Grin and Bear It: How to Be Happy No Matter What Reality Throws Your Way (2 page)

Let’s get this straight: It’s all about
me
!

I know.

“Oh, the sheep.” Me and my Yia-Yia.

Pathetic, right?

Like any long-suffering professional victim, of course, I think it all started on the day I was born.

Really.

I was born in Portland, Oregon, on January 3, 1973, to parents who had been trying to have a second baby for more than ten years. My sister, Krisann, twelve years my senior, had made it very clear she did not want to be an only child, and my Yia-Yia (grandmother in Greek) was sure I was an answer to prayers she’d said daily with Krisann. On the day I was born my father entertained the hospital staff telling dirty jokes in the delivery room—or so I’ve been told. Yes, I was there, but I can’t say I remember hearing any of his anecdotes or punch lines. However, it must have had an immediate influence on me because I grew up using humor in the same way. (By the way, my mother has always thought it important that I am aware I was conceived in a Las Vegas hotel with mirrors on the ceiling.)

When I was two, we left the safety of our big, Greek family in Portland and moved to Scottsdale, Arizona. My father wanted to be his own boss, and he was one of the original owners of the Old Spaghetti Factory restaurant chain. He has a larger-than-life personality, and as a kid I remember him playing crazy characters in TV commercials for the restaurants, often dressed as a dancing clam: “I’m Scheky the clam, that’s who I am. I am getting ready for my spaghetti.” Dad was a hit, and our restaurant was always packed.

Likable and funny as my father was, he was a drinker. When my parents first married Dad’s drinking wasn’t an issue, but gradually it progressed to become a serious problem. It never reached the point where he drank all day, but by the time five o’clock rolled around he’d pour himself a drink, usually gin or champagne, and then keep his glass full until he got sloppy, slurry, and eventually went to bed or just passed out. Mom referred to my dad as a “Mickey Mantle” drunk because he could drink and still function at a high level.

Champagne, Dad, and I.

As a kid, I didn’t really understand that my father’s mood swings were the result of his drinking. I can recall being out for dinner at Benihana celebrating my birthday one year, and Dad suddenly left because he didn’t want to “mingle” with the strangers at the hibachi table. What I didn’t realize at the time was that he’d had too much to drink. To make up for his abrupt departure, my mom took me to Farrell’s for a piggy sundae. (Yeah! The beginnings of a lifetime of
expecting
disappointment served with a side of chocolate sauce and a birthday song sung by a quartet wearing striped vests and straw boater hats!)

When he was sober, Dad was kind, and we had a lot in common, like our mutual love for tennis, a good joke, and socializing. But if he’d been drinking, he could quickly become quite belligerent. He rarely got physical, but he could be verbally abusive. His rage was something no one talked about, even when it occasionally became dangerous. When I was four or five years old, I recall him screaming and hurling a chair across our living room. I hid under the dining room table until the situation calmed. My mom had lived with these episodes for years while family and friends ignored his outbursts because he was very successful and well liked in our community.

At only five feet, mom was a dynamo and we bonded early, thanks in part to Looney Tunes. When I was a toddler, she would put on one of Mel Blanc’s records and the voices would come alive in my living room. An accomplished mimic with a great sense of humor (she later told me she had dreamt of being a comedienne), my mom became Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, and the Tasmanian Devil. Often using these whacky Warner Brothers voices, she taught me to work hard for everything I wanted, to treat all people with respect, to be honest, and to—above all—put my faith in God.…

(From left) The future juvenile delinquent (me), Mom, and my beautiful sister Krisann.

She also thought fear and negativity were parenting skills. When it comes to my mom, worry rules the roost. Worry would develop into one of my main addictions, one I still struggle with. It wasn’t until much later in life that I discovered worry was easier than work. It certainly was more familiar.

My mom told me that as a kid I was an absolute angel who loved to read and throughout my adolescence wanted to be a doctor—that is, until I turned thirteen. Then, according to her, I became a “teenage terror.” I wouldn’t listen, I lied all the time, and pretty much became a “juvenile delinquent,” as my mom likes to say. Most parents fear the dreaded teenage years, especially if they have a precocious daughter. By the time I hit puberty, I don’t think my mom really had the patience for a rebellious teenager. Once I got a taste of what it meant to be social, all I wanted to do was be with my friends. But to Mom there
was
such a thing as having
too
many friends. In her eyes there are close friends, regular everyday friends, and then there are people who say they are friends but turn out to be anything but and break your heart.

“Jennifer, why do you have to be so popular? What are all these friends for?”

“Mom, I can’t help that I’m social.”

“Oh, yes, you can. You need to pray for less friends. Who needs all the hassle?”

“Mom!”

“And you buy them all gifts on my credit card because you love buying people presents, and that’ll put me in the poorhouse. I’ll be supporting you for the rest of my life and I’ll be dead soon. Then what?”

“Mom you are so out of control…”

“I’m serious. I will light a candle and pray that some of these friends go away.”

I used my social life as a way to escape my father’s drinking. I used to sneak out at night, talk back, and was often totally rude—actually, I was a bitch. I really didn’t think I was acting that bad, I mean, really, what teenager does?

When I was in eighth grade, I teamed up with my friends to increase our “cool quotient” by smuggling vodka in to celebrate the closing night of our school’s production of the musical
Bye Bye Birdie.
We were caught and exposed in the middle of rehearsing the song “We Love You Conrad.” Hours of tireless pleading in the principal’s office by my mom prevented my suspension. What did she say to me? “I am devastated! How could you do this to a little old lady? Your sister was a dream and now I’m stuck with a juvenile delinquent!” My mother’s Greek Orthodox faith was really put to the test. She sent me to confession, then prayed to God. I guess he answered her because
Bye Bye Birdie
became Bye Bye Class Trip to Washington, D.C.

I was a rebel, certainly, but in high school, I found a healthier way to release all my angst and energy: tennis. There was something about smashing that little yellow ball with a racket and daring my opponent to hit it back. I felt like I was connecting and communicating, something I really wasn’t doing with my mom and dad. I had a wonderful coach who saw all of my undercover rage and wasn’t frightened by it.

“Just keep your eye on the ball,” he would say.

High school senior photo. My smile indicates that I have no idea of the climb ahead.

I would later discover people make a lot of money practicing that exact concept. I played competitively throughout high school, giving me a positive outlet—a way to “change the channel” on my life. I was the chubby chick who could really run around the court. (Greek home cooking sure can pile on the pounds.)

HOW TO CREATE A CHUBBY TEENAGE TENNIS PLAYER

  1.  Keftedes (fried meatballs)

  2.  Spanakopita (cheese and butter)

  3.  Saganaki (flaming cheese and butter)

  4.  Pastichio (cheese, butter, and noodles)

  5.  Tiropita (three cheeses and butter)

I was actually popular in high school, that funny fat chick. I deflected my insecurities about my appearance by relying on humor. I am my father’s daughter and I love to make people laugh. I really didn’t care if they laughed at me or with me, laughter made me feel safe. Laughter in my house meant everything was okay.

Celebrating my high school graduation.

I had a lot of nicknames in high school like Los, poo-poo, or my personal favorite poo-head. I didn’t care what the other kids called me, as long as they were talking about me! I was always involved in school assemblies, drama club, and even cheerleading—well, sort of. I was the school mascot, which I thought would be more fun than becoming a cheerleader. I’m not bashing cheerleaders, but for me, wearing our sabercat costume felt more natural than a short skirt and pom-poms. I shared the school mascot duties with a shy kid who was teased for being “girly.” When we were at the state basketball championships, someone walked by, punched him in the nuts, and called him a pussy. The only problem was it wasn’t the shy kid inside the cat suit, it was me.