Iggy and Patti and Me

I imagine every adopted person out there has, at one time or another, worked up a romantic fantasy about their origin. I've had a few - my strongest and most persistent theory is that I was fathered by Iggy Pop. Don't laugh. You don't know what you'd come up with if you had to invent a fantasy bio-dad. This one occurred to me because a few years ago - must've been his birthday or something - I heard his age and decided that that was just about the right age to have sired me. I liked the idea of some little groupie fan (pre-Stooges, but only by a little bit) turning up pregnant in the days before Roe v Wade and carrying to term her (unrequited) love child, giving it - me - up because she knew she could never raise me properly alone. Or maybe just because the Rolling Stones were getting together around that time and following them would be a lot easier unencumbered by a kid. Who knows? Anyway. All fantasy and conjecture, of course. Don't want Mr. Pop coming after me for slander. Ah, you see that? He even has Pop right in his name. You can SEE how a girl's thoughts might turn...

I am in the process of reading Patti Smith's autobiographical Just Kids. Ms. Smith, by the way, is such a beautiful writer that I think a new word needs to be invented for what the rest of us do, because it's just not fair to use the same word to describe this and that. Her writing exists on a completely separate plane. But I've digressed. In the opening chapters she talks about giving a baby up for adoption when she was nineteen. Do you know what a sentence like that DOES to a person who was adopted in the 60's? I love my Poppa Iggy, but Patti Smith? And with the added legitimacy of her actually having given up a child in the same era? I went positively weak in the knees. I didn't even need to work up a fantasy, she'd written it all out - and in words that read like art. I nearly wept. It was all too much.

I looked it up. Come on. You would've, too. Her child was a boy and he was born in 1965. I'm, um, a girl, and I was born in 1962. It was fun for a second or two, though.

Good news, Iggy. You're back in.

Come as You Are

I think I'm going to have a party. You need to promise me you'll come, though - I have a genuine fear of planning a party for which no one shows up. So promise, ok? Pinky swear?

It's going to be a come as you are party.

No, not what you're wearing right now! If I opened the door in the oversized mens gym shorts and ratty nightshirt I'm wearing right now - sans bra and shoes, of course, though I DID take the time to gather all of my hair into a flattering Pebbles Flintstone/Gene Simmons top of the head ponytail - you'd run screaming for the hills. No - I want you to come as you ARE. Come as who you feel like on the inside. (and hey - if who you are on the inside is a Flintstone/Simmons hybrid with baggy clothes and saggy boobs - I won't judge. Come on in. Make yourself at home. Drugs to the right, hookers to the left.)

Wouldn't that be a great party? Better than Halloween. People showing their true colors. Speaking of colors - my inner gypsy, of course, would be wearing lots of them. And scarves...so many scarves... I would still probably have bare feet - but there would be jingly ankle bracelets and toe rings... And I would open the doors of my house - just as it is, with no apologies - to cowboys and rock stars and princesses and captains of industry - to super moms and pirates and pin-up girls. We would mix and mingle and the people we meet would see US - not some time-worn, society-driven version of us - the REAL us.

Are you packing your bag and planning your wardrobe? You promised you'd come. You pinky swore.

A friend told me recently that in her dreams she is always thin. She asked if anyone else experienced the same thing. I quickly replied that I am always thin, I always have amazing hair, and I'm usually wearing white. I don't know what that's all about - since my inner self, as I've already mentioned, is a huge fan of color. But my dream self wears white. And she moves like water; like wind... She's awesome.

She's not coming to the party, though. Because even though she's me in my dreams, she's not me on the inside. Plus, she doesn't seem like the sort who could get her party on.

So, I need to know: What are you wearing to my party? What will I see when I see the real you?

Welcome to The Big FIB!

As this week finds my ACTUAL self at the beach, I've decided, in accordance with the plans of the insanely creative Housewife Savant, to welcome a few of you - my virtual buds - to spend a weekend at my VIRTUAL beach house. No RSVP necessary, you're already THERE baby.

Welcome to Fantasy Island Beach (or, as it will say on our bumper stickers, FIB). Smiles, everyone, smiles!

You'll notice that Shannon is here, tending bar. I asked Shannon to develop a commemorative drink for our little island beach weekend, but he refused. I was a little confused, because he is usually happy to oblige (he's also quick with a joke and to light up your smoke). It became clear when he was given a moment to explain. He wanted to develop a signature drink for each individual visitor to the island. That's just like Shannon, taking the time to get to know you and wanting to make sure you feel special just because you're who you are. That's sort of our unspoken motto here on the island, actually. So chat him up a little bit and let him figure out just what to put in your glass to make your stay more refreshing as well as enjoyable. The resources are endless here at FIB.

Tom is here, too. Tom is playing in a little ensemble for your musical entertainment. Whatever kind of music makes you happiest, that's what they're playing right now. Requests? They live for them. The only request of the band is that if you're in their immediate staging area, you're either listening or dancing. They do not want to be - nor should they be - treated like background music. They're here for you. Give 'em some love.

Jenny Penny is here, but you might not notice her right away. She is spending a lot of time tucked away in a private cabana. I suspect she is taking advantage of the peaceful atmosphere here at FIB and catching up on her sleep. Sweet dreams, Jenny! Sweet, gentle island dreams. No worries. If you feel like a cocktail, or some music, or some socialization - cause we'd all like to bask in your well-rested brilliance a little bit - you know where to go. It's all here. But if you just want to rest in the quiet, that's cool, too.

I see Pam and Anita and Mama-face! There they are! Down on the beach reading. I can't be sure from here, but I think they're all wearing rather glorious sun hats to shade their eyes while they read. That may just be my projection. I love a pretty sun hat, but if you girls don't, just feel free to take them off. Leave the books, though. Man, they've got a whole library in a basket down there. They have fluffy beach reads and bodice rippers, they have historical fiction, they have classics, they have best sellers, they seem to have it all! And the best part? They have an infinite amount of time in which to enjoy them. I'm hoping they all mosey up to the bar from time to time to share their insights.

Swine? Is that you at the bar? I'm so glad you're here! Sorry about all the unfortunate goings on around your name and stuff. Hopefully a few days on the FIB will smooth it over. There are a lot of brilliant, interesting, funny people here on the island. I think you'll fit right in. Cheers.

Gibby! Chris! Stop trying to organize everything and just relax! We've got it all under control here! You only need to concern yourself with your own needs today. Rest. Drink. Converse. Have a massage, if you want. It's all good. No worries on the FIB.

Alex the Girl, I'm so glad you could make it! When the band takes a break, Tom is anxious to discuss sci-fi from the 70's with you! The folks at the bar were all just saying they'd like to hear a good joke or two, so maybe you'd like to head on over that way.

It wouldn't be a party, virtual or otherwise, without Pink. Glad you could make it, Pink. I assume you've already met the official island photographer? I know how much you love to have your picture taken. Well, pose away! The natural backdrops are gorgeous!

Sir Hook! Nobility at my little bash. You honor me with your presence. I think you'll like it here on FIB! Shannon and Swine are chatting over at the bar, Tom says you're welcome to jam with the band, and the ladies here are pretty much unequaled in their beauty and in their conversational skills. Drink, play, chat and gaze away.

Of course none of this would have been possible if it weren't for Housewife Savant. Ms. Savant, may I say that you are rockin' that bikini? I have a special surprise for you: all of the breads and desserts here on the FIB 24 hour buffet are low cal and carb-free. Full taste, too. Not like when they say it's gonna taste good and you'll never know the difference but it totally doesn't taste good and you totally know the difference. Really truly full taste. Don't give 'em a second thought. I don't want to monopolize your time, because I know you'll want to visit with everyone and make them all feel special, 'cause that's just the way you are. Later, though, we are totally going to rock out. Totally.

And you! I'm so glad you could make it, too! Please have Shannon make you a drink, then find your pleasure and indulge in it.

I hope you enjoyed your little stay here on the FIB, where the weather is always beautiful and the water is always clear and warm. Where the sun will tan you (if you want it to) but it will never burn. Where everyone is happy about how they look in their beachwear. Come back any time.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled life, already in progress.

Here Comes the Sun

What a difference a day makes.

Yesterday I was whining about needing to get away.

Yesterday it was cold and gray and rainy and it felt like it had been forever and would be for another forever and maybe another forever after that.

Yesterday sucked.

But then there were margaritas and hope.

This morning there was a thick fog. The girls complained about it on their way to the bus stop, but I knew it was gonna burn off. It was a very optimistic fog.

Oh, in case there was any confusion, the fog was a real weather condition. Not the condition of my own sorry brain on account of the margaritas. Just saying.

So it burned off, as I knew it would, and as the day went on, the chill burned off, too.

Soon the pull was too strong. Housework be damned, prematurely aging skin be damned, Momma's gettin' her some Vitamin D.

So I stepped out onto the deck and I let the sunshine hit my face for the first time in days. What my neighbors saw:

A middle-aged fat chick in a T-shirt and jeans. And rollers. I was gonna let that sunshine heat set my hair. God's blow dryer.

What my minds eye saw:

A nubile young goddess emerging from a cave and basking in the first true golden rays of spring. And even though she was previously ensconced in a cave, her long hair is perfect and smooth and her gauze gown has nary a wrinkle. Both billow gently around her in the warm spring breeze.

Both of us, the middle-aged fat chick and the nubile goddess settled into the chaise lounge for a very brief nap before the Jr. High bus would arrive to bring an end to this quiet communion with the sun.

As we - I - closed my eyes, the rays felt even more intense.

I listened to the sounds of birds heralding the arrival of spring. And also cars and dogs and motorcycles. Because the cave opens out on the suburbs. It didn't matter. It was all good.

I allowed myself to sink deeper into it - allowed the warm sun on my skin to push me into a deeper sense of hypnotic bliss. Now many, in this state, might have imagined themselves back in goddess form. Or perhaps they'd transport themselves to an exotic isle. Or both. Truth be told, sitting here in my conscious mind, I'm surprised I didn't do the same thing. But in the state of complete submission to the rays and their will that I found myself in, that's not where I went.

I went to my mom's house. My parents house. The house in which I grew up.

A different suburb. A smaller, quieter suburb. The lounge was on the side of the house because there were woods in the back. And that nubile young goddess thing? Well, two out of three ain't bad. Not bad at all. The bikini was red, the belly was taut and tan. The boobs were perky and stayed in place even though I was lying down. Cellulite was not in my vocabulary. And my biggest concerns - well - hell - all these years later I can't remember a one of 'em. So they must not have been very important. And I soaked up the sun. Melanoma wasn't in the collective vocabulary then, either. I was probably slathered in baby oil. The portable radio was tuned to my favorite AM station and I would roll over to turn it up when 'my song' came on.

So real was this transportation to the past that - even once I was awake and knew I had to head back into the house to greet the kids as they came in from school - I was a little taken aback by my reflection in the patio door.

A middle-aged fat chick in jeans and a T-shirt and rollers.

Sigh.

It was nice to be a young nubile bikini babe goddess for a little while. Maybe the sun gods will see fit to let that dream visit again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meatloaf that needs to be put in the oven.