Partied Like it was 1984

            Studio B, in their tireless efforts to bring our community together through good-clean-fun, hilarity and entertainment, held another town dance recently.  The theme was 'Eighties Night' and it was wicked excellent.

           As in most dress up occasions, the brainstorming, acquiring of outfits and getting ready for the event was nearly as fun as the event itself.  Not that coming in costume was a requirement, but because it’s Maplewood/South Orange it just become a dress-up event.  Because we’re a silly people sometimes and don’t care what people think-- and that’s a good thing.

Folks Googled Commodores and Culture Club videos to see what the extras were wearing then either went to Forever 21 or borrowed from Border-Hoarder friends who never throw anything away.  I loaned out my Pat Benetar concert T-shirt that I bought with my own babysitting money at the concert as well as my Journey concert tee—both with baseball sleeves; both excellent.  I also loaned out the faded mom jeans with the overlapping patches that were a staple of my wardrobe for years.  We didn’t call them “Mom Jeans” then.  They were just the style.  Seven inches of zipper rising high to hug the waist, they were an abysmal cut, which we then pegged at the ankle—sometimes with suede boots, sometimes with tube socks.  Yes, I had saved some leg warmers and a few particularly wide, boxy tops.  A typical medium sized shirt back then was 3 ½ feet wide and stopped right at the belt line in order to show off your happenin’ shiny belt.

I had a belt epiphany the night of the dance while getting ready.  I remembered the blue eye shadow and frosty blue eye-liner.  I had spent hours following the eye-shadow contouring instructions in the pages of Seventeen Magazine and it all came back to me as soon as I saw the shimmery robin’s egg color.  I remembered to fluff up my hair so that it was Jennifer Beales big then tie a scarf in it in a bow at an angle.  That was a no brainer as were the striped socks that I wore with pointy ballet flats.  But certain things came back to me in waves of recognition.  My ah-ha moment hit me a few days earlier when I remembered the 4 or 5 watches I used to wear simultaneously.  I was particularly proud of that nugget as I strapped them on to overlap each other, one Swatch at a time.

As I was finishing up, I grabbed a belt to buckle around the waist of my mini- skirt and then, as if prodded by ghosts of Prince videos past, I reached for another belt.  “Right!” I thought, “Two belts; one lower at a diagonal!” It was there in my brain’s deep storage the whole time, the muscle memory of putting on two belts to go into the city to sneak into Limelight; to dance the night away.

The Eighties Night dance was lit like a prom back then, or more aptly, someone’s basement rec room party on homecoming weekend—super dark.  The Women’s Club dance floor itself was vast downstairs giving the hundred or so folks that paid the modest admission of $10 plenty of room to move.  The light show was killer, giving dancers just enough light to nod respectfully to the brilliant array of outfits dancing nearby, but still keep them safely cloistered in the dark so that they could really go crazy.  There were rubber bracelets, shoulder pads and a hats worn at the very back of the head.  There were horizontal stripes and spandex pants and a dead ringer for Joan Jett resplendent in black leather.  There was a big guy in a football letter jacket with a rattail about 10 inches down his back—his nanny had sewn a pinchful of hair cut from a wig right into his own—and there were loads of guys in alligator shirts with their collars up—sometimes sporting two shirts at once.  Alex P. Keaton would have been proud.  There was one guy who found a “Top Gun” zip-up-the-front flight suit on the internet.  Due for a haircut anyway, he asked for a close one that morning, and together with the dark aviator sunglasses made the night complete.

I hadn’t danced that hard since Studio B’s Disco Night.  We threw our bodies around the room to the music so hard that everyone I saw the next morning dropping their kids off at school was sore.  We giggled over stiff necks and sore hamstrings and my ribs hurt for some bizarre reason.  But at the time it was as if I couldn’t help myself; I was possessed.  I remembered my parents pushing the dining room table out of the way after dinner parties and dancing to 45s of Rock Around the Clock and how insanely sweaty and happy they all looked—laughing and shouting all the lyrics.  That was us—silly, sweaty and insanely happy.  We shouted every word—every syllable hit squarely and long note held for the exact right length—to every song for three hours.  Transported back in time, we were our vague selves but from so long ago.  I wouldn’t know how to even talk to that person now, were I to meet her in some sort of time-rift sci-fi amusement park ride.  But I loved to dance then and I love to dance now.  That much we still have in common.  That and an enduring love of dressing up, not caring if I look silly, and a deep abiding love of the music of my youth and the crazy fun folks in this town.

Broken

I’m broken__ and you can’t fix me

But we can hang out__ and we can do stuff

Go to museums__ and foreign movies

And recount stories that we read in the New Yorker

I’m broken__ no one can fix me

I’ve tried self-help groups__ and twelve-step meetings

I have a therapist__ and yoga teacher

My a-ccu-punc-tur-ist has also done his best___

(Chorus)

Oh, oh, I’m broken__  (She’s broke!)  No one can fix me  (Nu-uh!) __

You can try but I would think that you’ve got bigger fish to fry__

Oh, I’m broken__  (She’s broke!)  No, you can’t fix me  (Fucked-up!) __

But something tells me that you’re broken, too.

(Bridge.1)

All of my flower vases are chipped__

The edges of my mixing bowls_ are a little nicked

The paint job on my bicycle__ has rusted off

But I still ride it__ because I love it__ ‘cause it’s like meeeee – (broken)

My friends are broken__ at least the funny ones

They’re basket cases__ or alchoholics

They’re usually laughing__ when they’re not crying

If they weren’t broken then they might not be so fun

(Bridge.2)

My shirts are missin’ buttons__ earrings missin’ stones__

My comfy queen-size bed__ is missin’ moans__

I’m trying to get my ducks__ in tidy little rows__

And I am better__ but I’m sill broken__ la, la-di-daaaaaaa (broken)

(She whispers)

I’m broken__ and you can’t fix me

But we can wonder__ what it would be like

To love each other__ and be forgiven

Like all those other healthy people out there do  -- Yee-hoo!

(Repeat Chorus- sing last line 2x)

Disney Dream Nightmare

I know there are two camps of Disney folks.  Well, actually, probably more like three.  There are the hard core Disney fans; acolytes who would defend the Disney ethos-- it’s parks, movies, lifestyle, and cultural branding hegemony—‘til their last breath.  There are the revulsionists.  I made up that word but I think it pretty much illustrates the other end of the Disney spectrum.  And then there are the folks in the middle; the folks who think, sure, what the heck.  It’s an experience like any other and I have a kid who’s probably been pecked by the, “Have you been to Disney?” question a fair amount by now, so, why not try it.  I’ll do almost anything once.

And so we went.  I figured that third grade was a safe height for all the rides but still young enough to enjoy the luster of Walt’s gestalt, so I caved back in November.  Back before I could know that it would be the most glorious and temperate winter on record.  The concept of escaping a bitter and slushy Northeast March for Florida’s balmier climes was lost on my son and I felt like a dope for being there when the weather was certain to be better here, but the tickets had been purchased.  All of them, that is, except for the park entrance tickets.  No need to buy them ahead, I’d been counseled, as there were ticket windows as far as the eye could see plus a bank of self-serve vending machines.  Six minutes tops was one magical estimate and I believed it, because I wanted to believe in magic.

We first heard word of the electrical outage at the transportation station—the Ellis Island of Disneyworld—where one must wait in line for a ferry or monorail ride to take you to the actual entrance to the Magic Kingdom.  “Will we be able to buy tickets?” I asked while snaking for thirty minutes.  “Of course,” came the cheerful reply from the Disney Cast Member—as they’re all called, not employee.  But when we finally arrived, the vending machines were all still covered and the battery of ticket windows were dark and vacant.  Cheerful cast members herded us into what would be our longest line of the day, inching up to one of the seven Guest Services windows that did have electricity.  And when I say us, I mean all twenty or thirty thousand of us who had waited to buy tickets at the park.  It wasn’t pretty.

Okay, I thought, this is a real teaching moment for my sullen, pouting son; a chance to reminisce over how fortunate we are.  I mentioned that we had full bellies and a knapsack bulging with sandwiches, snacks and water.  I reminded him of how lucky we were to be here at all and plied him with promises of ice cream and Space Mountain.  But it meant nothing as we wilted in the hot, cloying sun.  Naysayers we couldn’t escape in line spoke shrilly of doomsday scenarios.  I tried to counter with games of I Spy and the Serenity Prayer, but he was despondent; and hot.  I even broke out the travel backgammon set I’d squirreled away for just such an emergency—not expecting to need it on the morning of our first day.  “I just want to go home,” was all he uttered.  And I couldn’t blame him.  Where was Tigger?  Someone send in the clowns!  Why weren’t cast members swooping in to placate us with popsicles?  Or palm fronds for shade.  Why not just open up the floodgates and let us in?  Wasn’t one day’s revenue loss worth a generation of great PR?  How could they not have a contingency for this?  They had one for everything else.

They didn’t because they’re not perfect.  And as my son finally broke down after 90 minutes and no end in sight, I had to admit that I’d failed him as well.  Had I chosen the wrong line?  Why didn’t we try another park?  We could have been on our way to Legoland but had already invested so much time that our journey seemed irreversible at that point.  I couldn’t think on my feet any better that Disney could and so I crumbled as well. 

We finally got in.  As we grinded though the turnstile the angry mob behind us grew fainter in the distance.  We sauntered off into that shadeless wonderland of ersatz hopes and dreams; off to get that ice cream.  Off to stand in more soul-crushing lines amidst a sea of parents who’s only simple aim was to bring their kids some joy; FastPasses simmering elsewhere; dignity back at the hotel.  Off to find our own version of an eight-year-old’s supposed idea of magic.  And we did. 

And then it began to downpour.

The Play's the Thing

I was in a boatload of plays and musicals in my day.  I sang and danced my tuckus off as Maisie Merriweather in The Boyfriend-- it was so hot in our school’s auditorium that my mascara ran from sheer perspiration.  As young Emily in Our Town, I put a bottle-cap upside-down in my shoe to help remind me which leg to limp on, and as Oliver I let my voice break a little at the end of the song, “Where Is Love” to see if I could get anyone in the audience to cry.  They did. 

I loved being in the chorus of Oklahoma because I got a lot of hang time with other kids while the director worked with the leads.  We would clown around until we were shushed and it gave us the chance to flirt and possibly be partnered with older boys—most of whom we wouldn’t have had any contact with otherwise.  I also vaguely remember doing some show that had a circus theme and our school’s director had two trapezes bolted into the ceiling above the stage.  I spent a bulk of the show swinging back and forth by my knees— no spotter, no net and no mat below me—just a smile to break my fall.  I never did.

As fun as these experiences were, they also provided tremendous learning opportunities.  Blocking helped me become hyper aware of bodies in space in terms of composition and balance.  Learning new songs and choreography was mathy in it’s own way.  Having to count measures and gauge distances in time; turning and crossing in symmetrical paths across the stage illustrated some principles of geometry.  There were beautiful blended harmonies to be mindful of, pages of memorizing to be done, and gorgeous sets to be designed and painted.  Every day my brain and body whirred with new information that had to somehow weave itself together and imprint in my mind so that, come opening night, I could hit my marks, remember my lines, blend my voice just so while not stepping on anyone’s toes.  And to think that this was all going on concurrently with preparing for spelling quizzes, algebra finals and science tests.  Quite a feat.

I didn’t understand at the time how important these accomplishments would be as transferrable skills in adulthood, nor did I care.  Teamwork and partnering are germane to every office job I can fathom, as is assimilating and regurgitating new information in a confident and compelling manner.  Standing up straight and hitting your mark without turning your back to the audience—not to mention projecting—are skills that have served me well in pitch meetings and presentations over the years—a conference room is really just a small stage with a pile of sandwiches in the center when you think about it.  In both arenas there is a message to be delivered, a product to be sold and an audience to be charmed.  What better proving ground than a school musical or drama production.  Not to mention the sizeable dose of confidence one has to have to get up in front of classmates in a potentially dorky costume and possibly trip or forget then having to keep calm and carry on.  Tell me that won’t serve you well for decades to come.  It has.

Before a show, my dad would reminded me of what Spencer Tracy used to say about acting:  Learn your lines and don’t bump into the furniture.  My mom would tell me to make sure my hair was out of my face, to stand up straight and not to futz with my costume-- no matter how itchy or ill-fitting it was.  Both of them made sure to remind me to have fun.  After all that was the point, wasn’t it? 

I had a chance ponder this again recently when I performed in front of an audience.  While I was singing my heart out and supposedly having fun, I was having a completely lucid parallel conversation with myself in my head during the song:  Am I hitting my mark?  Check.  Do I remember the first word to the next verse?  Yes.  Oh, shoot, I just blew over the third verse—wups—will have to go back and make sure to fit it in before the chorus.   Thank goodness the band is keeping up.  They’re such troopers; must remember to thank them.  Uh-oh, the strap of my dress is about to slip off my shoulder—don’t futz!  Raise up my left arm, maybe that’ll reset it.  It did.  Here comes the big finish; hope I can hit that note.  Thank goodness.  One down; two to go.  Take a sip of water.  What’s next?  Oh, right.  Here we go again.  Stand up straight and don’t futz.  Oh, and remember to have fun

MOMA Mama

Occasionally, I hear my son comment, “I’m not an artist,” as I pull some creation from his backpack. The daughter of an artist, I want to shout, “Of course you are! You are the very embodiment of creativity! You are young and free from social constraint and the indignity of criticism! You are the blithest of spirits; you are inspiration itself, oh, artist!” But I don’t. I listen to my third grader mumble something about not being able to draw very good. I correct him-- “very well”-- and remind him that there are many different kinds of artists and that building lego creations is sculpture, and rigging up ropes to make a hammock in a tree is design, and fighting bad guys with neighbors is playwriting and it’s all art and you are an artist!

Then I slump in my chair fearing I’m too late. Whose job is it to make sure every child feels artistic for as long as possible? The teacher’s? The parent’s? Shouldn’t every child feel the dazzling freedom of personal expression as often as the whim strikes? Shouldn’t art move through children like a second breath? I want all kids to think they’re good artists at least until 9th grade, for pete’ssake, when cynicism shows up and unpacks; every intention of staying awhile. I couldn’t bear to hear those words from my son so early in life, so I hatched a plan.

“I’m going to take you to the Museum of Modern Art and show you that art is more than drawing a tree that looks exactly like a tree. There are lots of different kinds of artists who use paper cups and chairs piled high, and video and string. And I want you to believe in your heart of hearts that you have the capacity to make art if you want to,” and he said, “I don’t want to go.” And so we went.

I asked a friend to go with us who had a child in his grade so that he would have a pal to flop around on the museum’s leather upholstered benches with. He spotted Van Gough-- whom he remembered from school-- then I tried to explain Jackson Pollack, Picasso and Calder—leaving out the misogynist/alcoholic bits. The crumpled pieces of red paper propaganda that we kicked around and the shiny pineapple candies that we were invited to eat were big hits. Then we happened upon Cindy Sherman.

“This artist loves to play dress up,” I said, “she loves costumes, make-up, wigs and fake stuff. And in every photograph you’re about to see, it’s all the same lady in disguise.” And so we walked through and they looked. An elderly couple stopped my son and asked what he thought of Cindy’s work. The woman looked like she could have been Cindy in her photos; big lips, hair and glasses.
“She’s weird,” he answered. They smiled.
“But good weird,” I said at bedtime, “right?”
“Yes,” he nodded. Good weird.

Slippery Slopes

Last Sunday my son and I ended up on a four-seater chairlift in between two friendly, young, large gentlemen dangling snowboards from their left feet. In the course of the short ride up the ski mountain we learned that they were friends and that this was their first day on a snowboard and ski mountain, ever. I asked how it was going so far and they smiled and shook their heads muttering good-naturedly something to the effect of, “So far so good,” followed by a bemused, “How did I get here?” I smiled and chuckled along with them. I was impressed with them for trying something new and told them so. Learning to ski as an adult takes a combination of courage, resolve and a rubber ego. I reminded them to take their time and take breaks as often as they needed to collect themselves if they felt nervous or out of control. I also reminded them that no one would be recording their experience or posting it on Facebook or YouTube and that they should be proud of themselves for trying something new; something out of their comfort zone. “Way out,” was the reply.

About two supports from the end of the ride and the disembark ramp, I also learned that this was their very first time on a chair lift and that the teacher whose lesson they had just finished didn’t tell them how to get off. Oh, I thought as we glided ever closer to our final destination, yikes. “Okay,” I said to my son, “you are going to ski down the ramp and straight ahead as swiftly as possible. Got it?” He nodded. Then I said to the guys, “And you two are going to stand up when we get there and use your right foot-- like Fred Flintstone-- to glide your board across and down the ramp; like a skateboard. If you fall, which you may, just scoot, crawl or roll out of the way as quickly as possible so that the folks coming off behind you don’t crash into you. You, to the right and you to the left. Got it?” They both nodded. Then, at the last minute I added, “You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be just fine.”

And we were. The fellow on my right made it down without a hitch and the guy on the left didn’t fall until he was safely out of the way. My son wasn’t crushed by any of us and we all enjoyed the feeling of grace under pressure and the small triumph that comes with accomplishment; however minor.

I was glad that my son got the chance to see adults trying something new for the first time. I planned to beat him over the head with it the next time I wanted him to try a new food. I thought about what everyone had learned from the experience except for me. I already knew that I had a bossy, take-control side; that was nothing new, and I already knew how to ski and didn’t plan on taking up a humiliating, ego-crushing new sport any time soon.

The next day I went to my first ‘How to Teach Math and Science’ class. I hadn’t been in a science classroom in well over twenty years. Math and I had squared off last year in order to take the GREs, and again last semester in my statistics course, but I can’t say as I’ve missed her since we parted ways. The Cartesian Diver experiment was a great party trick and our professor demonstrated the small ketchup packet sinking and rising again at will within the clear plastic bottle of water with laissez-faire finesse. But how did she do that? I was almost certain it wasn’t telekinesis. Students raised their hands and density was revealed to be the magic afoot. Our professor wrote density equals mass over volume on the white board and I dutifully scribbled the formula into my notebook.

It was a vaguely familiar formula and the tiny trap door that had shut away years of lab partnering and high school formaldehyde cracked open, but just barely. She asked if everyone understood and I nodded reflexively, then she turned to wrap up the class. Across the table a student looked at me and whispered, “Do you?” For some reason I was honest with her even though she was a stranger. “No,” I whispered back. As the rest of the class stood to pack up and the bustle of bodies resumed, I slid around to her side of the table. She went over the concept until it made absolute sense to me. I was grateful for her help-- this was way out of my comfort zone-- and I was glad that I’d had the nerve to be honest with her. I was proud of my small triumph, glad for my rubber ego and very relieved that no one would be posting this moment on YouTube.

Carnation Day

Back when I went to high school in the barbaric eighties, our school had a Valentine’s Day tradition. For weeks leading up to the big day, students could purchase carnations through the student council to give to other students. For a buck, you could buy a white, pink or red carnation and write out an accompanying note, which would then be passed out to it’s intended on the morning of the big day, during homeroom-- in front of everyone--, by a member of the student council.

White was for friendship; usually sent between friends. Pink meant, “I like you a real lot,” and was a favorite amongst the anonymous set. It was pretty exciting to see a pink carnation delivered because everyone knew that pink meant someone had a crush and that was a big deal; unless everyone knew who the girl or guy was going out with in which case it was a big fat yawn. But, red. Woah. Red meant love and that was something else entirely. Friendship and like-a-lot I could wrap my head around but love was far beyond my comprehension. And its bedfellow, lust, was worlds away. I gathered it was some vague intention perpetrated between the really pretty junior and senior girls with thick eyelashes and shiny hair, and the burley, athletic guys with said same.

As a freshman girl, the notion that I might receive a pink carnation was exciting; a red one was unfathomable. My girlfriends and I logged hours on the phone the days leading up to the 14th, hypothesizing about who might have a crush on who and why. The morning of Valentine’s Day I was on pins and needles. I had purchased three white carnations for my girlfriends and they had promised to buy one back for me, so I knew I was assured at least that much. But nothing prepared me for the feeling of anxiety that washed over me when the two student council reps walked into our classroom holding an armful of carnations, some of them pink and red. There were only 24 students in our homeroom; who could be getting them all?

Not me, that much I knew. But tell that to the rising tide of hope and desire that was making my ears hot. I sat in the second row, watching and waiting as the flowers were passed out; envy reigned supreme. I smiled as I read the inside jokes that accompanied the white carnations from my girlfriends. Then I watched with big eyes and pounding heart as a pink carnation was held out towards me. I took it and whispered thank-you then flushed. Too self-conscious to look at anyone, I unfolded the slip of paper and read the unfamiliar scrawl. It read, “I really like your personality. From, Anonymous.” Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

I spent the rest of the day in a trance. As the popular older girls glided by me between classes laden with armloads of pink and red carnations, I nodded; simpatico.