After The Bubbly » 80s

Can We Listen to Hot Mix Now?

Lela Davidson — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 11:20:37 +0000

Every day when I pick them up from school, either my son or his friend asks, “Can we listen to Hot Mix now?” If it’s coming from the child I did not birth, there’s a “please” in there somewhere. As in please, oh please, can we listen to the station that will likely play at least one of the hot-hot-hot mixes two or three times during the time it takes to get from school to home.

But my daughter, she’s still impressionable. She might have better taste. The other day as we drove up to the middle school, The Girl and I were listening to a super cool 80s mix-tape CD a friend made for my 40th birthday last year. When the boys got in the car, my son’s friend asked, “What IS this?”

“It’s my mom’s oldies music.”

“Oh.”

“It’s like from the 50s or something.”

And then we did a steering wheel sock hop to The Cult. That’s the oldies now, She Sells Sanctuary. And what’s cool? Justin Bieber.

Me and Mt. St. Helen’s

Lela Davidson — Tue, 18 May 2010 11:50:28 +0000

Thirty years ago today I heard Mt. St. Helen’s blow it’s top. From a state away, the explosion served to encapsulate a moment. There I sat, in front of a mirrored wall at the base of the wrought iron spiral staircase that led to my room, where I watched Solid Gold (and later, the wedding of Charles and Diana) on a 10-inch black and white TV, where I taped magazine pictures of models to the wall and learned to measure the circumference of my thighs.

Did you hear it too?

Pass the Bubbly: Kirk, Michael, and Me

Lela Davidson — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 17:31:24 +0000

One of my favorite things to do on this blog is introduce you to other writers. (And then hope you’ll still love me best!) I’d do it more often if I didn’t get lost for half a day doing it.

Candance, the Crazy Texas Mommy is like an outspoken Jill Connor Browne (the Sweet Potato Queen), Jessica Bern needs to move here so we can be friends and tape the Real Housewives of Benton County (you SO don’t have to be a housewife to be on that show), Coffee House Mom is like a nice version of me who will probably take over all my local print gigs when I finally round the bend and just start peppering everything with expletives, and without Mary Ann’s encouragement, I think I’d still be filling out IRS Form 1120S.

It’s hard not to love a Crazy Texas Mommy, especially one who open admits to lusting after Kirk Cameron:

Now that Kirk Cameron loves Jesus a whole lot, I wonder if lusting him is okay? I swear he doesn’t age. But I don’t lust him anymore. He’s too pure and I’d feel guilty hanging out with him cause I’m all not pure and then I’d feel like he was judging me and shit and I’d be like, “Why all you Christian people gotta be all judgy all the time?” and he’d be like, “Why are you talking like you’re from the ghetto?” and I’d be like, “Cause that’s where I live, Bitch.” Then we’d break up but he’d pray for me, I think. Anyway, that kind of religious experience will give people a skewed perspective of the world.

Say, say, say what you want about Jacko, but you have to admit he made great music. And as we mourn, Jessica Bern reminds us that something good always comes from tragedy:

You see, in my mind something wonderful has come from this tragedy and that is, at least for now, whenever I pull up to a red light singing Billy Jean is not my Lover, I don’t get people looking at me, wanting to scream,”Hey lady! The 80′s called, they want their music back!”

NWA writer, Coffee House Mom, considers the ever-perplexing guest ammenties issue:

And what about those fancy towels in the bathroom? Perhaps I need to check with the etiquette rules of Emily Post, but am I to wipe my wet hands on the towel wrapped in delicate ribbon – or search for another? Was my upbringing really that uncouth – that I’m so awkward around such finery?

And for all of you who’ve asked, “How was the writing thing? You went to some writing thing, didn’t you?” to which I’ve answered, “It was great”, Mary Ann says it better:

We weren’t sure what to expect when we got there. The classes were only scheduled to last four hours per day. What would we do with ourselves? So we concocted this dream world where we went to class, hung out at the pool, did our toenails, put the green facial goo on our faces, and got spiffied up for long leisurely dinners with the other writers in the evenings.

Yeah… it was so totally not like that. But it was better. And now, if you’ll excuse me, the novel awaits.