On Friday my husband and I had one of our weird arguments about whether or not French fries can be referred to as “chips”. My point was that we are not in England, Governor, and they are French fries. The kids tended to agree with me – they aren’t potato chips, DAD – but then my husband counterpointed with “fish and chips”. This led, sadly, to my rendition of the song Fish and Chips and Vinegar, Vinegar, Vinegar…until the kids stopped me by saying they had learned that song at school. Me too, I told them, excitedly. “Wow,” Mark said, “That really shows that throughout the ages music class has been lame.”
THROUGHOUT THE AGES. On a separate, but related note, I was telling my kids an anecdote about a broken phone. And in those days, phones had CORDS and they were attached to the WALL, so it was kind of a big deal. Liver spot are breaking out on my hands as we speak. The kids are always so enthralled with my “back in MY day” stories, television shows that could not be rewound or paused, ten hour road trips during which we kids silently stared out of the window wearing our tape-cassette Walkmans because there was nothing else to do, phones with cords that were plugged into the wall.
At my in-laws’ house there is a non-working rotary dial phone that is semi-fascinating to them. This is how people phoned each other in the olden days. They had to DIAL. There was no texting. My parents only recently got rid of their heavy, flesh-coloured, touch-tone phone, and the only reason they got rid of it was because my dad dropped it on the floor and it broke. I had good memories of that flesh-coloured phone. Remember taking the 15 foot cord in the other room to talk to your girlfriends for two hours? During a conversation about KIDS THESE DAYS AND THEIR TEXTING, a friend mentioned that we, as teens, were probably just as bad, but instead of texting we would tie up our phone lines for hours. I do remember getting “grounded from using the phone”, and instead resorting to writing my girlfriends six-page notes, because if we didn’t talk for two hours a night, we would miss important updates like “He’s cute but his hair is weird.” and “Do my new Benetton pants make me look fat?” and “Do you think Miss Herget makes her own clothes?” Also “Tom Hooper is so hot, I’m totally going to marry him one day.”
Ah, the fires of youth. I am feeling, lately, like I’m a rigid old lady, like I’m two steps from the Home and wearing slacks with floral blouses. For one thing, I am holding on a little too tightly to old-school style rules, especially the one about matching your shoes to your purse. My shoes will always match my purse, the end. I cannot fathom life without matching my shoes to my purse, even if I see other people with brightly coloured handbags and differently-coloured shoes and I think, hey, that looks great. Apparently I cannot incorporate such flamboyancy into my own lifestyle and I may as well go straight to pumps and a giant matching purse that will hold a change purse, a roll of mints, and a whole lot of Kleenex.
Less old-lady-like, but just as quirkily rigid, is my underwear rule: my bras and panties must match, every day, or the world will end. You know how your mother always told you to have nice panties on in case of an accident? Well, just this second it occurs to me what a weird thing that is to say. I’m pretty sure the ER doctors are not going to be upset if you have old faded panties that say “Hot Stuff” on them, or “Wednesday” panties on a Friday. Or are they? Maybe it’s a thing – if any ER doctors are reading this, I am going to pose the question: do you look askance at non-nice underwear?
Back to the original point, which was the matching. I have this thing where I have to match my bra and panties: if, in the middle of the day I change my shirt to a light coloured one that necessitates a light coloured bra, I will actually change my panties so that they match the bra. Even if the day is half over. Even if no one else is going to see those panties. Even if I am aware that I am completely crazy. I am like Joan Crawford, but with matching underwear instead of wire hangers. NO NUDE BRAS WITH BLACK PANTIES!!!!!
Other reasons it’s fun to live with me: I set out my clothing the night before and I do not deviate from that pre-arranged outfit, ever, I write down every daily job I have on a to-do list in an old-fashioned agenda, and if I do a job that wasn’t on the list I write it down just to check it off, and I have a strange need to write long, complicated packing lists even if I’m only packing for one night away and I always pack exactly the same things anyway (Shampoo! Toothpaste! Makeup bag!).
Well, we all have our little quirks, I suppose. Would you like to share yours? xo
