Guilty Pleasures

My favorite thing in the world is beautiful sheets. (Okay, make that 2nd favorite but I'm not getting into that now.)

There is nothing like brand new sheets that have that wonderful "been washed two hundred times" feel when you touch them! The softness, the sheen, the comfort, the sensual pleasure, I could go on and on about my love for these luxury cotton sheets.

I have spent a lot of money on sheets over the years. I cannot stand to sleep in a bed on anything except 100% white cotton sheets with a very high thread count. In fact, I've been known to pack sheets and a pillow case when I travel if I'm unsure of the hotel.

I have a fetish for luxury sheets, and today I can afford them. But not being able to afford luxury sheets in the past didn't stop me from buying them. From the time I was about 25, I have pretty much refused to sleep on anything else.

When I was a child, I had no idea that there were regular sheets and luxurious sheets that actually whispered against your skin and made wearing pajamas feel like a mortal sin. I grew up sleeping on regular sheets and lived with them for many years before discovering there was a world of difference between the two.

I was getting to the end of my first full year as a recently divorced woman, and I got a surprise magical gift of a credit card from Macy's Department Store. It came in the mail about a month before Christmas and I had never been so thrilled in my life to open an envelope!

I had experienced a year of financial hardship far beyond what I had expected, and here came this wonderful plastic card that I could only view as a gift from the gods!

I decided to go purchase a few necessities and Christmas gifts for my children, and some "little thing" for myself. I crossed into Macy's with a feeling of reverence! I quickly found shoes, socks, clothing and toys for my kids and then wandered through the shoe department but tuned out the siren call of gorgeous new shoes for me because I realized I was on a quest for something different.

I found the linens department and began to run my hands over the finest sheets I had ever felt in my life. These were sheets for royalty. No tacky satin sheets for me to slide off the bed; no poly-mix sheets for me to get too hot on. I wanted fine white cotton sheets.

I purchased four sets of sheets. They were the most luxurious things I had ever owned, (or maybe the word is "charged" not "owned" since until you pay for them, I gather the repo man could come and take them back).

Once home, I put a set on my bed and wallowed for a while. My children joined me in joyous wallowing which we did while listening to the Rolling Stones "Sticky Fingers" album playing over and over on the turntable. It was a happy afternoon.

Far less joyful was the the arrival of the credit card bill at the end of the month which showed that I had maxed out my Macy's card in that one day. A painful lesson was learned when I had difficulty paying that bill.

But a more lasting lesson was also learned. Life is short. Buy great sheets!

Inception, A Review of the Movie

Review: I didn't get it.

I have friends who have told me this is the best thing they have seen in a long time. The critics seem to like it or even love it in some cases. I sat for what seemed like 9 hours suffering from acute boredom, stuck butt-itis, restless leg syndrome, and the beginnings of a headache.

I have seen films I disliked more than this one, but not many of them because usually I turn off the straight to DVD stuff (like any movie starring Jessica Simpson). In this case, I had some expectations. Why do I do that?

The movie made no sense whatsoever to me. This guy, Leonardo DiCaprio, is going to insert some influential things (concepts/ideas) into dreams of unsuspecting other people. Okay. Then a bunch of people shoot and kill each other to wake up them from dreams. Then a bunch of people shoot and kill each other for some other reason but it really kills them forever.

Then gravity is defied. Then buildings collapse and storms happen and other stuff. All the things that happen are very loud. Everyone in the movie hooks up to some kind of a machine that either gives them drugs or electrical charges to make them dream. Then you have dreams within a dream. And then dreams within a dream within a dream. (Yeah, levels.)

Despite a good cast, the phrase "who's on first" kept coming to mind. And the ending does not tie any of it up for me. So for those of you who love it, now you know the truth that I am shallow and dumb and didn't understand the theme of the film at all. I really don't care.

After 9 hours, it ends. I'm not really sure how long the movie lasted, but I think it was very very long. And very very stupid.

End of Review.

The Girl On The Red Velvet Swing

On June 19, 1964, something of great note took place in San Francisco. In a North Beach nightclub called the "Condor" a young cocktail waitress and dancer, Carol Doda, donned a monokini (topless swimsuit) designed by Rudi Gernreich and danced atop a piano. Within weeks, every nightclub in San Francisco was featuring topless entertainment. The topless craze was officially born and soon swept across the nation.

Carol began with modest assets, (34 inch breasts) but soon had silicone injections to enhance her breasts to a breathtaking 44 inches. People flocked to San Francisco from around the country and around the world to see this amazing new form of entertainment.

I was 18 in the summer of 64 and doing clerical work at an insurance company. I shared an apartment with two other young women including a redhead coworker named Mardi. Far from being a wild environment, our apartment was fairly like a convent during the week since everyone worked.

Mardi actually worked two jobs, a day job at the insurance company and a night job three nights a week at a North Beach club. She donned a long red wig for her job, and swung back and forth above the customers on a red velvet swing. Oh, and did I mention Mardi did this topless?

In any case, this was a time when any young woman who was willing to show her bosoms could make pretty good money for doing so. Since I wasn't old enough to go into the club, I didn't get to see Mardi perform. I've regretted that.


On weekends, I sometimes went home to do laundry at Mom's. Or if I stayed at the apartment, we would find some party or event to attend. Mardi and I went to a party one night and she came up to me telling me that she had a couple of Navy pilots for us. We left the party with these guys and went back to the apartment.

Mardi and her guy went into the bedroom and closed the door. I sat with Jim, the other pilot, and made small talk for about an hour. I was really not sure what was going on in that bedroom because I knew Mardi was wearing a wig. And lord knows, you wouldn't take off a wig in front of a beau.

When Mardi walked out wearing a kimono with flat squished little hair, I got a better sense of what had been going on. (I'm quick like that.) Jim and I lay back on the couch and slept. I was wearing a "Merry Widow" under my cocktail dress and it pinched something fierce.

Jim was actually a very nice guy. He was stationed in Texas, but could catch a flight out to visit me pretty often. We went to dinner or a movie but the relationship didn't last that long. Jim was 28 and I was shocked when he wanted to take me to the Holiday Inn Motel at Fisherman's Wharf. I mean, God! That was not on my agenda at all! (Hotels and Motels were for grown ups for God's sake!) Now, if he had been smart enough just to do it in the car, that would have been fine.

Outfits

Isn't it funny that when someone says "outfit" it's probably a woman. I don't think I've heard many men saying "I need a new outfit for the meeting", or the party, or the wedding. We women know exactly what we mean when we call something an outfit.

Women compliment each other on their "cute outfits". Men may compliment each other on "great suit" or "nice tie", but never "Bill, that's a great outfit."

I'm not sure women call male clothing "outfits" either. I don't remember ever telling my husband, "Honey, go put on a different outfit" but I do tell him "That shirt has pizza sauce on it. Go change."

I'm including two photos today. One is of me in an outfit. The other is of a swimsuit model wearing a hat that would complete my outfit.

The Ghost of Tijuana Past

In the late 1980's before Alex and I were married, he was stationed in San Diego at NAS Miramar. I used to fly down to see him on weekends once in a while.

One weekend, we decided to go over into Tijuana since I had never been. We drove to the border, parked and walked across. It was a beautiful sunny day as I recall in late March. There were tons of taxi's ready to take us to the downtown area, so we got in one and arrived at Avenida Revolución in the late morning.

The street was packed, mostly with tourists, but there were also many vendors, panhandlers, and people offering you "two for one" cards for drinks in the local clubs and restaurants. Since it was almost noon, (perfect time), we decided to have our "two for one" margaritas to get us in the mood for the day, and then have lunch.

There were so many bright colors in Tijuana it made me wonder if the sunlight was somehow diffused differently there. So much noise and music! I felt a little dizzy from the surroundings, or maybe from the margaritas before noon. We wandered and gazed and shopped and debated if we wanted our photo taken on a burro. It was a fun day. I bought about 20 pairs of silver earrings from tiny Indian women showing their wares on brightly colored woven blankets.

It was expected that you bargain, so we did, but it was all in good humor and everybody walked away happy. The streets were filled with servicemen, families, college students, and hustling Mexican vendors offering you everything from watches to transvestite club show tickets.

We did go into a club (not the transvestite one) where they were playing really great music and we drank "two for one" margaritas and danced for a couple of hours. The club was packed and very lively. By late afternoon, we were both "Tijuana'ed out" so we made the trek back to the border.

For the next 3 or 4 years, we made this trip at least once a year. It was fun, cheap, simple and entertaining. We got to know some of the people who lived there and found out about their lives while sharing some of our lives' details with them.

I had heard that Tijuana was a dangerous place and I am sure it could have been, but I didn't see it that way. During subsequent trips, we explored a little of the nightlife and found it a little "wilder" than we have in the San Diego area, but not by much.

We had a friend with us one time and he drank too much and went outside to clear his head. When we realized he had gone out, we followed and found him propped against a light post with 4 young Mexican guys around him. They took off when we approached though so no harm done.

Today, I doubt I would take a trip to Tijuana unless I had to. Violence, drugs, and thugs have changed the place from what I remember so vividly. The last 20 years have not been kind to Tijuana. I remember the charm it once had for me and it makes me feel sad to know it won't be that place again.

There was a beauty in the squalor, in the noise, the people, the boisterous tourists, the cheap goods, the music and a rhythm to life that I fear is gone for good. Or maybe it's me who has changed.

How Jungle Gardenia Ruined My Mom's Car

I started off my affair with perfumes when I was about 11 and I found and loved "Evening In Paris" perfume.

It was sold at Woolworths and very reasonably priced, as well it should be. I thought it to be the height of glamor. It came in a little blue bottle and had a fragrance something like bubble gum mixed with a little cherry pop. Or maybe it smelled a little like the color "blue". Perfect!

Of course, at 11, I was still more boy than girl, so I didn't use it often, only on those rare occasions when I would actually be forced to bathe and put on clean clothes. I spent my days climbing trees, and waving a truckers to see if they would honk those wonderful "ooga ooga" horns at me. Some did.

I also roller skated with a friend going around the block and down the slopes from dawn till dusk. We didn't have roller blades or anything fancy in those days, just skates with a skate key. It was wonderful.

I wore the same pair of navy blue flowered capri pants every day along with a red pull over hooded sweatshirt. The hood was a wonderful invention because I never had to comb my hair. I never washed my uniform, because I wore it day and night, and even slept in the sweatshirt most of the time.

My mother would chastise me because other girls in the area were starting to "fix up". I really thought she had lost her mind. Why would I "fix up" to climb trees and roller skate, and wave frantically at truckers in 18 wheelers?

On rare occasions after a bath, I would dab a little Evening in Paris behind my ears and feel a slight tang of femininity. Well, maybe I just felt clean, but who remembers!

By the time I was 14, I had somewhat to my surprise turned into a girl. I threw out the red sweatshirt and flowered pants and never looked back. Because of my newly acquired sophistication, I realized that I needed a new more mature fragrance. And perhaps even one that was not sold at the dime store.

I saw an ad for something called Jungle Gardenia. That sounded pretty darned exotic and sophisticated to me! I started saving every dime of babysitting money I could lay my hands on, as well as charging my mother for chores, and before too long, I was able to purchase my bottle of Jungle Gardenia perfume!

I couldn't wait to try it out and see if it had any particular reaction from people, (particularly male persons) because by this time I had turned what my mother called "boy crazy".

I got in the car with my mother and opened the package. I opened the bottle and started dabbing the stuff on my wrists and behind my ear lobes. My mom started gagging! She said "Put that away! It's making me sick."

Charming teen that I was I started putting on more of course! Mom reached over and tried to grab the bottle. Uh, not a good idea. It spilled all over the seat upholstery and the floor. Now, quite frankly, a little Jungle Gardenia might have been a great idea, but a bottle of it spilled in the car was not.

I was furious at my mother, but also getting strangely nauseated from the overwhelming scent of gardenias. She drove home in stony silence with the window rolled down which she never did because she didn't want her hair to blow. I took a little solace in the knowledge that she would live with that fragrance for as long as she had the car. But, I never bought another bottle of the stuff. It was kind of gross.

Did You Ever Have One Of Those Days?

This is Winston Bubba. He looks a little tired and out of sorts. I have been feeling that way all day.

Winnie belongs to my daughter and her family. They got him when he was just a pup. He's a good boy but very high strung. I'm a little high strung too.

When he tries to get affectionate, everybody tells him to stop it. When I try to get affectionate, my husband usually tells me to stop it too. Okay, that's not true. I think I'm the one who says stop it.


Harry is nothing like Winston. Harry is not particularly affectionate. Neither am I. It works well for our relationship. Also, Harry does not let his tongue hang out like that because he thinks it's vulgar. I don't do it either for the same reason.

Harry is also kind of moody. I think he looks depressed in this photo. Maybe that's more what I'm feeling.

I think I should go out in the yard and lay on a hose. Maybe it would help to lift my spirits! I'm not sure that worked for Harry though. He's still out there.