About Weddings & Marriage

When I was nine I asked for and got a bride doll. She was modeled after Bess Myerson, Miss America 1945. She had short curly brown hair, red lips, imitation pearl earrings that dangled and thick eyelashes (until my brother pulled them out). Her feet were molded in tip toe position for the fake diamond studded high heels. She came with a white satin gown, lace bra & panties and a veil. I shoved pins in her head to make the veil stick.

I did not have the groom. For wedding ceremonies I used my stuffed tiger. I knew the vow from television shows. We rarely went to weddings and when we did we sat in the back row too far away to hear what was said. I saw the bride for one second as she walked down the aisle with her father and for less than a second as she left with a husband. That seemed like magic. I wanted to ask if it felt different being married but we never went to the reception. My mother sent a card with a check instead. “So many people they won’t miss us.”

I loved the vow...Do you take this man? Do you take this woman? To love, to honor, in sickness, in health, til’ death. I wanted someone to love me like that. In my doll-tiger weddings I usually omitted the “obey” part. Sometimes I had both say it, but wasn’t sure how that would work. After my secret crush boyfriend sent a love note to my best friend, I made the Tiger say it.

The Women’s Lib Movement hit when I was in high school. There were news reports that some brides refused to say “obey” and some ministers allowed that. I was relieved. I had planned to mumble. Most my friends wanted to keep “obey” in the vow. Yes, we talked about things like that. A lot. It wasn’t the only reason I found new friends, but it contributed.

My sophomore year in college I became a Bahá’i. It was a religion that made sense. It taught all faiths worship the same God and teach the same basic truth. Love each other. In high school I took a world religions class and came to the same conclusion. Bahá’is also believed in equality of women and men, that there is only one race and that science and religion complement each other. It felt almost too good to be true. And it was. There was something I had a problem with that almost kept me from becoming a Baha’i.

Regardless of age, all living parents of the couple give must consent to the marriage. The Baha’i Faith is about unity and that begins with family. I will tell you I did not like this. At nineteen I did not want to ask permission for anything. I decided to trust this would not be a problem. Besides I didn’t think I’d ever get married. Every boyfriend bored me in two weeks or less. A month later that all changed. And there was a problem with consent. It took almost five years to get, but it did what Bahá’u’lláh, the prophet founder of the Faith, intended. It unified our families and gave me gratitude for my parents in ways I never would have had.

There are some basics about Bahá’i marriage I want to explain. First, it is legal in all fifty states. We don’t have ministers, but we have Local Spiritual Assemblies and they officiate. Some people wonder about that but think it’s rude to ask. Second, the ceremony is simple. The only requirement is two witnesses approved by the Spiritual Assembly and a one sentence vow, said by both. One after the other.

The first time I saw the vow, I was disappointed:

“We will all, verily, abide by the will of God.”
That is it? Where is the promise of love regardless of anything and everything? I wanted more assurances and specifics.

When we planned our ceremony we tried writing additional vows. But my list was too long and I kept thinking of things to add.

"We will all, verily, abide by the Will of God."

Ten words that covered everything I wanted to say and more.

When both abide by God’s Will you take care of each other. You will deal with anemic bank accounts, male patterned baldness, and diametrically opposed definitions of what constitutes a clean sink. You are faithful and compassionate and forgiving. You focus on strengths not weaknesses. Celebrate growth and change instead of fearing it. You care more about the other’s happiness than your own, but since your mate is doing the same thing... you both win. You seek God’s Will to get through tragedies. In time you don’t label them “tragic” because they make you more unified. Stronger. Better. If you want to become a super power couple you can pray for tests, but I think living by God’s Will provides enough challenges.

And a marriage that is never boring.

Soap Confession

My mother loved soap operas, emphasis on love. When they played on the radio we learned not to disturb her. They were only 15 minutes each so except for the time my brother almost cut his thumb off with the garden clippers, emergencies waited.

When they transitioned to television she fixed our lunch during commercials and left us kids to eat on our own. It was the most exasperating thirty minutes of my day. My brothers quietly tormented me knowing I didn't dare yell and risk interrupting her show.

The televised version was live and increased to 30 minutes. It meant giving up another hour of her day, but she made it work. She organized house cleaning around their time slots. She folded clothes, darned socks and ironed while watching. When uninteresting story lines were featured she wrote letters, paid bills and went to the bathroom.

When they expanded to an hour she fumed and fussed and then chose two. She dipped in and out of the others and switched favorites when another became more intriguing.

My mother was a friendly loner. She talked easily to strangers in grocery stores and restaurants and doctor offices. During church social hour I found her through the forest of legs by her loud voice and laughter. But she rarely chatted on the phone and never invited neighbors in for coffee like housewives on television. She didn't have "girl-friends".

Her best friend was my father and he didn't talk much. He came home and read the paper while she told him about her day. He responded with grunts and she gave up or stomped off. Sometimes she exploded. Her reaction seemed unpredictable, but now I think it was PMS.

Our family ate together almost every night but the only talk was about passing butter. We finished and vacated the kitchen within five minutes. When older I discovered some families lingered at the dinner table and conversed. I suggested we try that and Dad quoted my grandfather, "The sheep who bleats misses a mouthful." It's a Scottish thing. In the evening we watched TV, got snacks during commercials and were shushed during the shows.

Until I got my license, Mom drove me back and forth to high school and performed a non-stop monologue. Like my father, I gave an occasional “um hum”. But mentally I insulted her with the “diarrhea of the mouth” diagnosis my band conductor used for chatty students. In my fantasy her doctor prescribed a pill that made her say funny, witty things instead of milk prices and Sunday's dinner possibilities.

The only thing my mother talked about that got my attention was other people. She was a gossip. It was learned behavior. The little town she grew up in was notorious for it. In high school she worked part time at the telephone switch board and said operators listened in on phone conversations. Within minutes the town gossips were informed and within the hour everyone knew about the latest cheating husband or church choir ruckus. She claimed to hate it. My mother wasn’t a liar, so maybe she did the same way a drug addict hates drugs.

After puberty she decided I was old enough to hear about suspected affairs, what she saw the neighbors do and not do, and how awful it was to listen to my grandmother and Aunt Thelma gossip about everyone. And then she’d tell me what they said. As far as I know, she didn’t talk to my brothers or Dad about these things. This was "girl talk". And I was her only daughter.

Talking about other people who seemed to have a worse life than we did was satisfying. I don’t like admitting that. We dissected their behavior, analyzed motives, and predicted outcomes. After taking Psychology 101 I had book knowledge that confirmed what my mother already knew.

As fun as gossip was I didn’t like the way it felt later. When I saw people I talked about it bothered me. I felt like I betrayed them because I had.

In the campus book store I found a poster for my dorm room wall: “Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.”It was a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt. I wanted to have great mind. Or at least average.

It was easy to talk about ideas with my college friends. Ideas were our playthings. We had all night bull sessions while listening to Moody Blues. We reconstructed society and imagined we knew more than any previous generation. We missed the irony that our heroes were from previous generations. We marveled at Gandhi, and King. Were awed and excited by Malcolm, and illuminated our conversations with quotes from Nietzsche and Gibran. We read Hermann Hess and longed to search for Nirvana like Siddhartha. Then I had to go home.

My mother had been waiting to fill me in on the latest divorces and affairs and family spats. I tried to not respond. But habit patterns were hard to break. I returned to school feeling tainted and small brained. I was a hypocrite and I hated hypocrites.

Then it got worse. I became a Bahá’i. My parents were sure this was some kind of a cult. I assured them we didn’t shave our heads or sell flowers in airports. There were no mass marriages or gurus or spaceships coming to save us. But there was something that had to change and I wasn’t sure how to do it. Gossip

Bahá'is avoid gossip because it hurts people, it isn’t constructive, it keeps you from focusing on your own faults, it destroys friendships and makes people feel unwelcome and unloved. That may be a teaching of all faiths. It probably is. I just never experienced being with people who practiced it.

My mother was already hurt I had left the church. I didn’t know how to make this change and not offend her so I did nothing. I listened to her gossip and eventually joined in. Afterward I felt sick.

I came home for the summer and one afternoon sat and watched “One Life to Live”. I asked questions about the characters. She filled me in on years of twists and turns and betrayals and losses. She did the same for “As the World Turns”. We watched them together all summer. We analyzed characters, diagnosed personality disorders, questioned motives and speculated on what would happen next. My father overheard and asked who in the hell we were talking about. He didn't appreciate our laughing at his curiosity.


“All My Children” debuted that year. We both hated Erica Cane more than what was reasonable. I'm glad we never saw the actress in real life. We might have screamed and spit at her.




I went back to school and Mom wrote update letters or called. "You won't believe what that scamp did this time." Soaps helped us when it was impossible to talk without arguing. Apologies were awkward. We could ease into speaking again by denouncing evil Erika. At times conflicts we watched mirrored our own. We suggested solutions they should try and then tried them ourselves.

This went on for years until it had to stop. I was married with little kids. Sesame Street and Mr. Rodgers took claim of our one television set and VCRs were beyond our budget. By then, without making it a big deal, mom knew I didn’t gossip about real people. For awhile she kept me up on stories and when I came to visit grandpa played with the kids and we sneak-watched the woman we loved hating. Gradually we talked about other things. Like how amazing her grandchildren were. And milk prices.

The last few years of mom's life she stopped watching the Soaps. She said they were now disgusting. She never gave details so I'm guessing it was the sex or the alien abductions.

I have one daughter. We talk about ideas, books, events, and her kids. But there are times we need to ridicule something. We watch Lifetime movies and make fun of predictable endings, sappy story lines and bad acting. I try not to think about the script writers and actors we are trashing and want to think they wouldn’t take offense. They must know how bad it is.

Some nights my granddaughter sleepily stumbles out of her bed. She joins us on the couch and laughs when we do. This gossip compromise may become my legacy. Damn.







Words © by Sharon Nesbit-Davis,2011, All rights reserved

Ex-rayed

“I think I’m getting a period.” My husband makes tea. I gather heating pad, books and the remote. The bonus of pregnancy and breastfeeding is no periods. It’s been over two years and I don't remember it hurting this bad.

I can't breathe. I think I might die. The pain dies instead. Ten seconds later it is back. It feels like my first miscarriage but harder. Or maybe I forgot. It reminds me of something else. Before the miscarriage, before we knew about the misshaped womb unable to hold a baby long enough, the doctor thought it might be a tubal pregnancy. He pressed on my stomach. “If it hurts here get to a hospital. You could die”.

A week later I felt throbbing pain where his fingers touched. The doctor checked. “You and your baby are fine.”

"Then what is causing the pain?" He pointed to my head. The pain left within the hour.

My mind plays with me. It teases me now. I see me dying and greeting people at my funeral. I wake my husband. “Get me to the hospital.”

He drives too fast with the baby in the car. I close my eyes and clutch the seat. No screaming. It will scare my boy.

I walk into Emergency while my husband parks. They put me on a gurney. Faces ask questions. I tell them what I know. It’s my stomach. It hurts. Like labor. They ask the date of my last period and I laugh. They think I’m delirious.

My husband finds me. Our son sleeps on his shoulder. An intern comes in, looks at the chart and says he’ll be back.

He does not come back. Orderlies take me to X-Ray.

“Is there any chance you are pregnant?”

“Maybe”.

The X-Ray lady frowns. “I have to check something.”

It’s cold in here. I have shivers under the cramps.

X-Ray lady is back. “This won’t take long.” She straightens my legs and disappears. “Hold Still”. The machine groans are louder than mine. She turns me and shoots again. And again. And again. And one last time.

I pee in a cup. A thin pale woman takes my blood. I want to joke and ask if this is her bedtime snack, but don't.

Someone takes me back to my husband. He sits with eyes closed holding our son. He isn't asleep. He is praying. "Is there any Remover of Difficulties, save God?"* The nurse and Intern interrupt. “We need to do a pelvic.” I make my husband stay. The intern does it and the pain stops. I want to go home but they tell us to wait.

My husband and son sleep in the chair. I am too cold and happy to sleep. I am okay. Whatever it was stopped.

My doctor walks in and looks irritated. Why is he here in the middle of the night?

“I’m sorry they woke you up. I’m fine now.”

He nods.

“You are pregnant.”

I look at my husband. He is awake listening. Questions are coming too fast to say them. My doctor answers the first one.

"Your uterus was tipping and that can cause cramps. Most likely the pelvic exam repositioned it."

“But they X-Rayed me.”

“I know.”

“What does that do to the baby?”

“I’ll let the intern who ordered it explain.”

My husband lays our son on the chair and covers him with his jacket. He takes my hand in both of his.

My doctor returns with the intern and stands with crossed arms behind him. For one second I felt sorry for him. “There’s a chance the baby may be affected by the X-Ray.” There could be retardation, cancer, miscarriage, still birth. “If you want an abortion, I’ll make the arrangements.”

I want to yell. Make him understand what he did. I won't end the pregnancy on chance. But I will wake every morning and pretend there is no baby, so if this baby dies I won’t care. And when my body reminds me there is someone else in it, l will imagine a little girl because we already have her name. And then remember my first girl and why I don’t count on miracles.

I stare at him and pour my thoughts into that glare until he cannot take it. He mumbles “Sorry...” and leaves.

I have instructions to rest. My husband cooks and does the laundry. I heat left overs and fold clothes. My son plays on the floor next to the couch. We watch Big Bird, Grover and Cookie Monster. He naps with me. We ignore my belly.

My husband takes our son to the park and then for ice cream. My boy comes home and jumps in my bed. He puts his hand on my cheek. “Miss you, Mommy.”


She comes six weeks too soon. She cries, poops, pees and breathes. My husband holds her in one hand. Her name is Bahiyyih. It means “Light upon Light”. She is my surprise. My delight.




*NOTE: The Prayer my husband said is from the Baha'i Writings:

"Is there any Remover of Difficulties save God? Save Praised be God. He is God. All are His servants and all abide by His Bidding."


All words (with the exception of identified quotations)©Sharon Nesbit-Davis, 2011, All rights reserved

No Skipping Allowed...reflections on grandparenting

I saw it first on a bumper sticker. Then on T shirts worn by old men walking laps in the mall. When my parents became grandparents they said it with the enthusiasm of a brilliant discovery. “If I had known being a Grandparent was this much fun, I would have skipped being a parent.” I smiled, but didn't buy it. I loved being a mom. How could being a grandmother be better? By then I’d be old. How much fun would that be?

Now I am "Ganni" to seven I get what they meant, but will never say it. My “daughter-of-a-scientist" brain kicks in and I refuse to say something so illogical, even if my own father succumbed to this one. You cannot become a grandparent without first being a parent. There is no skipping. No "budging" in line. By definition, one precludes the other.

The mistakes, worries and agonizing in the first round are the price paid for round two. By then your love has grown muscles. You know some things are nothing to worry about. Your child grew out of terrified shrieks when you left the room, eating cat litter and creating mud pies from poop.

There are things you should have worried about and didn’t. You find these things out when they are grown. Conversations begin with “Remember when you and dad took that trip out to Colorado? Pause. Nervous looks. Giggles. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this...” These are the fun "confessions". They survived and are too old to be grounded. You are not shocked because it reminds you of something you did and never told them. They gasp, surprised you really were young once. You both laugh until you cry or snort stuff out of your nose.

And then there are the other talks. The ones that take effort to tell. You want to go back in time. Notice what you didn't see then. Keep her home that night, even if she yells and screams and threatens never to talk to you again. You would take that. If it meant you could have kept her from this.

At some point, after you knew you were going to be a parent, the enormity of that hit. You are going to raise a human being from scratch. You start with the basics...food, clothing, shelter. They cry. You hold, and jiggle, and sing until something works...your first confirmation maybe you can do this. You give up sleep, and loud love-making, and things you thought mattered but didn't. Your gift from them is seeing the world again. This time you know what to look for. But they find things you didn't know were there.

There are days you are not up to the job. You just aren’t. Feeling guilty about that makes it worse. If lucky, a grandparent comes to play with your child that day. You watch. And see this grandparent laugh and listen and hug your child. Your child laughs and hugs back. And in that moment you glimpse the power of love and life and family and continuation. You smile with them and the grandparent says what you need to hear. "You're a good mom.".

In time you understand your children are not yours. They may have your eyes and sound like you, but will not be you. The world doesn't need another you. It needs them. No matter how much you warn them and try to protect them, your children will refuse to be protected. There is no skipping over hurt and pain and mistakes. They cannot grow up without them. And that is the point of it all. Everyone gets to grow up.


I have seven grandchildren. I love them. Not more than I loved their parents. Just more wisely.

How much do I love my grandchildren? So much that when my grandson asked, “Ganni? Why are you an old woman?” I thought it was delightful.



Three of the six grandchildren. They are very loud.

Snap, Cackle, Pop

I celebrated my fifth decade by performing a one-woman show entitled "Mime in Mental Pause." I wasn't there yet. But I was ready. Unrelenting pain, blood clots, and ruined panties were not fun, no matter how I adjusted my attitude. The universe heard (or watched my show) and was kind. Soon after my 50th birthday periods diminished with barely a moan. I think it was the soy.

I do not regret being past child bearing age. I'm content to view it from afar...or close up when my daughter pops the babies out. I thought it would bother me to see her in pain, but it doesn't. I might be slightly sadistic. Or just gloriously happy to have grandchildren. But not once did I wish to trade places.

Strange as it sounds, even to me, there is something I miss about periods. I miss the power of "PMS" (Pre Menstrual Sinfulness) I did not need to announce I had it. My husband watched for it. There were times I cried easy and long and hard. When asked what was wrong my tongue jumped out and slapped him upside the head. Never mind what happened when he didn't ask.

After I declared we’d all be dead in three days because I detected a shift in the earth's orbit, so there was no need to renew the life insurance policy, my husband asked if my period was coming. I chastised his sexist remark and he apologized. Two days later I hid the tampon dispensers at the bottom of the trash. He caught me with a heating pad under the blanket. He’s a good man and never said “I told you so”, but he isn’t perfect. He smiled too much.


A couple years ago my daughter-in-law invited me to a women's gathering. I was the only post menopausal woman there. The topic was our periods. We shared how we learned about it, our first one and embarrassing moments. The stories were funny and sad and what I expected until a young woman said she loved her periods. Really. Just loved them. She felt a oneness with all women. She meditated on this life giving essence and was thankful for her role. She felt creative and spirit filled during this time. She did not mask the pain. She welcomed it. Other women nodded. I laughed. A lot. Then told my stories of fainting and trips to emergency rooms and my gratitude to be done with them. They listened and exchanged glances I recognized from my youth, when I respected elders but knew they didn't understand. And never would.

They were wrong. I do understand. What this woman expressed is the way it once was. Thinking about it makes me want a "do over", but only if I have my own moon lodge.

In Native American tradition there was a special lodge for women when it was their moon time. Other women cared for her children and cooked for her husband. They brought her favorite food, then circled the lodge and prayed for her. She was free from work, could rest, talk with the spirits and create. She returned with new songs and geometric designs and renewed energy. Western observers surmised the women were involuntarily isolated and considered unclean. It was never that. When asked, the medicine men explain women have a "built in" purification system. Men put themselves through sacred ceremonies to attain what women have naturally. Women in their moon cycles do not participate in sacred ceremonies. Their power is too strong. It’s been known to send spirits running and crashing into things.


Without periods my life is balanced and calm. Maybe a little too calm. I miss not knowing what thoughts may scream their way past polite filters. Sometimes the power of that made me feel beautiful. I knew I wasn’t. When pimples erupt on a middle aged, bloated face you don't claim outer beauty. But there were moments I felt like a warrior woman. And she was magnificent. I wish I had honored her more, instead of reaching for the Pamprin®.

But there is still time. My warrior woman didn't die with PMS. She morphed into Big Fat Mama: Post Menopausal Juicy Crone. No one knows what the hell that means, but with a perfectly executed head snap, and a cackle followed by a pop from any number of bodily regions, it’s scary enough to have some fun.

Scouting Adventures

 
 
 
I was kicked out of the Girl Scouts. That is not literally true. I never went back after "the incident". But that is what would have happened if I had so to say I quit would be a lie of sorts. And I made an agreement with myself to stop lying.  
 
I can’t tell what happened without saying something that will sound like an excuse. It isn’t. But without knowing this you won’t understand why I did it and that is the point of telling. Otherwise it’s just another girl gone bad story. 
 
My parents bought a house when I was three. It was in a middle class, family friendly neighborhood with lots of kids. But there was something screwy in Spermville. They were all boys except me and my next door neighbor. She was one year older and my mother recognized the devil in her. Linda Sue became my best friend and I wanted to be just like her. 
 
We rarely fought. If we did it was because I didn’t want to do what she wanted. When that happened she went home. Or told me to go home. I usually gave in because I liked being with her more than I liked playing by myself. She did fun things. My mother didn’t like her but she didn't know everything. She didn’t know how much Linda Sue cried from being whipped with a rose bush stick. She showed me the marks. So when she did something wrong it was better for me to take the blame. My father used his hand and it didn’t hurt much. 
 
My mother blamed Linda Sue for making me tell lies. It’s hard to know if that is true. I think I would have figured it out on my own. Mom never knew about us sneaking cigarettes when we said we were playing tennis or taking her little brother in the garage and making him take his pants down so we could examine his penis. I learned things from her my parents wouldn’t tell me. She’s the one who told me about sex and babies. First she told me what the “F” word meant and later that my parents did it to have us kids. That was the only time I thought she had to be lying.
 
Sometimes we took our allowance and went to the dime store. The first time Linda Sue shoplifted I didn’t know it happened until the next day. She dumped out the loot on her bedspread and swore me to secrecy. She let me take my pick of engagement rings. The next time I watched how she did it. And the time after that I did it too. I took a crucifix necklace. Embedded on the crown of thorns was a tiny round magnifying glass. Etched inside was the Lord’s Prayer. It was magical and something I’d never get for a present. Linda Sue thought it was a stupid thing to shoplift. I thought God would be more inclined to forgive me for taking this instead of fake diamonds. My mother found it in my jewelry box and asked where I got it. I told her nuns gave it to me for being polite. She almost called the convent to complain about nuns trying to convert Protestant girls. 
 
We were a scouting family. My father was the boy scout leader, my brothers became Eagle Scouts and continued in scouting throughout high school and beyond. I joined the Girl Scouts and withstood teasing about our wimpy badges and obvious inferiority. One summer I went to Girl Scout camp for a week. I liked the camp counselors and thought the ones in high school were cool. I wanted to become one and mom was happy about that because it was something Linda Sue didn’t do. She was a lapsed Girl Scout. She joined but her parents didn’t help her earn badges or buy a uniform. They never wanted to pay for her to go to camp but didn’t qualify for  a scholarship. So every summer I left her for one week. I didn't want to hurt her feelings so I told her it was dumb and I only went because my mother made me.
 
Linda Sue went to Jr. High one year before I did. She told me about the boys she liked and we practiced kissing on a wood post in her basement. She painted lips on it and we tried to be passionate while avoiding splinters. She had new friends but since I was in grade school she couldn’t invite me over when they were there. It would be different next year.I watched them from my bedroom windows as they went into her house. The basement light turned on so I knew what they were doing. There wasn’t much else to do in her basement.
 
When I went to Jr. High I joined the Cadet Girl Scouts. A couple girls in the troupe had the same lunch hour so we sat together. That was a huge burden lifted. Linda Sue warned me it would look bad if I sat by myself.  But on the bus ride home Linda Sue said the girls were too nice and not pretty enough and no boys would ever like me if I hung out with them.  I said I liked them and she shrugged then turned to talk to the girls behind us.
 
My mother volunteered to be an assistant girl scout leader for my old elementary troupe.  They planned one more week-end camp out before the weather turned bad. She asked if I wanted to come and help out. The girls liked me and it would help me earn a leadership badge. When I told Linda Sue she asked if she could come. I was relieved she wanted to spend time with me. I worked on my mother for a week and finally she agreed. 
 
A part of the requirement for my leadership badge was to lead. I was responsible for one of the tents that had four girls. Linda Sue tagged along. I supervised their chores, taught them how to tie slip knots, helped them cook over a fire we built and told scary stories at the campfire. That night Linda Sue suggested we go on a real adventure the next day. There was a country store within walking distance of the camp. I could give “my girls” a new challenge.
 
The next day we went for a hike before packing up to go home. I lead them out of the camp and down to the country store. I went in first and came back with an assignment. There were pencils with tiny troll dolls stuck on one end. They were to shoplift at least one. I gave them pointers and a pep talk. Linda Sue stood back and watched. I lead them into the store and swiped the first one to show them how it was done. As a part of the plan, I bought candy while they were stealing. We left and made it back to the camp giggling. Linda Sue didn’t have to say it. I could see she was impressed and that’s all I ever wanted.
 
 
 
We packed up and were in cars ready to leave when a black Cadillac pulled into the camp.The woman who owned the store stepped out. I yelled the first thing that came to me. “Throw them out!.” Troll doll pencils flew out the windows. The girls cried. Linda Sue and I did not. We had a pact. No tattling. No confessing. No crying.

The store owner talked to my mother and the other leader and pointed to our car where I was in the front seat. They walked over and saw troll doll pencils scattered on the ground. The owner pointed at me and said “She's the ringleader.” I couldn’t look at my mother. I said a man gave us the trolls. He was tall and had red curly hair and wore a white t shirt. I had just described my father. 
 
I have no explanation for why I made up a non-existent person, or ordered the girls to throw the evidence out the window or why I thought I could lead four novice girls on a shoplifting spree in a small store with no other customers. I was an idiot.
 
My mother was angry and disappointed and ashamed. Over the next few days she cried often and begged me to tell her why.  I didn’t respond. She arranged for a private meeting with the store owner for Linda Sue and me to apologize. Linda and I had our own meeting ahead of time. We agreed to stand strong and silent.
 
Our mothers sat in the front seat and we were in the back. No one talked. The store owner opened the door and let us come in. We stood in the foyer under a massive chandelier. This was as far as we were allowed. She stood and waited. I was to go first. As I began Linda Sue burst out in tears and begged forgiveness. She regretted all the problems this had caused everyone. She didn’t know why she went along with this. She prayed Jesus would forgive her. 
 
I don't remember what I said. Maybe nothing. I was stunned at what Linda Sue had just done. The store owner forgave Linda Sue and told her she was sure Jesus did too. “You are going to grow up to be a fine young lady.” She gave her a hug and then turned and pointed at me with her bony jeweled finger. “But this one is going to end up in prison one day.” She looked at my mother. “I feel sorry for you.”
 
The ride home was even quieter than the ride there. I felt Linda Sue trying to catch my eye but I wouldn’t look at her. 
 
I never went back to another girl scout meeting and they never called to invite me back. That’s why I figured they didn’t want me anymore. I found new people to sit with at lunch. I thought my reputation would be ruined but no one seemed to care. I discovered in Jr. High kids thought Scouting was uncool.
 
The trolls were my last heist. It took a long time to restore my parent’s trust.  I didn’t mind random searches of my purse and room. I deserved that. I never explained anything about the shoplifting spree or told about the ones before this, even when mom held up the crucifix and asked. I had sworn an oath and decided to keep my word even when Linda Sue didn’t. 
 
She and I didn't see each other after that. My mother drove me to school and back. We were beyond playing outside. In school I was in the college bound track and she wasn’t.  She had boyfriends with motorcycles and loud mufflers. The boys wore leather jackets and kept cigarettes rolled in their t shirt sleeve. Once I saw my mom watching her our the kitchen window. She was making out with her James Dean looking boyfriend. Mom shook her head. “She’s the one heading for prison.”
 
Linda Sue became engaged her senior year of high school and invited me to her wedding shower but not the wedding. The guest list was limited. It was not the wedding we had planned when we did a pinky swear and promised to be each other’s maid of honor. 
 
My mother came with me to shop for a present. I selected a blue glass statue of a laughing Buddha. Mom was puzzled by my choice. She asked if this was something Linda Sue would want. I said "No. She will probably hate it." I paid extra for gift wrap. 
 
 
 
    
 
Photo Credit: Getty Images  
 

Following Zsa Zsa

The following initially appeared on "Open Salon" and was then posted with permission on Salon.Com



Zsa Zsa Gabor started it. That may not be fair, but it’s true. After a nightmare, my father let me sit on the couch with him while he watched "The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson". Every man seemed to be in love with her. Even my father. She tilted her head toward Johnny and said "My secret to keeping my husband happy? I make myself interesting, darling." Johnny almost fell out of his chair. My brain sucked up those words and held them. "Interesting" became my theme. It still is.

In my smallish city there was one large public Jr. High School. That first year I was in classes with all new kids. My first English assignment was to write an essay of my life story. That would take one paragraph and it needed t0 be two pages. And there was nothing about me that was interesting other than my imagination. So I created a new life.

...I was born in Hawaii, lived in a hut and got a surfboard for my 11th birthday from my oldest brother "Michael". There was a tropical storm that day, and though everyone warned me not to go out, I did. I had the ride of my life but lost my board. "Michael", the strongest and best swimmer on the island, went out after it and was never seen again. Heartbroken, my parents left Hawaii and came to live on the Mainland, in this town, far away from the ocean who took their oldest and most cherished son. They never went back. But sometimes I would go with my uncle who was a pilot and delivered supplies to the natives.

I thought it was quite possible the teacher would know I made this up. I didn’t think she taught my older brothers, but I hadn’t paid close attention. If she questioned it, I'd say I misunderstood the assignment and thought it was supposed to be fiction. If she believed it, no harm done. It would be our secret. Either way I thought I'd get an “A”. It was that good.

The next day the teacher said there was one story so fascinating she had to read it aloud. She glanced at me and smiled as she began to read my story. Her voice shock slightly when she read about the brother who disappeared with the tide. When she revealed the author everyone turned to look at me.

If I was going to fess up that was the moment to do it. But there was so little time to consider ramifications. I did not think about how much I would have to remember and conceal. In that moment the kids looked at me and saw someone interesting. And one of them might become my husband. I flashed a shy smile and said nothing.

When class ended they crowded around and asked questions about Hawaii and what their name was in Hawaiian. I was glad no one had gone there on vacation. What little I knew was more than they did. I made up exotic sounding names for them. The next day they asked again and I had to remember what I told them the day before.

A few weeks later a classmate asked when my uncle would take me to Hawaii again and I told her soon. That week-end I caught the flu and didn't return to school for almost a week. When I came back the teacher said, "So, we heard you went to Hawaii. Come up and tell us about it. Now." I was not prepared. I walked to the front and hoped for a fire drill. I hoped someone would throw up. Instead I heard myself effortlessly share my unexpected vacation. My uncle picked me up at the local airport and we flew for hours. When there weren't mountains he let me take over. Due to the bad storms, he was a little behind so instead of landing he flew low and close to my island. I jumped out of the plane into the water and my friends paddled out in the canoe to pick me up. They had a big party (the word luau didn't come to me) and we slept on the beach.

Someone asked why I wasn't tan. I said it rained. That's how I got the cold. And then I coughed.

There was a girl in the class who wanted to be friends with me. Audrey was smart and funny and interesting. She lived in a funeral home. She rarely invited people because they were either scared or mocking. Since I was worldlier than the rest she thought I would be different. She trusted me.

I went to her house several times so my mother said I had to invite her to mine. Before Audrey came, I hid family photo albums and decorated my room in a subtle Hawaiian theme. I kept her away from my brothers and begged her to not mention Hawaii or "Michael" to my mother because it would make her cry. Living in a funeral home, she understood.

I got tired of talking about Hawaii. In addition to homework, I had to research Hawaiian history and geography to answer questions. And I was scared. I ran disaster scenarios of what would happen when someone found out. I saw the rumor spread from one person to another and one by one they walked past me at my locker to laugh or yell or spit. I spent hours trying to figure out how to get out of this.

I didn't deserve it but I asked God for help. I prayed none of my classmates would talk to my old grade school friends or my brother who was a 9th grader at the same school. He was an Eagle Scout and refused to lie for me. I promised God I'd quit lying if He did this for me.

The school year ended and no one found out. I hid out during the summer break and hoped some type of amnesia would set in and the kids would forget about Hawaii. When school started up again, I confided in a girl, who I knew would tell everyone, that my uncle's plane had crashed so there would be no more trips.

If anyone mentioned Hawaii I looked sad and changed the subject. Sometimes I managed to make my eyes water. I dropped the friendship with Audrey. I knew she would eventually learn she couldn't trust me. Hoped she didn't think it was because she lived in a funeral home.

Despite my promise to God, this hellish year didn't stop me. It just made me more careful. In the years that followed I made elaborate prank phone calls and assumed different personalities for every class in High School. In English Lit I was sweet and quiet. And loud and obnoxious in European History. In other classes I played "smart", "troubled", "rebellious", and "flakey".

During the summer I worked as a waitress and often spoke with foreign accents. I made better tips when I did, especially with male customers who made sexual jokes they thought I didn't understand and laughed with wild-eyed looks when I "fell" for them.

It was wrong and I tried to stop. Every time someone new came along I vowed to be honest with this one. But sooner or later we would hit a dull spot and I felt impelled to tell just one story. And one story led to many more and then I would have to exit.

My freshman year in college I met my husband and knew he was “the one”. I didn't want ruin this so forced myself to be truthful. In the beginning stories popped out automatically. Before he could react I told him I made it up. It happened enough times I needed to explain. I told about my lies and the results and how determined I was to change.

I discovered telling truth without flinching makes me far more interesting than any lie.