My First...

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 Hangover

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

Missan and her brother

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

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

"Witch Mix"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

My First "Lillebror"

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

Happily helping with little brown seventies mittens

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

My First Cigarette

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

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

Smoking at summer camp in the late eighties...

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

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

        Smoking with Jack on New Year's Eve 1997

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

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

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

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

Smoking at my college graduation....

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

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

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

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

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

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

The only thing I smoke now...

My First Wedding

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

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

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

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

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

Bat Mitzvah girl, December 4, 1982

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

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

Happy 35th Anniversary!

 

My First Photo Shoot

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

   

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

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

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

My First Diary

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

Please DON'T READ!!! 

MARIKA'S secret DIARY 

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

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

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

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

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

The sweet little resident of the laundry room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First 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 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 Husband

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

               

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

My First Time Caught In a Lie

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

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

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

   

                                             The cool, older boys...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trusting parents...or super clever and manipulative?

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

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

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

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

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