THAT 80'S THING - THIRTY YEARS LATER AND STILL KICKIN'

Last night, Himself and I treated ourselves to about 5 1/2 hours (we left a half hour earlier than closing because we are not fans of The Fixx) of crazed dancing to a couple of 80’s bands who performed for a local fundraiser. Close to thirty years later, I still love to bounce around and rock out, though now I’m a lot older and have to last out there on the dance floor without artificial stimulants. I’m feeling a bit tired this morning - Himself and I got home just before midnight, which is really late for him. My neck is really sore from looking up at the bands from the dance floor. But heck, I got to see and dance to live, in person, Bow Wow Wow, English Beat and Berlin.  Missing Persons cancelled due to a Dale Bozzio health issue. Damn, they were missed. Especially when the fill in band was Gene Love Jezebel. So not Missing Persons.

Dancing straight through Bow Wow Wow, and then English Beat, I was sweating most unbecomingly, but I was having such a good time. The place was like a sauna inside, and was packed full of people mostly in their 40’s-late 50’s. Quite a few dressed the part as well, though outfits that were kind of punkish back then, made several women last night look more like “been there” hookers.  

As usual, super long lines for the women’s restroom, though several women went en masse into the men’s room, where they startled the men standing at the urinals. Oh, just like the 80’s...

Getting back to just how sweaty I was...when I pulled down my leggings and sat on the toilet, the paper seat cover stuck to me, and started to disintegrate right there and then.  Which is what they are supposed to do...when they are in the toilet. Seriously, I was quickly pulling off strands of paper seat cover off my butt and thighs.  

I really needed to get my sopping hair off my neck and back. No, I didn’t bring any hairbands (didn’t really think it was something to put in the purse). Being a resourceful person, I tried to figure out what else I could use. Looking down on our table I saw these long tie things. These were bright orange lanyards advertising the company supplying the beer on tap (what purpose you would use these lanyards for escapes me). My pride took a backseat as I braided my hair and used the lanyard to tie it up.  The little metal hook thing - cool metal thing- (again...what the hell are these things designed to do?) dangling on my neck. Quite a look, but since it was behind my head, and I couldn’t see it, I really didn’t care.  

Other than the sauna feeling, and the obstacle course you had to go through to get through the crowd to the bar or outside air, there were the usual crowd pushers...those people who cram themselves into the already crowded section in front of the stage and then jam in front of you, like you’ll never know they are there, or won’t do anything about it. Well, not me. I demand and defend my hard won space to dance, and I kept them moving if they stopped in front of me. Sometimes that involved tapping on the shoulder and gently moving them along.  One big guy that I tried to keep moving along, out of my view, actually turned around and pushed me!  Like what?  Did he think I was going to get into a pushing match with him.  What an ass!  Likely he was an ass in the 80’s too.

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Highlight of the evening, other than great live music, was when Himself and I touched hands with Terri Nunn from Berlin as she was carried through the crowd on the shoulders of a security guy. The closest I’ve ever gotten to “one of them” (rock stars, not security guys). I can report that Terri Nunn has very soft hands (or rather, left hand).  Hmm, I wonder if Himself is remembering how soft her hand was...probably not.

Ms. Universe 2001 and I Have Something In Common...Really!

Himself and I celebrated our anniversary, eighteen years thank you, at a fabulous restaurant on the bay. Himself reserved the best table in the house, and we both enjoyed watching the sun go down, glowing through the fog, casting a great light on the moored boats.  This restaurant has an extensive wine menu, which while it is thrilling to read, immediately intimidates me. Knowing one bottle of wine would not be enough, though not wanting to pay for two, and knowing two bottles would be more than we could drink in one setting, and be able to drive home, I came up with this clever option. Himself ordered a beer, and I ordered a glass of Tolosa No Oak Chardonnay.  Now I consider this wine to be above my “everyday” wine drinking price point, but it was one of their “house wines”. For dinner, we chose Rombauer Chardonnay. Himself enjoys red wines, and I love the smell and taste of reds, but my stomach does not.  Thus, we had just enough glasses of wine for the evening!

The prior paragraph has nothing really to do with this post, but I'm hoping for wine sponsors!  Back to the post:

While Himself and I talked about our lives and the kids, he reminisced on one of my more embarrassing moments that happened right there, in that same restaurant, years ago. As the years have passed, this embarrassing moment has become humorous even to me, so I will retell it here, in the hope that it will be therapeutic for my psyche.  

Back when I worked a real job, in a law office no less, the partners would hold an annual Holiday Office Dinner at a nice restaurant for partners, staff and their significant others. One year, they decided this particular restaurant on the bay would be perfect for a December dinner. Himself and I got a sitter, dressed up, and looked forward to an evening of really good food, and expensive wine. One of the partners was a total wine guy and loved to share his knowledge, and the firm’s expense account, on good wine.

My dress-up attire for that night was a silky camisole, a full-length silk wrap-around skirt, black stockings and heels. Wine was ordered, but before it arrived and I had a chance to touch my lips to the glass, a few of us ladies went to the restroom.

Now, because it was the holidays, and larger groups were dining out that night, many tables had been put together for these large parties. These large parties were skewed towards the large bay view windows, leaving a large space in the middle of the room.  Which was good for everyone walking to the restroom and the waiters. Most everyone in that particular area of the restaurant could easily view whomever walked through that area, unless they were seated with their back to it.

Be patient, I’m setting up the scene so you can truly appreciate what happened next.

After two of the women at our table left for the restroom, I decided I should probably take that opportunity as well, before appetizers arrived. So, I got up from my chair and proceeded to walk through the large open area towards the restroom. I felt my right shoe snag a bit and I looked down to see silky fabric puddled on the carpet around my feet. Crap!  Is that my skirt? I quickly bent down and grabbed it up.  Note: I don’t wear underwear with my pantyhose and these were shear ones- all the way up shear ones. I pulled my skirt up, bunching it around my self best I could, while bee-lining it to the restroom.  

Opening the restroom door with my shoulder (both hands were occupied holding slippery fabric), both the wife of one of the partners, and a fellow paralegal, were washing their hands.  “What the...?” was pretty much what I remember hearing as I began to quickly rewrap my skirt around me - with this full wrap-around skirt I must open it all the way up, align the back seam, and then wrap it around me. So, yes, I was completely naked from the waist down, except for very sheer, non-control top, pantyhose.  I started to seriously sweat while I redressed myself in the restroom answering their questions of when I noticed my skirt had fallen off.

Okay, this isn't me, it's Miss
Universe 2001.  Apparently, she just hustled off stage and didn't even
pick up the skirt.
Just left it laying there,alone,
on the runway.

“Your skirt fell down, all the way to the carpet? Didn't you feel it slipping? You had to bend down to pick it up?” Partner's wife seemed empathetic, but was muffling her giggles.

“Yeah, and right in the middle of the room.”  I think I was smiling by now. 

“Wow, I wish I had a photo of that!” This came from a co-worker, and not, apparently, a friend.

They left the restroom laughing.

I wasn’t sure how to return to the table. My body was in fabulous shape back then (if I do say so myself, and I do), and my legs looked great, so there was that. Had my skirt fallen off today, well, for one, I would have been wearing control top pantyhose and not so much would have been out there for all to see.

When I gathered my courage to return to the table, I was sure I would have had some stares or comments, at least from our table. The partner’s wife had returned to the table just before me and had remarked to Himself, and the rest of the table, that she didn’t know I had such great legs.  

"Huh? What did we miss?" "What happened?" "Your skirt fell off?" "How did your skirt fall off?" and..."Damn, I missed that?" 

As I relive that night, I am thankful I had not had anything to drink yet, as I am not so certain I could have gracefully managed to (1) not trip over the skirt, and (2) grab it in one try and arrange it around myself.  

I am not convinced that my show went unnoticed. I am fairly sure someone at the other tables saw me do something. Perhaps I was so lightening fast that no one saw me bend over and pick my skirt off the floor, in the middle of the room? Okay, perhaps...And just as I assure myself that no one saw it, you know I’ll be in some kind of social situation and someone will share that they saw this hilarious thing happen to a woman while they were eating dinner, many years ago...I just hope they share that she had great legs!

"What are they, Mom?"

Those of us that have raised, or attempted to raise, small children will remember how many bandaids they went through. The most minor insignificant can-barely-see-it scratch warranted a bandaid.  A bruise? Apply another bandaid. Like many parents, we purchased both “basic” and “kid” bandaids. For some reason, we went through the “kid” bandaids faster than the kids were injured. We kept the “basic” bandaids in our bathroom where we hoped to actually find one when we needed it.

Sometimes, though, you would be hard-pressed to find any type of first aid bandage in our house. Last Son was a particular fan of applying bandaids on any part of his body that looked “hurt”. Considering he was generally recovering from some physical injury to some part of his body at any given time, Last Son was a pro at finding and applying bandaids.

One of my “wish I would have taken a photo” moments, was when Last Son was around three years old. Last Son was climbing over some tree branches and wood piled up in the back yard. Of course, he couldn't do anything without at least receiving some minor injury. And this time he succeeded to barely scrape one leg-enough to need, at most, one medium-sized bandaid (if we could have found one in the house). Last Son's first aid decision was a bit more-well, amplified. He ran into the house (see, I told you he wasn’t that hurt) and said he was going to get the “big bandaids”. I called after him that we were out of bandaids. He said he knew where some were. Really? Okay, I figured the Bandaid King would probably know where to find one. I’m thinking he must have found some gauze first aid pads or something. Which might have worked but we were out of first aid tape.  And no, scotch tape, masking tape and duct tape are not suitable substitutes!  (Don’t ask why I know this.)

I could hear Last Son running through the house on his way back outside (again, he was not really hurt).  He burst through the back door.

“See Mom, there's a bunch of big bandaids in your drawer in the bathroom.” Last Son was truly proud of his discovery.

“Um, those aren’t bandaids hon.” This was so hard to say without bursting into laughter.

“Well, then, what are they?” Last Son looked perplexed.

Indeed, what were they?  Was there any way I could answer my toddler’s question with a straight face as I looked at the many mini pads he had stuck and wrapped over his shins and knees - sticky side down of course.  

This was one subject I didn’t really want to tackle at his particular age. Last Son wore them for the next hour or so, until they fell off. I picked up the "used" mini pads off the ground, threw them away.  That evening I drove to the store and stocked up on bandaids, in all sizes, and...more mini pads.