Much of my early college days were a blur. I was 17, and 300 miles away from home in the big city of Toronto, surrounded by other equally young and stupid people. And my college did it’s part to encourage the corruption of its youth. Not only did it host regular pub event on campus, but it often shipped busloads full of novice alcoholics to Buffalo and Niagara Falls, New York. The bars were bigger. The drinking age would remain a mere 19 until December of that year. And the pubs had sober-sounding monikers like The Library. Yes, we could honestly tell our concerned parents that we were spending our Friday nights at the library. How convenient. Club Exit in Niagara Falls was a little harder to explain. I don’t remember much about either of these places, but I know they served booze.
Um. They had menus? And tables? I thought the whole place was just a big, black void. At least, that’s how I remember it.
And, yes. The legal drinking age WAS 19. And I WAS 17. But we won’t discuss how I got around that one. Because, of course, it was all perfectly legal.
This is all that remains of Club Exit. A logo. And a drinking glass that I have never parted with.
In between my vodka & Tang induced blackouts, I do recall one rather bizarre detail. People dancing on the floor. Literally ON THE FLOOR. Lying on it. Writhing to the music.
Has anyone checked to see if they are okay? Maybe they are having synchronized seizures.
The song was either “How Soon is Now” by the Smiths or “Every Day is Halloween” by Ministry. I loved both, so I grabbed the nearest cute guy (vodka and Tang makes a person brave) and dragged him up on the dance floor. I’m showcasing my best 80s moves and I notice that my tall-haired partner is missing. I scan the dance floor. WTF? Did he vanish in to thin air? Hell no, that would have been the preferred option. Rather, he is prone on the floor–apparently having the time of his life. I don’t even think he noticed when I walked off. I should have stepped on him.
Ah. I loved the 80s.
Rather than embark on the uncovering of three new weird and goofy facts, I thought that today I’d simply re-visit some of the weirdest stuff from the ’80s, the best decade yet.
Slouch socks. How did we fight the urge to keep pulling these damn droopy things up?
Parachute pants were basically tents with legs and flattered NO ONE…including the chick donning them here.
Shoulder pads: the women of TV’s “Dallas” sported linebacker shoulder-padding that made their heads look like push pins.
The Adidas bag. No high school nerd was complete without it.
Absolutely everything came in dusty rose–clothes, walls, furniture. Ugh. Didn’t the K-Car even come in a shade of this 1980s colour?
The Chevette. Yes, it was butt ugly, but everyone had one or knew someone who had one.
Atari-This exciting piece of technology caused ooo’s and aaah’s everywhere it went. Now it just makes us laugh.
Stirrup stretch pants were all the rage. I was short so the foot part always hung loosely and bunched up in my shoes.
Who could forget The Man With Two Brains? Believe me, I’ve tried. Oh pointy bird, oh pointy pointy. Anoint my head. Anointy-nointy.
Knots Landing‘s Lisa Hartman had great (big) hair. I wore mine exactly like it in grade 12 and thought it was the coolest thing ever.
High school me and my rubber glove chicken. Yup, I was a dork.
Photo Credits: The Library (urbanspoon.com), Club Exit (trademarkia.com), slouch socks (elliesox.com), parachute pants (digital changeling.com), Adidas & Dusty rose (etsy.com), chevette (charest.net), atari (thenestway.com), stirrups (sodahead.com), Man with 2 Brains (www.guardian.co.uk), Knots Landing (bonkbusterdiaries.com).
I have always had big boobs. Part of me is thankful for my “girls”, but having massive mammaries has it’s problems. Particularly if they start to blossom before Junior High. An eleven-year-old in the 1970s had no desire to wear a bra–especially the stretchy, beige, utilitarian number my mother picked out for me. I think it was made from leftover girdle material. Horrible thing. It was ugly even by seventies standards.
It felt like the whole world could see my ugly bra.
Generous sweater puppets proved to be an asset in High School. Unless you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have always been a little person. Only five feet tall. And in grade ten, I had barely hit the hundred pound mark. And most of it was boob. My best friend, however, had ten inches on me and several pounds.
This is not what I mean by “sweater puppets.”
My wardrobe selection on that fateful day is important to note. I donned my brand new, cashmere-like (my bank account was not in proportion to the size of my boobs), sweater–the kind with a steep V in the back and front that balanced precariously on the shoulders. Also the kind that you can’t wear a bra with because the straps would show. And let’s be totally honest, there has never been a strapless bra that screamed out “Wear me. I’m comfortable.” My girls went commando.
Imagine this sweater is black and fuzzy. Damn sweater.
Now, my tall, full-figured friend also chose this day to debut a new article of clothing. High heels. Hitherto, she had never graced anything higher than the sole of her Adidas. And she wasn’t a quick learner.
When choosing friends, height is an important and often overlooked consideration.
The bell rang, motioning the ant-like throng of pastel and argyle-wearing (it was the early 80s) teenagers to head to the next class. Me in my sexy sweater. My friend in her sexy heels. Then it happened. My 5’10” friend lost her balance and in her struggle to remain vertical, she reached for the nearest object–me. In a split second, my new sweater lost its precarious grasp of my shoulders and, thanks to the gaping back and neckline, fell to my midriff. The girls got their first glimpse of the general public. And vice versa.
Needless to say, it took quite a while to live that one down. But, thankfully, the next year someone lost their cheerleading underwear (yes, there is such a thing) in the middle of the football field. My boobs were relegated a distant memory as her snatch catapulted to stardom. Pantiless trumps braless every time.
When I stand too long, my nipple hurts.
1) Okay. Chandler Bing had his nubbin. Zac Efron, Mark Wahlberg, and Lilly Allen have third nipples too. This condition known as supernumerary breast tissue usually occurs along the “milk lines” of the body. You know–in the boob-al region.
It has been recently discovered, however, that a 22-year-old Brazilian woman actually possesses a third nipple of her foot. A condition that I call Nipple Foot. Apparently, this misplaced nipple has been there since birth and doesn’t cause the woman any pain at all.
Talk about a conversation starter. “Wanna see my nipple? Just a sec. I’ve got to take off my socks.”
2) Any avid Seinfeld fan will remember Frank & Kramer’s business venture into male undergarments with the “Bro” or “Manziere.” It turns out, they may have been on to something.
Meet Guo Qingpo, a 53-year-old Chinese man who has been cursed with giant moobs (a.k.a. man boobs). After consulting with over 20 specialists, he was diagnosed with lipodystrophy syndrome, a condition that leads to uneven distribution of fatty deposits. While most men would welcome the depositing of said fat in their zipper region, few would celebrate the onset of breasts. No matter how much they initially enjoy playing with them.
Thankfully, Guo has successfully had his hooters removed and has been reunited with his pecs once again.
3) I totally blame Flashdance for my brief dalliance into exhibitionism. Damn those oddly shaped sweatshirts and the inevitable consequences to the fashion world. It does, however, securely place my most embarrassing teenage moment (the adult ones have been much worse) in the year 1983.
While I was bearing my breasts, the most popular song was Every Little Thing She Does Is Magicby the Police, the highest rated TV show was Dallas starring the recently deceased Larry Hagman, and the number one movie was one of my all-time favourites, The Christmas Story–a movie that, befittingly, showcased another body part. The leg. In the form of a lamp. And en masse, people were naming their children Jennifer or Michael.
I loved the 80s.
Here’s a boob-bearing clip from Montreal’s Just For Laughs Gags.
Photo credits: Huge bra in street (http://blogs.herald.com/dave_barrys_blog), sweater puppets (www.amberdusick.com), dangerous sweater (www.thisnext.com), Mutt and Jeff (scoop.diamondgalleries.com), made you look (CartoonStock.com) Nipple Foot (www.dailymail.co.uk) moobs (www.asylum.com).
Last night, I made the mistake of saying aloud, “I like wind.”
My husband, who never passes up a chance to be funny, quickly responded “Is that why you fart so much?”
I’m a bit of an attention hog, myself, so I deftly replied, “Yes. And I’m really upset that I can’t put my ass in front of my face.”
This is the sort of banter that takes place in my house all the time. But that’s not where I was going with this post. The fact is that I LOVE wind. The type created by Mother Nature, not Libby’s brown beans.
I so wish I could pretend to be a dog and stick my head out the car window, but let’s face it–I’d probably get my head lopped off by a mailbox or something. Instead, I play it safe by sleeping in front of a fan. Yes, we have central air, so it’s not because I’m hot. In fact, sometimes I’m downright cold. But the wind feels damn good. Even if it is frigid.
And in the car, I never use the a/c–which is a major accomplishment. It gets pretty darn hot and sticky here in the summer. (Yup, I’m Canadian. And, yes, we do get heat. Eh?) My husband, however, loves air conditioning. You might think this causes a dilemma. Not at all. Our car is the Switzerland of automobiles. His half of the vehicle is like a chilly, sealed-off, tomb with all the artificial air-pushing vents pointed in his direction. My side has the window wide open and my arm flapping in the fresh, “real air” breeze.
The only problem is that insects travelling at 85 kms an hour hurt. My arm has seen–or rather “felt”–it all. Errant beetles, fuzzy bees, and God knows what else has been smucked against my tender flesh. I know. You’re saying, “How do you think the poor bug felt?” I’m not without a soul. I also feel sorry for the bugs. But I cannot stop.
On an unrelated topic, I heard this joke on Ellenthe other day. What did the zero say to the eight? I like your belt.
1) What do you get when you cross a beetle and a rhinoceros? Apparently, the ugliest bug ever. Seriously, look at that thing. It’s name is the “rhinoceros beetle” and I must say that both I and my arm were relieved to learn that it resides in the Far East. And I don’t mean East as in Newfoundland–I mean China and Japan. My heart does go out to my Japanese and Chinese arm-flailing counterparts though. Having one of these careen into your arm would probably leave you…well…armless.
If you’re a regular follower of my blog–and if you aren’t, what is wrong with you?–you will know what a fascinating place Japan is. Well, the home of the girlfriend pillow, tomato chocolate, the suction cap helmet, and so much more has struck again.
While we wimpy North Americans play with our pet Labradoodles and listen to the Snuggle Bear sell us laundry products, the Japanese are seemingly immune to such soft and cuddly façades. They appear to prefer sharp and crunchy, particularly when it comes in the form of the rhinoceros beetle. Pet stores sell them for $5 to $10. In some places in Japan, you can even get one in a vending machine. Hopefully, not the same one that dispenses Coke and Doritos.
They are also popular cartoon characters. This makes me wonder what we are missing out on. Perhaps, we should also embrace the insect world. Monty the Mosquito? David Dung Beetle? Maybe these should be the subjects of the next Pixar flick.
2) One Beetle that I am a HUGE fan of is the Volkswagen variety. You’ve got to love a vehicle that gives you permission to punch people.
The clever folk at the Dallas Arboretum have discovered a way to create soft fuzzy, colourful Bugs. Meet the VW topiary Westfalia and Beetle pair. These former street vehicles have had their proverbial guts removed and some sort of plant-friendly caging or meshing attached and “voila”–look at how pretty they now are!
This would make Herbie proud.
3) Japan is not the only place where I find strange things. The UK has its fair share.
Meet “Captain Beany”–yup, that is what he “officially” goes by–the Curator of the Baked Bean Museum of Excellence. Mister Beany–I refuse to recognize his self-appointed ranking–has amassed over 200 artefacts in his Port Talbot, Wales museum. Um, he refers to it as a “virtual haricot heaven.”
So, there you have it. If you consider yourself to be a bean fiend, this just may be the place for you. But I don’t see any Libby’s.
In honour of all you busy-bowelled bean eaters, here is a clip of the famous Blazing Saddlesbean scene:
And, course, I couldn’t have a blog that mentioned “beans” without at least one clip from Mr. Bean.