Rooms R Us

My own room for the first time ever. I could hardly wait!

I didn't have to sleep with other people in the room anymore...a place where I could close the door and escape into daydreams, fantasies, and PRIVACY.

My parents even found a used vanity table with a mirror and chair for my room. The cosmetics on the vanity crowded my stuffed animals. I knew sooner or later there would not be room for both.

I felt so feminine and grown-up in the vanity's mirror seeing the reflection of a future acclaimed actress or best-selling author.

The closet held only "my" things, no one else's.

My storybook dolls, timeless princesses adorned in beautiful gowns and tiaras, slept undisturbed in their plastic, see-through boxes, unspoiled and forever perfect. Like Sleeping Beauty, they awaited the kiss of the handsome prince to awaken them.

I would transform my room into a sanctuary, dreamscape, and bigger-than-life movie starring me. Sometimes the room became a time machine transporting me to a wonderful future filled with love, romance and riches.

On my fantasy stage, I would confront my parents and win; accept the Oscar graciously; be crowned Miss America; and passionately kiss the senior class president.

It was here where I rehearsed for life; and, all my stories had happy, victorious endings written, produced and directed from the theatre of my mind.

Years later, I shared my room, this time with my husband. How strange to be lying there beside him with my parents in the next room. I felt self conscious about the squeaky bedsprings and refused to make love, for somehow that would be sacrilege.

In this place, nothing in reality could compare to the exquisite romances of my girlhood fantasies.

After my divorce, I stayed in my room for the last time. The house was empty. My parents had divorced long ago and my mother had passed. I went there with a man I cared for but had no plans to marry.

As I lay beside him, memories and ghosts swept over me. I wept as I realized my lovely, girlhood dreams had shattered in the outside world.

Now I possessed wisdom and experience, but the innocent girl imagining her first kiss was gone forever.


Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-10 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

For Love of the Movies

It’s award season for the movies, my favorite time of the year for one of my family’s treasured traditions, the Oscars. For some families, it’s sports…for mine, it’s the movies. My family speaks “moviespeak.” It is a bond that transcends our lifestyles and ages and continues as a tradition through our generations.


Movies have been part of my life since my mother took me with her every week to the local Chicago theatres. It was both escape and entertainment for her while she waited for my dad to return from WWII.


I barely fit on the seat and often fell asleep while watching adult dramas or cowered under the seat for horror films like The Thing.

Later my mother took me to live performances at the elegant Chicago Theatre where musicians sometimes performed before a movie. Together we saw Harry James, the great trumpet player of his time, a sold out event similar to major concert tours today.

Mom adored the actors, read Photoplay (a precursor of TMZ and Entertainment Weekly) and the celebrity gossip magazines. She lived her life vicariously through film stars and knew not only their film credits but their personal lives as revealed through the “rags” of the day.


Movie stars were her special friends. She knew them the way diehard soap opera fans follow their favorite characters. Our family’s Super Bowl was the Oscars ceremony which we watched faithfully every year as the film stars accepted their awards. As a girl, I dreamed of someday accepting an Oscar. I got as far as a high school drama award that looked like an Oscar statuette.

Growing up in Chicago, movies along with Looney Tunes cartoons made for a perfect Saturday morning following the serial adventures of Tarzan while enjoying Good & Plenty candy and jujubes as well as air conditioning before most homes had it, and sometimes even a special event on the theatre stage like learning how to do yoyo tricks (never did master “walking the dog.”)


On hot summer nights, the family would pack up the car and go to the drive-in movies. Later we would stop by a Dairy Queen or Dog n Suds for a sweet ending to our family outing. We were together, entertained and shared a treat. Life was simple and we were satisfied.


My mother’s love of the movies is a legacy in our family. My brother quotes movie lines when the occasion calls for it. My son remembers and recalls favorite scenes in great detail like sporting fans that have total recall of their favorite sports moments.


No matter what else is going on in our lives, movies are a part of the family. As my mother started and we continue, we cast our votes for the Oscars as to who will win versus who should win. Like my parents, we critique and share our opinions about movies. We consider ourselves well-informed critics with a wealth of movie going experience as well as followers of the movie industry, my daughter as a TV producer and my son as a writer. We simply love stories, and movies tell and preserve them better than anything else.

I learned in my teens that my name came from a movie character. The Greek family tradition is to name the firstborn after a grandparent. My pregnant mother found the perfect equivalent for my grandmother’s name in what is now a black-and-white cult film from the ‘40s, The Curse of the Cat People. Simone Simon played a horror film’s heroine named Erana.

Years later, I named my daughter Dana, the name of the lovely British actress Dana Wynter who starred in the '50s Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was an unconscious coincidence that I was following in my mother’s footsteps.

Over the holidays, we always go to the movies. Our tastes differ, but we want to share the family experience. We may not have read the same book, but we’ve seen the same movie. Even now, when I have a long day, I escape with popcorn to the movies, on the big screen or via Netflix or Blockbuster.

Movies still have the magical power to transport me to a place where I am totally engaged and the rest of life can be put on hold for awhile. They still move and sometimes scare me. They take me away from the ordinary and involve me in their stories where I feel empathy with the characters, their problems, struggles and victories. They make me feel more alive. I love the movies.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chicago Theatre photo by Chris Ayers
 Popcorn photo by Steven Kapsinow

Georgie’s Girl

I was the new kid in seventh grade in the suburbs of Chicago. Georgie was the leader of the eighth grade boys. He was cocky, mischievous, wore his jeans slung on his hips without a belt, a black leather motorcycle jacket with his collar up…an irresistible mix of James Dean and John Travolta with thick, blonde, wavy hair and blue eyes that made me melt.

All the girls adored him. Georgie was king of the school and everybody tried to please him, except me. I was so shy that I wouldn’t talk to him and only looked at him when he couldn’t see. The others thought my awkward standoffishness was what they called “stuck-up.”

I fantasized about Georgie but never dreamed he would notice me. I’m not sure what attracted him to me except that I was the only girl not fawning over him. One day, his simple “hi” broke our silence as he walked me to my locker.

After that, we were “a couple,” and he escorted me to my classes regularly. Of course, I was thrilled as if my dream had come true. Georgie also started riding his motorcycle to my house, the ultimate display of affection to a girl who never had a boyfriend before.

Since Georgie liked me, the 8th grade girls’ clique called the Sub-Debs (like the Pink Ladies in Grease) invited me to their lunch table, and soon I became one of them. We wore identical yellow jackets and rolled down our bobby socks an inch at the top to look cool.

I cut my hair short in a slick DA shaped into a duck tail in the back with side curls that I taped to my cheeks at night to train them to lie plastered against my face during the day.

Though Georgie looked like a gang member from West Side Story, he was always a gentleman with me. Our relationship was innocent and delightful, just handholding and closed-mouth kissing. We never “made out.” I was still very shy, and he never tried.

I remember his asking me to “go steady” on a summer day on a bench near the park at the end of our street. He even gave me his engraved ID bracelet to wear so everyone would know I was Georgie’s girl. After that, I gained new status in the school and became the envy of the other girls.

Other than a few sweet kisses, my first love and I only shared socializing at school and some parties at other kids’ houses, usually in the basement, the knotty-pine, paneled party room for working class families in suburban Chicago homes.

I’m not sure when Georgie and I went our separate ways. We seemed to drift apart when I went to high school. I started spending more time with student leaders and other teens that wanted to go to college. That didn’t interest Georgie. He was street smart, savvy, and in a hurry to make money.

We no longer had much in common. He still had a following of the boys from Berger Elementary School, but was not a high-school achiever in sports, scholastics, or extra-curricular activities. I lost track of him in our overcrowded high school of 4,000 students. The following year I was elected the first girl president of the sophomore class.

After I graduated and moved on to the University of Illinois, I came home for the summers and worked in downtown Chicago. One day I ran into Georgie on the street in my hometown. It felt awkward. We really didn’t know what to say to each other. It had been much easier in seventh grade. We were now in very different places.

I was dressed for business and he was still in his construction coveralls. Working in the sun made him blonder, rugged, and more handsome. He was still mischievous and his confidence was disarming.

We made small talk and scanned each other. I felt sexually attracted to him at 19 and wondered what it would be like to be intimate with him. I sensed that the feeling was mutual but neither of us tried to revive our lost love.

I never saw Georgie again. I married my college sweetheart and moved to another state to teach near where my husband was attending law school. My father later told me that Georgie married one of the quiet, pretty girls from my class who never went to college.

They seemed to be doing well: big house, cars, boat, etc. I knew Georgie was a hustler and was not surprised that he was earning big money in the construction business. He always had to be number one.

A couple years later, I heard that Georgie was in prison. His ambition had led him to his own private plane, major drug deals, and connections to cartels smuggling drugs into the country. As always, he did things in a big way and never stood for being second best at anything.

Many years have passed, but the memory of him as my first love remains tucked away in my heart forever. He made an awkward, young, skinny girl feel pretty and special. I will always be thankful that I was Georgie’s girl.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Rooms R Us

I could hardly wait!


My own room for the first time ever. I didn't have to sleep with other people in the room anymore...a place where I could close the door and escape into daydreams, fantasies, and PRIVACY.
My parents even found a used vanity table with a mirror and chair for my room. The cosmetics on the vanity crowded my stuffed animals. I knew sooner or later there would not be room for both. I felt so feminine and grown-up in the vanity's mirror seeing the reflection of a future acclaimed actress or best-selling author.

The closet held only "my" things, no one else's. My storybook dolls, timeless princesses adorned in beautiful gowns and tiaras, slept undisturbed in their plastic, see-through boxes, unspoiled and forever perfect. Like Sleeping Beauty, they awaited the kiss of the handsome prince to awaken them.

I would transform my room into a sanctuary, dreamscape, and bigger-than-life movie starring me. Sometimes the room became a time machine transporting me to a wonderful future filled with love, romance and riches.

On my fantasy stage, I would confront my parents and win; accept the Oscar graciously; be crowned Miss America; and passionately kiss the senior class president. It was here where I rehearsed for life; and, all my stories had happy, victorious endings written, produced and directed from the theatre of my mind.

Years later, I shared my room, this time with my husband. How strange to be lying there beside him with my parents in the next room. I felt self conscious about the squeaky bedsprings and refused to make love, for somehow that was sacrilege. In this place, nothing in reality could compare to the exquisite romances of my girlhood fantasies.

After my divorce, I stayed in my room for the last time. The house was empty. My parents had divorced long ago and my mother had passed. I went there with a man I cared for but had no plans to marry.

As I lay beside him, memories and ghosts swept over me. I wept as I realized my lovely, girlhood dreams had shattered in the outside world. Now I possessed wisdom and experience, but the innocent girl imagining her first kiss was gone forever.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Womenpause

OK. I'm 60 something. The American dream of getting married and living happily or at least securely thereafter didn't happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I followed the script at 22: married my college sweetheart, became a lawyer's wife with two kids and a house in the country in a small, safe town in the Midwest.

At 47, I had another chance for the American dream: a professional career and a second marriage to a charming therapist, ten years my junior.

Now I'm pursing a different reality as a single woman in her 60's. I'm moving to Phoenix after almost four years in Marina del Rey, LA's sailing area known for singles. At this point I thought I'd be approaching a comfortable retirement and enjoying wonderful trips to exotic places along with free time to write, do pottery, and volunteer for worthy causes.

Instead, I'm relocating to a more affordable city to start again. According to the original script, at this age I was looking forward to relaxing in my paid for home, enjoying leisure time and grandchildren.

So it's time for me to take the advice of my philosopher son, "Blaze a trail, Mom. You have before." And, I'm not alone. The majority of the women I know my age are still in search of the dream through Internet dating, singles events, and speed dating...seeking that happy ending.

We are educated, attractive women with no defined role for this unexpected passage. We exercise, play tennis, and pursue hobbies; but mostly we are solitary figures who previously defined ourselves as wives, mothers, and career women. We live longer, look better, and lead active lives only to return to our single lives in apartments and condos.

There's not a prescribed identity or path for single, mature women. We don't fit in the conventional roles of matron or grandmother. Our social life is primarily with other women like ourselves. What is our place now in the tribe?

Sure we've thought about the bag-lady syndrome and worry about getting sick. The stats for remarrying at this stage of life are not promising. There seem to be too few available knights in our age group. Some of us prefer to remain single and free, but most of us still want to relate and be connected.

What are our options? We talk about living together and creating new family units in group houses and modern communes.

As for me, I'm not giving up. It's an adventure far different than what I expected. Today's script is being written by those of us living it. So I'm on the road again with Phoenix as my next destination. Will I find community there? My place? I remain hopeful.

There needs to be a name for this phase of mature women's lives. Post something: postmarriage, postchildren, postcareer. I think we could call it womenpause. I can say I'm going through womenpause.

I have no roadmap and few role models. With the others, I will blaze a trail so the women that follow us will know how to navigate womenpause.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED