These Boots Were Made For Dancing

So, I'm flipping through a fall clothing catalog when my heart stops and my jaw drops. Could it be? The boots of my teen years are back in style? Jiminy Cricket, I can't believe it. Those glorious black boots are back. Wonders never cease. I loved those boots. They topped off our high school dance/pom pon squad uniforms for three years (1979-1981). If I could find my yearbook, I'd show you. They were the perfect touch for that cowl neck sweater, short red skirt, black vest ensemble. Knee high black boots with an elasticized top and high heels. They were made out of crinkly calf hugging vinyl designed to give your legs that tight sexy look. Of course, it only worked if you had any meat on your calves, which I didn't, so the whole affect was kind of lost on my stick thin legs. Nonetheless, I still felt gooood in those boots. I'd love to wear those boots today, but they're a little "young" for me now. I hate that. Really, I do. In fact, the whole "I'm too old to wear that anymore" thing is starting to tick me off.

I dashed into a couple of shoe stores this morning while I waited for Mama J. to finish up her wash and set at the Beauty Box. I saw six pair of shoes that stole my heart, and none of them were made for the ahem, mature woman. I wanted to take them home anyway. That cute little pair of patchwork Keds would be great with jeans. And the lace Sketchers with the shiny silver trim. Surely, they would work with yoga pants. The polka dot flats with the bow, darling dahling. They'd go great with leggings..if I were young enough to wear leggings. I tried them each on, touched them longingly...and finally put them back. All of them. Poop! Who made up the rule that you have to quit wearing fun clothes when you turn a certain age. I don't want to look goofy, but come on! Clothing for the 40-plus crowd is so....boring. Isn't there something between Hot Topic goth and Sears stretchy pants for my age group that has a little zing? A little sass? A little 'tude?

I have to be careful. The urge to step over the "Too Young For Me" line sometimes gets the better of me. Apparently, I have made that mistake a few times. About five years ago, someone anonymously mailed to me an article from Reader's Digest about women who try to dress too young. I got it at work. No return address. No signature. Just a snarky little jab at my clothing choices. I was shocked...and hurt. No one, including my family, had ever said anything to me about what I wore. After about an hour of ripping mental scabs off my insecurities and trying to guess which Bee-ach sent it (you know it was a woman), I bucked up and decided I didn't care what someone else thought. I was comfortable with me. I shredded the letter. I have never forgotten it, though, and I'm a little paranoid about dressing too young. So, I didn't come home with the sassy red flats or the shiny Sketchers. But I wanted to. Just like I want those boots. Before the month is over, I may order those boots anyway. 'Cause I'm feeling a little bold, a little reckless and not at all 43 years old. I'm not done dancing, thank you, even if some folks my age have hung up their boots and pom pons.

Haughty Couture

While I'm not crazy about saying goodbye to summer, I do like getting all the catalogs with the new fall fashions. I've gotten five this week. I love clothes. I don't spend a lot of money on them because I buy everything on sale, but I do love a new outfit ever so often. Now, my little hometown is no fashion mecca, so I have to rely on outside sources to keep from looking like a rube when I step outside my front door. I've been perusing some pictures from the fall runway shows and thought I'd share some of them with you so you can help me look my best when the weather turns cold. Only trouble is, this stuff is a little fancy for me. I'll tell you where I'm planning to wear this, and you let me know if I'm on track. Remember, I don't want to look stupid.

PTO meeting. Is there a new Star Trek movie coming out? Did I miss the anouncement?

November Methodist Women's Circle meeting. I'll need a coat, though.

Ooh, here's one. Is this the boy from "A Christmas Story?"

It might work for the library book sale, but I'd best leave this one on the rack. Anything with this many spots falls under some kind of hunting season in Kentucky.

January parent teacher conference. (note to self: accessorize with Counsin Ernie's bagpipes.)

Look, caftans are back. Wait 'til I tell mom. She'll be excited, she's back in style again.

Company Christmas party. Although, this could be a little breezy, and I'm not sure where to hide the Spanx.

Hey, her glasses are like the first pair I ever had back in 1978. Are those back? Are there pants with this top? If so, I can wear this to the dirt track races.

Trip to Tampa in October, although the carry-on may be a little big, and Sissy may not want to pick me up at the airport. I could always wait and wear it to the TaterFest in the Spring.

Again, I don't want to look like a hick when I leave the house, so just let me know what I need to order from these high dollar houses of fashion. Those high faloutin' designers in New York City know what's best, and I just can't find this kind of stuff in my J.C. Penney's catalog.

The Non-negotiables

One of the reasons I know I’m getting older is that I read the obituary notices in the newspaper every day. Even if I’m in a hurry and don’t have but a minute to glance at the paper, I make sure to read the obits. I hate it when the obits are full of young people. I like it when all the dead folks are in their 80’s and 90’s. It gives me hope for a nice, long life. Days like today, where the obit page is full of people in their 40’s, make me nervous. My parents use the obituaries as a planning tool for their social calendar. Somewhere around age 60 dinner and a movie became dinner and visitation. It seems like Baby Ruth and Zeke are at the funeral home every time the doors open. Of course, they live in a small town and they know lots of folks, but if they got a card stamped every time they walked in the door, they would have earned a free vault by now. I’d rather have a root canal than go to the funeral home, although, I am slowly getting over my “oh, my God there’s a corpse in the room with me” fear. (I think I read too much Stephen King at an early age.) What little time I have spent there and the things I see in the obituary page have helped me to form some strong opinions about my own funeral. If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, make sure my family abides by the following. I’ll be haunting somebody’s *** if they don’t.

1. Obituary-No flowery language please. Don’t write that I “went to be with the Lord”, that I “was called home” or that I “passed onto the other side after a brave fight against a lengthy illness”. I hope I’m with the Lord, but that’s no excuse for horrible writing. Keep it simple. Just tell them I died and for heaven’s sake, tell them what killed me. I don’t want anyone speculating about the reason for my demise. If I have a nickname, don’t include it in the obituary. The obit page is full of goofy nicknames like Dog, Lightning and Tater, and I don’t want to be remembered as an animal, vegetable or mineral.
2. Visitation-Don’t prop me up at the funeral home for everyone to weep around. I hope you’ll miss me, but I’d rather you celebrate my life than stand around and cry for three hours. Please attend a party in my memory at a local rental hall. There should be plenty of food and drink. Some circus peanuts. At least three flavors of margaritas and dancing. The music should be lively, plenty of Jimmy Buffett, reggae and classic rock. Make a toast to me and have a good time on my dime. The Zeke’s and Baby Ruth’s of my generation will appreciate this.
3. Funeral-I need all the church I can get, so you’d better roll me in there for my final send-off. Be sure to tell everyone to dress casually; shorts and flip-flops. It’s what I’ll be wearing ‘cause I want to be comfortable wherever I’m going next. They can even wear their Parrot Head gear. Close up the coffin because no one looks good as a corpse. Besides, people say stupid things like “doesn’t she look natural” or “didn’t the Jones Brothers do a good job with her makeup”. Gag. Oh, and make sure my hair looks okay. I don’t want someone from the corner Cut ‘N Curl giving me a do that looks like something Aunt Fanny would wear.
4. Music-Three songs at the service: Rod Stewart’s “Sailing”, Bette Midler’s “Sailing Away” and Andrea Bocelli’s “The Prayer”. Tip to the sound engineer: if you don’t cut off the Rod Stewart song promptly, you’ll run into the next song which is “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” and that could be inappropriate. Funny, but inappropriate. We’re in church, so we should also play a hymn, but I haven’t picked that one yet. I want something upbeat. Maybe the Rev. James Cleaveland’s “Get Right Church”. I like to run to that one. When we get to the cemetery I want you to play Jimmy Buffett’s “Tin Cup Chalice” and drink a toast like the song says. Parrot Heads are used to BYOB so there should be plenty to go around.

Those are the basics, the non-negotiables. Everything else is up for grabs. Hopfully, people won’t even recognize these songs by the time I need ‘em. I realize some of you don’t like to talk about this kind of thing, but after reading today’s obituaries, I figured I’d better write down some instructions. There were four nicknames, two sappily written send-offs and five, count ‘em five people in their 40’s who died. It made me a little nervous.

Heaven's Just A Sin Away

On the fifth day the Lord put forth a tempting snack that when used in moderation is a right and glorious thing but when used in gluttony becomes an enemy to thine hips. Thine enemy has a name and that name is circus peanut. Lord, forgive me for I have sinned with the circus peanuts..again. I am a weak and sinful child…AGAIN.

Usually, I’m pretty disciplined about my eating habits. I’m trying to make up for years of lard fried pies and convenience store burritos. During the week, I eat lots of fruits and vegetables. I limit soda to a half a can a day. I skip dessert and limit the deep fried stuff. I let go on the weekend and enjoy some of the bad stuff, but I don’t get too carried away, and I go back to being a good girl on Monday morning. I don’t binge on buffets anymore, and I’ve converted the whole family to skim milk. They give me dirty looks behind my back for it. I can feel it, but I don’t care. It’s good for us.

The one area I have trouble with is candy. I can’t resist a little candy when I’m reading at night. I try to limit myself to a handful of Red Hots or Sweet Tarts, but I can’t break the habit entirely. I’ve tried going cold turkey, but that just led to a frenzied search in the cabinets yielding only dried out Peeps from Easter. Which I ate…in secret…so no one would see me eating four month old candy. I felt like an alcoholic drinking cough syrup because it was the only thing in the cabinet. Ashamed, but satisfied, and then full of guilt. So now I keep a little stash of candy handy and try to control my habit. I’d been doing okay, until I fell off the wagon about two weeks ago. All because of this:

The circus peanut. An orange wad of marshmallow that doesn’t even taste that good. Unless consumed with a glass of iced tea and a good book. I’ve found they’re best when eaten fresh, while they’re still somewhat soft, but I’ll eat them when they’re as dry as cardboard. I’m addicted. I like the way they feel, smooth on the bottom, textured on top. The smell is…I’m not sure how to describe it….a tad fruity but mostly…artificial sweetener. Whoo! God is good. I like that nice piquant aftertaste, too. I can’t stay away from them. I don’t know what brought this on or when it will end, but I’m beginning to worry. I bought a bag last Friday, and it’s already empty, two days faster than the last bag I ate. Sometimes I’m not even aware that I’m eating them. I found one on the bathroom counter Saturday and had no recollection of bringing it in there with me. Food..in the bathroom….that’s desperate…and gross. I grabbed two on the way out the door the other day and got a little panicky when I got belted into the van and couldn’t find them. After a frantic search under Teen Angel’s disgusted gaze I discovered them…in my purse. I didn’t even care that they were fuzzy. I’m telling you. It’s bad. I didn’t even have this kind of weird craving when I was pregnant with Teen Angel. So, I’m admitting my addiction publicly..on these pages…hoping it will shame me into better behavior. All I can say is it’s a good thing I wasn’t in the Garden of Eden. I could have passed on the apple, but if that serpent had waved a circus peanut in my face I would have slid to hell on a fast Brach’s train. Pray for me, brothers and sisters.

So Long Summer

I don’t like the day after Labor Day. It’s the unofficial end of summer. It makes me sad. Really, really sad. I mourn the end of summer the way some folks mourn the death of a pet or the end of an era. While everyone else is ready for cooler weather and a change of seasons, I’m bracing myself for the next six months. Six months without flip-flops. Six months without shorts. Goodbye homemade ice cream. Goodbye pool. So long to blinding sunshine and stunning sunsets. A reluctant hello to jackets, coats, gloves and unpredictable weather. I savor every minute of summer, so I hate to let it go. It’s a long distance love affair that leaves me longing for more.

Summer is a fierce mistress. She tickles us with her hot hands and shiny skies. We unashamedly bare our imperfect bodies, hoping for relief from her warm embrace. She’s fickle with her rain, sometimes giving us more than enough, but often teasing us with just a damp kiss. She’s attractive, strong and fast moving. By the time fall rolls around most folks are worn out from her demands and need a break. Not me. I hang on until she slips away in a rustle of smoky leaves.

I hate cool weather. I hate the time change and the shortened days it brings. The gray skies suck the energy right out of me. I stomp through wet, slushy streets with the temper of a two year old. Coats make me grumpy. So necessary and so annoying. The holidays help me to make it through December, but January, February and March are long, dreary months that never seem to end. Ninety days to endure until spring weather. Ninety days until the smell of warm dirt and wild onions work their way back into my days. Ninety days until a glimmer of summer’s return. Ninety l-o-n-g days until the love affair resumes.

Goodbye summer. I hope you’ll stick around a little longer. Another month would be nice, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I’d like to pretend that I won’t care when you’re gone…but I can’t. Honestly, it gets harder each year to say goodbye. I’ll see you in six to eight months. I’ll be right here, waiting patiently for your return…with my flip-flops…and my shorts. You won’t forget about me, will you? I’ll be thinking of you.

A Round of Applause

The Hula's love a good concert. We go to quite a few. Hubby and I went to a George Jones show last night. I'm not a fan, but Hubby is. Remember, he's a little bit country, and I'm a little bit rock n' roll. Hubby says George is a legend and that we needed to see him before he kicks the bucket. I said sure because even though I don't like traditional country music, I do like dinner and a night out. Besides, the people watching at a concert, especially a country music concert, is fabulous. There's just something very down to earth and unassuming about classic country music fans. They come as they are, and I like that. Among all the average Joes just there to have a good time were a few really entertaining folks. Like the fellow in the Farmall tractor T-shirt, painted on eyebrows and large striped conductor's hat. Or the woman in a neck to toe purple trench coat despite the warm weather. Or the gum smacking woman in the lime green cowboy hat, Daisy Dukes and barely there halter top. There was the 60-something woman in the red silk 70's cocktail dress. And the three women who came dressed for a night on the town but forgot to wear enough shirt. Mind you, I'm not judging anyone. I wore parrot flip-flops and flamingo deely-bobbers to the last concert I went to. My favorite folks last night? The two elderly women who had tickets for the cheap seats but slid into unoccupied $100 seats and kept moving over throughout the show until they were right in front of George. They thought no one was watching. I'm sure they would have played the sweet old woman card if the security guard had caught them. They were slick. I'm telling you, the people watching was great. We had a great time.

Even though I'm not a Possum fan (that's George's nickname), he earned my respect for several reasons last night. Musically, he doesn't try to be something that he's not. He's still singing the stuff that made him famous and hasn't tried to change his style to keep up with the Toby Keith's and Kenny Chesney's. He's 76 years old, and he's still touring. Even though his voice cracks a little now, and he gets winded on the fast songs, he keeps going. He obviously loves what he does. I hope I'm doing something I love when I'm 76. He seems to have a great appreciation for his fans and caters to them. At one point he dedicated a song to a couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. How many artists do that any more? His T-shirts and CD's were very reasonable. $10 for a CD. That's affordable for most any fan. He was witty, down to earth and pretty honest about his drunken past. He dedicated a song to his wife, and sang an old fashioned gospel song; stuff that just doesn't happen at many concerts anymore. I love that he hasn't given up because radio doesn't play his stuff. Maybe Hubby is right. Maybe he is a legend, not because he had a big string of hits but because he's still doing it his way. For that I'll give him a round of applause. And for all the folks who made the people watching fun, I'll give you a round of applause too, for coming just the way you are and not caring what other folks think.

Hey, Hey I Wanna Be A Rock Star

I can't get that Nickelback song out of my head. I love the lyrics to that song and how they poke fun at that way we all want to be famous. "We all just wanna be big rock stars, live in hilltop houses driving fifteen cars." At one time or another most of us have wondered what it would be like to be famous. Admit it. You've sung in front of a mirror with a hairbush, and you've played air guitar when no one was looking. I do, um...I mean I have...not recently...no, it's been years, really.

Come on. How cool would it be to be a rock star? I wouldn't want the job on a permanant basis because it would be too crazy. And there's the whole issue of my lack of musical talent. But I'd like to step in their shoes for just for a week. It's probably like going to Vegas. The first few days are exciting, almost overwhelming. About three days into the trip, though, everything starts to seem a little too loud and by the fifth day you just want to leave all that overstimulation behind. I'd like a little piece of that rock star action for just a few days. I would:

Dress like Cher-wild and crazy, just because I could. I wouldn't go quite as scimpy as she does, though. Not matter how old I get, I still have to answer to my mother, and she would kick my hind end when I got back from L.A. for baring my butt cheeks while dancing on a submarine.

Get myself invited to a party at the Playboy mansion-Just to satisfy my curiosity. Can you imagine what the people watching must be like at a party there? Besides, I want to see how old Hef really looks in person when he's not being airbushed or filmed through a fuzzy filter.

Throw a party at my hilltop mansion-make it the social event of the year and not invite Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie or Britney Spears. I would invite my favorite authors: Fannie Flagg, Lee Smith, Harper Lee, John Grisham and a bunch of others. I'd also invite Matthew McConoughay because we'd need some eye candy, and he makes my toes tingle.

Use my fame to draw attention to social causes-in the United States. I'm concerned about Darfur, and don't even get me started on the Iraqi War, but most folks don't have a clue how many children in this country go to bed hungry at night or how many senior citizens can't afford to eat and buy their medicine. Then there's the folks who are staggering under medical debt because they can't afford health insurance. I'd hold a concert in front of the White House and invite my other rock star friends to jam with me so we could sell an album afterward and raise lots of money for our cause.

Sit on the patio at The Ivy-so the tabloids will take my picture and I can frame the covers as souvenirs of my brief week of fame.

Visit the VIP lounges in the famous Vegas clubs-The casinos pay famous people to dance and gamble in their clubs. I need someone to pay me to gamble because I'm terrible at it, and I'm too tight to spend more than $20 of my own money on the tables. Just once I'd like to play some really high stakes poker behind sunglasses and dance in an expensive lounge wearing sunglasses.

Go to rehab in Jackson Hole, Wyoming-Not that I'd need it. It's just a tool to boost my fame right?

Wrangle an invitation from that Virgin Records guy to stay at his island in the Virgin Islands-Have you seen his digs at Necker Island on the Travel Channel? I need some of that. I don't want the cabin next to Mariah Carey though. She seems like a whiner.

Buy my own island in the Carribbean-so I can retire after my rock star stint and walk the calm, smooth beaches every morning and languish in the sun with my family or read a book in my hammock and reminice about my previous fame. And play air guitar and sing in the mirror with a hairbrush.