Even I noticed the perfectly formed bottom of the woman sporting a clingy, ankle-length, knit skirt. She was perfect from the back–– and okay––the front.
From his vantage, he was totally drawn to the ass. Who wouldn’t be?
In this era of #MeToo, he just reached out and touched it, oh-so-slightly. His hand didn’t really fit around her bottom. But it was a rewarding grab. She did not whip around and slap him like in an old-timey movie. I wondered if, like me, she sort of still welcomes a nice touch on the ass.
When my daughter Augie and I left St. Johns to visit the first of her friends from the Palisades to have a baby she said to me, “ You and your friends are like the mafia, mom. You’re such a close group and you always have each other’s back and the backs of each other’s kids. It’s amazing. I like it.”
The remark stunned me. She’s right. We are a tight group. This is not something that was role-modeled, as my own mother had very few friends. On the other hand, my father had more associates than Don Corleone. (more…)
Shopping for vintage clothes was for me something of an art.
Or maybe a sport. I had a little talent for it. When I was a teenager, I almost exclusively wore antique (what we called it then) dresses. Shirts and coats as well. The only vintage pants I remember buying were those old high-waisted navy sailor pants. Those were so friggin’ bitchin. But they were made of wool and itchy. I was all about the look though, and an itch I could tolerate for the look.
When I started driving, I would head out to a favorite store on Wilshire in that strange hood just before Santa Monica, near Barrington. The Junk Store. A semi-nasty person owned the place and when I tried to purchase my first item there — a black velvet 1940’s coat with big padded shoulders and white, sorry to say, elephant ivory buttons — I was told to go straight home and get a written note from my parents. A lot of parents were coming in complaining about and returning their kids’ purchases. I thought, “WHAT? My mother loves my style and everything I buy and wear. I also make my own money and it’s not my parents’ business.” But I went along with it, and I’m such a goody-goody that I brought back a legitimate note. I could have gone outside and written my own. I’m slow. Everyone went to The Junk Store for the must-have ski sweater and the patchwork quilts. (more…)
Lucy was abandoned by her mother at the age of two weeks. She was found next to a big trash bin in an alley in Beverly Hills.
Second life.
Emma, my stepdaughter begged her father to let her keep the kitten at his house in Coldwater Canyon. Lucy moves in to the Coldwater house and is helped by Emma to pee by rubbing low on her belly. Tiny circular strokes, the way a mother cat would lick a kitten to help teach their baby to pee. She is bottle-fed. After a few months she is fully realized kitten that can pee and eat on her own. She does not however fit in all that well. Lucy remains a feral. Docile at times, she is starting to lose her audience. Lucy is not a warm and cozy kitten that wants to be held. Let me put it this way…she wants to, but she will have to bite you.
My husband and I waited all day for the arrival of our imaginary grandchild. It’s a boy. His name is Jackson. He’s quite real. What’s imaginary is the idea that we are his grandparents. Jackson was already nine months old and we had yet to meet him. That’s because our surrogate child lives in Northern California and we haven’t been up there since the birth, and she hasn’t been here. A brief explanation of Jackson’s mom, Tory. When my daughter Augie started second grade, I spotted this tiny, adorable student in her class. She looked dazed and confused, kind of lost. I asked Augie about her and she told me that Tory was new at school. I said, “Let’s bring her home.” So, we did. And she stayed, occasionally for months at a time. The chaos in her own home made it appear that our family was functional. Everything’s relative. Secretly, I liked that she thought we were “normal.” We got so much more out of the deal. Tory was a real find.
Now, many years later, I texted Tory, though I was concerned she was on the road and might glance at her phone while driving. But it’s Tory, more adult than any of us, even at thirteen. She had to be. I get texted right back. Oh, did you think it was today I was coming down? It’s tomorrow, and then I have to leave the following day. I walked into my husband’s home office. “I got the day wrong. There’s a movie in Santa Monica, want to see it?” (more…)
Some people get hand me down clothes, I liked getting hand me down apartments. Specifically, from my friend Jane.
Jane would move into a groovy little pad, trick it out with her certain style and I would beg her to give it to me if ever she moved. She did. And, I got it. Twice.
First place was in West Hollywood, walking distance to some fun activities, like restaurants. Probably better proximity for a gay man. Oh, speaking of gay men….I’m not a fag hag (remind me to look for my memo to find out if it’s PC to say that) and never have been. There is a distinct possibility that gay men hate me. How do I know this? Because of our (first Jane, then my) landlord right there on Keith Ave. The duplex, stunning, almost New Orleans-style building, was owned by a couple. The older man was lovely and soft-spoken and then there was his younger, good looking German boyfriend. I’m telling you he’s German on purpose because I want you to envision our fighting. Me, little Jewish broad, landlord, hot-headed Aryan, sporting six pack abs and a heavy German accent. Screaming matches. Over what? I don’t remember. Then, because one other gay man wasn’t keen on me, I came up with this lame conclusion that is just not true. What is true is that I’m either loved or hated. By everyone. Not usually an in between for me. There’s not a neutral reaction when someone is asked if they like me. It’s strong. Get it? Not sure what it is they hate, pretty sure it could be my really big balls. I now know a few gay men that really like me, so I’m throwing the theory out. (more…)
In our family, life is six degrees of feline separation.
I often tell people I was meant to grow up in Malibu. That is where we lived — right on the beach – but my mom’s cat Jezebel was killed by a car, and that incident turned my life around.
My mother decided it wasn’t safe on the highway (PCH) and we moved to the house on Roxbury Drive, Beverly Hills. The year was 1955. The former owners sold it to us with one perfect provision: the cat comes with the house. What are the chances of this? We move because a cat gets killed and instantly we have this new one. Hangover, who came with his name, was a rather large, slightly feral black & white street boy. The name, in the lore of our family (and from what the previous owners told us), came from this big-ass cat’s habit of hanging over the sides of trees that he climbed. He was not a drunk. He was really frisky, almost unsafe for a small child.
Hangover the cat!!!
On days when I was sick at home, Sheriff John would be playing on the TV, but I wouldn’t be watching — because I was too busy forcing Hangover’s paws to crayon pictures with me getting scratched by the real leader of our family. He kept me/us in line. He was also the first creature I would love. (more…)
When my first child, Oliver, was in pre-school, there was the perfunctory final meeting with his group of loving teachers. One bit of advice stood out. Maybe when he starts kindergarten, you can encourage him to lose the costume and makeup that he insists on wearing daily.
Who was I to discourage the distinctive fashion choice of my four-and-a-half year old son? I wore costumes to school every single day of my life — in high school, mostly. One day I might wear holsters and fake guns. Next, I might walk my plastic duck on a leash into the classroom, take out a toy tea set and have a pretend tea party. And I miss my matador costume; I would wear that right now if I still had it.
So there was Oliver in “big boy school” and he decided to not wear the face paint, but he did rock his new 1950’s-style greaser jacket. He had just seen the movie “Grease.” (more…)
I was never walked into a temple. Never. Not by my dad, the Jew. I thought being Jewish meant eating lox, bagel & cream cheese in a deli. Because that’s what my dad, the non-religious Jew told me. When we ate at Nate n’ Al’s, he would announce loudly as he seemed to be pointing to the food, “We’re Jews!!!”
I sang with my friend Cindy Lou Carlson in her church for the Christmas pageant. Those rehearsals alone put me in a church more times than I was ever in a temple — at least until my kids and step-kids became B’nai Mitzvah.
I’m assuming my mom was some sort of Christian, but your guess is as good as mine. She never walked us into a church and never spoke of any religion. So, there you go, two parents – one gentile, one Jewish — who offered zero religious guidance. We called ourselves half-and-half. This was pretty commonplace in Beverly Hills, though each family would often choose a side and go to temple or church. Christmas or Chanukah.
We celebrated Christmas, tree and all. Show business was up and down and some years we had big-time gifts. The trees were bigger in those years. At other times we might have skimpy trees with few gifts.
One year, I scored. We all scored. My dad had a friend who had a TV show and he finagled a bunch of freebie popular toys of the day for us. I coveted Patty Play Pal. She’s all I ever wanted. I wonder if there were Chatty Cathy people and Patty Play Pal people. I just dug how big that doll seemed. I was little, so for me she was huge. That year, my mother got her new hi-fi and played it continuously Christmas day. Holiday paper and ribbon were strewn about as Bobby Darin belted “Mack the Knife.” And I got my big-ass doll — a new friend in my wonderful fantasy-filled life. My brother got shit he wanted. We had pogo sticks and stilts. We were a very happy family with a house filled-to-the-brim with every hot toy and gadget.
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Xmas in Palm Springs is like an oxymoron. The palm trees sway, the sun shines bright and it’s often hot and balmy. It’s where Beverly Hills families often went. Where some were lucky enough to have vacation/weekend homes.
We were lucky to “know” someone. My dad was always up for a freebie and one winter vacation we borrowed his friend Alan Freed’s house. Alan, the New York disc jockey known as “the father of rock & roll,” had in fact coined the phrase “rock and roll.” Poor Alan Freed. Sometimes when we were there to visit him and not on our own, I would make him sit and listen while I auditioned for him, singing the hit Allan Sherman camp song, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh (Here I am at Camp Granada).” I was convinced I had a great voice, but in truth could not have been more off-key.
Hello Mudder Hello Fadder
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The Fishell family lived a few blocks away because they were one of the lucky ones who owned their own home in the desert. The Fishell girls were very grown up and popular. All the boys gravitated to them. My dad was a friend of their dad Dick, an older father like my own, with a hot, younger wife, also like mine. To be honest, my parents had been divorced for years, but we went everywhere together as a family. Very modern, way ahead of their time. Maybe no one even realized they were divorced.
The twins, Jeannie and Jackie Fishell were a year younger than me, in fifth grade, and Robin was my age and also in sixth. Every day we hung out as a large group of pre-teens. Robin was probably too mature for me so I hung out more with Jeannie and Jackie. At night we had spin the bottle parties with lots of boys who remember our peck of a kiss to this day. Like John Sofro who would later marry one of my BFF’s — Barbara Dudley. (more…)
