Stay Sexy & Don't Get Murdered

by Karen Kilgariff

  * * *

  Being thirteen was incredibly intense and mortifying and, at times, seemingly life-threatening. Almost every girl in seventh grade was trying as hard as she could to seem older, smarter, and more streetwise than she actually was. Being at school was a sort of dress rehearsal for being a real teenager. But Daisy and her kind were constantly blowing our cover, proudly displaying how young and dumb we actually were. They talked about stickers. They tattled. They cried at their desks. They kept insisting their classmates give a shit about their feelings. It brought out the mercilessness in all of us. It made us all want to scream, “Those days are over, you dumb babies!”

  Now, society has made some nice strides in the last decade or two when it comes to bullying and feelings and respect for others, which I think is a true sign of the human race evolving. But let me explain to you how NOT like that it was in the early ’80s.

  Where I’m from, there were almost no parents around anywhere ever. It was straight-up Peanuts country. Packs of wild children routinely being dropped off at arcades or pizza parlors for hours at a time. Boys walking around with balled-up fists, ready to defend their allowance against scary older boys on too-small bikes. Girls circled up in corners, arms crossed and glaring. If you ran into trouble, whether it was a stolen quarter or a broken femur, it was yours to handle. And of course! Who better than you, with your bizarre child logic and a total inability to see the bigger picture.

  Also, back then, no one’s mom would come pick you up early just because, for example, you got locked out of the roller rink after accidentally skating out a side door. Too bad, so sad. You were on your own now, surviving by your wits in the parking lot while everyone you knew ate roller rink nachos inside. So what, you’d say to yourself. I hate them all, anyway. The parking lot is better. It’s so windy and quiet. And the pavement has a layer of gravel so I can’t skate on it no matter how hard I try. This is perfect, you’d yell aloud, since there was no one around to hear you for miles. Another chance for me to adapt.

  You’d look around at your new environment and think, Maybe I should go down and explore that creek bed. It’s perfect! All dark and obscured by trees, littered with empty Löwenbräu cans and ominous shreds of clothing. Who knows what fascinating creek folk are waiting to meet me down there?! But then you got a weird feeling about the creek, the way that one bush shakes as you skate-walk toward it. So you come up with an alternate plan. You decide to squat between two cars for the rest of the skating session, and if an adult walks by and asks what you’re doing, you’ll say you’re looking for your scarf. “Really?” they’ll say. “It’s July.” And then, you’ll say—well, actually, then you’ll just start crying because it’d already been twenty-five minutes of parking lot life and you simply cannot take one more second of it. Just then, everyone runs outside, and the mom of the girl who invited you pulls up and immediately starts yelling at you for wandering around the parking lot alone before pickup time in rented skates. That’s what being a kid in the ’80s was like in a nutshell. You were always one unalarmed emergency door away from disappearing forever.

  And just for the record, no one’s mom did their homework for them in the ’80s. Ever. Everyone’s project sucked, and the embarrassment of it sucking either made you do a better project next time or set you on the path of not caring about sucking. And as goes Ohio, so goes the nation. That’s right. Junior high is when it’s officially decided whether you’re going to rule or suck forever. No pressure.

  Oh, and there was the extra layer of horror for ’80s kids: you had to be a preppie. That trend hit hard and fast. It made no real sense to me, as I’d had no experience with Ivy League comedy magazines or the Hamptons. Yet suddenly, all of America was supposed to dress and talk like we were the 1 percent. And that’s when most of us realized that our parents didn’t make enough money for us to be preppies. I can’t tell you how jarring it was to wake up one day in a small farm town only to learn that my parents didn’t own enough boats. And to feel real shame because of it. The preppy trend caused a massive materialistic panic and a total rearrangement of the social order at our school. Suddenly, it wasn’t just the prettiest girl, but the prettiest girl with the freshest IZOD shirt who ran the game.

  This was a real hard left turn from the Montessori, hippie-vibed, carob-drenched ’70s we’d grown up in. Life was no longer about being kind to your neighbor and not littering and natural fibers. Suddenly, you needed boat shoes and a plaid skirt and a membership to a racquetball club. Everything became pastel sweaters and Sperry Top-Siders and headbands in short hair.

  And then, on top of the pressure to be rich, everyone’s parents got divorced all at once. It was right around the time MTV premiered. Suddenly, if your dad didn’t make six figures on Wall Street and divorce your mom for a girl in your class, you were NO ONE. The coolest thing you could do was go to live with one parent in LA for the summer and come back wearing board shorts and a hardened stare. You’d been to that mall from the “Valley Girl” song. You made out with a skateboarder. You’d seen some shit.

  My mom and her friends spent a lot of time consoling the newly separated wives. They’d meet up at one house after work, and while all the moms talked in hushed tones in the kitchen, eight to ten kids lay in mesmerized silence around the TV room watching J. J. Jackson introduce Tina Turner videos. We did that all afternoon, until the sun set and then well into the night. There was a distant cackling about “that bastard” and his “midlife crisis” in the background while Billy Idol snarled and punched the air in the foreground. There was a lot of coping with either wine or Doritos, depending on which room you were in. As bad as the divorce epidemic was, I do have to say that I was incredibly jealous of the children of divorce. They were the least tended to of all the great abandoned masses of ’80s children. They ate those chips until they barfed, and then when their mom said it was time for dinner, they’d scream, “No!” and slam their bedroom door. It was breathtaking. In my house, you’d be dead and buried for that behavior. But all divorced moms did was sigh, light another Virginia Slim, and stare out the kitchen window.

  Well after dark, as we’d drive home, my mom would tell me about these women she knew who were divorcing their husbands but had never had a job or a bank account of their own. “She’s never written a check!” my mom would yell, steering our silver Volvo through the pitch-black country roads. “She’s never been on her own in her entire adult life! She doesn’t even know who she is.” I’d roll my eyes and say, “Typical,” because I like to be involved. But now I see my mom was trying to teach me the value of being independent, financially and emotionally. She was saying, start developing this sense of independence now so that when you’re an adult, it won’t be some life-shattering adjustment.

  Let’s skip now to the mid-2000s so I can tell you about a thing that happened that ties all this shit together. My life had very suddenly become the thing I dreamed it would be. I was a writer for a daily TV show, which meant I had a career and consistent money. These were things I never truly thought I’d have, what with my alcoholism and repeated failures in other attempted careers. (Fuck you, the Gap. You didn’t fire me, I quit.)

  So during the third season of this show, at Christmastime, I drove onto the lot and went to pull into my parking space, when I saw there was already a car in it. It was a silver BMW with a big red bow around the hood just like a car commercial. It took me a minute to realize it was a present for me. My boss wanted to show their appreciation for the work I’d done, so they bought me a car. A BMW, to be precise. I’d never wanted a BMW per se, but I also never thought I could have one. Suddenly, I felt like I’d truly made it in Hollywood. My proof was right there in front of me wrapped in a ridiculously big ribbon.

  If you drive a fancy car in LA, it either means you’re successful or you’re leasing a car to seem successful. Either way, it brings the driver a strange kind of status. Suddenly, I was pulling up to valets and feeling kinda proud. I felt rich. I felt like I belonged. I f
elt like … a preppie. (See? That’s me wrapping things up in a metaphorical bow for your reading pleasure. I told you I would, and then I did.) I could not believe that the impossible had finally happened. I looked like one of those people whose parents had boat money and then got divorced and then bought them an apology pony. I was now of the LA elite. But the car was subtly changing me. I started turning left on a yellow light even though I was the third car. I went 110 on the freeway when I had nowhere to be. I developed a disdain for slow cars, shitty-looking cars, cars with more than one bumper sticker. I blasted my German stereo and gunned my Nazi engine. It wasn’t my problem. It had been given to me. I had no choice but to become a douche. I was killing it in the business. That was the Hollywood way. This car meant I was better than other people.

  A year later, that job ended abruptly. I was totally disillusioned about who I’d become and what I thought I knew. I’d spent five years of my life at that show, given up performing comedy, abandoned friendships, and missed family functions. And here I was at the end, wondering if it’d been worth it. Of course, it feels good to be successful, especially if you’ve never felt anything like it before. And having money rules. But we all believe money and status will change us for the better. You lose yourself in the trappings of success: luxury cars, designer shoes, cashmere sweaters in every color. They’re all just props and costumes that our inner thirteen-year-old thinks we need to survive on the slanted, gravel-covered playground of adulthood. I had to go through this huge life trauma to realize that I never cared about being a preppie when I was thirteen. I just wanted to stop suffering so fucking much.

  I sold the BMW a week after I left that job. I didn’t like the way it made me feel.

  Buy Your Own Shit: Final Thoughts

  GEORGIA: We’ve all known people who don’t think they should have to “buy their own stuff.” What are some characteristics of those people?

  KAREN: Having grown up as one of those people, I’d say it happens when you grow up never having to provide for yourself. It makes you think the world somehow owes you, and it makes you resent hard work. But then hopefully, you meet people who have worked hard all their lives, and you get some perspective and you learn the value of contributing something and being of use, and it makes you see things differently.

  GEORGIA: What was a time in your life that something ended up being too good to be true?

  KAREN: Remember when everyone thought New York Seltzer was no-calorie when it came out because it had seltzer in the name? It was the ’80s, and we were very naïve. We drank SO much New York Seltzer, we thought it was the answer to our diet prayers.

  GEORGIA: What’s the first thing that you remember ever buying for yourself?

  KAREN: A Kristy and Jimmy McNichol record at the Music Coop record store in Petaluma. I loved her on the show Family. It was an incredible album. I consider it their Dark Side of the Moon.

  GEORGIA: What’s the last really big purchase you made? How did it make you feel?

  KAREN: I got a new car last year, and it was a huge relief. I didn’t buy one for a while because I was afraid to spend too much and get into more financial trouble, so I kept waiting and not buying one and taking Ubers everywhere. I inhaled SO much cologne. And then, when I knew we were going to be making a steady income from this podcast, I got the car I wanted and not the car I knew I could afford. It was a great big symbol for coming out of my financial crisis, and that makes me smile every time I get into it.

  art by Lucie Rice Illustration & Design

  8

  STAY OUT OF THE FOREST

  KAREN: “Stay out of the forest” was the last step in my aforementioned three-part process to ensuring personal safety. Nothing good happens in a forest. Ask Hansel, Gretel, or Harry Potter. But we all know that avoiding an entire land feature won’t guarantee nothing bad will ever happen to us. For this life is filled with conceptual forests that we’d do best to stay away from as well. So, gather ’round the campfire, children. It’s scary story time.

  Georgia Loses Her Brother but Finds Herself

  There’s a giant tapestry covering one wall in the podcast loft, the open upstairs room in my apartment where we used to record the podcast and have all of our fan art. It’s just a huge photo of a beautiful, bucolic forest with nothing but pine trees and rivers for miles and miles. Most people would look at that tapestry and feel a sense of relaxation and ease; maybe they’d use it to help with meditation or put it across from their bed to stare at when falling asleep at night, but I—and I’m sure a lot of Murderinos can relate—can’t look at it without wondering about the dead bodies. I look at that thing and just think there have to be dead bodies hidden underneath the canopy of trees or buried deep beneath the soil of the forest floor.

  How do you find a body in the woods? No, seriously. How does anyone ever even start looking for a body in the woods?! It’s the woods. And the woods are vast as fuck. Everything is covered in trees! And there are freaking bears! And whatever bramble is! It makes no sense to me, and then I think of all the bodies that will never be found because of the pure vastness and all-encompassing hugeness of the forest, and it gives me a tiny panic attack.

  When I was a little kid, I thought it would be so cool to find a dead body. Once again, I blame Stephen King for this, along with my overactive imagination, as watching Stand by Me as a six-year-old gave me some crazy ideas about what an adventure finding a body would be. And also I associated River Phoenix and his all-encompassing gorgeousness with finding a body, so that didn’t help.

  My dad used to take me and my older siblings, Asher and Leah, on camping trips every summer since before I can remember. So I’ve been thinking about bodies in woods since … before I can remember. Dad had custody of us every other weekend and for two weeks every summer. Instead of bingeing TV and complaining about how hot it was in his small apartment in a complex that seemed made specifically for divorcés, he’d plan a big road trip to a national forest for a week of camping and hiking and complaining about how hot it was in nature. The whole point of these trips was some kind of personality-building exercise that only made sense to my dad. He wanted to instill in us self-sufficiency, a work ethic, and probably survival skills for when the end days come? I don’t really know. MARTY?!

  When times were good, he’d pick us up in a big RV. When things were just OK, he’d pick us up in a smaller camper. When he pulled up in his beat-up minivan, we knew not to even ask to go into souvenir shops. But whatever he pulled up in, Asher, Leah, and I would sprint to the curb and scream: “I’M IN THE FRONT NO TRADE-BACKS!”1 Because that’s how you won the coveted front seat in the Hardstark households. Don’t ask questions or meaning. It was just Sibling Law.

  We’d drive forever, and I’m not bratty-little-are-we-there-yet-kid exaggerating. We’d actually drive ten-plus hours in one day, partially because of the distance we needed to cover and partially because my dad drives like an old man (Marty! I’m sorry, but it’s TRUE!). He’d only bring two cassettes to listen to as we drove: Paul Simon’s Graceland, which I now know every single word to and the title song of which we danced our father/daughter dance to at my wedding, and a tape of bagpipe music. Who the hell listens to bagpipe music?? With kids??? And we really did listen to it whenever we got sick of Paul Simon’s voice, that or the shitty AM radio station of whatever small town we were driving through.

  We never stopped for food, as my dad was both frugal and strict with the allotment of stops we took. Instead, he’d have the dreaded small cooler in the car with the GROSSEST healthy snacks, like peanuts and raisins that were in two separate containers so we would have to pour a little of each into our dirty hands to combine them and make something resembling trail mix. Juice boxes, grapes, and stale pretzels rounded out the lackluster snack food department. Oh, the unhealthy snacks we coveted from the gas stations we’d stop at. Chips and hot dogs that had been sitting in the warmer for hours on end and oh my gosh LUNCHABLES. I still love shitty gas station food as an adult pr
obably because I was never allowed to have it as a kid. On the few occasions when we would stop to grab food to go, it would be with the stern warning to “eat over your clothes” lest we make a mess in the car.2

  Now listen, one of the reasons I don’t want kids is because my siblings and I were the biggest monsters ever. I’m talking constant drama and turmoil. Love and hate and betrayal and laughter and a little ADHD (thanks to yours truly) thrown in for good measure. How did my parents not murder us?? We didn’t have a token troublemaker kid in my family. All three of us were constantly getting into trouble—at school, at home, in Target, wherever. I once told my soccer coach to go fuck himself when he wouldn’t stop hounding me. I think I was ten. And we were all like that. (One time, Asher locked Leah and me in our bedroom with an intricate mechanism made out of yarn and wouldn’t let us out until we drank an orange juice / raw egg concoction. We were in there for three hours before we relented and drank it. And the only person who’s ever punched me in the stomach is my sister. Twice. I got her back by throwing a Barbie at her head.)

  One of my favorite family stories is when Asher’s teacher made him write “I will not wipe my Kleenex on someone else’s property” a hundred times in his notebook after a kid complained about Asher’s gross antics. We still have that piece of paper framed somewhere in our family.

  Sometimes, when Dad just couldn’t take us anymore, he’d start repeating the phrase “Move away from me now, move away from me now.”3 You knew he was serious because he said it in this creepy monotone that left no room for discussion. You moved away from him. Now.