I Love 1988

Would you excuse me? I cut my foot before and my shoe is filling up with blood.

-- Mira Sorvino as Romy (Romy and Michele's High School Reunion)



I registered to attend my 20th high school reunion, which will be taking place in July. It is difficult for me to believe it has been two decades since I walked out of that building for the last time. I was asked to fill out a questionnaire about my favorite high school memories and what I would tell the girl I used to be 20 years ago if that was possible. I wanted to say that I would inform that shy, stressed-out girl that high school was utterly ridiculous and to not worry, as it would pass, but I refrained. I wrote instead that I would tell myself that high school isn't close to being the real world. As for my memories, I don't really have favorites. I just remember bits and pieces like a very strange dream. In fact, it's one of the fuzziest times in my personal history, for some reason. It wasn't a bad time in my life. I just don't stop to remember much of it.

I do remember how my rhinestone-studded Levi jacket used to reek of gasoline from a boyfriend's leaking Ford Mustang, which apparently doubled as a Molotov cocktail. When I didn't smell of gasoline, my pores used to emit the scent of pepperoni pizza from my job at a local restaurant. I remember marching down the streets of Philadelphia on the Fourth of July during a band trip and becoming so overheated under layers of heavy polyester uniform that I began hearing my name bouncing off the surfaces of the skyscrapers (we were proud because nobody ended up losing consciousness that year). I remember standing in front of the glossy wall of the Veterans' Memorial in Washington, DC next to our class clown and watching him suddenly dissolve into tears, overcome with emotion. I remember having to crawl in a miniskirt through tobacco-tainted spit as a freshman to get to my locker below one belonging to a couple very cute seniors. I remember when I was kicked out of the school building on senior skip day by one of my teachers when he saw me in the hall and I told him I would rather attend class. I remember draping strips of toilet paper over friends' houses and sticking hundreds of plastic forks in their lawns protected by the darkness of night and foiling an attempt to attack my own home with girlfriends, ending up on a completely crazy car chase across town over a sheet of black ice. I remember the first time a friend of mine was crushed to death in a horrible car accident. I remember going to a high school full of wealthy, United Colors of Benetton-clad robots but successfully finding a group of incredible friends to endure the whole strange experience with, some of whom I still see on a regular basis.

It was fun, and I suppose it helped make me who I am now, but I wouldn't do it again. In fact, I haven't thought much about high school since I left, and it seems strange to do it now. Really strange. I guess I jumped through the hoops I was expected to and achieved the appropriate goals with little effort whatsoever. If I did do it all over again, I would apply myself, have more confidence in who I was, and pay attention to what I wanted, not what other people thought I should be/do. I finally have that one figured out.

I plan on going to my best friend's house with gummy bears, jelly beans, and candy corns, watching Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, and having at least a couple of strong cocktails before we go back to 1988 this summer.

What a trip!

Columbus Day 1990

Seventeen years ago today I was at work at the drugstore. It was a painfully slow evening punctuated only occasionally with customers coming in to have me make some keys made or send rolls of film off to be developed. A man walked into my department, and I greeted him. He said nothing in return. Slightly disgusted, I shook my head almost imperceptibly and went back to what I was doing. He went to the hardware aisle in back and crouched down to look at something on a low shelf. I buzzed past him with a sloshing bottle of Windex and asked if he needed help. He said no, so I continued past him and began polishing the counter tops in my department, wiping away dirty smudges left by previous customers. It was then when I felt someone standing in front of me. I smiled and tilted my face up. It was my quiet customer. He was now wearing some sort of mask or bandana to conceal his facial features. His dark eyes bored into me from the narrow space between the fabric covering him and the rim of his hat. I suddenly realized that previously in our very brief customer-clerk relationship, he had never let me get a good look at him. His hand appeared to be holding a firearm sort of hidden in his jacket. Between the short supply of time available to me and my desire to keep my eyes off the man, I couldn't tell what or where the weapon was exactly. Most importantly, I was able to determine that it seemed to be pointing directly at me. My heart sunk, and my fears were confirmed as he hissed at me.

"This is a robbery. Give me the money. Now!"

Dread washed over me like a hot wave. Every muscle fiber in my body felt became numb and tingled strangely. Just as I felt like I was hopelessly paralyzed, my autopilot clicked on, guiding me through the motions while I watched myself. I sprung into action. My fingers hit the shiny, baby blue button on the register. Jackpot. The drawer ejected from the depths of the machine. The money tray bulged with cash, as my supervisors had somehow failed to pull it at scheduled intervals earlier in the day. All day long I had stamped numerous money orders for my customers that ended up totaling thousands of dollars. I began yanking stacks from the separated compartments, and the spring-loaded money clips snapped as they hit the plastic of each empty compartment behind the bills and personal checks I hastily liberated. My pulse pounded against my eardrums. I began shoving everything across the counter to the faceless stranger. He barked at me to hurry, and I sprinted to the second register behind my counter, leaving the first drawer hanging open like an empty mouth. He stood glaring at me, and I wondered to myself where he was secreting all of the thick stacks I slid to him. They seemed to just disappear into him as if he was a hungry amoeba. I heard his awful voice again.

"Lie on the floor!"

Great. This is it. Autopilot clicked off as my squirming stomach hit the floor and I could let myself collapse. As usual, my crazy brain began going places without my consent. I suddenly saw images of Robert Stack on an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries very calmly describing how employees of a store were lined up, bound with rope, and systematically shot in the back of their skulls, one by one. I suddenly realized that there is a bright side to everything. At least I wouldn't have to witness someone die or listen to their death gurgles. It would just be me, and hopefully he was lucid enough that he would do it quickly and correctly.

This is when the ridiculous thoughts kicked in. The voices began chattering in my head, mercifully overriding thoughts just too terrible to think. I tried to ignore them. I was suddenly aware of how soft the ergonomic floor mat felt underneath my left cheek and nose. It was quite comfortable, really. I thought of how you would never know that interesting little tidbit until you were robbed at gunpoint or had some sort of hypoglycemic spell and ended up on the floor like me. I found myself enjoying the coolness of its surface and felt fine grit between the mat and my skin, left there by my shoes earlier as I shuffled back and forth between registers assisting customers and ringing up their purchases. That was a happier time for sure.

Oh, shut the hell up, brain.

I now needed to determine where the monster was on the other side of the counter. Apparently, it was not my day to get shot. I listened closely and heard cash registers opening and closing in the front of the store. Were they being robbed, too? I heard no voices at all--just the now eerie "kachunk" of money drawers opening and closing. I very slowly lifted my head and looked for the phone on the shelf behind the counter. The spirals of tired, stretched-out cord hung down and pooled on the floor, but the phone might as well have been miles away. I couldn't reach it. I opted to roll over and sit up to assess my surroundings. As I began this maneuver, a bear of a man was suddenly standing over me. It was Dean, the old sourpuss pharmacist. The permanently pissed-off, carp like expression on his face had softened into one of genuine concern and alarm. It was then that we began our first conversation.

"Nancy! Did you fall?"

I felt blood rush to my face as I realized how strange it must look to find me lying down on the job like this. At least he didn't think I was taking a nap. I blurted out that I had been robbed, and his face went as white as his lab coat. He then seemed to magically vanish. It seemed that by the time I had lifted my now limp, adrenaline-ravaged body from the floor, there were people all over me like ants on an ice cream sandwich. Police. Coworkers. Supervisors. Even the manager magically appeared, obviously rousted from the comfort of a quiet evening at home. I was questioned by some highly irritating police officers who didn't seem to be speaking the same language, after which I found myself sitting at the white bistro table inside the mall in front of the store. One of my chain smoking coworkers had placed a cigarette between my lips and lit it. I was relaxed enough now that my body finally began release some tears, causing my coworkers to murmur, whisper, and critique my response to what had just occurred. I turned my head toward the wall of glass doors at the mall's entrance. The doors were apparently locked, and there were people staring through the glass at me as if I was on the wrong side of the bars at a zoo exhibit. I recognized a few faces but just looked back down at the surface of the table exhausted. Someone retrieved my coat and purse from the break room in the back of the store, and I found myself being escorted to my car by my boss. We exited the mall out into the damp, moss-scented darkness. He instructed everybody to keep away from me as we traversed the parking lot. I crawled into my little car, and he pushed the door shut behind me with a slam. I watched my boss walk away and disappear into the chaos inside the mall. I was alone in the dark, once again left to fend for myself and begin the drive home through the night.

Face Behind the Blog

Rosemarie tagged me to participate in The Face Behind the Blog meme. Basically, the instructions are to create a series of photos to show yourself in a light people don't normally see. Since I talk incessantly about being a mother, I thought I would go another direction today. If you would like to participate, consider yourself tagged.

I'm not that great at determining kids' ages, even looking back at photos of myself. I couldn't tell you exactly what year this was, but I'm guessing I was about 6 or 7 here, making it 1976 or 1977. The one thing that is clear from this photo is that I'm not quite old enough to keep track of my both of my mittens, as my mother has tied them together with that variegated rainbow yarn that was once all the rage. In theory, the string was supposed to run through each sleeve and behind my back inside my jacket, making the yarn invisible and keeping my mittens on my person at all times, but in this photo I seem to have found myself in a bit of a snag.



This must be from about 1984 or so, judging from the George Jetson-style remoteless television with VHF and UHF knobs and the VHS tapes in the background. I was probably 13 or 14. I see there are streamers hanging from the ceiling in this photo, so I was likely decorating for one of my last sleepover party extravaganzas with childhood friends. You know the stuff -- truth or dare, pillow fights, and stuffing yourself with junk food. If we got really wild, the Ouija board would come out until we were thoroughly freaked out and couldn't sleep. We never did contact any dead celebrities but did hear from a few angry, dead D-listers. Thankfully, this was the last year I was built like my little brother.



This was taken the summer after my senior year, right before I packed my things and moved into the dorms at University of Oregon. I was still 17. I believe the necklace I'm wearing is my honor society key (Nerds!). I am showcasing my very first refrigerator of my own as if I'm on a very sarcastic version of the Price is Right. It produced ice the size of sugar cubes that melted in seconds. However, I read somewhere recently that the U of O dorms were recently voted the worst college dorms in America, and there is no doubt in my mind that I could have left the trays on my desk in the winter and manufactured the same ice cubes in a mere 10 minutes without any electricity at all.



This is a 1990 photo of a clinically depressed girl with VERY big hair. My braces are still affixed to my teeth, but in this photo I forgot about them and flashed a fake smile (my lips are tightly closed on the previous photo). The girls with me are from my dorm. I used Aqua Net on my hair at this time. On one occasion around this time I was on my way to breakfast in the cafeteria when a boy from the next dorm asked if I had been drinking. Sadly, he had merely caught the scent of the isopropyl alcohol in my hairspray. It's a good thing my friends didn't smoke. I would have gone up faster than Michael Jackson did in that Pepsi commercial. Oh, and I'm sorry about the ozone layer.



A photo of my first trip to Paris, France. How I found myself there is a really long story, but it was all because I picked up a Heavy Metal Magazine at the grocery store. I spent a lot of time alone on the streets of Paris but was saved by a great-uncle, who gave me some extra money for cab fare, and a boy named Christian I met in a club who ended up taking me sightseeing and then home to meet his family. None of them spoke any English, which made it very interesting, but I accidentally stayed with them one night (I was exhausted and fell asleep). They were quite hospitable and didn't chop me into pieces for fois gras. His mother seemed to adore me. When I left, of course, I was madly in love, but I never saw him again. I cried on the way home. It was worth every single tear.



Another photo of a now very lonely girl. This is the one-room flat I lived in while I finished up my classes to be a medical transcriptionist. I shared a kitchen with four older men who either had substance abuse problems or were on the lam. I learned never to approach them from behind without making a lot of noise. Despite their quirks, they were fiercely protective and very sweet. They also scared any potential suitors of mine away.

This is also the day I graduated from my medical technology classes. I'm opening a gift. This photo makes me a little sad. Only one of my friends knew I was graduating that day and only because she worked with me and found out. I didn't want anyone to know, but she and my family came to celebrate with me. I had been hired back in my hometown, packed up my things shortly after this was taken, and moved back to where I came from.



Age 24. I'm back in my hometown, and I'm happier. My two best friends are with me again. Here I am at Shaena's house clowning around with a bottle of tequila. Since her husband fought fires in the summer, I practically lived with the girl while he was gone. Things were definitely looking up at this point. Oh, and I'm not working for $5 an hour and living on catsup burritos anymore. Those college classes were a good idea after all!



Me in drag in my office on Halloween, probably around 2001. Age 31. In case you were wondering, I make one really FUGLY dude.



A photo of me today. Yes, I chopped my hair off for the summer.

I stopped chasing happiness and am working on nurturing it here at home.



There you have it. The face behind the blog.

And Now for Something Completely Different...

This goes out to Shaena and Leanne, whom I received this from.

Place an X by all the things you've done, or remove the X from the ones you have not, and send it to your friends. This is for your entire life!

(X) Smoked a cigarette (Note to self: NEVER buy cigarettes in France again)

(X) Drank so much you threw up (Peach California Cooler; 1989)

( ) Been arrested

(X) Gone on a blind date (still on it 6 years later)

(X) Skipped school (forced to leave school by favorite teacher on Senior Skip Day)

( ) Watched someone die

( ) Been to Canada (missed the ferry)

( ) Been to Florida

(X) Been to Mexico (Mas tequila!)

(X) Been on a plane

(X) Been lost

(X) Been on the opposite side of the country

(X) Been to Washington DC

(X) Swam in the ocean

(X) Felt like dying

(X) Cried yourself to sleep

(X) Played cops and robbers

(X) Recently colored with crayons

(X) Sang karaoke (not pretty)

(X) Paid for a meal with only coins

(X) Done something you told yourself you wouldn't?

(X) Made prank phone calls (before caller ID)

(X) Laughed until some kind of beverage came out your nose

(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue

(X) Danced in the rain

( ) Written a letter to Santa (just to Tooth Fairy that I can remember)

( ) Been kissed under the mistletoe

( ) Watch the sun rise with someone you care about

(X) Blown bubbles

(X) Made a bonfire on the beach

(X) Crashed a party

(X) Gone roller skating (not pretty)

(X) Gone ice skating (again, not pretty)

Any nicknames? Nancy the Nun (thankfully retired), Gnuknee (retired), Nanny (popular with kids), Nan (only two people call me this daily anymore), Nance (completely interchangable with Nancy), Pebbles (retired), Barbie (in my dreams...long retired), Kitten, Mai Tai, Sassafras, and Poopy.

2. Mother's name? Same as my middle name.

3. Favorite drink? Perfect margarita (nice and sour) with salt.

4. Tattoos? No. A growing collection of birthmarks, scars, and beauty marks, though.

5. Body piercing? Three holes in one ear and one hole in the other.

6. How much do you love your job, on a scale from 1 to 10? 7 (varies)

7. Birthplace: About a mile and a half down the road on the hill where the Phoenix Inn is now (hospital is long gone). I didn't get far.

8. Favorite vacation spot? Oregon Coast or Maui. I like staying close to home now.

9. Ever been to Europe? Yes, twice.

10. Ever eaten cookies for dinner? Heck, yes.

11. Ever been on TV? Yes.

12. Ever steal any traffic signs? In high school, I did steal signs. However, I returned them to the public works department one dark night around the time I graduated.

13. Ever been in a car accident? Too many. Luckily, they were minor.

14. Got a 2 door or 4? 4 on my Jeep.

15. Salad dressing? Ranch.

16. Favorite pie? Mom's rhubarb custard pie.

17. Favorite #? 10

18. Favorite movie(s)? Blood Simple, but I love a lot of them.

19. Favorite Holiday? I love them all. I used to enjoy Valentine's Day because the girls all wore pink and red in the office, and it felt quite festive. Now that I work at home and am a mother, I enjoy them all to a degree I never imagined I would. I even decorate now.

20. Favorite dessert? Root beer floats.

21. Favorite food? I love almost all of them, but I do love SPICY food, like Thai or Mexican.

22. Favorite day of week? Friday.

23. Favorite brand of soap? I love the Bath & Body Works shower gels in juniper or blackberry.

24. Favorite toothpaste? I don't feel very strongly about any of them.

25. Favorite smell? Vanilla, citrus, or freshly cut grass.

26. What do you do to relax? Sleep, read, or watch television. I enjoy anything that gets my mind off reality for a while. These little quizzes are fun, too!

27. Do you have a message for your friends (and family)? I love you!

28. Where do you see yourself in ten years? Eating dinner with the President and First Lady at Erik's side or watching Erik shake hands with celebrities at a charity event.

29. Farthest away you are sending this? A shout out (HOLLA!) to Hungary, England, and Australia! And anyone else I may have forgotten.

30. Dream car? One of those zippy new Mercedes convertibles in electric blue. My dream car changes every year. I will forever miss my macho-sounding Toyota Supra that was stolen, stripped, and shot full of holes. It was a total dude magnet, BUT, then again, it was not so good for hauling around a little dude in a car seat.

Past Perfect

Dad, Mom, & Me (I'm a fetus) -- circa 1970

I have been thinking a lot lately about the past. On my daily drive to pick up Erik, I pass beautiful and outrageously expensive Colonial and prow front homes that line the river. I see historic buildings being razed by new owners and newer, much fancier structures rising from the destruction. Remodeling here seems to mean gutting everything until there is only a gluttonous skeleton ready to consume state-of-the-art appliances and furnishings. Heaven forbid something is ten minutes old here! My hometown as I knew it in the glorious 1970s and 1980s is long gone. For instance, the mill that churned out wood products throughout my childhood is hardly recognizable now. It's a trendy collection of shops and restaurants. Instead of the sound of the 5 o'clock whistle I grew up hearing through the pine trees as I played, there is the sound of impatient drivers beeping their horns when a parking space is stolen from them in front of Bath and Body Works. Don't get me wrong--there are some fabulous restaurants and shops there I enjoy on a regular basis, but I fondly remember the days my family rode our bikes there in relative silence as the sun sunk behind the mountains and the ducks followed us along the riverbank. I will never forget those evenings. Although it's sad the past is gone, we are creating new memories with a new backdrop now, and I'm sure I'll cherish those, too.

My parents' house looks pretty much the same as it did when I was growing up. In fact, when my mother's oven went cold in the middle of cooking Thanksgiving dinner last year, she wondered aloud where she would find another oven in that particular shade of poppy red to match the fridge. She loves her kitchen, and although the sink, linoleum, and counters have been recently very tastefully updated, she sees no reason to give up the appliances that she loves. Frankly, neither do I. When they want to improve something, they enjoy doing it, but they do not let the latest trends dictate what they love. I have great respect for that. My father's 1973 Chevy pickup gleams in the driveway as if it just rolled off the lot, and the 1967 Camaro he bought brand new (see photo) is equally cherry, resting safe in storage. They have taught me to appreciate and take care of what I have as well as to appreciate the fun, new, shiny things the world has to offer. We also greatly cherish what the old things in our lives remind us of. My brother and I grew up exploring the quiet, dark upper floors of the museum where my parents work, and we learned about local history out on the sage and juniper-dotted desert. We had so much fun. When I turned on the television last Halloween, I saw my father being interviewed on the news about George, the ghost that haunts the museum where they spend each day working and teaching others about history. George definitely makes his presence known to my parents by bringing them lost items and helping them in their research. Our family has never been afraid of touching and honoring the past. Even Erik enjoys his meals in my old wicker high chair and has had many diapers changed in a family baby buggy that is nearly a century old.

After Brian and I got married, I sold the house I bought five years earlier and was surprised to hear from the Realtor that it was a shame my kitchen had not been updated. Looking around, I realized things hadn't been replaced since 1988, when the house was built. I was completely blind to it because I was perfectly content with what I had and things were built to last back then. It also makes no sense at all to me to discard things that work well to have the latest and greatest. What a waste! I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Yesterday I asked my father to retrieve my doll collection from the attic. My parents kindly kept virtually every toy I ever owned. He brought down three dusty boxes containing my formerly most valuable possessions. Everything looked as if I had just packed it away minutes ago. We had a great time going through my things and remembering all of my dolls' names. I found "Baby This 'n That," a doll that waved her arms like a dying cockroach when you squeezed her white baby booties. Unfortunately, my 1974 "Baby That Away" met her demise not long after she was received one Christmas. My little brother accidentally dropped her on the hardwood floor of my bedroom, the hidden door in her crotch flew open, and plastic shrapnel and batteries exploded out of her innards. What a horrific sight! She never went "that away" again. When I moved her arm yesterday, the plastic disintegrated, and her whole extremity came off in my hand. I also noted that most of my dolls with nylon hair looked a bit like Phyllis Diller. Apparently, being in an attic for 30 years gives you the worst case of bed head ever. The best treasure we found required no batteries at all. My teddy bear (Bear) and Snoopy emerged from a box, all of their fur loved off. Bear lost his felt tongue long ago and in its place was a red smile made of yarn lovingly stitched in place by my mother. Both of them have sutures in various locations all over their bodies where they wore thin. I have to thank my parents for keeping things for me and going through them with me yesterday. It brought back wonderful memories.

It's fascinating to take a look into the past. More people should. Either they don't because it brings back unpleasant memories and makes them uncomfortable or they are too busy living in the moment working to acquire the latest and greatest things, throwing the past away without a second thought. Maybe people update things so often to forget. I find that incredibly sad. I am lucky to have many more good memories than bad, and I realize that not everybody does. Of course, I suppose I'm pathologically nostalgic. I prefer my house and the things I own to have some ghosts in them. Will I keep every little memento I acquire and live in the past? No, but my heart breaks a little bit to give some of my old things away and discard chubby, broken-off doll appendages. I will forever hang onto some of the memorabilia from my childhood--not because any of my old things have any monetary value but because they remind me of who I am and how I got here. I adore shiny, new, fancy things, but I'm not afraid to appreciate what I have and take care of it for a lifetime. That's what my parents raised me to do.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.