I Hate Nature - Part I

 Admissions

During my senior year at Santa Monica High School I was the epitome of cluelessness.  That fall, most of my friends were filling out college applications. I was barely eking through Algebra Two, falling only second to last with a handsome football player named D’John.  When Homecoming week was over and all the celebrations had run their course I figured that I ought to apply somewhere. 

“It’s too late” my best friend, Kim told me.  "You missed the deadline".

I was part of a She Pack of girls that was enthusiastic, well known and motivated. Our pack walked a line between wildness and adoration; engaged enough to pacify the adults at the school, we got away with things like dressing up as babies on Halloween and putting vodka and orange juice in the bottles.  We created the Mickey Mouse Club which we claimed promoted school spirit.  On Fridays, we wore mouse ears and Disney themed clothing.  We never discussed trivial matters like our future.  But most of the Mickey Mouse Club had gone through the college application process.  Many of them also had older siblings or parents who had herded them through.  Kim, being the straight a, honors, first chair orchestra, cheerleading self-proclaimed over achieving Asian that she was, had been accepted to UCLA.  She would live at home just like her four older brothers had done and make the drive in to Westwood from Malibu. Maria, the feisty Chilean had been accepted to USC as a potential dental student, if not hygienist.   Molly, whose mother was Nancy Reagan’s personal secretary, had remained in California her last two years of high school, while her mom lived near the White House.  She would be headed to Georgetown in September.  And Jen had been accepted to Humboldt State following in the footsteps of her brother, a Forestry Major.

And then there was me.  

At one time, after taking the one and only science class of my life, Human Physiology, I thought it would be fun to be a nurse.  Looking back, it makes sense because I was obsessed with a soap opera called General Hospital.  Nurses walked around, flirting with handsome doctors and solving the personal problems of patients, didn’t they? That sounded like a job perfectly suited for me.  During College Day in the gym I had picked up a brochure from San Francisco State that listed the requirements of a nursing degree.   I looked it over with my Dad and Judi and saw that I had a snowball’s chance in hell of becoming a nurse.  Too much math and science required.

Because my dad worked, on average 12 hours a day and traveled 2/3’s of every month he had next to zero interaction with anyone at Samohi, as our high school was affectionately called. I forged my own Sick Notes because he told me,

“They’ll recognize your signature better than mine”

To be fair, my dad had been to the High School once.  This was when I was in a Shakespeare play called Much Ado About Nothing.  Opening night, in the dressing room where I was made up as “the Fair Hero”, the stage manager came rushing in, moments before curtain to exclaim,

“There’s a guy out there with a decanter and he’s passing drinks to his friends!  There’s no alcohol allowed on school premises!”

Naturally, I knew this was my grandfather Woody, who was simply passing gin and tonics to Nana, Dad and Judi.  How else were they to endure 3 hours of High School Shakespeare?

I didn’t know what I wanted to "be" after high school so I blocked the whole college application problem out of my mind

And that’s when I started clubbing. 

Ok, there is no such verb as clubbing.  In proper English it means becoming a participant of the nightclub scene.  It was early 1980’s and disco was dead.  Although I still remained faithful to my beloved poet, Jim Morrison, I now listened to KROQ – the rock of the 80’s.  I loved The Clash, The Specials, The English Beat, Adam and the Ants, and Bow Wow Wow.   I adored Duran Duran whose hit song “Girls on Film” the Mickey Mouse club had lovingly renamed, “Girls on Shrooms”.   I also loved hardcore punk too and blasted Agent Orange and the Dead Kennedys.  Driving up and down Wilshire Boulevard, blowing clove cigarette smoke out of the window of my Toyota Tercel, I sang along to the lyrics of anger and rebellion, dodging traffic.  Punk Rock helped channel the frustrations I had about life.  Powerlessness, hopelessness and the sadness of my unrealized dreams; dreams that I was too asleep to know that I even had.

By the Spring of Senior year I had shaved the side of my head and began wearing bondage pants and black leather boots to school.

“You look like a cancer patient”, dad told me.

I would stay out late dancing in Hollywood clubs.  At 3:00 am I’d be eating Oki Dogs on Fairfax Avenue with friends, in denial about the current day’s tests or quizzes. I went to see live bands and watching the Tubes perform was a regular scenario. One night, driving down the 405 I almost flipped my car with the entire Mickey Mouse club inside.  Oops.

I was a not-so-adorable train wreck.

Graduation was exciting but when High school was finally finished I was too obsessed with Martin, a drummer in the Mod band I followed to even care about college.  That summer was great.  After the shows we’d stay up watching Quadrophenia and getting drunk.  I lived in the moment and it was all a blast.

At some point, I had been cajoled over to Santa Monica City College to pick up an application.  But, it remained blank, unfilled, and buried in the shit pile that was my bedroom.

Mid summer, after a long day of combing through record stores and thrift shops on Melrose Avenue I came home and found my dad on the phone with his nemesis: my mother.

“I don’t know.  Dru, how do you get copies of high school transcript?” he queried.

“Hmmm…go down to Samohi, I guess”

“Well go now because your mother is filling out a college application for you.  You’re going to Humboldt”.

What?  I knew I didn’t have the grades to get into any school. At least that’s what I thought, what my friends had implied.  But my mother had been on the phone with the admission’s office at HSU.  (Had she begged, or tried to sell her soul?)  It turned out that they would consider a late application, and a person with a poxy 2.87 G.P.A. like me.

When the formal letter of acceptance arrived in late July I was secretly thrilled.  I didn’t know anything about Humboldt, where was it again?  Somewhere.  Oh, a forest.  I knew my friend Jen would be going there so I called her.   When I told her I was going too she said,

“Great.  You can drive us”. 

After much herding and prodding from Dad and Judi, I started to pack: miniskirts, vintage go-go boots, my 1960’s mod jewelry, and my black and white suede heels.  Jen came over and watching me hurl things into a large cardboard box remarked,

"Not sure you are gonna need any of that. You’d better get some ducks”.

“Ducks?  You mean those ugly waterproof boots?  No way.  I will never wear those.  They are fashion suicide:  hideous, preppy and gross”.  I lamented

“It rains a lot there.  You’re gonna want them”.

“No way!  Never!”  I said, tossing a vintage leather jacket into the pile.

End of Part I.

Flying Victuals

The summer of my 10th year was a high point.  Nana and Woody, my grandparents, flew me to New York City, First Class.  In a roomy reclining seat, while sipping a Shirley Temple, I learned the history of Manhattan Island.

"Those Injuns gave away the entire place for $24. Can you believe that?"  Woody drawled.  He turned over an embossed TWA cocktail napkin and proceeded to draw a map of New York City, showing me how the Streets and the Avenues were on a grid system. 

"Ain’t hard to git lost here if you understand this", he said. 

Later, as we drove into Manhattan, I looked out of the limousine window.  The place was alien to a kid from Southern California.  Never before had I seen skyscrapers cozying up to one another, like a crowd of lemmings. The shadows they cast produced unnatural light in the early morning.  Where was the sun?  I couldn’t see it, but stepping out of the car in front of the Waldorf Astoria it slapped me, like a hot wet blanket across my forehead. I felt an abnormal stickiness begin to affect my legs and arms.  So this was humidity. 

"There goes my hair", mused Nana.

Here are some notable facts about the trip:

Fact 1.  Woody, who worked for McCullough Oil, was in New York to speak before the American Stock Exchange where miraculously, he lost all traces of a Texan accent.

Fact 2.  I had never been inside such a fancy hotel in my life.  The penthouse suite of the Waldorf was a giant apartment with sweeping rooms and overwhelming views. It had a grand piano where I immediately hammered out 20 dissonant versions of Chopsticks.  

Fact 3. I met my eleven year-old cousin Sharon (pronounced Shaaaaaron) at her other grandmother’s apartment on 720 Park Avenue.  From our first round of Backgammon, an instant rivalry was born. 

Fact 4.  720 Park Avenue made the Waldorf look like our downtown Santa Monica Sears. 

Fact 5.  Woody threw a hamburger in the direction of the room service attendant.

Yes, you read that correctly.

The cold hamburger had arrived 45 minutes after being ordered. I suspect he was jet-lagged and h’angry, that hybrid of hunger and anger that sets most of us on edge.  Regardless, he ranted at its delivery, scaring away the poor room service guy.

The rubbery hamburger slid down the striped wallpaper of the morning room and after doing two elliptical turns rested on the floor.

"I don’t give a God Damn", he yelled when my grandmother reprimanded him over his temper tantrum. 

"I don’t want a frozen burger".

Woody's outburst was more dramatic than violent. He could be childish and petulant.  He was an instigator of bad behavior too, especially when it came to my younger brother.

Months later, back in LA, our family gathered for a Sunday dinner at Nana and Woody’s house.  My brother Jason, nearly four, was an impish sprite and Woody adored him.  Dressed in leather vest, cowboy hat and chaps, Jason arrived at their house with a tiny pee stain down the side of his little leg.

"Did our Cowboy have an accident? Nana inquired.

"Nope, my horse sweated" Jason replied.

"Atta Boy" Woody laughed.

"Yee Haw!" Woody cried when Jason ran circles around me in the living room chasing me with his cap-loaded pistol.  I had been innocently coloring and resisted the urge to clomp him on the head with my Big Box of Crayolas.

"Giddy up Partner", he shouted as Jason, galloping over to me on a pretend pony, swiped the Fritos from my palm, laughing with devilish glee.

In a pinnacle of misbehavior, Jason took the key from the gas fireplace and hurled it off into the ivy hillside.

Woody applauded. 

"Ain’t he a smart boy?" said Woody, cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

We sat down in the dining room, the formality of the seating arrangement incongruent with our bowls of chili and cornbread.

"Jason, you got girls in your school?"  Woody asked

Jason nodded.

"When I was young we had inkwells in the classroom and I’ll be damned if I didn’t have fun dipping the braids of those girls into ink".  

It was then that Jason took a spoonful of chili.  Filling it to the brim, he turned it upright and flicked it across the table where it landed smack dab on Woody’s face.

Woody was stunned into silence as the chili dripped down his basset hound cheeks.  Jason grinned, thinking he was being clever.  Nana was furious as she watched the linens and the upholstered dining room chairs absorb orange chili oil.  Mother shot up out of her seat and dragged Jason by the arm, the string of his cowboy hat catching his neck as they went into the kitchen.

"Well I hope you are happy",  Nana said to Woody.

Her sarcasm was not lost on me.  Silently, I was giddy and ecstatic.  The golden haired child, who had eclipsed me since his arrival, had finally gotten in trouble. Within seconds, I fantasized about how he would be grounded.  They would take away his Big Wheel, that had to be a given.  Maybe he would lose TV privileges.  My mind danced in a feast of scenarios that would make him miserable.  I could hardly wait to watch it unfold. 

Mother returned to the table flushed with embarrassment while Jason remained in the kitchen.  Dinner quietly resumed.  Conversation stunted, I ate with gusto, admiring the cactus shaped cornbread on my plate, slathered in honey butter so sweet it was like dessert.  Could life get any better?

Not really.

It wasn’t long before a commotion was heard.  Growls and then tears as Jason emerged from the kitchen, his upper lip spouting blood.   One of the dozy Shih Tzu’s had refused his attentions so he was rewarded with a bite.  Even the dogs have had enough of his behavior, I thought to myself.  

"Oh my God, Jason!" Mother said, as she shot up from her chair again.  The flying chili incident was forgotten in a flurry of bloody dishtowels and conjectures about plastic surgeons.  Gathering our belongings, we were off to St. John’s so that the little cowboy could get stitched up.  I climbed into the car, frustrated that the Punishment of a Lifetime had never materialized. 

Waking and Walking

Recently, my husband and I have been watching a show on Netflix called Queer Eye.  The premise of the show is that five gay men make over a regular guy who is not living up to his fashion and lifestyle potential.  Mostly, they focus on clothing, grooming and home décor, but what becomes evident is that the recipient of the makeover has neglected himself in some capacity.  Thus, it becomes an emotional journey of receiving attention; something that most men find difficult.  Men deserve this.  The Fabulous Five help by giving them back their confidence and also, by breaking down barriers. 

Why do men neglect self-care?  They certainly deserve it.  Some men rely on their wives for nearly all of their emotional and physical needs.  While I don’t mind being a “soft place to fall” I have encouraged my husband to pursue more time with his male friends.  I live in a house of males, and can roll with the jokes about bodily functions and watch action movies, but I can never provide authentic male camaraderie.  I could not be, despite Andy Gibb’s tune his “Everything”.   Besides, I don't know how to match brown shoes and suits.

So when my husband told me he was going to begin walking with a group of friends I was thrilled.  What I didn’t expect was that it would become a daily ritual that would disrupt my life in an extreme way.

Most days, except for rain, he rises at 4:30 am, gathers our dogs and meets his posse in Monterey, near the wharf by 5:00.  They walk to Pacific Grove and back, covering on average, about six miles.

The problem is that his alarm awakens me.  If I heard the chirping and that was it, I’d be fine.  But, it doesn’t end there.  Even more aggravating are his attempts to be silent.  Painfully and slowly I hear the squeak of a drawer, the long drag of oak railing hitting a nail that needs adjusting.  Why drag it out?  Just open it quickly, like ripping off a Band Aid.   Then, there is the riffling.  Where is his perfect fleece?  He isn’t sure, so to add to the dawn chorus, he flicks on the flashlight of his cell phone illuminating the room in toxic blue light.  His clomping, which I'm sure he would define as a tip toe, renders him closer to the bed as he attempts to gather the dogs.  The dogs, 10 year old, Havanese, need persuading in the dark.  They often refuse to stir. 

Choco.  I hear him whisper.

Patches, Come on. 

I then hear the jingles of the collars as they slowly rise from their dog beds.  The tapping of small paws mingling back into my dreams while G closes the bedroom door with the speed of Grade A molasses.

His attempts at quiet are small audible tortures; a symphony of needles prodding my delicate sleep.

Usually, this ritual, which woke me up five times per week for over a year, left me stewing in resentment.  I was not sleeping well back then, and those auditory intrusions compromised the restorative REM cycle.  Getting back to sleep was a hit or miss situation.  Sometimes, I’d try guided meditation.  Often, I’d stew until just as I was dropping off again, I’d hear them return 90 minutes later.  I am not naturally friendly in the morning, preferring to keep interactions limited.  I married someone who wakes up chipper and talkative.  I remember when first married, G would always roll over happily and say “Cappucino?”  I wanted to smack him.  But, I didn’t understand why.

My morning state is the reason I don’t drink alcohol.  When our boys were small, I realized that like wine and jagermeister,  young children and hangovers do not mix.  Thankfully I had enough common sense to avoid alcohol, lest I be grumpy for the poor little darlings who only wanted cereal and Tellytubbies.  I never went back to drinking.  I needed a clear head for things like making lunches, filling backpacks and making it to the bus stop on time. 

Typically, I only bow down to one object in the morning, that being a black cup of coffee.  Every morning, that first sip of rocket fuel boosts my senses.  It’s always the first sip that’s the best; chasing that java dragon. I don’t even finish an entire cup. 

But even coffee wasn’t taking away the edge of mania that I walked from lack of sleep.  G's walking ritual was getting on my last nerve.  The constant disruption of sleep was causing me to resent this happy man.

I asked him why they had to walk so early.  Can’t you walk a bit later?  What is wrong with 6:00 o’clock?  You might actually be able to see, instead of walking in the dark.

No, I go to work, dear, he said with a note of sarcasm.

I was not the only one who suffered.  Jack was waking Jill up too.

Why do they do this so early?  I complained to my friend.  I don’t understand it.

Oh, I don’t know, but its good for them.  I usually just get up.  The only thing that bothers me is that Jack never watches TV with me in the evenings anymore.  He’s in bed by 7:00.

Why don’t you walk with us?  The guys would ask.

No thank you.  I think that getting up at 6:30 is much more humane plan; especially if you don’t have to be anywhere until 8:00.

We are now into the third year of the walking ritual.  Throughout this time I have been so conflicted.  I considered moving into another bedroom to get quality sleep, but this would compromise our relationship too much.  I like sleeping with G; it’s his wake habits that make me want to throttle him.

Recently, I spoke of this to my personal trainer, R.  R whom I’ve been working out with for over four years, at the normal hour of 8:00 o’clock, is my thrice-weekly butt kicker who knows our family well.  He has the uncanny ability to discern my drama.  Part personal trainer, part psychiatrist, his answer to my dilemma was so simple that  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.

Just have him lay out all his clothes and stuff in the other bathroom the night before.

It made sense.  I suggested it . We are the only ones who sleep upstairs.  Not only do we have two bathrooms to ourselves, we also have two guest rooms.

But, it took some training.   First, G had his Lululemon workout clothes piled neatly over the towel rack in our bathroom.  I can’t blame him.   It is heated.

Ah, ah, ah…I said, moving the pile with care, to the guest bathroom.

It worked!

Now, all I hear are small claws plodding across the floor and the slip of the door as he shuts it. Ninety percent of the time, I’m able to resume sleep.

What man, gay or straight wouldn’t want a personal boudoir?  G has officially made the smaller guest room his dressing room.   His laundry basket is now in there, and he started hanging up his shirts from the dry cleaners.  A great place to dress; he lays out his clothing on the bed to plan his outfits.  He has a mirror, so he can admire himself from every angle.  You look marvelous indeed, sweet husband.  I never thought I’d see the day.  Last night, I saw him standing in the hallway in brightly colored boxers, his compact fit body, making its long journey toward the king sized bed.

He's one of the best sousl I know. 

Equilibrium has been restored.

In the stillness of the morning I rise between 6:00 and 6:30, naturally to quiet.  Slipping into the kitchen, I make coffee and relish the silence.  I’m always glad to hear the car and see all of their faces.  G’s and the two furry one’s, refreshed and invigorated by their routine amble.

Here lays a slice of life with a happy ending; a problem that was solved by which both parties gained something.  Marriage is the Land of Compromise.  You get to choose: a promised land or a dry desert of contention.  I choose peace and I’m so happy that the waking and walking has reached an accord.