Thursday, January 25, 2007
Glitter on the Snow - Welcome Home from Hollywood!
One of my most fav-o-rite and most glittering girlfriends just flew back into our chilly city from her short sojurn in Sunny L.A. Listening to her star-filled antics it's hard to believe that California and Minnesota share the same Continent, much less the same country. At lunch my girlfriend raved about the Golden Globe Parties while I raved about how I can party all night with just 2 Michelob Golds (lite of course). Good thing she has a big heart for itinerant dumb southerners otherwise she might begin think that I'm a tad uncouth.
Now quite honestly I am not a big fan of Los Angeles, it is too much sensory overload for a true redneck like me. All those beautiful people with perfect white teeth and long muscular tanned and sculpted limbs in their beautiful one of a kind designer clothes really intimidate me. Of course this stems back to my southern upbringing and a simple comparison made to me in July 1976 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
1976 was a formative sixth grade year for me. I was graduated from my public inner-city elementary school and was moving on up to some fancy private school that my daddy thought would better his political clout. If this wasn't enough of a tragedy looming big on my adolescent horizon, I also had the immense responsibility of being the Head Bunson Burner Bluejay Craft Leader in my chapter of the Camp Possum Firestarter Girls. This meant that I needed a big splash to emblazon my mark for future sixth grade leaders who would follow.
I had the A+ plan. The bicentennial committee in Baton Rouge wanted to deck the town in red white and blue - no stone was to be left Un-Americanized, so I volunteered my Bunson Burner Bluejay Troop to create little fire plug patriots around town. Our plugs would represent George Washington, Ben Franklin and of course our most famous sewing female in Revolutionary history, Betsy Ross.
My troop spent three weekends painting hydrants all over town. Our Bicentennial Birthday Bonanza culminated with the adorning of the Betsy hydrant on a busy college thoroughfare where we receive many salutes of support for our patriotic painting. A van load of cute college frat boys even stopped to admire our work at which point they pointed out that I was identical to the Fireplug Flag Maker sans white powdered wiglet. Well, Lard oh lardy be, they was right! And all this time I thought that hanging upside down for hours on the monkey bars would stretch out my bones.
Truth being that thanks to my fine genetic profile I do have the exact figure of a fire hydrant. Now try to imagine being a squat little plug next to all of the glittering flag poles of Hollywood. Even when you try to balance a hydrant on 4 inch Stuart Weitzman stiletto heels (which by the way is a disaster worse than the time Uncle Earl Dean got his Achilles punctured by a banty cock in the chicken coop) it still doesn't measure up to the the stature of Southern California's beautiful glittering people.
First off there is the whole fashion predicament - like any good southern I think that High Fashion means having a big curlicued monogram placed prominently on my breast. I just get confused by all of those fancy European names that design satin (which shows every little dimple and roll that one may have acquired thanks to late night counseling sessions with an entire roll of slice and bake chocolate chip cookie dough.) and micro pieces of fabric that strategically cover the unmentionables of these tall slender humans.
Then there is the har, or as they call it in L.A. the hair. All that stringy straight as a board in the face stuff just won't do for a short squat gal - I learned early on that my best fashion accessories were multiple bottles of Aquanet and a teasing comb. I added a record of four inches to my height during the big har heydays of the 80s. Now thanks to the dry Minnesota air I can still get at least an inch and a half. That plus help from the winter's ever-present static electricity adds to my illusion of height.
Finally the shoes. My beautiful tall friend regaled me with a tale that only could happen in Hollywood where a $2500.00 pair of Roberto Cavalli sandals were retrieved from a designer garbage can to wear to the In Style Magazine Golden Globe Party. Holy cow, to have my bunion cut off cost less than those fancy smancy sandals and my surgery is guaranteed to last at least 40 years. Where I come from we like pretty sandals but we aren't the type of people to acquire our shoes from some else's garbage can. Our mamas all warned us about getting the flesh-eating foot fungus from sharing shoes with other folks. However, I am sure in Hollywood everyone has their own live-in podiatrist that performs a daily sterilization of all their dazzling footwear and accouterments.
At our lunch my girlfriend's glamorous glow made her stand out among us winter weary souls. The one small coveted beam of sunlight that is allotted to Duluth on dark winter days, gravitated to encircle only her within its radiant warm fingertip much as a moth is drawn to a flame. Because of this, I could not help but note the difference in our ensembles - mine the requisite wool sweater and turtleneck finished off with baggy acid wash jeans and rubber soled boots. While my tall thin friend glittered in her high heeled boots , sleek designer sweater and slim-cut 7 jeans. She had graced our lunch appearing as Snöfrid the beautiful Swedish Snow Queen glittering brightly in the endless sea of white snowscapes and big gray sky.
I am blessed to have such worldly friends that have the patience with my lack of fashion sense and limited knowledge of all things cutting edge. She just smiled her beautiful Hollywood smile at me when I asked her if the the really big stars got their own bottles of squirt cheese at the after awards parties. Now that there is an honor saved for the really big wheels where I come from - cause then it is guaranteed that no one else sucked cheese straight from the squirter except them. My friend has inspired me to to get more glamorized - this year I'll have an Oscar party at my house with personal cans of squirt cheese for everyone plus their own roll of Ritz crackers, hell we may even get some fancy screw top strawberry wine!
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
Now quite honestly I am not a big fan of Los Angeles, it is too much sensory overload for a true redneck like me. All those beautiful people with perfect white teeth and long muscular tanned and sculpted limbs in their beautiful one of a kind designer clothes really intimidate me. Of course this stems back to my southern upbringing and a simple comparison made to me in July 1976 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
1976 was a formative sixth grade year for me. I was graduated from my public inner-city elementary school and was moving on up to some fancy private school that my daddy thought would better his political clout. If this wasn't enough of a tragedy looming big on my adolescent horizon, I also had the immense responsibility of being the Head Bunson Burner Bluejay Craft Leader in my chapter of the Camp Possum Firestarter Girls. This meant that I needed a big splash to emblazon my mark for future sixth grade leaders who would follow.
I had the A+ plan. The bicentennial committee in Baton Rouge wanted to deck the town in red white and blue - no stone was to be left Un-Americanized, so I volunteered my Bunson Burner Bluejay Troop to create little fire plug patriots around town. Our plugs would represent George Washington, Ben Franklin and of course our most famous sewing female in Revolutionary history, Betsy Ross.
My troop spent three weekends painting hydrants all over town. Our Bicentennial Birthday Bonanza culminated with the adorning of the Betsy hydrant on a busy college thoroughfare where we receive many salutes of support for our patriotic painting. A van load of cute college frat boys even stopped to admire our work at which point they pointed out that I was identical to the Fireplug Flag Maker sans white powdered wiglet. Well, Lard oh lardy be, they was right! And all this time I thought that hanging upside down for hours on the monkey bars would stretch out my bones.
Truth being that thanks to my fine genetic profile I do have the exact figure of a fire hydrant. Now try to imagine being a squat little plug next to all of the glittering flag poles of Hollywood. Even when you try to balance a hydrant on 4 inch Stuart Weitzman stiletto heels (which by the way is a disaster worse than the time Uncle Earl Dean got his Achilles punctured by a banty cock in the chicken coop) it still doesn't measure up to the the stature of Southern California's beautiful glittering people.
First off there is the whole fashion predicament - like any good southern I think that High Fashion means having a big curlicued monogram placed prominently on my breast. I just get confused by all of those fancy European names that design satin (which shows every little dimple and roll that one may have acquired thanks to late night counseling sessions with an entire roll of slice and bake chocolate chip cookie dough.) and micro pieces of fabric that strategically cover the unmentionables of these tall slender humans.
Then there is the har, or as they call it in L.A. the hair. All that stringy straight as a board in the face stuff just won't do for a short squat gal - I learned early on that my best fashion accessories were multiple bottles of Aquanet and a teasing comb. I added a record of four inches to my height during the big har heydays of the 80s. Now thanks to the dry Minnesota air I can still get at least an inch and a half. That plus help from the winter's ever-present static electricity adds to my illusion of height.
Finally the shoes. My beautiful tall friend regaled me with a tale that only could happen in Hollywood where a $2500.00 pair of Roberto Cavalli sandals were retrieved from a designer garbage can to wear to the In Style Magazine Golden Globe Party. Holy cow, to have my bunion cut off cost less than those fancy smancy sandals and my surgery is guaranteed to last at least 40 years. Where I come from we like pretty sandals but we aren't the type of people to acquire our shoes from some else's garbage can. Our mamas all warned us about getting the flesh-eating foot fungus from sharing shoes with other folks. However, I am sure in Hollywood everyone has their own live-in podiatrist that performs a daily sterilization of all their dazzling footwear and accouterments.
At our lunch my girlfriend's glamorous glow made her stand out among us winter weary souls. The one small coveted beam of sunlight that is allotted to Duluth on dark winter days, gravitated to encircle only her within its radiant warm fingertip much as a moth is drawn to a flame. Because of this, I could not help but note the difference in our ensembles - mine the requisite wool sweater and turtleneck finished off with baggy acid wash jeans and rubber soled boots. While my tall thin friend glittered in her high heeled boots , sleek designer sweater and slim-cut 7 jeans. She had graced our lunch appearing as Snöfrid the beautiful Swedish Snow Queen glittering brightly in the endless sea of white snowscapes and big gray sky.
I am blessed to have such worldly friends that have the patience with my lack of fashion sense and limited knowledge of all things cutting edge. She just smiled her beautiful Hollywood smile at me when I asked her if the the really big stars got their own bottles of squirt cheese at the after awards parties. Now that there is an honor saved for the really big wheels where I come from - cause then it is guaranteed that no one else sucked cheese straight from the squirter except them. My friend has inspired me to to get more glamorized - this year I'll have an Oscar party at my house with personal cans of squirt cheese for everyone plus their own roll of Ritz crackers, hell we may even get some fancy screw top strawberry wine!
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
No comments:
Post a Comment