Swifter, Higher, Stronger

"And we compel men to exercise their bodies not only for the games, so that they can win the prizes-for very few of them go to them-but to gain a greater good from it for the whole city, and for the men themselves" Lucian, Anacharsis, ca. AD 170

Today, a friend of mine commented, that she just didn't understand the hoopla surrounding the Olympic Games. "What's the big deal?", she asked. I was stunned, as I'd not had anyone utter such words since junior high. "What do you mean that you don't understand the importance?", I exclaimed incredulously. Although I tried to explain why I considered the Olympic Games to be so important I failed to convince her. However, her lack of enthusiasm and interest in the Games did give me reason to ponder the Olympics and what they mean to me--and what I wish they meant to everyone.

When Frenchman Pierre de Coubertin established the first modern-day Olympic Games in 1896 his goal was to not only revive the type of fellowship that had been so popular during the glory days of the Greeks but to also improve sports education in the French schools. Training for a modern version of the Olympic Games would be a way to do achieve this goal. Yet what has transpired out of Monsieur Coubertin's idea has been far greater, I'm sure, than he ever imagined. I know that I, for one, am very grateful to him and his idea. Since I was a young girl the Olympics, both Winter and Summer, have played an important and influential part in my life. I am attached to the Olympic Games. I love them. I love them wholeheartedly and unconditionally. I am....Olympic Obsessed.

However, after much contemplation I realize that if one doesn't get it, if they just can't appreciate the importance and the excitement of the greatest two weeks in sports that occurs every two years (previously every four years until 1994), well, there's no use exhausting myself in trying. Of course, this is not in accordance with the Olymipc motto of Citius, Altius, Fortius (which translate to "swifter, higher, stronger"). But hey--if I don't stop trying I may miss something important happening right now in Beijing! Such as, a nail biter final in the women's gymnastics final, Michael Phelps tying Mark Spitz's gold medal record, or watching the fastest man in the world win the 100m sprint.

Bottom line, the Olympics is the biggest party in the world that doesn't end at midnight, but rather, continues for two straight weeks. A vast array of food, fellowship, cultures, and sport. It's the place to be whether experiencing in person or via television. (I've done both and enjoyed them both almost equally.) It's a chance for that athlete who, as a youngster, practiced in torn tennis shoes 'til the toes bled. Who drove miles and miles in his or her family's dilapidated station wagon to attend practices and competitions. And for what? Not for money or fame but to wear his or her country's flag on the sleeve and serve as an ambassador. To be surrounded by the world's best in sport. To medal is just the icing on the cake. I cannot think of a greater honor. It brings out the patriot in me that no Lee Greenwood song or Sly Stallone movie could ever replicate.


If any of this doesn't sound like enough of a reason, well, then, yes, it's also a time when people put political, racial, and religious preferences aside for the good of sport. It gives us all hope that there is still good in human beings. Even when nearby countries are at war, rulers are being overthrown, villages are being pillaged and children are being orphaned, we must never lose sight of what is possible. That which is possible is what occurs for two weeks every two years in: where humans of all races, creed, and gender come together.



I'm no longer the youngster who did skating programs in the family's living room and floor exercise programs in the front lawn. I did practice tennis 'til my toes bled, though, but it was much too late in life to ever achieve Olympic status. So, I will settle with continuing to mark my Olympic schedules on a calendar and plant myself in front of the tube every night for two weeks. To enjoy what I consider to be the greatest party on Earth.

There's Hope For Us Short People!

So, the other day my friend Cordelia alerted me to Katie Holmes' appearance in jeans with the pants legs rolled up. in a tight, yet thick, cuff. I scoffed and laughed but apparently it's catching on given the fact that E!Online is reporting this. (And anything reported by E!Online is gospel, right?)


I don't find it to be the most attractive look by any means. But then it got me thinking: I should welcome this fashion trend with open arms, stand up on the rooftops and proclaim my undying love for it! At 5 feet, 1/2 inches tall (and that 1/2 inch is there!) it is impossible to find jeans that will not have to be rolled up into cuffs! Do you the rest of you majority folks have any idea how difficult it is to find pants and skirts that don't drag the floor or cover one's feet? Us Lilliputians are forced to buy ill fitting clothes and pay exorbitant tailoring fees to get everything hemmed! Even if it's purchased in the petite department!


I stopped buying jeans a few years ago because I could never find a pair of jeans that didn't cover my feet and drag the ground. I refused to look like a geek and roll them up so that they'd actually have a stop at the ankles. Cutting them with scissors leaves them scraggly. And I don't know if you've ever tried hemming jeans, but I can tell you that it doesn't look pretty.


So if rolled up jeans are the new trend then I can now join the ranks of Ms. Holmes, Ms. Peete, and others and roll up those jeans the next time I buy some.


Katie, on behalf of all the short people of the world, thanks!

Sign Of The Apocolypse?

My friend, Katherine, (who like me, is all knowing and curious with Celebrity Fluff) informed me today that Vanity Fair Magazine just released it's 69th Annual International Best-Dressed List for 2008. This list is based on votes from its readers, who are supposedly high brow, right?

Tilda Swinton was on the list. Yes, Tilda Swinton.

Are you serious? Yes, unfortunately, Vanity Fair is very serious and it's not a joke. Of course, I wouldn't be laughing should the magazine have been attempting a bit of humour. This woman, actor, Scot, what have you, has about as much fashion sense as David Arquette and Diane Keaton combined.

I can applaud the choices of Kate Middleton, whose subtle sophisticated style is reminiscent of her boyfriend's late mother, Diana, Princess of Wales. Or Michelle Obama, whose classy, yet chic, style is a much welcome throwback to the days of Jackie O and Camelot. Yet as I scroll through the rest of the list of names chosen I realize that there is seriously something wrong here.

Take, for example, Iris Apfel, or Julian Schnabel . What is going on here? Have the readers of Vanity Fair lost their fashion mojo too? Is this a sign of the Apocolypse? Surely. But really, it's the choice of Tilda Swinton that truly boggles my mind and has me running for my Bible to read the book of Revelations. In case you need a reminder of Ms. Swinton's attempt at fashion, I refer you to one of my favorite sites, Go Fug Yourself, which has done such a wonderful job at keeping track of Swinton's fashion offender record, where if you keep scrolling down, you'll see multiple mug shots. Oh, and lest we forget the ginormous fashion faux-pas she made as not only a nominee, but a winner of the 2008 Academy Award for Best Actress. It was truly an insult to all of us who take Red Carpet fashion seriously.

The only saving grace is that not only did they recognize Middleton and Obama but they included some nice double-the-pleasure eye candy with brothers Andrea and Pietro Clemente and another fraternal pair, Brothers Rafael, The Duke of Feria and Don Luis Medina. Maybe there's a glimmer of hope for VF readers. But it's doubtful.

We Need A Bedding Superhero

Picture if you can, the voice of Don Lafontaine as he narrates the preview of this fall's blockbuster movie:

"In a world, where ugly bedding ran amuck in bedrooms, where catalogs had been invaded by gawdy fabric designs, there was a girl who worked in a bedding store. Her life, and the state of the world, was forever changed one night as she closed up shop...."

That's my intro for a new superhero movie. You see, I am currently 24+ months into my search for bedding. Years ago, as a youngster, there was nothing more exciting than every few years having my mom tell me it was time to update my bedroom.. So I'd pull down the Sears & JC Penney Catalogs and sprawl out on the floor, pouring over the different possiblities. I love bedding and the chance to pick out new colors and decor. Well, I used to. I don't anymore. That's because in the past few years the bedding world has been suffering. It's been taken over by fabric that isn't practical and fabric designs that are either boring or hideous. I have found nothing that even remotely is to my liking.

I'll admit that the first few years of drought were my own fault. I made the mistake of assuming that my husband would not consider sleeping underneath a comforter with a floral design. I was all too delighted to learn a few weeks ago that he, not feeling that his manhood would be in jeopardy, is completely open to the use of hydrangeas, ferns, and roses on fabric! Who knew? Yes, ladies, go ahead and be jealous. I do have a pretty darn good husband.

Yet even with this new discovery I am still scraping the bottom of the well to only pull up an empty bucket. I've spent hours on the Net looking at every possible website and online catalog. Ebay? Check. Pottery Barn and Crate & Barrel? Check. Garnet Hill or the Company Store? Check. I've even pounded the pavement on my evenings after work and weekends entering and exiting the doors of Linens-N-Things, Bed Bath & Beyond, World Market, Marshall's, Home Goods, Ross, Belk, Macy's, JC Penney, Sears, Target, K-Mart,....Is that enough? And what do I come up with? Nada. Zilch. Ne rien.

You see, I guess most people would say I'm picky. I choose to say I'm selective. Some people don't spend much time in their bedroom. I do. At least 6 hours a night. My dog spends even more. Then there are the sick days, the late sleep-in's, the Nelson's-watching-Food Network-so-I'll-watch-TV-in-bed evenings, or just the lazy afternoons I'll spend reading a book in bed while Curious Jorge and Mr. Guppy curl up with me. So this is a very important decision!

First of all, I must have a duvet. Why? Because I own pets. Need I say more? I've looked for two sheets that I could buy and sew together but would you believe how difficult it is to find pretty patterned sheets that aren't sold as sets?

There's nothing out there! Apparently the trend right now are on the extreme ends of the spectrum and I don't care for either of these extremes. You either have theplain solid comforters or ones with maybe one stripe across it. You know, very feng-shui, I guess? I'm sure that Vern Yip would love them. On the other end, you have these gawdy bright floral creations that make my mom's old bedspread from 1972 look tame. And if you want to maintain some sort of middle of the road normalcy all you have to choose from are the paisley or floral look that you see in ever hotel room made by Ramada, Hampton, Days, Holiday, or Comfort Inn. Yuck.

So now I realize that we need a superhero. A bedding superhero to come and save the world and re-introduce fun yet tasteful, nice yet practical bedding. Enough of the embroidered multi-textured fabrics. Enough of the cherry blossoms on silk fabric which would only look good inside a Japanese Tea House. No more simplistic and flower power designs She (or he) would begin designing and producing in large numbers bedding that yet again is fun and desirable but affordable. And there would be duvet covers for each pattern as well. Why? So that for those of use whose animals treat the polyfiber filled comforters like stuffed animals and chew them to shreds there would always be, "The Duvet Option."

What would we call this bedding superhero? The Coverlet Crusader? The Bastion of Bedding? Maybe I'll take this idea and travel to Comic Con next year. Hmm....I'll have to keep working on this. In the meantime, back to catalogs....

GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

Right now as I write the entertainment world is alive with buzz and excitement. With sluggish box-office sales suffering from a faltering economy and high gas prices, Hollywood has been unable to really pull moviegoers back to the box office in droves. But it might finally have been able to lure them back due to a superhero action film called The Dark Knight. You may have heard of it? Sequel to 2005's Batman Begins, another Batman movie franchise which tells the story of Bruce Wayne's early days as he ascends the ladder to be the fighter of crime, good over evil? While props and credit are due to the film's creative and thoughtful director, Christopher Nolan, and it's wonderful cast of stellar artists, one name and face outshines them all: Heath Ledger.

Unfortunately, Heath passed a way in January of this year and he is not hear to personally receive the accolades he not only deserves, but would be so uncomfortable to receive as well. Enough is being reported on other blogs, news sites, and television shows about Heath's chilling portrayal as The Joker. It's being hailed as "iconic," "chilling," "incredible," and even "Oscar worthy." As for me, I am full of mixed emotions. I am proud of him, I am excited to see his performance, but I am also very sad. I am being reminded again of senseless loss that the world experienced with his sudden passing.

You see, I was and still am one of the most ardent fans of Heath Andrew Ledger, a young Australian actor who died earlier this year. But I feel like I have more to say than just that I was a huge fan of him and his work. It's more personal than that.

In 2000 I was a single working female living in Atlanta, GA. Although I was living close to family, I was short on friends, void of romantic possibilities, and completely at a loss as to what was my purpose in life--or if there was one at all. And desperate for some sort of hope. Nothing I tried seem to help. Well-intended nagging from my family did not help. I was stuck, drowning in my own misery and feeling utterly helpless.

Had I not gone to see Mel Gibson's new film The Patriot one weekend in July 2000 I'm not sure where I'd be now. You see, I had read the review and seen the photo in my People Weekly of this new actor named Heath Ledger and Gibson's latest film. Always a fan of period pieces and of Gibson's work I was curious to see the film and see the performance of this new Hollywood arrival.

Now, I've had my share of celebrity crushes. I've had lots of 'em. I've also been moved by lots of actors' work. I can honestly say, though, that there was something about Heath and his portrayal as young Gabriel that drew me in as soon as he appeared in his first scene. Some of my friends and I have guessed it was his overall presence, those brooding, piercing brown eyes. I don't know what it was but he mesmerized and made an impression on me like nothing I'd experienced before. And while this performance would not be considered his best, he was able to convey something to both moviegoers and studio executives, drawing them in and leaving an impression.

By the following Monday I had begun to research this young actor. By Wednesday I'd gathered all my information and been quite pleased to learn that not only did we share so many of the same interests and opinions, but there was already a really good website devoted to him!

Again, I don't understand what exactly it was that continued to make me so mesmerized. I can only theorize that the Gods must have set it in motion or the planets happened to be aligned just right. Because as I continued to learn more about Heath I became inspired. Here I was, 26 yrs old, and being inspired by someone five years my junior. But he seemed to have a passion and was unashamed to have them which made him, to me, and so many, an old soul. Heath inspired me to begin writing more, to dream more, and to not be ashamed to dream. On the website I began talking regularly with other fans. While I'd had my share of e-pals and correspondences over the years, I found a lot of these ladies that I met here to be different. Like me, (and Heath) we shared so many common interests, passions, and goals. It was as if, for the first time in my life, I had found friends who really understood me and loved me for who I am. The only problem was that they were scattered across the globe and not available for a late night coffee at the corner diner.

During one of many postings on the Heath web site's forum I noticed discovered a young girl who was going through the pangs of post-adolescence and she reminded me so much of myself at that age. I felt compelled to reach out to her. We exchanged a few e-mails and one day when she appeared on my instant messaging box, I reached out to her. Except it was not her, but her older brother who was at the computer. I could've not talked and he could've not responded either. But yet again, as with that first sighting of Heath, so too, was there just something different about my first interaction with the older brother. I found myself chatting with the older brother and having a connection. It's something that I just cannot describe. I'd never "clicked" with anyone, really, other than my Heath friends. I sure as heck had never talked with a person of the opposite sex and had it go so well.

Eight years later I am still a Heath fan. I also am now happily married. You know that big brother I accidentally IM'ed? I married him. We've been happily married for six years. Through Heath I not only found inspiration, many girl friends who I consider dear, dear friends, but I found more. I found a soul mate, a best friend, the most wonderful person I know. No longer am I lonely, in despair. I no longer feel that life is just a waste of time through which I must trudge. I found someone who unconditionally loves me and who I am so very thankful to have found.

People always ask how we met. To most I answer that we met through his sister, who was my pen pal. You'd be amazed to see the looks that we receive if we mention that we met through the Internet. But you know what? I'm proud of how we met. It's a unique story that no one else probably can claim, and one that has a happy ending.

So this weekend I am, like most moviegoers, excited about the latest installment of the Batman Trilogy. I will also take time, though, to reflect. To remember how far I've come. Most importantly, to remember how grateful I am to a young man named Heath who bravely stepped out on his own. Who dared to dream big, who inspired me, and who gave me the greatest gifts: friendship and love.

Thanks, Heath.

MISSING!

BEKAHBOO'S FASHION MOJO

LAST SEEN:

SOMEWHERE IN COLLEGE BETWEEN 1993-1996. ACTUAL DATE OF DISAPPEARANCE UNDETERMINED.

KNOWN WHEREABOUTS:

POSSIBLY HIDING IN DELTA BURKE'S CLOSET OR UNDERNEATH TYRA BANKS' FAT SUIT

REWARD:

SHOPPING SPREE AT BARNEY'S WITH VICTORIA BECKHAM (Still ironing out the details)

First, let me sigh. *sigh* There. That helps. I've been toying with this idea for quite awhile--this public plea. You know, putting up posters on telephone poles by intersections, distributing the flyers at the mall on Saturday. I even contacted a couple of dairy farms about the cost to include my plea on a milk carton but thought better of it given the poor taste factor. After years and years of searching I am at a loss. And so, I make my final plea here on the World Wide Web, hoping that someone--someone, will have seen my fashion mojo!

It's been a very rough 10+ years without my mojo. Lonely, dowdy, frumpy, embarrassing. A painful 10+ years filled with ill-fitting shirts, hard-to-find shoes in wide widths that are remotely pretty, lack of pants that will accommodate my Hippo Hips, my normal sized thighs, and short stumpy legs all at a reasonable price.

Now, I for one, am not the Elle Woods or Carrie Bradshaw type whose mantra is "fashion is everything!" But mind you, I have always prided myself on having a fairly good sense of fashion. Why, even my older sister would consult my advice as she crept past 25 and on towards 30 and 35. I always tried to maintain a wardrobe that was relevant to the year in which I was living.

For example, when mini skirts first came back into fashion around the debut of Valley Girls and the show "Square Pegs," who, at only a mere 8 years old, pulled out the JC Penney Catalog and asked her mother to order her a mini dress? Who, at age 9, upon seeing a burst of fluorescent colors on the hangers in Goody's and Sears and JC Penney, made sure to have at least one pair of fluorescent earrings, one shirt that contained hot pink, and at least one pair of fluorescent jellies? In 1985 and 1986, when printed jeans and Miami Vice jackets were all the rage, was I there too? Oh yeah. And then, in 1987 when Bass Loafers, long skirts, and vests became a hippie-chic way of dressing did I decline the invitation? Oh no. Not at all. In fact, I am proud to say that I was the first person in my high school to wear these loafers and vests.

Then, of course, there was the big hair tied up with scrunchies. I had those too. And a jean jacket--Levi Strauss to be exact.. You might laugh now but I had it *snap-snap-snap* goin' on!

Yet somewhere along the way, my mojo began rebelling. Coming and going, never indicating when she'd be back. Oddly enough, this coincided with my ups and downs in the weight category. As life moved on and I entered the adult world her presence became more and more seldom, especially as my weight ballooned and my purse became emptier.

And so it was in Kohl's Department Store yesterday that I had a breakdown. Perusing the Plus Size Clothing I saw nothing short of items that were insulting to me, a once fashion-savvy lady. I held on to the nearest knit top with bright flowers all over it and yelled, "Nooooooo! Mojoooooo! Where are you?"

And so, it is now that I take this moment to offer a public plea. Bekahboo's Fashion Mojo, I miss you. Life has not been the same since you left. I know that I have not been a good home for a fashion mojo. I've gotten fat and fatter and I've stopped caring. I've quit looking at stores like Banana Republic, Limited, Macy's, Nine West, and even the J Crew Outlets. I've resorted to plus-size clothing on the clearance racks, or at CATO or Lane Bryant. And while they try, they just do not make clothing that is up to par with your standards or, frankly, mine.

If I can lose some weight, and fit back into my old size--at least a 12--would you consider coming back? Now, you must know that we will not be able to afford much ever again at Macy's or Limited or Victoria's Secret but there are sales! And since you last were home this great thing on the Internet called Ebay has arrived! We can, if we work together, still help me to look chic and fashionable without the huge price tags. But I can't do it without you, Mojo. I just can't.

Ordinary World?

Warning: this is an extremely long entry. I just couldn't find a way of condensing it without omitting something I wished to express. I knew that when I arrived at the Booth Amphitheatre Wednesday evening for the Duran Duran concert that I must devote a blog entry to this event and what it meant to me. So, here goes....

Perhaps I should provide a bit of background information for some of you. I am, as most of my friends and family know, an 80's geek. I use the term "geek" because I often get mocked in good fun by folks who know of my undying love and devotion to this totally awesome decade. A decade known for its outrageous fashion statements, its new wave of music and one-hit wonders, advancement in technology, and a drawing of the iron curtain just in time before the more shallow 90's began.

The dawn of the 80's arrived as I was finishing my year of Kindergarten and would soon begin First Grade. While I was often more preoccupied with Barbies and coloring books, I was destined to become a devotee to the 80's and in particular, its music. I was already way ahead of most kids my age since I could sing and dance to Leo Sayer, Donna Summer, and Styx. This was courtesy of my two older brothers who would religiously play their albums on the family's living room stereo. But when 1980 arrived, both the world and I were in for an experience.

If I hadn't had two older brothers I don't know if I'd be the 80's guru that I am today. I maybe wouldn't even have been the cool kid that I so often heard I was while standing in the water fountain line after recess. Any female who is a little sister and has the least bit of brains will know that she must believe everything her older brothers say. She must mimic everything they do including choices in music, movies, and television. I had brains. I was smart. So in 1980 I followed my brothers' lead and became a fan of The Knack. Of Blondie. I learned how to put the needle on the record. Yes sirree, I did. I was one cool kid.

My coolness only continued to grow as my brother Peter received from Santa Claus his own "ghetto blaster" from which he would make mix tapes of all the coolest music. I knew that Men At Work wasn't just a construction term. The Go-Go's were the most totally rad females who represented true girl power. Michael Jackson was the epitome of cool and Cindi Lauper was who I wanted to invite to my birthday party sleepover--if I'd had one. Madonna's sense of fashion was supreme and although I didn't know what the meaning was behind the lyrics of her song "Like A Virgin," I did learn from Ann Dyer on a foggy morning bus ride to school that a virgin was someone who hadn't had sex. But what exactly was sex?

My love and devotion to the 80's was only solidified--or intensified, rather--by the summers of 1983 and 1984 when we lived in Murfreesboro, TN while my dad attended graduate school. It was a far different world than the small Appalachian town we normally called home. Murfreesboro had a Kroger and a Shoney's! Peter brought his ghetto blaster with him and I brought my roller skates and Nancy Drew books. We had just purchased a 19-inch color TV that was fancy-schmancy and in Murfreesboro the TV was able to pick up more than just 3 channels! My brother began watching this show on Friday nights that showed all the latest music videos. Some people were saying that Thriller was too scary for children to watch but obviously they didn't know that there were a few children out there who were way cooler and more mature than their peers and could watch it, unscathed.

Other than roller skating and riding my bike through the university's faculty housing apartment complex, our days were filled with garage sales, trips to Kroger for frozen Popsicles, and one of my favorite possessions: a Panama Jack t-shirt that we bought at a flea market in a shopping center parking lot. I also bought my first pairs of jellies, (including a pair of fluorescent pink ones), and I can still hear "Electric Avenue" blaring from our 1975 Chevrolet Impala wagon's radio speakers. Ah, those were great days....

I could go on and on but at this point I'll move forward. It must have been Christmas of 1984 or 1985, I think?. We were visiting relatives in North Carolina. We always stayed at my grandmother's house but if we were lucky enough to make the trek over to my cousins Emily and Everett's house, it was the highlight event of the trip. They had a basement! And an Atari! Emily, who was four years my senior, was the coolest girl I knew. She had short hair and wore big earrings and always turned up her shirt collars. She also owned at least one pair of leg warmers. She had tons of mix tapes and albums and even had a Dukes of Hazard poster on her door that was identical to mine. I remember sitting on her bedroom floor, hanging on her every word, and discussing all that was great about the Go-Go's and that other group which was her favorite: Duran Duran. I took in the visual array of posters from Tiger Beat and 16 magazines which were taped to her walls and closet doors. Emily explained that Simon LeBon was the ultra coolest of cool and the hottest rocker alive.

It seemed that by the the time 1989 arrived and was gone and a new decade had dawned, all my musical heroes had vanished into oblivion. Aside from groups like Johnny Hates Jazz or Nina, even those artists who had ruled the radio airwaves were either fading away or had disappeared altogether. The 80's were a thing of the past that no one who was cool would talk about. Now it was all about models-turned-singers, (Hello! Can you say Expose?) lip-syncing, and boy bands. So I took down my posters of Michael Jackson, Paul Young, and Michael J. Fox.

My siblings had all grown up and moved out of the house. Their absence left a huge void in my life. While I continued to be a follower of my brother Peter's musical tastes that he had found on the college scene I also began to stand on my own feet. I chose to join the legion of fans of Paula Abdul, New Kids On The Block and Milli Vanilli, all the while he would preach the reasons that these so-called artists were a disgrace to the music industry. Hey, maybe they weren't great when compared to The Police or Whitney Houston, but I was learning to become my own person. I was growing up. Yet I was also becoming increasing nostalgic and maudlin for the days of the moonwalk and the Rubix Cube, when we were just dancing on the ceiling.

The longing only grew as I passed from teenager to young adult. Bit by bit, feelings of security and sure-footedness were eroding away as I faced the harsh realities of adulthood. With each new obstacle, difficult decision, and Friday nights spent alone, I longed all the more for those days of past. Those days when someone else did my laundry, cooked my meals, and would fix my boo-boo's. The days when summer vacation actually meant a vacation. A vacation spent roller skating, twirling my baton in the front yard, and playing the occasional game of Mrs. Pac-Man at the Little Store's arcade. A time when the toughest decision that I might face upon waking was whether to eat Crunch Berries or Peanut Butter Crunch for breakfast.

Two years ago I went to see Pat Benetar and it was as if I had taken a step back in time. It was, if I may say, "awesome!" Yet this week when I went to see Duran Duran I not only had a flood of memories come back to me but I also realized that things really are different now and that I'm not the young kid I used to be:

• Instead of listening to Duran Duran's music on their tape which I had paid $8, I plugged in my Ipod and shuffled their songs along with all my 80's songs which I have nicely organized into six digital 80's music "albums."
• As I walked into the amphitheater, I overhead the conversation of another concert goer. Instead of it being some kid talking about how unfair his parents' curfew rules were, he was discussing the refinancing of his mortgage. Huh?
• The cigarette lighter at concerts is now so passe. Now for the ballads turns his/her cell phone on and holds it up, illuminating the crowd..... Cell phones? Really? Yes, really.

Ha! Here's something that hadn't changed, though. Guess who was there at the concert with my husband and me? My cousin, Emily. She's turned down her collars and let her hair grow long but after all these years she is still as devoted as ever to Simon and the band. As the night wore on I experienced a vast array emotions. With every one of Duran Duran's classic songs that they performed so flawlessly I was taken back in time. I smiled and cried at the same time. Yeah, you heard me. I cried. I cried not just because I was seeing friggin' Duran Duran in person for the first time but because of all the memories that were flooding into my conscious. I reflected on what a beautiful time the 80's were. They were, I feel, the best years of my youth. A time of innocence and gaiety. A time when family bonds were tight and not strained. When relatives seemed more like just that--relatives--and less like strangers. When walking around barefoot and braless (Who has cleavage at age 8?) was acceptable. A time when we weren't afraid to be ourselves.

I miss those days. I can't go back. Life will never be as it was then. Yeah, and that's a good thing if you had a mullet or wore a white sports jacket inspired by Miami Vice. But for me, as much as I love my new family and the life that I have, I continue to long for the good ole days. I guess there's not that much that separates me from the pony-tailed hippie in his VW van, is there?

Obviously I've gone on too long but there's just so much I wanted to say. So for anyone who has made it thus far, congratulations. The 80's were for the most part about fun. We all just wanted Wang Chung tonight, right? But of course, I, the sentimental one, has managed to make the end of this blog a bit too serious and introspective. Most certainly this is true because I'm going to close with a verse from one of Duran Duran's more sobering songs. As the concert ended with me smiling and shouting the words to "Rio," I think my emotions hit their crux when during the concert they performed this song. It happens to be one of my favorites of theirs--which, ironically, wasn't released until the 90's. LeBon wrote it after losing a friend in a car accident. I think it beautifully sums up my feelings for the decade and those things that I wish could again be as they once were.

What has happened to it all?
Crazy some are saying?

Where is the life that I recognize?

Gone Away

But I won't cry for yesterday

There's an ordinary world

Somehow I have to find

And as I learn to find my way

To the ordinary world

I will learn to survive

Passion or coincidence

Once prompted you to say, "Pride will tear us both apart"

Well now pride's gone out the window

Cross the rooftops

Run Away

Left me in the vacuum of my heart

But I won't cry for yesterday
There's an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find