My First...

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 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 "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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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...