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Loving People so Much You Cry

the outside lane

My little bud spent the weekend with Grandma, and when he came home last night, he had a serious case of the left-Grandma-blues.  He sobbed his eyes out for an hour, even after talking to her on the phone and securing her promise to pick him up from camp on Monday.  I was holding him and telling him about my grandparents, and it was all I could not to start sobbing right along with him.

1989. Boom Pa and me.

I told him about how we used to drive to Georgia to see my Grandma and Boom-Pa, and how I would cry from Columbus, GA to Montgomery, AL every time we left them.  And, if they drove that first leg to Montgomery with us, I would cry from Montgomery to Selma.  And by cry, I mean sob like someone was trying to pull my spleen out through my belly button. 

Boom and Mom in 1943.

 What was the most bittersweet was that I can remember sitting in my mom’s lap, around Thor’s same age, crying because I wanted to be with my grandparents.  And, I can remember Mom telling me about her grandparents, and about how she used to cry for them.  She would cry especially for her Poppy, like I cried for Boom-Pa. 

I had Granny and Grandaddy until I was 21 and 22, respectively.  I had Boom until I was 32, and Grandma until I was 35.  I was incredibly fortunate.PhotobucketThor, my Grandma, and me in 2005. She would pass away within the month this photo was taken. I am so glad we have this!

 It wouldn’t do me any good to cry now, but I still miss them.  I am thankful I had them to love, and had them to love me.  I am even more thankful that Thor has Grandma, and Mammaw & Granddad, and Peepaw & Barbara to love, and to love him.

Peepaw and Thor, and the passing down of collector cars from one generation to another. It was fitting that Thor had chosen his Mustang tshirt for the day.
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Crazy for You…but not that way

the outside lane

I can barely remember the square root of pi, but you play me any song from between 1976 and 1993*, and if I know it, I will probably be able to tell you about the first time I heard it, or a memory I have attached to it.  I remember dancing to Frankie Goes to Hollywood at a Cistercian/Ursuline mixer, and feeling like I was in the best moment of my life–like no moment could ever be so perfect as those throbbing three minutes out on the dance floor.  I felt in my element, in my black capezios, black cigarette pants, black t-shirt and my father’s old olive green based, plaid blazer.  (And my fedora.  Hush.  It was the 80s, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to look like Molly Ringwald or Nick Rhodes.)

I was at least right that no other moment at that dance would be so perfect.  Madonna’s Crazy for You came on, and a boy asked me to slow dance.  He had one hand in the small of my back, pulling me close, but something in his pocket was grinding uncomfortably against my hip bone.  I tried to shift away, but then whatever it was just poked harder.  He was smiling goofily, and I thought surely whatever was poking me was poking him, too, and finally just asked him to move his car keys because they were hurting me.

He said, “I don’t have any keys.”

I said, “Whatever you’ve got in your pocket then,” trying to round out my lower spine to get my hips away from his.

There came this tornado of confusion, anger, embarrassment, and misunderstanding across his face, and he shoved me backwards by my shoulders, shouting, “You’re stupid!”

Technically, I was ignorant, not stupid.  I shared the encounter with a guy friend a few days later, and he doubled over laughing.  “Don’t you know what a boner is?”

Well, I did after that, didn’t I?

I find it hilariously apropos that my first encounter with an erection came courtesy of Madonna. 

 

*In 1993, I went full-zealot and cut out all secular media.  Between 1993 and 1998, if it wasn’t on the Christian station, I didn’t hear it.  If not for the radio on blast at work, I would have missed the Spice Girls entirely!  Thank god for that radio at work.  Otherwise, I would have no idea how to zig-a-zig-aah.

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Butter Up Your Stud Muffins, Girls!

the outside lane

As I understand it, the latest boy band phenomenon, One Direction, is a group that was packaged from solo talent auditioning for The X Factor in the UK.  I note that because it absolves them of the songwriting sins I am about to censure.  No, the fault lies with  Rami Yacoub, Carl Falk and Savan Kotecha, writers of the perky, and very listenable, What Makes You Beautiful.

First, let’s talk about what I think makes you beautiful.  That would be your confidence, your sense of humor, your intelligence and ability to carry on a conversation, your drive and ambition, the way you navigate through traffic, how you bake, your ability to sew anything out of nothing, your ability to do math in your head, the way you can make people feel at ease, your bartending skills, your laugh, how you know exactly the right thing to say, your ability to always choose the most amazing presents for people…you know, little things like that.

What do Yacoub, Falk and Kotecha think makes you beautiful?  Your insecurity, your great skin, your nervous hair flippery, your inability to maintain eye contact. 

Why do I care?  What does it matter to me, a 41-year-old woman, what a group of adorable, mop-topped, English stud-muffins are singing?  Especially since the song has a great hook, a great beat, and I can car dance to it–why do I care?

I care because I used to be 13-years-old, and I used to be in love with Duran Duran.  (Yes, all of them.  Well, not really Andy, but I thought he seemed like someone who could teach me how to shoot pool.)  And, being in love with Duran Duran, and being a 13-year-old, my friends and I would scour their song lyrics to determine what would make us attractive to them.  Not easy, considering Simon LeBon’s lyrics are about as straightforward as a Faulkner novel. 

Still, by the time the Duran Duran side projects, Arcadia and the Power Station, had come out, we had at least pieced together that these men seemed to like women who read books and knew philosophy (Last Chance on the Stairway), enjoyed art or could at least identify Rembrandts (The Reflex) , could dance well, were strong and fiery, and who knew just how much they were admired, and used it to their advantage (Rio), were take-charge types (Election Day), were comfortable with their sexuality (Girls on Film), presented a challenge (Hungry Like the Wolf), but who were not opposed to enjoying a no-strings encounter (Save a Prayer), who were memorable (Careless Memory), and who were built like trucks, oh my (Get it On.)  No wallflowers or milquetoasts for these once adorable, mop-topped, English stud-muffins.

I mean, we studied the lyrics!  We used music as a manual for what was desirable in women.  Forget Cosmopolitan, AC/DC told us that men liked women who kept their motors clean and were in good enough shape to outlast any rocker.  Prince told us that women, not girls ruled his world.  Foreigner was sure that a woman could teach what love was.  Bon Jovi’s type was a woman who gave love a bad name.  We considered what Night Ranger told us, what Hall and Oates were saying, what Wham was suggesting, and we put it all together, dressed it neon belly shirts and fedora hats, and walked out the door trying to show that we were confident, secure, intelligent women-to-be, with hair bigger than God’s head. 

None of our idols told us to simmer down and wait to be noticed.  They told us to rock out with our–well, they liked Madonna as much as we did, and we know that Madonna rocked out with her everything showing.  And she said who, she said when, she said how much.  Good lord, even our idealized hookers were more confident.  We weren’t victims!

It drives me mad to think that right this second, there is a gaggle of girls huddled together in the locker room of their YMCA daycamp/standing in front of the mirror in a pink bathroom/squeezed into one seat at the back of the bus heads bent over a lyric sheet, working out that to get a One Direction member’s attention, she must pretend to be shy and think she is ugly.  It aggravates me that instead of practicing their steps to the left, and flicks to the right, little girls are practicing how to flip their hair in such a way that it telegraphs insecurity and a need for outside validation of their worth.

Then again, my little friends and I were emulating strong women.  We grew up with Wonder Woman and Isis, Charlie’s Angels, and strong, intelligent, well written married and single mothers on television.  We had Cyndi Lauper, Debbie Harry, Terri Nunn, Pat Benetar, Tina Turner, Sade, The Go-Gos, The Bangles, Sheila E., Janet Jackson and, yes, Madonna in music.  Women who were all confident, self-aware, self-sufficient, and in-your-face with their own acknowledgment of self-worth and desirability.

You know, all the things I would want my daughter to be.  All the things I want the girls I know to be. 

In your face KNOWING they are beautiful.

Butter your stud-muffin with that, girls, and enjoy.

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Sew-Sew

the outside lane

I bought this dress at the grocery store–and, yes, that was my first mistake because you can’t really try something on at a grocery store–got it home, and though it fit nicely, was so low cut I couldn’t have worn it anywhere.  I couldn’t even have worn it as a nightgown.  So, after it had hung on the back of my bathroom door for a while, I hauled out the sewing machine and altered it into a swim cover/skirt.

Here is the dress as I bought it. I love the fabric!
And here is the dress as it is now.  This will make a great swim cover. I’ll have to take shots of it as a skirt another time.

I’m not going to be able to do much with the top, but I am going to save the waistband, and sew another contrasting fabric to that as a skirt.

Since I have the sewing machine set up, I may as well use up the fabric I bought last year, and sew a few sundresses.  It is freaking hot, and jeans just don’t cut it!

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Talkin’ Bout My Generation–so I expect to be making explanations

the outside lane

Our various offices are vying against each other in “Olympic Games” this summer, and each office is to come up with a country name for itself, a flag, and team photos.  One of the managers from another office was telling a coworker and me that his team was going to use his last name and call their country Smithtown.  I said, “Good thing your last name isn’t Jones.”

And everyone kind of squinted at me.  Not because that was a really dark joke to make, but because they weren’t aware of my reference. 

That, my friends, is how you know that your generation is no longer The Generation.

Then, because they asked, I had to try to explain Jonestown and it was just downhill from there.  I finally said, “You know the ‘don’t drink the Kool-Aid’ saying?  That’s Jonestown.”  And if you don’t think that’s a conversation killer…