Under the starry sky of a small town nestled on the French Riviera between the bustling city of Nice and the sophisticated metropolis of Monaco, I had my first kiss. Sounds romantic, I know. It wasn’t. I was fifteen years old and after having a dashing Frenchman named Olivier perform root canal on my lower rear molar, I returned to my host family’s apartment and pondered what all the hoopla was about. Having Olivier’s stiff tongue explore my mouth with excessive quantities of his saliva dripping out and down my chin was far from how I had pictured my first kiss.
I then developed the typical teenaged girl insecurity of do-I-smell-down-there and, if so, will-he-say-anything. I also had absolutely no idea what to do with a guy’s eh-hem. This shouldn’t come as a surprise seeing my own down there was foreign territory. These fears, coupled with my suspicion that sex wasn’t going to be the Top Gun take-my-breath-away whirlwind I wanted it to be, caused my sexual exploration to pretty much stall out at kissing and touching. I justified my virginity by telling people I was holding out for someone I loved and would want to marry. People bought it and that was all I cared about.
Though I started college at Mount Holyoke in Western Massachusetts, I could stomach the environment for only one year. Knitting and doing laundry on Saturday nights was not my idea of a crazy time. Plus, the traditional M & C’s (milk and cookies) served every night at 9pm was making it exceptionally hard for me to avoid the freshman fifteen.
I transferred over to Smith College down the street because I liked the area and have never been good with dramatic changes. Nine miles was apparently the full extent of my comfort zone. Two other transfer students, both products of boarding school, were on my dorm hall. Kristina was a one time wild child and open about everything. Samantha was the crazy redhead who hailed from South Carolina blueblood, though you would have never guessed as much from her beat up Volvo and hooooweeeeeeee-dawggie yells she would offer up to passing men. We hit it off famously.
It was during that year that the topic of sex found its way into many of our conversations. I didn’t have much to contribute but I had eager ears willing to listen. The memory that has stayed with me all these years is of Kristina opening an enormous steamer trunk, the kind I used to transport my belongings to and from summer camp, to reveal sex paraphernalia galore. I had never seen anything like that before, nor have I seen anything like it since.
Early the following year, our friendship blossomed further and on a random night when we were all bored, we hopped into Kristina’s car and drove down toward Hartford to buy sex toys. Yes, I crossed a state line to buy my first vibrator. And I funded this purchase with the money my dad sent me every month to cover entertainment expenses.
The saleswoman, who was dressed to the nines like a Texas streetwalker, feather boa and all, showed us our options and even loaded them up with batteries to display the movements. I tried to maintain a serious expression but on the inside I was giggling up a storm. With my wallet $80 lighter, I crawled into the backseat of the car. We drove back to school, stopping off for Burger King and batteries on the way.
The shaft resembled a pearl clad Barbara Bush, an odd but fitting homage to a former Smith College student. There was also an aardvark like clitoral stimulator. It was from that aardvark that we unanimously came up with the term zooing. If the music coming from the other side of the door was loud and if your knock went ignored, it was rather certain some zooing was going on.
A few months later, I headed out to a local bar with Samantha. We drank some Guinness and flirted with some boys who, with increased ingestion of beer, became cuter and cuter. I took one home with me. At 6am, I threw on my robe and ran up to Samantha’s room.
“You had sex, didn’t you!” she exclaimed in a groggy, morning whisper.
“Yeah, um, what’s his name?” I asked. I was dead serious.
“Cliff,” she replied.
“Are you friggin kidding me??? I lost my virginity to a guy named Clifford???”
I meandered back to my room and found Cliff sprawled out on my twin bed. I left him to sleep while I showered and washed up for an early AM departure. I had to catch a train back to Philly for Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of repentance. Talk about ironic timing.
Though I didn’t offer up my number when we left my dorm together, Cliff managed to still track me down. I returned back from repenting to find a message from him saying he wanted to see me again. I never called him back.
Losing it with Clifford wasn’t about finding a boyfriend or finding love. It was about finding the comfort within myself long enough to ignore my insecurities. Part of that I owe to Guinness. But mostly I owe it all to Barbara Bush and the aardvark.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Canes, Walkers and Scooters, Oh My!
Shortly after learning how to walk, my dad put me on some skis and introduced me to the downhill slopes. I spent most of my time crouching between his legs, snowplowing down the mountain on my Snoopy skis. My arms would wrap tightly around his thighs as he steered us in our zigzag descent.
We headed to the Pocono Mountains almost every weekend. Mornings consisted of silver dollar pancakes, daytime consisted of downhill runs interspersed with whipped hot chocolate and evenings were spent ordering food and then falling asleep at the table before it could even arrive. This was the defined winter weekend for my older sister Leslie and me, products of a marriage that began when my mother stepped into Wilburgers Ski Shop in North Philadelphia in search of gloves and my father, the athletically addicted salesman, wrote up her receipt.
Skiing with my dad as a toddler and later on in life as a young child are the only memories I have of him not being sick. When I was eight, my father was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. When I was ten, my parents broke the news to me and Leslie. I don't recall this moment of my life, probably because at the age of ten I was struggling with more important things like breasts and the boys who liked them.
He started walking with a cane. It was a wooden cane with a brass duck head on it. The image was more British gent than crippled former athlete. I thought it looked goofy. Only recently did I learn that my dad originally carried that cane not because he needed it but because it was to stop onlookers from concluding that his awkward gate was attributable to drunkenness.
Our family winter weekends at the mountain tapered and eventually ended. I was okay with this transition simply because I never mastered parallel skiing. My tips always crossed. And my fondness for hot chocolate in the lodge far outweighed my fondness for the cold and icy elements beyond those log cabin-esque walls.
My father's illness ultimately progressed and he graduated from a gentleman's cane to a medical one. It was sleek and black but was a true cane as opposed to an accessory. He would come to the athletic fields at my prep school to cheer me on. I know that this should be equated with happiness but for me it was a moment of dread. I never took off to be the athlete my father once was.
In his youth, he was invited to try out for the Phillies. In my youth, the only reason I made the JV tennis squad was because I went to a Quaker prep school that didn't deny anyone the right to play on a team. Trust me. No tennis coach would otherwise agree to have a player who runs around a backhand to convert it to a forehand. I feared my father's disappointment in what I never became. But I also feared the whispers behind my back as classmates looked on observing me helping my father maneuver across the hilly and uneven fields.
At some point the phrase "it just is" came to be my mantra. I can't make him better and I can't make people think one way or another. It just is.
After college, I tested out some career paths and ultimately ended up working for my dad. He needed help at the office and I needed money. My days were spent putting together presentations and joining him on appointments. We joked with new and old clients that he wooed me away from the UN because of my fluency in mumbles, his language of choice since the disease had gradually taken a toll on his speech.
Reps from companies we work with, clients from way back and even clients from just a few months ago, people constantly pull me aside and compliment my father to me. "He is such an inspiration," is the most commonly made comment. I have never fully grasped why one would relay this to the able bodied daughter as opposed to the person struggling with the disease. I always pass the compliments onto my dad to make sure he isn't deprived.
A few years ago, my mother called me to let me know that my dad had fallen over the weekend. I didn't need to be worried but he was taken to the emergency room for a look over. I later learned that this tumble was more like a crash. He fell backwards down four steps, landing in a cement planter and the wall. Two holes in the plaster still remain like a memorial where his shoulder and head hit. After that tumble, the house was converted to a more handicap friendly environment. There is an electric chair up the front stairs and the bathrooms all have rails installed. He now uses a walker to navigate on his feet, though it is easier for him to use his electric scooter.
Through it all, there has been a sense of humor that has gotten us through everything. My dad signs off his emails with the name Rocket, a name he bestowed on himself as a joke to his lack of speed. He onetime pretended his electric scooter was on the fritz and did figure eights in an empty road, screaming "whooo" and "help" as he whipped by my mom and me. The terms gimpy and crip are tossed around with laughter. I know that sounds sick but unless you walk in our shoes, don’t go passing judgment.
Earlier this year, my dad filed a long term disability claim. An examiner stopped by last week to ask questions and do interviews. I got nervous and realized I didn’t have answers to questions like “how long has he been like this?” I tried my best to be accurate. After all, I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t sick, except on his skis. He has always had a cane. He has had problems with speaking for so long that I can’t even recall what his voice sounded like without the stuttering and slurring.
When the examiner headed out after multiple hours of inquiry, he stopped at my desk. He put his notes down on the counter and stood there silent for a few moments.
“Your dad is quite an inspiration,” he said. I agree.
We headed to the Pocono Mountains almost every weekend. Mornings consisted of silver dollar pancakes, daytime consisted of downhill runs interspersed with whipped hot chocolate and evenings were spent ordering food and then falling asleep at the table before it could even arrive. This was the defined winter weekend for my older sister Leslie and me, products of a marriage that began when my mother stepped into Wilburgers Ski Shop in North Philadelphia in search of gloves and my father, the athletically addicted salesman, wrote up her receipt.
Skiing with my dad as a toddler and later on in life as a young child are the only memories I have of him not being sick. When I was eight, my father was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. When I was ten, my parents broke the news to me and Leslie. I don't recall this moment of my life, probably because at the age of ten I was struggling with more important things like breasts and the boys who liked them.
He started walking with a cane. It was a wooden cane with a brass duck head on it. The image was more British gent than crippled former athlete. I thought it looked goofy. Only recently did I learn that my dad originally carried that cane not because he needed it but because it was to stop onlookers from concluding that his awkward gate was attributable to drunkenness.
Our family winter weekends at the mountain tapered and eventually ended. I was okay with this transition simply because I never mastered parallel skiing. My tips always crossed. And my fondness for hot chocolate in the lodge far outweighed my fondness for the cold and icy elements beyond those log cabin-esque walls.
My father's illness ultimately progressed and he graduated from a gentleman's cane to a medical one. It was sleek and black but was a true cane as opposed to an accessory. He would come to the athletic fields at my prep school to cheer me on. I know that this should be equated with happiness but for me it was a moment of dread. I never took off to be the athlete my father once was.
In his youth, he was invited to try out for the Phillies. In my youth, the only reason I made the JV tennis squad was because I went to a Quaker prep school that didn't deny anyone the right to play on a team. Trust me. No tennis coach would otherwise agree to have a player who runs around a backhand to convert it to a forehand. I feared my father's disappointment in what I never became. But I also feared the whispers behind my back as classmates looked on observing me helping my father maneuver across the hilly and uneven fields.
At some point the phrase "it just is" came to be my mantra. I can't make him better and I can't make people think one way or another. It just is.
After college, I tested out some career paths and ultimately ended up working for my dad. He needed help at the office and I needed money. My days were spent putting together presentations and joining him on appointments. We joked with new and old clients that he wooed me away from the UN because of my fluency in mumbles, his language of choice since the disease had gradually taken a toll on his speech.
Reps from companies we work with, clients from way back and even clients from just a few months ago, people constantly pull me aside and compliment my father to me. "He is such an inspiration," is the most commonly made comment. I have never fully grasped why one would relay this to the able bodied daughter as opposed to the person struggling with the disease. I always pass the compliments onto my dad to make sure he isn't deprived.
A few years ago, my mother called me to let me know that my dad had fallen over the weekend. I didn't need to be worried but he was taken to the emergency room for a look over. I later learned that this tumble was more like a crash. He fell backwards down four steps, landing in a cement planter and the wall. Two holes in the plaster still remain like a memorial where his shoulder and head hit. After that tumble, the house was converted to a more handicap friendly environment. There is an electric chair up the front stairs and the bathrooms all have rails installed. He now uses a walker to navigate on his feet, though it is easier for him to use his electric scooter.
Through it all, there has been a sense of humor that has gotten us through everything. My dad signs off his emails with the name Rocket, a name he bestowed on himself as a joke to his lack of speed. He onetime pretended his electric scooter was on the fritz and did figure eights in an empty road, screaming "whooo" and "help" as he whipped by my mom and me. The terms gimpy and crip are tossed around with laughter. I know that sounds sick but unless you walk in our shoes, don’t go passing judgment.
Earlier this year, my dad filed a long term disability claim. An examiner stopped by last week to ask questions and do interviews. I got nervous and realized I didn’t have answers to questions like “how long has he been like this?” I tried my best to be accurate. After all, I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t sick, except on his skis. He has always had a cane. He has had problems with speaking for so long that I can’t even recall what his voice sounded like without the stuttering and slurring.
When the examiner headed out after multiple hours of inquiry, he stopped at my desk. He put his notes down on the counter and stood there silent for a few moments.
“Your dad is quite an inspiration,” he said. I agree.
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