopped a veil for the hat for the same reason. The night before Nicke spent the night in his apartment, but kept on calling for a myriad of reasons because he was nervous. One of the calls was that he had forgotten to arrange for the bouquet - I guess it was common for the groom to handle that in those days. Turns out that part was a joke, but my Mom stayed calm, got her bouquet, and got hitched. 

Happy 35th Anniversary!

 

My First Photo Shoot

        
            Boy, am I gonna get in trouble for this one. Thank god I'm thousands and thousands of miles away, because I can't imagine "he who must not be named" (but who's face you're about to see multiple times) is cool with having his sweet face plastered all over this blog. I suppose I could use the cropping feature. But I'm not nearly as cute on my own, much better as the smaller half of a duo.

        Our mother used to take us to a professional photographer in Helsingborg when we were little. It looks like my first photo shoot took place in 1971, because it seems I've just learned to sit and Ulrik looks like he's hitting the toddler age.

         From then, the posing seems to have gotten slightly more sophisticated, but of course, one very important aspect remained. We were always photographed in matching outfits. Always. Which I thought one really only did with twins. 

        The stories our mother used to tell about this phase of our lives was; a) we were so cute people would stop us on the street, b) the photographer always kept our photo in the window for promotional purposes, for the same reason, and c) people usually assumed my mother was some sort of baby sitter as she looked way too young to have kids. (She was 20 when she had Ulrik, and had just turned 22 when she had me.) 

        Clearly where my super short bang phase starts. Whoa. The hair in the back had already been chopped as I'd always get food and other things stuck in my hair. I was obviously not destined for ribboned pig tails and butterfly clipped braids. I imagine this haircut lasted for months and months. 

        This is the last one before the cuteness ends, and we both entered into the awkward teenage years, with teeth coming in a bit funny, and features growing in spurts before settling. So perhaps it's lucky that I don't have any more professional photos. 

  

         In going through the old photos, I found that the matching outfits weren't just for the days we had our picture taken, but permeated our entire childhood. It seems so uncreative and thwarting in individualism and independence. How was I supposed to find my own identity if I was always dressed like the male, older version of myself? 

   

        Perhaps this is why, even with the long blonde hair and the red finger nails, I feel like I have to work at showing my feminine side. Like it doesn't just come out naturally. I'm way tougher than I am demure and girly, and feel like my energy gets a little masculine at times. Maybe this is also why I've felt like one part of a duo most of my life. Don't get me wrong, Ulrik and I are as different as two people can be, but even though we've been geographically separated for almost 20 years, I still feel like one part of a two-parter. Like, Ulrik, part two.

        Maybe I'm reading too much into this and the reason for the matching outfits wasn't to confuse my whole existence, but maybe it was just easier to shop that way. "I'll take one red and one blue." Maybe it was because we looked so darn cute being matchy-matchy. Also, our grandmother Celina helped by knitting many a matching, itching sweaters for us to wear. 

        The plot thickened as I found the following photo of us with our uncle Ulf. It shows another sibling pair in the background, in matching shirts and shorts, also deprived of originality. So perhaps it was just a thing of the seventies? I guess so. And now I have to go and find another reason to explain all my childhood identity issues. Stay tuned. 

My First Diary

        There it is. Fully intact. Purchased December 9th, 1984, the day before my fourteenth birthday, although I didn't start writing in it until January 1st, 1985. I wrote in it with some consistency for a year and a couple of months, and then it goes blank. As you open it, it reads (in Swedish:)

Please DON'T READ!!! 

MARIKA'S secret DIARY 

Whoever reads my diary without asking, should really think it through first. There are things written in here that no one knows about. Therefore I want my diary left alone.

        If that's not an invitation/provocation to read someone's diary, I don't know what is. I'm basically saying that all my secrets are in here, so don't read it? No wonder my brother read it as soon as he found it, and it didn't take him long at all to use my musings to make fun of me, and attempt to extort me. There is actually an entry about three months in that talks about how I'm not going to write anything important (as if I had up until that point) because Ulrik had read the diary.

        So, going through the diary, reading about my fifteenth year on earth was sad, humiliating, embarrassing and kind of torturous. A bit overwhelming actually. Flipping through the pages, I found myself in a strange, frightened anticipation, wondering what would come next, as I turned the pages. 

             
               Not as historically significant as Anne's, not as riveting as Belle's

        The diary has a mixture of family news, school events, ski trips and other vacations, movies I saw, plots from the TV show Dallas, winners and losers in the Eurovision Song Contest, and brief gossip announcements about who is going out with who, in my circle of friends. There are a lot of lists of people, places and things. If I'd been to a party, I listed my entire outfit top to bottom, every single person in attendance, and boys in order of best to worst looking. 

The sweet little resident of the laundry room

        One diary entry ends with "my Mom wants to talk to Ulrik and I so I've gotta go." The next one starts "Last night, Mom told us that she is pregnant. Damn. We have to move." I go off on how awful this is for me, not just because of the move - which of course has a list of the friends I'm going to miss the most - but the humiliation I felt about having a sibling 15 years younger. I remember this so vividly. Ulrik and I telling our mother she was too old to have a kid. At 36. Oy. 

        We actually never moved, but instead turned the laundry room into a bedroom for little Martin who arrived July 23rd, 1985. It sounds awful, but it was a pretty spacious room and after it was redone and organized, the changing table had a faucet next to it, which I suppose was a convenient bonus. 

        Another entry has me go completely nuts after having seen Nicola Sirkis, (WHO?) the singer of the French band Indochine. I saw him on the street in Stockholm, was frozen stiff, and started crying the minute he had passed. Later that night, there's a pink bow tie in my list of what I wore to a party, so I must have gotten over whatever sadness I felt over seeing Nicola.

        I'm overly chipper but also completely dramatic throughout the diary. Most of my existence was spent worrying and obsessing over boys, and crushes shifted almost every day. Yet, that day, it seemed as if I was going to die if I didn't end up with "the flavor of the day."  I wrote things like "I love so-and-so, and my life will be ruined if we don't end up together."

        Another strange thing is to see how completely concerned I was with what people thought of me. I must have been really afraid and insecure, as my Diary writing shows anxiety and worry when best friends spent time with other friends. I wondered if they talked about me, what they did, and if they were having more fun together then with me. That stuff is hard to read now. Really hard. I forget how difficult it was to be a teenager, and to go back and read my exact thoughts feels almost unbearable.

             
                      More like a cross between Bridget and the Wimpy kid....

        But there are sweet things too. I write about picking up Ulrik's diploma from ski-school because he was sick, babysitting my brother Simon, and worrying about whether or not my uncle Bernie is ever going to meet someone and have kids. Of course, it was partially because I wanted cousins, but there was a part of me, it seems, that was concerned with his happiness. (He did eventually meet someone and had cousin Michael.) A friend from school tried to commit suicide and I brought my walkman to the hospital, so she could listen to music. I wrote about school trips to the museum and a flood in the kitchen, which provided me with a perfect excuse to be late for school. 

        Some of the funnier highlights include Stefan, who I had a crush on, perming his hair. I remember that perm so vividly. It was an awful perm, and might in fact have been what had my feelings for him cool a bit. We all had them, but when you're a dude and your hair is kind of short, it doesn't matter if it's the eighties, it's not attractive period. I also wrote about whether I should let this or that boy cut off my virginity bracelet, a piece of white string we all wore until we were "deflowered." I was also grounded but neglected to explain why. 

        Although I have an amazing memory, there were some great things in my diary that I had forgotten all about. I had an internship at a hair salon, I played a ton of badminton (!?!) and went to London for the first time where I shopped at Selfridges, danced at Hippodrome, and bonded with DJ, a cute Jewish Brit, over the Howard Jones album "Dream into Action." It seems as if 1985 was a busy year for me. London, Israel with my friend Syzanne, a new baby brother, and bad grades (probably on account of all the socializing I seemed to be doing.) 

        And then, towards the end of the year, after kissing this boy and that, it seems I had a boyfriend. His name was Malte and he had blonde longish hair, blue eyes and a big nose. One of those great ones that enhances a face, gives it character. He was a year younger, tall, kind, sweet and a good kisser. The diary doesn't say what happened to "us," which is just as well, as I have a vague recollection of kissing one of his friends at a party he was too sick to attend. 

        The diary doesn't run out of pages, instead it ends sort of quite abruptly. I wrote an entry on February 28th, 1986, which coincidentally was my brother Max's 8th birthday. And then, complete radio silence. Perhaps it's for the best as February 28th was a particularly good day for 15-year-old Marika. No worries, sadness or insecurities in this entry. No lists. Just a nice day skiing with some friends. Goofing around in the snow. A happy day in wintery Sweden. 

My First American Boyfriend

        It was 1991 and I had been sent to Simi Valley by my rabbi. That sounds like some sort of punishment now, but at the time, it was really exciting. I was 20 and got to go to California for a whole month, which was very cool, as I had never been to the US before.

        I went to participate in a Jewish summer program, called BCI. It took place at the Brandeis Bardin Institute in Simi Valley. Jewish young adults from all over the world came together for 26 days of lectures, discussions, and a multitude of activities like Israeli dancing, singing, the art of Jewish paper cutting (think doilies but with Jewish stars cut into them.) It was basically camp for adults. You had to be between the ages of 18 and 26 and there were about fifty or so of us, if I remember correctly. 

  

                                        The "pretty girls" and the "dancing girls"

         There were mostly Americans there, and quite a few Californians, but also a few Brits, a couple of Israelis, maybe a frog or two, and some Canadians? I can't quite remember. It's easier to remember the clicks that quickly formed. I tended to float, but there was the "pretty girls" from Beverly Hills and the valley, the "dancing girls" who were less attractive but fantastic Israeli dancers, the nerds, the feminists and the anti-Americans.

        The anti-Americans was definitely the most fun group to be a part of, as our main focus was to roll our eyes when the uneducated, spoiled, bacon-eating Americans started to bitch about how difficult it was to be Jewish in America. The Israelis REALLY didn't like that, and neither did us Europeans. 

My room mate from Texas, Lisa Blech

        I was the only Swedish Jew of course, and as I was rooming with three American girls, I quickly discovered that I was also the only girl without white triangles on my boobs. This, I learned quickly, wasn't a good thing. Having brown breasts equaled sexual promiscuity, and not just the fact that I was from a country where we don't have hang-ups about going topless in the sun. 

        Needless to say, it was a strange and confusing time for me, made fun and excellent by the presence of Mr. Jeremy Barnett. Jeremy was in my opinion (and it seemed the bulk of the girls) the handsomest of all the land at BCI. "He will be mine," I muttered to myself upon meeting him, and shortly thereafter we became an item, as much as you could at a Jewish summer camp for adults. Jeremy was from New Jersey, and wore a Rutgers sweatshirt, which seemed to illicit a lot of impressed looks and comments, although its importance was lost on me. As was the fact that he had worked on the "Uh, Huh!" Pepsi campaign, as I wasn't familiar with that either. 

        Still, he was tall, handsome, with a grown-up goatee and just the right amount of Jewish. He could sing, Israeli folk dance and was a fantastic kisser. He was kind, sweet and quite taken by me, all things that made my summer quite extraordinary. There was obviously a no co-habitation rule, but if I remember correctly, we did "co-habitate" in an abandoned bunk once or twice.  I guess that proves I really was sexually promiscuous. Oh well. 

        After BCI, a few of us hung around LA for a couple of days, went to Universal Studios and some other touristy (super-exciting-to-me-then) places. Next, I headed to Winnipeg to visit Jackie, my kibbutz room mate, but managed to squeeze in a weekend in New York with Jeremy on my way back to Sweden. He had borrowed a friend's apartment and we had a really great weekend, although I don't really remember seeing much of New York. I do remember getting noodles in peanut sauce and being impressed at both the sheer genius of the dish, and the fact that we could get it delivered fairly late at night.  

        I don't like this next part. Which is funny because it's been 19 years, and you'd think it wouldn't really have a "charge" anymore, but I guess when you experience heart break, it stays with you. And is difficult to write about. Jeremy moved to LA and I came to visit the spring of 1992, as I had applied to the University of Judaism, and wanted to visit the school before I started in September. We had written letters back and forth, and when I came for the visit I stayed with Jeremy and his room mates in their apartment on Roxbury.

        I was really excited to see him, but I guess the feeling wasn't mutual, because he gave me my own bedroom to sleep in, without saying or explaining anything. I remember spending the first night crying, and being upset that he hadn't told me about the girl he was dating before I arrived. I also remember sleeping with him anyways, (two strikes on the promiscuity issue) but we never "got back together," and our lives went their separate ways from there. I started school and quickly found another American boyfriend. Jeremy met a taller blonde to marry shortly thereafter. 

        It seems sort of embarrassing and juvenile to say this now, but I think Jeremy was a big part of me moving to the United States, so if there was a silver lining in the summer romance and subsequent heart break, that would be it. I didn't move here for him, or to be with him, but it did make the opportunity to go to college here a bit sweeter. And I'm still here, so it seems I owe him quite a bit. 

         In conclusion, I can report that Jeremy is alive and well today, as we reconnected last year on Facebook or LinkedIn, or one of those things. He is just as tall and handsome, and it turns out he had three beautiful children with the tall blonde, but is divorced and single now. And no, I'm not gloating or feel vindicated by his heart break. At least not for more than a fleeting second.  

My First Fløde Is

    This might sounds like a weird thing to blog about, especially if you don't speak Danish, but if you've ever had a "fløde is" from "Brostræde Fløde Is" in Helsingør, Denmark, you understand the need to forever immortalize the experience in this blog. For those of you who are Shakespeare fans, Helsingør is where you find Kronborg's Castle, of Hamlet fame. (In English it's called Elsinore.) And, a "Fløde Is" is simply an ice cream, but not just any ice cream. 

        Right across the water from Helsingør, Denmark is Helsingborg, Sweden, where I was born. Helsingborg is one of the oldest cities in Sweden and has a medieval fortress that's 600 years old. It became a Swedish city in 1658, when the Danes had to give it up in a treaty. It's Sweden's closest point to Denmark, with Helsingør only 4 km away - a quick ferry ride. 

     Although we moved to Stockholm when I was very young, my Dad and both sets of grandparents were still in Helsingborg, so I'd go back and visit often. Helsingborg is where I had some of my fondest childhood memories, and therefore where my heart is. My father, aunt and uncles, my grandmother and my sister Jessica all still live there.

        Being able to jump on a ferry and be in another country about twenty minutes later is pretty cool, even if that other country is Denmark, a country very similar to Sweden, in both language, history, food etc. You get there by ferry and all the ferries have strange names that end in "la" and that I think are all supposed to be women's names. Regula, Carola, Betula, Ursula, Pendula, Primula. The trip takes about 20 minutes and I've made it many many times. It never gets old, mostly because of the treat that awaits on the other side of the water.   

    Once on the other side, in Denmark, "Brostræde Fløde Is," which opened in 1922, is on a street called...you guessed it...Brostræde! The short walk from the ferry seemed to last for hours when I was a child, but it's really just a quick two minutes to get there. 

        "Brostræde Fløde Is" has the best ice cream in the world. It's not the ice cream flavors themselves, although they have delicious vanilla, nougat, chocolate, strawberry and pistachio. It's the whole package that makes this a spectacular ice cream experience, one worth crossing country lines for.  

        The cones are homemade and as you get close to the ice cream shop, you get that delicious freshly baked cone waft in the air. You pick your flavor, and after they fill your cone with your choice of ice cream, they add fresh whipped cream, warm homemade jam and a flødeboll on top.

        It's hard to explain what a flødeboll is...you should really experience it, but it's sort of a wafer bottomed, chocolate dipped ball with delicious sweet sticky cream inside. And they just smush it on top of your cone. 

        I remember my first ice cream here, and I remember having to hold it in two hands because it was so big and filled to the brim with pure, heavenly sweetness. It wasn't easy to finish one of these as a child, but as long as I got the flødeboll, jam, whipped cream, some of the ice cream and a bit of cone in, I was deliciously satisfied.

My brother Max with his cone...in his fire truck

    Also, the ice cream became synonymous with family, fun, travel and adventure as the years went on. Going with my Dad, or my grandmother Celina, Mom, Ulrik, and most recently Max, it's sort of a thing to go to another country just for ice cream, even if it's as close as Denmark. My First Fløde Is was a experience I will always remember, and it's what keeps me taking that ferry back for more. 

My First Concert

                

    When I started to write this blog, I had no idea which concert was the first one. There were three concerts from the eighties that stood out in my memory, Sting's "Dream of the Blue Turtles" tour, George Michael's "Faith" tour, and last but certainly not least, Prince's "Sign☮ the Times" tour.

    I dug around in my memory box and found the corresponding "concert scarves." Yep, I was one of those people who got the scarves. Held them up during the concert and wore them proudly afterwords. And thought to myself "one day these are going to be worth something." The George Michael scarf said 1988, so he was out. (Bad pun not intended but taken nonetheless.) I googled all three and found that George played Stockholm in 1988, Prince in 1987, and Sting in 1985.

    So, my first concert was Sting at Isstadion in Stockholm, on November 22nd in 1985. This is so funny to me, because I was about to turn 15, and I would have thought I was more hip than that. Don't get me wrong, Sting is great. I'm a huge fan of The Police, and although "The Dream of the Blue Turtles" has "If You Love Someone, Set Them Free," it's not exactly what a supercool 14-year-old listened to in the eighties, or was it?

    I remember everything about that Prince concert, including spending the night outside Isstadion in the freezing cold to get tickets, and almost making it up on stage to dance with Prince. The music stopped just as Jerome Benton reached his hand down to pull me up. I also remember how dreamy George Michael was when he played "Faith," of course wearing the jacket from the video. But Sting. Hmm. 

       

Isstadion 1955, during the conversion in 1961, and today next to the Globe

    The concert took place at Isstadion (meaning 'ice stadium') which has a bit of an interesting history itself. Built as an outdoor arena for ice-hockey, it opened in 1955, and was converted to an indoor arena in 1962, so that the stadium could host both ice-hockey and concerts without concern for the weather. Isstadion was Stockholm's biggest arena (holds 8,300 at concerts) until 1989, when Globen ('the globe') was built right next to it, completely eclipsing it and everything else around. In 2002 it was renovated and now has smaller concerts and ice-hockey again. 

The Beatles played there in 1964 for about a dollar

    But back to Sting and "The Dream Of The Blue Turtles," which was named for a dream he had. About blue turtles incidentally. I'm now listening to it. To remember something. Anything. Did I sing? Did I dance? And who did I go with? I think I went with a boy from my high school, Calle Colliander but I'm not sure, and I can't find him on Facebook to check. 

    I googled the set list, and it looks like it was a pretty good night. 

1. Shadows in the Rain
2. Driven to Tears
3. Consider Me Gone
4. Children's Crusade
5. One World
6. Love is the Seventh Wave
7. We Work The Black Seam
8. Bring On The Night
9. When the World is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around
10. Moon Over Bourbon Street
11. Fortress Around Your Heart
12. Low Life
13. I Burn For You
14. If You Love Someone Set Them Free

Encore 1: Roxanne, Russians, Tea in The Sahara, Walking on the Moon, Every Breath You Take. 

Encore 2: The Dream Of The Blue Turtles, Demolition Man

Encore 3: Message in a Bottle

    I suppose I should apologize for not remembering enough to make this a super interesting and worthy "First" blog entry. I would have love to have written about how CRAZY Sting was on stage, how drunk we were, how absolutely hard core the audience was, jumping up and down, maybe even say something about all the shit that happened in the "mosh pit," but somehow, I doubt there was one. 

     What I will say is that going to this concert obviously struck some sort of chord with me, as I became an avid concert goer, first in Sweden, and now here. I stopped buying the scarves after my second Prince show at Isstadion in 1988, the "Lovesexy" tour, however, I have saved most of my ticket stubs, some of which you can see above.

    I LOVE going to concerts. When I go to concerts, my whole being is elevated. I'm on my feet, singing and dancing whether it's the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, Tom Petty, or even The Police, whose reunion tour I went to a few years ago.

     
My Trinity

    But, the artists/band I've seen the most is Prince, U2 and Bruce Springsteen. Because seeing them in concert is not just entertaining and uplifting, but it's a soulful, religious, heart opening experience, with full-on, sad days of withdrawal afterwords. For them I've driven to Anaheim, San Diego, San Francisco and flown to New York. For them I would go to the end of the world.  

My First Pair of Shoes

    Ta-da. There they are. A bit worn. Size 17. Short blog.

    I suppose I should say a few things about them, and my relationship to shoes in general. That I remember having these types of shoes more often then not, as in the lace-up-boots instead of the pretty, shiny shoes that most little girls wear. Because I think I had some sort of foot issue and needed the support. It's permeated everything in my life. At least my shoe philosophy, which is something like, "I'll only give up comfort and support if it's really important." Qualifying as really important: my wedding, other people's weddings, fancy parties and dates with tall people. Because if there is any kissing to be done, my neck will take the brunt of it, unless I let my feet. 

My favorite flats - Sigerson Morrison

    Today I have 50 51 52 53 pairs of shoes. (I keep on finding more shoes in my apartment.) 54 if you count my first pair. I was trying to figure out if that was a lot, so I texted three friends, letting them know I have 53 pairs, and inquiring about their numbers. Francesca diplomatically responded that her number was probably over 53. I pushed a bit so she counted and texted back. 85. Sigh of relief. I'm not crazy or overindulgent.

My favorite heels - Dolce & Gabbana (Francesca has these too)

    Toni texted back saying hers was in the range of 90-100, not counting flip flops. In her defense, she works in fashion, so it's kind of her job to have a lot of shoes. And I'm not just saying that because we wear the same size, and I'm afraid my library card to her shoe closet is going to be revoked. Or that she'll take me out of her will. Don't get me wrong, I would be devastated if something happened to her, but if I had to see the silver lining in it, I'd look smashing at her funeral, in her signed Christian Leboutins. I'd of course be doing it to honor her. Sensing that perhaps her shoe collection is a bit too extensive, Toni sweetly reminded me that "every shoe has a story." Preaching to the choir.

One of my 9 pairs of Stuart Weitzmans, courtesy of my ex-husband

    I remember when and why I bought every pair of shoes in my closet. I have breakup shoes, happy shoes, accomplishment shoes, just because shoes, and shoes I've been given as gifts. Oh, and Ellie emailed back and put everyone to shame, with an impressive 110. Best of all, she did it without an apology, excuse, or explanation. 

    I told my friend Guy that based on my quick survey, my conclusion was that 53 isn't a lot at all. He accused me of manipulating the results by choosing from a slim, shoe obsessed group, and suggested I text some "working class friends." I reminded him that we don't live in Charles Dickens' "Great Expectations," so I won't be texting the people down at the factory any time soon. Or the cobblers. 

My "congrats for graduating the AFI" sandals - Sigerson Morrison (mine are black)

    Stuart Weitzman wins the award for having the most boxes in my closet. There are nine of those purple boxes, and inside, shoes that are both sexy and somewhat comfortable. I say somewhat because let's face it, unless you are Toni, you can't walk on high heels all night, without being in pain the next day. But with Mr. Weitzman I sort of can. Which makes Jimmy Choo my nemesis. Too high. Too stiletto. Perhaps Jews should wear shoes made by Jews and Asians for Asians? Because Toni does just fine in her multiple Jimmy Choos. Coincidence and attempt at racial stereotyping? Probably. 

Favorite suede boots - Stuart Weitzman

    After that it's Sigerson Morrison, Tod's (regular and Ferrari Collection,) Tory Burch, and more. Mostly flats, because I still need support. Emotional as well as arch. And by the way, don't think that just because a shoe doesn't have a high heel, it's boring. There's plenty of flash and sparkle in my flat collection. 

    As my brain loves and is obsessed with organizing and categorizing things, I decided to do it with my shoes. Here's the breakdown:

• flip-flops (4)
• uggs  (2)
• running shoes (3)
• other tennis shoes (3)
• wedges (2)
• pretty little summer heels (3)
• sandals (3)
• ballet flats (4)
• loafers (4)
• open toe heels (2)
• closed toe heels (2)
• strappy sandal heels (6)
• crocs (1)
• stripper shoes (1)
• stripper boots (2)
• boots (11)    

    You might think that 11 pairs of boots is a lot, but when you consider it's about half leather and half suede, some are ankle boots, there are varying heel heights and colors grey, tan, brown and black are represented, it's not that bad. So I rest my case. Or I sound completely crazy trying to defend myself before anyone's accused me of anything. Take your pick. 

My favorite strappy sandals - Stuart Weitzman

     After going over the breakdown of my shoes, I've now gotten up and decided to see if I can cut my collection down to 45. That means 8 pairs of shoes must go. That's going to be a challenge. Definitely the crocs can go. I almost threw them out before writing this because I didn't want to have to admit to owning a pair. I even have "flair" for them. A Swedish flag you can stick into one of the holes. I know. I was in a weird phase. I haven't worn them since I moved back from Ojai. 

    Fave flip flops - Tory Burch

    And I think I can survive with one less pair of flip flops, one less pair of running shoes and tennis shoes. Do I need the stripper heels? God, if there was ever a time my reading audience could get a clear glance into what goes on in my mind, it's now. One pair of boots are sort of worn. I can lose them. Two more to go. Scanning my closet. Hmm. Can't do it. But six isn't bad. So I'll own 47 pairs. I feel content. Probably more than working class girls, but still way less than Francesca, Toni and Ellie. I can live with that. Until I find another pair I need. 

    In conclusion, my philosophy on shoes is like my philosophy on men. Who doesn't want those pretty, hot stilettos? They make you pant when you see them in the store. You know they are bad for you. Not worth the headache. But your brain is screaming "I want. I want." You take them for a spin, you feel sexy, desirable. They make you look so good. But the next morning, there they are, next to you, and you don't want to put them back on. And you're happy you have your Sigerson Morrison flats to slide your feet into. Or even better, those fuzzy Uggs that warm your feet and your heart equally. 

 

I would die without these. My security blanket. My best friends. 

My First Groundlings Performance

     I've always been interested in comedy, and at some point I decided to audition for The Groundlings Improv School. For those of you who aren't familiar, The Groundlings is an improv and sketch comedy theatre and school, that was founded by Gary Austin in 1974, and has been known to "output" some incredibly hilarious comedy and improv actors, including my former boss, Lisa Kudrow, and my friend Jennifer Coolidge. Personally, I wasn't as interested in the performing part as I was in the writing part, but in order to get into the Writing Lab, you have to take the other classes first and be approved to move up. 

    I was the only non-actor in every class I took at The Groundlings, and for me, I think it was one of the things that made me somewhat successful, meaning, I didn't have to review a level but was moved up after one try. I had no big dreams making it into the main company or getting to audition for SNL, so I had a pretty good, unattached attitude about the whole thing. I didn't mind going first for anything, a warm-up game, improv, or a sketch, so I found myself always jumping up when I heard the teacher say, "Ok, two people up."

    In each class there was a mix of writing & performing sketches, and learning improv. While I found myself at home with the writing, I learned quickly that there is nothing easy about improv. It takes a lot of brain power, and then the ability to disconnect that brain power. You can't plan ahead, try to be funny, or have an agenda. You have to go up and be like a blank canvas, completely open to create something with someone else without thinking.

    And in that moment, when you're up there and you say something in response to what your partner just said or asked, you hope that there is a different voice or accent coming out of your mouth, and a tic or a weird gesture spontaneously shooting out of your body, creating a character different from you. When it works, there is nothing more rewarding and fun. When it doesn't work, it's like dying the slowest death I have ever experienced. 

    I had some amazing teachers at The Groundlings, my favorite being the tall and super talented Roy Jenkins. Creative, extremely brilliant in long-form improv, firm but genuinely supportive as a teacher. If you have never been to The Groundlings, or even if you have, head over to the "Crazy Uncle Joe Show" on Thursdays at 8pm. Roy will blow your mind. 

Not for the faint hearted

    After I finished my first year at the AFI, I got a call from the Groundlings that there was an open spot in the summer session Writing Lab, which always has a long wait list. It had been a couple of years since I had taken classes there, but I decided to jump in and was extremely happy I did. Not only did I make some incredible and funny friends, like Karen Forman, Keri Safran and Brandon Econ, but I found myself under the tutelage of Kevin Kirkpatrick, who is like an improv comedy Nazi. If you want to get your ass kicked and learn something valuable at the same time, Kevin's your guy.

    I don't know if it was a reflection of Kevin's edge, my being in the midst of a divorce, or the company I kept in class, but everything I pitched seemed to have a creepy old lady or a whore angle. Or both, as in the sketch Karen and I wrote, with the two retired prostitutes who went to Wells Fargo to apply for a small business loan, so they could open a retirement home for ladies like themselves.

Charlotte & Francine, two semi-retired prostitutes

    The Writing Lab was an incredible experience and I learned a lot. You write one or two sketches each week, with a new partner each time, perform it in class and then either get told to drop it or keep working on it. It was like a sketch comedy writing factory, and at the end you emerge with one sketch and one monologue, which you perform on the main stage, in costume and with props, for a live audience. 

    All the monologues were written in first person, so you'd get up on stage and do your monologue as if you were talking to someone, but you were really just talking to the audience. My character was a pathetic love sick secretary at a law firm, who shows up at one of the partners' house, a partner she is madly in love with. There is a party in full swing, one that she hasn't been invited to, and she keeps on leaning in, commenting on the passed hors d'ovres and the guests, whom she knows from the office, without actually ever being invited in. Quite sad.

     The most interesting thing about performing my monologue (and subsequent sketch) was that I had never imagined being interrupted by laughter, so I wasn't ready for it. If I had thought about it for even a minute, I probably would have realized that people might laugh at this, because it's funny. So the laughter threw me off, and there was also some anxiety, but I got to the end without fainting or peeing my pants. Victory for me.

Keri looks so ghastly in the scene below that I felt like I should show her true beauty...

    The sketch I performed was with Keri Safran and we did many, many re-writes until we were happy with it. On the day of the performance, I remember pulling Keri aside beforehand and telling her "remember I'm not an actor, so I may forget or flub lines or not say anything at all. If that happens, please fix it somehow." I remember her pulling me aside a minute later, telling me to stop drinking the prop wine, because if I continued drinking it, I would definitely be flubbing my lines. 

    The sketch went over really well, and I found it was much more fun to do a scene with someone, as opposed to the solo monologue. While my experience at The Groundlings taught me how to write funny fast, it also reaffirmed that I'm not a born performer by any means. I love participating in the occasional sketch or bit, but I could never dedicate my life to it. Kudos and props to those of you who do. 

    After the Writing Lab was over and I went back to the AFI for my second year, I was invited to join the Improv Class at the AFI, which was for Directors only, (and I guess me) and was taught by none other than Groundling goddess Karen Muruyama. With Karen I returned to what fascinated me so about improv when I first started with Roy all those years ago. The brain let-go and the exhilaration of not knowing what comes next. Which for those of you who know me, is something I struggle with, but also always enjoy the opportunity to confront.

    And now, without further ado, please enjoy Keri Safran and myself, as Marge and Cheryl in "Happy Hour," named after the special time these two ladies, one librarian and one teacher, spend together after work, drowning their sorrows in the library stacks. My First Groundlings Performance.

 

My First Best Friend

Original best friend (and best man at my wedding) Ulrik

    When coming upon this "first" in the long list, I immediately knew that I would be blogging about Calli, my best friend from grade school. But then I had this tiny little thought, that my original first best friend was my brother Ulrik, simply because he was right there from the day I was born. To have a sibling who is close in age is to have a best friend sort of built in. You don't need to go and ring anyone's door bell and ask if they can come out and play, you just play.

    So Ulrik and I played together, in sickness and in health; soccer, land hockey, card games, and best of all, a made-up indoor slalom game. It entailed us wearing ski goggles, running down the hall as quickly as we could, with poles in our hands, leaning to the left and right to avoid cones. It was timed and Ulrik would ski as Ingmar Stenmark, while I'd ski as Phil Mahre or whoever was second in the world at the time. 

Lake Placid 1980; Ulrik (Stenmark) won the gold and I (Phil Mahre) the silver

    One day I hope to be able to write something about Ulrik without getting into trouble. I'd write about what a ridiculously cool, handsome and super loyal brother he is, and what an extraordinary dad he is to Lucas, Alexandra and Nicholas. I'd probably also write that one of the most difficult things about living in America is that it is a life without him, if you don't count texting and skyping. But for now, because it seems everything I write is too intimate and embarrassing, I'll shut it. I've probably already said too much, so I will focus on my first best girlfriend.  

Calli on the right in her busnel cap   

     Caroline "Calli" Sallmander started in my class in second grade. Looks wise, we were opposites. Calli had dark, thick hair and was taller than I was. I don't remember what it was that had us connect and become best friends but we had a lot of fun and  "stayed together" for quite a few years.

     Calli had a great sense of style that I quickly adapted, probably on account of both her parents being in the fashion industry. It consisted of dark jeans, Lacoste polo shirts with the collar always up from under a sweatshirt, and burgundy or navy loafers with tassels. In the winter time, she wore a striped Busnel cap, while mine was a solid burgundy. 

     Calli and I had a secret club, which was named "CMK," (Calli & Marika Klubben) and our nicknames for each other were "Majken" and "Cajken." Calli had eczema on the inside of her arms and as her best friend, I took it upon myself to stop her from scratching when she got itchy, by slapping her hands away. I think she was allergic to fish, and citrus fruits. 

    Calli lived pretty close to school, at Karlavägen 117, and I lived in a suburb, so our play dates mostly took place at her family's apartment. We were usually supervised by Diddi, the Sallmanders' housekeeper, who was the most incredible little lady ever. She was from the far north, from a place called Korpilombolo if I remember correctly. This gave her a bit of a funny and slightly Finnish sounding accent. Diddi was kind and patient and made delicious sandwiches and cookies. She even sent me a post card while visiting her family one time, and I still have it. 

    Calli and I would get into a fair amount of trouble while Diddi was off making afternoon snacks. One afternoon after school, Calli and I sneaked into one of her older sisters' room and hid under the bed. I can't remember if it was Lotta or Catti, but there was a guy over and they were talking or kissing when they discovered we were in there, from the giggles coming from underneath the bed. We got chased out with threats of beatings and big trouble. 

    Another pastime was making crank calls. We'd sneak upstairs to her parents bedroom and use the phone there, so Diddi wouldn't hear us. We'd look in the phone book and find someone with the last name of Storm or Rain or Lightning, call them and say "Is this Storm?" The idea was they'd say "yes," and then we'd say "well, hold onto your hat then." I can't take credit for coming up with this brilliant scheme, it was the standard crank call for kids to make in Sweden at that time, and although it might sound grammatically incorrect, it worked in Swedish. Especially because people answer the phone by saying their last name. 

    What didn't work was the actual execution, because we'd start laughing so hard we'd both get bright red, close to peeing our pants and unable to get anything out. Ocasionally we'd get the "Is this Storm?" part out, but that's as far as I remember us getting. Still, a fun way to spend an afternoon. 

    For whatever reason, our parents' vacation schedules never seemed to fit, so we ended up going to Glämsta Summer Camp during different sessions, and as a result, there were a lot of letters and post cards mailed between us. She would send post cards from her summer house in Stavnäs to me at Glämsta or in Skåne, if I was visiting my dad and grandparents. If I was at Glämsta, her letters had long lists of people to kiss from her. One such letter says; "sending you a thousand kisses, 50 to you, 50 to Danny, and 900 to Morgan." I guess she had a thing for Morgan Wald. She always signed off, "din bästis," which means "your best friend" in Swedish. Sweet. 

My only photo of Calli and I, out on the ice at Glämsta's winter session in 1980

    As everything fun and happy in life, my time with Calli as my "bästis" came to an end. I don't remember how it all went down, our smaller class had turned bigger and there were other girls around so I suppose we grew apart. But for the years we were together, she was the sweetest, funniest and most considerate best friend a girl could have. 

My First Pet

    My friend Scott Schwenk has been eagerly awaiting this post, and I couldn't understand why until I realized his interpretation of My First Pet had something to do with "third base." As in heavy petting. So for all of you with a mind as filthy as Scott's, my apologies. In his defense, it's actually not a strange assumption since most of my friends know I've always had a bit of a strained relationship with pets. Certainly more so than with petting.

     I actually know a lot of pets, mostly dogs, although I wouldn't exactly say I'm all that close with any of them. I don't have any issues feeding them, walking them, or even picking up their poop. I just don't get a warm fuzzy feeling being around them, or when they lick my face. 

    There are a few exceptions to this rule, the first being Yoda, who has fresh minty breath, as she likes to brush her teeth. That is a plus for me as many dogs I know don't exactly have fresh breath. (Yes, Blingy, I am absolutely referring to you.) I tolerate Dollface, I'm on pretty good terms with Arnault, I tend to ignore Daisy when go over to Cyndi and Temple's. I did like Bowie, my friend Daniel Erdman's dog. He had one blue eye and one brown and was just a cool dog. Didn't try to befriend me or "show off" and I respect that. He's not with us anymore unfortunately.

Dusty & Dean

    I should also fess up that I've been falsely enthusiastic about dogs more than once, if their owners were cute enough. "You have a beautiful dog," I said to a guy who got into a restored, metallic blue Chevy Nova, in a Staples parking lot. It was about ten or so years ago. Dean, the cute guy, became my boyfriend, and Dusty, his dog, would roll himself into a tight donut and warm my feet at night. Not bad at all. 

    But back to my personal pet issues. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Kurt and Sune in this blog. Technically they were my first pets but they didn't really live long enough for me to develop a close relationship with them. Don't feel bad for me, it was all my fault. After the first couple of weeks of thinking they were fun and sweet, I stopped feeding them and giving them water, because it "took too much time." Kurt finally ate Sune and then died, shaking in the corner with blood on his little furry face. 

    I managed just fine without furry companions until one day in 1997. I lived on Hayworth, just below the Farmers Market and would sit and read in Pan Pacific Park, which is now behind the Grove. I was reading on a blanket in the sun one day when I saw a woman with a pet carrier. She proceeded to let an orange cat out of it, then she walked away, got into her car and drove off. A few of us saw it and nodded to each other, appalled. Then I shrugged and got back to my book.

    As the sun was setting and people were starting to pack up, a lady came up to me and asked if I could take the cat in. I laughed and shook my head. She didn't leave. I guess she didn't see what was so funny. Before I had the chance to explain that I'm really not a pet person, she had pointed to every single person in the park and told me why they couldn't take the cat. Allergies, dogs, other cats...I guess I was the cat's last hope. Not great odds for the cat.

    It irritated me that she said "we," as in "we can't really leave this cat here, can we?" There was no "we" in the park. Just people. Individual people. Strangers who shouldn't make each other feel bad. Except for, I had just taken a course at Landmark that was all about connecting to one's community, so with all the other park goers staring me down, I looked at the cat, got a slight twinge in my heart, and reluctantly said I'd take it. 

  

    I picked up some pet supplies and called my boyfriend at the time, Andrew, who came over somewhat excited. He explained the nuts and bolts of cat ownership to me and named the cat Otis, as he was deep into the Ken Burns series on Jazz at the time. Otis howled and meowed every night and bit my heels every morning after I got out of bed. And like an alcoholic parent, I told him how unappreciative he was, how I understood that woman dumping him in the park, and that I would take him back there if he didn't start to behave. 

Otis, a true writer's cat

    The only thing we shared was a love of all things salmon flavored, but other than that, we weren't connecting at all, although I gave him fresh water, a nice mix of dry food and Fancy Feast, treats, toys, and a fuzzy bed. I suppose I gave him everything but my heart and he knew it. He preferred Andrew's company to mine, and that irritated me, even though I understood it. One day, I opened the balcony and Otis jumped out. Came back happy an hour later. That's what he had tried to tell me with the howling and the biting; he wanted to go outside. From that day on, our relationship improved. 

    Otis and I moved into a little house on Huntley Drive with Andrew, where Otis got a fancy cat door leading out to a backyard, where he would stalk and sneak up on birds, butterflies and people. One day, he brought a dead bird into the house, and set it down right in front of my feet. He looked so proud, bloody whiskers and all. I didn't have the heart to scold him, but instead "oooh'd and aaaah'd" for a while over the bloody bird, giving him an extra treat. Not a great move on my part as it encouraged him to continue his killing spree. I think it was a rat the next time. I can't remember if it was Andrew or I, who sat him down and had the "we're proud of you but please don't bring dead things into the house anymore," talk. 

    I know a lot of pet owners say this about their pets, but Otis was more like a person than a cat. He preferred water out of a glass, and left the house every morning, returning in the early evening for dinner. Andrew and I used to joke that perhaps he had a job. I figured it out after a few times of running into various neighbors. I'd be approached by people asking me if I was Otis' Mom. They all had a funny story about what had happened with Otis that day, over at their house. Turns out he had families and friends up and down the street, his influence reaching as far as Santa Monica Blvd, where he had his own bowl of food at "The Gauntlet," a piercing/S&M store. Explained his sudden weight gain and flair for the kinky. 

    When Andrew and I split up, it made the most sense that Andrew and Otis stayed in the house, but after a few months, we switched and I found myself with Otis again. Fortunately, I had a room mate for a while, Phil, who took Andrew's place as "primary love giver" while I continued to provide the basic necessities; water, food and treats.

    After Phil came Janet, and although I probably should have been jealous that everyone connected with Otis but me, I wasn't. I had recognized my own shortcomings in the "giving unconditional love to a pet" department, a long time ago. I had come to terms with it, and was content doing my part, while always ensuring Otis got the love he needed elsewhere, like a frigid wife, encouraging her husband to see prostitutes.  

    He would sleep with me on occasion, which meant a night struggling to fall asleep over his heavy purring, which was more like heavy, sleezy breathing with a super loud heart beat accompanying it. Andrew always said he made that sound because he had such a big heart, and years later, when his health started to fail, the vet said just that. He had an abnormally large heart. I said "I know" and my eyes filled with tears.

Otis, a few weeks before his untimely death

    It was Otis' arrogance and general "King of Huntley" attitude that finally got the best of him. Otis thought he was still young, quick and fit, and crossed the street seconds before a car, like he always did. Of course, he wasn't young, quick or fit anymore and got hit. I wasn't around but got the call from Janet who was with him at the vet, getting ready to put him down as he was in a lot of pain.

    It was sad, but anyone who knew Otis, knew he had a full, fun, and happy life with many friends. It wasn't until he was gone that I realized how much I had really loved him, in spite of our differences. I asked Andrew if he thought that Otis knew that I loved him. He said "definitely" and reminded me that it was I who had given him the full, fun and happy life he had lived. RIP Otis. 

My First Tattoo

     It was December 10th, 1988. My 18th birthday. I had just graduated from high school and was in Israel for a few months, taking some time off to work on a kibbutz, as all good Swedish Jews did at that time. It was a way to get away from ones parents, while still being somewhat protected and productive; connect with the "homeland" and Israeli Jews, learn to speak better Hebrew - all while figuring out what to do next in life. 

    Located near Rechovot, Kibbutz Na'an was where I ended up. I arrived a few days before my Ulpan program was starting. It was a work/study program so you'd spend half of the day learning Hebrew and the other half doing some menial job. The structure of the kibbutz was such that parents felt safe sending you there; you lived in barracks with other Jewish "kids" from all over the world, there was a communal dining hall, you'd get a small credit in the kibbutz store to buy candy and snacks, and last but not least, in true 80's fashion, if you smoked, you got a carton of cigarettes every month.

Jackie in our hotel pretending to make a phone call for the camera...

    The ulpan was located in the nice part of the kibbutz and most of the people that came there were somewhat sheltered Jewish teenagers from well-to-do Jewish families of rich, industrialized countries. Jackie Gruber of Winnipeg and I were the exceptions to that rule, both having a bit of a wild streak.  Just hours after we'd met, we went to Tel Aviv for the weekend and blew the "emergency" funds we'd both been given by our respective parents on a hotel room and booze. 

     Last minute, the course I was supposed to be in - kitah gimel (level 3) - was cancelled because there were so few participants. My choices were to go in the lower class (bet or level 2) and be bored, go to another kibbutz for a program at my level, or stay and be a volunteer, which meant just working and not studying. I chose the latter.  

    So I ended up in the volunteer barrack, which was located in a less pleasant part of the kibbutz. The regular kibbutz folk didn't like the volunteers and preferred that they stuck to their own area, which was fine with them, as they even had their own bar. Most of the volunteers were in their mid-to-late twenties, not Jewish, and not exactly from well-to-do families. But certainly an interesting mix. A gaggle of drunk, loose girls and skinny lads from Manchester & Leeds, a couple of handsome African guys from Ghana, some weird Austrians, a perverted Scot, a tall Dutchman, some fun Aussies, and more. 

    There was a score board at the volunteer "camp," and it proved to be a great source of entertainment, as well as the catalyst for the end of many relationships, as everyone's sexual escapades were captured on it. There were two lists; one which had everyone's name listed, and one that listed each country represented by the volunteers, and next to it, a number. The number was the points you would get if you slept with someone from that country.

    It was a system that was well worked out; for example, English men were worth only 1 point since there were quite a few of them, and they were eager to sleep with anyone who'd have them. Swedish girls were worth 5 points, because there was only three of us, and we tended to be a bit more exclusive. A threesome would give you a 10-point bonus, plus the points of each participant. It didn't matter if you wanted to play or not. Someone always found out your business, and wrote you up before you had a chance to pee or brush your teeth the morning after said incident. 

    I was the youngest volunteer at 17 and-a-half, and quickly found myself under the "protection" and tutelage of a 28-year-old South African Jew named Stephen. Meaning, he showed me the ropes and became my pseudo-boyfriend. (Three points.) Stephen's job on the kibbutz was to run the bar, so he had access to alcohol and snacks all hours of the day. In other words, a good prospect. I know the age difference sounds creepy now, but it was a cool experience and he was nothing but sweet to me. He left for England a month after I arrived, and I got stuck with his dog, a flea ridden but sweet mix named Picky.

Jackie and I with dreamy Welsh Dave

    That's when I took up with Dave, a lovely Welshman in his early twenties, who most of the girls craved. (One point.) He was super fit and had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, full lips and the obligatory Welsh bushy eyebrows. I'd work during the day and hang out with Dave and everyone else at the bar at night. Poor Jackie was left in the ulpan barrack, studying Hebrew, but would come down to "skid row" every night when she was finished, and get loaded.  

My "friend" from Gothenburg

    The jobs I held included the laundry, (where I sorted soiled sheets) the hospital (where I swept and restocked medical supplies) and last but not least, I worked the night shift in the water sprinkler factory. I'd get to work at midnight and work till 5 or so, and this was the beginning of the end for Dave and I, as the hours between midnight and 5 am was when "it all" happened. I found him naked and hungover in Swedish Helene's bed one morning. Not surprising, as she was from Gothenburg...  

    But back to the tattoo. Heartbroken and promising myself never to trust another Welshman, I went to Tel Aviv on my 18th birthday, eager to avoid the mass discovery of that additional 5-pointer under Dave's name on the scoreboard, and its subsequent humiliation. Danish Martine had decided to get a tattoo and I had volunteered to accompany her on the adventure.

    We found a tattoo parlor, walked in, and some guy quickly turned his desk into a table of sorts, and handed us the photo binders, a staple at every tattoo establishment. It was definitely one of those "spur of the moment" occurrences, I had never thought of getting a tattoo until about a minute before it happened. I decided that it would be best to have it on my ass, because then, depending on what kind of underwear I wore, you could either see it or not. I flipped through a couple of binders and found a butterfly that Martine liked too. I picked some pastel colors and got ready. 

    I climbed up on the table and the guy started with the outline. Not as painful as I had expected, but not comfortable. Definitely not as bad as the pain I was experiencing in my heart thanks to Dave. More painful than the actual tattoo-ing? The fact that the tattoo "artist" kept on insisting I take my shirt off. This confused me, since the shirt I was wearing wasn't particularly long and was nowhere near where he was doing some of his finest work. At the end, there was the obligatory photo to be taken. Not surprising, he asked me to bend over...said the tattoo would look better from that angle. I declined. Again confused of the purpose.

The only other person in the world who has the same exact tattoo as I do...

    Martine was up next and she got the same butterfly I had chosen, but on her ankle. Which turned out to be way more painful. He wasn't as creepy to her as he was to me. He didn't ask her to take her pants off, he said to just roll the one leg up. Probably because this was the eighties and Martine, as any good Danish girl at that time, didn't believe in shaving her legs. 

    Back at the kibbutz, I showed off my tattoo and boozed it up with my fantastic BFF Jackie for another month, before Dave trashed my room in a drunken jealous rage. Or as he explained it, a romantic gesture of apology and love, to win my heart back after his "mistake." Either way, it was time to check out of kibbutz life and head back to Sweden, which I did. But not before I scribbled a few numbers under my name on the score board, to confuse and puzzle everyone, and of course, to upset Dave. 

    It took me about two years to tell my mother about the tattoo. If you have a tattoo you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and I was pretty sure that would be upsetting to her. I had worn larger bikinis and full-back underwear around the house but finally opted to tell her. 

    I chose my timing perfectly, burying the tattoo announcement under a rather devastating piece of news. I had broken up with my boyfriend David, who my mother really adored. David was Jewish and happened to be just about the nicest, smartest, funniest and most handsome guy I'd ever had as a boyfriend. He also happened to be the son of the Chief Rabbi of Stockholm, which was an obvious added bonus to all mothers whose daughters he courted in those days. So there wasn't much of an argument or punishment for the tattoo, just a tired nod. 

    Unfortunately for me,  I've now come to the end of this blog, and accompanying my feeling of "blog completion" comes the realization that I can't really post this without showing the tattoo. The thing about it though is, it's now 22 years old. So it doesn't exactly look fresh and crisp. But I guess neither does my ass, compared to when I was 18. Boy, do I wish I had taken this photo of then. But here it goes. My first (and most likely last) Tattoo. 

My First Day of School

        I'm starting to really love writing this blog. It's making me nostalgic but in a sweet, happy way. There is so much I remember...so many silly details and memories that I never thought I'd actually need to recount. They've been stored in the basement of my brain and for this blog, I get to go down there, dust some of them off, bring them upstairs and share them. And I'm having fun doing it. 

    I remember what I wore on my first day of school. It was a pink poncho with white piping that my mother had knit. I loved that thing. The other thing I remember about that day, was that we were told to sit in alphabetical order according to last names. Imagine my happiness when my mother recently found the photographic evidence of my memories. There I am in my pink poncho, sitting next to Allon Batsrawe. B before C. Allon was about to develop a habit of chewing on his pencils so from this day forward, he would always have tiny pieces of yellow pencil wood on his lips. In fact, he probably has a yellow pencil in his mouth in this photo, but it's hard to tell because his hand is in the way.

    I remember the red clogs. Not sure why I paired them with black socks, but I suppose it's an indication of the early development of my individual style. I still don't like to look too girly and prefer pairing a sweet dress with chunky boots to the more obvious pretty sandals... 

    It was August of 1977, I was 6 years and 8 months old, and I remember being excited about finally starting school, since I had been in Kindergarten for two years, by accident. When I say "by accident" I mean, my mother dropped Ulrik off at Kindergarten one day and had an errand to run, so she asked if she could leave me there for just an hour. I guess she forgot about me, because it wasn't until she came back at the end of the day to pick Ulrik up, that she realized that she'd left me there for the whole day. The good news was, I had been so well behaved and delightful that they agreed to let me start a year early.  

    And so it was that I was more than ripe for first grade. The school I was starting was Hillel School, a Jewish private school in the middle of Stockholm. It was like any other school, except for there was a security guard and iron gates protecting it from the general Swedish population, who probably had no idea it was there, as not all Swedes are familiar with Jews and Judaism. There was kosher food served for lunch, and we learned about, and celebrated Jewish holidays. We started learning Hebrew in the first grade and English in the third grade. 

The photographer told Allon to lean into me or else he might not get in the photo :)

    My first grade teacher was Agneta Nilsson. She was only with us for one or two years, but I loved her. She had long, beautiful reddish blonde hair, (so not Jewish) and was kind but firm. One day she came to school with all her beautiful hair gone. It was cropped to about shoulder length and permed and on that day she wore a peasant style, burgundy velvet dress that tied in the back. We all noticed her new hairstyle and there was a fair amount of buzz in the classroom. Zarina raised her hand and when called upon, asked, "did you get a haircut?" Agneta patiently replied in the affirmative to this obvious question, to which Zarina countered with "I liked it better before."

    Some people laughed but Agneta wasn't amused. Instead she asked us all to settle down, and said she was going to explain something very important to us. It turned out to be one of those life lessons that has stuck with me since. I thought Agneta was impenetrable. That because she was a grown-up and a teacher, she couldn't have her feelings hurt. But that's exactly what had happened. And she told us that. I don't remember exactly what she said next, but it was something to the extent of "if you can't find something nice to say, don't say anything at all."

    I still believe in and live by that motto. It's not always easy. Since I'm quite expressive and outspoken, it's obvious when I don't have something nice to say...but I suppose it has forced me to look deeper and find the good stuff in everything and with everyone. And that's not a bad pastime.

 

My First Car

    There it is. My first car. I think my mother took this picture, delighted that at 22, I was finally driving. I didn't have a driver's license in Sweden because I didn't pass the test. Before you laugh and judge me though, I dare any of you to take a driving test in Sweden.

           

                                  A selection of Swedish traffic signs...

    First of all, you have to know ALL the traffic signs. All of them. And don't think they won't throw that weird one in, you know the one that tells you deaf people are in the vicinity. Or the one where little baby elks might have left excrement on the road. And you have to know mechanical things. I was delighted to pass after hours of sweating, and was pretty arrogant heading into the driving portion. 

    My false confidence stemmed from the fact that I had been driving my older brother Ulrik's golden colored Honda around town (which my pro-Israeli mother aptly named "Golda.")  Of course, I had been driving it on my own, without permission. He was doing his military service in the far north, so it was just sitting there in a parking area by our house. I would wait for everyone to leave in the morning, then take the car to school, getting back before anyone else did, and parking it in the same space. Until the day I drove it into a ditch. I got it out with the help of some friends, but from then on, I only used it in "emergencies." 

My downfall...

    But back to the driving test. It was in the roundabout I got stuck. Literally. I couldn't get out gracefully, or at all during my driving test, so I took another go around. No big deal. It's not like spending the day trying to get out of a roundabout is going to injure other drivers. And in my defense, it was a two-laner, which is difficult to navigate. I didn't pass and since it's easier to take the bus or underground everywhere you go in Stockholm anyways, I gave up. 

    Until I was 21, living in Los Angeles, where you clearly need a car. I went to the DMV having glanced at the booklet with sample questions, and passed the written test in a few minutes, like most people do. When the instructor got into the car I had borrowed for the occasion, he looked at the stick shift, then at me. "Wow, you drive a stick?" He was impressed. I drove around the block once and got my license. 

    I got the car on my 22nd birthday. I lived on Stanley Avenue at the time and was getting ready to spend my usual hour and a half on the bus to get to school in Santa Monica. Every morning I would walk down Beverly to Fairfax, taking the bus on the corner, then switching to the Santa Monica bus once I got to Pico. The Santa Monica Bus was always cleaner and the crowd was a bit more "high class," as this bus was westbound, passing Century City and Westwood on the way to the beach. It also meant the "accidental" ass grab or general "pressing up against" was more rare than on the southbound route. 

    A good Israeli friend at the time, Chaim, had a spare maroon colored Buick Regal that ran but wasn't worth much, and showed up in the middle of my birthday breakfast, giving me a little box with the keys inside. And no, there was no exchange of bodily fluids to precipitate the gift, nor was there a gratitude romp afterwords. Just a good friend helping to put an end to Swedish bus groping. 

    I loved that car so much. Not just because it was my very own, or because it was my first, but because the only other people driving Buicks at the time, were either old Jewish people, or African American crews with hip-hop blasting out of the speakers. I felt part of an odd, quirky crowd and I liked it. 

Dr. Alan D. Buckley still teaches Poli Sci at CSUN & SMC

    I even named him. "Buckley," after my political science teacher, Alan Buckley. Alan Buckley wasn't particularly suave or attractive, but his theories on American politics and the manner in which he presented those theories, caused those of us who sat in the front row of his class to flutter with excitement, and from what I understand, garner the nick name "Buckley's Pets" by the rest of the class. 

    I drove that thing until it died. In hindsight I see the benefits of the comprehensive Swedish driver's test. Had I paid attention to the mechanical car portion, I would have known that the blinking yellow light means that you need to change or refill the oil. By the time someone told me, it was already too late for Buckley. He died on the side of the road one day on my way to school, and he was never revived, but instead, sold for scraps.

     I think of Buckley quite fondly when I pull up alongside a maroon Buick Regal. And I still chuckle to myself when I hear that line from 2Pac & Snoop's "2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted" where Snoop raps that he's gonna "get scooped up by the little homey in the Regal." You see, I'm pretty sure that if I still had my Regal, I'd be the little homey scooping him up for all sorts of adventures.

My First Husband

   There has been a big demand for this one, so instead of saving it until the very last moment, like I did with the most confronting tasks in Forty by Forty, I thought I would get it over with early on. I thought writing about my first husband, the person, would be better than writing about my first marriage or my first wedding, which were also demands/suggestions/requests, because I wouldn't really have to go into the nuts and bolts of my separation and subsequent divorce.

    I'm not sure it's grammatically right to blog about my first husband since I don't have a second husband, and it's entirely possible that I won't. Not because I'm cynical and don't believe in love, but having been married, I've come to understand and believe that it isn't necessary to be married in order to have a passionate, honest and fulfilling relationship that lasts. The thought of being eternally engaged strikes me as much more interesting and romantic. 

   But let's get to it. Here he is. My first husband. Richard Gerety Condon. Born in Chicago, the same year as the state of Israel and my mother, 1948. I know. That makes him super old. 22 years my senior. But Mr. Condon was, and is, youthful, fit, handsome, extremely funny, and an extraordinary man. 

Richard at the far left with fellow "Fat Jack" band members in the late sixties

     Before we met, Richard had already had a full and exciting life. He had been the drummer for two bands in the late sixties and early seventies in Seattle; "Fat Jack" and "Kiss Porky" (the latter of course lending itself to all kinds of puns in our relationship...depending on which of us was most overweight at the moment.) One of his bands was hired to be the house band at a local arena and subsequently, Richard's band ended up being the opening act for bands like "The Grateful Dead," "Country Joe and The Fish" and "The Doors."

    Eventually, (and I'm skipping a lot of years here) after running a few marathons and spending some time as a restauranteur - he and identical twin brother Michael opened the first vegan restaurant in Seattle in the eighties - he became involved in Landmark Education and has lead transformational programs there for over twenty years.

    I participated in their first program, The Landmark Forum, in 1997, and I truly believe it is one of the things that makes me a somewhat insightful, open, well balanced and generally happy individual, with not a whole lot of baggage, as the program completes whatever is incomplete in your past and your life in general. 

    We'd run into each other and when we did, Richard would say "we should have a drink sometime," and I would say "sure." This went on for months until I one day said "are we ever going to have that drink, because if not, we should just stop saying it..." We made plans for the next night.

    On our first date we went to see "The Battle of Algiers," and Richard was surprised to find I knew something about the conflict between Algeria and its French Colonial rulers, probably on account of my blonde hair. Afterwords, he couldn't find his parking ticket but instead of getting irritated about it, making the long line of cars back up so he could look through the car, find the ticket, go upstairs to validate it and come back, he just paid the $30 for a lost ticket and we left. On the off chances that I was hungry, he had already made reservations at AOC, coinciding with the end of the movie, plus driving time.

    Having dated mostly men my age and younger, this was a refreshing experience. Someone was handling things like a grown-up, so not your usual indecisive and juvenile type banter of "what do you wanna do tonight?" "I dunno... what do you wanna do?" "I dunno, what's around here?" etc. I'm not against the feminist movement by any means, but I do believe in traditional gender roles and nothing irks me more than a wishy-washy, reluctant man who doesn't take charge.  

    Richard spent the night, but I didn't want to admit to having condoms right there in my bedside table drawer, so we didn't have sex. I had been told it was a sign of promiscuity to have condoms, when in fact, it's really just a sign that you practice safe sex. In the morning, his car had been ticketed, which prompted me to announce that it had been worth $35 to fool around with him, tucking the ticket in my purse. He asked me what I was doing that night. Then the next night. And the next night. And the rest is history. 

    Although we might have fallen short in the "staying married" department, Richard and I did many things well together. We communicated openly and honestly with each other. About everything. It wasn't always easy, but it was something we were both committed to, and as a result, a lot of stuff got worked out for us as individuals and as a couple. We bought a house in Ojai that was in complete shambles, moved there, and made it the most peaceful and beautiful place imaginable. It wasn't easy; it took a lot of time, effort, energy and money, but the end result made it all worth it. 

    If one of us had a rough day, we would take the motorcycle out for a ride; riding it through dirt roads and quiet highways around Ojai would solve everything. It was a 1969 BMW R-69S and its vintage coolness factor legitimized us at both shabby motorcycle bars and finer establishments. I had my own 60's looking helmet, and a separate seat in the back with a leather strap to hold on to, like a real cowboy.      

               

        We traveled a lot together, which was big for me because I usually prefer traveling by myself. I need space and alone time, and find it hard to be around people for long periods of time, even though I love them madly. In Richard I found someone who wasn't offended if I wanted to go off on my own for an hour or two, or take a nap while he went on a walkabout. We both loved active trips to bustling cities in challenging weather, as much as sunny, exotic, read by-the-pool trips, so during the years we spent together, we did plenty of both.  

    We went to London, Stockholm & Helsingborg, Paris & Themines, Maui, Tahiti, Cabo and India together. And a bunch of places in the US. If it was possible to take trains, buses, subways, or ride bikes where we went, it made our trips even more fun, as we are both huge fans of public transportation. Every time we left a place we would take a picture of us with super sad faces that the vacation was over. Funny stuff.

    During one of our trips to Paris, Richard accidentally smacked me on the lip with an umbrella and as I started bleeding, I decided to indulge my flair for drama, and milked it for all it was worth for the rest of the trip. I even went so far as to make a small print of the above photo and taped it to the inside of his wallet. So he would remember to be nice to his little wife, whom he had punched in the face right outside the Louvre. 

    Richard made me laugh, but mostly, he made me laugh at myself, and that is one of the biggest things I learned from him; to be less significant and rigorous, to laugh and let go of things. I can be pretty uptight, and have a hard time with change of any kind; change of plans, change of minds, change of schedules. One day in Ojai, I had been particularly uptight, and he teased me about it, so when he walked outside for a minute, I locked him out of the house to get back at him.

    He quickly ran around to the backdoor, but I managed to get there a few seconds before him, and locked it. He yelled through the door that I'd be in big trouble when he got in, but I kept him out there for a bit, until he slid a window open and climbed through it. He chased me around the house and when he caught me, he promptly picked me up and announced I was going in the pool. Which doesn't sound that awful, except for it wasn't summer, and the pool wasn't heated. I struggled but couldn't get free.

    The whole way over to the pool (it was across a pretty big lawn) I tried to talk him out of it, but no matter what I said, he wouldn't listen. I told him how expensive my shoes were, that my watch wasn't water proof, that I was getting a cold, etc. but he didn't care. I wanted to seem angry, and have a straight face, so he would take me seriously, but I couldn't because the whole situation was so funny, and I knew that regardless of what I said, I would be going in the pool. So I laughed in between the pleadings/bribes/threats. As did he. And I ended up in the pool, fully clothed. And when he gave me his hand to help me out, I obviously pulled him in...

    Richard respected and loved my family, and although we didn't have a Jewish wedding ceremony, he wore a yarmulke during it, to honor them, my heritage and religion. Between the two of us, we had nine brothers and during our wedding festivities found that they connected really sweetly with each other, across blood lines. Richard still lets me "share" his cool Uncle Pete, although we are officially divorced as of last December. 

    Someone recently asked me if I regret getting married. Tricky question because although it would have been great to have been spared the heart ache and pain that we both went through when our marriage ended, there are so many things I wouldn't have learned or experienced if I hadn't been married to Richard. About myself, about relationships, and about marriage in general. And I wouldn't have applied to the AFI had it not been for his encouragement, and that's worth more than words can express. 

    I wasn't a "bridezilla" by any means, and put our wedding together in a month or two without much drama, but if I do get married again, I feel fortunate to have gotten all the dress/flowers/ring concerns out of the way. All girls need to. I got to have a really fun and beautiful wedding day, and thus, feel a bit more relaxed and easy-going about my next potential wedding. 

     One of my favorite things to come out of my years with Richard is that I've given up trying to fix or change people. I don't know if it's because I tried so hard to change him, (unsuccessfully of course) that I exhausted myself, or if it's just that I've become more evolved, but I used to spend a lot of time and energy on that stuff. Now I don't. I love friends and family just the way they are, and the way they are not. I find grace and compassion for imperfections and struggles, instead of judgment. 

    I guess one way of putting it is that my first husband didn't give me everything I ever wanted on a silver platter, but instead empowered me to create and manifest everything I ever wanted for myself, and that is way cooler...

 

My First Celebrity Crush

    It didn't take long for my album cover to get worn out right around John Travolta's lips. I gave Olivia Newton-John some attention too, but not in the same way. I used real nail polish to enhance her red fingernails on the cover. But then it was all John and I. Looking at each other. Listening to the soundtrack, especially his solo effort, "Sandy." Talking with low voices so no one could hear. Especially not Olivia. And then the gentle kissing. 

    I really loved Danny Zuko. The blue eyes/dark hair is still my combo of choice with the gentlemen...makes me weak in the knees. Probably because I'm still looking to fulfill the Danny Zuko fantasy on some level...

    After Danny, I loved Tony Manero. Like Danny, Tony was obsessed with his hair, overly cocky, a true ladies man, while at the same time an incredible dancer. What more could a girl want?

    Then came Bud Davis. My interest fizzled a bit. I did enjoy him but there was too much fighting and drama in this film...not enough dancing and sparkle for me. 

    Yeah, I know. This still photo from "Staying Alive," seems so creepy and homo-erotic now. But this was the eighties, and men legitimately wore leg warmers and bandanas then. Riiiight? If my interest had fizzled with "Urban Cowboy," it sizzled with the return of Tony Manero in this follow up to "Saturday Night Fever." I loved the oily thighs and the big dance finale with fire, smoke and flashing lights. Co-written and directed by none other than Sly Stallone. 

    "Staying Alive" also has what must be one of the coolest lines of all time. At the end of the film, Tony's girlfriend asks him what he wants to do, having conquered the stage, and everything else that matters to him. He responds, "I wanna strut," and takes off down Times Square with The Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive" playing. Awesome final scene. 

     It was all I could think about when I met him years later; the strut, the various roles that had tantalized me so, but most of all, that worn "Grease" album cover, and my secret dream that one day, I would be near him. It happened at a photo shoot for a movie Lisa had made with John right before I started working for her.

    I was introduced and shook his hand. It was a firm, yet gentle shake, he was lovely, incredibly present and kind. Although there was much less of that gorgeous black hair, his eyes were still as deep blue and mesmerizing as in any and every movie I'd seen. And no, I didn't bring up how I had utilized the album cover, but in my mind I was screaming, "I've made out with you!!!" and giggled to myself.

    When I worked for Lisa, I would always get giddy when they called from Mr. Travolta's office, and arranging for his yearly birthday gift from her was a treat. Not for creepy or stalky reasons, but because I thought it was sweet that all those years ago, on the carpeted living room floor of a small house, in a suburb of Stockholm, nine-year-old Marika had so eagerly pressed her young lips onto a photo of his 24-year-old lips, dreaming of meeting him, but never actually thinking it would happen.

    Just as my first day working for Lisa had happened to be on John Travolta's birthday, fate would have it that my last day was on his birthday, exactly five years later. Thus, my last task to close out a deliriously happy and fantastic era was to arrange for his birthday gift, giving me one more opportunity to think about him and giggle to myself. 

My First Time Caught In a Lie

    It was December 31st, 1984 in Stockholm. My parents were going to a New Year's Eve party at some friends' house. I was staying home with my brother Ulrik, who left five minutes after they did, not interested in spending New Year's with his younger sister and her friend Marie. Understandably so. 

Where it all happened...our old house in a suburb of Stockholm 

    I'm confused as to what happened next, since there were no cell phones back then. Friends just magically appeared and around 9p.m., the party was in full swing. Writing about this now makes me laugh. It's bizarre that I could have ever thought I would be able to have a party while my parents were gone a few hours, without them noticing. Could 14-year-old Marika really have been that naive?

   

                                             The cool, older boys...

    Reading about the evening in my diary, it seems like your average mid-eighties teenage party by Swedish standards. Someone brought alcohol, there was loud music coming out of my step dad's Pioneer sound system, and the really cool, deliriously good-looking, older boys from high school arrived, which had all the girls excited. A few of us ended up hanging out in my room upstairs when Per asked everyone to leave because he wanted to talk to me about something. I wrote "there wasn't a whole lot of talking" with two exclamation marks after, in my diary.

    As every great party does, this one hit its peak with dancing, drinking and smooching all around. And then got a bit messy. Anders threw up on the bathroom floor, Markus mopped it up, and Anders subsequently fell asleep on the wet floor, on some chards from a glass he had shattered. Because Markus had been so helpful, I kissed him for a bit. He and Per were good friends but that didn't seem to matter. Most definitely because this took place in Sweden, known for its lack of boundaries in the area of love and sex. 

    After a few of us smoked cigar in the sauna (!), and someone punched a hole in the upstairs bathroom door, the party started to wind down. Eventually there was just a small group left, so everyone helped clean the house, then Marie and I put on PJ's and went to bed.  

    The next morning, after Marie had left, there were some obvious questions asked. "Did you have a party last night?" they asked. I said "no" with a straight face. "What about this hole in the bathroom door?" I mumbled that I hadn't noticed it before, and had no idea how it got there.  

    I braced myself, knowing exactly what was coming next. Since our sauna had no windows, there had been no way to air it out the night before, so I really had no defense for the cigar smell that was still so pungent in the sauna. Still, when the question came ("Did someone SMOKE CIGAR in the sauna?") I said "no" quite firmly.

    And there it is. Caught in a lie. Or three to be exact. But the funny thing is, I don't remember there being an argument, or any punishment whatsoever. I just kept on denying I had a party in spite of the clear evidence, and the big blowup with serious consequences never came. They didn't call my bluff. What I derived from this experience wasn't that my parents believed I was telling the truth, but that they were using some sort of "Jewish-guilt-Jedi-mind-trick" to punish me. And it worked. I was always on edge, wondering when the punishment was coming. And behaved well for a few weeks as a result. 

Trusting parents...or super clever and manipulative?

    I called my parents to ask them about it. Nicke, my step dad, doesn't remember anything about this crucial event, but he did say that they probably just trusted me and accepted my "no" as the truth. I reminded him of the smell of cigar in the sauna and the dented door, and that it was so obvious I'd had a party, but he had no response. I was really disappointed, having hoped for him to reveal the big scheme they had cooked up to teach me this important life lesson. 

    I talked to my mother next. My mother Elise remembers everything, and yes, I usually find that as annoying as people find me, when I inform them of that thing they said verbatim twenty years ago. For MY FIRST though, she's proving to be incredibly helpful, filling in important gaps, and it's fun to talk to her because we both remember so much. Not surprising, she was quick to tell me whose party they were at that New Year's Eve in 1984, but when it came to my party, she didn't remember either.

    She said that if I had a party that New Year's Eve, they definitely knew about it, but explained that they probably had expected me to, so it might not have been such a big deal. I brought up the dented door, the presence of alcohol although I had just turned 14, and of course, the cigar in the sauna, but she still maintained it wasn't so bad, and just behavior that was expected from teens. 

    My final attempt at resolving this issue was with my brother Ulrik, who must have used my party as leverage/extortion to get me to shovel snow or take on his other chores, as he typically did when he came across what he deemed "valuable information" about my life. Not surprising, he emailed me back saying he has repressed all childhood memories. Not a bad email to get, since I can now take generous liberties in future posts. 

    In conclusion, I was caught in a lie, but I guess I'm the only person that thinks that was, or is, a big deal. It's funny, my parents didn't seem cool or easy going while I was growing up. At all. But I suppose they kind of were. 

My First Kiss

    Here it is. The momentous occasion itself. Don't ask me how or why I have a photo of this because that I don't remember. The boy's name is Robert Heyman and he used to wear suspenders with corduroy pants and colorful t-shirts underneath. Curly hair which was always a bit messy. 

    Taken at Glamsta Jewish Summercamp an hour outside of Stockholm in 1977 or 1978, the photo was glued into a diary that I can't seem to find, that told the whole story of the kiss. It was something like Danny Olinius had asked "chance on me," which at that time was like asking you to "go with," or be someone's girlfriend. I had said no because I was holding out for someone else, but that didn't work out and in the end, when most people were "paired up," Robert asked me and I said yes.

Haunted/mesmerized/imspired by our kiss, Robert developed an interest in dentistry...

    I know that sounds like I was left with no choice and that it was Robert Heyman or the life of a spinster, but it wasn't like that at all. He didn't go to school with me, which made him exotic and exciting. And he was super cute, animated and funny with big brown eyes and a sweet smile. And our brief moment together might have been what caused him to decide to become a dentist. So I could very well have been an important catalyst in his life. As for me, this was the start of a life-long obsession with finding the perfect lips to kiss. 

    I'm not sure why he is looking up and away. At first I thought it meant perhaps he wasn't interested in my sweet seven-year-old lips, but then it was suggested to me that it could be intimidation, and a desire to rise to this very special occasion. I'm gonna go with that interpretation. 

    Not long after the photo was taken, we "banged," which interestingly enough is what a breakup was called back then. I can't remember if it was Robert or I, but things had become stale and cold between us, so we really needed that "bang." After all, this was an era when life was simple and things moved quickly. If you liked someone, you asked them and if they said no, you asked the person you liked second best. And when it was over, it was over, and you moved on swiftly and enthusiastically to your next adventure. 

    What was refreshing about the era of "Chances & Bangs" was that there weren't any four-hour sessions with the girls pondering the possibility of him saying no before asking. There was no fear or hesitation,  manipulation or scheming, unless you counted giving him candy a slight nudge in your "favor." Probably because at this age, none of us had gone through a heartbreak, but still. A more honest and courageous way to live.

    So I say, let's bring the "Chances & Bangs" era back. If you like someone, give them some candy and ask for a "chance" on them.  I mean, even ABBA sang about it. If they say no, don't let your friends convince you it's because they are threatened by your beauty, or afraid of how perfect you could be together. Your friends are just saying that to be nice. Just go to the next person on your list.

    Also, don't forget, even if you get a "yes," they might eventually "bang" you...