Category Archives: pretty things

Godspeed Discovery, Godspeed—A Space Shuttle Launch at Dawn

 April 5th, 2010. The Space Shuttle Discovery was scheduled for launch at 6:22 a.m. at Kennedy Space Center.
As a native Floridian, I witnessed Space Shuttle launches from backyards and schoolyards since the program started in 1981.  I have countless of memories of bright streaks of orange rising over the treetops and billowing vapor trails climbing through the clouds before breaking through our atmosphere  into space.  But I had only been up close and personal once.
This particular launch fell during Spring Break, the weekend of my 10th Wedding Anniversary, and I finally had a child old enough to burn a launch into his memory.  Everyone was free from work and school. It was time to go and feel one up close.
Getting to and from the Space Coast on a launch day is an adventure in itself. A sixty mile drive home can easily take over five hours. Highways clogg to the point you are forced to turn off your car engine to avoid overheating.
But this early morning launch was essentially a night launch. The last night launch scheduled. I had never witnessed the spectacular show up close. It was worth the trouble.
After an extremely dramatic weekend (Paul McCartney concert in Miami, Easter festivities in Orlando, and a near scalping by the family cat only hours earlier) we dragged ourselves out of bed at 3 a.m. I hastily packed a bag and carried my sleeping child to the car for our journey.
We made it to the Space Coast in decent time and parked a few blocks from Rotary Riverfront Park directly across the Indian River from the Kennedy Space Center. We could see the shuttle lit up on the colossal launch pad across the dark water. The crowd was massive. Thousands of drowsy tourists and locals lined the shore of the tiny park. Carrying a sleeping 6-year-old made the task of finding a clear view a little tougher, but we finally squeezed into a perch on the boardwalk.
The countdown was on.
Though we were crushed together in the darkness, the international congregation surrounding us remained on their best behavior. We chatted with a young couple from Sweden, some German Sailors on leave, tourists from California reverently waiting to witness a moment of scientific glory.  Sleeping children crashed on blankets and folding chairs. Adults adjusted camera settings and zoomed in on the  launch pad. The excitement in the air was palpable.
Suddenly the final countdown was on. Everyone seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of a safe launch. Fingers poised above camera shutters. Only whispers spread through the crowd before we tensely, excitedly chanted down  10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1… liftoff!
Cheers erupted as Discovery’s orange flame illuminated the black sky. Children stared in wide-eyed wonder upon parents shoulders and a collective cheer sounded above the roar of the rockets engines. We could feel the powerful engines booming across the water after a slight delay.  Discover had made it! We had lift off! 
We stood glued to the spectacle above us until Discover faded into the darkness. The crowed breathed a communal sigh of relief as the light of the last booster rockets dropped into the sea. Strangers from around the world shared hugs of congratulations and relief.   Tears of pride and joy mingled with cheers that beautiful morning.
Some tried to escape the melee before the sun tickled the horizon. Knowing the traffic would be horrendous, we stuck around for a bit to savor the sunrise over the Cape.
The blue dawn crept in slowly around the shuttle’s gray vapor trail. Within minutes startling oranges and yellows illuminated Discovery’s path like a flame licking through the sky. The view changed every moment; the startling colors in each frame captured by my camera morphed through every color of the rainbow. The early morning ocean breeze slowly shifted the spectacle from a con trail to a dragon to an ethereal face smiling down upon us from the heavens.

Godspeed Discovery, Godspeed.

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My REAL Princess Diary

Was a Royal Wedding a bigger deal when we were kids because we weren’t constantly bombarded by pretend pink princesses?

Flashback:
In the pre-dawn darkness of July 29th, 1981, a little girl is snuggled up with her mom in front of the television.  With her sleep-crusted starry eyes she gazes at the screen illuminating a colorful scene ripped right out of one of her classic fairy tale books. A commoner, a young Lady still in her teens, is about become a Princess.

The bride wears a voluminous white silk gown with an unbelievable 25-foot-long train and a tiara twinkling with real diamonds, a perfect representation of every little girl’s fantasy.  Crowds cry and cheer as she rides in a horse-drawn carriage through the streets of London to her date with destiny.  She slowly, bashfully steps down the isle of an ancient church festooned with flowers to meet her Prince and exchange the vows that will transform her life.

The little girl has been collecting magazine and newspaper clippings about the the story unfolding before her for nearly a year, carefully taping each photo and article in a spiral bound notebook to cherish forever.  In the coming years she will add stories of the Royal couple’s glamorous vacations, articles celebrating the births of the two handsome little Princes, and endless photos of the Princess’s stunning and stylish dresses.    It is her very own Princess Diary, her chronicle of the making of a Princess and the extraordinary life that followed.  Luckily, the girl had outgrown this hobby when the beautiful facade began crumbling and the bitter reality of being a Princess was brought to light.  Years later, she still cried on that warm August night when she learned her Princess was gone.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful young Lady, and her name was Diana….

Last Week:

A little boy creeps through the darkness and snuggles up on the couch with his Mummy.  He has been complaining about the ceaseless press coverage of the upcoming royal wedding, attempting to change the channel and chiding “who cares!” each time the couple graces the screen.  Throughout his short life he has been overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of Pepto Bismol-colored Disney princesses covering every little girl product imaginable.   He wants nothing to do with anything princess.

But now he watches the wedding as if in a trance.  He is awed by the wooded wonderland beneath the soaring Gothic vaulted ceiling of Westminster Abby.  He thinks the Prince looks dashing in his dress uniform and coos over the bride’s beauty.  His mouth drops when they depart in the horse drawn carriage surrounded by red-coated livery and adoring fans. “I didn’t know it could be real…”
   

He disappears for a moment and I think I have lost him.  He returns to my side with a full regiment of Lego Star Wars figures (including an honorable Princess Leia) and stands them at attention facing the television. He has created a modern boy’s salute to the new Royal couple. 

I don’t know how many little girls woke early to watch the royal pomp and pageantry.    Most girls I know are not even aware there are real Princesses (or Duchesses) but they can tell you every last detail of each contrived Disney versions.   They have the dvds, dresses, shoes, dolls, and plastic castles to prove their devotion.  They are a marketer’s dream come true.

Thanks, but I’ll take the real thing…

Vintage Barbie was a Vamp


My Vintage Barbie was far more Liz Taylor than Sandra Dee.  She could melt a man (made of plastic or not) with her seductive, heavy-lidded gaze.  You could have spotted her posed at the bar of the Ritz, a cool Singapore Sling cocktail in her manicured hand.  She would have never set a perfectly pedicured and stillettoed foot in a pastel pink soda shop or plastic McDonald’s.   Her clothes were sophisticated but sultry, far from revealing yet clearly to mature for your average teenager.  She was, in fact, a respectable 22 years old when my mother ceremoniously passed her into my small and eager hands.  A mature college graduate with a Jackie Kennedy bouffant instead of a perky, pony-tailed  and overly-endowed teenager.

My Barbara Millicent Roberts was a single girl in the city (long before we discovered sex or the television series).   Her budding career changed as frequently as her clothes–one day she was as a copywriter at a slick New York ad agency straight out of Mad Men, the next a fashion buyer at Bloomingdale’s or an editorial assistant at Vogue.  She could have been a flight attendant, but only on private charters escorting celebrities to exotic destinations (which she photographed for travel magazines).  She would never have considered mermaid, fairy, princess (except for a brief dalliance with the idea around the time of Lady Di’s wedding), or Dallas Cowboy’s Cheerleader to be acceptable career choices.  And babysitter and dog walker were certainly left for young Skipper and her friends.

My Barbie did not live in a townhouse or dream mansion.  How could a cosmopolitan girl-about-town afford a place like that, really?  She was no  Holly Golightly on the fly, nor would she ever settle for being a kept woman.  She rented a chic little loft or pied-à-terre in the city. 

Malibu beach parties were far to unsophisticated for her tastes. My Barbie would have been found lounging on the sands of the French Rivera before a big night out in the casinos of Monte Carlo.  If Ken wanted to catch her eye he had better be wearing a custom tux, drinking a martini (shaken not stirred), and charming her with some witty yet intelligent repartee while he won big at the baccarat table.    If he happened to be a prince,  he was too busy learning how to efficiently run a country to be prancing around in tights and singing sappy songs.

 Then came the inevitable, a pre-adolescent right of passage which causes every feminist to cry out in pain. Brainwashed from years of watching Saturday morning cartoons (back when they were ONLY on Saturday mornings) and caving into peer pressure, I cast Vintage Vixen Barbie  aside for a bubbly embodiment of anorexic cheerleading princesses everywhere. I saved up all my allowance and birthday money to buy my very own fresh-faced Pretty In Pink Barbie doll complete with a ratty pink fur stole and gossamer nylon cape.   Her face was sweet and wholesome, like a mid-western homecoming queen just dropped at the gritty L.A. bus station.  Her outfit was a teen pop diva’s dream. She went to pool parties and attended Sweet Valley High.  She dated Ricky Martin (a la Menudo days…if only she had known).  She still didn’t have a Dream House or pink corvette, but she hoped her part-time modeling gig would pay off soon and hung out with carbon-copy BFFs who shared their wealth.   Her wardrobe shifted into tacky 70’s and 80’s ensembles (legwarmers!) but she still had some fabulous shoes.
Little did we know back in those days of innocence why my beloved Vintage Barbie had such a seductive, come-hither gaze.  She’s not the all-American teen fashion model we believed her to be.  Barbie’s creator, Ruth Handler, produced her after discovering Bild-Lilli: a surprisingly similar doll based on a sexy German cartoon.
Bild-Lilli 1955 vs. Barbie 1959

Lilli was a curvaceous country girl who came to the big city to work at a newspaper and used men to get exactly what she wanted.  She was sassy, showed off her hourglass figure with tight skirts and spiked heels, and was referred to by many as basically a prostitute.  Her advertising tag line proclaimed, “Whether more or less naked, Lilli is always discreet.”  So, yes, Barbie was based on  a novelty doll marketed towards *ahem* adults.
Male adults.


Now that I have discovered Barbie’s scandalous history do I think any less of her?   Not a chance.   She was Carrie Bradshaw before Chick Lit, a Mid-Century Scarlett O’Hara bursting with her ambitions and desires.   Far more a smoldering young Sophia Loren than Gidget.  And far more interesting.
I always realized that I would never have Barbie’s 38-19-33 measurements, flawless skin or luxurious mane of hair.  She is a doll.  I never suffered through years of depression, eating disorders, or surgeries trying to become a cheap piece of plastic.  But I wanted her life–not the prostitute’s or the blond beach bunny babe’s–I wanted to be the chic city girl savvy enough to utilize both her brains and beauty.   
And I wanted her fabulous shoes.

I still do.

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The Soul of Spring

We celebrated Spring Break this year with a stay-cation.   My only writing was done with a piece of driftwood in the shell-strewn beach sand.  Instead of sweating at the gym I paddled a scenic river, planted a vegetable garden, built a sandbox, strolled through a tropical oasis, and chased Kiddo around a strawberry field under serene blue skies.   It was a relaxing week filled with reading (two fabulous books by the talented Meg Waite Clayton), sunbathing (although I still have no tan), and reveling in some down time with family and friends.   Sometimes we all just need a little time off to catch our breaths, a bit of quiet amidst the never ending clamor of our daily lives.


Thrift Store Shopaholic




I have a confession.

I rarely set foot in real stores yet  my closets and drawers are overflowing.  I was forced to buy two packs of  hangers last week and  cleared out the guest room closet to handle the overflow.  My Kiddo has a wardrobe stocked with the next two sizes up just waiting for him to grow into.   And I would rather slit my wrists than pay retail.

I  am a thrift store shopaholic.

I’ve been a savvy clearance shopper for years.  I bee-lined to the back of every store I set foot in and had sale rack scanning down to a science.  I memorized store mark-down schedules and regularly made the rounds. But that just wasn’t enough for me.

I had to take it to the next level.
I decided to brave a thrift store.

 I admit, I hung my head slightly as I shuffled across the parking lot, hoping no one driving by would see me and think I was there because I HAD to be.  I hugged my purse tighter and was a little afraid of who else may be lurking inside.  Despite my doubts, I was overwhelmed as rack upon rack of colored and styled clothes stretched as far as I could see.  Thousands of items, each one unique, and all begging for a new closet.  I started flipping through the rack timidly, assuming it would be worn-out discount department store rejects.  After 5 minutes my arms were overflowing with finds and I went in search of a shopping cart.   Cashmere sweaters, preshrunk designer jeans, adorable summer skirts, vintage little black dresses, chic leather jackets, unique accessories–I had died and gone to budget fashionista heaven.

A few of the tips I have learned through trial and error:

  • Ignore sizes.  They vary brand to brand anyway.  Almost everything is pre-washed and preshrunk.  If it looks like it might fit, try it on.
  • Know the merchandise.  A used Walmart t-shirt for $2–not such a deal.   A NWT Banana Republic cashmere sweater set for $3–a steal.   Learn how to spot quality fabrics and brands from a distance.
  • Dress for success.  Some stores don’t have fitting rooms.  Some fitting rooms have a half-hour wait.  If you come prepared in a skinny tank and leggings you can find a mirror and explore your inner exhibitionist.
  • Buy off-season.  If you go looking for warm jackets during a January cold snap you will be sorely out of luck.  Look in July and you may have dozens to choose from.
  • Ask if the store runs sales.  Many stores discount a particular colored tag each day.   My secret store is 50% off all clothes each Wednesday.  It’s an absolute madhouse–but utterly worth it to me.
  • Carefully check out the goods.  They are “recycled.”  Some stores inspect items thoroughly but others may put out items stained, ripped, or torn.  If it needs to be repaired, it had better be worth the work.
  • Check back often.  You never know when some style maven may clean out her closet because she’s bored or changed sizes.
  • Don’t get discouraged.  Some days I find 25 steals I simply cannot live without.  Some days I find crap.  You never know.


The only time I venture into a mall now is when I get my coupon for free Victoria’s Secret panties in the mail.  I have nearly stopped making my rounds at Ross and T.J. Maxx because I know if I am patient, persistent, and sometimes just plain lucky I can find whatever I am looking for (and usually more) for practically pennies.

Every Wednesday I am overwhelmed with the urge to be at my secret store.  I shudder imagining the steals  someone else is swiping if I am not there.  I feel the store calling me, tempting me, like a discount liquor and package store calls every alcoholic for miles.  My family now has so many clothes I often show up at the thrift store with a bag of donations.  I’m all for recycling.

Amongst my fellow thrifty SAHMs I will gladly brag about how cheap I find my clothes.  (Them: Love your shirt.   Me: Thanks!  {whispered} Salvation Army.  $1.50!)  I try to convert my friends after each compliment I receive but only if they don’t wear my size.  I don’t want the extra competition.

When complemented by other less enlightened folk I simply give a knowing smile and a modest “thanks.”

It’s vintage. It’s recycled. It’s unique.  It’s me.

Now if I only had someplace to WEAR all my little black dresses…

The Beautiful People…






 Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?

I just returned from a 40th birthday party overflowing with the Beautiful People and I’m feeling a little old, a bit saggy, and Marilyn Manson is echoing through my head…

You know who I’m talking about, right? The Beautiful People? All the girls had salon blown-out hair, chemically golden tans, blindingly white teeth, full makeup (in the pool), fat-phobic bodies (except for their enhanced curves) and microscopic bikinis. The boys were buff, golden, flashing the cash and…well, boys don’t really need much else, do they?

The party was a plastic surgeon’s dream come true. There was so much silicone and saline now floating around the pool I suspected the surgeon was lurking about handing out cards and offering on-the-spot consultations to those admiring his work. I wouldn’t be surprised if the few guests who had crossed the 30’s threshold already had several discrete visits for Botox as well.

The average age, I’m guessing, was about 25.  Keep in mind this was a 40th birthday party. But a McMansion on the lake, a live reggae band, free booze, fast boats, and the promise of fellow Beautiful People to ogle and hit on at seemed to draw them out.

Where did these people come from? None of these people live in my neighborhood. I do not see them at my grocery store or park. I do not know where they hide during the day. The gym perhaps? Swanky office jobs? Upscale shopping venues? Even when I was young, single, and cute I still did not know these people. I don’t know where they congregate at night–I am not hip or beautiful enough I suppose to be included.

And the bikinis… I don’t consider myself modest. I am proud to say that even in my (eek!) mid-thirties and having born a child I will still wear a bikini in public and feel relatively comfortable with myself. But the suits these girls were wearing were about 1/2 the size of my swimsuit. Dental floss, a few beads, and blind faith were all that held most of their bikinis together. And what’s with these new bottoms that look like you have a wedgie before you even put them on? I just looked them up on Victoria’s Secret and found that they are called “cheekies” because they don’t even leave the crack up to anyone’s imagination. How comfortable can they be? I also discovered that’s where most of the girls bought their swimsuits. And heels! I somehow forgot that I am supposed to be wearing 4 inch heels while trouncing around in my bikini…

The boys seemed rather pleased with the views though, to say the least. The few of us who were actually closer to the Birthday Boy’s ripe old age clustered together in a corner of the pool. The old boys just stared in amazement while we ancient girls made catty comments.  There were only a handful of us who were actually married and I was one of only three wives in attendance. The married boys (sans wives) tried to talk around me as they commented and rated the girls, known only by their bikini color. As in Oh Man, check out Pink. Yeah, I bet she’ll be on the Birthday Boy’s boat. Or Damn, where did green go? She is one of my favorites.

{Sigh}

As I was told by them, they are married, not dead. So apparently, we wives are death. Way to make us feel good boys.

I couldn’t even focus on the pretty boys in attendance. Lots of muscle, funky trendy sunglasses (who said huge white plastic frames look good?) and board shorts. By the size of their biceps and darkness of their tans I would assume they don’t spend much time reading or keeping up with current events. I don’t think I could have held a cohesive conversation with any of them. Nothing like a boy who is dumber than a pile of bricks–which is why I ‘ll never understand all the girls who love Jason on True Blood, but that’s another story…

I felt as if I had been transported to Cancun during spring break. I was waiting for someone to break out the beer bong and start the wet t-shirt contest. Maybe the Girls Gone Wild bus paid a visit after we left and the party really got going.

Perhaps these are just the ramblings of a cranky SAHM who is offended by and out of touch with this world of wannabe-nouveau-rich-glitterati.

Or maybe I just like my friends to be like my favorite books: whether their covers are brilliantly enticing or homely and plain, what lies beneath must have beauty and substance to be of value.

Beauty IS in the eye of the beholder.