God Wink #3

Yesterday I walked the min pin in the city with the hubs. Over near my childhood home, our pal Linda (who feeds the min pin treats and offers kind attention and neighborly conversation to all three of us) came bounding out of her house with her purse-sized pups at her heels, waving a thick and colorful seed catalog.

She said she'd been waiting patiently for us to come by because she knows I admire her wine colored, grapefruit sized zinnias and she wanted to give us the book so I could order some for myself this year.

We took a collective look at the cover as Linda pointed out that I kinda look like the gal on the front of the seed catalog. Hubs concurred. I never think I look like anyone but, weirdly enough, in this instance, I do. I took it as a sign I should probably order them and thanked her for the book.

Then, as if that weren't enough of a God wink, later in the afternoon a neighbor on the other side of the 'hood dropped a large envelope of reclaimed zinnia seeds in our mailbox as a thank you for a time when I shared bulbs with her.

Zinnias? Twice on a January day? What are the odds?

Total God wink.

#Zinnias #JohnnysSeedCatalog #mushroomtumbler

Sparking Joy with Grandpa and Moo Moo

 

Every Christmas was the same. A bottle of Johnny Walker for Grandpa and the latest Avon glass candle for Moo Moo.

40 years ago, when gathering together was more important than a bunch of gifts, a single present was enough to make anyone's holiday jolly in my family. There's something reassuring about getting the same treat every year, or a version of it. There are no fears that things are changing when you sort of know what's coming. Time stands still even though we are aware of its passing. The importance of tradition, for us, cannot be overstated. A single, thoughtful, highly anticipated gift made us feel remembered, loved, and comfortable.

I miss those days.

My Grandpa, if he were alive today, would be dumbfounded by Marie Kondo Sparking Joy by cleaning closets and her other highly touted simplification measures. Grandpa could have taught all of us a thing or two about plain living and avoiding our desire to amass a bunch of crap that no one needs.

Seriously. Why do we have all this CRAP?

He had one pair of slippers. They were corduroy, from Sears, and got replaced every Father's Day. The old ones got tossed away.

He had one pair of sneakers. They were white low top Converse, made during an era when all Converse made were white (actually they were sort of off white) sneakers. The only choice you had was whether you wanted high or low cut.

He had one coffee mug and if he said "Get me my coffee mug" you knew damn well which one to grab.

He had one favorite cereal (Frosted Flakes), one favorite cookie (Mallowmars), one favorite soda (Pepsi) and one favorite everyday meal (meatballs, heavy on the venison, over spaghetti with salad and, you guessed it, one salad dressing...oil and red wine vinegar, always hand blended in the same Tupperware cruet.)

He only drove Fords. He only wore Dickies trousers (in only three colors, olive, tan, and navy). His favorite movie was "Midway" and we watched it over and over when VHS and VCRs were invented. His favorite musical was "South Pacific" because he was a WWII Navy veteran. He knew all the words to Bali Hai. I'm not sure if it was his favorite, but we sang that three note song like Bloody Mary herself. "Bali Hai may call youuuuuuuuu. Come away, come away."

He camped and God help you if you tried to convince him to take any other kind of vacation.

He enjoyed living in his two family home which he and Moo Moo owned for close to 50 years. It allowed them to provide an inexpensive apartment for countless family members just starting out before they could afford to buy a home of their own. My parents and I benefitted from living in the downstairs half of that two family ourselves for a couple of years.

He liked restaurant food, but only certain food from specific restaurants, all within a 5 mile radius of his house. If he wanted a fish fry, we knew to go get it from Gene's. If he wanted liver and onions, you'd be foolish to get it from anywhere else other than Vivian's. If he wanted Kung Pau Chicken, it'd better come from Yip's, and that's it.

He drove a truck for Dorn's transportation even though he started out professionally, post wartime, as a law clerk. Eventually, the idea of clerking indoors all day made him unhappy and uncomfortable.  Becoming a Teamster was something he loved talking about. He was proud to be a union guy. He had one tie tack, Teamster logo. He probably had one tie.

His life was simple but it was not boring. It was enjoyably jam packed with people. He had more company than any person I ever knew, to this day, because he was involved with and knew everyone in his community and also because he kept the front door unlocked at all times. People just came and went all evening long, and eventually, once he became disabled and unable to work, all day long too.

I'd visit and hear the familiar banging of the entrance door; it was a massive wood portal that had a big rattly glass panel in the center which made the house shake when slammed shut. No one ever yelled, "Don't slam that door!" because you had to really put your weight behind it to close it all the way. That entrance door led to a lengthy hallway, that then led to Moo Moo and Grandpa's front door into the flat. We kids and Grandpa always played the game of guessing who was coming down that hallway by how they closed the door, the noises they made (if any) and their footsteps. Grandpa got it right almost every time.

"Here comes Al.', he'd say and in would pop my Great Uncle, who'd puff clouds of Burley and Bright Half and Half pipe smoke in his face as he bent down to enthusiastically shake my Grandpa's hand. Then Al would march off to the kitchen to see if there was any coffee. He'd reach on top of the refrigerator to grab his little slide top tin of saccharin tabs. Everyone knew they were his.

"Here comes Marc", and my teenaged cousin would come in, with his thick-lensed 1977 brown framed glasses, spinning his red, white and blue ABA basketball expertly on his middle finger. "What's up, Unc?" Marc would grin and say, giving my Grandpa the soul brother handshake, popular at that time. Marc almost never ate dinner before coming over. He knew he could stay a while, enjoy warm leftovers and play Pong, which my grandparents had hooked up to their bulky wooden television console at all times. Despite having no kids at home, they were the first people on the block to have a video game attached to their TV because people who stopped by might just want to play electronic table tennis.

"Here comes Jimmy", and Jim, who lived next door, would burst in. "Hey Uncle Ed!" he'd say with a loud and deliberate delivery and then he'd sit down on the couch next to my Grandpa's chair and talk nonstop about whatever happened to be on his mind that minute. It could be Giants football, the fact that his roof was leaking or the notion of global thermonuclear war but the level of intensity was always the same with my beloved cousin. Because Grandpa maintained an even keel at all times, and knew a little about a lot, everybody found him approachable and easy to sit with.

One of my favorite stories about him and me (and I have hundreds, but I need to wrap this up) took place when I was 16. I'd had my permit for a little over two months and wanted some vehicular freedom so Dad told me to pick him up at work that Friday night and we'd go to Moo Moo and Grandpa's for dinner. My father was working a new job, about a 45 minute drive from home and his girlfriend drove him that day.  Although she offered, I pigheadedly eschewed directions, probably with a wave of my jelly-bangled hand. I've GOT THIS. Plus, it was the '80s. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, it was December and I took a very wrong turn. I drove around for at least an extra half hour, a lost, shivering, wreck. Calling from a mighty sketchy payphone in the dark I heard Moo Moo answer the phone. "Where ARE you?" she said, with a worried tone I was not accustomed to hearing. "I don't KNOW!" I shouted, completely low on gas, blood sugar and patience. "Ask her what she SEES!" shouted Grandpa from his chair. I rattled off two completely random landmarks as Moo held the phone in the air for him to hear and he calmly stated, "Oh. She's on the corner of Columbia and Congress in Cohoes" and he was right.

My grandmother came and I followed her 15 out of the way miles back to her house. My father, thankfully, had managed a ride. The four of us chuckled for an hour over Kung Pau Chicken (you know where it was from) and each time someone lumbered in, having body slammed the door, shaken off the cold and snow, and pulled up a chair, we retold the events of the evening while digging into the Chinese food and howling, over and over. In fact, we couldn't wait for the next visitor to come in because Grandpa was now saying his part aloud and hooting with delight at each retelling.

By the way, my single Christmas gift that year from Grandpa was a map. I shit you not.

#JohnnyWalker #Avon #Converse #FrostedFlakes #Mallowmar #Tupperware #Ford #Dickies #Midway #SouthPacific #BaliHai #Cohoes #BurleyandBright #mushroomtumbler #1980s #1970s

My husband Vinny

My husband just told me a story about 9 young kids trying to outrun the local law, in a stolen panel van, which they recklessly smashed into the front of a hospital taking out one of their 100 year old granite pillars.

He described them as "yoots".

"Yoots?" I said.

"Yoots." He replied.

I shall be calling him Vinny (not his real name) for the rest of the day.

#yoots #mycousinvinny #mushroomtumbler

Tippy Toes, Rat Fink, Crazy Legs and The Microwave - That's the Way (uh huh uh huh) I Like It.

When my husband and I met I was a rollerblader. 

Growing up roller skating, like a lot of girls in my neighborhood, I skated non stop: to and from school; at the local roller rink every opportunity possible; and, of course if you read my blog post about Basement Boogie you know I was a sucker for a good 1970s homestyle underground skate.

I also grew up in a hockey family so when I didn't have roller skates on my feet, I was donning ice skates. In fact, the first job I ever had at the ripe old age of ten was teaching MIGHTY MITES (pre-K hockey babies) to skate by pushing folding chairs at the Civic Center.
Don't fall, kid, or you're face planting into metal. 

Simple as that. 

Quick learner!

Good boy. 

This was all new to my husband, raised in the urbs (as opposed to the suburbs). He was a hoop player, a boxer, a runner, a pitcher, and a weight lifter, definitely not a skater...ever. However, I told him rolling along was super simple to learn (and convinced him that 16 years ago...with help from a sleek metal folding chair...I was THE BEST skating teacher ever!) and he trusted me. 

Silly boy.

No, really, he did fine, so long as 'fine' means narrowly escaping flattening by a Dodge. Read on. 

The first place I took him was a busy road in our urban locale and he, right out of the gate, went down a sizeable hill. Looking back, I wonder what in the hell we were doing. Maybe I figured he was so coordinated in every other way, how could he not be a natural on the insanely beautiful  rollerblades that we'd just picked out and dropped a cool hundred on? Maybe he was trying to impress me by just going for it? I might have blocked some of this out to spare myself the guilt. 

Well, whatever we were thinking, he made it to the bottom of that hill by the grace of God. Looking a lot like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz...when his stuffing was on fire...hubs was all knees and elbows, making breathy puffing noises as he rolled on by at a frighteningly fast clip, I was Dorothy off to the side with my hair in braids and my mouth in the shape of an "o", holding my hands in prayer position as I watched him cross the road in a giant, unadvisable, dangerous as feck back and forth pattern; at one point careening very haphazardly in front of a Ram truck with step sides that almost took him out. When he turned around at the bottom of the hill and gave me a big grin with two thumbs up, I decided we were only going blading indoors from that point on. Love you, babe!

To his credit, he enthusiastically committed and we began rollerblading at an indoor skating rink a few nights a week. Not only was it good exercise but it was a way for us, in our new relationship, to spend time together doing three things that I freaking loved: 

1. Skating 

2. Listening to music 

3. Drinking ICEES with those fat, spoon straws. 

To our delight and surprise, we encountered many of the same folks each time we went. Who knew that there was such an active adult community of roller people? Who knew how defined their personalities would become as the weeks went on? During our car trips over I'd wonder aloud, "Who do you think will be there?" and hubs would name our four favorite regulars. Now don't get the wrong idea...we hadn't made any personal acquaintances, we were sort of doing our own thing there, but we had given a few memorable guys fun and recognizable nicknames. To let you in on a little secret - I'm sort of a professional nicknamer. I nicknamed an entire residence of fraternity boys in 1989 - like Bluto in Animal House, only my GPA was well above 0.0 at the time and I don't like green Jell-O.

More about that another time. Back to the story at hand!

First there was Tippy Toes. Do you remember Eight is Enough? Tippy Toes looked like what Nicholas would look like 25 years post EIE, with the same hair do, a pleasantly cultivated beer gut, and enough confidence for three people. (For those of you who don't recall, Nicholas is the little cutie on the bottom of this picture, sandwiched between Tom and Mary Bradford.) Anyway, if there were government presiding over the rink, Tippy would have been the mayor. He wore well loved roller skates from, I'm guessing, the 1970s; a sort of a grungy light tan with newer ebony wheels and worn navy blue toe stops.  The dude was not light by any means - he probably tipped the scales at about 260 - but damn, if he wasn't the freaking Fred Astaire of the roller rink. He would, when he saw someone he knew, which was pretty much everyone, immediately skate backward in front of the person, with this loose limbed swagger that suggested he was just as comfy grooving in reverse as he was forward. He'd flip his 1970's dirty blonde bowl cut bangs out of his eyes, and nod his head casually as he chatted up the nervous ladies, with their stiff wrists and locked elbows, small stepping around the oval rink, in careful time to the beat. If they were indeterminately slow, he'd literally skate circles around them, and funk himself back to a reverse glide, mane flipping, fleshy pouch bobbing a little from beneath his tshirt, and gumby legging all the while. His favorite song was Keep it Comin' Love but if the DJ played anything at all by KC and the Sunshine band, he'd skate alongside the rail and wildly clap toward all the bystanders (or is it byskaters?) soliciting them to come out and celebrate like he was a mascot at a high school pep rally. I don't know what Tippy did for a living but maybe he was some sort of professional encourager? He was a truly enthusiastic ambassador for the sport. 

Next up: Rat Fink. Rat Fink was the rink's wiry, mustached Yenta, telling Susie Q that Frankie D thought she was totally awesome, and so on, but really, he was no matchmaker. He was just a gossipy adult young man that liked stirring up roller drama under the flashing rainbow strobe lights. He'd grab some Bon Jovi-esque frosted and permed chickee once she was freshly laced up and beginning to roll and notify her how the heavy metal haired fellow she bounced with the other night lovingly skated with someone else as soon as she left. Then, he'd pull handfuls of paper napkins from the plastic snack bar dispensers and with, what appeared to be fake concern, hand them over when she'd go into full blown hysteria at the thought of Tippy, for example, enjoying the moonlight skate with Busty Beverly. It was a really weird thing to witness, seeing as I'd graduated from middle school like 18 years prior. How Rat Fink managed to even grab the attention of these babes remains one of the great roller rink mysteries for me. He was about 120 pounds soaking wet, and although he had the perfect build for, say, acid washed Levis and a nice crisp white tee to compliment his light colored pricy blades, he always wore faded sweatshirts with the cuffs and neck cut out and trash bag style bottoms from those two piece track suits so popular in the early 1990s. His legs would rub each other with this disconcertingly loud swishy friction, only heard in the snack bar, thank God, but I always knew, mid sip in my ICEE, that it was him rolling up on me. Hubs just said, when I asked if he remembered Rat Fink, "Oh yeah, he was that Jeff Gillooly-looking scrawny guy, right?" 'Nuff said. 

Oh! Let's talk about Crazy Legs! Crazy Legs was a character. He wore a lemon yellow sweat band on his head and yellow and white striped terry cloth wrist wraps, too, which I truly believe were for form as well as function, since he bladed faster than anyone else there. He was like a roller-greyhound in the race of his life. One night we figured out the reason he was so flipping fast, besides being rail thin and possibly Ginseng-ed up, was that he wore speed skate inline blades. Like, he had an extra wheel in there or something (not totally sure, because his tootises were just a blur of cosmic green pigment whirring by us, lap after lightening lap) that made him uncatchable. His ability to do anything besides catapulting forward was impeded by the unusual skates but, thankfully, going forward like a 6 foot WASPy Sonic the Hedgehog seemed to be his favorite thing...in life...ever. Hubs said he saw him come flying into the men's room and crash into a urinal (or a urinal user) more than an uncomfortable couple of times. Having an extra wheel meant no rubber stops on the front of those babies, which I am sure, led to some interesting stories (and injuries) over the years.  

The Microwave was the last regular with whom we were enamored. He was fierce, rotational, and heatin' it up - beep beep! The Microwave was a trick skater, performing for us in the middle of the rink with a lot of heeling and toeing and spinning and posing. He was also the first person I ever saw who left the ankle portion of his roller skates flopped over and unlaced in sort of a devil may care style that suggested he was way too cool for what was going on here, but he was still down for the party. Hubs just reminded me that when the SHUFFLE skate was announced and G.Q. Disco Nights Rock-Freak was queued on the DJ's turntable, The Microwave would come bolting onto the floor from wherever he might be as though he'd just won a turn in the all you can grab flying money booth. That kind of joy is hard to come by, friends, but he was stoked like that several times a night and it was a riot to witness. 

'Shuffling' was the pinnacle of the evening for most of these regular coasters. It was a time to chug along the floor, train style, holding the waist or the shoulders of the person in front of you all the while with the precision of a Rockette, rhythmically pumping your legs in a sort of half moon movement in time to the disco beat. When done well, it was pure poetry in motion. Pure, touchy, forbidden in any other part of society poetry in motion, but still cool as hell to watch. Hubs and I shuffled in our own little way but we weren't part of the conga line like the regulars were. I preferred the songs Good Times (Chic) and Genius of Love (Tom Tom Club) for shuffling, but you could see the light in the eyes of the regular crew when any and all of the shuffling tunes were announced. It was like when the aliens hypnotically lurch toward the mother ship in the old sci-fi movies.

Shufffff-fulllllllllll.

Just writing this makes me want to hose off the blades, now shelved in the garage, covered in the dirt and dust of neglect. Hubs's blades are right next to mine. We have lost our wrist guards and knee pads over the years, not that we ever used them, but we could probably benefit from them today.

Spring's coming. Shuffling shall be on the to-do list. No hills for hubs, though. No hills, no how.

#1970s #1980s #rollerskating #rollerblading #icee #eightisenough #Chic #LeFreak #TomTomClub #GeniusofLove #KCandtheSunshineBand #KeepitComingLove #Bluto #AnimalHouse #RockFreak #DiscoNights #mushroomtumbler

Basement Boogie

The colorful snow filled picture below looks like an accurate depiction of my friends and me in the mid-1970s. We were clean, happy, well dressed, well fed, innocent, colorful, and, above ground.

Above ground, you say?

Well, yes. The artwork captures what I think of as our 1970s above ground personae. We are so sweet! But like yin to the yang, follow us down the groove line to the boogie basement and it's all strobes and smut! Woo hoo! 

Read on!

Finished basements, in the 70s, were holy grail meccas for energetic suburban youngsters. Most of us grew up in houses built in the late 1800s in my town and our basements were damp, and heavily spidered with dirt floors, and mighty octopus furnaces. Long tentacled steel arms that scared the bejeezus out of us meant ain't nobody playing down there. Nobody. No how.

So, when you made friends with someone who lived in a pleasantly new 1950s ranch, complete with a classily paneled finished basement, it was like striking recreational gold. Normally those hipster basements had foosball tables and other Montgomery Wards catalog-related items that made leisure time extra fun. However, the basement of my preadolescent dreams also had a full sized velvety felt covered pool table, multicolored asphalt tile flooring, a 6 foot section of wall that was mirrored from floor to ceiling, a bar with 4 vinyl-seated stools upon which we were permitted to spin, a one armed bandit slot machine that took real quarters, a bomb shelter, and the "office". 

Note: The office was a space in which we were not allowed.

My friend Hailie's parents owned this home. Although Hailie seemed nonplussed by all it had to offer, I had and continue to have a special place in my grownup heart for this childhood fortress of fun. 

First, the mirrored wall and slippery floor: we would clomp down the stairs in our Thom McAnn noisy as hell clogs, then toss them off wherever they fell and lace up our rollerskates, bright white with orange wheels, for an evening of homestyle basement boogie. Hailie's Mom had super hip taste in music so we could easily hear Hot Stuff, Le Freak, and Knock on Wood, among other skating tracks, coming from the speakers upstairs and we'd glide and pose and spin in circles for hours learning how to primp and preen without parental or sibling judgement amongst those huge mirrors. I had a strobe light that I'd bring along. It was an outstanding addition but we unplugged it every hour or so because the heat coming from that thing was a fire hazard and the burnt plastic smell threated to ruin our carefree vibe. Disco Inferno! 

My go-to accessory was the feather roach clip, bought for me by my Nana, who obviously had no idea what she was starting when she gave me the two that she had thoughtfully purchased at a sidewalk craft fair outside her local DMV. I had one pink sassypants clip and a more subdued brown clip. Those fluttery embellishments were fantastic. The clip (again, Nana had no idea so please don't bust on Nana) would hold nice and tight in my hair and gave me some very early street cred with the teenagers at the local mall. Hailie and I would don rainbow hued leg warmers, plush velour v-necks, the tightest jeans we had, and said feathers and skate all night, laughing and rolling (stop harping on Nana, I mean our wheels were rolling), and enjoying ourselves immensely. 

Next, the bar and the pool table: Hailie's little brother claimed those parts of the basement for himself. He'd meander down and play pretend bartender to our roller disco using water and tall, red plastic cups and his boisterous friends would often pop in for a night of fun. They were terribly unskilled at pool and as the evening went on their shots became less about precision and more about fracas. The occasional ball would come spinning onto our roller boogie floor and we would race to scoop it up, learning how to balance while literally folding ourselves in half and reaching for the polyresin orb. Looking back, I think the boys just liked 'the Jordache look' and the look they got at our big Jordache butts when we were bent over and scooting by like that, but whatever, it was great fun and great exercise and other than the occasional snipe or jab, we all got along like peas and carrots.

The bomb shelter section of the basement was essentially empty, except for a vintage blow-mold set of disturbingly huge candles, a jolly Santa and a peppermint stick-holding snowman. 

I guess if the world is ending and the family is bunkered down it helps to have some holiday cheer; though, personally, I thought some canned veggies, flashlights, and blankets might be nice to store down there. Don't forget, this was before the age of Reagan and Gorby and we were still hiding under our desks at school a few times a year in case the Commies nuked us. Good times!

Then, there was the "office". "Don't go in the office!" Hailie's parents warned us, but really, that is basically like putting umbrellas in the office and telling The Penguin to stay out, right? You know I'm right! Rubbermaid storage boxes did not exist back then. If people needed to store their stuff, it was either on a shelf in the open, or in a cardboard box (which could get mushy depending on where and in whose basement it was being used for storage purposes), or in a safe...which some of my friend's parents had. Safes were typically in the bowels of closets and usually contained guns and things we felt a little scared of, so we didn't mess with those.

So, the "office" consisted of a long, hand-hewn wooden workbench, a modern metal desk, shelves, a very lengthy fluorescent overhead light, and stacks upon stacks of loose *** magazines. Magazines, you say? What sort? 

Well, here's where the 'stay out of the office' bit starts making sense. Hailie's Dad was a collector of Oui magazines. At first blush, they look a little like a Cosmopolitan...attractive gal on the front in something sort of revealing, but altogether classy. Then you open it up and umm...well, sistah, what have we here?

In defense of Oui, (and Hailie's Dad, obviously) there were some decent articles and the art was quite tasteful. These ladies were much classier (and far more attired) than what kids are able to access in a click today. I can recall maybe a sweater without pants or pants without a sweater, but nothing that made us think anything but to peek down our own individual shirts and say "Not happening." 

One of the magazines showcased a ton of sportscars and a conversation with Robin Williams, with whom Hailie and I were both totally interested at the time. I mean who doesn't want to read about Mork? So, after looking at Porsches and reading Robin's inane answers to the interviewer's inane questions, Hailie and I started thinking about her kid brother. In a stealthily devised plan, we strategically placed magazines on the heap in a sort of smut Jenga to see if her brother was hip to this room of sexy cheesecake. As you can imagine, it only took two days to find that our carefully orchestrated porno pile had been moved around. One afternoon while we were all upstairs hairdressing with the Play Doh Fuzzy Pumper barbershop we made reference to what we'd found and done and his plastic scissors stopped, mid slice. Then he mushed the bearded fellow's head into the kitchen table and stomped off. We never spoke of it again. 

I know you have 70s basement memories to share. Please add them in the comments if you have time. This will also help me learn how comments work. Thanks for the love!

***pun intended

#octopusfurnace #bombshelter #1970s #1980s #RobinWilliams #Mork #Ouimagazine #PlayDoh #Fuzzypumperbarbershop #Featherroachclip #Discoball #Thommcann #clogs #hotstuff #lefreak #knockonwood #basementdecor #retrobasements #basementbars #mushroomtumbler

Ring Toss

Tossing rings in fits of outrage and craziness provides a moment of tragic (or comedic, as the case may be) cinema on the big screen but everyday, real life people who chuck meaningful and expensive pieces of jewelry around probably aren't going to make it, relationally, with the person who gifted them that piece of jewelry. I've seen and heard about this practice a handful of times.

Ladies, don't be stupid. Hold onto the bling. If he walks, sell it and buy yourself a trip to an all inclusive, or, a trip to Target for paper towels and bath bombs if you find out he was bum face lying about that being Memaw's rock.

The first (and to this day, the most unusual) ring toss I ever heard of was in the summer of 1985. I was in the living room of a Fribble loving ginger haired boy named Ricky with whom I worked. His sister, a beautiful and sassy girl, was going off to college for the first time in a few weeks. Heir apparent to a pizza business which he was expected to manage for the family, her robust and gorgeous boyfriend had spent the better part of a year learning all the official garlicky money-making ropes and was, at age 18, primed to be second in command at a successful local parlor that everyone knew and loved. We all felt like she was per molto fortunato to have him as her guy...I mean, what's better than a cute, thoughtful Italian who shows up with calzones on the daily? And has a guaranteed job for life? Cinzano!

Well, that hot afternoon she was pacing in and out of her family's living room, wailing and tossing used tissues up in the air like soggy little ghosts. Her pizzaiolo had taken her to the lake and given her a small but splendid diamond ring because he wanted her to know he cared deeply about her and a ring would surely render them exclusive while she was away. Apparently she'd been giving the possibility of this happening some careful and constructive forethought because she had a nifty 'let the bohunk down easy' speech planned, and delivered it with as much compunction as possible. Broken-hearted, he took the ring, said, "Well if you won't wear this ring, no one can!" and flipped it like pizza dough into the water.

That must have been a long drive home, folks.

Ricky and I had MTV on (of course we did, it was 1985) while she was recounting the story. Bananarama's Cruel Summer was playing, and leaning down to heave and warble snortfully in my face, she moaned, "HOW can you WATCH that while I'm pouring my HEART out, here?" I didn't have the words to explain that it was too perfect to have those three (coked out and sniffling) English girls jumping around in their overalls singing about love and loss in the cruel, cruel summer while I was smack in the middle of listening to her, in her overall shorts, sniffling and jumping around and telling a story about love and loss in the cruel, cruel summer ALL WHILE I WAS DRINKING A BANANA FRIBBLE so I just said, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure."

The second ring toss story happened only a year later. An unconventional couple with whom I was loosely acquainted was driving down the highway to visit her college of choice. She was a petite dancer with a penchant for books and early bedtimes and he was a wrestler who loved to rap and chase people around with aerosol cans and lighters. Supposedly they got into a huge kerfuffle about the merits of a her earning a criminal justice degree (maybe he was planning a life of crime? Nobody knows!) and whether or not she should get her hair layered like Kim Wilde in the Kids in America video and poof! Out the window sailed the ruby chip that had graced her ring finger.  

Another very uncomfortable ride home, kids. I'm pretty sure I'm sensing a pattern here.

My advice to any girl taking an unaccompanied by adults automobile ride with a boyfriend during a time when someone might be considering college is: leave the ring at home. 

Other ring toss stories I've been part of, party to or graced by:

A high school teacher, seeing a boy's class ring all yarned up and stuck on my finger grabbed me unexpectedly under the arm on the way out to a fire drill and lectured me to take good care of it. Wincing, more from surprise then pain, I gave him a glowering look because of the continued intensity of his grip on my pit. He seemingly a bit lost in thought, loosened up and glancing down at his Weejuns, told me his wife, then girlfriend, had flushed his class ring, a prized possession, down the toilet. I smirked and said, "And you still married her?" His answer wasn't too robust, or too jolly, if I'm being honest.  

A friend saw a couple argue intensely during the reception part of a family wedding which led to the guy leaving the wedding, hitchhiking down the road to a bar and tossing his relatively new tungsten wedding ring into a bevy of tall bushes before entering it. His pals who had Ubered to the bar (small town, really only one possible place he could have run off to), spent a good portion of time on their knees searching for the ring while he boozily yelled "EFF HER" and a bunch of other nifty thoughts from inside the joint. The hunt for the ring stopped when the 'HER" in "EFF HER" also showed up, in a cab, looking for his ring chucking ass. I'll bet that ride home (which for he and his wife was a solid three hours the next day) was also a doozy. 

Last one, and then you can go search for that Banarama video. And don't try and tell me they weren't on drugs. Look at the footwear...and those bangs. Plus I think that's day old mood lipstick on the one girl. Remember that stuff that was green in the tube but ended up brownish red on your pout and it didn't wash off for like two days? Anyway...the next ring toss story may be the best one. 

I had a dorm-mate in college who arrived on campus a fresh faced, poodle permed, and very newly engaged first year student. She was kind of clingy, personable, and could play The Entertainer on the piano, even after she'd drunk six bottles of Mickeys fine malt liquor in the course of a single hour. Within our first year at school, she had fallen hard for and become (oh so typical!) Valentine's weekend engaged to (not so typical!) ANOTHER guy on campus. Only a handful of us knew she was already engaged because the FIRST ring got slipped back into its velvet box on day 5 of school once she realized how uncouth it was to be betrothed while sitting on someone's lap at a kegger. Well, her birthday was in March and her hometown hubby to be (on leave from the military, God bless him) came to surprise her (with the help of her roommate who, God bless her also, was freaking sick of this crap). Finding him in her room, she subsequently argued with soldier boy relentlessly upon his arrival, mostly out of fear and panic that fiancée number two would come waltzing by any minute to grab her for pizza night at the Rathskeller, and she ended up dramatically calling off their not yet planned wedding and throwing the ring at him. But guess what? You got it! Winner winner reverse polygamy dinner! WRONG RING. Believe it or not fiancée number two found out and was more upset about HIS ring being thrown about like last night's gobbledygook than the actual act of being engaged to more than one dude. I wonder how that all eventually turned out. It's probably fine, right? Yeah, probably fine. 

If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it. 

Make it cheap so I'm not sad when I fling that shit. 

Don't be mad when you see that bling orbit.

If you like it then you...oh forget it. You know the rest. 

Woh oh oh oh oh oh!

#fribble #Bananarama #CruelSummer #throwingyourengagementring #Mickeysmaltliquor #KimWilde #KidsinAmerica #pizzaiolo #classring #Weejuns #mushroomtumbler

You're Such a Lovely Audience We'd Like to Take You Home

I liked to go to my Aunt and Uncle's house for a lot of reasons. 

I loved my Aunt's cooking, I loved the gathering of family, and I loved my cousin Cliff's toys (awesome blog post to follow on those magnificent playthings). They also had 2 cats and humongous ant farm I totally dug.

Woefully, though, my Aunt Ellie owned a mid-sized German Shepherd named Hookie that looked forward to my visits because she would bite me. I mean, legit biting. Like, scarlet pools of blood and get out the gauze and squeeze the first aid cream and wrap it up and elevate it and watch it for a few days in case the welty punctures became infected kind of biting. But weirdly enough, as a group, we barely skipped a beat and I didn't hate the dog. I creatively learned to engage her by keeping pastel Jordan almonds in my pocket and tossing them far away from me every time I needed to make a move without getting chomped. I tried speaking nicely to her. I even let her masticate my Peter Benchley JAWS novel instead of my arm one time even though I hadn't yet finished the book (a little unbelievable irony there but nonetheless...). Anyway, no offense toward Hookie or that noble breed (dog lover, here! DOG LOVER); the spectacularly silver lining to having a dog that wanted to snack on a tasty 8 year old was that I got to spend some visits upstairs where Hookie was not permitted to go. In particular, I was allowed to hang out in my 16 year old cousin Suzy's groove-tastic bedroom listening to her record albums!

If you've been reading my stuff, you know there is a list on deck! Buckle up! Here it comes! 

Suzy had a shit ton of cool albums. My favorites and those most memorable to me are as follows:

1. I have to start with The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. You scoff...of COURSE the Beatles, Jesus, does she even need to include the artist? YES! Yes I do because it was 1978 and Peter Frampton and the Bee Gees had just released not only their Sgt. Pepper tribute but also made a Sgt. Pepper MOVIE. What? I know! The freaking 70s, man...if you lived it, high five my friend. High freaking Frampton five. 

Anyway, back in the era where bands released primarily on vinyl, and 33 rpm albums were habitually purchased and enjoyed, I could sit with a stack of 12 by 12 album covers for HOURS trying to figure them out, memorizing every last detail. I loved SPLHCB because I could spy something (or someone) new every time I scoured it. I spent a lot of time looking for Jesus and Hitler on there as it was rumored that they were included but reportedly nearly impossible to find.  

I loved spinning the fab four, imagining Lucy with her jeweled eyeballs and newspaper taxis appearing on the shore while I lounged in a trance-like state on Suzy's purple batiked comforter (purple! WHAT? I know!) looking up with frightened curiosity at the ceiling where a poster of Kansas's Point of Know Return album was hung. Flat watery earth, sea monsters, and a ship going over the edge? Definitely the last thing you want to see before falling asleep at night, am I right? You know I'm right. 

Three things I like to muse/contemplate/turn over in my mind about SPLHCB: 

a. I did an 8th grade presentation on the song A Day in the Life that resulted in a standing ovation and a request to accompany a boy to a dance later that month (declined).

b. When I'm 64 appears a lot less cutesy when you're married to a guy who is 11 years older than you and you just turned 50; but the clarinet, the clarinet! I love it...and I love my husband. He's amazingly tolerant of me and my musical follies. And when he's 64 he'll probably still be taking care of my lazy ass.

c. With a Little Help From My Friends by Joe Cocker and Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds by Elton John are two of my favorite cover songs. They are so different from the originals with unique rearrangements and even improvements, in my opinion, in a place or two.  

2. The Rolling Stones Some Girls was my next favorite. It was the art that sucked me in, honestly. I feasted my eyes upon the black, white and red cover with the Stones wearing wigs alongside celebrities like Lucille Ball on the front and in girdles and conical bras on the back. I was confused, then delighted. Upon hearing the album while reclining on the bedspread and getting more used to the ship going over the edge of the ebony saltwater above my head, I leaned into the beat and heard the raunchiest, most plaintive, bluesy album I'd ever experienced. Puerto Rican girls are just dying to meet you? What? Yes! But why? What is going on? My 8 year old mind had no idea what was happening but I could feel the groove in my soul and desperately wanted to know about blottin out my mind and foolin on my time and learned all the words. Baby, yah. Miss You remains one of my most favorite songs. 

3. Frampton Comes Alive. Oh my Jesus. Where do I even begin? First, the cover art. When I opened the double live album, a sound gurgled in my throat caught somewhere between a sigh and a squeal. He was bathed in a rapturous glow of stage light in a smart, very English, yellow suit; unbuttoned low enough so that he could breathe easy, play the guitar, show off his fancy Portobello Road fashion necklace and well, make 8 year olds stay in bedrooms while the rest of the family tossed jarts around the yard, almond-eating shepherd close at hand. Live albums were new to me and I was like, I NEED TO GO DO THIS. THIS SCREAMING STUFF. I NEED IT. 

Suddenly, I couldn't wait to attend a rock concert. It became my mission in life, along with procuring Jox sneakers and trying to get Mrs. LaCroix to read randy Judy Blume novels out loud in class during our post lunch rest time.

It's Frampton, man. Something's Happening! Hold tight it might be lightening! I feel like dancing! It had lyrics that made sense and screaming fans and so much electrical energy, I was enraptured.

I got my Jox and Mrs. LaCroix shut me down firmly (albeit kindly), but it'd be another year before my parents took me to see Rod Stewart in concert - my first show! Since then, live music is where I come blissfully unglued and then piece myself back together song after precious song. 

P.S. That image of the Frampton album includes ring wear...ring wear is a sign of an album well worn and lovingly pressed between other albums; as they should be. 

#germanshepherd #TheBeatles #ADayintheLife #SgtPeppersLonelyHeartsClubBand #WhenIm64 #RollingStones #MissYou #SomeGirls #Kansas #PointofKnowReturn #LucyintheSkyWithDiamonds #WithaLittleHelpFrommyFriends #JoeCocker #EltonJohn #LucilleBall #PeterFrampton #FramptonComesAlive #Jox #RodStewart #ringwear #livemusic #JudyBlume #mushroomtumbler 

Campfire Songs

We are a camping family.

It all began in a pop up camper for me, which I was told at age 4, by my Moo Moo, was the height of luxury camping. No tents for us! We were recreating in style in our soft sided pop up with the little propane stove.

My Moo Moo and Grandpa snored soundly in one of the pop-out canvas bunks and my parents comfortably rested on the opposite side of the camper, in the same style quarters. I was small enough to recline on the dinette bench. I marvel today at how many people co-slept in such a small space without incident or complaint.

We had an outside picnic table set up for breakfasts and dinners. Lunch was pretty much catch as catch can, which for me, included a lot of sticky penny candy purchased at the camp store.

Breakfast was cooked in part by my Grandpa who loved early morning bacon and in part by Moo Moo who loved (and God bless her, at age 93 still loves) cantaloupe. Moo Moo carved the mushy melon while Grandpa flipped the fatty meats and I read Mad magazine while trying to figure out why Spy vs Spy hated each other. Whether anything else was included in breakfast was a changing phenomenon. Sometimes mini boxes of corn flakes showed up; other times eggs; once in a blue moon, Bisquick pancakes (too many dishes to do with pancakes...).

One thing you could always count on were nightly campfire songs, led by my dear sweet Aunt Maureen. Aunt Maureen and Uncle Monte had their own camper on a site nearby and since I am missing her tonight I thought I would put together a list of my favorites. What she lacked in musicianship, Auntie Rene (pronounced REE NEE) more than made up for in enthusiasm. Dragging her red, white and blue webbed lawn chair, she would sit, putting her long dark hair in a ponytail held back by a fat, soft yarn tie, and, finally, exclaim that she was ready, followed by a giggle and a light slap of her hands on her thighs, indicating it was go- time.

Here you go, Godmother, I am dialing up the iPod and singing these with you tonight...

1. If I Had a Hammer by Peter, Paul and Mary
So this was not the one we started with most nights but this was tune I associate most with Aunt Rene. We all knew all the words to this song because of her...every last one. When we got to the parts about a hammer of justice and a bell of freedom, our campfire crew was all but hollering the lyrics. We loved the feelings brought about by singing out the love between my brothers and my sisters allllll over this land.

2. Dance With a Dolly with a Hole in her Stocking by Louis Prima
Ok, call us weird, but this was a campfire standard, too. I suppose it was because my Moo Moo and her four sisters would go out dancing at Myron and Ray's while my Grandpa was defending our world's oceans in WWII and this was one of the girls' favorite 1940's ditties. My Aunt and my baby cousin Stacey would bellow about how our knees keep a knocking and our toes keep a rocking and the hole in the stocking. I'm not sure all the kids knew the words to this but we definitely loved those lines in particular and we could clap and laugh just thinking about Moo Moo and our great aunts boogying to this.

3. Hit the Road Jack by Ray Charles
This became a standard for us when my Aunt's fresh air fund kid Raymond arrived from the Bronx for the summer. Disembarking from the bus, the little 5 year old handed my Aunt his only piece of luggage which consisted of underwear (1 pair) in a smooshed paper lunch bag. Quickly, we learned he was terrified of cows but enthralled with camping. Upon asking Raymond what songs he liked to sing, so that he was comfortable on his first night away from home, he willingly and unabashedly chirped out Hit the Road Jack in perfect pitch. When he got to the no more part it sounded like no mow no mow no mow no mow so we all crooned it that way, too. Raymond's little brother Noodgie came the following summer and sang along.

4. Let it Be by the Beatles
Once the adults had imbibed sufficiently, this was the official go-to. Not only did they earnestly sing all the words but they bummed all the instrumental parts, too. It was less zippy than the others but it also gave all the little ones a chance to wind down after so much frivolity...and sugar.
Bum bum bum bum bum bum bum...bum...bummmmmmm.

5. The Rainbow Connection by Kermit and the Muppets
My cousin Cappy was a kid raised on the Muppet Show so naturally this became a campfire favorite. It really gels with our overall theme of the lovers, the dreamers, and me.
All of us under its spell...we know that it's probably magggggiiiiccccccc…..

6. Traditional American Indian Songs by Moo Moo
At some point in the evening, if the weather and company were right, Moo Moo would don her Indian headdress, yarn wig, enchanting maiden costume, red knee high socks (not sure what these were about, other than perhaps keeping her grandmotherly legs warm) and her Minnetonkas and whoop it up around the fire. She claimed she was chanting some traditional Blackfoot stuff and we honestly never knew if she was telling the truth about that or not but it felt good to honor our Adirondack ancestors. It felt real and right to sing about the buffalo and the earth and even though it was likely that all of this was pieced together from books or from television, we all grew up with big love and respect for what my Grandpa called "injuns". We love my cousin's hand drawn tribal art, my uncle's 6 foot wall-hung traditional shields, my other cousin's double necked wedding vase, and we have some hunting, gardening and storytelling traditions which are definitely passed down from or which honor Native American culture. I used to wear my Indian beaded necklace to school every day in kindergarten. One day one of the little beaded legs came unraveled and then he was legless and, because I didn't stop wearing him, he eventually became half torso-less, too. My parents got me another beaded necklace with a skirted squaw on it but I liked my chief dude better.
(PS I just found him on ebay...the exact one I had, as I was looking for a photo of him for this story. I think I need to buy him.)

7. God Bless America
Because he was a veteran, it was important for us to sing this with Grandpa and usually any campers within earshot would enthusiastically chime in. Grandpa would get pretty serious during the singing of this song, and we intuitively knew this was a time of reverence, not a time to be piercing a new marshmallow or taking a bathroom break or chasing Noodgie around getting him to finish putting on his calamine lotion and six million dollar man pajamas. It was a time to sing in the best tune you could manage with your chin held high and an eye on Grandpa as he silently poked the fire with one hand on his heart and the other hand on our broken hockey stick.

My family had so many special times and opportunities to gather together in song.
My Aunt and Grandpa are no longer with us but they live on in my love of music and the way it stems from these meaningful memories.

#camping #popup #Madmagazine #IfIHadaHammer, #PeterPaulandMary #LouisPrima #DancewithaDollywithaHoleinherStocking #HittheRoadJack #RayCharles #TheBeatles #LetitBe #camppfiresongs #singalongs #Rainbowconnection #Kermit #muppets #godblessamerica #mushroomtumbler

Nana's Swizzle Sticks

I'm missing my Nana tonight.

She would have been 97 this past October. She passed away two years ago this month.

When I was a small child she used to do what she could, on a very limited budget, to make me feel special when I visited her home in Schenectady, New York, about a 60 mile drive from my and my parents' house. We made the trip more than once a month.

She always offered me a choice between the same two beverages, always either ginger ale with the bubbles stirred so that I didn't burp (because I loved to burp and that was not ladylike at Nana and Papa's) or buttermilk. Although I loved buttermilk, and still do, I routinely chose the ginger ale because it came in a fun highball glass with a swizzle stick shaped like a key. The key swizzle sticks were plastic but they were heavy duty and were washed and rinsed and dried and put away over and over, visit after visit. I'm sure they weren't expensive but we treated them as if they were.

I bet there are still some around, probably at my Aunt's house since she cleaned out Nana's belongings when that time came. I would love to put my hands on one this evening as I am feeling a little out of sorts and unwell and sad. A swizzle stick in some ginger ale might be a nice thing to have right now.

I miss you, Nana.

#1960s #1970s #swizzlesticks #schenectady #stockade #highballglass #buttermilk #mushroomtumbler

Wake up Maggie I Think I've Got Something to Say to You

 

I was reading an old notebook and found this entry this morning. It's from 7/22/04.

35 going on 36. This birthday is going to be tough. You know how I can tell? This morning I listened to Rod Stewart's Unplugged and for the first time ever I felt more Maggie May than Rod. "The morning sun, when it's in your face really shows your age." 

So I quickly pondered this with my now 50 year old outlook and I immediately thought, "But that don't worry me none; in my eyes you're everything."

And then I grabbed my eye cream**.

**Shameless plug: Young Living Wolfberry. YL Member Number 12940520

#rodstewart #maggie #mushroomtumbler

Love letters to the pets

 

Dear Miss Olive, 

I never thought I would heal with your two predecessors passing away so suddenly and so awfully but you were waiting for a cat-free home and I was for the first time in my life, catless.

You are the best and most lovely and most 'connected to Mama' cat I have ever had. I cannot imagine not having you and you are my familiar. 

Here is to many more years of togetherness. You have my heart.

Love, Mama

Dear Rennie Roo, 

Your Daddy and I would have lost out on so much had the girl at the SPCA not brought you out to meet us. We'd have lost out on so much had we even considered returning you after a month of shoe chewing and backseat car peeing after 2 hour marathon walks with no peeing. We would have missed out on so much if we hadn't ignored all the prompts that cautioned us against a year old, non socialized, Tennessee puppy but here we are. We went with you and you now go everywhere with us. You are the best dog and Daddy and I love our sassy, snuggly girl. 

With all our hearts, Mama. 

#mushroomtumbler

Figurines in Designer Jeans

If you didn't have an opportunity to wear 1980s designer jeans, I am sorry. 

Truly, I am. 

I am of the opinion that you missed out on what I consider to be the most divine fashion trend of my 50 year old life.  

Initially, designer jeans weren't even purchasable in our small northern town; we had to drive 30 minutes south to a more moneyed area to buy them. When my parents took me to get my first pair (happy eleventh birthday to me!) I sat in the "way back" of our station wagon bursting with anticipation. It was like we were off to see the wizard...the wonderful wizard of wanton wear!

I am in love with the memory of everything about designer jeans; how they fit, what we wore them with, how they enveloped our adolescent thighs and rear ends, and how grown up we felt in them, especially after a childhood of Toughskin hand me downs and Garanimals monkey-tagged cotton tshirts. 

I don't know what I miss more, designer jeans or the body I had when I wore designer jeans. We girls were stick figures back in the 80s. There was no idle time, we never ate, we ran, jumped and biked; we were athletes without really trying and thus we were flat as boards and light as feathers (which came in mighty handy at seances, for sure.) 

When you bought a pair of designer jeans, or more accurately, when your poor parents bought you a pair of overpriced designer jeans, you turned them inside out in the wash so that the color lasted longer and if you had a mom like mine, the jeans were first treated in a vinegar soak so that the dark blue dye didn't stain your hands, undergarments, or your favorite white ski bum turtleneck, worn tucked in. 

Mine were so stinking tight that I couldn't fit anything in the back pocket, save a cool comb. I lost many a Lip-smacker because when I sat down they would pop right out. 

Here is a brand by brand comparison, best as I can recall: 

Jordache was the hands-down winner for most interesting pocket designs, mostly stallion-related, and they seemed to fit tall girls best. I rolled the rough hems of my Jordache four times, minimum, to get them to an acceptable length. The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Jordache are the minivan drivers of today, carting around three kiddos and juggling caramel lattes from place to place. They are also the ladies who, when finally alone, throw off the monogrammed trucker hat, unleash the ponytail, crank the 80s on 8 in that minivan and holla the words to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" all while totally trying to remember the name of that Myrtle Beach bar with the belly shots. 

Bonjour were excellent for girls with no ass. On me, they looked a little like apple bottom jeans and, for that reason, weren't my favorite. I used to peel them down to my knees and stutter strut kick down the hall in disgust, desperately trying to fling them off my legs. Not my finest 12 year old moment, I can assure you. The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Bonjour jeans are graphic artists today, living single inside trendy big city lofts. They are creative types, primarily decorating in hues of seagull grey, steely grey, pewter grey and charcoal grey. They drink alkaline water and eschew any popular television, preferring to dial up Netflix shows about becoming murderers. 

Manisha jeans were for those who loved posh colored denim. They came in hues of goldenrod, mulberry, moon rock green, eggplant...and those crazy cool florals. The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Manisha jeans are still among the most well-dressed. They are also the ones who invest in the most beautiful gel nails, who deny getting facial fillers and who wear heels even when flats would prove equally fashionable. They know the good cabernets and have season tickets to the symphony which they mostly donate to charitable causes and basket raffles. 

Sergio Valente, which I wore until I filled out, were stiff as a board, extra durable and perfect for sliding into home and avoiding ass rash when we had neighborhood pickup softball games. Where Jordache has a stallion, Sergio has the bull. So freaking BOSS! The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Sergios went to college in Long Island, married gorgeous mulleted Guidos, and although they are divorced now, have remained friends "for the good of the kids". They also enjoy cruises, margaritas, Diamonique, and the movie Magic Mike.

Sasson jeans were worn by girls whose mothers cut their hair into horrid figure skating styles and then thought the “ok hand tag” jeans would be a nifty complimentary idea...which they were not. I did not know any girls who gravitated exclusively to Sasson, but I knew girls whose mothers bought them Ooh La La Sasson! jeans without their consent or any real excitement. Today, they are probably depressed because they never learned to ask for what they truly wanted. 

Gitano were eventually sold up our way in discount stores, so although they didn't fit as well (and by 'well,' I mean you could hike your Gitanos up without lying on your bed, coat hanger looped through your zipper, squishing all your internal organs to a pulp) as the more painted on brands, they were a good alternative for when the real deal was in the wash...or in the vinegar. The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Gitanos are now financial planners, who realized way back when that paying $25 dollars for a pair of jeans as opposed to $75 dollars for a pair of jeans was a sound investment leaving more money for school trips to Spain and used VW Cabriolets in the 11th grade. 

Chic were mom jeans or at the least, they were the ones your mom stole from your closet when she was feeling sassy on a Saturday night and dancing was on the parental menu. The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Chic jeans waited until they were in their 30s to get hitched, and then married older successful men who raised their families and didn't want any more kids. They go to hot yoga, eat vegan, and use grounding techniques for focus and recovery. They also still fit in those damn Chic jeans from high school and occasionally pull them out for Journey concerts and 80s parties. 

Gloria Vanderbilt were unusual because like Manisha, they had a variety of colors; however, it was the thread color/stitching that varied from pair to pair. Original gold thread, and eventually red, white and pale blue are the colors I recall for long legged and super svelte swan loving girls. I had a pair of GV later in the 90s but they grabbed my lady parts like a sauced congressman at a Georgetown bar, so I wore them once and hurriedly gave them away. The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Glorias moved south, married heirs to homebuilding businesses, and only take photographs where they are standing behind people or chairs because although they look perfectly fine, they miss the days where they had no hips.

Calvin Kleins were my eventual go-to hands down favorite. Between the sexy Brooke Shields ad and the idea that even the swells could wear these without feeling slutty, I ended up loving these right up until college when ripped skanky acid wash became "the look that's right from top to bottom". ** The girls I knew who gravitated exclusively to Calvins, interestingly, were also a bunch of shoplifting theives. CK were expensive as hell, didn't wear well (which necessitated a closet full, one pair for every day of the week), and were typically sold at high end boutique type stores where parents bought their own clothes, but certainly not ours. One clever klepto I knew used to take orders for them and then layer pair after pair one over the other and walk out of the mall store with britches by the 5 fold on her little 100 pound body. Nothing came between her and her Calvins except those damn exploding ink tags which actually became popular not long after. 

**Lyrics from Gitano ad. 

This is my first attempt at formatting text in the blog so I apologize for the overall wonkiness of it. I am learning as I go, here, and plan to improve as time goes on. Thanks for your patience and understanding!

#toughskins #garanimals #lipsmackers #gitano #jordache #manisha #gloriavanderbilt #calvinkleinjeans #brookeshields #chic #sasson #sergiovalente #bonjourjeans #designerjeans #1980s #mushroomtumbler