Out With The Old, In With The Old

In preparation for this month's GNO (Girls Night Out) which is an 80's themed shindig, I have spend this past week coming to grips with the fact that I have been dressing in 80's attire since, well ... the 80's.  Before you starting high fiving each other thinking old Sally girl is totally rad and sending me mad props for my coolness, let me preface this blog by mentioning that they are not the "cool" 80's clothes.  Ha Ha, Nope.  More like a Wham/Golden Girls clothing line.  The discovery started off with coolots and have zigzagged their way up to the shirts, makeup and hair; back down again to the shoes.  Everything I need for tonight can be found in my supposedly present day closet. 


Unfortunately finding a time capsule in my closet is not the worst of my problems, apparently I am so crazy about my dated clothing line that I gravitate back to it in the local Thrift Store and buy the damn things all over again!  What kind of sicko 80's diva am I?  I am totally not kidding.  For the past 2 days I have scoured the local thrift and dollar stores; purchasing a few items for my party tonight and have been super excited about my finds.  Last night while showing off my bounty of 80's coolness to my husband, he calmly makes an observation that some of the items look vaguely familiar.  Familiar like:  The ones you just took to Goodwill last month during your monthly I hate all my clothes meltdown.  I kid you not.  It's bad enough I had the freaking clothes still hanging in my closet 20 years past their prime and still being worn BUT I purchased them for the SECOND time and brought them back into my home to put on my "not 1980's" body!!!  Who freaking does that?  Stunned, I began putting away the 80's makeup I had also just purchased for the party only to find it's mate already chilling out in my makeup bag.  Dear Sweet Baby Jesus.  Unless you are a Drag Queen or 5 years old, there really isn't a legitimate excuse for owning frosted pink lipstick after 1982.  Come to find out, that is except if you are me.  

Nevertheless, I am super excited about partying it up Madonna style tonight with my gal pals.  Some of us have been friends for 5, 10, 15+ years and others have been since junior high, back in their true 80's heyday.   I'll be showing up in all my 80's diva glory with a six pack of Purple Passion and the coolest Ray Baners the Dollar Store has to offer.  Maybe I am destined to only be attracted to the tackiest grandma style of only one decade which happens to be the 1980's, and at this point I'm leaning very strongly on that theory.  But it can always be worse.  I could be a nudist with frosted pink lipstick.


Now how would you explain that to the neighbors?

Just Call Me Bruce Lee

It's safe to say that I am not a violent person and I truly enjoy people and their company but in the past few weeks my actions have convinced me that not only do I have a brain tumor but I am also 92.6% sure I was a Bruce Lee Martial Arts Master in a Pre-Sally life, life.  The examples are numerous with the most damning evidence being my overwhelming urge to karate chop any poor creature that does not move at my preferred speed, talks too much in a checkout lane or breathes too much.  My patience is hanging by a noodle people.

I am a terrible person and I know this but it cannot be helped.  Just last week this sweet little old creepy old little old fella was trying to be funny by telling bubble gum wrapper jokes while we were standing in the 5 hour checkout lane at Walmart.  Now let me preface this by saying I purposely do without a cart on most visits so I will not buy unnecessary crap; this morning was no exception.  While I'm standing there in the "Express Line" with an armload of private lady things, Mr. Last Comic Standing was un-charming our lane full of pissed off people with jokes a kindergartner wouldn't laugh at.  I know this sounds awful but after 7 agonizing minutes of "Knock Knock" and "What Do You Get When ..." I found myself rounding back my shoulders, rolling by neck around and hopping up and down like Daniel-Son getting limber to preform a Karate Kid Crane Kick.

It all comes back to Bruce Lee.   A smart mouth response from one of the kids could very easily result in a swift-kick to the legs and I have no problem breaking out some "Enter The Dragon" moves when my family chooses to not give my iconic meltdowns their due respect.  Chop Chop people!  I don't know where it comes from but I try hard to be pleasant but after a few minutes of a no thank you or ha ha laugh, I really need folks to back off.  Not long ago I had to threaten a lady who was holding up the Diary Queen line with a Kung Pao Chicken to the neck look if she did not hurry up and place her order.  For the love of Mr. Miyagi!  It's freaking ice cream!

I know my kids think I am mental but this insane Hong Kong Fooey behavior and addiction to rice is only another symptom of my tumor of which I have no control.  People should fear me but alas they do not.  It must be my curly hair and angelic face.  How could they possibly know that under my cool exterior a Karate Master lies in wait?