On the mornings I drive the beans to school, Wednesday & Thursdays, we listen to showtunes. Except, of course, during November, when we’re getting a head start on holiday music. We have time for three songs, and they usually request, "The Girl." No songs about zooming cars or bumble bees anymore. Instead, at their insistence, it’s big musical numbers about Gays & Europeans. Well, not quite.

By "The Girl" they mean the one who sounds blond. Not Legally Blonde: The Musical, but close. They adore the young popular Glinda (Kristin Chenoweth) from the Original Broadway soundtrack of Wicked. This is in no small part due to my adoration of said song, along with another favorite standby: Bernadette Peters and Tom Wopat singing "Anything You Can Do."

The other day they chimed in singing "Loathing," and I thought, this is good for their vocabulary. "Unadulterated loathing," not to mention "detestation," "fervid as a flame." Way better lyrics, than say, "Baby Got Back."

Their, my, our favorite is still "Defying Gravity." It’s not just the music, it’s the message: that we’re stronger when we work in tandem, that dreams change, that sometimes we get what we always wanted, then don’t want it anymore, not in the same way. People put limits on us, and more importantly we put limits on ourselves, and we need to strive to break through them, defying gravity. And there are my sweet beans, their faces pink, noses cold, strapped into their car seats, singing:

It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes, and leap!

Okay, they sing "instincts" and "leap!" Then I cry a little. Just a slip of tear, into my mouth as I hug a curve and merge. There’s something magical about those moments, and I want so much for them to live those lyrics. And continue to live them for myself.

Today, we had time for an extra song. I was singing along to the music, then felt overwhelmed, hot in the face. I was singing "Nothing" from A Chorus Line, driving down a hill, taking the back roads to school, and it crept up on me: a choking sob. I sang through the tears, overcome, angry.

The kids yelled, "Nothing!"

They called me "Nothing"
And Karp allowed it,
Which really makes me burn.
I could tell you that in that moment, I knew what it was to be a parent, but that’s a line. We all want to protect and save the ones we love. The truth is, it made me feel the importance of teaching them gravity, that the weight of their own emotions about themselves has to be heavier, must outweigh the external–that they can’t ever feed off "can’t." They need to know, need to dig right down to the bottom of their souls and KNOW that they’re capable, no matter what anyone tells them. That’s one hell of a job in front of me.

"Cherry vodka, sprite, splash of grenadine, now guess." My new friend Brandy (the classy way to spell it) wanted me to guess the name of the drink she and her friends had created. "You’ll never guess," she said. And she was right. I came close though with my suggestion that her go-to-drink be called "SLUT ON THE RAG." 

"Oooh. Close."

"Well, tell me already."

"Vaginal Reconstruction."

"I like mine better woman."

"Either way, let’s have one."

"I hope you mean a drink. Surgery ain’t in my vaginal future."

The Soundtracks of Our Summers

We’re all living our little lives, with our little earbuds, hoping to live out loud, writing the soundtracks to our lives, as they happen. We all must think it sometimes: that our lives are movies with their own soundtracks. I’m thinking it, even now, as I type this. With the day I’ve had, I’m thinking it would be Paolo Conte singing Via Con Me. Not that I know much about French music. I’m just a freak when it comes to Kevin Kline and all things French Kiss. I also spent much of today reading children’s books to the tadpoles. Fancy Nancy was my favorite, so it seems fitting to choose a fancy-ish song.

Recently, I eagerly agreed to write a little something for Largehearted Boy about the soundtrack of my latest memoir Moose. In the Book Notes section of the site, authors create and discuss a music playlist that relates in some way to their recently published book. I know, fun, right?

For your convenience (and to avoid having to dig for it when Moose becomes a feature film) you can read it here as well:

I created the playlist for Moose before even writing Moose. That’s the kind of procrastinator I am. I was on the hunt for new music, prowling for newer artists whose lyrics would inspire me. Really, I was looking for songs that tapped into moments of abandonment or freedom, songs that made me ache and feel alive. There was also mood music to consider. Playing a big red Barolo of a song while writing about food always helps. I wanted to taste a wooden spoon in a song. Rosemary Clooney’s "Mambo Italiano" kept me company into the night. That’s the thing about good music: it sounds like a warm story you’re told by a stranger at a bar.

The newer artists, however inspiring, weren’t getting the job done. Instead, I’d need to entrench myself in a time I affectionately refer to as The Thunder Years. I crammed my office with camp letters, mix tapes, and puffy bedazzled childhood diaries—in whose pages I’d pronounced my fierce love for Peter Cetera. As mortifying as it was the first time ’round, I’d need to relive the "Glory of Love" if I had any chance of writing about it.

Four of the chapters in Moose get their title from songs on my playlist because that’s how I filtered my world at thirteen. Through mix tapes and midnight dedications on radio Love Lines. The songs I include in Moose are the ones that ground me to a childhood campfire, to the freckled boy with shoulder-length hair, to the first time I went skinny dipping in the lake—only at fat camp, we called it "chunky dunking."

With a title like Moose, it’s easy to go to the obvious place: "Fat Bottomed Girls." Stretch further, and you can almost hear the camper skit nights, where we’d point to empty McDonald’s bags, singing En Vogue’s "My Lovin’" with special emphasis on "No, you’re never gonna get it." But having spent five summers at fat camp, I’ve learned that it’s never that easy.

"American Pie" by Don McLean

Aside from Allan Sherman’s "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah," I’m not sure it gets more classic than "American Pie" as far as camp songs go. The eleventh chapter of Moose shares the same title because it’s here where I reveal a major turning point, and fall, in my story. And what better song than one depicting such a monumental moment in music history. Throughout the chapter, I weaved lyrics and imagery from McLean’s song—even changing the name of a girl I knew to "Holly Valens"—wanting to underscore the power of that pivotal falling moment for me. "When she opened her eyes, and looked into the pupils of mine, her response to my presence was measured, slow and exacting, as though read from a recipe for disaster. She just smiled and turned away."

"Blame It on the Rain" by Milli Vanilli

It always seemed like there were thunderstorms at camp during rest hour. But the threat of a storm never interfered with our shaving parties. Girls sat V-legged on the pavement with basins of foamy water, shaving cream, and orange Bic razors. A boom box blared Milli Vanilli’s "Blame It on the Rain" as plump teens swished plastic razors over their meaty legs, hoping that night, someone else might be touching them for the first time. Back at home, we weren’t noticed for our legs unless it was for their cellulite. At fat camp, the playing field might have been wider, but it was leveled. And far from the watchful eyes of their parents, left in the care of teenage counselors with their own libidos and agendas, campers would spend the summer exploring and discovering a bit more than their bodies, themselves. They’d explore the opposite sex. Thus 350-pound romances would ensue. And they’d extend way past dirty dancing at the DJ Dances. In loco parentis, I’d learn that summer, translated loosely to "petting past curfew." Soon there would be evenings spent naked in groups, in bushes, pranks leading to chunky-dunking, sex in cabins, wiggling to fit two on a single cot without making the bed squeal. Tramp out in the woods behind the infirmary, and you’d see camper sex—imagine two pigs fighting over a Milk Dud. But for now, there were shaving parties and a slight possibility of an afternoon thunderstorm.

"Baby Can I Hold You" by Tracy Chapman

On rainy camp days, I listened to Tracy Chapman songs on my boom box as we played jacks on powdered cabin floors, sitting on one another’s beds, asking about the photos another camper had posted to her walls. "Maybe if I told you the right words, at the right time, you’d be mine." Story of my life; story of every teenage life. If only we could think up the right words, the cool slang, find that perfect opportunity to make everything in our lives change forever. Oh, well. Too bad. Quit moping. It’s time for slimnastics class. With rows of rain boots by the door, we’d lie on the padded floors of a weight room, doing leg lifts to Terence Trent D’Arby’s "Wishing Well" as the rain spit in through the window screens.

"Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-a-Lot

My last summer at the fatty farm was spent as a counselor, teaching obese eight-year-olds how to pee in the woods and walk so their thighs don’t rub together (Baby powder is the ultimate salve when it comes to combating chub rub). But their schooling didn’t end there. For camper skit night, my co-counselor choreographed their moves, and we led them onto the stage, where we all did a bit of rump shakin’ to "Baby Got Back." Unfortunately, they committed all the lyrics to memory. But far more disturbing than an eight-year-old singing "knock-kneed bimbos walkin’ like hoes" was what I overhead one afternoon during rest hour.

"I Don’t Want to Be Your Friend" by Cyndi Lauper

As soon as I heard it I looked up. One of my campers was sitting on her bed folding laundry, singing. It wasn’t a purposeful singing, where you sing into a broom handle or into the mirror or in the shower. The lyrics to Cyndi Lauper’s "I Don’t Want To Be Your Friend" were turned out unconsciously as she continued to fold. Here I hadn’t only taught them the importance of diet and exercise, but I’d unintentionally set them up to expect catastrophic romantic breakups. I’d blared songs about unrequited love as if they were mantras to a religion rooted in scorn. "I’ll forget I ever let you into this heart of mine baby" aren’t exactly the words you’d expect to hear from a girl who wears Wonder Woman pajamas.

"All Out of Love" by Air Supply

One night when I’d snuck into my camp boyfriend’s bed, he placed his headphones on my ears, instructing me to listen to the lyrics. The words were about hurting, about missing, "thinking of you ‘til it hurts." He played me songs about being "tormented and torn apart" while we were still together. It was a luxury knowing what you’d miss, just as it was happening, even before having a chance to. It made us hold on tighter. The summer was almost over.

"When a Man Loves a Woman" by Percy Sledge

According to Percy Sledge, when a man loved a woman, he’d "sleep out in the rain if she said that’s the way it ought to be." So if there was some guy camped out in a thunderstorm to prove his love, I wasn’t about to let by camp boyfriend off with a simple, "Sorry" after one of our routine fights. He’d need to prove it. Beg for forgiveness in the middle of the night holding a stereo above his head. I wanted to love the way people did in the movies. It’s why I have a chapter in Moose titled…

"Hurts So Good" by John Mellencamp

My camp boyfriend and I were sitting in the movie shack with the rest of our division watching Ghostbusters when I swore he used his finger to write I LOVE U on my palm. By the end of the week, just before Family Weekend began, he handed me a mix tape he’d made for me. He’d listed all the song tracks on the back of the cassette case, modifying The Police’s song title to "Every Little Thing Steph Does Is Magic." There was an asterisk beside "Storybook Love" from the Princess Bride soundtrack. And the mix culminated with "Hurts So Good," which seemed to be true about everything except love.

"Cecilia" by Simon & Garfunkel

Every night, we’d fall asleep to the muffled sounds of classic rock, courtesy of our counselor, who was sitting OD on our cabin porch after lights out. "On Duty" entailed keeping watch for trespassers, dodgy strangers who might penetrate the barbed wire periphery of camp. She composed mixed tapes on our porch—"Pinball Wizard," "Desperado," "Hotel California," and "Fire and Rain"—while wrapped in an unsightly afghan, burning a citronella candle, with a bundle of stationery and envelopes of stickers at her side. When we made too much noise, she’d threaten us like an impatient young mother: "Don’t make me come in there." When I think of camp, I think of the songs that, if you knew their lyrics, you’d earn an invitation to sit with the cool group by the campfire.

Stephanie Klein and Moose links:

Stephanie Klein’s website
Stephanie Klein’s Wikipedia entry
Stephanie Klein’s Twitter
reading guide for Moose: A Memoir
excerpt from Moose (PDF link)

Austin Chronicle review of Moose: A Memoir of Fat Camp
Books on the Brain review
Entertainment Weekly review
Everybody Goes to Haleywood review
People review
Starling Fitness review
Voice of America review

DadLabs interview with Stephanie Klein
Jewcy.com essay by Stephanie Klein
Newsweek interview with Stephanie Klein
Smith Magazine interview with Stephanie Klein
USA Today profile of Stephanie Klein

2 YEARS AGO: The Friends We Keep
3 YEARS AGO: Last Comic Standing
4 YEARS AGO: I Dig ‘Em

An Amazing Loss

I was in my kitchen when I heard the news. I’d turned off the TV earlier, and the only music we heard was from the bite-sized voices in the living room: my children. Phil was out, picking up dinner.  My father was chasing his grandchildren. The phone rang. It was Phil, delivering the news. 

There’s no question that Micheal Jackson was talented, an icon, a dynamic performer who changed the scope of music. Despite his controversial life, he’s loved throughout the world, and this is an amazing loss. People remember where they were when JFK died, Princess Diana, and now we’ll remember Michael Jackson in the same way.

He’s flavored all our lives in one way or another. Two days ago, I was at the gym, working out to ABC on myPod. Music colors our lives and enriches our memories. As a tribute, this repost, of how he’s colored mine (aside from the fact that I, at one point, wore a rhinestone-pricked white glove):

“I just pilfered through his computer.”
“Uh oh.”
“I went searching for something I wouldn’t like. I found photos of his past.”
“That’s what we always search for first.”
“Half-naked pictures of women he’s slept with.  Of course it made me feel like shit.”
“At least they’re pictures from his past, not the present.”
“Very true. I can’t imagine. Still, what’s wrong with me that I’d go looking for something that would upset me?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you; every woman does that.”  No they don’t.  Do they? 

In 1983, I was in second grade, at Lori Kalka’s house for a sleepover party. I remember staying up later than I ever had before.  We all had brought our own sleeping bags and were folded into her carpeted basement, with bags of chips and cans of cheese between us.  We were staying awake to watch Michael Jackson’s Thriller video on MTV.

Lori’s older sister Robin was there. Robin was adopted, Lori said, but I later learned that really Lori was adopted.  Lori had silky blond hair that looked as if it belonged on a doll.  Kimberly Fillion, another girl in our class, had blond hair too, but that night when we were trying to give one another electric shocks by rubbing our feet, covered in socks, against the carpet, we all swore it looked green under the basement lights. Lori had a projector television; it was the first I’d ever seen like it. I think she also had two poodles, the big kind that needed proper grooming and seemed stuck up.  Kimberly had a Yorkshire terrier named Juju who she cradled like a baby and encouraged up her tee shirt, insisting the dog wanted milk from her “boobies.”  This is what I remember of Michael Jackson’s video. I don’t remember it being scary, only that I wanted it to be. I was terrified that night but not from the video. I was afraid I’d wet the bed, as I was still apt to do, and would continue to do for many years. I don’t know how my parents allowed me to sleep at other kid’s homes. Didn’t they ever fear a phone call in the middle of the night?

I find it fascinating the way we like to scare ourselves.  We sit in the dark and encourage group tales of ghosts and murders and cars with teens parking and men with hook hands scraping at windows.  We sit in dark theaters and watch movies about rings and getting lost in woods.  We set ourselves up, frightened, our hearts racing… why?

“It’s like we want to make ourselves feel.  It’s the drama, the pulling of excitement out of the calm of our lives, like warped magicians, yanking white from the black."
"I was just going to say that."
"On the one hand, we’re completely insecure for looking in the first place.  And if the stuff we find (emails, letters, photos, texts, IMs) bothers us at all, then we’re even more insecure.  Because we shouldn’t care, or we should at least be secure enough to know that it doesn’t mean anything, but how can it not bother us?  When you get to the point where you confidently shrug your shoulders, don’t you worry that you don’t even really love them anymore, or don’t love them like a lover? I want to be the kind of woman who doesn’t give a shit, but for me, that probably means actually not giving a shit.”
"Everyone wants to be like that."

We strap ourselves into rides with metal bars pulled into our laps, and then climb the ticks of a roller coaster, waiting for the plummet.  It’s a build and release the same way a thriller movie is.  But what about when we create these “thrills” in our own lives?  We create drama to feel more alive.  I certainly do.  It has been a while since my alter psycho has been unleashed.  I’m much more secure now (thank God), but not all that long ago, I was a thrill-seeker in the worst way.  Far worse than the moonwalk.

"It’s easy to type it into a neat little paragraph about how strong we are, whipping up perfectly rational statements about ‘in the past.’  Please.  Not every day is fitted in my starched security button-downs.  Sometimes, I get sloppy, and my life becomes untucked.  The next day, it’s better.  Still, I can’t believe he was with some of those women.  They were really beautiful, and it made me feel bad about myself… like, why is he with me? I know deep down it’s because of who I am, that I don’t see me how others do, that I’m unique, and he’s connected to me because of that…  But why does he keep his past?  Why do any of us?  They remind us of where we’ve been, sure, but why do we need the reminder?  We’ve all been with someone hotter.  Everyone has those stories, about the ridiculously hot one we slept with, or dated.  We’ve all had hotter than we’re with.  We don’t choose on looks alone, none of us. But why do we go searching and then let ourselves feel like shit when we stumble upon anything that might be a something?" 

To feel alive.

 A YEAR AGO: Fitting Room Nightmares
3 YEARS AGO: Barely
4 YEARS AGO: No Brainers, Club Wed
 

When I was a little girl–and perhaps it’s because I’m a redhead–all I wanted to be when I grew up was Annie. I used to sing songs from the musical on my front lawn, at 7am–belted "Maybe" as if my meal depended on it. I didn’t want to grow up to be an actress, or a singer. I wanted to be Annie, the way today I imagine young girls want to be Hannah Montana. It’s not that I wanted to be an orphan, inventing names for stray dogs, I just felt so connected to her yearning. I remember that want: the want to be wanted. And I loved the theme of hope, long before I knew anything about "themes." The hope of being saved, the hope of something bigger than you looking out for you, the idea of believing in something so much that no one can convince you otherwise.

I recently received an email from a woman who attended Wheatley, my high school. She was one year my senior–an incredibly talented actor with a mesmerizing voice, and her mother knew it. From what I remember, when she wasn’t cast as the lead, her mother appeared the next day to complain. I heard this from my mother, who was far from "gossipy." The way I heard it: "You don’t know how good you have it. My daughter does commercials in the city. She has more talent than anyone here. You’re making a huge mistake." And then, I heard the alleged response from the faculty: "We have to give other people a chance." So they cast a short dumpy girl who couldn’t really sing as the lead. I always thought the girl who’d been skipped over was totally screwed for being talented, as if it worked against her.

"I just wanted to let you know that I was on vacation this week and read "Moose". I absolutely loved it ! It made Aruba even better! You truly have a gift! You totally captured Wheatley!  I don’t know a woman today that does not obsess about her weight. We all do. And that’s why your book speaks to us all. Having two little girls I too hope that they can grow up without those constant thoughts haunting them daily. But you will see as yours gets bigger and bigger that all they really need is love and fun in their lives. I find that all kids are pretty happy if they are being engaged in life. My five and a half year old is just starting to be aware of her body and how she looks. Anyway, reading your book also reminded me of something. In school we did "Annie" and you had a great solo in that Herbert Hoover song (And a beautiful powerful voice, that totally blew me away!), and then you dropped out. I got your solo by default and I always wondered what happened? Why did you quit? I hope I am not asking a weird question, but you seem pretty open about your life… Okay I’ll stop rambling…Thanks for a great read…I am going to start your first book this week. (I can’t even believe who your wasband was! That’s just crazy!!) Congratulations on all you sucesses and your children and your happiness. Happy New Year!"

What a great email to receive… especially from someone I admired. Why did I drop out? Because I was cast as Ms. Hannigan’s understudy. Otherwise, my only solo was as "Sophie" with the line, "Today I’m stealing coal for fires. Who knew I could steal?" in a song bashing Herbert Hoover. And how much does it suck to be an understudy? You basically want and pray for someone to fall ill, to get dysentery, despite not knowing what the eff dysentery* is. It was fun, though, to sing a song with lyrics like: "I’ll call you Olli, my hot tamale," paired with, "Why don’t you pet me?" and "You want a smootchie, my little poochie?" Also, what great writing, to give her a scheming brother with the nickname "Rooster." It’s so authentic-seeming that way.

Today, right now as I type this actually, Abigail is sitting on a red beanbag, totally mesmerized, watching Annie. I can offer her a big "smootch," even sing all the words to every song, even "Dumb Dog," but she remains unmoved, on her knees, staring at the film. She does NOT have an attention span for anything on television the way she does for this particular musical. And I like to think it’s genetic. That she gets it from me, the way I inherited my father’s love for The Moody Blues. I’m betting that one day there will be psychology studies in music preference, and we’ll learn that part of our tastes are genetic. She must get this from me, the love of musicals with children, with yearning, with hope, and with, let’s face it, Carol Burnett. She’s as amazing as dysentery. I love Carol Burnett!

*I’ve since looked up dysentery, and I can tell you, if a girl is going to wish it upon another girl in a Mean Girls kinda way, she picked the right affliction, for sure. "Infection of the intestines resulting in diarrhea with the presence of blood and mucus in the feces." Awesome.

3 YEARS AGO: Don’t Cry Out Loud

I was thinking today about empowering moments in my life, underdog moments, rising above it, I don’t give a shit what you think moments.

They come down to being told "no," and doing it anyway. They’re defiant moments.  I was told I couldn’t be in AP English, but I took the official AP test anyway, and placed out of my first-year college English requirement. At North Hills, Lea had to race against the boys in the 8 and Under 25-yard event, and was told that she shouldn’t bother competing. She came in first place. Tell me no, and time how fast I prove you wrong moments.Rudy moments. Standing on your desk Dead Poet Society moments.

Empowering moments sometimes boil down to integrity moments, doing what’s hard instead of what’s easy. High road moments. These are trickier. I think of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. She wants that money, needs that money, but she ironically "closes her eyes and swallows," leaving the cash on the bedside table. Integrity moment. Scent of A Woman: he was pretty much offered a scholarship into Harvard if he ratted the boys out, but he didn’t do what was easy, or even self-serving, he did what was right. Actually, now that I think about it, those integrity moments aren’t very "how do you like me now!" They’re quieter. And probably not all that fulfilling in and of themselves unless you have a loud-mouth there to go off on your behalf. Sometimes though, it’s enough to know within yourself that you took the high road. I prefer the loud-mouths and wish there were more Lt. Col. Frank Slade’s in the world. My grandfather papoo was of that ilk. And dick or not, what a wonderful character capable of sucking the marrow from life. Not always empowered, certainly not about integrity, but man could he live. Drinking is starting early today. Loud hear-me-roar clit-rock to follow.

Anyone know of any CURRENT, UPBEAT fem empowerment music? I’m updating myPod for some cardio… something as good as Meredith Brooks’s Bitch? But more current?

FOUR YEARS AGO: ONLINE DATING, GLINDA

FIVE YEARS AGO: GOBBLER’S KNOB