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Posts Tagged ‘the eighties’

Last night Tomas and I were up pretty late, working on the house, writing, etc.  I suddenly had a salt craving, but I was not hungry.  As I passed through Bobby’s room, he barked “Hello!” at me and I thought I would give him a few sunflower seeds as a treat.  Sometimes he likes one or two roasted, salted, unshelled ones.  As I doled them out, I ate a handful, which only intensified the craving.

Nothing but a pickle would do.  Thank god we had some thinly sliced dill pickles in the ‘fridge.  I dove in, holding myself over the sink so that pickle juice would not drip all over the place, when my long ago friend Lali Lugassy popped into my head.

As I had written a post on my other blog ‘What Happened’, Lali was by best friend from 6th grade until I was around 30 years old.  We did not get into a hassle, we just started drifting into different worlds.  

I received an e-mail from her daughter a few weeks ago informing me that Lali died in May.

I have been grieving in my own way, not only for her, but for whom she has left behind, and I am full of regrets for not picking up the phone when I had thought about her, which was so often, in the last ten years.

Last night, as I was chowing my pickle, I got hit with a hard jolt of memory – – and non-memory.  The non-memory part really bothered me.  I, for the life of me, cannot remember what she craved when she was pregnant.  We hung out quite a bit when she was pregnant, and I saw her daughter being born, but this particular memory eludes me.

 

I remember her insisting that we home dye her hair, even though pregnant women are not supposed to dye their hair – she was determined.  It was the late eighties, and we all had to hang on to our jet black punk dye job, even if a comet was hurtling towards the earth, we had to have our hair right.

I remember her sitting in a chair in the kitchen in the apartment in Venice where she and her husband Joey lived, carefully applying the dye, waiting the required 45 minutes, only to have her scalp turn jet black and her hair not take the color at all.  We were horrified, but still hysterical with laughter.  She kept screaming, “my HEAD!  My WHOLE HEAD is black!!  What are we going to do??”

There was no Google back then, so we could not just jump on the computer and type in the question, we did not have enough money to go to a professional and have them fix it, besides, it was a Friday night at about midnight.  We called Mundo, a hairdresser friend, and he was stumped, saying, “I guess you are just going to have to wash your hair alot until it fades….”

 

I remember coming over one day, and Lali was busy putting up a crib, or a changing table, placing all sorts of baby items around the small apartment.  She was being very efficient and bustling about, a bit of a departure from her usual laid back self.

“What are you doing?” I asked, a bit taken aback at the pregnant tornado that roared by me into the bedroom.

“I’m nesting,” she said firmly.

“You’re what?”  I looked at my seven month pregnant best friend, with whom I had cut school with, road around on a motorcycle with, raided her parents refrigerator with, sat in detention with, blazed on acid with, too many things to recount that did not fit in with, ahem, “nesting.”

 

I started laughing uncontrollably, and she stopped buzzing about, fixed me with her classic Lali stare, folded her arms, and snapped “What? It is what all the book say happens in the seventh month.  I can’t help it.  Since I am the one who is pregnant, would you like to shut up and help me?”

That just made it worse – I had gone to the sink to have a glass of water and stop laughing, but for some reason, her new and rather sudden mother lion attitude just killed me, and I wound up spewing water all over, out my nose and mouth.  My best friend was being possessed by hormonal nesting syndrome, and frankly, I didn’t and still don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies, and I certainly was clueless on how to “nest”.

 

But, I pulled myself together, and let her be a drill sergeant, and we “nested” the day away.  A rather atypical day for two hellraisers.

When that memory surfaced, I had a physical recap of the day, started to laugh, and pickle juice spewed out of my nose.

But for the life of me, I cannot remember what she craved.

But I am going to keep trying, because when I try, memories like those above come up, and I feel Lali close to me, and we are our young fool selves, laughing until we wet our pants, all over again.

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