11:05 PM |
In general, one must have an alternative to DuBarrys, Muck Shoes, and Wellies. We wear needlepoint slippers, preferably from Stubbs and Wootton. The Stubbs are nearly $400 a pair, and in the neighborhood we take pride in ignoring Christian Laboutins and platform shoes (did that in the 70's), and refrain fro paying a lot for anything. Besides, they would look so new. So, I resort to buying Stubbs on eBay. Yup, used shoes on eBay.
Stubbs has a website, but they sell different ones in the shops in Palm Beach and Southhampton. The ones from the shops are better. The basic style does not change from year to year, one that mom would say was "classic" and could be worn forever, just like your Burberry trench (the one made before Burberry was Burberry). Thus, the shoes on eBay are a great deal. You just have to make sure you look at the pictures of the soles. Worn is okay, holes are not. Oh, and if they have heel and toe taps, the owner took care of them, but more importantly had enough good breeding to know that you do that with your shoes.
One pattern is black with yellow bees. That's how they're listed. Hello? Wasps. You know, WASPs. Duh. My blue and white ones are sorta the color of denim, and I wear them all the time with jeans. My niece is especially fond of the ones with the frogs on them. While we're no Carry Bradshaws out here, I really wanted a good shoe closet in the addition. I now have six perfect shelves, with 36 perfect pairs of Stubbs. My one good pair of heels are stuffed somewhere between the sock basket and the used shopping bags (just in case you might need a shopping bag). Priorities, people.
There are also velvet slippers, the same shape and cut as the needlepoint ones. These are embroidered. I have a navy pair with a sun on one foot and the moon on the other. I think I have more, including one with silver somethings (they kind of look like something that would be in a Dan Brown story line). It is unfortunate that a very popular pair has skulls and crossbones on them. They looked good at the time, but when Ed Hardy and tattoos became popular...... bad idea. Lots on eBay now.
The velvet slippers are also made for men. It takes a real man to wear velvet slippers in public, although they used to be the only thing one would wear with a dinner jacket at home. An aside: the young teenage hockey team here was pretty good one year. One of the mothers put pink skate laces in a silver bowl in her foyer for the players. Tough men wear pink. It was a team-building thing.
Most of the women's shoes are available in mules. These backless slippers are reminiscent of the way we wore all our shoes in college. You know, for when you're too hungover or too lazy to actually put shoes on your feet. You just step on the back, sort of folding the heel down, and shuffle along. Especially fetching with a ponytail and pajama bottoms, coffee optional.
You have to get over the idea of wearing used shoes, though. Presumably, the people who buy these guys new are "nice" people (my mother's term for social superiority). My best friend had the perfect rationale. Just pretend they're from your best friend in Palm Beach. Problem solved.
My imaginary boyfriend now acquainted with my imaginary girlfriend with the good shoes.
Stubbs has a website, but they sell different ones in the shops in Palm Beach and Southhampton. The ones from the shops are better. The basic style does not change from year to year, one that mom would say was "classic" and could be worn forever, just like your Burberry trench (the one made before Burberry was Burberry). Thus, the shoes on eBay are a great deal. You just have to make sure you look at the pictures of the soles. Worn is okay, holes are not. Oh, and if they have heel and toe taps, the owner took care of them, but more importantly had enough good breeding to know that you do that with your shoes.
One pattern is black with yellow bees. That's how they're listed. Hello? Wasps. You know, WASPs. Duh. My blue and white ones are sorta the color of denim, and I wear them all the time with jeans. My niece is especially fond of the ones with the frogs on them. While we're no Carry Bradshaws out here, I really wanted a good shoe closet in the addition. I now have six perfect shelves, with 36 perfect pairs of Stubbs. My one good pair of heels are stuffed somewhere between the sock basket and the used shopping bags (just in case you might need a shopping bag). Priorities, people.
There are also velvet slippers, the same shape and cut as the needlepoint ones. These are embroidered. I have a navy pair with a sun on one foot and the moon on the other. I think I have more, including one with silver somethings (they kind of look like something that would be in a Dan Brown story line). It is unfortunate that a very popular pair has skulls and crossbones on them. They looked good at the time, but when Ed Hardy and tattoos became popular...... bad idea. Lots on eBay now.
The velvet slippers are also made for men. It takes a real man to wear velvet slippers in public, although they used to be the only thing one would wear with a dinner jacket at home. An aside: the young teenage hockey team here was pretty good one year. One of the mothers put pink skate laces in a silver bowl in her foyer for the players. Tough men wear pink. It was a team-building thing.
Most of the women's shoes are available in mules. These backless slippers are reminiscent of the way we wore all our shoes in college. You know, for when you're too hungover or too lazy to actually put shoes on your feet. You just step on the back, sort of folding the heel down, and shuffle along. Especially fetching with a ponytail and pajama bottoms, coffee optional.
You have to get over the idea of wearing used shoes, though. Presumably, the people who buy these guys new are "nice" people (my mother's term for social superiority). My best friend had the perfect rationale. Just pretend they're from your best friend in Palm Beach. Problem solved.
My imaginary boyfriend now acquainted with my imaginary girlfriend with the good shoes.
My best friend and I went to dinner in the one "good" restaurant in our town. Since it is Saturday, one must wear an Hermes scarf with one's jeans, old cashmere, and down jacket. Oh, and DuBarry's. DuBarry boots are a lovely brown leather knee-high country boot from Ireland. They sell them at the races. The guy selling them is an incredibly sweet young man with ivory skin and a rose blush. He stands in a dishpan of water in his boots, demonstrating their waterproof qualities.
I have had a tendency to drink too much lately. The restaurant is a BYOB (although they finally got a liquor license), so you can bring better wine than you could afford on a wine list. I pulled this one from my dusty old rack and looked it up on the web. $100!. I guess I wouldn't be embarrassed when they corked it. I also read that it was meant to be drunk young. It was 2006, good until 2011. I guess that's now.
We skipped the lettuce and had two desserts. Why didn't we think of this before? Ran into my lawyer (we all know each other in the neighborhood), and he cautioned that we should make sure not to miss our roughage. Roughage. We're in the era of fiber, so roughage seemed so nostalgic, the mystique of grapenuts or the canned prunes your grandmother ate. I happened to like the prunes, even as a child. Back when Dannon's came in a waxed paper cup, they had prune whip flavor. Also prune danish.
At the restaurant, I was parked between two pickups, in front of two pickups, and across the aisle from two pickups. Some people in cities drive SUVs in case someday they might actually need four wheel drive. In the country, we drive pickups and keep them somewhat clean in case we might actually need to drive them somewhere with paved roads. I only have one pair of heels because I cannot get to my truck on the gravel without scraping the heels up.
Luckily, I made it home in the snow. My pickup is sort of mildly jacked up, pretty good for adverse conditions such as rising creeks and going across the cornfield across the street to watch the hunt (or if nothing so picturesque is available, the men take down deer-- thank god, they're eating my beets). My township, though, doesn't plow like the rest of the civilized world does. They say the tradition is to leave it for the horse-drawn sleighs. Makes it tough for the postpeople (mail deliverers? I prefer postman, but mine is a girl).
Everyone knows it is always a mistake to text drunk (well almost always). I swore I would hide my phone from myself. I didn't.
There's something like a little extra tippling to get to the heart of matters of the heart. My girlfriend and I decided that tonight's adult theme would be naughty sommelier, naked with a white towel on her arm, spilling the wine, and ready to be spanked. Picked up the phone and texted to that effect. And added In general I care but I don't care any more. Where did that come from? I picked up the phone and left a message that I needed closure. I have not heard anything and do not expect to. Remember, this is the child that moved out on his girlfriend one day while she was out. No note, no nothing. The problem with young men is that, well, they're young men.
Then the urge came upon me to text what I know had been on my mind for so long. Why did you never touch me? I do wonder. I probably will never know. But it suddenly came to me that I didn't want to be the whore in the bedroom without being the lady in the parlor. At least until I actually get to be the whore in person.
I am mourning my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. The clock is ticking until I hit the road. I want to go to the unclaimed baggage place in Alabama and score some used shoes.
I have had a tendency to drink too much lately. The restaurant is a BYOB (although they finally got a liquor license), so you can bring better wine than you could afford on a wine list. I pulled this one from my dusty old rack and looked it up on the web. $100!. I guess I wouldn't be embarrassed when they corked it. I also read that it was meant to be drunk young. It was 2006, good until 2011. I guess that's now.
We skipped the lettuce and had two desserts. Why didn't we think of this before? Ran into my lawyer (we all know each other in the neighborhood), and he cautioned that we should make sure not to miss our roughage. Roughage. We're in the era of fiber, so roughage seemed so nostalgic, the mystique of grapenuts or the canned prunes your grandmother ate. I happened to like the prunes, even as a child. Back when Dannon's came in a waxed paper cup, they had prune whip flavor. Also prune danish.
At the restaurant, I was parked between two pickups, in front of two pickups, and across the aisle from two pickups. Some people in cities drive SUVs in case someday they might actually need four wheel drive. In the country, we drive pickups and keep them somewhat clean in case we might actually need to drive them somewhere with paved roads. I only have one pair of heels because I cannot get to my truck on the gravel without scraping the heels up.
Luckily, I made it home in the snow. My pickup is sort of mildly jacked up, pretty good for adverse conditions such as rising creeks and going across the cornfield across the street to watch the hunt (or if nothing so picturesque is available, the men take down deer-- thank god, they're eating my beets). My township, though, doesn't plow like the rest of the civilized world does. They say the tradition is to leave it for the horse-drawn sleighs. Makes it tough for the postpeople (mail deliverers? I prefer postman, but mine is a girl).
Everyone knows it is always a mistake to text drunk (well almost always). I swore I would hide my phone from myself. I didn't.
There's something like a little extra tippling to get to the heart of matters of the heart. My girlfriend and I decided that tonight's adult theme would be naughty sommelier, naked with a white towel on her arm, spilling the wine, and ready to be spanked. Picked up the phone and texted to that effect. And added In general I care but I don't care any more. Where did that come from? I picked up the phone and left a message that I needed closure. I have not heard anything and do not expect to. Remember, this is the child that moved out on his girlfriend one day while she was out. No note, no nothing. The problem with young men is that, well, they're young men.
Then the urge came upon me to text what I know had been on my mind for so long. Why did you never touch me? I do wonder. I probably will never know. But it suddenly came to me that I didn't want to be the whore in the bedroom without being the lady in the parlor. At least until I actually get to be the whore in person.
I am mourning my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. The clock is ticking until I hit the road. I want to go to the unclaimed baggage place in Alabama and score some used shoes.
From now on, we shall be festive.
I wanted to dance around the house to old Motown. So I did. I'm not very good. I used to be, so I'm not sure what happened. I figured I'd have a drink or two and see what happens. I think a little better, but them I have had a drink and maybe I only think I'm better.
I am inspired by my black leather boots. I am wearing tights and a short skirt, the first time in ages (decades?). They just make me feel like a real human being again.
You better shop around now
Going to a go go
My guy
ABC
I always admired Christina and Meredith. Just dance it out.
Take that, almost-real imaginary boyfriend.
It occurred to me the other day that one of the fonts of all things gossip is the beauty parlor. Note I did not say salon. These are the places where one gets a set, not a blow dry. There are hair styles. With AquaNet. I imagine Betty pulling on a Virginia Slim, although today Jeanette is more likely to be smacking gum or drinking bottled water. I do not want to go somewhere they recycle. I do not want Evian. I do not want San Pellegrino. I do not even want a sports bottle of any kind. Give me my girls. I am going to make a considered effort to have my hair done every few days. I want big hair. I want a French twist for Scooter's wedding. I'm hoping to hear whose no-good husband is chasing Trixie. I want to hear about the little problem with the law cousin Scotty is having. I want to know what their natural hair colors are. And I won't have to pack a blow dryer.
Now that I have an idea that I want to hit the deep south, I feel it necessary to hit all the "undiscovered" places covered by guide books.
They have GPS downloads.
I may take the river road, through Natchez and south. I visualize myself hanging out with the hamlet's best black cook on a 55 -gallon drum. If I'm not careful, I'll end up at ChiChi's. That's the problem with overthinking. I need Woody, and I need him now.
Here are some books that show promise:
I especially like the idea of "Weird." I have a feeling it might disappoint me. I have twenty or so more.
Him:
Oh, imaginary boyfriend save me.
I'll call you later.
Hmmm. Pretty sure that won't happen.
Later, me:
The measure of a man's character is his word
I thought that would stimulate something. Besides, one of the many relationship books that I've read say that the older woman should provide guidance to the younger man. So much for that.
Later, me:
The measure of a man's character is his word
I thought that would stimulate something. Besides, one of the many relationship books that I've read say that the older woman should provide guidance to the younger man. So much for that.
A few days later--
Me:
It it okay if I call you on occasion?
I hate to catch you in the middle of things and just thought it better to work around your schedule.
Him:
Of course!
If I miss a call I call back!
Until now I've never called him. So I called, left a message. Nothing. Well, so much for that. Jesus, what does he have to do to smack some sense into my head?
Until now I've never called him. So I called, left a message. Nothing. Well, so much for that. Jesus, what does he have to do to smack some sense into my head?
Oh, imaginary boyfriend save me.
The woody is in the hospital for elective surgery and my imaginary boyfriend is nowhere to be found. I had called down to the autobarn to make sure the battery was charged and there was air in the tires, as I was beginning my voyage in a matter of days. Bad news, I was told. The doors were off and being fitted for new wood. What the? I didn't order this, but it looks like mischievous Woody has been angling for this facelift behind my back. I'll have to get my American Express card back.
I begged the wagon doctors to do it swiftly and prayed for a speedy recovery. Six coats of varnish need to be put on after the fitting. That's a minimum of six days. I'm now pushing for next Friday, though I doubt that will happen. On the positive side, I have more time to prepare my stuff. On the negative side, having one's enthusiasm dashed too many times rather takes the fun out of it (see almost-real imaginary boyfriend).
I was offered one of many fine rides, but I just cannot do this in anything else but Woody. Not in our favorite Leroy. Not in the neon green hot rod pickup with the moonshining graphics. Not even the candy-apple red Roadmaster. Will not do.
Ok, now I now that he races karts. My son and I spend the trip going home thinking about silly cart things:
Pie Cart
Ala Carte
Chicken Cart Pie
Wal-Kart
Cart-ridge
Pop Cart
Modern Cart
Three Cart Stud
Cart Blanche
Amelia Earkart
Cartheart overalls (ok, that's real)
4Kart symphony
Kart-y, kart-y hearty!
And then we spent an amusing time googling shopping cart races. My imaginary boyfriend enjoyed this immensely.
Why are text relationships so mystifying?
I was attempting to ferret out some information/advice about the attachment one can feel even if actual face time is limited (how on earth do you Google that?) when I stumbled on a site that gave tips for men about creating interest through text. And you know what? One of the pieces of advice was...well, I don't even remember. I just saw a list of suggested messages. One of them is "Cupcake, my dog did the funniest thing."
Bells, alarms, whistles, amusement. My almost-real imaginary boyfriend sent me a text early on in our flirtation to the effect of "Cupcake, my dog is a ninja." Ah-ha. I am understanding more and more that he is no more knowledgable about what to do in our situation than I am. It's almost comical, but I am losing patience with the indefinite elapsed time until we actually talk, actually touch, actually... well, you know.
I have developed a knee-jerk reaction to hearing from him (even, or especially, by text). Even thinking of him. I am dumbfounded by the physical manifestation of my desire.
I send him a text that I think I've found a car. He texts back right away. I can't get him to reply to any other subject. He texts back that he'll put a list together for me when he gets home.
Me: You're too sweet
Him: You should have a taste
Me: Don't go there
I have been having a difficult time all day
I'm like a frickin Pavlov's dog
He's engaging with me for the first time and I tell him not to go there. Or maybe not the first time. After the birthday incident, we inched around the subject. On Thanksgiving, we had the naughty chef. I told him it would be a quicky. When he inserted his thoughts, I broke it off, saying that's for dessert.
Usually I provide the details and he reads. I'm getting really good at sexual imagery. I can be a real whore by text. Funny, they are my fantasies, and I find that he is pleased with the story regardless.
I once read that women shouldn't worry about how they look because men are happy just to see them naked. Maybe he's just happy to think I'm naked. I think about him naked. I wonder what he'll be like naked. Will it be anything like the guy in my mind? Not like, size or anything. That doesn't matter. It's the intimacy that I get visually.
I need to be so gentle with him, so considered. I need the physical, the real life physical. I want him to read what I write here, but I don't. It's so raw, so tenuous that I would be afraid that he would disappear.
I was attempting to ferret out some information/advice about the attachment one can feel even if actual face time is limited (how on earth do you Google that?) when I stumbled on a site that gave tips for men about creating interest through text. And you know what? One of the pieces of advice was...well, I don't even remember. I just saw a list of suggested messages. One of them is "Cupcake, my dog did the funniest thing."
Bells, alarms, whistles, amusement. My almost-real imaginary boyfriend sent me a text early on in our flirtation to the effect of "Cupcake, my dog is a ninja." Ah-ha. I am understanding more and more that he is no more knowledgable about what to do in our situation than I am. It's almost comical, but I am losing patience with the indefinite elapsed time until we actually talk, actually touch, actually... well, you know.
I have developed a knee-jerk reaction to hearing from him (even, or especially, by text). Even thinking of him. I am dumbfounded by the physical manifestation of my desire.
I send him a text that I think I've found a car. He texts back right away. I can't get him to reply to any other subject. He texts back that he'll put a list together for me when he gets home.
Me: You're too sweet
Him: You should have a taste
Me: Don't go there
I have been having a difficult time all day
I'm like a frickin Pavlov's dog
He's engaging with me for the first time and I tell him not to go there. Or maybe not the first time. After the birthday incident, we inched around the subject. On Thanksgiving, we had the naughty chef. I told him it would be a quicky. When he inserted his thoughts, I broke it off, saying that's for dessert.
Usually I provide the details and he reads. I'm getting really good at sexual imagery. I can be a real whore by text. Funny, they are my fantasies, and I find that he is pleased with the story regardless.
I once read that women shouldn't worry about how they look because men are happy just to see them naked. Maybe he's just happy to think I'm naked. I think about him naked. I wonder what he'll be like naked. Will it be anything like the guy in my mind? Not like, size or anything. That doesn't matter. It's the intimacy that I get visually.
I need to be so gentle with him, so considered. I need the physical, the real life physical. I want him to read what I write here, but I don't. It's so raw, so tenuous that I would be afraid that he would disappear.
I have never phoned my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. I think it was that let him be the cat mentality. I'm wondering if the mouse thing makes him feel that I'm uninterested and it bugs him. Maybe the quality of the phone conversation would be better if I let up on this. Getting more comfortable.
Me:
Is it ok if I call you on occasion?
I hate to catch you in the middle of things ad just thought it better to work around your schedule
Him:
Of course! If I miss a call I call back!
Me:
Happy
I have found that he uses exclamation points both for excited and agreement, but also when he likes something. I live for exclamation points.
I haven't call him. Yet.
Me:
Is it ok if I call you on occasion?
I hate to catch you in the middle of things ad just thought it better to work around your schedule
Him:
Of course! If I miss a call I call back!
Me:
Happy
I have found that he uses exclamation points both for excited and agreement, but also when he likes something. I live for exclamation points.
I haven't call him. Yet.
Me:
Ok
I'm over the age thing
Him:
Was there an age thing?
God bless. Almost as good as my imaginary boyfriend.
For now, let's address the text and phone versions.
One day, I texted him that texting is very elegant, but very dangerous. Meeting would be either a wonderful surprise or a terrible letdown. He made one of his infrequent calls to me. What are your expectations, he asked. I was at a loss for words. I assumed he meant for the relationship, but later I knew that he just meant for the meeting. Then later it seemed as if he really meant the relationship. In any case, I found myself half cooing and half lamenting that I just didn't know. I don't know, I repeated softly. I knew.
I was sitting on the only stool I have, pulled up to my wooden kitchen counters. I like my horizontal surfaces bare. The kitchen is almost always tidy, with a pile of things to go up to the office, and another pile to be taken care of, things like the dry cleaning, the bank deposits, the new insurance card, the fabric grocery bags. They are on the side counter by the door. But the island and the stool are always empty, save for the pottery spoon holder I bought in France three years ago.
The stool is really bar height and almost knocks the bottom of the counter. The last owner of my house was 6'7", and he left it behind. I guess his knees would jam against his chin if used a regular counter-height stool.
I plunked myself on top of the pine-topped stool and nearly put my shoulders on the surface. The phone was on speaker in front of me. I hate the iPhone 4 because I always lean on it the wrong way and cut off my calls. Also, I end up on the video thing upside down and sideways until I can figure out how to turn it off.
In such a position, in such a place, I was forced to pay full attention to the call. I often empty the dishwasher, play computer games and even read the paper or a magazine while on the phone. There was nothing to touch on that counter.
As we talked, I told him that there would be no video, and no photos. I meant compromising ones, but who knows how it came out. Why?, he asked. Because someday I will be someone's wife, I said. I thought that I was hoping his.
My imagination has gotten way out of control. Because there is nobody there, I can make whatever I want be there. In my fantasy, I am given a huge diamond and live in luxury in both his and my houses. He would love me unconditionally, and we would have wild sex frequently. We'd also travel on exotic car trips, like through the unpaved roads of South America, or across Mongolia. We would both be deliriously happy.
Mostly, though, our phone conversations are dull and business-like. I yearn to have real connection this way. Am I an on-line relationship? Aren't those for fat, ugly girls that don't want anybody to see past their great personalities? And yet I am. And I am going insane.
But our texting is sublime. Witty, funny, tantalizing, and smart. I honestly think this is me, maybe attenuated a bit, but the phone and face time are dreadful. It is almost too late. It either gets real or it doesn't. If I'm honest, it probably won't, but I can let go of the fantasy.
This is about my two almost-real imaginary boyfriends, best addressed by Mary Wells:
Well, I've got two lovers,
and I ain't ashamed.
Two lovers, and I love them both the same.
Two lovers, and I ain't ashamed, two
lovers and I love them both the same.
Let me tell you bout, my first lover.
Well, he's sweet and kind.
Treats me good like a lover should.
And makes me love him.
I really love him, oh, oh, I love him so.
And I'll do everything I can to let him know.
But, I've got two lovers, and I ain't ashamed.
Two lovers, and I love them both the same.
Let me tell you bout my other lover.
Well, you see he treats me bad.
Makes me sad.
Makes me cry, but still I can't deny.
I love him, I really love him. oh, oh, I
love him so. And I'll do everything I can to let him know.
Darlin, don't you know I can tell.
That whenever I look at you, that you think
that I'm untrue, cause I say that I love two.
But, I really, really do.
Cause, you're a split personality.
And in reality, both of them are you.
(they both are you)
Well, I've got two lovers...
My third boyfriend, of course, the imaginary one, is perfect.
One of my best buddies in college was a jolly, portly fraternity brother. It was the disco era, and another one of the brothers decorated his party hat with YSL, a nod to the beginning of "designer" fever. Nothing was coming between Brooke Shields and her Calvins.
It was also the debut of Animal House.
Everyone could easily name who in each fraternity was which character. Well, my friend was Flounder. And we all could tell you what that meant. In a nutshell:
Flounder, I am appointing you pledge representative to the social committee
Gee Otter, thanks. What do I have to do?
It means you have to drive us to the Food King
and later
I'll have 10,000 marbles please
At some point we took liberties and my friend became an amalgam of Flounder and Bluto. And then we called him Flo.
Every fraternity on the face of the earth was having toga parties, even if they hadn't been having toga parties. TO-GA, TO-GA. Otis Day and the Knights. Shout became every event's highlight. My Flounder always got up on a chair with his air mike and led the crowd in the little bit softer now, a little bit louder now part.
Do you mind if we dance with yo dates? was a favorite drunken outburst.
Do you mind if we dance with yo dates? was a favorite drunken outburst.
Did you know that you can look on eHow and find out how to have a toga party? Seriously.
My imaginary boyfriend and I considered my current state of ennui:
This is ridiculous.
What are we gonna to do?
...Road trip!
And so we are going. Hope to find Flo.
My imaginary boyfriend and I considered my current state of ennui:
This is ridiculous.
What are we gonna to do?
...Road trip!
And so we are going. Hope to find Flo.
I was never a football fan. I hated that men were loud and obnoxious while drinking Bud and watching the big screen, which at that time in my life was the obscenely expensive giant brick of glass, plastic, and mesh, lurking in the corner and cutting off all the natural light in my family room. We couldn't afford anything, but somehow he got his big TV. Maybe my resentment was the start of my extreme aversion to football. I was competing with an inanimate object with tiny men rushing around in it for attention. I don't remember if he finally watched the games in secret or if I went to read in another room.
Then I ran away from home for the first time. Unfortunately, that flight was permanent. I moved to Philadelphia to an elegant Victorian mansion. My apartment consisted of the suite the mistress of house once occupied. Hubby slept in the suite next door. Very civilized, and I'm sure that allowed her to use her electric rollers in peace. Her bedroom became my living room, her dressing room my bedroom, and her bathroom, well, my bathroom. The ceilings were stenciled with amazing silver patterns, roses and cherubs. The morning porch where the butler used to serve her breakfast was fitted with a lovely cherry kitchen. Each room in the mansion used a different type of wood. Mine was mahogany. The huge fireplace shone flames in the trim over the pocket doors at the end of my bed. I would stare at them, letting my thoughts wander. I never did that before. I was always being productive.
When I moved in, I took only the few pieces of furniture I had brought from my childhood home. Fortunately, that home was an Addison Misner creation, and the furniture original high dollar deco. What I needed was a big flat-screen TV. Not that I'd ever watched TV except for Jeopardy and This Old House. At that time, plasma TVs were brand new, and you could only buy them in those fancy stereo stores. I plunked down my $10,000 --yes, $10,000-- and brought one home.
There is something in the water in Philadelphia. Of that I am certain. I found myself irresistibly drawn to the gleaming maw. I became an Eagles fan. Five years later, I found myself wearing an Eagles Santa hat, having a lucky jersey (#36, Brian Dawkins), and hanging an Eagle player windsock outside my kitchen door. I was gifted Eagles hats, Eagles jackets, and as you know, even an Eagles Snuggi. I have an unusual method for watching my games. I have to do it alone. A-L-O-N-E. Don't call me. Don't bother me. And for God's sake, DON'T TALK TO ME. I can text, and often do. Usually to make a pretend bet on the winner and the score. I'm usually pretty good at it. Last year, I called the entire playoffs with the exception of the Super Bowl (can't get too greedy).
I am extraordinarily proud to be an Eagles fan. We are the worst on the globe. There was a game in 1968 in which the fans actually booed Santa Claus. Truly. I am delighted that Matt Woolsey in the 9/1/08 Forbes wrote about "America's Most Die-Hard Fans." Here's a snippet:
When the Philadelphia Eagles play well and contend for the Super Bowl, their fans crowd the stands. When the Eagles play poorly, the team's famously cruel supporters still crowd the stands. Only they boo their players, pick fights and harass opposing fans. Their old field, Veterans Stadium, even had a court and an on-duty judge in its basement during the season.
They've been called passionate and they've been called classless, but if you're selling tickets or merchandise you don't really care. Eagles fans are the most loyal in the NFL, based on attendance variance and ticket sale waiting lists.
According to Wikipaedia (for what it's worth):
Some local media have criticized portions of the fan base, call them "aggressive, drunken louts with a penchant for harassing women."
Uh, yeah. That's part of the fun. Harass away. And who doesn't want a frosty one at the arena? As for louts, well, that's just the way of the general Philadelphia population. You wouldn't want to execute cultural genocide, would you?
Some Eagles fans have been involved in a series of high-profile incidents of rowdy behavior, including:
-- Bounty Bowl II, where a barrage of snowballs and batteries from the stands forced police to escort Dallas Cowboys head coach Jimmy Johnson off the field.
What they're not telling you is that Governor Rendell instigated Bounty Bowl I by betting a fan $200 he couldn't hit a player with a snowball.
-- "all-out debauchery" at the November 10, 1997, game against the San Francisco 49ers, featuring a fan with a flare gun, a large brawl on an upper level, and an Eagles fan being mauled because his friend was wearing a New York Giants jacket; all leading to six arrests and 269 ejections from the stadium, as well as a ban on beer sales for the remainder of the season and the introduction of famous "Eagles Court" in the stadium's basement.
What they're not telling you here is that the 700 level tickets are the most sought after in the city. And isn't it cool that you can be fined or sentenced without the inconvenience of going downtown.
-- cheering after watching Cowboys wider receiver Michael Irvin suffer a career-ending injury that required him to be removed from the field in an ambulance.
Yeah. And we regularly boo our own players.
It is said that the move in 2003 to the new Lincoln Financial Field fixed some of these behaviors. Well, what about the guy who puked on purpose on a little girl?
And you wonder why it's no big deal that we have a convicted felon as a star quarterback? Hey, he's good.
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