Patty and Me
PATTY AND ME
B
oys, boys and boys ‒ what more is there to say? A typical teenager, the sole purpose of my existence at age 13 was the acquisition of a cute guy. I would also include friends, phone calls, tennis, flattering clothes, obsession with weight, avoiding parents, breaking rules, giggling, gossiping, chocolate milkshakes, amusement parks, movie magazines, trading cards, and the conviction we would live forever. The most telling aspect of this era of temporary insanity was when my very best, best, BEST friend Patty moved from Providence, Rhode Island, where we lived, to Los Angeles. During the pre-teen years prior, we had submerged ourselves into a world of dress-up in Patty’s mother’s discarded costumes: mermaid, princess, and fairy queen ball gowns decorated with blue-green ruffles and sequins and plunging necklines and sundry, gaudy floor length monstrosities. After splattering on her mother’s makeup and gold hairclips, we danced and pirouetted and marched around her driveway for hours in the remote possibility that her next-door hunky, tall and movie star good-looking neighbor would grace us with even a half second glance. Never happened but we persevered in our voyeur induced fantasies. Years later, when we finally turned age thirteen, her parents decided precipitously to move the family to California. Immediately after the move, an invite arrived for me to fly out to LA and spend the summer with them to
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