Eight Random Things
Still, I am nothing if not a good sport, so here for your edification are eight random things about me.
1. Between the ages of about seven and eight, I was obsessed with wolves. Being a bookish kind of girl, I read everything I could get my hands on about them -- Julie of the Wolves, yes, and The Wolves of Willoughby Chase (and I actually had the wonderful fortune to meet Joan Aiken later in life, but that’s another story), but the one that really got to me was Farley Mowat’s Never Cry Wolf. It was the story of his going to live peacefully with a wolf pack – I believe he used the word “community” – in the Arctic, back in the early ’60s. It’s one of those first-person wildlife sagas that has since been accused of all sorts of embellishment and poked full of holes, but at the time I bought into it almost religiously. I wanted to go live with the wolves, painfully so. I’d have dreams where I’d look out the back upstairs window of our house and see a wolf pack trotting down the street, coming to rescue me.
What that says about the “raised by wolves” nature of my childhood I will leave to the reader to decide. But it was a very real yearning for a couple of years there.
2. My first published illustration was in the New York Times when I was 12. That was early 1976, and my dad was taking some time off and staying home with me while my mom went back to school, and back then it was noteworthy in that smarmy way the Times still has of discovering some crazy little trend way way on the wrong side of the curve. We knew someone there who decided it would make a good fluff piece, and when the editor found out I was a budding artist he asked me to do a drawing for it. I was SO excited.
Up until the moment, anyway, when I saw the article with my drawing and it was captioned: Lisa drew this cartoon of her father “househusbanding.” Even at 12, I knew enough to realize how utterly condescending that was. Here I thought I was being contracted as an actual illustrator to create a piece of artwork that would accompany an article in the New York Times with my byline underneath it, dammit, and instead I got a pat on the head.
And you know, the Times wouldn’t do that today. Now, toward the end of the article, it would say something only slightly dopey like Lisa, who is looking forward to her own career in the arts, keeps a keen eye on the family goings-on, above. Or something like that. Somewhere in the past 30-odd years, that aren’t-these-darn-kids-cute tone has mostly disappeared from the mainstream media. But that’s 30-odd years too late for my indignant, insulted 12-year-old self.
3. I have a fat scar going down my midsection from between my breasts to my navel. It’s from a benign stomach tumor I developed when I was 18, successfully removed with a maximum of drama and a long hospital stay, and from which I emerged weighing 99 pounds and addicted to Demerol. Neither of those lasted. I was asked several times afterward if it was a Caesarian scar, which mostly demonstrated a gross lack of anatomical understanding in the guys I went to bed with, and a few times people have wondered if it wasn’t one of those unborn twins with hair and teeth. Which is an awful but very entertaining concept, and over the years I’ve always considered adopting that story and embellishing it. I may yet.
4. During my sophomore year of college I worked for a man who ran a scam gay date-by-mail service, which turned out to be a front for a drug ring. I had no idea of this going in – at first he explained some of my weirder duties, like pasting labels over the old name of the company on their promotional materials, as the result of a lost trademark case. I figured it out soon enough when the angry phone calls started trickling in – “Hey, isn’t this the same as the last gay date-by-mail service that took all my money?” Which it was. In the meantime, there were large amounts of drugs floating around the office – my boss would often nod out mid-sentence – and all sorts of strange seedy characters wandering in and out: hangers-on, whiny druggies, drag queens, credit card scammers.
The boss was one of those magnetic sociopath types who could talk his way out of anything. He was a mail-order reverend, and ran a somewhat unsuccessful male escort service on the side. His brother hung around the office and freebased so much that every so often he’d get monstrously paranoid and pile furniture against the door, and I’d end up being late for class. Eventually it all got too weird for me and I started feeling really guilty for being associated with an organization that took money from closeted men living in the Midwest in their parents’ houses. “These people are not exactly going to call the Better Business Bureau on us,” my boss told me, and in a spasm of conscience I quit the next day. But I have material to last a lifetime, believe you me.
5. When Gideon was somewhere between two and three, he fell down in the playground and chipped one of his front teeth. Not down to the nerve, but it was sharp and it bothered him. So I got a teeny tiny file from one of his dad’s model airplane kits, tucked Gideon under my arm, told him that if he’d just hold still for a couple of minutes I’d fix it, and filed that broken little tooth right down. It didn’t even look that bad when I was done, and he replaced it with a nice big one in a few more years anyway. But for a while I had the redoubtable reputation as the cold-blooded mommy who filed her own kid’s tooth. People came up to me for a month or two afterward, some of them total strangers, to ask if it were true.
If I’d had any sense I would have said “Yep, an’ I worm him myself too, with the stuff from the Agway.” But I wasn’t as funny back in those days.
6. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 28. Eh, I was a city girl.
7. I have two tattoos, both of my own design. One is on my left inside ankle, a leaping brook trout, which I got when I was 33 and I split up with my husband – ’nuff said. The other, which I got when I was 18, is on my right hip. It’s from a 17th-century drawing of the skeleton of a dragon that was said to live outside Rome. I riffed on it a bit, left out the base and instead gave it a rose clutched in its claws, which is the only color on the entire tattoo. I still remember sitting in the library on Second Avenue and Ninth Street at one of those long tables, paging through some reference book – back in the day when I used to do such thing, rather than surfing airily over the internets – and finding this picture. It sparked me right away, some indefinable shock of recognition, and I wanted a tattoo of it immediately. I’d wanted one since I was 14, but hadn’t known what it would be – only that I’d know when I found it.
Both of them are kind of old and faded now. At 18 I wasn’t thinking much about the possibility of getting pregnant and ending up with stretch marks running through it, and even though the guy who gave me the second warned me that ankle tattoos don’t age well, that’s where I wanted it.
I don’t regret either of them. I toyed with the idea of getting a third for a long time – I was thinking one of these
on my shoulder, in black – but I think the window may have passed for that. I guess you never know, though.
8. I have never gotten a manicure. A pedicure once, and I really liked it because I have a bit of a foot thing going on, but I have too many cosmetic feet problems to feel good about ever going again. My nails are generally short and kind of scrubby-looking – when they posted the rules for hand and nail care back in junior high or whenever it was we were supposed to learn that kind of thing, I must have been elsewhere. I push my cuticles down, don’t bite my nails down to the ragged bloody quick, file them when I remember to, and moisturize a lot – although I also wash my hands a lot, which kind of cancels that out on a regular basis. But my nails never look good. I also cook, garden, type, and generally use my hands hard – but other people do these things and have attractive nails. Once again, an item of adult cosmetic hygiene that has managed to totally escape me.