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Archive for the ‘Friends’ Category

The Circle of Life (and by life, I mean, um, clothes)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:55 AM
Monday, December 17, 2012

You remember that blog I wrote last week lamenting the dismal state of affairs as it pertains to maternity wear? (No, no one ever accused me of lacking hyperbole.)

Well, turns out, there is a silver lining: hand-me-downs!

During my 1st pregnancy, I was oblivious to this gift that keeps giving, and so that was the pregnancy where I laid out the most cash – easily a couple thousand dollars for 9 months worth of – with a few notable exceptions thanks to a fire sale at NOM, cool maternity store that I think no longer exists – badly made, butt-ugly maternity clothes.

But that was then (9+ years ago, to be exact), and the next pregnancy, dear readers, was 2 years later! Meaning, I was 2 years wiser, 2 years less vain, and 2 years more broke.

Which is how I re-discovered the power of coveting another woman’s clothes that she’s outgrown/grown tired of.

I say “re” discovered, because this was an old move of mine wayyyy back in the day, growing up under the shadow of my 4-yrs older sister, whose clothes in general didn’t excite me much but whose BETSY JOHNSON RIBBON SKIRT was – in my 12 year old eyes – the Be All End All of all things hip, cool and cute. I had to have it. I wanted it! I asked to borrow it at every turn. And my loving, caring, sharing’s sister’s answer, no matter what?

Hell-to the NO.

I pined over that skirt. I dreamt about that skirt. I swear I probably cried once or twice over not being able to borrow that skirt.

And then.

The happiest Christmas ever.

(Um, other than the one when I was 10 and got the drum set AND the real wedding dress to play dress up in. And – um – other than the one where I got a new car. Okay, this is beginning to look bad.)

My point is, there was a Christmas that I was maybe hoping to get X from Mom, or maybe to get Y from Dad, when – lo and behold, I opened a smushily-wrapped gift from my sister, and found…

The Betsy Johnson skirt. THE RIBBON SKIRT!!

Sniff! Still brings a tear to my eyes.

I loved that skirt like a mother loves her child.

Which reminds me… this blog was supposed to be about hand-me-down maternity clothes!

So, yes, by my second and third preganacy, I not only wised up and started asking all my way-better-dressed-than-me ex-pregnant friends if I could give their maternity clothes a happy home (which worked out fabulously), but I even got ballsy enough last year when I was NOT pregnant, to ask my pregnant friend if I could borrow her beautiful Max Studio dress while her belly was too big to wear it, and I scored that for a good 9 months too.


This time around the pregnancy block, I bought a few new things, and re-adopted some of the hand-me-down maternity clothes I had borrowed for previous pregnancies, which I had returned and had been held onto. The icing on that cyclical cake was the other week, when a friend I hadn’t bothered to ask for hand-me-downs (she is half my height and still very pregnant) stopped me in the street during school drop-off.

“BatSheva! I have a bag of clothes for you!”

Turns out, she had gotten hand-me-downs from someone else, and many of the clothes were way too big for her, so she thought I could use them.

What I found inside?


They came back home! Back to their mommy! Just in time – sniff!

The circle of life – and by life, I mean clothes, duh – is beautiful, isn’t it?



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

My intention was to draw my fantasy maternity outfit - a cool, punk-ish outfit (ie, fishnets) topped off with a maternity version of the Ribbon Skirt. Unfortunately, I forgot that I don't know how to draw. Sigh....

Flashback Friday! (Ode to Andy)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:07 AM
Friday, December 7, 2012

Most Fridays, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Ode to Andy – the BLOG

He was in the first (and only) rock band I ever interviewed. He was in Kingface, one of the way coolest bands in DC when I was growing up. He was cool – really cool – and such a nice guy. He wasn’t ever slimy. He is Jewish. Andy Rapoport.

Andy Fucking Rapoport.

Which, by the way, is the tile of his blog. His blogs are hilarious. But his Facebook postings are even funnier. How does he drink Red Bull, vodka, and Budweiser for breakfast every other day and still appear healthy with his wits about him? How does he think of all those funny things to say, and funny observations about life? How does he never tire of posting pictures, song lyrics, videos, and ruminations? Andy Rapoport.

Andy Fucking Rapoport.

This is a guy I haven’t physically seen in forever. Fifteen or twenty years at least? (I’m only twenty-eight, don’t get confused, my childhood existed in a time warp.) These days… I read Andy’s updates every day, all day. He has made Facebook a funny, friendly place. The employees lounge. The water cooler. Andy Rapoport.

Andy Fucking Rapoport.

I have a husband, I have many friends, I have kids, I have a family. But today, Andy Rapoport, I write an ode to you. Because, quite simply, you make me laugh, out loud, every day, and sometimes I snort too.

Plus you were always a really nice guy.

The End.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

The man himself

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Drumroll, Please!

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:04 AM
Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Okay, readers! As promised, here is my “official first blog back.” (yesterday’s was kind of a warm-up)

Let’s see… how do I say this delicately?

I think there’s no way but the straightforward way.

Here goes.

I’m pregnant.

Yes, again.

That’s right, you calculated correctly. Number four.

No, I wasn’t lying when I wrote about turning blorty this summer.

Yes, we actually did want another.

Seriously. It was not an accident.


(I know you didn’t say that OUT LOUD but I heard your brain. You think very loudly.)

We were keeping it a secret until we passed the 1st trimester safely. And I discovered something: because my blogging is intimately tied up with my ability to say whatever I want about whatever is current and pertinent in my daily life, as I kept this big secret inside, I found I had no ability or interest whatsoever to write or blog. I was tired, I was excited, I was nauseous, I was nervous, I was giddy about the fact that a few other of my friends had just revealed to me THEY were pregnant… and I was unable to write about any of it.

We told the kids and our close friends & family a couple weeks ago. Then, last week, I started to feel listless and ‘down’ and verging on being unhappy for no obvious reason.

Until I realized I hadn’t written the blog (or anything creative) for months.

Once I realized that, ideas started pouring in for new blogs. Versus the prior three months, when even when I tried my hardest to thing of a good blog, nothing seemed worth the trouble.

So… in a word, dear readers (or 2 words, to be precise):

I’m back!

Hope you’ll still have me.



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)


Don't blame me for this drawing. Blame copyright laws. And my lack of funds for hiring a decent graphic artist support staff.

Down with the Fat Cow

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:36 AM
Monday, November 26, 2012


Can I talk to you for a second?

I know, I know – I haven’t written – blogged – for like seventeen years. And I’m telling you, I had my First Blog Back alllll planned. It was gonna reveal why I went dark for so long, and why I’m back now, and so on and so on…

But all that’s now gotta wait till next blog.

Cause right now????

Holy moly.

The other night I got home from a late movie which followed a dinner with friends at the Gordon Ramsey-owned restaurant Fat Cow. You know, that celebrity Hell’s Kitchen 4 Michelin Star chef guy, Gordon Ramsey? Well, here’s a hint:


Yes the Vodka pizza was yummy. But what is up with charging 15 dollars for a pizza and then serving it on a plate that would be dwarfed by my 3 year old’s doll dishes?

And yes the fish and chips was delicious – but also, outrageous – $20 for 2 small pieces of (yes, delicious) fish. Oh right, and about 2 gazillion skinny fries. Speaking of fries -

We ordered fries as an $8 side dish and when about 12 fries came out in a tiny tin pail, I KNEW that place was really shitty. It was like they had taken a pack of MacDonald’s fries, gave us about ½ of the pack and then charged us $8 for it.

But THAT is not even why I’m telling you not to go there. Because – although by the grace of God we had a really sweet, honest, wonderful waitress, Dara… I think seriously they’ve got something on her that forces her to work in that den of Satan’s spawn.

Because this OTHER guy who works there? (Yes, there were more than just 2 employees but the rest were just wussies who hid behind the talking head that was this other guy, Mr. Satan’s Spawn)…

Okay, I already gave it away. This guy was Evil Satan Spawn. In the flesh.

Or he was just a complete asshole.

Either way, it was late – 12:45am – when our movie let out. (Silver Linings Playbook – don’t get me started – the happy ending rocked but come on, this movie is not the best thing since sliced bread) – I was in the 5th floor of the parking garage with my 2 friends who were driving me home (my hubby had gone home after dinner), when the husband-½ of my friends realized he no longer had their car key in his pocket.

We quickly went down to Fat Cow, which was closing, and looked around. ESS (Evil Satan Spawn) and 2 other minions told my friend no key had been found, and my friend went to look in the movie theatre while the wife-½ of my friends and I entered Fat Cow and asked about a missing key.

After some hushed talk, we heard our waitress say that yes, a key had been found and they’d go look for it up in the office because she wasn’t sure where it had been left.

This blog is getting too long (I know, I know, I’m completely out of practice, I suck!) so I’m not going to really get into all the details about how ESS then came back forever later from the office to tell us “there was a key that had been found the day before and it was a rental car key so he’d just take our name, make of our car, and information, and they’d call us if anything turned up” – and then, stunned, how I asked Dara again if a key had been found THAT night and she was like, “yeah, right after you left, under your table, I knew it had to be yours, let me look for it,” and then ESS was like, after I accused him of lying to us about the key and told him we weren’t leaving since we couldn’t leave our car just parked up in the lot and he answered, “well, yeah, that’s why you usually want to take those things with you” in this horribly snarky tone of voice that made me want to strangle him, and I was like WHAT??? And my friend was like, WHAT??? And while he backed off that assholic comment, he  then proceeded to say, “well, we have your information, so you know, tomorrow we can ‘shake some people down’ and if anything turns up we’ll call you” and I was now ready to become an ax murderer and chop this guy up but instead I chose to open up a Pinchas Book (go, Kabbalah) and as SOON as we opened the book Dara came to us with the key that “miraculously” had just been located.

I’m telling you. This place is evil. Except Dara. She’s probably being kept against her will.



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

PS Something is up and WordPress (my blog platform) isn’t letting me pirate images from the internet anymore. WHAT IS UP WITH THAT!!??? So in the meantime, I have no choice but to resort to creating my own images. Don’t get mad at me, get mad at copyright infringement policing!

PPS Wait… um… maybe I didn’t mean that, quite how I wrote it…

PPPS ARGHHHH I’m just a terrible artist, can’t a sister catch a break??? Here goes nothing:

This is the only kind of Fat Cow that ought to be allowed.

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Flashback Friday! (Show Fun)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:49 AM
Friday, July 27, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – It’s Show Fun – the BLOG

Remember how I said I only like movies with Happy Endings? (My blog, last week. It’s okay, I’ll wait – go ahead, read it. Seriously. It’s short, just do it. Ok great, back?) Anway, I should have been more specific. I do hate movies that don’t have happy endings. However, just because a movie has a happy ending, doesn’t mean I’ll like it.

Case in point: While You Were Sleeping. This movie had all the elements of a GrownupGirl Fave: Sandra Bullock. By-the-numbers romantic comedy. Sandra Bullock.

But I didn’t get swept away – maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never found Bill Pullman or Peter Gallagher even slightly sexy.

So when I talked to my childhood friend on the phone and told him I didn’t like the movie, I was surprised when he retorted, “Sheva, that movie made 43 million at the box office last weekend.”

Wait – did I mention he was also the movie’s producer?

“I don’t care if the movie made 20 billion,” I continued. “It sucked.”

His furious reply: “It’s not called Show Fun, Sheva. It’s called Show Business.”

Ooooohhhhhh…. He got me there!

Ever heard of the term “failing upwards?” In showbiz, this is when a person produces a terrible movie, then gets promoted. Like, for example, my friend – who had impressed his bosses as an intern by producing an unwatchable comedy feature which lost money, and then promptly got promoted to junior executive status, with an assistant and all.

Maybe there is a good long term reason for allowing someone to fail upwards – in fairness, my friend has gone on to produces MANY amazing & awesome movies, as well as more crappy ones, each of which I’m sure made at least 43 million each weekend at the box office…

Still, it all kind of depresses me. I’m an artist: A writer. A singer. A Capricorn moon. Which all means I’d prefer things to be FAIR.

Of course the entertainment industry doesn’t care what I’d prefer. It exists to be a source of money, an outlet for talent & ambition, and a place for creative suckers like me to get stomped on by those with more connections and less fear.

Still, a girl can always dream, can’t she?


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

...where all your dreams come true! (That is, if your dreams are about people making shitty movies and then making craploads of money off those shitty movies.)

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Flashback Friday (Acid Trip, AKA Food For Thought, Part Deux)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:30 AM
Friday, July 20, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Food For Thought TWO – the BLOG

Staring at the title of my last blog, I realized there is ANOTHER story that same title reminds me of, that perhaps bears telling… The story of the last time I ate at a restaurant of that very name – Food For Thought – in Washington, DC, when I was seventeen years old.

The story of the one and only time I ever tripped on acid.

KIDS? If you are reading this, Mommy means “fell down when I tripped over some dangerous spilt liquid. Now, TURN OFF THE COMPUTER AND GO DO YOUR HOMEWORK!

Have they gone? Great. Here’s the story:

Back when I was seventeen, for some idiotic reason, I got it in my head that it would be a brilliant idea for me to try acid. Then, for an even greater idiotic reason, I decided not to do it in a safe environment with a group of close and trusted friends like I learned later it’s best to do, but instead, just to take a couple tabs while hanging with my best friend Ingrid.

SIDE NOTE: Mucho props to Ingie for navigating me through that entire night. Girlfriend, you were a trooper!

I can’t remember exactly when I took the acid – whether it was in my car or at the restaurant. I do remember that the first thing that seemed strange was my hands – they looked like they were digital, like they belonged to a computer program.

I went to the bathroom, and on my way back to my table, a guy came up to me. Blocking my path to my table, he proceeded to talk my ear off about my friend Ingrid – how he wants me to introduce him, he has a crush on her, can he sit with us, etc., etc.

Listening to this barrage of crush-talk through my acid-soaked ears, he struck me as supremely hilarious. So, naturally, I started to laugh. And laugh. And LAUGH. I laughed so hard that tears began streaming down my face. And then – the tears streaming down my face must have confused my acid-saturated brain, tricking it into thinking I must be crying, because the next thing I knew? I was sobbing.


Thus began my whacked-out acid trip ride. Ingrid helped me, got me out of Food For Thought, and got me laughing again. She took me downtown to the Vault and the Fifth Column – nightclubs which – as anyone who remembers those places will know – one should NEVER go when tripping. Full of fake, crazy people, too much music and stimulation, lights, people, movement, sound…

After that, Ingrid got me out of the club kid scene and over to her boyfriend’s apartment or his friend’s apartment, I can’t remember which. All I remember is a bunch of high school boys I didn’t know very well, kind of sweet, geeky boys, hanging out, doing nothing much. Maybe getting stoned. Waaaay too mellow for my crazy acid self.

So she got me out of there too, and brought me finally to the most Twilight Zone place in the metro Washington, DC area: Tastee Diner. (Did they name it that, knowing that stoned & tripping kids would endlessly freak out about the spelling of “Tastee”?) This would be the place you could take a SOBER kid and make her think she’s going insane… so tripping, I kind of felt at home.

The old waitress with the caked on makeup looked like she was wearing a mask that was partially flaking off. The salt and pepper shakers entertained me endlessly. People walking by were in my video game, blipping and bleeping as they walked past and sat down or paid their bills. I don’t think I was actually able to eat the food.

I do remember wishing that I could just stop tripping already, and when I DID finally stop tripping (the next morning, after sleeping it off), it was an easy vow to make, to never touch the stuff again.

Hey – thanks, Earlier Blog, for the memories!


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

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Wiper, no Wiping! Aw, Man!

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 10:45 AM
Thursday, May 24, 2012

As Monday’s blog may have subtley alluded to, I’ve been a bit tired lately.


Which is why this week I’ve been a bit off my game, and didn’t deliver the bloggage on time as usual.

Yeah, well, sue me.

Or, conversely, read on, about today’s tantalizing subject!

Baby wipes.


For those of you who don’t have kids yet, you are missing out on a lot of things. Sleep may not be one of those things. Cracked nipples may not be another. But one thing you ARE FOR SURE missing out on (until you read this blog), is the wonder and magic that is….. baby wipes!

They clean ANYTHING. Seriously.

Smudges on the wall? Baby wipes.

Stain on your shirt? Baby wipes.

Poop on your butt?

Okay, sorry, but you had to know that was coming. I’m actually a huge proponent of adults using “baby” wipes for their bathroom needs too! (the flushable kind, anyway) – Who said just because we got bigger our poop suddenly is less sticky & disgusting? And let’s face facts: we are not a “bidet society.”

You are welcome.

Oh, and a special shout out to Hugo Schwyzer, who not only had a new baby recently and therefore has a whole new excuse to buy endless boxes of baby wipes, but who also came to my rescue yesterday when I was out and about doing errands with my kids and stuck in his neighborhood with a poopy diaper. Well, not MY poopy diaper, per se, but it basically became “mine” as soon as it landed in my daughter’s diaper and started smelling up the car.

In swoops Captain Hugo, beloved by men, women and children everywhere! He did a drive-by – he actually drove to our location (Beverly Hills mini mall where my older daughter takes karate) and dropped off a small box of wipes.

Now THAT, my friends, is a true hero.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

More precious than gold. Cause let's face it, when your kid's got a poopy diaper, who's going to wipe his ass with a gold bracelet?

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posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:08 PM
Wednesday, March 21, 2012

If you’re one of those people who say they don’t like Karaoke, I challenge you to go out with me one night to a karaoke bar and not have fun. I mean, come on, I’m a cowboy? On a steel horse I ride! Or, Yeah, push it, p-push it real good! Or my all time fave, Turn around, every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears…


Whew! Sorry, folks. I always get a little carried away when it comes to karaoke. Karried away. Hee hee hee.

Now, wait a minute, I know it’s talk like that that makes people who already hate the idea of karaoke want to run screaming for the Shania Twain-free hills. But you’ve got the wrong idea! Yes, karaoke can be terrifying for those who hate to sing in front of a crowd. And it can be equally terrifying for those with perfect pitch to have to sit and listen to those of us who do not hate to sing in front of a crowd.

But still…

Isn’t just magic, when you hear the occasional angel sing My Heart Will Go On better than the diva Dion herself? Especially when the angelic voice comes from a completely non-Britney Spears-looking person. At the karaoke dive bar where I used to go – uh – every single Saturday night, more or less, for like a year or so, there was this one old Vietnamese dude who brought down the house each time he sang Frank.

Sinatra, duh!

That place, the Smog Cutter, was everything a karaoke dive bar should be – tons of cigarette smoke, cheap alcohol, lots of opportunity to get up and sing, and (goes hand in hand with the last point), a bribe-able person in charge of the karaoke microphone. My friend Caroline (a classier, prettier, and way more beautiful singer-version of Britney) used to go with me each week, and we’d bribe the guy who had the key to our super-karaoke stardom that night with tips and Heinekens.

Yes, I know, there are the drunken frat boy karaoke singers of the world, and we can put those duds into the same category as the punk rock karaoke night that my old chef boss from back when I was a waitress hosted on New Year’s Eve. (Then again, that probably would have been fun if I hadn’t had to serve a bunch of narcissistic rock stars that didn’t tip and then have the owner steal a chunk from the rest of my tips from that night. Hmmm….)

What are you waiting for? See you in the spotlight…

Billy Ray was a preacher’s son, and when his daddy would visit, he would come along…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Karaoke in smelly yet oddly sterilized rooms with several vinyl couches cramped together is also awesome. Trust me.

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Nary a Spoon

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 1:01 PM
Tuesday, March 13, 2012

On the self-same night I single-handedly discovered the secret to instant sobriety, I also discovered something else: GrownupGirls (who are not married and don’t have kids) live like broke college students.

My husband and I did our pre-Purim drinking at the apartment of 3 friends of ours – 3 hot mamas (“mamas,” not “mommas,” all btwn the ages of 23 & 35 ish) who live together in order to save money, live safely and not be lonely.

And while each of these GGs (GrownupGirls) is, individually, beautiful, smart, socially savvy, spiritual and hard-working, collectively, they nonetheless keep their apartment looking like my Freshman dormroom. Not pretty. Correction: it isn’t messy like my college dormroom was (nor does it have those wacky Freshman year roommates I had – the Born Again Christian who confirmed that I, being Jewish, had a ticket straight to hell; the other ticketed passenger, our Canadian Jewish roommate, who went bonkers and was sent to a “psycho single” after she was found panting and salivating on all fours one day; or our bulimic soccer player roommate who let her heart get torn out once a week by the resident Freshman movie star-turned-Yalie….) But it was like my frosh dorm room in that no one takes responsibility for its appearance, no one decorates, no one puts out candles or pictures or fresh cut flowers…

No one buys any spoons, for God’s sake.

Apparently, the last spoon had gone missing months ago, and instead of just buying a new pack of spoons, the Three’s Company GGs just pilfer extra plastic spoons whenever they buy takeout (every day). When they run out, they make do eating their cereal or whatever with their forks. Or knives. Who knows, maybe they just eat the cereal dry, straight from the box.

Their handful of cups had also run out after my husband and I had been served our drinks, so our other friend had to drink his tequila from a soy sauce bowl. And let me tell you – watching a hedge fund manager who summers in the Hamptons and winters in Aspen drink fine tequila from a soy sauce bowl is almost as fun as watching his face as he is told there is no ice in the house but would he like a frozen bag of peas to cool the cup down?

Maybe it’s just the ‘roommate’ thing, where everyone who lives together is friends but no one wants to take financial responsibility for the others. Maybe it’s the fact that these particular GGs are in fact so broke they cannot afford a single set of spoons for about $5.99. But in the end, I don’t think it’s either of those things – I think my friends don’t bother to make their home a home because they are trying to “inspire” themselves to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. Ideally, by making loads of money, or getting married, or both.

Good luck, Grownup Chiquita Bananas! My drink was delicious, even if it was mixed with a chopstick and served in an old water tumbler.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

She may be living like a college kid but she's psyched to have nabbed that last plastic spoon!

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Skate Rat

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:44 AM
Monday, February 13, 2012

When I was a teenager I was pretty boy crazy. Rock stars and actors held court in my dreams (Bowie, Jagger, Tom Cruise, Rob Lowe and Prince all fought for my ‘pre sleep’ attention – BTW, it’s amazing how tall “imaginary Prince” is) but in my waking life, it was skateboarders who captivated me. (Okay, rockers, too – I was a dedicated fan at all the DC Hardcore shows and held several stage-struck crushes on the boys and even some of the girls who dazzled us with their musical prowess. But that’s the subject of another blog.)

I used to wander over to my friend S.’s backyard after school, and I’d sit and watch them for hours – S. and his skater boy friends (“skate rats” as they affectionately called each other), skating up and down the half pipe, only sometimes flipping off the side and bruising a knee or breaking a bone. It was as if a pre-requisite to skating was to be drop dead cute. (Except for the one awful-looking red-headed dreadlocked guy Whatshisname, but there is always one dud in a crowd of hotties, right?)

The son of the diplomat from Argentina was a “sponsored” freestyle skater, which meant he was paid by brands to wear their name while he skated around, doing unbelievable tricks and looking hot. Oh yeah, he was also my boyfriend for a bit. I had fun with him, but the boys I really pined for were the daredevils – the ones who did crazy tricks with names like “Ollie” and “Kickflip” and “Holy Shit Look At Me I Just Flipped Three Times With A Double Twist And Landed Perfectly On My Board, You KNOW You Want Me” move.

I may have made up that last one. Or not.

In any event, I wasn’t the only love-struck skater groupie… my best friend fell in love with and dated for years a skater boy named Hound Dog. Yeah, I’m sure he had a real name, but who cares, Hound Dog was way more fun to say than whatever name his parents gave him. My other best friend had her share of skater amours, including one cutie who lived in Pennsylvania and was kind of like the ‘Prince’ of skateboarding – gorgeous, sexy and talented and… uh… not exactly the tallest tree in the forest.

And me? I had many more unrequited crushes than requited. Probably I was too not-punk-rock-enough for the skater boarder boys’ taste, or too into studying, or too tall, or too whatever. My husband spent most of his twenties rocking the roller blades but the blades just don’t hold the same voodoo that a skateboards do over my heart.

So I’ve decided I just need to learn to skateboard myself! Why not – I’ve mastered flying on the trapeze, I’ve attempted surfing (and will continue once it’s not arctic water conditions around here), and I even went out and bought knee and elbow pads from Target… until I realized they were way too small for me. They don’t carry a larger size.

I’m not discouraged.



This is Hound Dog at a Skate Park in DC. See what I mean?

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