A Recent Conversation

A couple of nights ago, I spent a good amount of time in my friend, Jack's recording studio recording the voiceovers, sound effects, songs, etc. for my play. Everyone had a good time - although, we were all pretty grossed out when Steve was in the sound booth ranting about nipples (because he was perfect)... Creepy... Worse when Trix slapped me on the knee and said, "Why are you cringing? You wrote this!" I think I am a little crazy that way...
The night wore on, and it just ended up being me and Jack. I had done a photo shoot earlier that day for the calendar (fussy art director - not model) and was pretty wiped out. Around 1AM he got a call from some friends and we agreed to meet them at a nearby bar for one drink... It was pretty loud and crowded for a Wednesday night, but maybe I am just old fashioned... And kinda cheesy... but maybe I am a snob for dive bars...
ANYWAY, a friend of his friends started talking to me. I was so exhausted that it kind of blew over me at the time, but when I woke up the next morning I couldn't stop thinking about it. And then it just seemed to get funnier as the day wore on - it was almost positively serendipitous to what I was writing. Here's the conversation:

Random Drunk Dude - So, you've been working in the studio? You must be a singer?
Me - No, I can't carry a tune.
RDD-What instrument do you play?
Me- None.
RDD (as he taps the top of my hat and winks) Oh, you've got to be a performer then. You must get by on your smile and good looks.
Me- No.
RDD (getting really confused now) - What were you doing in the studio then?
Me - I was working on voiceovers and sound effects for my play.
RDD (interest peaked again) Oh! Really? You're an actress then?!? Wow! Now I get it!
Me - No.
RDD (uber confused now) - Well, what are you then?
Me - I wrote the play. I was just overseeing everything, making sure everything was perfect.
RDD - You wrote it?
Me - Yes.
RDD - (stumped has nothing else to say) Oh, uh... okay... (interest lost - and then decides to do a small dance to show me his moves)

Yup, just about one of the funniest, lamest conversations I have had in awhile.... But perfect! People never cease to amaze me.

Yay - Money in the Garter is on the calendar! Mark it on yours!

Had another rehearsal last night - it went great. Now moving into blocking, props, costumes, etc. Next week a few of us go into my friend's studio to record voiceovers, sound effects, etc. I am so excited I can hardly stand it, but a little scared (okay, a lot scared)....

Everyone has great thoughts, ideas and suggestions... It's thrilling to have the input.

It was a little shocking to discover that I could pretty much dress the entire cast with outfits from my own wardrobe (FYI, that are kept in the lower drawer - costumes really, not for normal every day wear - a dream of mine is to one day have a whole closet full of costumes, wigs, accessories, etc.). It's funny, pulling out those clothes is a reminder how on some level derby life is a "costume" - a form of entertainment we dress up for. And like most forms of entertainment, comes with a background of hard work, discipline, and very unglamorous dedications.

I swear, it's hard to meet people for the first time "derbyfied." - No, I don't normally dress like this... No, a derby event is the only time you will see my name on my ass/back/chest...

I was talking to an OC girl about the time when I was nine and went to the carnival. For my birthday, my mom bought me a blue and white baseball jersey. On the front was an iron-on of a chipmunk scaling a large ice-cream cone, on the back was my name in large letters. I soon discovered it was not the shirt to wear to the carnival. Carnies pouring out from every corner calling my name, screaming at me to come over to their booth, try their game; go on their ride... I was horrified. I never wore the shirt again, and since then have had a mild aversion to having my name displayed - it created a kind of familiarity that I didn't like.... Figures, I would end up in roller derby and embracing the joys of iron-on letters...

Okay, I am going all over the place with this.... Back to work! Less than four weeks away.

Woo-Hoo!!!

My copies of Bark Magazine came a few days ago with my essay “Evolution” in it. From submission to publication it took about a year and a half. Not too crazy about the lay-out and they didn’t use the bio I sent them (instead clipping info from my query, which is kind of sterile and not in the least bit exciting), but I am thrilled nevertheless.






The original essay I wrote was 17-pages (or 23, I can’t remember. I lost the original in My Great Computer Crash of October 2007). One day, while I was standing in line at Whole Foods, I saw a cover story on William Wegmann, and picked up the magazine. I immediately decided to do something I had never done before – trim down something specifically to gear it toward a magazine. I got the essay down to 6 pages from 17 (or 23, but who’s counting). It was quite a learning experience. For anyone who is a writer I strongly suggest it.
I have a tendency to be longwinded in my correspondence. Fast brain and fast fingers – sometimes I can’t control the two. Many of my emails end up being novellas… Anyway, I am still mourning the loss of some of the material I cut out – but overall I feel it’s much cleaner and more appropriate for the magazine. So, some of my family oddities were left out, and the true demise of some of the animals, and some of the unfortunate events that occur when you have farm animals, (one was poisoned by the neighbors, and another had to be put down because he was running in a pack and killing other animals: chicken, ducks, sheep). But I also didn’t get to say how one of our ducks (Luke Skywalker) was in love with one of our dogs (Fritz). And how J.D. used to bite all of my dates. And how we used to dress up Gretchen (who was entirely cut from the article) in aviator goggles and a cape whenever we went to the town dump, and how she’d stand in the back of the truck on the garbage with her front paws on the cab and her cape blowing in the wind… And I completely cut out other animals (this was about ALL of our animals). How our cow, Showboat thought she was a sheep, and used to get loose, eat all of our neighbors roses, and then wander into their living room and go to sleep (in the summer, in the country, you keep your doors open). Or Tri-State, the rooster, my dad’s co-workers gave to him in an empty KFC bucket after a weekend of fishing and my dad complaining that they ate all the damn chicken. Tri-State couldn’t be left alone and would pace back and forth on our kitchen counters “talking” to us non-stop until mom couldn’t take it anymore and had to take him out to the garage to be with my dad. And how, after any period of time of Tri-State being alone he’d rush up to nuzzle at our legs. Or how I raised my pet lamb, Macarthur from a bottle and he lived in our utility room, wore a collar, and did tricks. Or how my mom liked to take out the seats in our custom-colored turquoise Dodge van, so we could take our pony, Shadow for rides into town (he’d rest his head on mom’s shoulder as she drove) so he could “see the sights.” The list goes on… but perhaps those are better left told in another personal essay… I’d like to write more, and hopefully one day will…. At least “Evolution” is a start.
So, yeah... you can pick up a copy of Bark Magazine from May 15 to July 15 at Barnes and Noble, Borders and Whole Foods. There is actually an interesting article about a dog and cheetah that live together in the Cincinnati Zoo (dying to tell Ibeatya about this) and a great one about The Prison Pet Partnership Program in my home state.
Thanks! For those who read it, I hope you enjoy it.
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I wrote this post Friday night before I went to bed. I didn’t have time to post it… I wanted to scan in the cover, and I had practice in the morning, and had to get ready for Fete Fatale the next night.

When I finished writing it, I climbed in my bed and continued flipping through Bark Magazine. There was an article called Rites of Passage by a PhD, who recommended spending some time with the body of your dog after he/she died. That it was important for you, and your other animals, to have closure. She wrote about letting her dead dog lay on the living room floor for the night to ease the bridge of saying good-bye… I found the notion somewhat disturbing. I have always had a hard time dealing with death, and especially with dead bodies. I went to sleep thinking about it… Never did I imagine that less than 24 hours later, 30 minutes before I was to leave for Fete Fatale that I would be in an emergency veterinarian room with one hand stroking my dog, Dita’s head, and the other on her chest, as I felt it rise and expand until the last breath went out of her body….



Dita is a dog I have with my ex, Michael. We split a year and half ago, but shared custody of her and our weimaraner, Wiggy. When I met Michael, Wiggy was six-months old. We got Dita together a year and half later.

Michael had his heart set on getting a Harlequin Great Dane, so we scanned the paper until we found an ad for Great Danes. It didn’t say what kind they were. Michael called the number, and the mother of the couple selling them answered. Michael asked her if they were Harlequins, and she said she didn’t know what that meant. He said it meant that they were black and white. “Oh sure,” she responded, “they are black and white.” We then set a time out to drive out to MS to see them. When we got there, I took one look into the back of the truck and knew they weren’t Harlequins, they were actually Bostons. My heart dropped because I knew Michael specifically wanted a Harlequin and can be very stubborn when he sets his mind to something. But Michael instantly fussed over them. They had brought four puppies: two girls and two boys, even though we said we wanted a girl. Michael was immediately drawn to Dita, the largest of them all, whom like the rest of them was mostly all black with a few white splotches. “What’s this one like?” he asked, picking her up. “Oh, she’s nice,” the lady replied, “but she sure is feisty.” Michael and I both laughed. There was nothing feisty about this sweet puppy cuddled in his arms. And we continued laughing about the whole drive home with Dita in my lap.

We quickly discovered there was everything feisty about this sweet puppy. Dita attached herself to Wiggy with a rapid pace. At the time, we lived in The Bywater and had a back room with a couch, and a dog door leading out to our large fenced-in yard. Whenever we left, we’d shut them in the back. Dita used the couch to not only lounge in and shove Wiggy off of, but to also perform and perfect her “happy dances,” which were spontaneous acts of gleefully wriggling, rolling, and jumping around whenever the mood struck.

Dita’s first Barkus was when Michael was out of town. It was drizzling and I didn’t want to go. Michael argued over the phone how upset Wiggy would be to miss it. Okay, I would take him. But Michael said I couldn’t take Wiggy without taking Dita. Fine. Okay. I took Dita’s pink tutu costume, which I had purchased a couple of weeks before and slipped it on her; it was already snug (she was gaining four pounds a week). Then I slapped my blue Adidas windbreaker on Wiggy, instead of his costume, and headed out. This was before the enormous success of Barkus when only a couple hundred dogs participated and we met at Good Friends. On the way over, we walked through some sketchy neighborhoods where questionable youths commented, “Hey, I like your dog’s jacket.” Great, I thought, I am going to be mugged because of what my dog is wearing. In the end, since it started to rain, I had to end up carrying Dita since she refused to get her paws wet. She weighed about 40 lbs at this point. Eventually, I ran into a friend who helped. She was carried throughout her inaugural Barkus… Luckily, it wasn’t the same after that and she walked the rest of her Barkus’ dressed as a nun, jester and even a cowgirl (as one of The Village People).

Dita was lazy. Lazy, lazy, lazy. And while day or night, or one minute or hours, Wiggy would always get up and greet us at the door whenever we came in. Dita couldn’t be bothered, she was lying on her bed (or Wiggy’s) and although she was happy to see you, you had to understand she had her priorities.

Dita and Wiggy had many adventures. They drove cross county and stayed in many of the National Parks (and were snuck into many of the Motel 6s). They spent a summer on the water in the Northwest. They went to Florida at least twice a year, to lay in the hot sun and be fed treat after treat by their grandparents. They made countless trip to Colorado and frolicked in the snow and hiked in the mountains. In fact, it was in Colorado where they first learned to swim up at a mountain lake. Wiggy, who never quite got the hang of it, and was humiliated when everyone laughed at him for trying to walk on water, got out and refused to go back in, where Dita not only jumped in, but took the rope on the intertube. Michael was sitting in and pulled him around the lake… Wiggy and Dita both did a pretty god job of seeing the sights.


When Michael and I split it was mutually agreed that he would take both the dogs. Dita could not be separated from Wiggy. The few times she had, she went into absolute hysterics. When we took Wiggy to the vet, Dita had to come. When I had to take Wiggy in solo for a pre-check up for an operation, Dita lay by the front door of our house and howled miserably, refusing to move. Michael kept calling me when I was at the vet’s saying how upset she was. I told this to vet who said it was normal, but when I held the phone away from my ear and she heard the anguished moaning, she gave me a surprised look and wrote Dita a prescription for tranquilizers. The next day, when Wiggy went into his surgery, instead of having a 165 lb traumatized dog waiting at home for him, we had a stoned, 165 lb traumatized dog who refused to leave the front door and shit all over our mail… The second Wiggy came back, she rushed over to him, kissing and licking him non-stop. Then a few minutes later she kicked him out of his own bed and took a nap…

Wiggy and Dita still visited, and whenever Michael went out of town they stayed with me. After a year of missing having a dog, even though a part of me felt like it was cheating, I picked up an adorable puppy I christened Fannie that I met at the SPCA kitten adoption drive that BERG was helping out with. The first thing I did before I even took her home was drive her to meet her brother and sister. Fannie adored them! Wiggy and Dita, now in their senior years, tolerated her. When she wasn't jumping all over them, she was showering them all with affection. They would lie on their beds patiently as Fannie would lie in between the two of them and roll back and forth to randomly kiss or chew on their faces.

Dita and Wiggy had been over a few days before, and I kept having to scold Fannie for jumping up on the furniture in an attempt to be the same height as Dita so she could kiss her on her face. I had agreed to watch Wiggy and Dita for seven weeks this summer while Michael was teaching in Germany, and I knew this was just a preview for the entertaining hell I would soon be experiencing.

I had just stepped out of the shower and had 30 minutes before Chess was coming to pick me up to go to Fete Fatale. I had planned on arriving an hour and half before the event to help Asian. Chess had called and offered me a ride, and when I said thanks, but I was going in early to help, she paused and said, “Cool, Dude. I’ll go in early too and we can all hang out together and help.” When I answered the phone, at first I couldn’t understand what Michael was saying because he was so upset. I finally pieced it together as best I could. Dita was sick. She couldn’t move. He couldn’t move her in the truck by himself and needed my help.

I called Asian and Chess in tears and told them I wouldn’t make it, and by that time, Michael called to tell me that the neighbor helped him get Dita in the truck and he was on his way to get me. When I climbed in the back of the truck, Dita lifted her head to greet me and plopped it back down, never to lift it up again. Her breathing was heavy and labored and her abdomen was swollen to three times its normal size. I sat in the back with them, consoling Dita as best as I could while Michael raced to the emergency vet. When we got there, the staff came out and carried Dita in. I stayed in the truck with Wiggy trying to comfort him as he anxiously barked and whined. A short while later, Michael came out, barely able to retain his composure, and said Dita was suffering from advanced bloat – her stomach had twisted up – a lethal condition typical common in large breeds. The doctors could perform a surgery, but it was highly doubtful with her age and condition (we also found out that she had cancer) that she would even survive the surgery. Furthermore, it was no guarantee, and practically a sure thing that within a week it would return and be even more painful.

Michael carried Wiggy into the room with Dita, who was laid out on the examining table, still unable to move. He picked him up and held him close to Dita so they could see each other. The doctors gave us time alone with her while we sobbed, stroked her, said our goodbyes, and told her how much we loved her. When the time came, Michael was stroking her face and kissing her, I was petting her head and resting my hand on her chest, and Wiggy was by our side….

I don’t know how Wiggy is going to handle all of this. It’s hard because I have been preparing myself for Wiggy’s death this last year. Twelve years old and riddled with tumors, his back legs frequently give out on him and he’s unable to use them… but his spirit and heart is still strong. I don’t know how he will ultimately take all of this, and I don’t know how this will affect his already declining health. But like the article had stated, like us, he too had a chance to say goodbye to our Dita. And I did something I thought I could never do, and that was knowingly watch the life go out of a living creature… Especially a creature as unique and special as our dog, Dita.

And I don’t know why I am writing all this. And I am sure if I end up posting it, I won’t know why I did that either. Perhaps it’s because I have always felt more comfortable expressing anger, love, and happiness than I have heartbreak. And my heart is broken… Perhaps this is my chance to learn something… I don’t know just yet. But what I do know was that my life was better for sharing it with Dita, and that I will miss her always.





This is from a profile I wrote on Dita years ago, and posted on Michael’s website based on the Playboy Centerfold Interviews…


Full Name: Dita Louise
Nicknames: Boobanubus, Miss Sweet Spot, Boobakins, Little Girl, Buttercup
Best Friend: Wiggy
Birthdate: November 29th; Sagittarius
Breed: Great Dane
Favorite Foods: Cheese, hamburger, anything that Wiggy is eating
Turn Ons: Swimming, butt rubies, extra soft beds, getting brushed, cubby holes, road trips, the park, sleeping in, and getting dressed up for Barkus.
Turn Offs: Baths, rain, diet food, flying, being told she’s fat, dogs behind fences, leashes, getting her toenails clipped, and cats.
Talents: Able to squeeze herself into small spaces, the ability to look guilt-free regardless of the evidence against her.
Ambitions: To be served breakfast in bed for the rest of her life.
Favorite Quote: Let them eat cake!


Dita giving her friend, Molly a kiss at Barkus



Wiggy & Dita

My Anthology

I love short story anthologies. Love them. I think it goes back to my school days when we received our new reader every year filled with stories. I always managed to read it within a few days, and typically a teacher would let me “teach” one or two of the stories every year.
There is nothing more annoying to me than reading a short story collection by a writer where every story is told in the same tone, tense, style, etc – just disguised as a different experience. I like writers who can mix it up. With that said, my last few short stories have been in third person – a kind of detached, “know it all” voice. Odd, since first person is my true love.
The two major anthologies I have been working through the last couple of years are: “An Introduction to Fiction” edited by X.J. Kennedy (almost done with this one) and “The Harper Anthology of Fiction” edited by Sylvan Barnet. I also read literary magazines, other anthologies, short story collections, but those two have been on my nightstand the last couple of years.
Anyway, it has always been a dream of mine that when I become an established writer, someone will ask me to edit an anthology. Most anthologies I know have the usual selection (some which are on my list, but damn are they good). I keep these written down in my journal and keep adding to them. So, just in case my journal gets lost one day, here’s my list:

“Rich” Ellen Gilchrist
“The Story of an Hour” Kate Chopin
“The Lottery” Shirley Jackson
“Sunday in the Park” Bel Kaufman
“Revelation” Flannery O’Connor
“A&P” John Updike
“Everyday Use” Alice Walker
“The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World” Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“The Necklace” Guy de Maupassant
“Battle Royal” Ralph Ellison
“Everything That Rises Must Converge” Flannery O’Connor
“The Story of the Bad Little Boy” Mark Twain
“The Story of the Good Little Boy” Mark Twain
“The Mysterious Stranger” Mark Twain
“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” Ambrose Bierce
“Her Second Career” Ayn Rand
“Good Country People” Flannery O’Connor
“What You Pawn I Will Redeem” Sherman Alexie
“Mr. Green” Robert Olen Butler
“Just Like Dogs” Dylan Thomas
“Eurotrash” Irvine Welsh
“The Fifty-Dollar Bill” Donald Hall
“He” Katherine Ann Porter
“The Bet” Anton Chekhov
“A Visit of Charity” Eudora Welty
“Expelled” John Cheever
“The Appointment in Samara” W. Somerset Maughan
“To Build a Fire” Jack London
“Harrison Bergeron” Kurt Vonnegut, Jr
“A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“The Dozen Kisses” C.M. Decarmin
“The Waltz” Dorothy Parker
“You Were Perfectly Fine” Dorothy Parker
“The Veldt” Ray Bradbury
“The Monkey Look” F.X. Toole
“A Hunger Artist” Franz Kafka
“The Greatest Man in the World” James Thurber
“Who’s Irish” Gish Jen
“Gryphon” Charles Boxter
“Volunteers are Shining Stars” Curtis Sittenfeld

I know this list will keep on growing… as I remember forgotten, and discover new ones.

THE JOY OF STEALING

I just woke up from a dream about an artist friend of mine. I was listening to him – being wowed by his metaphors and woke up and realizied they were actually mine. But what do they mean?

If you’re any kind of artist, you can’t help but be a bit of a thief. Music, painting, writing… It doesn’t matter; you can’t be good unless you shoplift your surroundings. You immortalize the way someone laughs when they are self-conscious; abduct their drawl, swipe a moment of time that belongs to someone else. Take a third-party narrative and make it a first-person memoir. It’s almost an obsession, and often times I find myself more fixated on actually sewing adjectives and phrases together in my head about a person or event, then really being in the moment.
I’ve gotten into trouble for this.
I have a story coming out this month that I wrote based on an incident my friend told me about a misplaced condom and a broken beer bottle. The character isn’t her (neither are some of the events), but it was her tidbit that inspired the whole piece. It was a fraction of her life that gave birth to my tale.
When she read the story, she immediately said, “This isn’t me. I never said that. I never did that. I’m not THAT promiscuous.” That is what “based on” means… Ultimately, she was okay with it and liked the story, but it is still theft. Except it’s like stealing the buttons off of a blouse instead of the whole shirt.
Right now I am grappling with a fantastic story a friend told me – of course, the vignette can not make up a whole story by itself (they almost never do) – it would serve for some kind of base or jumping off point. Damn, it’s a good one…. I’ve scribbled it down in my journal and we will see. It’s there with my latest entries: What my friend’s mom called Maxi Pads…. What a friend ate for breakfast every morning growing up in Latin America… Contradictions about a boy… and this new ditty.

The two greatest qualities any artist has are observation and interpretation. Being cognizant of your surroundings – watchful – and then giving your own translation. This doesn’t necessarily mean one will be successful at their attempt, but it’s the root for any great project. You might get lucky flying blind once in awhile, but dumb luck only gets you so far. Hence the phrase, “One Hit Wonder…” Not to say anyone who has more than one hit is a true artist --- that’s a whole ‘nother topic – mostly a reflection on our society.

And once again, sliding off of this moral platform… best stopping theorizing about it, and actually do it (or attempt it).
Off to work on my play rewrites and novel… and shake off this newest afternoon dream.

A PRICEY PAIR OF PANTIES
My experience with formal dances is limited.

Freshman year -went to the Tolo (Northwest version of Sadie Hawkins) in a horrifyingly scratchy and periwinkle dress. My date was Jim, the first boy I ever kissed, and the first boy I ever made cry (at another dance, but that an informal one after the football game so it doesn’t count).

Sophomore year - went to an all-girls, boarding school where prom was limited to upperclassmen, so I crashed it with a friend and was eventually kicked out by the nuns. It was next to impossible to hide, dance, eat potato chips and blend in. The dance was held in the TV room where our anorexic typing teacher worked out daily to Jane Fonda. Even she took up a lot of space.

My junior year- back at boarding school, had a date to the prom (local blond heartthrob) but only five other girls did, so it was cancelled due to the junior and senior’s class lack of ability to get a guy in a suit (even with the promise of poorly lit groping).

Senior year went to a new public school (Tolo again) and instead of asking the big jock (who was insanely muscular and reeked of cologne), like everyone wanted me to, I asked an old friend. No pressure; we danced, had a good time and went picture time occurred, I laid him out in my lap and dangled grapes over him.

My senior year, I also ended up going to college at night and graduating early from high school. When my parents suggested I get a job to help cushion the cost of my schooling in Wales, I announced, at the age of seventeen, I was temporarily moving to New York and would be back in four months…. “Uh, we were thinking more a long the lines of Dairy Queen,” my mom said… So I missed my senior prom. And with the exception of seeing “Pretty in Pink,” (sometimes I have nightmares about Molly Ringwald screaming, “What about prom, Blaine?!?”) I am naïve in terms of proper prom experiences. No corsages, stinky tuxes and strapless bras that didn’t fit. On the even brighter side, less photographic evidence of bad hairstyles.

I wouldn’t change the choices I made, but still there is something wanting about missing your school cafeteria being transformed into “Heaven on Earth” with simply balloons and crepe paper. There is this disjointed bonding that I don’t have with other people.

With this little experience, it was my first dance my freshman year that stood out – for many reasons. And it wasn’t because of the boy.

Jim was sweet and a little goofy, but wrote me these horribly boring, incredibly long notes detailing every minute of his existence. Every Monday morning I would open my locker to find a 20-page note stuffed inside. “I just got in from working in the yard with my dad for 47 minutes. I thought of you the whole time… For lunch I had pizza and watched 20 minutes of a Laverne & Shirley rerun. Wish you could be here.” While other girls swooned, I always dreaded getting those notes in 9x12 envelopes.

But, unbeknownst to me, my first dance taught me an important lesson. And it wasn’t sexual politics (interestingly there is a pattern from all the dances I did attend – or did not- I had to ask the boy). And it wasn’t how to sneak in alcohol. And it wasn’t how to avoid getting pounded on my senior girls (call their bluff and they will back off). It was the art of achieving the bubble-math mentality in the middle of a stinking swamp. After spending a ludicrous amount of money on a Jessica Mcclintock dress that I DID NOT want (I looked liked an antebellum prostitute with extremely poor taste) my mom took me to a specialty shop. She decided that since I suddenly had the urge to dress up, I might as go all the way and get a pair of gloves. While my mom stood in line and commiserated with the sales lady on how fast they grow up… I walked through the aisles, somehow ending up in the lingerie section. My mom caught me fingering a pair of gorgeous silk, soft gray, lacy underwear. “Let’s buy them,” she said, impulsively grabbing them. My mouth dropped open. I would have been less shocked if my mother (who was the volunteer accountant at our church) suggested that I steal them. “But they are eleven dollars!” I couldn’t even phantom spending money on a piece of underwear that cost the same amount as our entire family eating at McDonalds. My mom, who literally darned our socks and sewed patches in our pants, just smiled and walked to the counter, “We won’t tell your father.”

All night, it wasn’t my first formal dress, or the first boy I kissed, or the elbow-length gloves that made me feel secretly empowered - it was the knowledge of the price tag of my underwear.

Finally, the urge was too much for me and in a moment of weakness (and perhaps intimacy) I leaned over to Jim and said, “I have a secret.” He asked what, and after mustering my courage up (for this WAS bravado underwear) I told him, “I am wearing eleven-dollar underwear.” Of course, telling any teenage boy the cost of your undergarments is bound to illicit a different response. While I expected him to be awed by my sophistication, he became hell bent on seeing them – and I don’t think it was for just witnessing what eleven-dollar underwear looked like. I spent the rest of the night fighting him off. And no… he never saw them.

For years, the underwear stayed in my drawer and many times I would choose torn up old ones, or bathing suit bottoms over my eleven-dollar pair. The only times my fancy undies came out was if I went to the ballet, or a nice restaurant, or it was my birthday. But as I became older and working for myself, these “special” times became farther and farther apart. While, I always found a way to have fun, it was never the traditional “expensive fun.” It was more the poor, non-traditional, bordering-on-jail fun. Soon I found my eleven-dollar underwear fit just as well under an old pair of jeans, then they did under a silky gown. It was a sad moment when they too became so tattered that I could no longer wear them. But at least I wore them. I least I worked, had sex, rode a bike, cleaned the house, read a book in them. They got used, and it didn’t diminish their power. If you spend your life waiting for special occasions, you spend your life, well… waiting. Life is not a series of formal dances, something I always should have known.

I am reminded of that fabulous Dorothy Parker quote, “Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.” There is something so vital about treating yourself, about finding a balance between responsibility and spontaneity. It’s almost spiritual: occasionally ordering the fancy wine, buying the satin bustier, ordering two appetizers. In general, those things have never been important to me, but it’s fun to splurge and sometimes in times of trauma and distress, it becomes crucial. With everything that has been going on lately, I crave release more than ever. It’s the only way to make those life chores bearable and deal with those circumstances that you just can’t avoid (no matter how hard you protect yourself). Seeking out the luxuries, whether it is buying a new window for the house, expensive dinner with friends, a piece of art, or that lovely pair of silk drawers… is the only way I know to avoid being ground up by the grind.

A few years ago, my friend and I were reminiscing over our summers at camp. I was shocked to realize how perfectly my very bra purchase summed me up. I was twelve and I didn’t want to get one. I wanted to remain a tomboy forever, but after being teased in math class once for not wearing one, I finally relented. I picked out a plain white cotton bra and a silk, leopard-print bra. And my mom bought me both without saying a word.

But of course in typical style, I let my best friend borrow my leopard bra at camp (even though it didn’t fit her – too small) for the daily price of a box of licorice and a soft serve ice cream cone. My practical side (or sweet tooth, however you want to spin it) still existed.

It’s a testament that even surrounded by such luxuries, a leopard never changes its spots, whether it be white cotton, silk, or lace.