IS
THAT
THE SHIRT YOU’RE WEARING?
a memoir in essays
Kristen Hansen Brakeman
Copyright © 2017 Kristen Hansen Brakeman.
All rights reserved.
First Edition
Published in the United States by Tidal Press.
Learn more at www.TidalPress.com
This book is essentially memoir.
It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and identifying details have been changed (to protect the privacy of individuals), some events have been compressed (because long stories are boooooring),
and some dialogue has been recreated (because memory has gaps).
Several of the essays have been previously published; see back of the book for a full list.
Follow the author at www.KristenBrakeman.com
Author photograph by Stephanie Wiley
Cover design by Laura S. Jones
ISBN: 978-0-9974009-4-6
EARLY PRAISE
“Kristen Brakeman’s writing makes me laugh, makes me cry and makes me think. For me, and lots of women who read and relate to Brakeman, that’s a perfect trifecta. She taps into women’s lives with a sharp eye and a sharp wit. She understands her community and her audience. Her slice-of-life essays deliver on all counts.”
- Lian Dolan - Co-host/Creator of Satellite Sisters and LA Times bestselling author
“I love Kristen’s essays - she never fails to make me laugh!”
- Kit Hoover, Co-host of Access Hollywood Live
“Kristen makes me laugh, but more importantly, has me feeling I’m not alone. Is That The Shirt You’re Wearing? helps me cope with the daily drama of being a mother of three.”
- Michelle Tuzee, Co-anchor, ABC 7, Los Angeles
“Brakeman’s delicious essays feel so true that you start off thinking, Yep, I know that feeling. But then you laugh or cry and end up saying, Hey, I never thought of it that way!”
- Amy Goldman Koss, author
“Apparently, Brakeman lives in the cushions of our couch, for how else does she latch onto the universal truths of our lives like this? The secret: Her life is our life. Only funnier. This new book belongs on the shelf between
Bombeck and Barry.”
- Chris Erskine, Los Angeles Times
For Forrest
BOOK ONE:
Summer of My Discontent
“Summertime is always the best of what might be.”
- Charles Bowden
“Summertime blows.”
- Me
Ten weeks remain
It’s 9:00AM and my captors are still sleeping. If I want to escape, this would be the perfect opportunity. I pour another cup of coffee and fantasize about my getaway: I could just grab the keys, sprint for the door, and then drive, as far as our beat-up Volvo station wagon would take me.
But, save for the sound of baby birds outside, the house where I’m kept is so blissfully quiet that I’m lulled into passivity. Instead of leaving, I pick up the newspaper, one of my few links to the outside world. I’m halfway through the summer movie preview section when I hear a distant voice.
Am I being rescued? Help! I’m in the kitchen. Save me, whoever you are!
But then: “Mom! I need you in the bathroom!”
Damn. I missed my chance. Now I have to go sit in the bathroom while my youngest daughter pees. Why? Because some dopey kid at school told her there were ghosts that live in the bathroom and they only come out of the mirrors when you’re alone. I may have to take a contract out on that kid. Oh yes. He needs to pay.
My three daughters love and look forward to summer vacation all year long, yet I dread it like the plague. Wait, that’s not quite right, something much worse than the plague. I dread it like another tired plotline of mistaken identities on another tired rerun of Disney’s “Suite Life On Deck.”
Summer has just begun and I’m already counting the days until it’s over. I know I shouldn’t do it. Some time ago when I was a teenager a wise old woman (I think she was twenty- six at the time) told me to stop wishing my life away. Over the years I’ve heard her words echo in my mind, yet I’ve never once obeyed them.
By 11:00AM my other two captors are finally awake. I
half-heartedly suggest an outing to the zoo or, more laughably, the museum.
“Let’s go see that new mummy exhibit,” I say, already knowing their response.
“But I’m so tired,” the 15-year-old protests while lying on the couch in her pajamas, staring inexplicably at a black TV screen.
“Tired? You slept for fourteen hours. How can you be tired? The 12-year-old chimes in from the adjacent couch, “Yeah, I’m tired too, and I don’t like dead bodies. Besides, who wants to look at a bunch of people lying there, not doing anything?”
“I can’t imagine,” I answer.
“I’m so bored,” the youngest announces as she racks up points killing zombies on the computer.
The two older ones, bodies splayed end to end, begin to compare the shape of their toes. “Mine are symmetrical and beautiful. Yours look like baby sausages.”
It’s going to be a loooong summer.
Yearbooks Should Be Buried in a Deep, Deep Hole
I spent 90 bucks on my daughter’s high school yearbook, yet when it finally arrived a couple weeks ago I was banned from reading it. “Hey, you can’t read what my friends write,” my daughter said as she ripped the book from my hands.
Well, darn. There is nothing more fascinating then clever quips from 15-year-olds. “You’re so sweet! Text me. H.A.G.S!”
Riveting.
In the few seconds I spent flipping through the pages I was amazed by how big the darn things had gotten. Mostly because of all the parent congratulatory ads they have now - “Brittany, your Mom and Dad clearly love you more than your friends’ parents because we spent $250.00 on this full-page ad.” The rest of the bulk was from the endless photos of sports teams, clubs, and the yearbook staff itself, of course.
“They had the biggest section in my yearbook too,” I told my daughters.
“Wait, you had yearbooks way back then?” my eldest asked.
“Yes, we had yearbooks,” I said through clinched teeth, “but instead of photos, our likenesses were chiseled on tablets and our names were read by the town crier.”
“Really?” Yes, really.
I instantly regretted my stupid admission. Once my kids knew I had a yearbook hidden away somewhere, they wouldn’t rest until they had unearthed it. I made up excuses.
I didn’t know where it was. It was buried under a stack of lumber. It was locked away in a safe, guarded by snakes, buried under a stack of lumber. I even tried the truth; it wasn’t worth looking at because I was a shy nerd and there was only one picture of me in it anyway.
But it was no use. Soon I was out in the garage, brushing off rat droppings from the plastic bin that housed my childhood memories. While fighting off gagging, I began to have a change of heart. Perhaps it would be fun to look at my yearbooks with my kids? It might be good for them to see me as a person who was once their age, and not just their mom. Also, I had a reunion approaching and I was still trying to decide whether I should attend. These yearbooks might give me the sentimental nudge that I needed.
The kids grabbed the books and within seconds hilarity ensued. “Look at that girl’s hair! And look at that guy’s shirt! Didn’t they have mirrors back then?”
Who could blame them? Between the frizzy perms and the shoulder pads, the eighties were indeed a train wreck of style and fashion.
My kids found the one picture of me. Even more laughter.
> But then they found the handwritten messages from my friends. Oh dear God. I had forgotten about those. This was indeed a parenting mistake of colossal proportions.
My youngest daughter began to read out loud, “Kristen, I loved hanging out with you at Diane’s sharing Lowenbraus and Cheez-its!”
Damn it. My lame attempts at being cool had come back to haunt me.
“What’s a Lowenbrau?” she asked naively.
Thank goodness they don’t show Lowenbrau beer commercials here anymore. Maybe they don’t even make it? “Um, it’s a German coffee cake, honey. We must have enjoyed eating it at Diane’s. Fun times.” Phew.
My eldest daughter found another gem. “You should read this one. ‘Kristen, I’ll never forget our night of unbridled. . .’” she started, but then handed the yearbook back to me in disgust. “Mom, gross.”
I looked at the page.
“I’ll never forget our night of unbridled steamy passion. You wore me out. You are a sex goddess! Love, Kurt.” What? I didn’t date anyone named Kurt and I certainly didn’t . . . who was this Kurt? Then I saw the P.S. “Ha, ha. Just kidding. I wrote this in case your mom reads your yearbook.”
(Yeah, or my kids three decades later.) Very funny, Kurt. My children are now scarred for life.
My middle daughter was busy with my 11th grade yearbook, mocking the boys and their funny facial hair, when a loose photo dropped on her lap. “What’s this picture?” she asked. “Is that . . . Is that you, dressed as Tinkerbell? Why is mommy wearing a slutty Tinkerbell costume?”
“What? I’m not wearing a . . . and where do you get such language? Let me look at that thing,” I said, grabbing the photo.
Hmm, why was I wearing a slutty Tinkerbell costume?
Then I remembered. I had a part-time job at a children’s clothing store and one of my co-workers decided we would each be a character from Peter Pan. While the ladies were appropriately covered up in Wendy pajamas, Captain Hook pants, and Peter Pan tights, I stood dead center in a teeny-tiny green leotard top with a teeny-tiny green leaf skirt. That leaf skirt barely covered my barely 16-year-old bottom. In fact, it was so short that had my own children been wearing it, I wouldn’t have let them leave the house. I had to wonder what my parents were thinking letting me go off to work in such a getup.
I tried to brush it off, “Oh please, that outfit covers more than a bathing suit. It’s not that bad.”
My daughters looked at me in horror. How could that scantily clad teen be their mom? What’s worse, this would surely come back to bite me the next time I said their shorts were too short.
Fortunately they grew tired of my yearbook before more damage could be done. After all, they didn’t know any of the people in the pictures and none of the references made any sense to them. Frankly, they didn’t make much sense to me either. I read entry after entry from people whose names I didn’t recognize talking about things I didn’t recall.
“Loved having you in Mr. Long’s art class. It was so funny how we moved our chairs.” We had fun with chairs? Boy, I really was a nerd.
“Volleyball was so much fun with you and Rick and Lisa. Love Joe.” Rick and Lisa? Who the hell were they? And who were you, Joe?
“Had a great time in science with Mr. C. Have fun at college. Don’t forget the beak! Love Liam.” What? Who or what was ‘the beak?’ Liam, I’m so sorry but I did forget. So much fun, all forgotten.
I was about to lecture my kids on the importance of being specific when I found another relic from my past, my junior year report card, tucked into the back cover of the yearbook. I removed it from its envelope, eager to flaunt my straight A’s to my children.
But something was wrong, very wrong. This report card couldn’t have been mine. This report card had A’s all right, but also a couple B’s and even one C. Huh?
Was I not as smart as I thought I were? I mean, was.
Who knew anymore?
It didn’t make sense. I considered myself part of the smart nerd crowd, yet this report card belied that fact. It turned out I was only average. My whole self-image was now in doubt. Attending my high school reunion seemed more unlikely. Who would I talk to, the strangers who wrote in my yearbook? Certainly not my old smart friends, now that I know I was the phony in their crowd.
I tucked the report card away before my kids could see it. The last thing I needed was for them to start questioning my intelligence. I won’t have that edge much longer as it is.
Later, I told my husband about my discovery and he scoffed at my concerns. “Your old classmates are barely going to remember you too, and they’re definitely not going to remember whether you were part of the smart group or not. Most of them won’t even remember how they got there.”
Okay, he didn’t have to go that far, but he had a point. Age is indeed the great equalizer. And fortunately for most of us, the value of our lives is rarely foretold by our over-priced high school yearbooks.
“But more importantly,” he continued, “what’s this Tinkerbell costume I’m hearing about, and um, do you still have it?”
9 weeks, 5 days
The phone rings. It’s my mom. I realize I haven’t talked to her since last weekend and I know I’m in trouble. Before my dad died we would talk every week or two, but now she expects me to check in all the time.
“Oh, so you are alive! I hadn’t heard from you so I was beginning to wonder. What on earth have you been doing?”
“It was the last week of school and all three kids had end-of-the-year parties so I was . . .”
“That’s nice. Well, if you get a chance, maybe you could find some time to come by? I want you to look at my cable bill. There’s an extra charge on there. I think we need to put a call into them. I would do it myself but you know I can’t hear very well, especially when they talk so fast like they do and then they almost always have an accent, so forget it. You know, Joan’s daughter, Cindy, started paying all of Joan’s bills for her. That must be such a relief. But of course Cindy’s children are older and she’s not so busy like you are all the time.”
“I know, Mother. Cindy is a wonderful daughter. I’ll come over next week when the kids are in summer school. We should really put your accounts online so I can deal with them from here.”
“I don’t think that’s very safe, is it? With all that identity theft going on? I think it’s better if you just come out here.”
“Okay. All right. I’ll come by next week.”
“Oh good. But only if you think you have time. I know how busy you are.”
Don’t Call Me Ma’am
There is a single word in the English language that has the power to ruin my whole day. That word is Ma’am.
I was having what started out to be a fine day – a great day even - the kind of day where my car started on the first try, my kids got out the door without a ton of screaming and, when I checked myself in the mirror I actually thought, “Hey, I don’t look half bad.”
Then I stop by the local coffee place and the hipster barista dude, the one who wears the disgusting earring gauges, hands me my non-fat latte and says, “Here you go, Ma’am.”
Ah, come on. Really? Did you have to?
Of course I politely say “Thank you” back to the little whippersnapper, but in my head I’ve added a very annoyed, “Don’t call me Ma’am, d#%khead.”
Because whenever I hear the term “Ma’am” I feel anger inside me. No, that’s an understatement. Ma’am actually makes me feel homicidal. I realize it’s not healthy.
But Ma’am is a slap in the face. It feels like one day you’re young and turning heads and everyone treats you nicely. When they talk to you, they call you, “Miss.”
Then suddenly, almost overnight, people start to talk to you like you’re a doddering old fool. They speak louder. They over-explain things like they think you can’t understand simple transactions; “Use this stylus to sign your name. You see it’s like a pen, but it’s not.” Then they put salt in the wound: they call you “Ma’a
m.”
I know it’s vain of me to care. Obviously I’m in the age range of the Ma’am group. I’ve had three kids. I won’t be having any more. I’m clearly not a young Miss, but I don’t feel like a Ma’am either.
I don’t like that our culture makes this separation with language, especially on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. One day I’m allowed to stand in the group with the other young and fertile maidens, then the next, “ No, no, no. You come out of that group and move over here. You belong with the old and the barren now. And what are you doing shopping in Forever 21 anyway? I hope that skirt in your hand is for your granddaughter and not for you . . . Ma’am.”
Men don’t have this issue. They’re only called “Sir.” End of story. It’s viewed as a sign of respect. Even when they’re in their twenties, people don’t say, “Would you like a drink, young dude?” They say, “Sir,” and it never changes. When men reach middle age, the valet doesn’t suddenly say, “Here are your keys, old man.” Not if he wants a tip anyway.
I understand that when people use “Ma’am” they intend for it to be a sign of respect, and that the term is more common in other parts of our country. In fact, a friend from South Carolina once told me that his child got in trouble for saying, “Yes, Ma’am,” to his teacher at his new Los Angeles-area school. My friend had to convince the principal that his son was not being smart- mouthed, and was merely using the Southern manners they had taught him.
But where I’m from, Los Angeles, people only use “Ma’am” for women of a certain age. I’d feel really silly calling a 20-year-old, “Ma’am.”
At work, we’ve eliminated the distinction between married and unmarried women by using the Ms. title on emails and letters. I wish we could somehow eliminate the distinction between young and old women when we speak.
There needs to be another option, a term that could be used when speaking to women of all ages – the young, the old, and the in-between – regardless of marital status.
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