I’m going to apologize right here and now for you readers outside of the USA. You might not know about the current US craze for mid-century modern architecture and decor. Then again, do you? Is mid-century modern the thing in Germany and Turkey and Australia? Did your mid-century modern look like my mid-century modern?

Can you tell I’m a bit, oh, perplexed by the mid-century modern craze?

The thing is this: I was a kid during mid-century (modern!) and I lived in a house that would today be all the rage because it is classic mid-century modern architecture. And my parent’s old house would need to be practically gutted to look like today’s imaginary vision of mid-century modern, which sort of begs the question: what IS mid-century modern if it has to be totally redone to be mid-century modern?

I get the feeling I’ve talked myself into a corner. If me, then the entire design/architecture world!

The real mid-century modern has an open floor plan in the living areas, average sized bedrooms, medium sized closets, small bathrooms with colored ceramic tile and chrome faucets, a kitchen with colored tile and matching colored appliances (yellow was extremely popular, as was pink, and mocha brown–white tile and appliances were considered old-fashioned and blah) and linoleum (no wax!) floors. Mid-century modern had see-through fireplaces and built in dressing tables in the master bedrooms and bedrooms with one window. Real mid-century modern homes were built for a family of four with three bedrooms and two bathrooms and a two car garage. There were few area rugs, throw pillows were nearly non-existent, and curtains were sheer to give light control on the huge picture windows. The ceilings were acoustic, which today they call “popcorn.” In the mid-century everyone thought those bumpy ceilings (sometimes with gold glitter thrown in for extra glam) were great because they cut down on sound reverberation in all that open floor plan.

Today’s mid-century modern means shopping all over town for a house that was built in the fifties and sixties in this basic style, ripping out the bathrooms and the kitchen down to the studs. Granite! Marble! Limestone! Stainless steel fixtures and appliances! Windows are added and the floor space is doubled. They have granite islands. The kitchen counter tops are poured concrete. The floors are limestone. The backslash is glass mosaic tile. The cabinets are bamboo. The bedrooms are enlarged. The bathrooms are now huge with a four person, eight nozzle shower, a jetted tub for two, two sinks, a skylight, and a closet that will host a party of eight. The popcorn ceilings are replaced with smooth, the linoleum (still no wax!) is thrown into the nearest dumpster, and a huge addition is added where the garage used to be to house an extra large bedroom and an extra large bath or a room to hold a flat screen television for watching the Rat Pack take Las Vegas.

When the dust settles, they sit back and smile, proudly admiring their authentic mid-century modern house.

What’s your favorite architectural style? Do you like mid-century modern? What style house or apartment do you live in now?

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I get annoyed sometimes. Maybe more often than I used to. I don’t think this is about me (let’s agree about that, okay?); I think this is about the world getting more annoying.  I have examples.

For instance:

I hate when I’m watching television and an ad for an upcoming show on that channel takes up 1/5 of the screen. Hey! I’m watching a show here! The hero is holding the essential clue in his  hand, looking meaningfully at his partner, and I can’t see it because it’s covered up by that stupid ad! What’s with that? Ads while I’m watching a show? Aren’t there enough ads on television already?

Deep breath.

Then there’s the fact that I know they turn up the volume for the ads. I’m watching the show, the stupid corner-of-the-screen ad having finally disappeared, and then the commercial comes on and I’m suddenly being yelled at. By someone selling laundry detergent. Or car insurance. Or alcohol. I can’t watch television anymore without holding the remote control at the ready, waiting to adjust the volume. Do they think I’m stupid? Do they think I’m going to buy something because someone yelled at me to?

Do they think I don’t own a remote and have the power of volume at my fingertips?

And then there’s the cable company (or whoever) who is responsible for the show guide. The guide should be accurate. If it says that Million Dollar Listing is going to be on at 10 PM on Wednesday night, and I set the DVR to record, I should find Million Dollar Listing recorded, not that hair salon takeover show (which I happen to like), but did not tell the DVR to record!  I pull this example from last week’s television adventure. One of many, I assure you.

Speaking of the show guide on my cable network, what is it with this new way they have of describing movies? “Southern belle loses man” isn’t much of a description. The stars aren’t mentioned consistently either. Is this movie Gone With The Wind or Jezebel? Of course I can tell by the title, but if I’ve never seen the movie before, a more thorough description would be nice. And would it kill them to tell me Bette Davis and Henry Fonda are in it? As to that, it could have been Sweet Home Alabama! Description, people! Don’t be afraid of it.

And before I step off the rant platform, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve taped a show or a movie that I had never heard of before only because the descriptor said “Comedy.” I spent two hours one night watching an old movie, thinking desperately the whole time, ‘when is this going to get funny?’ Because ladies, it was not funny. It was a DRAMA.

Whoever is writing the guide for the cable company should be forced to take a course in…something. How to tell a comedy from a drama? Can that even be taught?

What sets your Grouch Meter off?

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I have never, not once in my entire life, stayed awake all night.

Never.

Ever.

When I was a little kid, the tinder-dry foothills at the end of our Southern California street caught fire and blazed away all night. There were fire engines (or is it trucks—I can’t keep that straight) blaring their horns, people shouting, small planes dropping water bombs. The entire neighborhood stood outside in their pajamas to watch the “show.” I slept through the entire thing. When I woke up the next morning and my mom told me about the fire, I thought she was kidding me. She wasn’t kidding.

When I went to my high school senior prom, the ‘after event’ was a long drive to the beach for a bonfire and to watch the sunrise. I slept in the car on the way to the beach. I slept on a blanket next to the fire on the beach (while my boyfriend stared at the surf). I did manage to wake up to watch the sunrise…and then I slept all the way home. I don’t think this was the night he was expecting.

When I was in college, I studied hard and went to most of my classes, but I never stayed up past midnight to study for an exam or write a paper. No grade was worth giving up sleep for.

When I was giving birth to my children (always in the middle of the night—it’s a law), I fell deeply asleep between contractions. Yes, I was awake and in pain for a minute, but the moment the contraction passed, I fell instantly to sleep. For one minute. The nurse said she never saw such a relaxed mother during delivery.

When I was a mother of a baby, Big D would wake up when he cried, change his diapers, bring the tiny tot to me in bed where I would nurse him, falling back to sleep, and then Big D would put tiny tot back in the crib when he was finished eating.

I used to think that I was somehow in control of my sleep patterns, but I’m not. I just can’t stay awake all night. I can hardly stay awake past midnight—and I have a lifetime of witnesses who can back me up on this. It’s not a choice. It’s a physical imperative. My body requires hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. Big D, as you may have guessed, does not. He can go with very abbreviated sleep, for days…even weeks and months.

I think he might be a vampire. Since he was so good about getting up with the babies, I’m not going to make a big deal out of it.

Can you pull an all-nighter? When, where, and why? Was it worth it?

I wonder why I sleep so deeply, and yet feel so drained in the morning…

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I’m on the hunt for a new perfume. I’ve been wearing the same scent for years and, ladies, it’s time for a change. I wear perfume every day. I have since I was thirteen years old. It’s a woman-thing, an “I feel pretty” thing. I started with Heaven’s Scent, a light floral, careened through Emeraude to land on Shalimar. I like the musky, spicy scents; if it has a heavy floral base note, that’ s okay with me.

I skooched out of Shalimar and found Chanel Number 5. From there, it was a hop and a skip to Coco Chanel. I’ve been wearing Coco Chanel every day for almost twenty years. I’m clearly in a scent rut.

Big D and I went out to cruise for a new scent a few nights ago–he has a huge stake in this, after all. There are so many new perfumes! I’m still undecided. Euphoria by Calvin Klein is definitely leading the pack. And have you seen their provocative ads? That doesn’t hurt.

Any advice, fellow goddesses? Do you wear a scent? Do you wear cologne/perfume every day or only on special days? What sort of scent do you prefer? (And telling me ‘the scent of fresh cookies’ doesn’t count.) Do you like it when a guy wears a scent? What kind?

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We’re born, according to popular scientific theory, ready to do either at an instant’s notice. We’re also born with a tendency, the theory goes, to do one or the other first. We’re also able to be trained to respond in one way or the other. Fight. Or Flight.

Based on family accounts, (ahem) I was born with the fight tendency in the dominant position (see how diplomatically I phrased that?). This was nurtured by my parents. Fight back! I heard that often as a child. I also was praised when I did fight back. Double reinforcement. I had the tendency, and then I had the training. That makes me unusual for a woman. Or that’s what I’ve been told for most of my life.

I’m not talking about taking a swing at somebody, though that’s part of it. I’m talking about standing up for yourself, saying what you think, what you believe, what you want, and not feeling guilty about it. I’m also talking about defending the defenseless no matter whose feelings get hurt. No matter who ends up not liking you because you fought back.

Big D says that on the day I was born, when the doctor slapped my butt, I slapped him back. Big D laughs uproariously when he says this.

When I was four I was shouting at my mother to SHUT UP! I got my mouth washed out with soap a lot.

When I was eight, the other little girls on the playground would come over to me, crying, saying some boy had tormented them. I’d go over to the boy and tell him to cut it out if he knew what was good for him. He’d cut it out.

When I was thirteen my dad would mock-attack me, teaching me how to fight back if some guy ever came at me. He was grinning the whole time while giving me pointers.

When I was eighteen there were a slew of rapes on the college campus I was about to attend. I asked my dad if he was nervous about me getting raped. Chuckling, he said he almost felt sorry for any guy who tried to rape me.

When I was nineteen and pledging a sorority, part of the hazing was to chug a bottle of champagne at a fraternity house. Don’t do it and you don’t get in to the sorority. I looked the pledge master in the eye and said I wasn’t going to do it and if I got kicked out, so be it. I didn’t get kicked out.

When I was twenty-two I told my boss I didn’t like the way she was treating me and expected better, in fact, I deserved a promotion. I got the promotion.

When I was thirty and my tiny daughter came running to me, complaining that her older brother had something of hers that she wanted back. I was supposed to get it for her, you see. Uh, no. I told her to talk to him directly. Her brown eyes widened, she took a deep breath, and calmly told her brother exactly what she wanted. He gave it to her.

It’s a legacy I’m proud to have passed on to the next generation.

On December 7, 1941 Pearl Harbor was bombed. On December 8, 1941 my dad dropped out of college and enlisted in the Marine Corps. On December 10 many years later my parents adopted me. December 10 is the day they brought me home and made me theirs. I am a fight before flight person, reared by a mom and dad who were also fighters. This calendar week is an important one for me; it’s a time when I think about who I am, where I came from, and why I am the way I am.

Who are you? Are you fight or flight? Flight until you must fight? Fight first, then flight? Share a story of when you either fought or flew. Did you make the right choice? Would you do it differently today? Do you believe that the fight or flight theory is even true? Do you feel good about being the way you are?

65 Comments »

I remember when they invented spandex. Or at least I remember when spandex pants became available. I once tried on a skin tight pair in shiny dark red. I came this close to buying them, but my girlfriend roared with laughter, so I didn’t.

It was pretty Disco, I have to admit.

That was my introduction to spandex and I thought I’d made my choice. Spandex and I would never cross paths again. Spandex was a little trashy and not at all cool.

That’s all changed, of course. Now I won’t buy anything without spandex in it. Do you realize that jeans are comfortable now from the very first instant you try them on? That’s thanks to spandex. Remember when a new pair of jeans was like wearing concrete mixed with cardboard?

My cotton dress shirt from Izod (my new favorite shirt) has spandex in it so that it doesn’t pull across my ta-tas. My socks have spandex, and they don’t fall down. My underwear has spandex and never gets baggy. My cotton t-shirts have spandex and are smooth and supple from the first wearing and stay in shape until I stain them, usually with Ranch salad dressing splattered on the part that sticks out most in the front—I’ll leave you to figure out what part that is.

The magical transformation of spandex is that spandex is now 2% of everything, not 100% of anything. Check it out. I bet you’ll find that your car is 2% spandex. Your shoes. Your insurance policy. Your cell phone. Your bank account.

Do you love spandex? What kind of material do you wear most? What material do you like least? Does anyone else remember when they invented fleece? What is fleece anyway? Who else remembers the invention of velcro?

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Big D’s dad is at that point in life where he’s giving stuff away. Actually, he’s been doing that for a lot of years now, but it’s intensifying. He’s not only giving us his “I don’t know what to do with this” stuff, but also his “This is really important to me” stuff.

In July he gave us an antique wooden box with a brass lock and key. This box is very old, probably about 140 years old, and has been in Big D’s family for generations. Big D’s dad gives us the box, tells us with great urgency, “This box must stay in the family forever!” We probably looked a bit startled because his next words were, “You can do what you want with it.” But he wouldn’t look us in the eye as he said that. In fact, he even turned away and walked out of the room.

Cue ominous music.

Since this isn’t a movie, Big D and I didn’t hear any ominous music. But we did hear the emotion in his dad’s voice. We noted it, and put the box on a side table so that it could begin the process of becoming part of our stuff.

Did I look inside the box? Yes, once. All I saw was a small pile of tiny papers in plastic bags. Big D’s dad is big on putting things in plastic bags so I didn’t think a thing of it.

Last week, Big D opened the box and took out all the plastic bags and opened them up. And he found treasure.

What sort of treasure? The contents of Big D’s older brother’s wallet. In fact, the wallet itself. Oddly, Big Brother didn’t use a real wallet; he liked to put all his stuff in a plastic bag. Big D had forgotten that about his brother, but there it was; Big Brother’s driver’s license and draft card and library card for the small town library and college student ID card and scuba license card and one of those wallet sized calendars from Hallmark. The year: 1973. The year Big Brother died in a car accident.

In that old wooden box were the contents of Big Brother’s pockets on the day he died. Big D touched every slip of paper, every coin, every membership card. His hands were gentle; the paper was old. He was not sad. He was…gratified, almost glad to be touching something of his brother’s again. To touch the library card for the library they had both used so often. To touch the draft card for a war long over. To see his brother’s face again on something as mundane as a driver’s license.

And when everything had been touched, back it all went into plastic, closed up once more in an aged wooden box. The hidden treasure in plain sight on a table in our house. Yes, this box must stay in the family forever.

Have you ever found hidden treasure? What do you treasure most of your possessions? What do you have that is treasure to you, but may be meaningless to someone else?

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