Category: Lancient History

Lancient History

Dressed

the outside lane

The things that keep me up at night…

Tonight I am up because I have a party to attend on Sunday, and I have no idea what to wear. I am trying to convince myself that going upstairs and trying on every dress in my closet is a bad idea. Myself is not listening. Myself is also unconvinced that I do not need to buy a new dress for this event.

“But everything you have is either out of season, or dour.”

No, self, the LBD isn’t dour.

“You could wear it to a funeral. It is dour. The dress is dour and your situation is dire. Buy that dress you just saw online.”

I am not buying a dress I haven’t tried on. At least not a formal dress. Besides, I’ll end up having to have it hemmed four inches and that’s an arm and a leg.

“New shoes. Just buy some new shoes and be taller.”

Sadly for Myself, I’m just not interested in spending money right now. That’s the honest truth. I have had two days of free time at lunch and have not been even the tiniest bit interested in shopping, even though I am minutes away from two great malls, and loads of boutiques. Just not interested. I have too much junk as it is.

I did buy some new books, all either autobiographies or memoirs. I bought Jenna Jameson’s book. It’s a good read, but I am uncomfortable with some of the photographs. It’s hard to focus on someone’s meth addiction when there are gigantic breasts staring at you from the facing page.

Oh, but here’s a funny story.

So you have to understand that I was a very, very sheltered girl and, unlike Ms. Jameson, kept all my clothes on for a very, very long time. I didn’t know much about anything, and less about anything naked, but a boy I was dating my freshman year of college convinced me to watch a porno with him. “It’s Andrew Blake,” he promised, “it’s very artsy and elegant.”

I was skeptical. The only other porn I had seen was less than two minutes of a group scene, a teenage girl from my philosophy class had turned on while I was visiting the apartment she shared with her 40 something year old boyfriend, who managed the Walgreens pharmacy where she worked. I was equal parts confused, fascinated, and worried about germs, and when my nose wrinkled back far enough in my head that I looked like Lord Voldemort, she turned it off, angry that I wasn’t turned on. Then I realized I had bigger issues than wondering whether or not it was actually possible for a normal person to get their leg that far behind their own head, and I motored.

Anyway, the Andrew Blake film opened with a naked woman with Olivia Newton-John’s hairstyle from Physical straddling a fluorescent light bulb most amorously. I felt my nose wrinkling back up into my forehead again. She really, really liked that lightbulb.

I recall turning to the boy and asking if that was really what did it for him. He assented. I asked if it was supposed to do something for me, other than make me worry about the woman burning her ladybits off on a light bulb. He was unhappy with my reaction and shut it off. I think we ended up watching Star Trek instead, me shrugging, still worried about that woman’s inner thighs and making mental comparisons between the two of us. (This is why I cannot watch porn. I have no suspension of belief and I have nipple placement envy.) But he was mad, or frustrated, or whatever, and I was embittered against poor Andrew Blake, who had ruined my idea of a good date (dinner, movie, being told how fabulous I was, without other naked women encroaching) just as much as I had ruined the boy’s.

This was all I knew of the adult entertainment industry. Period.

Same year, I was out to dinner with my mother and my agent. We were used to waiters and waitresses announcing themselves as actors whenever they saw TJ’s business credit card. She was always fantastic about it, and always asked them about their plans and was willing to share information to help them.

We were at a Steak and Ale, and had a waiter who was just beautiful. This man was drop dead, Julian Sands kind of lovely, and had amazing dexterity. I mean that with no double meaning at all. At one point he was balancing a tray with one hand, setting utensils with the other, then used that same free hand to deftly open a bottle of steak sauce and lay the cap aside so neatly that I marveled at how great he was with his hands. Because I say stupid things like that. “Wow! He is great with his hands!”

TJ and my mother fell to laughter, and teased me for the next ten minutes.

FauxJulian returned with the check and saw TJ’s card and exclaimed, “You’re an agent! Oh, I’m in the business!”

“Yes,” TJ smiled, patiently. “Are you? What do you do?”

“I’m an actor,” he said.

She smiled patiently again. I was embarrassed because she was kicking me under the table, and so afraid she was going to mention his hands. “What have you done?” She asked.

He demurred, his cheeks actually turning pink. “Well,” he said, “It’s a highly specialized, very specific part of the industry.”

Before she could ask more, I snorted and threw out the only name I knew, “What? Like Andrew Blake films?”

And the clouds parted, and angels sang, and FauxJulian’s blue eyes lit up as though recognizing his long lost sister. “You’re familiar?!”

My mother’s face fell into a little O of confusion and TJ blinked at me like I’d just grown another head.

Have I blogged this here before? Seems like it. Whatever.

I was reading along in Jenna Jameson’s book and she mentioned that her first adult film was shot by…Andrew Blake. I had a good laugh.

Man, that guy was pretty.

I’m going to go try on dresses now. Wish me luck.

Lancient History

Howdy, Folks

the outside lane

We moved to Texas in 1981. That is, we drove into Dallas just after sunset on October 31, 1981, then moved into our house on November 3. Since I’ve lived here for 30 of my 40 years, now, I think it is safe to call myself a Texan.

It’s funny because I still consider Georgia home. Georgia was where my mom’s parents lived. (This reminds me that I need to return my father’s call.) Dad’s parents lived in Alabama. Alabama is not home, though we lived there for a while, when Dad was in Okinawa. Virginia, where we lived for four years, is what I consider second home. Texas has always just been where I lived–it never became home. I think I kept expecting to move again.

30 years has blown by, with me answering, “Where are you from,” with, “Well, I’m sort of from all over, but I’ve been in Texas for most of my life, so I guess I’m from here?” Maybe it’s time to stop doing that.

When I was in NY, I spent a good ten minutes standing in the business center of the hotel, waiting for a gaggle of school-trip-traveling, Spanish, teenage girls to free up a computer so I could print my boarding passes for home. After a brief conversation with one of them, they picked up that my accent wasn’t local. “Where are you from?” One asked. “Dallas, Texas,” I said, without thinking.

“Oooh…Dallas!”

They were impressed. I was proud. No one gets excited if you say, “I’m from Norfolk, Virginia!” Really no one gets excited if you say, “I’m from Columbus, Georgia!” Well, unless they are military or happen to be a Cousteau, then you have something to talk about.

So, yeah, I’m from Texas. Yeehaw!

Lancient History

The Dunce Cap

the outside lane

I think I caused Thor his first tardy this morning. Ice, you know. I hope he did all right. He was in the school a minute before the bell rang, and had disappeared down the hallway, and I had walked back into the parking lot before I heard it going off. Maybe he made it?

I spent a lot of time in trouble at school. Mom got notes saying things like, “Lane is a very social child,” and “Lane needs to be less concerned with other children’s work.” See, if I felt like it was taking too long for a child to learn something, I would take over for the teacher. Obviously, she couldn’t handle it. I knew how to do it. Thank you, Mrs. Barnett, I’ll take it from here.

I sat out in the hall at least once a week. Maybe more like once a day. By first grade, I had figured out how to make the most of my time, and would fantasize elaborate getaway schemes. I figured if I could just get hold of a dog costume, I could wear it under my clothes, and change into a dog when sent out in the hall. I figured the principal would pat me on the head, and let me outside, and I could get home from there. My only problem was in where to find a dog costume.

Sitting in the hall, or standing in the corner were just my norm. I was resigned to it. I didn’t mean to talk in class, but things needed saying, you know? And that was the worst of it. I was a talker.

Twice, in elementary school, I was sent to the principal’s office. Mrs. Hopkins. She was a short, even to me, red-headed woman, with big black shoes and thick stockings, and had a red spot in the white of one eye. The first time I was called in, it was because another early-drop-off student was in the library with me, and she hid all the date stamps in the card catalog (under S for stamp.) She was a 5th grader, and she threatened to beat me up if told anyone, so I didn’t say a word until Mrs. Hopkins suggested I was the one who had hidden the stamps. Then, I sang like a canary.

The second time was because of problems on the school bus. I had my part in those problems because I was an aggravating heifer, but I promised to cool it.

In 4th grade, I started spending a lot of time in the nurse’s office, in the sickroom. 3rd grade was when the worst of my stomach issues began–I had acid reflux (plus a few other issues) before it was a media friendly term. I even made it into a medical journal as a case study! My gullet is famous! In 4th grade, I also started spending a lot of recesses indoors because I wasn’t turning in my homework. Because making me stay inside in air conditioning, in a room full of books, being told all I was allowed to do was sit there and read was a punishment. Will you think less of me for admitting that when I realized my detentions were running low, I would pull a stunt just to be kept inside again? Punishment would have been to make me go outside.

Funnily enough, I did not get into any kind of trouble at all in 5th grade, save for having my name written on the board once. 6th grade was all kinds of hell, and I hid in the nurse’s office frequently. I kept my nose clean through 7th and 8th grades, with one exception for having used algebra to make fun of a classmate.

Honestly, with my math issues, my teacher should have given me extra credit. Instead, I got a trip to the Vice Principal for a paddling. He told me if I would sing him a song, he would pretend it had never happened. Again, like a canary.

In 10th grade, I learned how to skip school. An upper classman filled me in on the fact that Sister Isabelle never actually asked to speak to your mom, when you called home from the office phone. “Dial time and temperature. Pretend you’re asking to go home. Cover the phone with your hand and ask Sister Isabelle if she needs to talk to your mother. She’ll say no. If she says yes, get clumsy and disconnect.”

You give a mouse a cookie… You give a 16 year old a car and a too-trusting, eldery nun…

I also learned, in 10th grade, that if you failed a class, it wasn’t as big a deal as everyone had said. I failed Geometry, the only math I ever understood, by refusing to turn in homework. I made As and Bs on tests, and 0s on all my homework. I was protesting my parents, who were both behaving abonimably then (yeah. that’s how I rebelled, baby. I refused to turn in homework. I am so hardcore!) So I flunked the last half of Geometry, making my teacher crazy, and spent half a summer doing all the homework I had refused to do previously.

I didn’t mind summer school. It was something to do other than go to a stinking camp. So when Algebra II rolled around, I saw no reason to bother with it either. I skipped as much school than I attended in 11th and 12th grades, and I took the first semester of Algebra II twice, and the second semester three times. I finally tested out of it in order to graduate.

But you know what? I was never tardy. Ever. Mom had to drop me off an hour before school started, in order to get to work. So, I was always early, never tardy.

That in mind, maybe I’m actually starting Thor off right.

Howling Sea Lane, Lancient History, Religion

God! The Beginning.

the outside lane

Amy and I talk a lot about religion, namely because we met in a mire of religious misinformation and slipped through the nets one right after the other. We also talk a lot about religion because it is a passion of mine. I like religions. I grew up in among religious diversity, and was taught to appreciate and respect how people choose to (or not to) worship. I would say that I grew up in a loosely Christian household.

We did not go to church (outside the couple of times I can remember going with my mother–and I only remember that because I loved my fuzzy blue coat, and I thought the minister was yelling at me. he was actually yelling at everyone. Hell! Fire! Damnation!), or read the Bible, or do anything remotely religious for Christmas or Easter, but there was a Bible in the house, and I picked up a lot of my personal belief system through the Bible story books in the waiting rooms of doctors offices. Pretty pictures, you know?

In my tweens, after we had moved to Texas (which really cut down on my ability to go to Temple and to Mass with friends–sad) I visited a local Baptist church and was confused and frightened into something like salvation. That is, after visiting the church a few times, and being hounded by the Sunday School lady, I was in bed one night staring at the ceilng and suddenly became afraid I was going to die. I was afraid if I died, I was going to go to hell, and didn’t want to catch on fire. I went to my parents’ bedroom and told them that, and I told them I was going to be a Baptist so I wouldn’t go to hell. They were fine with that, and I announced my intention to be baptized. Mom, although she hadn’t darkened a door since I was two, agreed to go to church with me to see it done. Dad said no.

The next Sunday, when the altar call came–wait. Some of you might not know what an altar call is. In most Baptist churches, the service goes something like Singing-Prayer-Singing-Baptisms/Baby Dedications-Singing (to give the pastor time to get out of his hip waders)-Welcome of New Guests-Religious Announcements/Introduction of Speakers/Pastor-Soloist Singing/Awful Screeching-Prayer-20 minute Sermon-Collection of Offering-Prayer-Altar Call-Prayer-Introduction of those who answered the Altar Call to be Born Again, Baptized, or Become a Member of the Church-Congregation Accepts These People-Prayer-Dismisal.

The altar call goes like this: The pastor will pray and remind the congregation that none come to the Father, except by the son, and will ask everyone to bow their heads and close their eyes. Then, he will (sweetly or not, depending upon your flavor of Baptist–I’ve never heard a sweeter altar call than those given by Bill Skaar at First Baptist Church in Grand Prairie, unless it was by Jesse Duplantis, who is a Word of Faith evangelist) entreat those who are not yet Saved to accept Jesus as their Lord, and come declare their willingness to follow Jesus’ way of doing things, and leave off willful sin. He will also invite people who are Saved, but not yet Baptized, to come make a declaration of their faith through Public Witness (that’s just saying out loud, in front of people that you have chosen Christ) and announce their intention to be Baptized. Usually, those people get baptized the next week. He will also invite people to join the church family.

Those who answer the Altar Call walk down to the front where ministers are waiting. The ministers speak with, pray with, love on them, and write down their information on little cards. The choir will generally sing, very softly, repeating verses of a chosen hymn. My personal favorite goes, “Softy and tenderly, Jesus is calling…” I guess I like it because my Jesus is a tender Jesus. Anyway, when the pastor thinks everyone who is coming is there, he will go speak quietly to each one, determine their needs, and pray with them. The choir is exhausted by then, so the music goes a little more up tempo until the pastor returns to the pulpit.

Then, he will remind everyone that answering the Altar Call is a brave thing to do, and encourage those who did it. He will introduce each person or family, using the little cards to tell the congregation about them and why they answered the call. He will then ask for particular members of the church to come and stand with each person, picking out those he knows are good examples of what each person needs, and will ask those church members to take responsibility for introducing the Newbies around, and helping them feel connected.

After service is dismissed, all those people remain at the front of the church, and the congregation comes by to greet and congratulate, and hug them. The little old ladies are the worst for wanting to hug and smooch on you. Although, I have a strong feeling that when I am a little old lady, that’s where you’ll find me–though I’ve long since given up on being a real Baptist.

So, picture me, a very small eleven-year-old in a pink dress. When the altar call came, this one as gruff and unsanded as the proverbial old, rugged cross, I took a breath, set my jaw, and marched myself down that red carpeted center aisle, through the mothball scented rows of pews, to the front. The Sunday School lady asked me why I was down there. “I want to get baptized,” I told her. She said, “Have you made a public profession of your faith?” I said, “I don’t know. But I need to get baptized so I don’t go to hell.” And, they baptized me, told me I was saved and not allowed to sin anymore, and to come to more church services.

That’s the last time I went to that church, save for visiting once with Jamie.

So, you see, I did not accept Jesus or anything like that. I thought Jesus was a really nice man, and that it was super that he was the Son of God and all, and I wanted to be a really good girl, but there was no personal connection. I felt much closer to Aslan than to Jesus, in fact. I was just afraid of going to hell, so I jumped into his line.

I would not have any regular religious instruction again until 9th grade, when I transferred to Ursuline Academy, and began taking Catholic theology classes and going to Mass. Imagine my surprise at finding extra books in the Bible! I found that very suspect. The Bible Calvary Baptist had given me didn’t have all those extras in there, and I thought I was a Baptist, so I needed to stick to the bare bones of Protestantism. Sister Ann thought I would make a good nun, though. I thought I could not. I do think one of my classmates went on to join the sisterhood. She was a wonderful girl. I find myself hoping she did because religions need people like Jean. Jean would make the world better. You could stand next to her and feel her calm and warmth radiating, and believe everything was going to be all right.

Once I left Ursuline, with the exception of a few visits to a pre-Dr. Skaar FBC, with Karen, I didn’t bother with church. I still spent plenty of time on religion. There were a lot of them out there to read about, anyway. It wasn’t until college, when I followed a boy named Luther to a Campus Crusade group, that I started getting really involved.

Between December 1992 and March 1993, several things happened. First, I was date raped out of my virginity (I’ve never really counted that, since it wasn’t exactly my idea, you know?) and that put me quite out of my mind trying to act normal, since I chose to keep it a secret (save for telling a couple of friends and blurting it out to a group of near strangers, who were appropriately horrified at my outburst.) Next, Granny was diagnosed with aggressive cancer. And then, my father left very suddenly. Thus began my downward emotional spiral, which culminated with me sitting on my grandparents’ back porch in July, sobbing my heart out to God and making that actual personal decision that Jesus was going to be my Lord, and was going to be my model for how to live my life. My way wasn’t working, so I said I would give his way a try.

A month later, I was attending my first Southwest Believers Convention, then the Eagle Mountain Motorcycle Rally, then soon, I was a full-on member and volunteer at Eagle Mountain International Church. Those were the good days. They lasted about two years.

Lancient History, Style

Chairs, Children, and Feet

the outside lane

Lest you think I only buy clothes at Ross, here is a picture of our new chair. My in-laws graciously gifted me with a nice-sized Ross gift card for Christmas, and I used it toward the purchase of the chair and ottoman. After seeing so many people in my living room with no place to sit, I decided it was time. Ross had a chair that matched the color and texture, if not exact style of our loveseat, so I bought it. The ottoman has storage space, and I’ve put a couple of our lap throws in there. We are a family who loves blankets.

The throw on the chair was a wedding or Christmas gift–I don’t remember which. We have used that thing like crazy! If you’re reading this, and recognize it as a gift you gave, THANK YOU! BLESS YOU! Who knew how much you could love a throw?

You see a little red carpet on the floor. We don’t have a dining room table in our townhouse, so we use the coffee table for dinner. Thor has a wee, miniature leather dining room chair that sits on that carpet. That way, if he has a spill, we can just clean it up easily. That is his abandoned breakfast milk on the table. I love that kid.

So, I bought the new chair and ottoman, and I also bought a pair of boots.

When I was small, we lived in Virginia. Right there where the A is, though the treeline was much less robust 30 years ago. Geez! 30 years ago. Anyway.

You see the water line behind the treeline? We had a dock that slipped out into the water, and that water ran a ring around our entire neighborhood. It was lengthy. And, in the winter, it often froze over.

Once, when I was eight or nine (it was the 70s, there weren’t daycares or drop-in care gyms on every corner), Mom was forced to leave me at home during a stretch of snow days. She came home to check me on her lunch hour, and called frequently, and an elderly neighbor was keeping an eye out that I didn’t burn down the house, but otherwise, she had no choice but to trust me (now, a mother myself, my heart really goes out to her.) I was pretty fearless, and also pretty stupid. I thought it would be fun to play in the snow barefooted. I also thought it would be fun to go walking on the frozen water. After my naked toed explorations, and after having fallen through the ice twice, yes, twice, I ended up with some frostbite on my feet. Not bad, and nothing that required immediate attention, but I didn’t even tell Mom about it until years later, so she couldn’t have taken me to see a doctor anyway.

Thirty-some-odd years later, I am still suffering for those poor choices. Three toes on my right foot, and two on my left are always much colder than the others. Frequently, my feet are so cold it actually hurts. In the winter, my feet ache with the cold. You will not see me without socks or slippers when temperatures drop below 75, unless I’ve just gotten out of a foot defrosting, hot bath. I thank God for the person who created microwaveable slippers and socks!

In the winter, I really don’t care how ugly the footwear is. If it is warm, and if it will keep my toes from feeling like they are about to snap off, I will wear it. I have a hideous pair of knock-off Uggs, and responded to a Jezebel.com story about those with the comment, “I don’t care how ugly they are. You can pry them off my warm, toasty, dead feet.” I’ve almost worn those $12 beauties out though. So, last night, when I saw what looked like warm boots, I went to inspect.

I am now the happy owner of a pair of Skecher Shape Up Boots. I do not care if they shape or don’t. They have a thick sole that will keep my feet far from the cold ground, have a thick inner lining, and are also surprisingly comfortable. And warm. Oh, they are warm!

What they are not, is pretty.

That fur cuff rolls up, and that’s how I am wearing mine as I type.

Come March, I will find myself in a strange funk, and I will realize (as I have done for years) that it is because I have been wearing ugly shoes for too many months in a row. I will try (as I have done for years) to find shoes or boots that are as pretty as they are warm. Maybe one day… Until then, I will just walk around in boots or shoes that make my feet look like stuffed animal hooves. And I will be warm.