Friday, October 26, 2012

Dad Flipped a Coin for Mom and Lost

John and Ted were unabashed bachelors in paradise.

 John and Ted. Men on a mission.
Beach tanned and up for anything from scuba diving to formal dinner dances, they ranged around in Fort Lauderdale in the 50’s cutting a wide swath socially. 
Young, handsome and professional, John a doctor, Ted a successful businessman, both were widely celebrated "good catches." Mothers of eligible girls bent over backwards to put their offspring in the path of these potential sons-in-law and were not above bribing them with home cooked meals and fresh baked cookies.  They never went hungry. 
For them, dating was sport and they were champs at flying wingman for each other as they charmed the smorgasbord of single women in the famous beach town “where the boys are.” 
But finding “the one” was elusive.
At lunch one day, John and Ted were stupefied by someone new in town.  They spotted her simultaneously across the restaurant as she dined with a friend.  She was a stunner; a drop-dead gorgeous blonde with blue eyes, model poise, and, to them, that angel aura accompanied by heavenly choruses singing.
   A stunner who caused men to question their friendships.
A model. With turtles sometimes.  
 The men tripped all over each other vying to approach her first.
“I saw her first.”
“Nope. I did.”
“No, you didn’t, I did and I’m asking her out right now.” 
 This opportunity to snag a golden-haired goddess nullified the wingman’s oath of loyalty according to their “man rules.” The stakes were too high.
“Let’s just say we saw her at the same time,” said John, adopting a cool negotiating tack at this point, “I’ll flip you for who gets to ask her out first.”
Ted, a confident gambler, scrutinized John for any hint of chicanery, and seeing nothing suspicious, warmed to the idea.
“Call it…”

The coin went up, spun about in the ether, and dropped on the diner booth table with the ominous gravity of destiny.
Ted won. 
He got to go first. He strolled cooly over to her table, chatted her up and made a date.  Her girlfriend was all aflutter at the swashbuckle boldness of Ted’s approach.
Swaggering back to the table with a grin, Ted expected to see John brooding over the beat.  John was not anything like brooding.  Just smiling.
“All set Ted?  You were first to make a date right?  That was the deal…”
“Yessir!  Friday night.  Her name’s Lois and that’s her roommate with her by the way.  Thanks for being such a good sport.”
“Don’t mention it,” said John, grinning like a cat.
Later that day, Lois, home from work, received a phone message from a certain doctor.  Thinking it might be urgent, she called back immediately.
“Hi, Lois. I’m John. Your roommate is a patient of mine and thought you wouldn’t mind if I called.  I heard you’re busy Friday but what are you doing tonight?”


Photos:  Personal Collection and Google Creative Commons
Click on titles for more family stories starring Dr. Dad:

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Dad And The Purple Schwinn

For Dad, with love, on his 90th birthday.
“Let’s take a bike ride!”
Dad liked to ride bikes along the golf course road before dinner some nights.  Since our house was one of the first built on this new course on the outskirts of Ft. Lauderdale, he enjoyed checking out all the new home sites rising up from those scrubby sand lots. 
He had his English racing bike painted rusty brown and equipped with impressive toe harnesses on the spiky corrugated pedals.  My brother had his banana- seat high-handlebar Easy Rider thrasher. My younger brother still had a fire engine red tricycle so he was stuck rolling around the driveway in circles under Mom’s watchful eye. 
And I had my brand new shiny purple Schwinn girl’s bike with the saddle bag baskets over the rear tire.
Or did.
“Ready to go?  Where’s your bike?”
It was my birthday present and I hated it. 
All my friends had ten-speed boy’s bikes with handle bar brakes. I asked for one of those. But somewhere my request got lost in translation, or Dad got a good deal, and I was burdened with a prissy purple Schwinn girl’s bike.  It had only one speed and to stop I had to brake by backpedalling.  
I was expected to ride that pixie dust and moonbeam mess to the school bus stop every morning, lock it up, and then ride it home every afternoon along with everybody.  I felt like a sparkly unicorn leaving a slip stream of rainbows amidst a herd of sleek racehorses.  It was humiliating.
But the purple Schwinn was gone. And, I only just then remembered what happened to it.
“Where’s your bike?”
Half way home that afternoon, the chain fell off the purple Schwinn and made me fall down. I was miffed and had two skinned knees to show.  So I left it by the side of the road and walked home. I meant to tell Mom right away but forgot. I was easily distracted at that age by things like snacks, cartoons or dust particles floating in sunbeams.  And looking back, I wonder if it was semi-subconsciously on purpose to forget about it.  I just put it out of my mind.  Now I had to ‘fess up.
Bike ride cancelled, Dad loaded me into his car and we went to pick the purple Schwinn up.  But, oops, it was gone.  Stolen. Apparently a shiny new purple Schwinn lying on the side of the road for three hours was too much temptation for those so inclined. 
“Oh no, Dad! It’s gone. Gosh! Darn! Shoot! Maybe we can get a new ten-speed boy’s bike with handlebar brakes for me now?”
He gave me the “look.”  It’s the one perfected by every pissed-off disappointed Dad since time began. He cleared his throat and issued the edict in a measured, yet intimidating, tone -
“You could not take care of the bike you had and you think we’re going to just run straight out and buy you a damn new one? No. Now you will be walking…everywhere.”
Thus began my wilderness weeks of walking across wet golf course grass and vacant lots prickling with sticker burrs in the dank Florida heat to and from the bus stop.  Much of the trek was spent swatting clouds of mosquitoes that lay in wait to chew me up and suck me dry.
No matter how much time I spent on my grooming each day, I always arrived to school a disheveled wreck with pie plate sized pit stains and soaking wet saddle shoes speckled with golf course grass.   After school, I pretended I didn’t care as I watched all my friends hop on their ten-speeds and zoom off to 7-ll for Slurpees and penny candy. Or to the pier.  Or the community pool. I was left to slog home, sweaty and downtrodden. I cried a lot. But only when no one could see.  I still had my pride.
Nights I lay in bed and listened to tree frogs chirp in the eucalyptus trees. On my transistor radio a woman with an airy quavering voice trilled a song: “Don’t it always seem to go, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone…” I fervently wished, even prayed, that my purple Schwinn would miraculously appear in the garage sparkling loyally waiting for me to wheel her out and ride. But no amount of wishing was going to fix it and surely Jesus had more important things to think about.
One day Dad stuck his head in while I was moping and reading in my room. 
“Come on out here a minute.”
I spent a significant amount of effort dodging Dad’s attention during this time.  So when he actually addressed me directly, I jumped like a cricket following him to the driveway where he was pulling something out of the trunk of his car.
“Fix this up if you want. One of my patients was going to throw it away, but maybe you might want it? There’s sandpaper in the workshop…”
It was a relic. Rusty from handlebars to wheel rim, this thing was a flaking stinking disaster. An ancient crone of a broken down girl’s beach bike, she was a beast.  No ten-speed derailleur here, no handlebar brakes. She was fat all over, including the tires. And they were flat.
I was never so grateful as I was at that very moment.
For days, with help from Mom and Dad, I worked on her.  I sandpapered all the rust off and found that she had at one time sported black paint.  I soaked her rusty chain in Coca Cola and oiled it, used my saved up birthday money to get the bulbous white-wall tires repaired, and buffed up her pitted chrome parts to a righteous shine. I found an old chamois cloth and sewed a new seat cover.  A smooth coat of black enamel Rust-o-leum paint finished her makeover and a white wicker basket garlanded with purple flowers strapped to the handlebars added a surprise feminine touch.  She was a proud dowager wearing her Sunday hat in the islands; the flowers an homage to the long lost purple Schwinn.
She wasn’t pretty, but she was mine. And she could roll. Big and powerful, I could speed along just as fast as a ten-speed. Better than a ten speed too, I found out, was not having to fiddle with all the levers and pulleys.  I just stood up on those pedals and rode like the wind.
The kids with fancy racing bikes were superior in every way, and they let me know it.  But somehow I shook it off and just appreciated that big beast of a bike. My big beast of a bike.
I think Dad had me figured out.
I love you, Dad.

Click on titles for more family stories starring Dr. Dad:

Monday, April 30, 2012

Dispatch from a Soldier in Seoul

Who knew that a letter in the mail written carefully and stylishly by hand from a young soldier stationed in Korea is such an event?  Reflexively we handle the envelope delicately and examined it thoroughly. In the pile of bills and slick color paper ads, it rises to the top like a magic trick for the rarity it is: A hand written letter. A thoroughly tactile dispatch from across the earth. We all sniff it to see if it had an exotic scent. After all, it had come so far. And the letter itself, written in black ink on thick white note paper bearing the watermark of a map of the world, is a treasure packed with detail.

It is science fiction the way we communicate now via the internet where instantaneous utterances and images fly at the speed of fiber optic light. Type, click, enter and it is gone. Forgotten is the close, word by word, reading of someone’s personal script transmitted by ink to paper and I’ve missed it. 
Dearly it seems.

With his permission, here is Tim’s letter exactly as he wrote it

Goodmorning, Linda,

How is everything in Florida? How are you? Also how is Sean, Tori and David? I do hope all is well.

Let me start by saying I Love Korea and Korean culture. Its very respectful, and very calm. Almost to the point of being shy. Age is very important here. The older you are the more respect people give you. Sweet 16 parties are unheard of here, because everybody turns 16. No when you turn 70, that’s when your family really celebrates here. They feel like that was lifes true challenge to live that long. If a buss is full people will stand or leave to make room for a older person. I think its very cool.

Another note, Koreans can’t drive and traffic laws are not enforced. Driving off post is a thrill ride of its own as everyone speeds, and does whatever they please. Like driving on the sidewalk for example. Its crazy but I have yet to be in an accident so heres hoping I never am.

The Korean war is still fresh in the minds of many people here. They live as is it happened yesterday, and it will be happening again tomorrow. Most bridges are set to blow to slow the norths invasion. Battle positions all face north, true and ready.

Because of the Korean War most people actually like Americans. They remember the USA coming to save them and helping them to the point they are today. So everyone is friendly and are always willing to talk and have dinner and drink with you.

Yes they eat dog here. Its very expensive and kinda hard to get, but it taste good and is an experience I recommend. They own pet dogs, and are 2 very different types between the one that cuddles your lap and the one that cuddles your rice. Not for the weak of heart.

Every Korean loves soccer, and dancing. Internet here is 4 times faster then in the states. Wifi is free, and everywhere. Never tip your waitress , it’s an insult to her. Theres no such thing as“separate” bills. One person will get the check. Never point at someone with one finger, it means you want to fight. People here dress in suits…everyday. That’s just a few. I will send you more later. Take care.

Timothy Everett

Tim is in the Army Military Police and was deployed to Afghanistan prior to Korea. He is a pal of my son's, an Eagle Scout, and I wrote about him in '09 here entitled They're All Tim to Me.
It is rough, lonely and isolating for a 20-something American guy in a foreign country. Writing is a way out, even if for just a brief moment, and I push him like a Tiger Mother to pick up a pen and just go stream his thoughts.  Now that I have wiped my eyes and smiled, I am awash in the gravity of what a hand written letter can do. After I get over the dog thing (!), he’ll be receiving something hand written and home made soon.

Salute, Timothy!

Riding patrol in Seoul

With the big gun in Afghanistan

If you would like to send Tim letters or care packages he can share with his unit and Korean friends, here is his address:

Timothy Everett
142nd MPCO
Unit 15254, Box 69
APO AP 96205-5254

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Winn-Dixie Bodhi

          They studied me as I flipped a family-sized jug of ketchup and a jar of pickled banana peppers into my buggy. Usually at the market, I am immersed in my grocery list, coupons and my mission to make every penny count, but something made me look. Caught in the act of staring at me, they twitched a little, furtively averted their eyes and began an animated conversation about salad dressing. My one fast glance their way yielded detail.

         The tall one had long brown hair and wore a tight fitting floral blouse with acid washed jeans and flip-flops. Her face was shiny, not made up, and her eyes, sparkly and dark, were recessed under a set of savagely plucked eyebrows.  The short one had short bleached permed hair that stuck out at right angles from her head and wore what once were probably beige shorts and a faded t-shirt, barefoot. Her face was shiny too and mottled with scabs.  She held her head cocked back so that she stared out of lidded inflamed half-closed eyes. I got the “what are you looking at?” stink eye from that one so I quickly kept my eyes to myself. These ladies were not Thelma and Louise. They were more like Squeaky and Aileen
          Grocery shopping not my favorite activity.  I literally bribe myself out the door, clutching my enviro-friendly grocery bags and my club discount card, making promises to reward myself with ice cream or wine (or both) if I complete this onerous task.  I opt to shop at odd hours of the day or night. That way, not only do I avoid the rush hour crowds, as a person with Parkinson’s, I can take my time. No one is running up on me in the produce department impatiently clipping my Achilles tendon ram speed with their cart. I don’t have to navigate around huge expanded families including day-old screeching infants and audibly flatulent grandpas wielding mean walkers arguing about whether Cap’n Crunch is better with crunch berries. Or not.
          And, even better, I reduce the incidence of having to explain to little Johnny or Janie why I shake while their helicopter parent unabashedly stares at my active limbs and walks away murmuring “There but for the grace…”.
        Off hours make shopping do-able for me especially when you can fire a cannon down any aisle and hit no one. But that day, it was different.  I shared the store with two women who, and this is without being intentionally mean or judgmental, creeped me out. It was a vibe I couldn’t shake. And as a woman who thinks I can do anything if I just devise a work around, I try to deny any reminders of my inconvenient vulnerability.
         They seemed to materialize down every aisle I chose.  I was forced to squeeze by them a couple of times as they held their positions not moving or yielding me the right of way. Eventually I just didn’t go down an aisle where they were.  Their cart was filled to overflowing with food.  So was mine.
         It was a relief to roll my buggy into the cashier chute which was one of three chutes completely available. The lights were on. I was halfway through unloading my order to be checked out when they rolled in behind me. My cashier paused briefly to let them know there were other cashiers open, but they ignored her and moved further in behind me.  Ever feel someone enter your personal space with purpose? 
         I had a huge cartful and the only bagger in sight, a vapid aimless Tweedle-Dee, was walking away tenaciously avoiding eye contact with either me or the now panicked cashier. I hoped those women would focus on the magazines on the racks right there because this was going to take time.
         Then, the short one, waving her tatted sleeve arms brandishing an unlit cigarette, called out a long indecipherable sentence ending with “…too fuckin’ slow.”  
         And she shoved her cart into mine with a loud clang.  “Someone’s in a little hurry” said the pale cashier.
         I am a babbler. And a flapper. When this kind of stress rears up, I go kinetic and flood the immediate area with jabbering and flapping and this was no different. “Sometimes it’s hard to be patient. Patience is difficult when you can see something is going too slow. I just try to take deep breaths and stay calm…I like to listen to what the Dalai Lama says on these things…” and on and on as I worked as fast as I could to get this task done and me out of there.
        “Young lady, may I have the distinct pleasure of escorting you and your groceries to your car on this lovely day?”
         I hadn’t seen him coming. A tall elderly Morgan Freeman of a man in a white apron and a black Winn Dixie cap materialized, bagged my stuff with flare and speed picking up where I left off talking soothingly of patience and calm and service to others.
        Clapping his hands together and laughing, he allowed that he is a fan of the Dalai Lama too. And a Baptist. And couldn’t see a conflict between the two.  I looked back at the two women, who could plainly hear the entire conversation, and they had turned their backs on us conferring with each other in whispers. A manager dropped by and sent my poor frightened cashier to her break taking on the next check out himself.
        And Lucius and I strolled out into the beautiful day.
        He says that even at his age, he is considering a tattoo on his chest. Peace on one side and Amazing Grace on the other.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Say 33 Reverse Engineered: A Social Media Experiment

Ever wondered what the people you befriend on the internet perceive about you without ever having met you in person?
The "Say 33" meme has been floating around so, since I can't leave well enough alone, I took a liberty by turning it upside down. Instead of answering all the questions myself about myself, I sent it to some writer friends whom I have never met face to face to see just what I have put out there, like so many breadcrumbs on the path.
Two fellow writers from Open Salon took up the challenge and answered these queries about me. 
First this from pundit and humorist,  Cranky Cuss:

1. Her main trait: The ability to laugh
2. The quality she likes best in a man: Sense of humor
3. The quality she likes best in a woman: Kindness
4. Her main flaw: Doesn’t write nearly often enough
5. Last time she cried: Just now, when she read #4
6. Her ideal job: Collector of Tony Awards for Best Play
7. Her most remembered scent of a place: The fireworks while workin...g for The Mouse
8. Beloved movie: Nobody’s Perfekt (yeah, I remember that post)
9. Book on her nightstand: Chicken Soup for the Teenager’s Mother’s Soul (OK, I made that up, but if there isn’t a book by that name, I’ve got dibs)
10. Her First and best kiss: I wasn’t there, dear, honest!
11. She couldn’t do without: Her daughter
12. How she would like to die: Quickly and painlessly, like the rest of us
13. Song she sings in the shower: “Pumped Up Kicks”
14. Her deadly sin: Tempting fate by using her blog to criticize priests and nuns
15. Her not-so-deadly sin: Over-generosity (just a guess)
16. Her motto: “Let me tell you a story.”
17. Ideal first date: a night at the theater
18. Favorite present: Her avatar from Dianaani (it’s one of my favorites)
19. In the train: Reading a book
20. Something she’d change in her body: I’m not going there. Wait, that sounds dirty. I mean, I’m not going to touch that one … oh, crap, I give up.
21. Her addiction: Air conditioning (come on, she lives in Florida)
22. Now on her left: The dog
23. Now on her right: Something decorative that makes her feel comfortable while writing
24. Now in front of her: The computer
25. Now behind her: A lot of good and bad memories
26. Names for her children: Um, well I know she’s got a daughter, can’t remember if she’s ever mentioned her name
27. 3 things in her purse: Wallet, keys and HER DOG!
28. 3 places that fascinate her: Stage left, stage right, the dressing room
29. 3 people she’d like to meet: Luciano Pavarotti, Joan Haskins, the father of her grandchildren (but not any time soon)
30. 3 traits she hates in people: Intolerance, cruelty to animals, conceitedness
31. Values inherited from her parents: Humor, tolerance (how else to get along with siblings)
32. In her past life she was: Hell on wheels
33. In her future life she’ll be: The precocious daughter of Neil Simon and Eve Ensler

And then, this, according to a lovely poetess from Open Salon, Doireann.

1. Her main trait: Compassion
2. The quality she likes best in a man: Humor
3. The quality she likes best in a woman: Wit
4. Her main flaw: Excess soul
5. Last time she cried: Last week (after Pumped Up Kicks-Redux)
6. Her ideal job: Doyenne (of a Salon for artists of all sorts & philanthropist novelist)
7. Her most remembered scent of a place: Citrus, creamy coconut, warm fur, salt-water and beach grasses carried on an errant ocean breeze (with the long,slow moan of a train whistle in the background)
8. Beloved movie: Buddha
9. Book on her nightstand: Lucky Man
10. Her First and best kiss: 12 years old
11. She couldn’t do without: The Boy, T, Bella, Family and the furry ones
12. How she would like to die: Telling a tale to her great-great-grandchildren and finishing with "the end, my loves."
13. Song she sings in the shower: Pumped Up Kicks seguewaying into Nessum Dorma (humming the melody)
14. Her deadly sin: Howling at the moon
15. Her not-so-deadly sin: Passion
16. Her motto: Let Me Tell You a Tale
17. Ideal first date: The theatre and drinks after
18. Favorite present: Does she have a favorite? (I think she may have many. How to choose?)
19. In the train: Listens to music to block out the cacophony, carries a book but secretly observes people and begins a story in her mind
20. Something she’d change in her body: Maybe the second toe (mine is longer too)
21. Her addiction: Pocket Poms
22. Now on her left: Spirit of Calamity Jane
23. Now on her right: T, The Boy, Bella
24. Now in front of her: An unlimited horizon and a view of the most perfect pristine, softly falling snow over Salisbury Plain
25. Now behind her: Disney World, Ted Bundy (whew) and Kim Cattrall and a plethora of rich experiences both mundane and amazing
26. Names for her children: The Boy, T
27. 3 things in her purse: Bella, keys, cellphone
28. 3 places that fascinate her: Stonehenge, Paris, Dublin
29. 3 people she’d like to meet: Anne Bonney, William Shakespeare, Michael J. Fox
30. 3 traits she hates in people: Arrogance, cruelty, pettiness
31. Values inherited from her parents: Strength, perseverance, honesty, love of mankind and all denizens of the Earth
32. In her past life she was: Anne Bonney
33. In her future life she’ll be: A combination of Hypatia, Cleopatra, Elizabeth I, Calamity Jane, Sappho and Dorothy

They say what you put out there on the internet stays out there forever.  So, with all the permenance one can derive from telling stories on the web, it is nice to know that, at least for Cranky and Doireann, I have not wandered this way without leaving a mark.  Maybe a good mark. And neither have they.

As for question #5:  Now.  And upon reading again, now.


Thursday, January 19, 2012

Hollywood East. Naked Ambition.

“If you got a lead part in a movie, but it had a nude scene, would you do it?”

She sat down next to me on the back steps of a vintage coquina stone mansion located in wealthy Coconut Grove and bounced the question at me as though we had been friends for years.
We were on location there shooting the insane asylum scenes for a picture called Nobody’s Perfekt starring Gabe Kaplan, Robert Klein, Alex Karras and his wife Susan Clark.  The Director was Peter Bonerz.
I was one of three Production Assistants on the set.
I thought she was an extra.
Her hair was pulled back with a headband accentuating her cat-like eyes. They turned up at the sides like she was always slightly bemused and she squinted when she concentrated.  She was my age, early 20’s, so I guess that’s why she asked me the question. 
I can only suppose that she needed perspective from someone who wasn’t middle-aged, predatory and male; the basic profile of  those who were making movies in Florida at that time. 
Hollywood East, we liked to call it. That’s what we hoped for.
It was lunchtime. I remember this specifically because, as a Production Assistant, it was the only time I could sit down with my radio (walkie-talkie) off and not get verbally lashed for it.  The first rule of motion picture Production Assistants was never to be caught sitting down, leaning against something or even squatting on a movie set.  If caught, you’d best be puking or swelling up from some kind of sprain or insect bite because otherwise no one hesitated to call you out for slacking.  
My role was to always be at the elbow of the First Assistant Director ready to spring into action at his every utterance.  Once tasked, I was required to chirp out an audible “Copy that!” before scampering away to fulfill the request. 
It was my job to police the lunch line making sure everyone ate according to rank on the set; the star actors first, then the producers and directors followed by the union technical crew, the Teamsters, the day players, the extras and then, after repelling the homeless guys who always snuck in, me, dead last and starving. 
I was trying to wolf down something to fuel the rest of my 12-plus hour day.  The second rule for P.A.’s was to be first to set with donuts before dawn and last to leave after posting the Production Report at night. 
Her question caught me off guard.
“I’ve been asked to be shot nude and I turned it down.”
“But what if it was your ticket? The break that would make your career?  Would you do it then?"
“I sort of turned down Playboy, so...”
“What? WHAT?! You’ve got to be kidding me?” 
“When  I was in college, a guy named Dwight Hooker came through town on assignment to find college women for a special feature in Playboy.  I was modeling for a local Lerner’s store and my photographer set me up for an interview.”
“Did you have to be nude at the interview?”
“No. Wore a nice flattering Lerner’s swim suit and borrowed heels. Hooker took some Poloroids then. I thought it was a long shot but surprise!  I got a call back for a test photo shoot at some estate with a pool outside of town. That’s where I would be required to show that I could, well, do it.”
“Pose naked?”
“So why didn’t you? God, you probably blew a big opportunity…”
“I called my dad. We talked about it for a long time; about how it could mean making connections that would lead to a big time career; about how I felt about being seen that way by anyone passing by a news stand all over the world; about fame and money and its advantages and downfalls; about the character of the people who promote celebrity…All of which I told him I thought I was strong and smart enough to deal with.  I was actually kind of leaning toward doing it…”
“Yeah?  SO?  Those are good arguments..."
“It was the last thing he said.  He has lunch with his friends every day. Lawyers, judges, businessmen and doctors.  All close friends.  One of them is my godfather.  Dad just let me know that it would be a very bad day for him should one of them pick up that particular magazine and see his daughter, me, in it. That was all I needed to hear.”
Her eyes widened a little and then she squinted, folded her hands under her chin and rested her elbows on her knees while looking out toward the gardens at that mansion. It was a beautiful dignified estate with great bones and history, cast for the day as an insane asylum.
The Assistant Director yelled, glaring at me, “We’re back in. New set up, let’s go!”
“Thanks for that.  I guess that’ll help me give an answer to the guys shooting Porky’s. They offered me a big part.”
“Oh, yeah.  I heard that was coming up.  Wow. Well good luck, um, never caught your name?  I’m Linda…”
“It’s Kim.  See ya!”

Photos:  IMBD
Video: Youtube