The Name

I wanted to be named Chloe.

Or Sarah.

Or Jessica.

Or Ashley.

Or Brooke.

These were the names of girls that took ballet and had boyfriends and made the volleyball team, and were driven around in Volvo station wagons.

My parents named me Kimberly…

Kimberly is the name of a girl whose asthma prevents her from doing any sports, and gets the “citizenship award” every year in grade school because her teachers feel sorry for her.

I think my life would have been a lot different if my parents had named me Chloe.

First of all, I would be living in New York City.

I would be a celebrated choreographer. I would have one cat named Maurice that shares my first-floor brownstone on the Upper Westside. I would have a tumultuous, yet intoxicating relationship with the theatre’s director. Yes, he’s married with three kids, but his wife is a cow and he wants to leave her… he’s just waiting for the right time.

But, my name isn’t Chloe.

My name is Kimberly.

I live in Burbank, California.

I’m not celebrated (except on my birthday). I live in a duplex and I don’t have any pets. Also: I’ve been married to the same man for eight years.

When I was born my parents looked at my face and nodded and said, “Kimberly”.

I recently asked my parents why they named me Kimberly and they said, “we liked it”.

After I thanked them for being so specific… and after they thanked me for being so sarcastic… and after I thanked them for using sarcasm correctly (for once) by “thanking” me for something that they weren’t really thankful for… I said that I wished they had come up with something a little more hip/current.

Kimberly just doesn’t have that je ne sais quoi.

I mean, I guess I could change it…

I could go to the name changing office and fill out the forms and pay the fee and send out an email to friends, relatives and co-workers that says something along the lines of… “Hey, it’s Kimberly but I’ve gone and changed my name to Chloe because I always didn’t really like my name, so from now on call me Chloe, okay?”

But then I’d have to move to New York City and learn choreography.

Also: I’m allergic to cats.

And, also: I like my husband a fair bit.

So… I guess I’ll stick with Kimberly.

The Balls

In How to Succeed in Business Without Really Crying: Lessons From a Life in Comedy (which happens to be a delightful collection of essays about the “business”) comedy writing ledge* Carol Leifer writes: “You lose your balls as you get older.”

Not your marbles or your bone density or your driver’s license or your car keys… (although you also tend to lose all of those)… Balls.

As one ages, one loses one’s balls.

I’m not talking about the spherical ones used for games, or the ones where you get all dressed up in your finest gown and dance and drink champagne.

I do like both of those kinds of balls.

A lot.

In fact, if you’re planning either: a) a baseball game or, b) a formal social function, with champagne… Count me in**.

I digress.

Those kinds of balls are not the ones that I’m referring to.

The balls I’m referring to are the two oval male reproductive glands, where sperm and androgens are produced.

Obviously, I’m referring to these kinds of balls*** metaphorically.

Obviously, Carol Leifer was not talking about losing your testes as you get older (Unless you do?!?! To be honest, I don’t really know how that all works)… Carol was talking about losing your metaphorical balls as you get older.

If you have metaphorical balls, you’re fearless. You have courage. You take risks. You’re bold! (If you have non-metaphorical balls… you were just born a man.)

When I was in my 20s, I had huge metaphorical balls… and I wasn’t afraid of failure. I had confidence. A lot… (possibly too much)… The kind of confidence that comes after a few Apple Martinis and the belief that “Frodo” (Elijah Wood) wants to hear all about your parent’s llama farm in Northern British Columbia.

Now, in my 30s, my metaphorical balls are slightly smaller… I’m a little bit afraid of failure, and I’m definitely a little less ballsy. 

BUT… I have way, way more: drive, determination, experience, resolution, hope, wisdom and laugh lines.

Hopefully that levels the “playing field”… (where one plays with balls******).

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* When I say “ledge” I don’t mean a shelf, I mean “legend”. I’ve just gone and shortened the word because that’s what the kids are doing these dayz****

** +1.

*** Testes, gonads, nuts, “family jewels”*****

**** Also, the kids are doing that

***** Slang, for male genitals (not: your mother’s pearls)

****** Just the spherical ones used for games… hopefully

The Fan

I’m not talking about the kind that winnows grain, or the instrument used to produce a current of air, or even the movement of a peacock’s feathers to reveal his impressive plumage.

I’m talking about the enthusiastic kind of person that really, really loves a band or a musician or a sports team or a TV show or, in my case… a clever, winsome, geriatric* Jew**.

You might be thinking, “But there are a lot of clever, winsome, geriatric Jews, so which one are you referring to specifically?”

First of all, you’re right. There is no shortage of clever, winsome, geriatric Jews: Al Franken. Jerry Seinfeld. Rick Moranis. Harold Ramis. Jeff Goldblum, David Cross. Albert Brooks. Mel Brooks. Lewis Black. Paul Reiser. Paul Ruebens (Pee Wee). Don Rickles. The list goes on and on.

Second of all, I think you need to learn patience (and I’m not the only one who thinks so). Obviously, I was going to tell you who the clever, winsome, geriatric Jew was eventually. I didn’t mention it just to play games with you (or your heart). I mentioned it because I was introducing my subject, and sometimes when people introduce their subjects, they don’t immediately reveal who they’re talking about… they segue into their subject very subtly and skilfully…

Anyway, I’m talking about Larry David.

You know… the actor, writer, comedian and producer from such beloved television programs as Seinfeld, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Saturday Night Live, and Clear History.

You know… this guy:

I’ve been a big fan (not the kind that winnows grain) of Larry David and his “oeuvre” for a very, very long time*** so when I heard my favourite clever, winsome, geriatric Jew was going to be at an event in Beverly Hills last Thursday, I did what any fan (again, not referring to the instrument used to produce a current of air) would do… I purchased a ticket in advance and waited.

On the day of the show I went into my DVD collection and picked out Curb Your Enthusiasm Season 6****, hoping that I might get Larry David to sign it. I arrived early and found a seat in the second row.

Eventually, Larry David and Carol Leifer (another clever, winsome Jew that I happen to love, and who has written a great book called “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Crying”) walked out, sat down, talked, took sips from their bottled waters, talked a little more, made the audience laugh, and then it was all over.

I turned to my husband and said, “I’m going” and I walked right over to Larry David. I was nervous (he’s very clever and winsome) so I mumbled something about loving him, wearing the same shoes as him (Campers) and then I asked him to sign my DVD, which he did.

Like the best foreplay, it was over in about 30 seconds.

Now I don’t know why fans feel the need to profess or demonstrate their love for their favourite band, musician, sports team, TV show or, in my case… a clever, winsome, geriatric Jew… but I felt the need.

Sometimes I wonder if Larry David was equally excited to meet and interact with me? And then I think, “no… probably not.”

He does look interested though, doesn’t he?

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* The term “geriatric” might have negative connotations for some, but for me it means: seasoned, mature, wise, practiced, and eligible for discounts!

** Yes, I’m mentioning that he’s a Jew. There’s nothing wrong with mentioning his religious and cultural affiliation (in my opinion). Also, because I might possibly be Jewish, I feel like it makes it extra okay.

*** 16 years

**** I choose Season 6 because bringing Season 6 sends Larry a message, and the message is this: “I’m a true fan (again, not referring to the movement of a peacock’s feathers to reveal his impressive plumage) because I have all 8 seasons on DVD and I know that you know that and admit it, you’re impressed.”

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