My First...

My First Gay Kiss?

       

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention he was blonde too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First 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 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 Fight

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

The cause of beatings...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

My First Heartbreak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First Time

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

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

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

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

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

   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A slightly older Joachim, just as obnoxious...

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

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

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

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

My First Date

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                 

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

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

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

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

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

My First 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 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 Husband

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

               

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

My First Celebrity Crush

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First Kiss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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