Category Archives: saddle shoes

to prep or not…

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i’m giggling about something…my latest quandry.

the other night i found myself swaddled by the love and older faces of a few dozen grade school pals.  thank you, yes, oh god of social media, for making something this inexplicable happen with the click of a few buttons.  (and the dispensing of several last minute signs to help direct guests to my bat-cave like secret hideaway).

in the merriment of reconnecting after….38 years (but who’s counting), i found the energy high, the liquor flowing, the smiles cracking past the ear lines, and the love of grounded familiarity ever-present.  i felt instant reconnection to these people, who all fell immediately into close legions of hilarity and recollections.  it was fabulous!

as the evening swept along, i found that my hostessing tasks were keeping me from digging into some of the pow wows, and i longed to hear, too, what the heck these people had been up to for nearly the last 4 decades.  ever ready with unusual ideas, i gathered in the kitchen with jo and omg that dashing ricky, to share my plan.

“a circle of truth?” they replied, sounding a little alarmed?  no doubt, they first thought i meant to orchestrate a pagan ancient rite that involved long brown robes and some sort of sacrificial goings on.  after all, we were all little children together sitting earnestly in rows listening to the hell and brimstone ‘talks’ given by a handful of priests and nuns ‘back in the day’….

i explained to my pals that no, the circle of truth wasn’t a creepy thing, but really just one of those “get to know you” games that teachers and retreat leaders seemed so eager to introduce to groups.  they eased into my plan, though with a few caveats: we need a time limit! (3 minutes was agreed upon per person)…. we need category prompts! (two dozen notes with scribbled ‘category’ topics was whipped out, stat)….we need to get their attention so that they will play the game! (harder to do, someone brought jagermeister…).

finally i was able to corral these people into the living room, forming, yes, a circle.  it took quite a while, and i longed for the day when mr. mullinex or sister bernadette would take out a whistle or a stern beady-eyed glare to get these people obediently moving!  but, eventually, yes, they all refilled their glasses and little tapas dishes and gathered round.

hilarity ensued, like, i mean, hilarity!

one of the gents had a second hand on his watch, and was the timekeeper. (though his eyesight shot, i think he took to just counting “one one-thousand, two one-thousand…”)  the pool of ladies sitting nearby took it upon themselves to thwack the restaurant/hotel desk top bell thingy to begin each ‘talk’, or hit it again eagerly if someone was boring or droned on too long….RING!

fun stuff.  and i got the ‘scoops’ that i was missing during my earlier hours of running, fetching, greeting, hugging, and delegating.  (single gal that i am, i’m prone to accept and rely on the kindness of gentlemen who volunteer for beer, wine, coat or recycling duty).

so here’s the part that i was just giggling about.  as we went around in alphabetical order (which is totally apropos as we all learned the alphabet TOGETHER), we finally wound over to the W’s which meant, as was the st. anne tradition, i was last.  believe me, i was grateful for this, though in the 60s when i was the last to make it back indoors after a freezing recess in the icelandic-ly cold streets, i’d longed to be an A.

anyway, i flew through some sort of engaging cliff note version of my life post the age of 14, landing smack dab into my fabulous current life as a goofball creative 52 year old.  sensing the crowd was sated with my update, i reached for my prosecco, eager to give the floor to anybody else.

out of the blue, my sweet dear old friend leaned forward and said, “missy, can i ask you a personal question?”

oh dear.

here it comes.

uh oh, my reputation proceeds this party……

i took an extra gulp of that italian bubbly beverage and steeled myself for whatever she was poised to ask me.

she leaned forward, intent, and her pose made me prepare for the worst…

“when did you stop being preppy?”

what?

omg, that was the last thing i expected to be asked, and the question so threw me, i was without words or thoughts for several moments…seemed like forever until i put together some sort of unintelligible reply…found my funny side, “oh those teen daughters of mine make sure i look hip so as not to totally embarrass them”, etc. and as i spoke, i felt like i was BETRAYING something deep within me that really…did…like…being…preppy.

it seemed like my answer was a flop.  where was my clever banter that has been my sidekick since i was 5?  worried that they’d think i’d grown up and gotten B O R I N G, i made sure i threw in a few more bon mots to keep my avid audience from frowning.

but since then, i’ve wondered…when did i stop being preppy?  have i? huh?

so here’s the thing.  growing up and making it through the cotton of the 60s and the quiana of the 70s…by the time the 80s came and lisa birnbach’s bible made it to my eager hands, i did feel (get ready for a big fat cliche here, folks) like ‘coming home’.  i mean, how else would i feel when the verbage, illustrations, nicknames, architecture, weekends, expressions, menus, geography and attitudes were things i’d already grown up with.  lobster.  tennis.  sailing.  horseback riding. lacoste. sperry. ll bean.  brooks brothers…a veritable roll call of americana with a bent towards haberdashery history!

well, i don’t know about you, but i grew up with a television.  and on that black and white screen i spent countless hours (added up i’m sure it’s years, oops) learning and living alongside of katherine hepburn’s tracy lord and cary grant’s dexter in ‘the philadelphia story’….plus the hundreds of iconic glory days of starched shirts, shiny loafers, thick leather ladies handbags, summer lobster boils depicted in movie after movie after movie…(hello, doris day’s ‘it happened to jane’…see what i’m saying?).

yep, i grew up staring and learning and assimilating this world that here, sure, aims more towards the east coast than my little sleepy chicago suburb, and it was this button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves world that i wanted more and more of.

duck shoes, penny loafers, top-siders, baggy jeans, crisp white cotton tshirts, headbands (yes, i did do that for a while….), plaid skirts, irish wool sweaters: who wouldn’t embrace this world of natural material and sensible colors and patterns?  and the bloody mary’s….

i could go on.

so, basically, the day that i was given an autographed copy of the preppy handbook (which later fell into the pool from my imbibing on too many preppy g&t’s) was a clarion call to embrace and love the first lifestyle i really had been exposed to, and one that was a mainstay in our culture.

fast forward to life here over fifty, i still have my preppy days, of course i do.  but along with the decades of life since the 80s, i’ve dabbled a bit into something to be described as ‘fashionable’…or at least, again, according to the teen gals in this life of mine, ‘cool’ and ‘hip’.

being creative comes with a burden of attempting to look a bit, well, ‘out there’…but i can assure you, well, at least assure my pal who was compelled to ask me that riveting question: if you hung out in my room and dug a little into my shelves of folded and hanging clothes, you’d surely find enough traces of preppy stuff to know, wholeheartedly, that it’s firmly rooted as part of my bizarre, kookie lifestyle dna.

promise.

a good time

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i have even more of an appreciation for writers now that i’ve begun the daunting task of this blog: it’s no piece of cake.

for the last week, i’ve felt like someone took a paint scraper and removed every shred of creative thought from my head. literally.  all gone.

granted, what remained was a whole lot of energy for drawing, scads of menu ideas for holiday weekend, gallons of scintillating conversation round the campfire, the ability to pick out a really good outfit, and innovative ways to fold laundry.  but to think of something to write about?  forget it.  nothing.

so, another pickle that has come from this blog thing is that people read it.  hello: can you say pressure?  not only do they read it, but they like it, then they tell me, then they ask me when i’m writing another one, then i find the task horribly frightening, of course, convinced that they’ll all think i’m boring, which then further delays my ‘creative process’ and the page stays blank.

this morning, zap: along came a sentence and my sweet, fatigued brain embraced it and i felt a flicker of thought.  racing to the laptop to pound away on the keys (are they keys if it’s not a typewriter?) i felt like i was on a countdown to get this out before it floated out of reach.  of course, the fat dog was barking at the door, so i had to let him in, then feed him, then pat his head so that he knew that he was allowed to eat his kibble.  i poured more coffee.  the cat appeared needing something.  she was ignored, she’ll get over it.  then the dog appeared at my feet, staring up at me while i typed.  energy sucker!  i shooed him out, shut my doors, closing out the interlopers, ready to begin.  can i just say, i really know why writers go off, all alone, to remote cabins in the woods, undisturbed and uninterrupted?  and i assume: they don’t bring pets…!

one more delay: this song blasting in my head is so not doing what it need to, so i’m going to fiddle around with pandora until i can find a better one for calming, creative inspiration.  stevie nicks.  thank you, universe.  just what i needed.  ”i’ve been afraid of changing cuz i built my life around you, but time makes you bolder, children get older, i’m getting older, too.”

here i go.

this morning, i was told, “you have met me at a good time to know me.”

wow.  i had to smile.  this is so jam-packed with substance.  and it made me think.  sure, here i am, typing away, drawing, shooting out fun thoughts & cool clients & cooler kids: doing my thing and yes, this is a really good time to know me, too.

but what about before?  what does this say about me, or my life, in other times?  and that’s when my mind went on a little trip.  what am i really like, and how have i been, before this very morning?

at fifty-one, it’s no easy task to start tripping back in the time machine.  of course, i’ve kept diaries since i was twelve.  i don’t think that i’m  going to start a heavily-detailed fact check on myself to add to this stream of blabbering today, but it’s good to know i have the research material if i need it.  so, what about this, anyway?  what was i like?  who have i been?

here’s a snapshot of a darling, blonde, curly-headed baby.  riding along in the grocery cart with my mom, sweet cherub!  delightful smile!  sparkling bright blue eyes.  shoppers would come over, how could they not, to lean into this sweet baby, stopping to tell my mom how darling i was.  one, two, three seconds (good timing is everything), i’d instantaneously twist my face into one of the most macabre distorted scary faces!  the women would recoil in horror!  some would scream!  every time. so, what? twisted baby?  not a good time to know me.

a few years later, two or so, a black and white snapshot shows, again, this curly haired little waif playfully posing with a hula hoop in front of a neat little brick & frame house.  what a darling little jumper-dress thingy, with ankle socks and saddle shoes.  adorable!  lean in closer, and something seems a bit odd…!  i’m holding an old cigarette butt, assuming a smoker’s pose, and wearing a satisfied smirk on my face.  creepy tot!

a move to the country, and a slightly larger house, with rooms to fit the five children, collection of dogs that came to call, and here is a lovely sibling bonding scene.  my parents took a photo to savor the memory of their three youngest children gathered in front of the new fireplace, all smiles.  what went down just after the shutter clicked would have shattered their warmed hearts.

i was five or six, with the little ones, four and two.  we each had a box of snaps.  who doesn’t love snaps?!  we sat happily chewing these multi-colored licorice treats, not much talking going on. suddenly, a plan came to me, the execution flawless.  ”do you know what would be a really good idea?” i asked the little ones, my voice syrupy in sweetness.   my question met with widening eyes and silence (still the chewing), i went on.  ”if we all pour our snaps out together, divide them by three. we’ll all have more!”.  i had eaten nearly my entire box, and those slow pokes had barely scratched the surface: i wanted more candy, ruthless and determined.  with trust in their hearts, and smiles on their licorice-smudged faces, they poured their snaps into the pile on the rug.  (not even a hygienic story, we had dogs!)  they watched with zeal as i counted out the three piles.  they were so huge!  this was too easy: taking advantage of those two trusting moppets!  then, with a flourish, i handed their snaps to each of them, their little pudgy baby fingers dropping snap by snap back into the jolly red boxes.  the deed was done, my box was now two-thirds filled, and off i went to chew in peace.  victorious.  sated. deceptive.  manipulative.  a liar!  no, not a good time to know me.

when i was in kindergarten, i fabricated the truth.  my poor mother.  day after day, after the bus dropped me off at the end of the driveway, and i’d had a little snack, my she would ask me how school was.  like clockwork (i really wonder why they didn’t bring me in to ‘see someone’!), i’d report the daily round-up of events.  never one to bore an audience, i came up with some whoppers, all delivered with such certainty, i could have wowed larry king.  ”so-in-so and what’s-his-name climbed over the playground fence, ran to the church at recess…she was wearing her sisters first holy communion dress, and they eloped!”…”mr. whoosy-what’s-it is in the hospital!  their dachshunds bit off his toes!”  only when my mom called mrs. whoosy-what’s-it to offer her a casserole for the family post-tragedy did she see what she was dealing with.  a little teller of tall tales?  no, a liar.  not a good time to know me.

growing up in the country, with a very supportive but laid back mom who was going back to college, (with dad busy at the bank downtown who gladly admits to this day that he had the easy job: get on the train and earn money and get away from all of those kids), our summers sort of resembled “lord of the flies” story line…no one was stoned to death, but i remember a lot of wild running about, some major sibling torture,  many misunderstandings that resulted in trips to dr. fats-schukerman, and the cause of my aversion to golf.

the setting was bucolic: five acres on the fringe of the vast forest preserve.  a new barn surrounded by a horse-filled pasture, and filled with fragrant hay, and fresh manure…great for pelting at one another!  my brother, an avid sportsman, set up a golf course of our very own.  ingenious, he buried campbell’s tomato soup cans in various positions around the side and back of our property.  we fashioned flags out of sticks and rags, and spent many happy summer days taking in a rag-tag round of golf.  one summer, we all gathered at the first tee, just in front of the barn.  my brother went first, a fine shot, close to the pin.  my older sister was next, that girl can wallop a ball.  we all watched it sailed off, a beautiful landing.  my turn next.  i grabbed my wood (back when the wood was made of wood, and where on earth did we get all of these clubs, our own little mini hodgepodge sets and hand me down golf bags: so cute!)…put my tee in the grass, placed my shiny white golf ball on it, stood back, got into the ‘mode’, my pinky overlapping the other one, just how my dad taught me to hold the club.  sight the pin, look at the ball, place my feet firmly on the ground, sight the pin again, look at that ball, back swing, and let ‘er rip.  less than a second after hearing the ‘pop’ of the club hitting the ball, i heard an impossible-to-describe ‘crack’ or ‘thud’.  omg.  then i heard, “i hate you.”  i turned to see my sister clutching her blood-soaked face, her blood-streaming hand clutching her head, running towards the house.  i can’t even type this without getting all woozy!  fractured skull.  a quarter of an inch from killing her.  literally.  if asked, she’ll show you the scar on her forehead… okay, so you wanna know me at eleven?  i don’t think so.

if you had met me on a particular day in high school, you would have thought i was a boy.  okay, so i was slow to develop.  and i also had super-short hair because they hadn’t invented ‘product’ yet for unruly wavy crazy curly hair and it was just easier to chop it off.  off on a day on the ‘slopes’ (it’s the midwest, i use the term loosely) with our high school ski club, my friend and i made our way to the next position in the lift line.  i’ll never forget this, as we eyed the super-cute, ryan o’neal look-a-like chair lift operator…he looked right at me, i swear we had a moment, our eyes locked in something that could launch a lifetime love, right?  ”step up, boy…you’re next”

!!!!!!!!!!

note to self: grow out hair.  stat!

this stuff is tragic, really.  but, since i have work to do, as much fun as these trips down memory lane are, i have to wrap it up.  maybe this should be part one of a series?  that way, i’ll have my inspiration already cued up, a safety net for when ‘writers block’ strikes again?  really, i’ve gotten so off track from what i thought i’d be writing about….

i’m not going to write, “i guess what i’m trying to say”, because i absolutely hate that line.  have you noticed how often it’s used in movies?  can everyone in hollywood please come up with an original way to say that?  better yet, show don’t tell: the character doesn’t have to say ‘i guess what i’m trying to say’, as we, the audience, is, for the most part, pretty intelligent and as we’re watching the character turn to speak to the other characters, we’ve noticed that they ARE saying something…!

but where was i?  yes, the big finish.  the shaping of my persona, as the kids say, “i’m good”… with the results.  yes, i still make awful faces, i still practice the art of telling tall tales, i still hate golf…but i’m happy.  i am what i am, it is what it is…it is a long and winding road, isnt it?  we all have years riddled with clutter, especially me, but today?  this bright sunny second day of june in what promises to be a spectacular summer of play, laughs, campfires, creativity, notions and imagination?

yes, you have met me at a good time to know me.