I Want My MTV

Remember when MTV was good? Jump in the way back machine and think back to the 80s. Scary, I know, but wholly worthwhile. I went there this last weekend. To the 80s. I want my MTV back. I also want candy and I'm considering fighting for my right to party.

Friday night started out in this decade (century?) but high on Drew Barrymore's directorial debut about roller derby girls I agreed to finish the night out at a local club for 80s Dance Night. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have gone had I not just seen Whip It and decided I needed to a) stop acting like an old lady who needs a nice early bird supper and b) find a good roller derby nickname because I'm so joining up. I'm an excellent skater, stronger than I look and somewhat angry. That's, of course, beside the point but bears mentioning since I'm looking for help in the name department. But it did fuel my desire to get a little crazy that night. And so I went.

It's hard to describe exactly how I felt when I walked into the club so I'll quote my friend who looked around and then said, "this makes me feel sad. . . .and a little dirty." The room boasted several TVs showing the video of the song playing. One TV was bigger than my living room wall. And I thought to myself that the crowd was so old. When did they get so old? Not many were young and hip like me. And then I realized that I'm turning 37 this month so I'm not exactly as young and hip as I imagine myself to be. When did that happen? And then realization #2 crept into my head. I was keenly aware of the premonition that I was getting a glimpse of next summer's high school reunion: hordes of thirtysomethings jumping up and down to the melodic tunes of Flock of Seagulls, ABC and Soft Cell. Ah, nostalgia.

So we stood and scanned. And we stood some more. We were seriously stunned. A little judgmental but mostly in awe like scientist who've discovered an untouched civilation. I needed to understand these strange creatures. And then I saw two distinct groups start to emerge. First of all, there were people dressed up like they did in the 80s and then there were people dressed like they did in the 80s. And there is a Grand Canyon sized chasm between the two (I'm talking to you, woman with the bolo tie. We all collectively decided to leave that back in the day. Let it go. Send your capris with it.) . But one thing kept them together. It was the music. Billy Idol has a way of just bringing people together, right. It really is a nice day for white wedding. Realization #3 was that I'm pretty sure the current global warming we are experiencing can be directly linked to unmanageable and slightly criminal mistreatment of hair spray in the 80s. Several hours of watching these videos will convince anyone. And I am not without blame.

But back in the Night of the Living 80s, we had a plan, we had some drinks and we had a dance floor to conquer. But my path was unfortunately diverted by Doug. Doug looked like Slash, the guitarist from Guns-n-Roses (as I type this I'm thinking that the only person who wouldn't know that would be my mother and, honestly, even that much explanation wouldn't mean a damn thing to her). Doug/Slash asked me to dance in that sort of stupefied, drinking your bong water type of way. When I said that I was looking for my friends, he said (and I'm not making this up), "You have a friend right here." So I vomited on him. Not really. Okay a little. Well, maybe I just wanted to. But I held my dinner down and headed out to dance because, as Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine had duly warned us, the rhythm really did get us and we had to dance. And we danced and we danced and we danced (like a wave on the ocean). I believe the song that finally propelled us onto the dance floor was Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf but that was quickly followed by Photograph by Def Leppard, Word Up by Cameo, Jesse's Girl by Rick Springfield, 1999 by Prince and by then I just wanted to party like it was 1989 except with no curfew, no braces and the ability to buy my own damn Matilda Bay Wine Coolers if I wanted. Video after video of my teen years loomed larger than life with extra blush and lip gloss, all androgynous and Euro-trashy. Just like I remembered it. Oh, Adam Ant, where have you been? By the end of the evening I was a hot, sweaty mess. I was losing my voice. I was losing feeling in my feet. I embraced the crazy and it did not disappoint.

80s Dance Night I mocked you and you proved me wrong--sad and dirty, maybe. But I will return. Because, it's true, girls just wanna have fun.


Added bonus here. A picture from (what?) 1987. I have mall hair, a strapless bubble skirt and white nylons. If only I had worn my crocheted gloves and a wide brimmed hat waaaay back on my head (both things I owned and wore quite proudly).

Excuse the quality. . . it's a Polaroid. . .ah, nostalgia.

A is for Apron

I've been absent a little bit but I've something to show for it: APRONS! Straight from the Five Cent Farm.




Here are some of the aprons I've been sewing for a local artists' craft sale on Sunday. Unleash your inner hostess with the mostest. If you live in Portland, come on down to the Southeast for a holiday sale for locally handmade gifts. Okay, back to the sewing machine!

How Funky is Your Chicken?

My funk today could be caused by many things but I'm going to start by blaming my mother--it saves me a therapy bill since I'm going to end up there anyway, right? And it's kind of true. At least this part is. My brain is starting to melt ever since the kids got their Advent calendar. I must first explain that my mom sends them one every year. I should also explain that my mom's nickname is Always Early Shirley because SHE IS. I've coped with this by just refusing to play along and becoming more like Better Late Than Never Bradi. I'm sure you can imagine how excited that makes her. Sometimes it works in my favor like when she sends me gifts about two weeks in advance and makes me promise not to open it until the exact day. Who does that? So she sends the calendars to the kids so they can count down the days to Christmas as if they aren't doing that already. But she sent it here LAST WEEK. Guess what I get to hear every morning? When? Today? Can we? I'm going to return the favor by sending my Christmas gifts about a week late. My thinking is it just extends whatever holiday I'm late for and her frustration is like the gift that just keeps fuming.

I've also realized that I'm turning into Crazy Chicken Lady. I am the Chicken Whisperer. On any give day, I am sure I talk to my chickens probably more than I do adults. And it's worse lately since I'm facilitating the transition of the young girls from inside chickens to outside chickens. This transition alone is enough to make Reggie want to run out and buy me a new pair of boots since I'm pretty sure he looks at the indoor chickens on a daily basis and racks his brain trying to remember at what point he went from urban guy to chicken farmer. The weather has been surprisingly nice so taking the young ladies out to meet the hens is easier. The weather has been nice but the hens have been less so. The pecking order is being sorted out rather loudly and with actual beaks. And so I talk to them. Like I could reason with them. It's not working. Right now as I type this, I can see the younger two perched on a old chair high above the mean girls. They're probably wondering what they did to warrant me taking them out from under the nice heat lamp in the basement and subjecting them to an afternoon of cockfighting practice. Well, they stink so I want them out and making some eggs. This may not end well.

I'm going to go talk to them.

Dancin' With Myself

Loving this arrangement. Billy Idol, you said it just right.

Top o' the List to Ya!

Okay, it's not Tuesday but here are some things that really make me smile. Or think of it as the beginning of my list for Thanksgiving. I am definitely grateful.

1. This new hat that keeps me warm in the cold and blustery Portland weather.
2. The Ladies--Gertrude, Ophelia, Frieda and Lucinda. Carefully introducing the new girls to the grand dames. It resembles hazing except with feathers and beaks, okay it's more like cockfighting but legal.


3. The flowers Reg brought home for me on Monday. This particular shade of orange Asiatic lily makes days that start around 8ish and end around 4:30ish with muted shades of gray in between seem a little bit easier to take.

4. These girls deciding they want to be rock stars complete with rock star hair and rock star glasses. And offering to let me be their manager so I can go get them popcorn when they need it. Did I mention rock star attitudes too?

5. This blog. I love that I still have so much to learn about my city . . . and very little in the way of daylight to do so.

Sew a Needle Pulling Thread

I made a skirt! After weeks of staring at Flannery's skirt, I decided I could that too. I often feel that way and I probably could make more of the things I feel that way about but I rarely do. This time I did. It turned out pretty cute. Her friend demanded one on the spot so I actually made two. More are in the works now that I have a new obsession.

It's worth it to note that I added the one picture that is not a very good one of the skirt simply to show what a poser this girl is!

I'm Special

Last Friday was Grandparents and Special Friends Day. You heard me right. Special Friends Day. To compensate for all of those people who viciously move away from their families and can't properly celebrate Grandparents Day because of their selfishness, they created the embarrassingly titled back up plan. I bet some Grandparents came up with it. They're sometimes extremely wily especially when grandchildren are involved.

What's a special friend? When my brother and I were younger it was what my mom went fishing for when she asked, "and so is (insert name here) a special friend?" You mean a friend with a helmet? That was my mom's way of trying to ask about dating but not really asking too much. And it was a far cry better than dad's advice to Cody which was find a girl he liked and ask her out for a Coke. Ask her out for a Coke . . . unless she's already going steady with Potsy or Richie.

But this special day for our special boy was even extra specialer because Emerson was going to sing in the choir and wanted to invite someone. Someone, you guessed it, special. Once you get going, you really can't stop. The basic criteria for a Special Friend is they can come visit the school in the middle of the day on a work day. So the unemployed people in your life are suddenly a plus. Emerson chose our friend, Patrick, who we refer to as Paddy O'Furniture and who is now twice as special as before for coming to sit in the wee bitty chairs for his assignment. And he has a job, just not on Fridays. Bonus.

The choir sang two songs from Sound of Music of which they really only knew one whole one between the two but it was wonderful because some kids remembered every syllable and you could see the pride in their faces when an unexpected solo fell into their laps. Emerson sat behind someone the entire time so I could only get photos of a thin sliver of face. But I saw him sing. And I'm pretty sure I saw him enjoy it. Then we went to his afternoon class for a special writing assignment about what is great in 2nd grade (a lot about recess, games, snacks, special days with less work: the usual) before playing a math card game. And to top it all off, we headed to the ice cream shop since a day this special demands dessert.