writing

February 12, 1976

This decision was a turning point in my life – so it surprised me that until I re-read my diary entry, I remembered it wrong. The big beats – the struggle and the decision – remain essentially the same but over the years, I romanticized the fight. In my mind, it became a testament to J’s belief in me as a writer. While in essence this remains true, his willingness to bet on me didn’t come easily or with his whole-hearted support.

And in retrospect I can’t say he was wrong to have reservations. Neither of us knew that a month later, around the time the health insurance my job provided terminated, I’d discover I was pregnant and we’d pay 100% of all the ensuing medical bills. Most of the free time I envisioned after quitting my job would get eaten up with taking care of our infant son.

Surprise! I'm pregnant. Writing will have to wait. — Surprise! I’m pregnant. Writing will have to wait.

While I did develop a successful career as a writer, it would be three years before I earned a penny writing – seven or eight years before I’d earn enough writing to support myself, let alone our growing family. If I’d kept my job, those breaks on our tuition and medical insurance would’ve come in handy, particularly since I didn’t accomplish anything much during that interval anyway.

"I've got plenty of time to get some writing done while I'm pregnant.... I'll do it later today...or tomorrow...or years from now." — “I’ve got plenty of time to get some writing done while I’m pregnant…. I’ll do it later today…or tomorrow…or years from now.”

Betty Friedan was right – work expands to fill the time available. Later in life, when I worked forty plus office hours a week co-producing a television show, I got more writing done on other projects at home than I ever had before. When my time is limited, I use it more wisely.

J and I with my sisters Joyce and Janet sometime in '76 (before pregnancy). — J and I with my sisters Joyce and Janet sometime in ’76 (before pregnancy).

So, quitting my job to provide me with unlimited free time wasn’t our best decision although it was good for our relationship. It meant the world that J believed in me but I probably should’ve believed in his judgment and stayed employed.

February 10, 1986

Matt, John, Jim McCann and me (Janet no doubt behind the camera)

A rare sighting of Janet (with me) in front of the cameraA rare sighting of Janet (with me) in front of the camera.

This was John and my first trip to Europe. We went with my sister Janet, her husband Jim McCann and John’s brother Matthew. It didn’t start out well. Our van broke down halfway up the mountain road to our lodge forcing three jet-lagged American boys to brave the icy night and push the van up the hill. Sometimes it’s especially nice being a girl.

If you've seen the film "Don't Look Now" (Donald Sutherland/Julie Christie in Venice), it's hard to miss the creepiness of the costumed little person staring at John from the side. — If you’ve seen the film “Don’t Look Now” (Donald Sutherland/Julie Christie in Venice), it’s hard to miss the creepiness of the costumed little person staring at John from the side.

For some reason, Janet and Jim didn’t join us on our day excursion to Venice – probably because it was a long drive from where we stayed in Neustadt. They would’ve if they’d known it was Carnival – we didn’t know it either. We arrived as falling snow dusted gondolas, surrounded by people in masks, capes and Renaissance regalia; music and bells rang across St. Mark’s square. The spectacle was as surreal as it was magnificent.

Lady in red with umbrella in otherwise empty snow-covered gondola.

One mundane memory remains (that I didn’t write down). Like every other day on that trip, the weather was arctic – subzero cold and bitter winds cut through to our bones. Even so, John and Matt didn’t complain (much) when I dragged them up and down narrow streets on a quest for Italian leather boots. Hopelessly lost by the time I scored “the pair”, we ducked into the nearest restaurant for warmth as much as food. The menu was in Italian with no accompanying translation to English. We threw caution to the winds and ordered entrees with appealing words (but no concept of what we’d be eating).

I got a sea creature with massive tentacles served with black ink, enough to make me hurl. Once again, it paid to be the girl. John graciously traded with me. To this day, he swears he got the best of the deal.

Matthew and I dance in the square - one of my favorite photos. — Matthew and I dance in the square – one of my favorite photos.

John and I (in Zurich I think but not sure)

February 6, 1994

Matt, Alex, John and Sam in outdoor hot tub in the snow.

Chris and Alex catching up with school work at night.

When I started to write this diary blog I realized this was the last time my family and I skied. How could 23 years fly by so quickly? Why did we stop? We didn’t make a decision to give up the sport, it just happened – like far too many of my relationships (and in some cases, obsessions) end, arbitrarily and without warning.

My sister Janet and I taught ourselves to ski as children. I introduced my husband John to the sport around 1980. We invited John’s brother Matt along on our first and subsequent ski trips. In no time at all, John and Matt skied advanced slopes while I stayed stuck between beginner and intermediate. I broke my hand at a Motley Crue concert in 1985 (See November 28, 1985) which didn’t help. It heightened my fear of falling and re-injuring my hand, which made me nervous. A nervous skier is a bad skier.

Chris, Sam and Alex surpassed me because by nature children are fearless – and being close to the ground, they didn’t have as far to fall. Other than our final trip, we skied at Deer Valley in Park City, Utah.

On this trip, we skied in Oregon, a vacation arranged by one of John’s high school and college friends Bryan Arakelian. As usual, everyone’s favorite Uncle Matt came along. In addition to being a great skier and musician, Bryan is an all-star chef so it was gourmet dining every night at the condo. Due to deadlines, I stayed home half the time to write which was fine with me since not only was I unable to keep up with the grown-ups, I could no longer keep up with the kids. We had a great time.

Why was it our last ski vacation? I wish I knew.

February 4, 1972

There were no smart phones or Sony PlayStations - We played board games. — There were no smart phones or Sony PlayStations – We played board games.

I had no idea my guilt about dropping Kessler’s class would far outlast the relief. While I’ve got bigger regrets in my life, this one stays with me. Here’s why.

Kessler taught Poetry Writing, a small exclusive class for juniors and seniors. He only accepted ten students per quarter and you had to audition – present a piece of writing – to be considered. I gave him the play Luke helped me write – “The Lowlands” – and won a place. Even though it wasn’t a poem like most applicants submitted, he thought I had a “voice” and gave me a chance. I was thrilled.

Then I found out the class functioned like a writing work shop – I was unfamiliar with them then. Students were required to read their poems out loud to the class and then listen to everyone’s feedback. The prospect of reading one of my poems out loud petrified me. I knew from past experience that when I read out loud for others, a fight or flight response takes over and it turns into a race to the finish. My speech pattern is fast under the best of circumstances. I’m all but unintelligible if asked to read for an audience.

But that wasn’t the only thing that terrified me. Our first class made it obvious my fellow students knew a lot more about poetry – both reading and writing it – than I did. Consequently, I feared writing a bad poem as well as making stupid comments about other people’s poetry. I was so scared I dropped the class.

If I had it to do over again, I’d face my fear. Even if I’d been the weakest in the class, I would have learned something – maybe even made a few strides toward learning to read my work in public. Chickening out made me feel more like a failure than actually failing the class.

My regrets about this flooded back when I came across Kessler’s obituary in the LA Times, several years later. Some doors and windows open only once. I wish I’d summoned the courage to go through all of them. This wasn’t the only one I missed.

January 19, 1981

I was sandwiched in the center of a vinyl booth, two boys on either side. While they seemed semi-civilized at school, a round of Pepsis and fries at Denny’s unleashed their inner beast. As much as I hated to encounter obnoxious loud teenagers in real life, it was a thousand times worse to be dead center in a pack of them.

Disguised as high school student for my return enrollment at Wilcox in 1981. I hoped the huge hair would draw attention away from my face.

My adult self wanted to read them the riot act but my high school persona hunched speechless, red-faced.

They poured out the condiments Denny’s provided in little baskets on every table and scrawled their names in catsup, subbing salt for glitter. They blew straw wrappers at each other. They insulted diners who viewed us with disgust. If my four-year-old acted like this, I’d whisk him outside where he’d remain until he could behave himself but I didn’t have that option here. I wanted to beg our waitress’s forgiveness and leave a huge tip – I doubted the boys would leave a dime – but I couldn’t without calling attention to myself.

After they dropped me off, I called J in LA. “What’s up with your high school boyfriend?” he asked. I told him I wanted to dive under the table at Denny’s. It was hard for him to relate, since he lived a grown-up life with other adults.

After a date at Denny's with four teen-age boys, I need a glass of wine. — After a date at Denny’s with four teen-age boys, I need a glass of wine.

The worst was yet to come. My 3^rd period teacher sent me to the library because they were taking a pop quiz on material I missed. Another class, taught by Mrs. Murray, one of my former teachers in real life, already occupied the library.

When the lunch bell blared, students mobbed the door. A popular-looking perky blonde shook her bangled wrist and regaled her court with details about where she bought it, who designed it, and how much she paid. Most “girl talk” I overheard concerned fashion. They were as passionate about cute clothes as my sixties friends were about rock concerts and Viet Nam. My musings skidded to a halt when Mrs. Murray peered over their heads and said,

My adrenalin lurched into flight or fight mode. It was all I could do not to react, to pretend I didn’t realize Mrs. Murray addressed me. She repeated herself, not taking her eyes off me.

I feigned confusion. “No,” I said.

“You look exactly like a girl I had ten years ago,” Mrs. Murray said.

“Sorry, not me,” I said. As a preacher’s kid prone to Biblical references, I felt like Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane, denying my own identity three times. How could that exchange not arouse a glimmer of curiosity from one of the student witnesses? It didn’t. They were all more interested in being first in line at the snack bar than anything Mrs. Murray or I said.

January 21, 1994

As some of you recall, the Northridge earthquake struck on January 17, four days before this entry – but this 6.7 ten-second monster wasn’t over and gone like broken china. The after-effects were massive and far-reaching. Steve and Linda (Angelique) were our two most affected friends – due to earthquake damage, their apartment was deemed uninhabitable, forcing them to move.

Some of the group - Steve & Linda Stoliar, me, John, Jake Jacobson, Anne Kurrasch, Bobbi Goldin,Marva Fucci, Bill Atherton — Some of the group – Steve & Linda Stoliar, me, John, Jake Jacobson, Anne Kurrasch, Bobbi Goldin,Marva Fucci, Bill Atherton

We were a close-knit group in ’94, we didn’t think twice about crossing town to lend a hand when one of our band suffered catastrophe (which didn’t happen all that often in the City of Angels). As of today, I’m still at least Facebook friends with everyone mentioned in the above entry – but I regret to report our paths have diverged. I’m not sure when or why it happened, but it did – much like other friendships that burned bright briefly and then faded for no reason, without ill feeling (at least, not on my side.)

Bill Atherton, John Rowell and Steve Stoliar

I’d like to believe that nothing fundamental really changed – that we’d be there should a crisis arise – but the truth is I don’t even know where Steve lives these days. That said, it’s conceivable that should we find ourselves in the same location with a few hours of free time to talk, we’d discover that – time and distance notwithstanding – nothing fundamental actually did change. I hope so.

Me, Linda Field Stoliar, John Rowell, Steve Stoliar, Anne Kurrasch

It’s probably a waste of time to quantify friendship and there’s no point looking back for longer than it takes to compose these diary blogs so I’ll focus on the present. I’m grateful to be FB pals with Steve – reading his posts makes me remember good times and I feel like we’re close again. I hope some of my diary postings affect people the same way.

January 16, 1981

Third period physiology was taught in the same classroom where another hapless instructor tried to teach me chemistry. I recognized the Periodic Table of the Elements I failed to memorize as a genuine junior. This time around, my lab partner was Jennifer, a girl who projected calm intelligence – just the type I’d be best friends with if we existed in the same time frame. At the end of the period, as she scrubbed our beakers, I said, “Want to have lunch?”

“Sorry. I eat with my friends.”

Rejection! It doesn’t get much more unequivocal. It felt as crummy as it did the first time I did high school. What disqualified me as a friend of Jennifer? The wrong shoes, my aging face, my lack of aptitude for physiology?

These questions will never be answered. Girls either like or dislike you “because.” That’s as specific as it gets. For what it’s worth, here’s my personal theory about how and why any hope of being BFF with Jennifer died in September, long before I returned to Wilcox.

I had more to worry about than if a girl half my age liked me or not.

Female cliques form hard and fast and – once established – they aren’t known for flexibility, diversity or the warm welcome extended to strangers – quite the contrary. The more exclusive and difficult a group is to access, the higher their status. I was four months too late to Jennifer’s party and nothing I did could change that.

In comparison, boys were a breeze. Looking lost and stupid – something I excelled at – was basis enough for a relationship. A boy named Brian showed me the ropes, introduced me to his friends, fixed my car and got me a part-time job at the same place he worked.

The latter was problematical since I couldn’t offer my real social security number (and get paid) without the risk of revealing my true age.

To be continued….

January 14, 1981

I was 29 years old – married and the mother of a 4-year-old – when I returned to Wilcox, the high school I graduated from, as a transfer student. Technically, I was there to research a script I’d been hired to write based on S.E. Hinton’s novel the Outsiders. The director and producers wanted to know if high school kids in 81 were much different from those in the early sixties.

At home in my real identity (albeit with weird hair) as a professional writer.

On a deeper level, I was obsessed with high school and curious about how it would feel to do it again. Would the benefit of my vast college, professional and personal experiences make me more confident? Would I feel like I had all the answers? In a word – NO.

A major component of my "disguise" was big frizzy 80s hair (to deflect attention from my face) — A major component of my “disguise” was big frizzy 80s hair (to deflect attention from my face)

If anything, it was more hair-raising than the first time around. In part, this was due to my realistic fear that someone would notice I looked closer to 30 then 17, assume I was a narc (because why else would a woman my age be posing as a student?) and knife me in the girl’s bathroom. Making the situation even dicier, I was staying with one of my real Wilcox contemporaries – Debbie Callan – who, at that time, worked as a dispatcher/translator for the Santa Clara police department. How could I not be a narc?

Maybe i should've thought this through a little better. — Maybe i should’ve thought this through a little better.

There was never a moment I could relax. I didn’t have a fake driver’s license and I needed to carry the real one – which meant taking pains to make sure nobody saw it (especially the birthdate). I didn’t carry credit cards or checks because a 17-year-old wouldn’t. When making reference to music or books that weren’t contemporary, I had to calculate how old my fake self would’ve been as opposed to my real self.

Twenty-nine going on 17 (prolly not right photo but this was the caption) — Twenty-nine going on 17

Before I started, I devised an elaborate backstory to explain my mid-semester transfer – an alcoholic mother in rehab, I was staying with an aunt etc. – but it turned out to be totally unnecessary. Nobody I met showed the slightest interest in my backstory.

To be continued in upcoming blogs – because January ’81 was one of the more interesting Januarys in my life.

January 10, 1978

Actually, I suspected my classmate Dick made all of it up because – upon receiving a compliment – my first impulse is to negate it. “This old thing?” “No, I haven’t lost weight, I’ve gained.”

"I'm nervous and high-strung!" — “I’m nervous and high-strung!”

Of course, not everybody regards the qualities Shelly allegedly attributed to me as compliments. In retrospect, “nervous” and “high-strung” sound unhealthy and problematic. “Intense” was my favorite word. I don’t know how universal the desire to be “intense” is, but to me it seems more interesting than mild or calm. “Conscientious” was flattering but I was too secretly slothful for it to apply to me.

"I'm intense and conscientious!" — “I’m intense and conscientious!”

All my life, I’ve struggled with owning “ambitious”. My Midwestern Lutheran brain conflates it with greedy and ruthless. Anyone who attended Bible school knows the meek will inherit the earth. Ambitious and meek don’t go together.

"I'm ambitious but that doesn't make me a bad person." — “I’m ambitious but that doesn’t make me a bad person.”

When I was younger, I tried to hide my ambition. It seemed incompatible with feminine or being a good person. However, I’ve changed my mind. Ambition isn’t inherently “bad” – it depends on how far you’re willing to go to realize your ambitions. When ambition functions as a driving force – a means of powering the passion required to realize a dream – I think it’s a gift.

January 4, 1986

I have no photos from the party, alas, so I'm using photos of the people mentioned in the blog taken (I think) in 1986. From l to r, John, Janet, myself, Joyce Salter — I have no photos from the party, alas, so I’m using photos of the people mentioned in the blog taken (I think) in 1986. From l to r, John, Janet, myself, Joyce Salter

I love Art Everett’s observation about how some humans maintain their cock-eyed optimism in the face of certain disappointment. There are plenty of people at the other end of the spectrum – perpetual pessimists – but I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by optimists. I flirted with cynical despair myself in my senior year of high school when I struggled with clinical depression but it’s not my natural inclination. (Senior Year Depression ) If it was, I’d work hard to change as empirical evidence suggests that most people’s happiness meter is set. Basically, we’re about as happy as we expect to be. A sudden windfall or financial disaster might make you go TILT for a moment but your internal happiness meter will reset at its normal level before long. Given this, why not put in a little effort to set that meter as high as possible?

Host and hostess extraordinaire Art and Karen Everett (at our messy Lowell Ave house, not their sleek chic Thousand Oaks pad). The party referenced in diary took place somewhere else entirely - no photos as far as I know. . — Host and hostess extraordinaire Art and Karen Everett (at our messy Lowell Ave house, not their sleek chic Thousand Oaks pad). The party referenced in diary took place somewhere else entirely – no photos as far as I know. .

What can I say about that mortifying pratfall? Admittedly thin-skinned and over-sensitive about looking stupid, it bothers me more than it should when people laugh at me. Consequently, I rarely tell stories in which I’m a complete buffoon. This pratfall was hard to forget. Years later, whenever I ran into Tony, Laraine or Debbie, we’d laugh about the day I totaled their plant with my fat pregnant butt. On the bright side, I never backed up without an eye to the rear-view mirror again.

Terry McDonnell and John Salter at a mystery party around the same time

[1] As you may have surmised, when attending a reject gift party each couple brings a newly-wrapped hideous present someone else once gave to them. Hilarity ensues as guests swap one atrocious gift for another. It’s a really fun party and I highly recommend it.

writing

February 12, 1976

February 10, 1986

February 6, 1994

February 4, 1972

January 19, 1981

January 21, 1994

January 16, 1981

January 14, 1981

January 10, 1978

January 4, 1986

Search

Recent Posts

Recent Comments

Archive

Categories

Administrative