A Blast from My Past

C just sent me some pics from way back in the days of Pulp Fiction, and Melrose Place, when the CDs in our stereo rotated between Bjork singing about Human Behavior, The Beastie Boys informing us about Sabotage, Courtney love and Hole rocking my thinking-about-getting-a-graduate-degree-in Women's-Studies world, and The Queen is Dead.

We were newlyweds living in a fairly cruddy lower flat in Royal Oak, Michigan, hanging out with our friends and trying to figure out how to be the kind of grown-ups we thought we should be despite the fact that he was still in law school and I was writing newsletters and doing the desktop publishing for a rich and ritzy suburban church. We had no money but felt like we should have had plenty, mostly because some of our friends had taken good jobs after college and were starting to get it together.

We painted bunches of grapes on our kitchen walls, and I hosted my first Thanksgiving. I had no shortage of confidence in myself or my ability to do whatever I wanted, and here's proof: I sewed an enormous bridal gown for our friend to wear for Halloween, despite the fact that I hadn't touched a sewing machine since I'd not finished sewing a pair of pants I had been forced to make in 8th grade Home-Ec. But look! I figured it out, and it was pretty great!



He dyed the dress red the next year and went as Joan Crawford, but C and I were gone by then. We'd sold everything we owned and moved to London, where I got pregnant with The Boy, which caused us to decide to move back to Pennsylvania to be near our families, and I think I've only been back to Michigan twice since. But we were very happy there, and I always think of Michigan as one of my favorite states.

Confirmation that I am Elderly

1- I usually drive The Boy to school in the morning, dropping him off on my way to work. I was sick today, however, and by the time I realized I wouldn't be able to make the drive without a barf bag, it was too late to arrange a ride for him. So . . . he took a city bus. All by himself. Granted, I was with him on his cell phone every step of the way, but he did it.

2- I dragged my feverish self to his basketball game this afternoon, because his dad couldn't go and I felt one of us should be there. One of the girls in his class came up to me during the game and ASKED ME FOR A PAD. A PAD! I've known this girl since she was two years old, and now she's getting her period. Her second one.

I am ancient.

Hail to Pitt

My nephew is turning 8 tomorrow, and is a huge fan of Pitt Panther football and basketball, so I made him this hat:



It's not perfect, because I had a terrible time figuring out how to decrease the stitches for the crown without fouling up the ribbing, so I punted. I think he'll like it. Happily, he's the kind of sweet kid who will be pleased that I made him something, and will overlook the flaws if he notices them.

Spectacles

This is what watching Buffy does to my glasses--tears explode out of my eyes and practically turn my glasses into a blindfold. (Note: My glasses are only turquoise on the inside. The outsides of the frames are dark purple and mostly look black.)

Maybe Only Interesting to Me

Excerpt from this morning’s e-mail from C, The Boy’s dad:

We watched an ep of Charmed to kill some time before AI, and here's our exchange:

Tb: who made this show?
C: Aaron Spelling. The same guy that did 90210 and many many others...
Tb: when was it on TV?
C: About the same time as buffy. Longer, even.
Tb: Cause it looks a lot like buffy, even the credits. But it sucks so much. It's like Buffy, but BAD. I can't figure it out.
C: Neither can I, boy.

I love that my kid has such, to quote Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel, discriminatin’ tastes, even if his spending Wednesday nights with his dad forces him to endure such things as American Idol and America’s Next Top Model. Said The Boy when I picked him up for school on a Thursday morning not too long ago: “Stylista is over, thank GOD.” “Oh? Who won?” “WHO CARES?” That’s my boy. I think he got off easy with an evening ofCharmed.

I started my volunteer work at my friend’s library last night, and I think it might be just the thing to beef up my resume so I can get a real job soon. It went well, I think. The library is easy to get to, has free parking, and the people I’ll be working with are pleasant and friendly—and glad to have free help.

I came home from the library, ate some dinner, read through some blogs, and then planned to soak in a hot bath and start reading The Last Chinese Chef, which my friend K sent me for my birthday. Imagine my disappointment, though, when I stepped into the bubbles (which smelled like spiced chocolate, thanks to a Christmas gift from my friend S who indulges me despite her horror at the notion of taking a bath and “soaking in your own filth”) and discovered that THE WATER WAS COLD. Yes, I only dipped one foot into the water, but I was naked and it was COLD.

The plumber is coming today to see what’s up with the water heater, but I wasn’t able to take a shower this morning. I wasn’t especially dirty, but I did wake up with severe bed head, which could only be defeated by a generous soaking. Too lazy to warm up a bowl of water in the microwave, I plunged my head into the cold water coming out of the tub’s spout, and that was that. You’d think that would wake you up, but you’d be wrong. I haven’t had my shower, and feel like I should go right back to bed. I look normal, but I feel like a sleepy slob.

A sleepy slob who gets to leave work early this afternoon to take The Boy to see the eye specialists at Children’s Hospital. Remember the sty that had me singing like Hank Williams, back in October? Well, it didn’t go away with doctor-advised hot compresses, nor did prescription anti-biotic salve (such a gross word) make it go away. We saw the doctor about it yet again to finally have her tell us to go to the actual pediatric eye people. Finally. I can’t wait to see the last of that thing, and neither can The Boy.

And then tomorrow is Friday. Beautiful, glorious Friday! I know this has been a short week, thanks to the Martin Luther King holiday, but it feels like it’s taken forever. I can’t wait to sleep in Saturday morning. Hopefully, after I’ve taken a nice, hot, bubble bath.

Amen

What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility -- a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task. --President Obama

I know he's only a man, not the messiah, but I'm counting on him for a lot of things. I wish him well, and I can't wait to find out what I can do to help.

The Irony of Things

I recently received two gifts that I never would have asked for and really didn’t want. It turns out, though, that I like them both and am glad to have them.

I was very surprised a few years ago when I noticed a woman carrying what looked to me like her cosmetics case as a purse. I think my mom used to have a pretty zippered case made of quilted fabric in the drawer where she kept her make-up. Or maybe I’d seen someone packing jewelry for travel in a roll-up case made of pretty quilted fabric. Regardless of where I’d picked up the association, it seemed to me that carrying this pretty quilted bag—identical to ones normally used to stow small feminine items inside a larger case—was tantamount to wearing your underwear on the outside. It seemed indecent.

And I seem like a prig, don’t I? Sometimes I am. I’m working on it.

Anyway, I learned a while later that the woman was of course carrying a Vera Bradley purse. And then every woman seemed to be carrying a Vera Bradley purse. And now . . . I am carrying a Vera Bradley purse.



My mom bought three, kept one, and gave one to my sister and one to me at Christmas. I didn’t want it. My mother knows I’m not much for the girly stuff, as she has in fact said to me, “Why don’t you like pretty things?” I started using the purse, though, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. (See, I may be a prig about weird things, but I’m a NICE prig.) It turns out that the colors in the purse match nearly everything I wear (even if the girly style/pattern CLASH with my clothes and emotions), and the size of the purse is ideal for me. I also like all of its little pockets. So . . . I didn’t want the thing at all, and now I kind of like it.



Kind of like how, at a friend’s insistence, I tried on a pair of her daughter’s Ugg boots and was amazed at how warm and snuggly they were . . . and she kind of sent me a pair for my birthday (which is tomorrow, in case anyone else would like to send me something unasked for and/or expensive). I didn’t want Uggs. They’re ugly, and they make me think of Paris Hilton. I don’t want to have anything in common with Paris Hilton. You know what, though? These things are cozy and comfy and oh-so-warm that I’ve been wearing them every day. I sprayed them with suede protector, so they keep my feet dry. I don’t tuck my pants into them, and I won’t wear them with skirts, and I still think they’re ugly, but when the temperature is below zero as it has been, these ugly boots totally rock, much like the moon boots I had in grade school. Only those were black and silver, and made me feel like I had something in common with Darth Vader, a shared association in which I took great pride . . .

So here I am, enjoying my unwanted, trendy, brand-name items. This begs a question: Do the people who gave me these gifts know something about me that I don’t?