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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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...

    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