What is it about Air Supply that can reignite the spent flame of pre-teen love? Hearing Lionel Ritchie belt out the chorus of "Truly" elicits an automated response of "Why doesn't anyone understand me?" which I loudly verbalize to no one in particular while driving the minivan. To this day, I hold firm to the belief that my acid-washed Esprit jean mini-skirt was not too short and looked amazing with high-top Reeboks and a neon net shirt. Why couldn't my parents just trust my judgement?
Decked in white high-heeled pumps that made me look so much older than my fifteen years, I stealthily walked into the eighties with an attitude and hair that could impale eagles. In fact, I was armed with enough Alberto VO5 treatments to defrizz an army of Sun-In users a mile wide. I reeked with a confidence that I had not felt before I knew it all. Unfortunately, my parents did not share my understanding that high fashion involved white lip gloss, geometrically shaped neon earrings, and a tan that could rival anything George Hamilton might try to pull off. In fact, a major dillema I constantly experienced was deciding if I should go to the tanning bed before or after a six-hour UV bath at the beach.
I was never without a full can of spray to completely restrict hair movement. Further, I never faltered in my dream of marrying Rick Springfield or Simon LeBon. With my perfectly coiffed Ogilvie home perm and jelly shoes in every imaginable color, who could resist me? My two-sided, magnified make-up mirror with lights that could blind a camel reassured me that I was, indeed, like totally hot. Symbolic of this transition was the packing away of my Shawn Cassidy tee. I was, after all, practically a woman in 1985 and that meant making a more mature fashion statement.
I embraced my Members Only jacket with a fervor unmatched by the bell-bottoms and silk jackets of yore. Throw in parachute pants and Izod polos rolled up at the collar to enhance the rhinestone-clad Gloria Vanderbilts, and you would see a girl that was going places. My "Seventeen" magazine assured me that a future as a Barbizon model was well within my grasp and I could feel it.
But, those years were not without their lows. The question of hair color on my newly earned drivers' license proved difficult, as there was a significant tone difference from root to tip. Black, frosted, or, yellow? Eye color? Hmmm, do you mean with or without the purple contacts? Height? Well, it depends on how much hairspray I used that morning. It varied daily with wind speed and humidity. Another thorn in the proverbial side of my eighties ego were the girls from a much larger high school who preyed on our surfer boys like wolves in heat. Sporting convertibles, updos, and gold chains the width of copperheads, they craftily pranced their way into the hearts of the boys who legitimately belonged to my friends and I. The spouting of empty claims of "true love always" forced me to up my game and invest in additional hair products. Calvin Klein soon replaced Gloria Vanderbilt and "Love's Baby Soft" perfume took an immediate backseat to "Obsession." This was war and I realized that I'd need every banana clip and add-a-bead charm in my arsenal to reign triumphant. Although my life was totally over on several occasions and I was lulled to sleep many a night by reassurances quietly whispered by Peter Cetera, the ending is a happy one. I got the guy. Or actually, he got me. Lucky man. But, I do have a pair of Jordache jeans hidden in the back of my closet just in case.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Meat, Vacuum Cleaners, and Other High Pressure Sales
If I had to create a list entitled, "Jobs That Must Really Suck," door-to-door vacuum cleaner sales would make the top five. Perhaps it's the lure of a free sample of off-brand detergent, but the Kirby guy always finds a way through the front door. A promise of fifteen minutes of your valuable time becomes an hour and your internal pledge of not making any purchase without consulting the significant other starts to crumble as you view all of the little mites playing tag on the Folger's coffee filter. There's a forced acknowlegement that you've lost any chance of receiving that prestigious "Mom of the Year" award as your cleaning habits take center stage under the once-friendly glare of the Kirby guy. Thrown into fits of guilt for single handedly causing the asthmatic conditions of your little cutie and all of her friends, you kindly offer your new white-gloved cleaning partner some iced tea. Promising you'll straighten up and put Donna Reed to shame with your new cleaning regimen, sweat pools at your temples as you realize that this sweet little salesperson is probably the son of a DSS worker. A prayer that the bedroom mattress is off-limits is never heard as vacuum guy pushes into personal territory. With a whip of his elongated hose, he pushes aside your bras and nightie and starts the hunt for the ultimate prey---bed bugs. Although it relieves you to learn that you have only a "mild" infestation, the evidence on the coffee filter convinces you that you have to buy THIS vacuum cleaner NOW. No other will do. By god, you have a family to protect no matter what the cost.
When you see the price quote, you immediately wonder if just buying an extra house that the family is only allowed to sleep in might be the cheaper route. Heck, you might have to sell a kid or an internal organ to pull off this purchase. But, alas, your panic quickly resolves as vacuum guy assures you that the price quote is "negotiable." In fact, his supervisor can work out a plan that will cut so deeply into his commission that he will actually lose money on the deal. Oh, the sacrifice, but helping this filthy family is just the right thing to do. He hates your dust mites as much as you do and cares about the ashtmatic conditions of this household. Mother guilt kicks in for the upteenth time that day, and you fall to your knees whilst begging to be the proud owner of this miracle machine. "$2,000.00 you say? Payment plan with a low-interest feature? Well, sign me up and call it a day."
Basking in the glory of a mite free home is overwhelming as you watch Kirby guy pack it up and high tail it to the next mini-vanned home on the street. Passing one another, ice cream truck guy gives a knowing wink to your friend with all the attachments and mouths "Suckas."
And, what about all the door-to-door meat salespeople? That's just simply unnatural. It's a good thing southern moms see through such ridiculous sales ploys, because these meat vendors mean business. "No thanks," for example, might be interpreted as "Man, that one-third centimeter slab of graying meat is toying dangerously with my senses. I want to grab it right out of you semi-refrigerated modified Igloo cooler and eat it raw right here on the front porch."
One word of advice to the protein peddlers out there. Project a catchy tune, paint a few rainbows and unicorns on the side of the truck, throw in a free sample of hardwood smoke bacon, and you might have yourself a deal!
When you see the price quote, you immediately wonder if just buying an extra house that the family is only allowed to sleep in might be the cheaper route. Heck, you might have to sell a kid or an internal organ to pull off this purchase. But, alas, your panic quickly resolves as vacuum guy assures you that the price quote is "negotiable." In fact, his supervisor can work out a plan that will cut so deeply into his commission that he will actually lose money on the deal. Oh, the sacrifice, but helping this filthy family is just the right thing to do. He hates your dust mites as much as you do and cares about the ashtmatic conditions of this household. Mother guilt kicks in for the upteenth time that day, and you fall to your knees whilst begging to be the proud owner of this miracle machine. "$2,000.00 you say? Payment plan with a low-interest feature? Well, sign me up and call it a day."
Basking in the glory of a mite free home is overwhelming as you watch Kirby guy pack it up and high tail it to the next mini-vanned home on the street. Passing one another, ice cream truck guy gives a knowing wink to your friend with all the attachments and mouths "Suckas."
And, what about all the door-to-door meat salespeople? That's just simply unnatural. It's a good thing southern moms see through such ridiculous sales ploys, because these meat vendors mean business. "No thanks," for example, might be interpreted as "Man, that one-third centimeter slab of graying meat is toying dangerously with my senses. I want to grab it right out of you semi-refrigerated modified Igloo cooler and eat it raw right here on the front porch."
One word of advice to the protein peddlers out there. Project a catchy tune, paint a few rainbows and unicorns on the side of the truck, throw in a free sample of hardwood smoke bacon, and you might have yourself a deal!
Hey Little Girl, Ya' Want Some Candy?
That familiar, nostalgic jingle that signals the ice cream truck has sent kids running for money for decades and has resulted in maddening searches by harried mothers for loose change under the couch cushions. Attempting to "beat the bell" while being the kid to snag the last Nutty Buddy was the epitome of summer and spoke volumes about parental supervision and trust for strangers peddling sweets among the young. "Yep, Junior, here's a pocketful of nickels. Run to the street and chase the mustached stranger who wants to give you some frozen candy. It's the 70's and, with any luck, he might let you pet the little puppy in the back." Call it paranoia mixed with a little cynicism, but that same jingle now assumes a more sinister tone as the clinky high notes send moms everywhere into a panic. "Jane, you grab the kids and head inside. I'll get the tag number and alert the cops that we have a perp trolling for kids." Sorry, but if your plan is to list your occupation as the driver of the local ice cream truck in your e-harmony profile, you'll have every single mom out there running for the hills. There does seem to be something a bit shady about the "ice cream guy," who never is the "ice cream lady." Coincidence? Perhaps. But, peddling frozen confections to youngsters in their bathing suits on a hot summer day is simply over the top. Trust me, people will assume that you are over the age of forty, live with your mother, and keep corpses in the basement. When mama starts chasing your truck down the street, she's not looking to get an ice cream sandwich. She's got your license tag jotted on a sticky and, if so much as one kid goes missing in the cul-de-sac, you're going straight to the pokey. Case solved. Fluffy the cat missing? Bets are on that Edwin the ice cream guy did it.
It doesn't help that the ice cream guy on my street ignores my nonverbals. There's no love lost between us, believe me. As soon as those beady eyeballs make contact with mine, it's on. The game sounds something like this:
"Mom, do you hear it? It's the ice cream truck. I need moneeeeeeyyyyyyy. Nowwwwwww."
"No, dear, I can't hear a thing. Ooooopsie. It's already 2:00. Time for dinner and I'll even let you eat the whole chocolate cake by yourself. Won't that be simply delish? Go. Now. Run. Cover yourself!"
"I need ice creeeeeaaaaaaam." (foot stomp for effect)
"But, we have neopolitan in the freezer. You can eat the whole carton right now if you hurry inside."
"I want THAT (points to probable perp) ice creeeeeaaaaaammmmmm."
Perhaps its the guilt of keeping your kid from enjoying one of the last vestiges of 1950's sit-com nostalgia, but you cave and think that maybe THIS ice cream guy is on the up-and-up. Gee, he's simply trying, in his own self-sacrficing way, to preserve a rite of summer. Heck, he probably helps boy scouts build tree houses and runs his very own lemonade stand on the side. Either way, you find yourself digging in the bottom of your purse for some sticky quarters.
But, then you make eye contact. A mutual and unspoken agreement forms between you and "ice cream guy". It screams, "You don't kidnap my little Johnny and I'll continue to patronize your mobile Dairy Queen." With squinted eyes, you flash that all too familiar "I'm watching you" signal as the jack-in-the box theme song fades in the distance.
It doesn't help that the ice cream guy on my street ignores my nonverbals. There's no love lost between us, believe me. As soon as those beady eyeballs make contact with mine, it's on. The game sounds something like this:
"Mom, do you hear it? It's the ice cream truck. I need moneeeeeeyyyyyyy. Nowwwwwww."
"No, dear, I can't hear a thing. Ooooopsie. It's already 2:00. Time for dinner and I'll even let you eat the whole chocolate cake by yourself. Won't that be simply delish? Go. Now. Run. Cover yourself!"
"I need ice creeeeeaaaaaaam." (foot stomp for effect)
"But, we have neopolitan in the freezer. You can eat the whole carton right now if you hurry inside."
"I want THAT (points to probable perp) ice creeeeeaaaaaammmmmm."
Perhaps its the guilt of keeping your kid from enjoying one of the last vestiges of 1950's sit-com nostalgia, but you cave and think that maybe THIS ice cream guy is on the up-and-up. Gee, he's simply trying, in his own self-sacrficing way, to preserve a rite of summer. Heck, he probably helps boy scouts build tree houses and runs his very own lemonade stand on the side. Either way, you find yourself digging in the bottom of your purse for some sticky quarters.
But, then you make eye contact. A mutual and unspoken agreement forms between you and "ice cream guy". It screams, "You don't kidnap my little Johnny and I'll continue to patronize your mobile Dairy Queen." With squinted eyes, you flash that all too familiar "I'm watching you" signal as the jack-in-the box theme song fades in the distance.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Family Photos...Where it Went Wrong
 |
| Brown clan at the zoo...they let us out for our afternoon feeding... |
Busted...
Jacob's strange but curious fascination with orifices...
Ole'??????????
Me...me....me....what's with the riffraff in the background? Who cares if Carrie graduated? What about me?
 Where on Earth did Jacob develop his fear of clowns?  |
| Must...be...the...center...of...attention. |
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