2009 May

Like, Totally '80s

May 15, 2009 By Mo 21 Comments

The 1980s was the era of Michael Jackson and Madonna, of New Wave and Hair Metal, Dallas and Dynasty, Princess Diana and Supermodels. There were so many over-the-top influences on such a decade of excess. More is More. Greed may have been good, but neon made everything better.

The ’80s were very schizophrenic when it came to fashion.

Personally, Madonna was a huge influence on me. I will never forget where I was the first time I heard a Madonna song (Hey, some people remember where they were when John Lennon was shot; I remember my first Madonna album). My friend Ann and I were 13 years old and her mom took us over the bridge to San Francisco for the day. We walked into the Tower Records in Union Square and they were playing “Borderline.” I was hooked and bought the cassette tape immediately (In case anyone reading this is younger than 30, tapes preceded CDs). I adored everything Madonna. I wore leggings under miniskirts with T-shirts and a low-slung belt, stacks of rubber bracelets up my arms and tied a big lacy scarf thing on my head just like she did. Much to my parents’ dismay and disgust I wore crucifixes like regular necklaces (I went to Catholic school for 12 years, I had some issues to work out with the religion thing).

When I was in high school it didn’t matter if your hair was short or long, you wore it big. I had a permed bob and I teased my bangs up and shellacked the whole thing with a gallon of Aqua Net. Once in a while my mom would be cool and let my buy the 18-inch-long can of Sebastian hair spray. It was a bitch to carry in my backpack but it was like a status symbol to a lame-ass high schooler like me.

I wore a uniform to school but they allowed us to show our personalities and fashion sense (or senselessness) with accessories. I’d roll that uniform skirt up so it was as short as I could get it without getting suspended. Under our skirts we’d wear leggings or bicycle shorts. With that I’d wear Capezio jazz shoes, and I’d throw on some leg warmers if it was cold. Docksiders/Topsiders, Doc Martens and Reebok high-tops (with multiple pairs of scrunchie socks, natch) were totally rad, too.

This was the decade of neon clothing, Members Only jackets, satin bomber jackets, denim jackets with lots of pins, parachute pants, Izod shirts (collars up), Swatch Watches, jelly shoes, Ray-Ban Wayfarers and Guess Jeans—bonus points for acid wash. And if you were really cool? You pegged your jeans. (Don’t pretend you never did that.)

So what’s the point of me giving you a history of ’80s fashion?

I feel compelled to explain what was going on in the world to bring me to this prom dress. I thought I was the shit—my shoes, gloves, and the bow on my BANANA CLIP (yeah, baby, I worked that) were all color coordinated. My eyeshadow, eyeliner AND mascara matched my iridescent blue dress. And those bangs? They were a work of art! It took me a long time to sculpt the right amount of height and curl.

My date was kind of a tool, though (cute, but a few sandwiches short of a picnic if ya know what I mean) — I bought the tickets to the dance (theme? I think it was Don’t You Forget About Me), paid for dinner AND the limo.

PromWithKirk

I had more fun with my backup singers girlfriends that night.

Bonus points for the matching background!

My explanation for this is that it was 1987.

The truth? I probably just had some shitty fashion sense.

This post was brought to you by Mary Anne at The Stilletto Mom and Jen at Blissfully Caffeinated. They thought it would be totally fun to get your prom on today. Check out their sites for more, like, totally rad prom fashion.

Filed Under: Apropos of Absolutely Nothing, Fashion

Given the Opportunity, Most People Will Totally Take Advantage of You

May 14, 2009 By Mo 13 Comments

Yeah, that’s a pretty cynical statement, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s true.

I don’t know if I’m more aware of it or if I’ve just had enough of of people’s behavior, but I’ve conducted an informal social experiment and have determined that sometimes people just suck.

Take this morning for instance. I was walking into Starbucks (as I usually do on my way to work) and as I opened the door I noticed out of the corner of my eye a woman approaching The ‘Buck, too. I started to walk in, but I held it open behind me so she could come in—she was just far enough away that I didn’t want to stand there and hold it open but I didn’t want to slam the door on her either.

Suddenly, the woman sped up and ran past me, pushing me aside and tried to jump around me in line. Now, at this point, I’m already approaching the counter, and the employees know me and my drink so they’re already ringing me up. She starts to move in front of me while I’m paying and demands to be waited on. The girl behind the counter (bless her heart) tells her she’ll be waited on when it’s her turn.

Order placed, money paid, I walk to the bar to wait for my drink. I’m chatting with the Barista, and she hands my drink to me—to my outstretched hand—and the woman who pushed me, swooped in and grabbed my drink out of the Barista’s hand and started to walk out.

Dude, I was PISSED. I grabbed her arm, told her it was my drink and demanded she put it down. She insisted it was hers. “Really?” I asked. “Your name is Maureen and you ordered a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte?” She stared blankly. “Sweetie, I heard you order a small frappuccino, which is a SMALL COLD drink. This is NOT yours.”

She slammed my drink on the counter, sloshing it everywhere, and leaned over the bar and asked the Barista where HER drink was. The Barista told her she’d start it AFTER she re-made my drink (have I told you how much I LOVE my Starbucks?). The woman starts freaking out about her drink, badgering the Barista, telling her to hurry up, she’s gotta go.

Of course, I can’t resist. “If you stop harassing the girl, she can focus and get us both out of here.” (Translation: Shut your fucking pie hole.) The woman just stared at me like I’m the biggest piece of shit she’s ever laid eyes on.

My drink comes up and the Barista puts it directly in my hand so no one can grab it.

As I’m walking out the door, the woman rushes up behind me, drink in hand, and tries to push around me. I swung around and hold her to back the fuck off. I walked out the door and slammed it shut (like I should have done to begin with).

What the fuck is that?

Yeah, I got pulled down to her level, and I’m not exactly proud of it, but I’m not all that upset about it either. Sometimes you need to treat people the way they treat you. It’s not my style to be a bitch for no reason (Shut up! It’s not!), but if you push me, I will definitely push back.

But I don’t get it. Why do people have to be like that? I know it sounds like a naive question, but I want to know. Are they really that clueless about themselves and their behavior? Do they just drift through life without any thought to anyone other than themselves, or do they just feel like being mean because they can?

The sad thing is, it makes me less likely to do something nice for someone again.

Filed Under: A Caffeinated Mo Is A Happy Mo, Apropos of Absolutely Nothing, Life, Pet Peeves, Premature Ejacublogging®, Rants & Raves, Rude

The Battle in the Bedroom

May 13, 2009 By Mo 5 Comments

There’s a battle in my bedroom every night. No, it’s not over that (although this battle sometimes causes that battle). This battle is much, much worse.

You know when you go to a fancy hotel and the bed is perfect—clean, crisp, soft sheets, loads of blankets, dozens of big fluffy pillows on the most comfortable (read: not too hard, not too soft) mattress ever? I’ve spent a lot of money over the years re-creating that at home. There are multiple pillows to prop up against while I’m reading in bed or watching a Golden Girl’s rerun before I turn in. I’ve been on the quest for the perfect set of sheets with just the right amount of satin and soft—sheets that are perfectly cool when you slip into bed at night (or midday for a nap). We bought a handmade silk duvet when we were in China a couple of years ago and I bought a great luxurious-looking duvet cover for it—it’s a great material, that isn’t too hot, too cool, itchy or too fancy to sit on with bare feet. And, of course, we finally have a mattress that makes both of our backs feel like we’re sleeping on clouds (cue angels singing a chorus).

Needless to say, our bed is sort of an indulgence.

I love the covers. I make our bed with soft (no-iron) sheets, a blanket (electric) and our duvet. Oh, yeah, and two pillows on each size of the bed (it used to be more, but Bill balked, so we’re down to two each). But sometimes that’s not enough. Sometimes I drape another blanket on top (my side only). The blanket is really a fleecey throw, but it completes the layers for me.

Yes, I pile on the covers because I get cold. But I really pile them on because I like the weight of them. I like the feel of the sheets and blankets settling in on top of me. It doesn’t matter if it’s 46 degrees or 96 degrees—if it’s hot, I crank up the air conditioning, and if it’s cold, all the better—I like to pile them on.

This is where the Battle of the Bed comes in. Bill hates that I pile on the blankets. He doesn’t get it. At. All. It drives him nuts that every night I climb into bed, put the throw over the top, snuggle deep under the covers, pull them all up to my neck. I don’t know what it is—maybe the weight of it all makes me feel secure. Maybe it makes a nice womb-like place to sleep. Whatever it is, I’ve always done it. ALWAYS.

Without fail, once I’ve gotten into bed and arranged everything, Bill will roll over and lift every god-damn blanket and sheet off of me. Just lifts them into the air and lets them float back down. This prompts me to ask (without fail): “Whatthefuckisyourproblem? Why do you care how many covers I have on?” According to Bill, I shove the covers in all around me, turning me into a big burrito, which not only pulls the covers off of him (he says), but keeps him from every being able to put his arms around me. I don’t mean to swaddle myself—and I’m pretty sure I don’t—but apparently it’s how I sleep.

The other bone of contention is that I sleep with two pillows. I keep one propped up against the headboard and the other is flat so I can lie on it. This pushes me farther down the bed so my feet almost touch the bottom. For whatever reason, this makes me feel secure. Maybe it’s because I’m short and I need an anchor point on the bed. I don’t know but it’s how I’m comfortable.

At some point during the night—even if it’s 10 degrees outside—I will get hot and start peeling the layers of covers off. The throw goes first. Then the duvet. During the months that I need to electric blanket, I keep it low—rarely higher than 2 or 3—because it’s all about the weight.

I can’t help it. I’m almost 40 years old and I’ve done this as long as I can remember. It’s not a habit that’s going to change. No matter how many times he unrolls my burrito (wow, that sounds dirty), lifts my covers and pulls all the blankets and linens off of me, and no matter how many arguments we have about it, no matter how hard he tries to persuade me to not do it, it’s how I end up at night. Period. I tried to compromise and remove one of the pillow but it doesn’t seem to matter. I end up drifting to the bottom of the bed anyway. I’m asleep. I don’t do it on purpose. It’s not some subliminal message to him about staying away.

Am I alone in this? Am I unreasonable?