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December 26, 2005

Too sexy for these photos.

It may come as no surprise that with the holidays and so on, I was just a teeny little bit depressed. And to torture myself I spent last night, Christmas, looking at old pictures and listening to Johhny Hartman records and drinking and drowning in nostalgia ... because this is what we do when we want to GO INSANE. And so there I was, last night, half-a-bottle of BET YOU CANNOT GUESS WHAT, sitting on the floor of the guest room with picture albums and old photos spread out all around me.

I was going down. Waaaay down.

But my plans went awry when I stumbled on some real gems from my childhood. Before long I was kind of laughing. And also sort of in pain. My eyes were hurting. But also I was feeling very good about myself all the sudden. Feeling STRONG. And also BRAVE.

Because ... I OVERCAME THE 1980S, people.

I will tell ya'll a little secret. I have NO FASION SENSE. Oh sure, I have personal style, and sometimes I even have eclectic flair, but I am not currently nor do I ever anticipate being FASHIONABLE.

This is not my fault.

I blame it entirely on the 80s.

My tastes sprung fully-formed from the pages of Sassy magazine, and I thought Molly Ringwald was THE COOLEST GIRL EVER TO WALK THE PLANET. I was obsessed with Madonna -- not the oh-so-chic Papa Don't Preach years, but the tacky Borderline years. I developed my sense of style during shoulder pads, Frankie Says Relax T-shirts, neon belts, socks over jeans, Camp Beverly Hills shirts and Guess jeans with super skinny zippered ankles.

My first allowance money went toward a neon green belt at Rave and a matching pair of neon green socks. My first pair of Nikes were BRIGHT PURPLE. I was a sight to behold. And in my mind, I was so hot. I was practically Six from Blossom. (If you are too young to remember Blossom I want you to just go sit in your corner and be all perky and shit. Your time will come, little one. YOUR TIME WILL COME.)

Now, I lived way out on the bayou and I went to a country school with a bunch of other country kids, and back then you couldn't get cable TV that far out in the boonies. But Suzanne Venable's daddy had a satellite dish the size of the SETI research facility, and we would pile over to her house every day after school and turn on the MTV and carefully memorize what everyone wore. We'd talk about that girl in the John Waite video, "Change" (from the movie "Vision Quest") and wonder why on earth she would leave him? And we thought whoever the girl was that broke George Michael's heart in Careless Whisper was surely an ungrateful wench. We studied the clothes, the hair, the makeup and we'd try to replicate it like only 13-year-old girls out on the bayou can do. We were AMAZING in our creativity.

Madonna said the word "virgin" out loud and suddenly I was begging to get dark roots and a bad perm. All of us would tape record Friday Night Videos (on broadcast TV) and talk about which Duranny was the hottest. (Nick or John? Andy or Simon?) Things got heated at times. I once refused to let my friend Lori borow my glitter blue eyeshadow stick until she admitted Nick was hotter than Andy. I mean, COME ON PEOPLE.

I have learned from my fashion misfortunes and these days I wear all black, allegedly because I am an artist and all eccentric and shit. Truth is, black always matches, it's better at hiding spills, and I am too tired in the mornings to color coordinate.

Not that I cannot color coordinate! I can color coordinate! I can match!

I give you PROOF OF MY MAD COORDINATING SKILLZ:

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I dare you to top me in my 80s insanity. Because truly we must have all been buckwild crazy to have spent our hard-earned babysitting money on these outfits. Once I got to high school it just intensified. I had a glam job at the Burger King and spent all my money on clothes. I remember how proud I was of this outfit in particular:

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Because t-shirts NEED shoulder pads. They do.

In junior high and through 9th grade I was in a crazy country girl punk rock phase, then all at once punk rock was out and student council was in. As was apparently blue eye shadow and... well, everything blue:

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No matter how hard I tried, my hair never reached the great heights of my friends' hair. I was cursed with naturally stick-straight hair and it took me hours, HOURS people, of hot rolling and curling-ironing and about thirty-seven hair products to get something this big:

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Try as I might, though, I would never eclipse the hair of one Candace Daniels, who grew six inches taller just with hair and hot rollers:


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This kind of makes me look forward to New Year's Eve. Who knows what kind of trouble I can get into with a glass or three of champagne and perhaps we'll have even more fun, when I bring you: MY HAIR, THE 1980S AND BEYOND. Because if ya'll think my fashion is red-hot ... WAIT TIL YOU SEE THE DAMN HAIR.

Posted by laurie at December 26, 2005 12:14 PM