Lawyerish

Worth Repeating

Halloween, 1988.  I posted this about a year ago, but I think it bears another view.  I was dressed as Jon Bon Jovi, God help us all. And that sneer is supposed to be me looking like JBJ, with his pouty rock star expression.  I believe we were asked by every house if we didn't think we were maybe a little too old to be trick-or-treating.  (We were in eighth grade.  And yes, we went trick-or-treating in eighth grade.  Our coolness was unassailable, let me tell you.)

Does anyone out there like Bit O' Honey?  For some reason, I always ended up with a disproportionate amount of Bit O' Honeys in my treat bag when I was a kid.  As candy goes, especially when lined up next to Snickers, Skittles and Tootsie Roll Pops (did you used to look for the Native American shooting the star with a bow and arrow, too?  that was supposed to signify something, but I've no idea what), Bit O' Honeys left something to be desired.  Like flavor.  They were always the last thing left in the big mixing bowl on top of the fridge, where our haul ended up once we'd eaten our alotted three pieces of candy on Halloween night.  Months after Halloween, when my mom would finally discard the remnants of my loot, it would consist of some rock-hard Bit O' Honeys, powdery Necco wafers and perhaps a handful of crumbling Dum Dum lollipops.      

Oh, and those little flimsy cellophane packets with three candy corn in them were not my fave, either.  I mean, THREE candy corn?  Come on!  Also disappointing:  toothbrushes (funny joke -- now give me some CANDY!), apples (seriously? I can eat an apple ANYTIME), and homemade cookies or brownies (which I would have liked, but they were immediately discarded by my vigilant parents for the possibility of containing poison and/or razor blades).  (See also: this list, originally brought to my attention by Jonniker -- this is a truly appalling display of Halloween party pooper-ness.)

On Halloween night, we will not be answering our door with handfuls of candy for all the neighborhood children, because the neighborhood children go to the stoop and vestibule of each building, rather than to each individual apartment on the block, to trick-or-treat.  Which I learned last year when I sat expectantly by the door, armed with a giant bowl of Butterfingers, Reese's Cups, Twizzlers and Tootsie Roll Pops, and...nothing happened. 

It was our first Halloween in the new apartment, and I thought that our block association's signs exhorting people to prepare for trick-or-treaters meant they would be letting kids and parents go into each building.  Nay.  Families and residents gathered outside -- in costume, natch, and with pumpkins adorning the sidewalks and stoops -- and the kids wandered about collecting candy in front of each building while the adults socialized and managed the escalating sugar high chaos.  It was plenty festive, and I can't wait to do it next year with our own little squirt -- but I am mildly bitter that I don't have an excuse to load up on candy.

Anyway, what we'll do instead is watch "Night of the Living Dead," the classic from 1968, which we bought on DVD a couple of years ago when we were jonesing for a scary movie, and nothing on TV would suffice.  The movie is hilariously ridiculous in all sorts of ways, but the best part is that there's a Mystery Science Theater-esque commentary track on the DVD, and hoo boy, is it ever funny.  I highly recommend it.

Happy Halloween to you all!  I hope your treat bags are full of the good stuff (not Bit O' Honey) (unless you like those, in which case, enjoy!) (freak) (oh, I kid!).    

Protective Eyewear Recommended

Thanks a lot, America.  Thanks to the viewing public, I am now being subjected to Jordin and Blake caterwauling their way through the least compelling "American Idol" final ever.  I like them, generally, but this was not their best night.  And, really:  MELINDA.  Melinda should be here instead of one of them -- it matters not which one.  Melinda may not have a neck, but damn she can sing.  And this...this...thing that is supposed to be the winner's first single is painful, a musical travesty, and neither of the finalists could save it.  Melinda, however, could have done something with it.  Because Melinda RULES.

Best Paula quote of the evening:  "You have the best vocal voice."  Oh, Paula.  Lower the dosage.   

Meanwhile, last night was the long-awaited finale of "The Bachelor," and my giddiness over Tessa winning (you'll recall that she was my first-choice pick because she seems like a smart, fun woman with an actual personality, and also because she does not have a glass-shattering rat-tat-tat of a laugh and isn't wrung out with desperation (see: Bevin)), was somewhat tempered by...well, by the fact that she "won" by ending up with a guy who told the other finalist that he loved her. 

It wasn't enough that he wine-breathed those three all-important words into Bevin's hair after she took his massive head in her hands and said, wayyyyy too earnestly (deep breaths, we can get through it), "Lieutenant Andrew James Baldwin, I love you" (aaaand, exhale; the urge to dry heave will pass, I promise) -- because, really, what was he supposed to do with this shrieky woman staring loonily at him, her proclamation hanging in the air?  He had to say something.  Also, he was drunk.  And possibly feeling a tad remorseful about having to string along a poor, mentally unstable woman while he was clearly head-over-heels for Tessa and had been for weeks.

But he had no excuse for dropping the L-bomb A SECOND TIME when he was rejecting her and moments before he proposed to Tessa.  Really, now, Andy.  Were you intentionally setting the stage for Tessa to break off your engagement even before you asked her to marry you, in the Most Robotic Marriage Proposal Ever?  I can see him, robotically thinking to himself, "Dude.  If I tell Bevin I love her at least twice in the last episode, Tessa will dump me and I can reap the benefits of fame as soon as the show airs and bang lots of chicks."

Oh, pshaw, I kid.  His family seemed perfectly nice and normal, especially his Grandpa, who made me want to drive out to Lancaster, PA, so I could hug him.  So Andy can't be all bad, even though his upper lip disappeared several times during the finale, particularly when he was CRYING HIS EYES OUT over dumping Bevin. 

It was downright weird, though, how you'd get these fleeting glimpses of Andy and Tessa being "real" and acting like a normal couple -- goofing around, making inside jokes -- and then the producers would jolt you back to some camera-talk about the "journey" and the "connection" and how "confused" Andy was.  What bullshit (I mean, obviously, right? but still).  If it's supposed to be the most romantic finale ever of some stupid-ass reality show, let's see some ACTUAL ROMANCE between the Bachelor AND THE WOMAN WHO WINS, not with the OTHER woman.  Sheeeeesh.  Is a coherent narrative thread really too much to ask?

Actually, Andy' reminded me of this tour guide my husband and I had in Vietnam a few years ago.  We booked a day trip to Ha Long Bay through our hotel, and when the guide showed up, we chatted with him a bit, small talk about where we're from and all that, but when we got in the car he abruptly switched to this robotic monotone voice, in which he delivered a government-issue monologue about where we were going and what we would see.  It was the oddest thing.  Throughout the day, we'd be palling around with him -- he spoke excellent English and had a good sense of humor -- and then out of nowhere he'd shift into Robo-Guide mode to do his scripted thing, and we'd be left to blink and nod a lot while shifting uncomfortably in our seats.  That's pretty much how Andy seems -- he's probably a normal(ish), fun(ish) guy, but when the producers had specific crap they wanted him to say to keep obfuscating the outcome of the show, he launched into that android mode.

And now I want you to prepare yourself for possibly the most disturbing thing you will ever see.

No, really. 

It may cause seizures. 

You may want to shield your eyes.

I told you!  Highly distressing, this. 

I mean, the sweater...there are no words for the sweater.  But beyond that (if you can even see anything else in this photo) there are the glasses, which are larger than our window panes, and also plastic.  There's the hair, the most unfortunate hair.  There's the face, also unfortunate -- why so chubby?  Why?  I wasn't fat, but I had the roundest face in history.  And, finally, we have the near-camel toe experience going on in the jeans area.  {shudder}  I think the jeans are pulled up somewhere under my armpits.  Oh, and by the way, could you tell from the room decor that I love ballet?  Maybe just a little?

I just...well, I just don't know.

High School Confidential

Well, my friends, I have something special to share with you.  Some proof that my memory serves me well when it comes to unfortunate outfits. 

Here I am, on the first day of ninth grade, working the outfit described in Friday's post (your comments, by the way?  Classic.  I snorted.  I guffawed!  I may have even chortled.  UNITS.  YES.  That was the brand of my fake Multiples outfit!  OMG).  Here are the Esprit pinstripes and the Phantom of the Opera earrings.  Sadly, the comedy/tragedy mask shoes got cut off, but you can juuuust tell that I am wearing nude hose knee-highs under my pants.  MY VERY SHORT AND TAPERED PANTS with a waist so high it's making me uncomfortable to look at them. 

And, by the way, there is a substantial shadow behind me, so my hair looks alarmingly high -- it was not that high.  My bangs were feathered, yes, but I could never get them all rooster-like.  I never reached that level of cool.  Please also note the Swatch.  I had something like five Swatches.  This one was restrained and tasteful, don't you think? 

Don't I look fresh-faced and innocent, though?  And hopeful that my high school experience would be transformative and fun, bringing new experiences and levels of popularity I had theretofore never known?  Yeah.  It wasn't, and it didn't.

Also, just to twist the knife in Allison's heart over the drill team, here's a shot of me in my uniform.  I'm in the "attention" stance, and I'm ready to dance!  Incidentally, I only did drill team in ninth grade, because after that I wanted to focus more on ballet.  Which I did.  (The trauma of having to tell the band director that I was quitting is recounted here.)  And while it meant I was all the more obscure at school, I'm glad I put all the effort into ballet that I did, as it was my one true lurve.  And I didn't have to wear a sequined bow tie in ballet.

I'm not sure why I'm so far to the left here, or why my feet were cut off again, but for the morbidly curious, I was wearing white leather Keds, as required by drill team regulations.  For no apparent reason, they were always referred to as "Buddies." 

Thank you, Mom, for scanning and sending these after reading Friday's entry -- my mom rules.  Maybe she'll send me weekly installments of embarrassing photos?  And possibly scans from my Hello Kitty diary about how much I loved Matthew S.?  We can only hope.

Skeletons in Your Closet

Recently, Allison and I were e-mailing, and she posed a thought-provoking question:  What outfits did you used to wear that you thought you looked good in, but that you now think are hideous?  Since we came of age in the 80s, that could easily encompass every single thing I wore between first and twelfth grades; however, I was able to pinpoint a few especially horrific ensembles, which I described thusly:

--  Pleated denim overalls with "Western"-style chambray shirt studded with gold and lavishly embroidered (and shoulder padded, of course), worn with gold ballet flats and a flat gold faux-alligator purse the size of a sofa cushion.
-- The outfit I wore on the first day of ninth grade:  black and white pinstriped pants (tapered and high-waisted, of course), white t-shirt with black graphic of stick people and an Esprit logo on it, black and white pinstriped vest (no outfit was complete without a vest!), black and white shoes with comedy and tragedy masks on them (?), and earrings shaped like the mask from Phantom of the Opera.
--  A Pepsi sweatshirt (everyone else wore Coke clothes, but I was a rebel and stuck to my Pepsi guns), and a Swatch rugby shirt that almost reached my ankles.
--  The outfit I wore on the first day of seventh grade:  pink henley shirt from Lerner, denim jumper and fake Sebago shoes.  I think half the teachers were wearing the same outfit.  Sometimes, I would wear this with a bandana tied around my neck for no apparent reason.  And -- oh, God -- I have a sinking feeling that one of my bandanas had an Air Force logo on it..but why?
--  The shirt I wore for school photos in 10th grade: a HIDEOUS maroon and tan short-sleeved button-down blouse with this horrific Baroque design on it, with matching MAROON PANTS, plus a BROOCH fastened at the throat.  Oh my GOD.  And to top it off, as Allison reminded me, I wore huaraches with this.  And stockings underneath.  I have no idea.
--  A pink corduroy high-waisted skirt with a yoke and SUSPENDERS, which I wore with a pink and purple plaid flannel shirt.  I believe it was from Lerner.  The suspenders linked to the skirt with PLASTIC hooks.
-- A boys' Oxford cloth button-down shirt paired with parachute pants and an armful of jelly bracelets.  (I thought I looked sexy in this.  Sexy.  Yeah.  I didn't.)
--  My Girl Scout uniform with (dun dun DUN) TWO sashes.  (It's important that everyone at school see how many badges you've accumulated, after all, because they WILL be impressed.)
--  E.T. shoes.

When asked to answer in kind, Allison wrote the following:

--  My first day of 10th grade outfit:  Paisley (PAISLEY) tapered leg pants, navy short sleeved mock turtleneck, white knee highs, brown "crocodile" flats, gold coin belt and matching gold coin earrings.
--  My first day of 9th grade outfit:  red/army green/white plaid pants, tightrolled, white t-shirt with some kind of cruise graphic on it (all Esprit), white slouchy socks and Keds.
--  Orange stirrup pants, orange rayon shirt with yellow and purple olive shaped things on it.  [Orange stirrup pants!  HAHAHAHA.]
--  HEINOUS yellow Esprit sweater with some kind of crazy ass design on it.
--  Purple jogging suit with blue t-shirt hanging out underneath.  [Allison wore this I think every day of 5th grade.] 
--  My fluorescent yellow shirt and white shorts with fluorescent scribbles on them.  With cleats.
--  My Multiples outfit:  yellow shirt with red/green/orange/fuschia paper dolls on it, red "tube," green miniskirt with same paper dolls on it but smaller, BROWN hose, yellow slouched socks and Keds.
--  Acid washed, high waisted, yoked Lee jeans with no back pockets.
--  Black high top Reeboks.
--  My yellow sweater dress with black and white checkerboard designs on it.
With white hose and Keds.  What was my deal with hose?
--  Peach Liz Claiborne outfit.  With navy deck shoes.

Then we listed the items that we coveted from each others' wardrobes.  Here are the items of mine that Allison envied:

--  You had these white pants (in 6th grade maybe) with pastel stripes on them and an aqua see through plastic belt.  I was insanely jealous of those pants.  Mostly b/c of the belt.  [I had those in fourth grade, actually, and I wore them with a magenta Members Only jacket (aww, yeah) and Nike cleats (we thought we were tough, wearing cleats) with fluorescent shoelaces.]
--  The red Camp Beverly Hills shirt.  Whew.  I thought that shirt was the bomb.  [HAHAHA!  I got that shirt -- it was a red rugby shirt, I think, with the logo emblazoned across the middle -- from Marshall's for like fifteen bucks.]
--  Your navy muscle shirt with the rainbow stripe across the chest.  [I wore that on the first day of fifth grade; I had this phase where I would only wear boys' clothes, and that was part of it.]  My mom wouldn't buy me boys' clothes and I was SO mad at her.
--  Your drill team sweatsuit mostly b/c I wanted to be on drill team so badly it about made me sick.  [Aww!  Poor Allison.  And yes, I was on the drill team.  Hee.]
--  Those blue and white striped capri pants with the white sweater with the kind of woven plaid on it?  You got it for that cruise y'all went on.  [Ah, yes.  That was my cruising ensemble.  The pants were silk and I am sure you could see straight through them to my flowered undies.  Also, I don't think they were supposed to be capris...]

And then I told her what I DIED OF JEALOUSY over from her closet:

--  The gold coin belt and earrings described above. 
--  The red pants with white stripes down the side (circa 4th grade), which you would wear with a red Coke t-shirt, a net bow as a belt, and jelly bracelets.  MAN, I wanted that outfit.  I wrote about it in my diary and said you looked "show-offy and dumb" in it but of course it was because I was jealous.  [I was a great friend, huh?] 
--  Your Holly Hobbie dress back in first or second grade.
--  Your Multiples outfit.  [I had a GROSS knock-off Multiples
outfit with a long rust-colored skirt and a floral top with a rust "tube."] 
--  I also remember always thinking you had better jeans than I did.  Including the yoked ones with no back pockets.

Now it's your turn:  what regrettable outfits lurk in your past?

Lastly, apropos of nothing (in this post, anyway), I have failed to tell y'all about meeting Nancy, a fellow lawyer/blogger and an all-around adorable woman-about-town.  She's terrific and witty and whip-smart, and I may have grabbed her arm a lot of times while we were having drinks last week, as it is one of my ways of saying, "You're great!  Just great!"  Damn, I love this here blogalicious medium. 

Also!  You will note if you scrolllllll down my sidebar that I've got linkies to other families from our adoption agency.  If you look through the ones marked as "home" or "in Vietnam" you'll get to see some super-duper cute and smooshable kiddos and read some great travel stories.  And those families who are waiting to travel have referrals (photos and info on their babies) and are slogging through the loooong wait until they get to bring them home. 

Have a great weekend -- after you spill about your bad outfits, that is!   

So Over It

I don't know if this picture counts as bershon since I wasn't being photographed under duress, but my face here has every suggestion of the inward sigh, of the dire circumstance of being a teenager, of being so terminally misunderstood. 

Allison took this on an apparently frigid night in high school when she was staying over and we were, as per usual, reading our long letters to each other.  We used to write these letters for weeks, and then exchange them when they got to be some crazy length, like fifty pages or so.  And then we would read them over and over and over again when we hung out with each other (which was all the time).

Since we didn't have much going on in our lives apart from school, youth group, ballet (me) and piano (Allison), the letters consist mostly of (1) discussing what was on the radio at any given time; (2) complaining about our parents or siblings, usually because they would not bend to our will for some reason; (3) chronicling our dreams from the night before; and (4) documenting our wish for Jon Bon Jovi to step out of our posters so we could make out with him.

To wit, during the summer of 1987, I wrote:  "'Luka' is on.  Excuse me, let me go barf! ... Oh, GAG.  A Prince song.  '1999' I think.  Bleh!  Yep.  Yuk, yuk, yuk!  It sounds like caterwauling. ... I had a WIERD [sic] dream last night.  It was the 1st day of school and you and me [sic, again] had all the same clothes.  We had peach and dark khaki skirts and shirts.  Except I put my shirt on backwards and had to turn it around.  It was strange."

Riveting, no?  (By the way, I have copies of all of my letters to Allison because she is the greatest friend ever and gave them to me in two bound volumes before I got married.  So now, anytime I want, I can find a minute-by-minute account of what was on 107Q from 1987 through 1993.  Awesome.) 

Another gripping account:  "August 7, 1987:  I got my Trapper for school.  It is cool!  It is white with black splatters on it.  It has neat folders, too."  As you can see, it didn't take much to entertain me in seventh grade. 

Here's a mildly dramatic episode.  Apparently, Allison went on vacation to Colorado that summer, and she called this guy Lonnie, who was her "boyfriend," but she didn't call me.  I was more than a little put out:  "Allison, I don't believe this!!  You have known Lonnie for about 3 months and me for almost 7 years and you call HIM from Colorado!!  I realize you go with him, but if I could call you from Illinois [where I had been for a family reunion] I would have.  Tonight has been a very stressful night [? - no idea], and I don't need this to top my anger [clearly, she should have sensed this from hundreds of miles away].  If you come back and I am dead by suicide, you'll wish you'd not put this stress on top of the rest.  [DRAMA MUCH?]  If you are laughing, hit yourself. [!!] It IS NOT funny!"

Hit yourself.  Good LORD.  Well, I got her back.  While she was in Colorado, I "stole" Lonnie from her.  A key bit of information that you should have is that I did not meet Lonnie in person until after we were "going together."  We started talking on the phone after we "met", uh, on-line, which was possible in 1987 thanks to a dial-up bulletin board system, where we and the other geeks of the town gathered to chat in a pre-AOL fashion.  Lonnie also knew our friend Sarah in real life, and they "went together" for a while before Allison and I found ourselves in this bizarre love triangle with him.   

In any event, I convinced Lonnie to be my boyfriend after he started calling me while Allison was away (mwah ha ha! -- what a total beeyotch I was!).  We had a few torrid phone calls (I believe mostly we sat in silence, listening to each other breathe, although occasionally he would talk about his computer or fishing) and then we agreed to meet at the movies one afternoon.  I dreamed of holding hands with him, our fingers touching in the popcorn. 

My friend Britt went with me, and we met Lonnie and some friend of his in the lobby of the theater.  We were seeing "Ernest Goes to Camp," a classic of the American cinema.  I wore a Catchit shirt with a surfer on it and white shorts; Lonnie wore Jams and a Polo shirt.  After we met, Lonnie told Britt and me to go ahead into the theater and save them some seats, and he and his friend would join us after they bought popcorn. 

Take a wild guess. 

Yep, they never showed.  Apparently Lonnie was unimpressed with my appearance (because he was such a stud, let me tell you), so he bailed.  I never saw him or heard from him again.

UNTIL.  Dun dun duuuuun. 

One Christmas vacation about ten years later, Sarah and Allison and I got together, as we are wont to do when we're all home visiting our parents, to rent movies and go out to Sarah's lakehouse and scare ourselves half to death.  While we were perusing the New Releases section of our local Blockbuster, a guy around our age who was reshelving videos asked if we needed any help finding anything.  We didn't.  As he walked away, Sarah gave Allison and me a Look.  We froze.  She whispered, without moving her lips, "You guys.  That was LONNIE."  And we died. 

I believe Allison and I both spun around shouting, "WHAT?  IT WAS?  OH MY GOD.  OHMYGOD, it IS him."  We must have spent an hour in the store, checking him out from all angles and marveling at the twists of fate that brought all of us back together under one roof.  In the end, he rung up our rentals without the slightest glimmer of recognition toward any of us, while we all grinned rather manically and nudged each other in the ribs.  Back in Sarah's car, we screamed with laughter.  LONNIE.

Picture Pages

My mom recently scanned in some old photos while performing her duties as family archivist, so naturally I feel that I must share some of them with all of you lovely people.  At least the ones of me, since presumably you have no interest in knowing what my great-aunt looked like in the 1920s.  Or perhaps you do, but let's take a moment now to remember whose Website this is, mkay?  Fortunately, most of them are from either before or after my prolonged awkward stage (which is well-documented here, here, and here; whether there truly is an "after" to it, you be the judge -- me, I tend to think it will never end), although the first does relate to my all-consuming love of Annie. 

Witness this, the most enthusiastic gift reaction ever captured on film:

My face looks like it's going to collapse in on itself, such is the power of my ecstatic inhalation.  Once I recovered the ability to make sound, I believe my exact words were, "ANNIE DRESS.  I HAVE AN ANNIE DRESS."  This was my birthday, August 1982.  And my mom made that dress with her own two hands.  (These sewing/crafting talents, they were not passed on to me, as I believe I've mentioned.) 

A normal seven-year old would have worn the dress to play in, maybe, and then carefully put it away until, oh I don't know, Halloween?  Or such other occasion (Purim party (we're not Jewish, but hey, whatever), Annie convention), of which there are admittedly few in life, when wearing an Annie dress might be appropriate. 

Me?  I wore it on the first day of school.  I'll just tell you straightaway, a great way to start off the school year?  Is NOT to show up dressed as your favorite cartoon/musical/film character.  Let this be a lesson to you all.

Next up:  August 7, 1975; a hospital in downstate Illinois: 

You have to admit, that is a cute baby right there.  My dad is looking very handsome and exceedingly tan (we're usually so pasty in my family; I have no idea what was going on in 1975 for him to be Mr. Swarthypants, but it's possible that this was simply before any of us knew not to leave the house without SPF 45 covering every millimeter of exposed flesh), and he is rockin' some sweet sideburns.  I have no idea how they got that bow in my hair, unless there is a safety pin in my head.  I had that same amount of hair until I was about five, and to this day I have that same fo' (that's forehead for you all who are not down wit it, yo) going on that you see here.

(But come on, what a cute baby, right?  RIGHT?)

Here I am, all gussied up for my stint as flower-girl in my aunt's wedding.  She got married in this church with an aisle the length of the Queen Mary 2.  I thought I would be scattering yellow rose petals for the rest of my life.

Dad makes another appearance here, in the form of a disembodied hand.  He used to hold his hand out like that and I would clap both of my hands against it (how many times can I use "hand" in one sentence?).  I don't know where we came up with that routine, but we do it to this day.  And when someone goes to shake my hand, I have to restrain myself from clapping it repeatedly between my own.  Because, at my core, I'm still six.  (I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.)

As evidence of my Little House obsession (which is recorded on this site too many times to link), here I am on Christmas Eve -- circa 1983 -- carrying presents down to the tree in my Red Flannel Factory nightgown:

Not pictured: the red flannel bonnet that went with the nightgown.  A BONNET.  If I tried to wear a full-on flannel ensemble such as this now, I would die of acute dehydration; they would find me in the morning having disappeared in a pool of my own sweat.  Just looking at this makes me feel warm and itchy.

Also, why does my brother look so fresh-faced and apple-cheeked, while I appear to have just wrestled a grizzly bear?  This was before bed, so I had no excuse for being so disheveled.      

Finally, here we have proof that I was a dancer.  And that, at one time, I had no ass whatsoever.

I clearly had no boobies, either, although in this shot it kind of looks like I have some growing out of my back.  At the time -- this was taken, I believe, when I was in tenth grade -- I thought this picture made me look chunky.

(Let's pause for a moment of silent head-shaking at the folly of a fifteen-year old who weighed as much as a pillowcase.) 

I do think my hands kind of look like catcher's mitts, though.  My arms and hands usually looked much more graceful than that, I swear.  And my knees could be straighter.  I could have arched a little more.  Oh, well.  It's hard to be critical now, when I would pay someone NOT to photograph me in a gauzy costume and tights. 

Although suddenly I am thinking about going as Annie for Halloween this year...

A Very Special Entry

Every Thursday night when I was a kid, my family would gather after dinner to watch the unbeatable NBC line-up of "The Cosby Show," "Family Ties" and "Cheers" (I had to go to bed before "Hill Street Blues," which was fine by me, as cop shows frightened me).  Friday night featured "Webster" and "Gimme a Break", and then Saturday night was "Diff'rent Strokes" and "Silver Spoons."  (Oh, how I loved Alex P. Keaton and Ricky Stratton, and who didn't want one of those trains you could ride right into the living room?)

We'd hole up in the family room, Mom in her corner of the couch, Dad in his Eames chair, me and my brother usually sprawled on the floor, propped up by mounds of folded-up afghans.  Our TV was a microscopic 13-inch Sony with a manual dial; it sat high up in my parents' massive teak entertainment console, which they'd somehow dragged home from Taiwan when they returned from my dad's tour in Vietnam in the early 70s.  I swear that thing was five stories tall; from our lounging spot on the floor, it was like watching the in-flight movie on a jet that was passing overhead.

Occasionally, something would go wrong:  the cable would abruptly go out and we'd be left staring at a snowy screen or the president would rudely interrupt to give some boring speech.  Or, worst of all, instead of the show starting with its jaunty theme song ("show me that smile agaaaaaain"), the screen would dim for a moment, and then one of the actors would appear, sitting on the set looking earnestly into the camera.  Oh no, I would think.  My brother and I would exchange apprehensive looks.  A voiceover would somberly intone, "Tonight:  A very special episode of 'Diff'rent Strokes.'  Parental guidance is suggested." 

And then Mr. Drummond or Mr. Stratton, out of character and breaking the fourth wall, would tell you that the Very Special Episode would deal with  sensitive issues that parents and children should watch together.  That was it.  The night of lighthearted sitcom viewing was over.  Because not only did we have to suffer through an un-funny episode of one of our favorite shows, but we'd also have to survive a Serious Family Talk afterward -- my mom was never one to let a Very Special Episode pass without forcing us into an uncomfortable conversaton about it.

There was the VSE of "Diff'rent Strokes" in which a shop clerk molested Dudley.  Excruciating does not begin to cover it.  When Mr. Carlson told Dudley to take his shirt off, my mom turned down the volume of the TV and asked my brother and me, "Do you understand what's happening?"  And then after the show (finally) ended, before we could bolt from the room she delved right into defining the right and wrong kinds of touches and making sure we knew to tell her right away if anyone tried to do anything like that to us.  I sat through it woodenly, staring somewhere in the middle distance and wishing to God I could disappear.

We didn't get into much of a discussion about the "Silver Spoons" VSE, because there was zero chance that my brother or I would ever shoot a deer, accidentally or otherwise.  (Remember?  Ricky went hunting with his grandfather and didn't want to shoot the deer, but then he did anyway?)  It's possible that we had some horrid exchange after the VSE of "Webster" in which Ma'am (WHY DID HE CALL HER MA'AM?  WHY?) had a miscarriage, and Webster was afraid he'd caused it because he didn't want another little scrapper in the house lapping up all of Ma'am and George's attention. 

But then.  Oh, God.  "Family Ties" put me through hell by featuring a VSE about -- NO, NOT THAT -- puberty.  It was as though my mom lived to talk about breasts and periods, whereas I wished never to discuss it, ever in my lifetime; I'd have been thrilled to go to my grave having never heard the words "menstruation" and (UGH) "pad," especially from my dear mom's mouth.  Instead, I got totally ambushed by Jennifer going through Womanly Changes, and afterward my mom cleared the room of my dad and brother so she could reiterate all the Important Womanly Facts that she'd shared with me ad nauseum for years beforehand. 

God, I sound like such an ungrateful brat!  I have no idea why these things made me squirm so, and now I feel so badly that my mom was being such a good parent while I was being sullen and withdrawn and OH, so awkward.  I was so resistant to her mother-daughter bonding moments, and I know she would have felt better if I'd just smiled and hugged her and thanked her for all the important information.  I couldn't do it, though.  The mere suggestion of a sensitive topic being broached turned me to ice.  Sorry about that, Mom!  I don't blame you.  I blame the Very Special Episodes.

The Ugly Chronicles

Ok, peeps.  Here it is.  A chronology of awkwardness, unfortunate fashion and even worse hair.  And, by the way, this isn't even the worst of it; this is a mere handful of photos that Allison happened to have scanned onto her computer.  I can assure you that things got much, much worse.  There was a spiral perm.  There was Vision Street Wear.  There were acid wash jeans. 

And yet, these capture enough dorkiness to sufficiently demonstrate why I was voted the Ugliest Girl at Space Camp. 

By the way, I have questions about the picture I posted yesterday.  Why was I wearing a gold belt over an untucked shirt to Sunday school?  Why didn't I brush my hair before I left the house?  And was that supposed to be a "bob" haircut of some kind?  That photo, by the way, I believe dates to sixth grade, or possibly seventh.  Seventh grade being the year I went to Space Camp, so...yeah.  I don't think anyone's really doubting my title anymore, now, are they?

Moving on. 

Here we have Allison and me on a hike with her parents.  We're in about fifth grade, I believe.  Maybe sixth?  Note the Members Only jackets we have tied around our waists.  Note the "painter's cap" I'm wearing.  It is checkerboard and has "Washington, DC" scrawled across it in a rockin' '80s font.  I am not bald, incidentally.  Just wearing my hair in braids, as I was wont to do.  Sort of like, um, Laura Ingalls Wilder. 

Here we are on another hike, and we may be out of order here; I think this is the year before.  I still have the same awful glasses, however (they were...ahem, Flintstones glasses -- Dino, to be specific -- and they were plastic tortoiseshell and WAY too small for my face).  They were my first glasses, which I got in third grade and wore until early sixth grade, by which time they looked like pince-nez.  The eye doctor finally stepped in and gently suggested that my mom get me some new glasses.  Ones that fit.  Naturally, I replaced them with...blue plastic glasses.  As you can see, I also had a weirdly chubby face even though I was lanky and had legs up to my sternum.  I suppose we all have our crosses to bear.  Also: visor. 

Aaaaand, more visor action.  This is at Girl Scout camp, where I am proudly displaying a badge for some exceedingly geeky thing like archery or ceramics, and Allison is making a mockery of my shining moment. 

Well, people, that's about as cute as it got before things veered sharply downhill.  And then we arrived at the nadir.  Eighth grade.  Post-spiral perm triangle hair, bangs growing out, shiny skin.  I'm no supermodel now, but you know, looking at this photo I can't help but think that I was not terribly unjustified in crying into my diary every night back then that I would never have a boyfriend.  It did seem awfully unfair -- and still does -- that some girls skated through junior high with shiny hair and pert features and perfectly proportioned bodies.  I'm not sure I gained any greater character traits as a result of being unfortunate looking, either.  Just bitterness.

In high school I smoothed out my hair and my face slimmed down; but the high-waisted jeans and geometric patterns of the day didn't flatter much, so I don't come out much better in photos.  The following picture hearkens back to this story, the story of the church ski trip and the Ette.  Here, I am expressing my displeasure at the dismal wallpaper.  And wearing an Esprit sweater that's almost as bad as the room decor. 

I feel like I have to put a decent shot of me here just to prove that I came out ok, that I'm not sitting here with a head of greasy triangle hair. 

Whew.  It wasn't easy, all those years and years of awkwardness.  Luckily, I am still clumsy and a homebody and sometimes socially stilted, so it's not like looking like a normal human being has gone to my head. 

Mallrats

(First off, the dog is fine.  Thanks for all your well wishes and concern!  He has some arthritis in the leg that he broke two years ago, so he's resting and taking anti-inflammatories and glucosamine, and already he seems to be doing better.  WHEW.  Onward!)

There wasn't a massive amount to do as a kid in my hometown, and at times one could not avoid spending a few hours in our local mall, most of which time was spent wanting to leave.  That place was like an energy-sucking vortex (not unlike Duane Reade here in the city); after returning home from a shopping excursion there, you had to lay down for at least an hour and then take a shot of B-12 before returning to normal functionality.  Is there anything in the world more depressing than a crappy mall?  Or, even worse, a mall with lots of empty stores, their gaping entrances shuttered by rickety metal gates?   Ugh.  Failed commerce!  It is too much to bear!

Anchored by a Belk and a JC Penney, our mall was very -- and I mean very -- low rent.  It didn't even merit a Gap.  Of course, my prepubescent years were spent begging my parents for Guess jeans, Esprit sweaters and Camp Beverly Hills t-shirts -- basically, anything plastered with labels all over it -- so a Gap probably wouldn't have interested me in any event.  Regardless, the highlight of every mall visit (aside from busting the hell out of there) was snarfing multiple free samples from the Chik-Fil-A by pretending to be more than one person -- a set of twins, perhaps, or maybe just someone who happened to look very much like the girl who was here a minute ago.   

Our sad little mall had some stores that were in dire need of renovation.  Deb, for example, was decorated in a classic bordello style, with blood-red shag carpeting and mirrored ceilings.  The lighting in that store -- which carried every conceivable garment (vests, jackets, scrunchies, underwear) rendered in acid wash denim, with a few suspendered swimsuits and mushroom-cloud sized prom dresses thrown in for variety -- was dim and weirdly phosphorescent; you always looked slightly purple in the dressing room mirrors, as the sales people hovered outside the door watching your feet to make sure you weren't stuffing a pair of pleated, back-yoked jeans into your oversized gold purse.  All of Deb's merchandise, by the way, hung on racks that were suspended from the ceiling by metal chains, so as you selected a shirt to try on, the whole thing would sway violently from side to side.  It was like shopping on a shipping frigate.  Well, a bordello shipping frigate.

We also had a store called The Crate, which I am shocked to see is still in existence.  The Crate carried lots of brand name stuff, so I occasionally rooted around in there amid the blaring music and blinding lights that were enough to make you forget your own name.  I went to The Crate to purchase new jeans once, after I tore a hole in the knee of a pair that my mom had just bought me -- purposely, mind you, as I was in my "heavy metal" phase, and everyone knows that headbangers do not wear pants without holes in the knee, especially holes that were neatly cut into them with their mother's sewing scissors.  When my mom saw the defaced jeans, she had what can only be described as a mild conniption, indicted me for one count of new clothing defacement and one count of indecent knee exposure, and sentenced me to use my meticulously saved allowance money -- which I had earmarked for God knows what, maybe my fiftieth Swatch or a new Pepsi rugby shirt -- to purchase new, un-knee-holed jeans.  Off to The Crate we went.

Other offerings of the mall included an arcade, where I spent hours waiting for my brother to hurry up and finish "just one more game" so we could go; Record Town, where I purchased both my very first 45 ("Pac-Man Fever", by the definitive one-hit wonders Buckner & Garcia) and, years later, my life-sized door poster of Jon Bon Jovi; and a toy store, where my mom bought my legions of Breyer horses and Cabbage Patch Kids.  I believe there was also a Chess King, a Lerner, a Radio Shack and an Orange Julius.  (Am I alone in thinking that Orange Juliuses were the nastiest concoctions known to man?)   

By far my favorite store in that life-sucking place was World Bazaar.  Allison and I used to go in there and spend hours (well, maybe more like minutes; it was a pretty small store) poring over all the exotic imported items -- baskets, toys (remember "worry dolls"?), stickers, fabrics.  One time in World Bazaar, when we were probably ten or eleven, we happened upon a display of Chinese handcuffs (that's what we called them; some people refer to them as "Chinese fingercuffs," the innocence of which term was forever destroyed by the movie Chasing Amy -- thanks, Kevin Smith).  Anyway, I picked up a pair and shoved my fingers into it in order to demonstrate how easy it was to escape them (I think we had learned about them in Montessori, so I was being a show-off and a know-it-all, as per usual).  I'm sure you can guess what happened. 

Yep, I couldn't get them off.  I did the thing where you push your fingers in further and it's supposed to loosen up so you can pull them right out, but no.  These were apparently defective, and only tightened with every movement.  I tried and tried, but it was clear that unless I did something drastic, I would be attending college with a pair of Chinese handcuffs connecting my hands.  Although the thing was only a dollar, I couldn't bring myself to go to the counter and have them cut them off and pay for them.  No.  Instead, I hid behind a shelf in the back of the store and twisted my fingers and tore at the woven bamboo (?) with my teeth until finally the thing splintered and I could rip it off entirely.  I stuffed the ruined item in the bottom of a basket and we hightailed it out of there.  Afterward, I felt too guilty to have my usual bubble gum ice cream from Baskin-Robbins on the way to the car.    

It's been at least a decade since I set foot in that godforsaken mall (I had to let the statute of limitations run on the destroyed Chinese handcuffs).  I understand that Deb is no longer there; but my research reveals that it has now landed a Bath & Body Works -- no small miracle since about 80% of the stores were closed the last time I was there.  There's still no Gap, though.  Teens who intentionally rip holes in their clothes still have to shop at The Crate to replace them.

(Thanks to Allison for inspiring this post and reminding me of the chain-suspended racks at Deb.  And also the suspendered bathing suits.  What was going on in the 80s, man?)

Let's Go to the Movies, Let's Go See the Stars

Remember when you would go to the movies as a kid, and it seemed like you had to sit there waiting forever for the thing to start?  You'd be halfway through your Milk Duds and Mom's watch would indicate that there were still five minutes until the lights would darken and the projector would wink on and you'd be wrapped up in a whole nother world (does anyone else use this phrase?  "A whole nother"?).  And five minutes was forever. 

My mom used to haul a huge boat tote to the movie theater, filled with individual paper bags of popcorn and small portions of candy for me and my brother and anyone else we'd brought along.  That was our way of sticking it to the man.  We weren't having any of that $50 waxen movie popcorn in twenty gallon drums!  Word. 

As an adult, this means to me that my mom must have spent at least an hour preparing for us to go to the movies, because she had to pop the corn (in one of those fire hazard, hot-plate oil popper things) and portion it out into bags and pack up the candy and get us dressed and...I need a nap just thinking about it.  God bless her.

The first movie I remember seeing is The Black Hole, when I was about four.  I have no idea of the plot other than what IMDB tells me, which doesn't refresh my recollection in the slightest, but I vaguely recall a small red robot.  Improbably enough, Anthony Perkins and Ernest Borgnine appeared in this pre-Star Wars effort at approximating some kind of space-exploring future.  (Why was there so much sci-fi in the 70s, anyway?) 

What I do remember is my dad covering my eyes whenever something potentially scary happened.  He continued to do this throughout my movie-viewing childhood -- I didn't see the face-melting scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark until college -- and I can still feel his cool fingers hovering protectively in front of my eyes.  I didn't resist, since I feared bad dreams as much as I did burglars and fires and tornadoes. 

Then there was The Fox and the Hound, featuring the vocal talents of a young Corey Feldman.  We saw that for my sixth birthday with a bunch of kids from the neighborhood, and I loved it fiercely until it ripped my heart out.  When the rending asunder of Copper and Tod's friendship became too sad to bear, I climbed over the back of my seat into my mom's lap and cried.  I told her I had a leg ache, but she knew I was just too sensitive to handle this cruel turn of events.  As I've mentioned before, my brother used my Fox and the Hound record to torment me for years, putting it on so he could watch me dissolve into tears at the injustice of it all.  I still tear up just thinking about that ending. 

Then there were the Star Wars years; I couldn't possibly remember the first one, since I was just two when it came out, but I definitely remember Empire Strikes Back.  Even now, when those yellow words scroll across the screen, I hear my mom's voice reading them to me in hushed tones.  My brother and I accumulated every Star Wars figure and accoutrement that ever graced the shelves of Toys R Us, and we could entertain ourselves for days flying the Millenium Falcon around the family room to pick up various characters stationed in window sills and in house plants and on Yoda's swampy planet.  I was mildly obsessed with Princess Leia, and my friend Julie and I always tussled over who got to dress up as the white-clad, side-bunned Leia and who had to settle for the loop-braided, Cloud City one.

And then there was Annie.  Le sigh.  I've already discussed my unending love of all things Annie -- the dress, the role-playing, the satchel -- but really, it's impossible to convey just how deep the love was.  Except, as someone pointed out before, what was that movie-within-the-movie about?  Everything's clicking along and people are breaking into song ("let's go to the moooooovies, let's go see the staaaars"), and then we have to sit through this long black and white melodrama for what seemed like hours.  The hell?  Why was that not edited out in the final version? 

After Annie, everything seems a little duller.  There were the Indiana Jones flicks -- which my brother had to go see before I was allowed, so he could report back to my parents as to its propriety for my fragile little mind -- and more Star Wars and, of course, the Back to the Future series, with my ensuing crush on Michael J. Fox. 

Oh, wait!  E.T.!  Oh my God.  The soaring John Williams score, as Elliot flies away in his bicycle, silhouetted against the moon?  Such triumph!  Such a victory for the underdog!  (Ugh.  I don't think I could sit through that dreck now.) (Also, am I the only one who had a record of Neil Diamond's "Heartlight"?  Turn on your heartlight!/Let it shine wherever you go/Let it make a happy glow/For all the world to see!  Yeah.  Thought so.)  Again, I sat sobbing in the theater as E.T., Elliot's only friend, had to return home.  Another friendship torn apart by the cruel laws of nature!  What is it with these children's movies?  Why were they so heartless?  Wah. 

I'm having trouble coming up with any movies I saw as a teenager.  I didn't really get into the John Hughes flicks until later, and if you can believe this, Allison and I walked out of Say Anything when we were in eighth grade because we found it too boring.  One night around that same time, my dad and I had a bit of a row because Allison and I wanted to go to A Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon (mostly to lust after River Phoenix), but it was rated R.  We ended up -- get this -- convincing our church youth group leaders to take a bunch of us to see it.  It was rather, um, graphic, and I died a little bit inside at every penis reference. 

That's the last thing that sticks out in my mind until college, really.  Maybe I didn't see any movies in high school because I was too busy dancing.  I did watch a lot of Hitchcock classics (interspersed with melodramas like Terms of Endearment or On Golden Pond) on video with my parents, who didn't go to the theater unless under duress because my dad has a severe aversion to rattling wrappers and audible chewing. 

And now I have apparently become him, because the last film I saw in the theater was Match Point sometime last January, when, as usual, my husband and I ended up sitting in front of both the Inappropriate Laughers AND the Deaf Old Couple, who constantly ask each other what? What did he just say?  He's going where?  Who is that?  I swear, these people seek us out no matter where we go, whether it's a flight, a movie, a play or the ballet.  EVERY SINGLE TIME, we are subjected to someone braying in our ears or kicking our seats or talking incessantly through the event, and it's enough to make you want to barricade yourself in your home for all of eternity.  At least, until the next Annie comes along.