Concert Attire

During my high school and college years, I attended dozens of concerts. I've always loved listening to live music. Since college, I'm lucky if I see a concert once every two years. Tonight, I'm going to see Lady Gaga.  I'm getting excited, and am once again facing the age-old question: What am I going to wear?

When attending a Lady Gaga concert, attention must be paid to one's wardrobe. Her fans are very creative and theatrical. I certainly don't want to show up dressed like Meg Griffin. While considering the possibilities, it reminded me how much I've always loved getting dressed up to go to concerts--and then I remembered one concert in particular. Of course I'm going to tell you about it, but first: a little background information:

To appreciate this story, I need to introduce you to my 10th grade biology teacher. She was considered a beast by many. A former Army soldier, she was hardened by her years in the military and her time spent overseas fighting in the first Gulf War. She never, ever smiled, and on the first day of school let us know that she already hated us. In case there was any doubt. Sitting among my classmates, many of whom were mumbling the word "bitch" under their breath, a fire lit inside me. I have a strange need to please authority figures. Earning an "A" in her class, along with gaining her respect and acceptance would be my primary goal this semester. By Christmas, Mrs. H. was gonna like me. She would be my Everest.

I accomplished my mission. She loved me.

Over a year later, I'm going to a concert with my best friend. Let's say it's the Matchbox 20 concert. They're playing at the Amphitheater, and so we park a few streets away and are making our way through the Applebee's parking lot towards the main entrance. I know, that sounds sketchy, but trust me when I tell you that "through the Applebee's parking lot" is a totally valid point of entry. I'm dressed to the nine's for the occasion: an Express black cropped tube top (with the optional spaghetti straps), low-rise hip hugger Mudd jeans, and Candie's platform sandals. Not to be outdone, my bestie was in a halter top and mini skirt. So there we were, bonafide jail bait, struttin' that ass through the Applebee's parking lot. I bet you can't guess who is also in the Applebee's parking lot at that exact moment, taking her daughter to dinner: Mrs. H. What a pleasant surprise!

"Samantha?" Mrs. H. asks with a puzzled expression. She's never seen me decked out in my finery.

"Hi, Mrs. H!", I wave with enthusiasm. I am so happy to see her!

"Samantha! Does your mother know you're wearing that outfit?"

"Oh, Mrs. H," waving my hand dismissively, "my mother bought me this outfit!"

Mrs. H. gasped and hurriedly ushered her daughter inside the restaurant, as if she were trying to shield her pre-teen from my exposed midriff. I had completely misread her look of horror as one of mock-horror. I always do that. My It's A Wonderful Life Violet Bick, "Oh this old thing? Well I only wear it when I don't care how I look!" moment just blew up in my face.

Excuse me, but I was a good girl and an honor roll student, and if my mama let me out of the house in that outfit, I don't think anybody else should have an opinion about it. Seventeen-year-old Samantha had a 25-inch waist and was celebrating the moment.

After that, Mrs. H. didn't like me. Between classes, she would stand in the hallway and monitor the students as they changed classes, and was always questioning my mini skirt or plunging neckline. She even took issue with my "conservative" clothes! I never thought my clothes were inappropriate, but my interpretation of the dress code was like the proverbial tree in the forest: "If I'm showing a lot of leg, but the boys still don't notice me, is it a dress code violation?"  I had to re-route my path from chemistry to algebra, taking two unnecessary flights of stairs while wearing five inch platform heels, just to avoid being hassled. It was great for my calves, but I always arrived to Algebra class late (and feeling winded).

All that being said, I still don't know what I'm wearing to Lady Gaga, but it will be considerably more subdued than my past outfit choices.

Wanna See Robinson's Nursery?

I finished decorating Robinson's room months ago, but I intended to share it with all of you as part of my 101 Things in 1001 Days project:

5. Finish decorating the baby's nursery

We didn't set out to create a theme, but along the way it evolved into a sort of retro room. We filled the room with pieces passed down through our family and flea market finds, and decorated with toys and gifts that belonged to family members and had been saved for decades: a ceramic dog container that held flowers given when my grandmother was born; my mother's cowboy boots; my dad's building blocks, my brother's racecars, my Disney stuffed animals. It made the space feel familiar, comforting and special, and signified the generations of people welcoming Robinson to our family. I believe it was very "green" of me as well to repurpose so many items we already owned. I really cut down on my carbon footprint with this room.

Robinson's nursery: the reupholstered glider my mom once sat in while rocking me to sleep, a Bombay Company accent table from the 1990's that was once in my parents' home. 

The only new furniture purchase: A Pottery Barn Kids crib with custom bedding.

Custom bedding created by my mom.

My childhood dresser from the 1980's, doubling as a changing table, a ZGallerie mirror from my parents' house in the 2000's.

A grouping of some of my favorite family and childhood photos. The frames once hung on my parents' kitchen wall (mid-1990's). The top center photo is of my grandfather, Robinson's namesake.

 This is our flea market find: a telephone table circa 1950's that my mom repainted and upholstered.

 Ikea shelving (a new purchase) holds keepsakes: the teddy bear I gave Jarred when he was born, my mom's cowboy boots, my grandfather's old cigar box (he used them to keep his receipts and important documents organized), my brother's He-Man and racecars, Steve's rubix cube, my Samantha bobblehead.

A bookshelf from Steve's old apartment holds toys and books, including my brother's lava lamp, a frog golfer Steve gave me when we first began dating, and several stuffed animals purchased from Disney World in the 1980's.

This One's For Steve

I stumbled upon this article over at Stuff White People Like. You can read it on their site, but I'm re-posting it here for your convenience. Hopefully I'm not breaking any laws, since I'm giving credit to the source. We'll see. I instantly knew that this article would speak to Steve. He has a special kind of contempt for the Dallas men who wear Ed Hardy shirts. This is gonna make his day.

Stuff White People Like #124: Hating People Who Wear Ed Hardy

"Often it can be easier to find common ground with a white person by talking to them about something you both hate. Discussing things you both like might lead to an argument over who likes it more or who liked it first. Clearly, the safest route is mutual hatred. When choosing to talk about something that white people hate, it’s best to choose something that will allow white people to make clever comments or at the very least feel better about themselves. Currently, the easiest way to do that is to ask a white person for their thoughts on people who wear Ed Hardy.

Ed Hardy is a clothing company that makes a wide range of expensive t-shirts, hoodies, and jeans. These clothes are notable for their use of elements from classic tattoo design such as skulls, hearts, and dragons. On the surface, the use of the words “classic” “tattoo” and “t-shirt” would seem like a logical fit for white people, but it is not. White people hate these clothes unilaterally and it is advised that you merely accept that at face value. If you were to ask a white person to explain why a regular size dragon logo is ok but one that goes around the neck is not, you would be trapped in a long and fruitless conversation.

To put this in proper perspective, Ed Hardy is so hated by white people that it cannot be worn ironically. This is no small feat. As it stands, the only other entries in this category are Nazi Uniforms, Ku Klux Klan Robes, and self-tanner.

Since you cannot in good conscience have an Ed Hardy themed party, the best way to make use of this white hatred is to give your stories a little more appeal to white people.

For example, if you take the reasonable but not compelling story: “I got cut off in traffic this morning and when I honked the guy gave me the finger,” and replace it with: “I got cut off in traffic this morning by this guy in an Ed Hardy shirt. I honked and then he gave me the finger!” The story will become sixty percent more interesting to white people because it allows them to make a witty response like: “I guess that douche bag had to get to a UFC party or a nightclub event he was promoting.”

Follow this up with a laugh, a high five, and a compliment about the acceptable shirt the white person is wearing and you will find yourself with a new friend."