I have a little girl watching over me

Brunch with Becks is an ongoing weekend series where I wax poetic on tales from my life starting with the 9 Truths. Yes, I too can’t comprehend that all these odd occurrences have happened to me.

I promise I'll get back to the 9 Truths soon. I wrote this post back in May on my iPhone.

I have a little girl watching over me.

She is me. I am her.

She makes me stronger. She screams, "don't tell me what I can't do!" She wonders what happened to my childlike wonder. She asks me about my dreams and can't comprehend my difficulties.

She is me. I am her.

For many years I kept a picture of her close by. She sat on my bedside table, watching me as I slept. She was the first thing I saw in the morning. That little girl is porcelain perfect.

She is me.

My three-year-old self was amazing. She could do anything. For a while she wanted to be an Olympic swimmer. Then she had thoughts of being a psychiatrist just like the fictional Marlena Evans.

Her family told her to write.

Dreams.

That little girl in the plaid dress—holding a lamb—with a locket around her neck—made me stronger. She reminded me not to settle but to dream. To know anything was possible.

She was my reminder to be who I needed to be—who I wanted to be. Every morning I would look at that little girl and knew I had to do more. Be better. That little girl wanted the world, how could I deny her?

So, every day I try and live up to her dreams.

What can I tell you about her?

She was devoted to her parents—they are still her heroes—and her family. True friendship means the world to her but her heart has been blackened by betrayal. Now it takes longer to really know her. She longed to find true love. She found it!

But she's still trying to find out why she's here.

She loves Detroit.

I've kept her in the frame for all these years because she is pretty and polished and cute. All the things that I'm not anymore.

With age, come wrinkles and moles and brown spots. Spots of disappointment and heartache. Bad decisions and good decisions.

But when you're 3 or 4? It's sun-kissed skin, yellow polka dot bikinis, a hand to hold and a puppy to love. And even the biggest dreams seem possible.

I am her. She is me.

After two years of her not being on my bedside table, I need to find her again. She can do anything. She is amazing.

She is me. But am I still her?

4th of July in England

Brunch with Becks is an ongoing weekend series where I wax poetic on tales from my life starting with the 9 Truths. Yes, I too can’t comprehend that all these odd occurrences have happened to me.

I was disturbed when I walked into the kitchen and heard a few of our friends trying to figure out who sang the song that was playing. I could name that tune in 3 or 4 notes easily and know all the lyrics! How could there be a discussion about this singer’s signature song? I mean, what?

The song was the "Piano Man."

I rolled my eyes in disgust as I blurted out, “Billy Joel! How can you not know that?”

I shouldn’t have been so rude. Twenty subjects of the English realm showed up to my party—mainly humoring me—to celebrate the United States independence from the British monarchy.

Obviously, they don’t celebrate the 4^th of July in the United Kingdom or any other country. Their big day for fireworks and bonfires is the 5^th of November.

They were all very kind and wore whatever Americana they had on hand. Our English neighbor lent us his American flag and only seemed slightly put off when I refused his Confederate version.

I had only moved to England a few months earlier and this was my first Fourth of July in my new country. When I asked my husband—and subsequently his friends—if I could throw a BBQ in my homelands honor they were all very supportive.

My soon to be Mother-in-law took me grocery shopping, I didn’t drive while living across the pond, and we picked up a couple hundred pounds of food and serving ware. I was a bit puzzled that she suggesting cooking the chicken first, before putting it on the grill. But she offered to do this and it was one less thing for me to worry about.

There were a few things that I HAD to have for the party that weren’t available in British stores. I found an American food supply company online and quickly placed orders for Ranch Dressing, Jello, graham crackers and the like.

As a thank you to my new friends and country, I decorated the cheesecake with the Cross of St. George, the patron saint of England. I also made Jello shots in the shapes of stars and stripes.

The day before the party the weather turned very British and the rain was threatening. Andy quickly ran to the store to pick up a canopy so we could still entertain in our backyard.

Everybody was wonderful and helped me get through my homesickness on my first American holiday away from home. We didn’t sing the Star Spangled Banner or anything but the spirit of “the land of the free and home of the brave” were firmly embedded in my heart.

I guess Billy Joel just isn’t very popular in good ol’ Blighty. 

The Blind Pig of the summer of '88

Brunch with Becks is an ongoing weekend series where I wax poetic on tales from my life starting with the 9 Truths. Yes, I too can’t comprehend that all these odd occurrences have happened to me.

It was the summer after my freshman year of college and only a few weeks since I was discharged from the hospital after spinal surgery. My high school friends and I were all reunited from our time away at college and started to hang out in the garage of one of the gang.

We didn’t call it a garage, though. It was The Barn. We cleared it out and added a couch, that’s really all college kids need.

The Barn was a few hundred feet from my friends house, far enough that his parents didn’t really know what was going on inside the unassuming building. I’m sure they thought it was just our clubhouse.

I don’t remember whose idea it was but a bar was built. Then the keg was procured. That was the tricky part; we were all still underage.

At some point we decided to have a party and then the entrepreneurial spirit kicked in, “Why not charge people to come to the party?” Not everyone has a Barn, right?

This was over 20 years ago so my memory isn’t spot on. We charged either $3 or $5 for admission to the party with the added bonus of beer.

The girls who brought their Bartles & Jaymes Wine Coolers had to pay too. It wasn’t just the beer; we were supplying atmosphere and a place to drink. Everyone had to pay.

Usually 3 or 4 of us chipped in to buy the keg and those that did split the profits. On a good night I’d make around $80. Yes, I made that money for throwing a party.

I only lived about a mile down the road but I’d sleep on the couch at The Barn on party nights. The next morning I’d pick up all the red plastic cups and whatever returnable’s people brought with them. The empties were just bonus money.

Sometimes I’d walk down to Gilbert Lake and take a swim in lieu of a shower. I’d head home around midday. Then we would start to plan the next party.

This went on for a good portion of the summer. One night was crazier than the rest; a neighbor’s fence was broken by one of the revelers. The cops came and the end was near.  

Our antics had stayed under the radar for long enough. The broken fence was our demise.

There wasn’t a police bust or raid—no fanfare or fireworks—just a simple “no” from someone else’s mom and dad.

And like all great blind pigs, we were shut down.

Photo Credit: Dottie Mae

Don't you forget about me

Brunch with Becks is an ongoing weekend series where I wax poetic on tales from my life starting with the 9 Truths. Yes, I too can’t comprehend that all these odd occurrences have happened to me.

This is the most boring of the “truths” out of the lot but a fight about Brat Pack films did indeed tighten the bond between my husband and I. Since Yesterday marked the 25^th anniversary of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off it seemed the best time as any to talk about it. It also makes me feel incredibly old.

Back in 2003, when I barely knew the man I now call my husband, we had a bit of a spat. I recalled it being that he said that Pretty in Pink came out before The Breakfast Club. That’s just crazy talk and I had to correct him.

Thank god for never deleting my emails! His actual statement was that St. Elmo’s Fire came out before The Breakfast Club. I know this because my email tells me it's so.

Either way, I was right. The two movies did come out in the same year, though.

Our love for the Brat Pack genre spurned hours of conversations.

Like the fact that I once wrote John Hughes a letter pointing out 5 continuity flaws in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I never sent the letter and the only one I remember is that there is a Birmingham Groves letterman’s jacket in one scene in the movie.

Or, that when my older brother was in high school he looked EXACTLY like John Cusack. Well, maybe not exactly but put some dark sunglasses on him and sit him in the back of a movie theater and watch the teenage girls go wild.

So, indulge me while I take a stroll through some of my favorite movies of that era.

Pretty in Pink - "His name is Blane? Oh! That's a major appliance, that's not a name!"

One Crazy Summer - "When there’s no plan, there’s no attack. No attack, no victory."

"If we give into those people, we’re giving into all the cute and fuzzy bunnies in the world."

Sixteen Candles - Jake: Happy birthday, Samantha. Make a wish. Samantha: Well, it already came true.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off - "Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

Maitre D': I'm suggesting that you leave before I have to get snooty.
Ferris: Snooty?
Maitre D': Snotty.
Ferris: Snotty?

The Breakfast Club - "Can you describe the ruckus, sir?"

You see us as you want to see us.. In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain and an athlete and a basket case… a princess and a criminal. Does that answer your question?

What are these movies about? We all want to find our place in the world. We get jealous of others who seem to have it easier than us. Good friends are hard to find but once you find them you’ll do anything for them.

It's not much different now as it was way back then.

I feel particularly blessed as I look around at my friends and see amazing and diverse people. Brains and basket cases, athletes and princesses, geeks and leaders, artists and innovators. Luckily, no criminals.

And on that note, “Stay gold, ponyboy. Stay gold."

What are your favorite Brat Pack or coming-of-age movies? Which lines do you have imbedded in your brain?

The one about the one-armed prostitute

Brunch with Becks is an ongoing weekend series where I wax poetic on tales from my life starting with the 9 Truths. Yes, I too can’t comprehend that all these odd occurrences have happened to me.

Going off to college was one of the most exciting and happiest times of my life. With the car fully packed with the mini-fridge and toaster oven, my family drove me to the wilds of Milwaukee, Wisconsin where I was to start my freshman year at Marquette University.

You should know that Marquette wasn’t my first choice school. My first choice, which I had dreamed of since my uncle went there in the late 70’s with his waterbed and bead door, was the University of Michigan.

U of M said, “thank you for your application fee but no dice.” I’m sure they said “no dice.” They broke my teenage heart into a million tiny little pieces.

I had applied to five schools: U of M, MSU, Boston University, Loyola of Chicago and Marquette University. The University of Michigan was the only one that said no.

So, my next choice was BU. I had the dorm picked out and was looking forward to some good chowder and hanging out at Faneuil Hall. Everything was all set to go. Then the financial aid came back. Apparently, BU was, and I’m sure still is, very expensive. The financial aid package was not what we were expecting and this time it was my dad who said, “no dice.”

This is going to upset a lot of people but I never even considered MSU. Too many people from high school were going there. I wanted a new adventure!

So now what?

Remember the Preppy Handbook? I’m sure many of you are too young. Whatever. Anyway, the author, Lisa Birnbach also wrote a guide to colleges. I don’t remember the exact words she used but of Marquette University she said something like, “Being in the center of the beer capital of the world, Marquette is the place to go to college if you’re underage and want to party.”

Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

It should be noted at this time that I was 17 years old when I went off to college and wouldn’t turn 21 until my senior year. Luckily, Marquette also happened to be a damn fine educational institution.

I know what you’re thinking. What the hell does this have to do with a one-armed prostitute? Fine. Rush me, why don’t you?

Having decided late where I was going to be educated, I didn’t receive my first, second or third choice of dorms. No.

I was put in the YMCA.

Sing it with me... "Because it’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A. They have everything that you need to enjoy, you can hang out with all the boys…"

Let me explain.

MU had procured the 10^th through 18^th floors of the main branch of the Milwaukee YMCA for its students. Floors 3 through 8 were for regular YMCA people. And another area technical college took over the 9^th floor. To get to the MU floors you had to have a special elevator key so it was secure-ish.

I was devastated. Are you kidding me? I had been looking forward to this for my entire life and I end up in a YMCA! I’m going to be living with a cop, a cowboy, a soldier and a construction worker?

Wait. This isn’t sounding so bad.

It actually turned out to be amazing. I had a room to myself with a private bathroom and shower! The frosh in the other dorms weren’t so lucky. Even the girls across the hall from me had a communal shower. Thank god I ended up on the good side of the hall!

Two other friends from my high school were also in the Y, one on the same floor as me. I made great friends. It was also co-ed. That part was nice too. And if we went down one floor to where the other school lived we didn’t have to abide by University rules.

Not so shabby.

The biggest benefit, in retrospect, was that we were living in the same building as real people. Some down on their luck, some a bit seedy and some were probably traveling. We were safe but we weren’t sheltered. We got to see real life.

And yes, there was a woman who lived there who had a prosthetic arm and she was widely known to be a prostitute. I rode the elevator with her and her gentlemen callers but I really don’t have anything else to say about her. Sorry about that.

There was also a sweet old man who really cared about all the students and we, in turn, watched over him.

I absolutely loved Marquette University and it wasn’t just because you could scribble a stick figure and a fake date of birth on a bev nap and a bouncer named Apache would take it without blinking an eye.

MU taught me compassion, critical and thoughtful thinking, and what it means to really be a part of a community.

Cheap beer was just a bonus.

Post script: Marquette University ended up buying the YMCA building, revamped it, made it a "real" dorm and named it Straz Tower. From what I've read you can rent a room there during the summer months. My 20th college reunion is in July and, although I doubt we'll be able to make it, I can't help to think what it would be like staying in the same room or building 20 years later.

Photo Credit:JD Hancock on Flickr