The Attic

My bedroom, for the bulk of my teenage years, was in the attic. It was a long, narrow room -- I couldn't stand upright in parts of the room. At age 11 (1980ish), when I moved into the attic, I picked the color scheme of pink and green. Why, you might ask?

Here's why:

For some reason, I was not looking forward in time to the period when pink and green would cause vomiting, regardless of whether or not booze was involved.

A couple of other things about that attic bedroom.

I used to fall asleep at the top of the steps, looking out the window at the full moon. Maybe, in another life, I used to be a werewolf, but something about that window afforded me a great view as well as some peaceful slumbers.

I can remember spending HOURS making paper dolls with my sister in that room -- I was a bit better at cutting and coloring than I was at making Barbie clothes. The attic was also the starting point for the long treks my sister and I would make as we played "Little House on the Prairie," dressing up as the Ingalls sisters making their way across the Plains. It was HOT up there in the summer, so it was a perfect replica of what we imagined the life of Laura and Mary to be.

One day in April, 1981, I sat in that room all afternoon with my friend Kim Vining while we played Monopoly and trying to laugh. We were there because the grownups were at the cemetery burying my brother Adam. I think she saved my life that day.

Later, when I was a teenager, the attic bedroom served as a mini-recording studio, while I listened on the radio for my favorite Springsteen songs and prepared my tape recorder to catch every note. I spent time lying on my bed learning the lyrics to every song on the "Born to Run" and "Darkness on the Edge of Town." I wrote REALLY BAD poetry. I cried a lot.

An important piece of information about my attic bedroom is that I had to pass through my parents' bedroom to get to it. For those of you who know me, you know that I am blind as a bat. Imagine a gangly, half-blind teenager barrelling down a steep set of stairs to get to the bathroom at 2:30AM. Bang. Bang. Bump. Ooops.

Sorry, Mom and Dad.

As I was much older, maybe when I came home from college, the location began to be a problem. One night, after a particular raucous evening with friends, I got myself upstairs but felt pretty awful and close to vomiting. The logical option: throw up outside of the window, no doubt sending spew down the side of the house. I can only suspect that it was raining outside, because my parents never said anything...

Again, sorry.

I later moved down to the back room, the room that had been "the baby's" room, where I stayed through grad school. It was better situated for returning home after late night activities (like rehearsals...) as well as studying. I could at least stand up...