Mistakes were made and I blame 1979

13 year old me on the far left (but clearly not far enough left).
1979...I hate you.

In a post earlier this month, I wrote about my Aunt Robin who succumbed to the heinous monster that is Alzheimer's Disease. With plans now in place for her memorial, my cousin Leigh requested some family photos so that they can be displayed at the memorial. To help me with that project, she sent me the gem that I've included in this post so that I would have a flavor of what she was looking for.

In looking at the picture, one phrase keeps coming to my mind over and over again, "Mistakes were made," and to be fair, those mistakes were made by me. I've not been shy about sharing my long history of awkward adolescent horror that was captured on film and this will be no different. So let's parse this train wreck.

First a little historical context for you. Picture it, if you will...it's November 1979 and for the first time in many, many years, the Lyons/Kramer families have gathered from Florida, where my grandparents lived and Arizona, where we lived, in Durham, North Carolina for a Thanksgiving reunion. The turkey would have been evidence of the time of year but given that its beige color blends nearly perfectly with my suit, it's more than a little hard to see the bird.

To celebrate that long awaited reunion, I chose to showcase my own poorly developing sense of no style by sporting a three piece suit/explosion of beige. The short sleeve dress shirt and tie combo was a minor league error but an indication of things to come. I mean who was I? Sipowicz? Also, the tie, which looks like it was sewn into the suit for convenience but wasn't (I swear!), was of my own choosing. The jacket, mercifully unseen here, as I recall (but remember repressed memories may not be 100% accurate), had brown faux leather patches that every painfully awkward, late in puberty adolescent boy wants to have in order to pull off that "I'm a professor" look that was sure to make him a hit with the ladies. The best part about this suit was that it was made of, wait for it...corduroy. This was 1979 corduroy which meant it when you walked the corduroy rubbed together loudly enough to make noise as well as emit smoke from the friction. Awesome!

As I was trying to achieve that professorial look, it was clear that I was trying to adult the heck out of this event. I can tell that from my expression captured in the picture. You may see it and think, 'That's what happens when you try to pull a face in a family photo.' I say nay. I recall trying to capture something of a je ne sais quoi attitude about the gathering and you can see how that worked out for me, which is to say not well. Speaking of expressions, I've got to hand it to my sister for not hiding her feelings that day at all. When I shared this picture with her, she said, "Ha ha! I was mad at somebody here." I think she may have had a side order of rage with Thanksgiving dinner. To be fair, this has given us more than a few laughs in the past few days.

Now you may be wondering where I procured the suit featured in today's mini-lesson in my "Learn From My Mistakes" series. I've blocked it out, if I'm honest, but I'm going to go out on a limb and blame the good people of JC Penney and their 1978-1979 catalog. Methinks the travesty in beige I was wearing was found on page 247 of that catalog. Looking back on those catalogs is an invitation to some kind of post-traumatic psychotic event. That said, if you want to bust a gut laughing about that catalog, you need to read this right now. This legendary post is now nearly 10 years old but unlike the catalog that it skewers, it has not aged one day. It's genius!

Since 1979's epic fail, I've learned a thing or two. I've tried to avoid self-emolating by not wearing corduroy. I've steadfastly avoided short sleeves and ties, with the exception of two years on a bike in Miami as a missionary. You try trotting around Little Havana in long sleeves in August...I've learned that you can survive the horrors of your teenage years, no matter how awkward, and find someone who thinks you're pretty darn OK (it should be noted that the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML is a saint). I've learned family forgives things like that a beige suit.

To my family that I'll be seeing in a few weeks at Robin's memorial, rest assured, the suit will not be there. You're welcome.

Hell-o-ween

Oh, the humanity!

My attempts at participation in the uniquely American celebration of Halloween, wherein adult woman do their level best to dress as tartly as possible and adult men try to work through their body dysmorphia issues, have been pretty lame throughout my adult years. It's just never been one of those things I've been able to get behind and that's probably a good thing.

Tonight will be no different. There will be no dressing up. We're here in Connecticutistan this year, unlike last year where we were behind the Zion Curtain and I got to accompany my grandson on his search for treats. It will be a quiet night here in our cul-de-sac.

It was a very different story twenty eight years ago at a Halloween party in Provo, Utah. I shared the story behind "The Blisters" in this post from 2014. Read it if you must want a refresher on the details that led to this homage / parody to the Sister side of the #mormonmafia. I suspect Lou Dobbs would recoil in horror were the three Blisters to show up on his doorstep. That said, it would have been a crowning achievement for the #mormonmafia. Interwebs, where were you in 1988!?

Suffice to say, it will be a far quieter night here than it was all those years ago. I look at that picture and laugh and am grateful for really good times. At the same time, I fear that if the three of us recreated that picture today, I'd actually fill out that dress better.

I gotta go for a run.

Summer

Simsbury, CT 07/02/16 645PM
#nofilter

Summer.

What a magical word! As a child, summer meant a reprieve from the drudgery of the school year. It meant bike rides down to the park or over to Smitty's for a slice of pizza. It meant days spent in the pool. As I got a little older, summer meant Mexico, Lake Powell, my first serious crush and my first kiss (not necessarily in that order). On the down side, it meant Scout Camp but only once, because let's face it, even thirty eight years ago the BSA and I had a pretty deep antipathy which remains delightfully unresolved to this day. It also meant my first real job (retail chump on Scottsdale's kitschy 5th Avenue - trust me, you'll never get the AZ 5th Avenue confused with 5th Avenue in New York. Never!).

Then the summer of 1984 brought my first trip to Europe and my first semester of university. It was one of the best summer's of my life. Those were truly carefree days. When your biggest concerns were how much plaid could you get away before you got kicked out of the Testing Center and would your mousse canister (because 80's hair) run out before the end of the night, it's a safe assumption that your life was pretty carefree. And it was.

Fast forward a few, who am I kidding, a lot of years. Three children later and now two grandchildren and somehow summer still evokes magic for me. Whether it's true or not, the pace of work seems just a little less frenetic. The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML are able to do a little bit more as we please. Walks along the river in our neighborhood or walks along a cliff in Newport, RI's swankier neighborhoods? You bet. Open mic night at our local deli / pizza joint. Check check. Taking in some amazing blue skies in advance of a symphony's outdoor performance followed by fireworks with some really good friends? Why yes. That was Saturday night's activity.

Of course, now that I'm singing the praises of summer, Mother Nature being the she-hag that she is in these parts, will no doubt turn on us and things will get wicked hot and muggy here pronto. That's how she rolls. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy summer like it's 1984 all over again. In the immortal words of Ric Ocasek of The Cars from their 1984 hit, "Magic":

Summer, it turns me upside down

Summer, summer, summer

It's like a merry go round

I'd say that's a merry go round ride worth taking. For your retro pleasure, here's "Magic" - 

Meandering through Memory Lane

It looks nothing like it did when I graduated
thirty two years ago

The last few days found me in Arizona for the great annual event known as Mom's Tax Roundup. It can be as fun as it sounds, believe me. This year, though, we were totally on point. I don't know if it's her previously mentioned "Over the Rainbow (or as I like to call it, 'No I really am dying this time and I mean it!') Project but things were a pinnacle of organization this go round. As a result, I had a little more time than usual before meeting with our accountant (P.S. if you are in Arizona, you should be doing business with him). So that time allowed me to meander through Memory Lane, something I don't normally do while I'm back in the state where I spent my childhood.

High School
For whatever reason, I decided to go see my high school. To say that it has changed in the thirty two years since I graduated was an understatement. I hardly recognized it and I suppose that's a good thing. High school for me was not great (I've posted some of the pictures of myself from those years and that's the least of the reasons why it can be described as not great). In the immortal words of another one of America's wisest philosophers, Ferris Bueller, "It's a little childish and stupid, but then, so is high school." Nailed it, Ferris. Since it was Spring Break (because Arizona students needs a break from the horrific winters they endure), I was able to hang around about without looking, well, pervy. I  about died when I saw this on the administration building (a building that did not exist during years there):

"A+ School of Excellence" - let me assure you that excellence was the furthest thing from the mind of both the students of the august Class of 1984 and its administration. Somehow, like most of us, I survived the house of horrors that is high school and I was glad that I left smiling as I drove away after seeing it again after so many years.

Spring Training
As a baseball fan, growing up we got to a few Spring Training games, and I've been able to get to a few more of the years as an adult. A few years ago, we took my late father to a Cubs game and one of the best pictures we have is of him standing with Ronnie Woo Woo. I don't think Dad knew who Ronnie was but it's a great picture just the same. So with the Cubs playing the White Sox this past Saturday, I decided to relive that memory as well. Armed with a cheap ticket off the StubHub on a glorious day, I took in the game alone (baseball games and my mom aren't an ideal match) until another memory literally manifested itself in the row in front of me.

See, I told you it was an amazing day!

At the bottom of the first inning, a woman comes to the row in front of me and blurts out my name. I knew instantly who it was, in spite of the fact that by our calculus, it's probably been 30+ years since we've seen each other. She used to 'babysit' us! Now I should say that there's only a three year age gap between us but still she had the hard task of 'babysitting' my siblings and I when my parents would go out of town before I got a drivers license. Thanks to my incessant posting in the lead up to the game and her son's eagle eye, they found me. We had a great time talking and getting caught up. So funny that now we are both grandparents!

The last time she stayed with us, as I recall, I was pretty annoyed because I was pretty close to at least having my driving permit and I could not understand why a babysitter was required while my parents were gone (again, I wasn't legal to drive). Anyway, one Sunday morning we were driving to go get religion and this poor girl, Shawna, was behind the wheel of our Suburban when the power steering failed and failed big time. She was struggling mightily to turn this land yacht and I was having none of it in terms of jumping to her aid. I was in the front seat (the boss bench seats only years for the Suburban) and still seething that I couldn't drive, I was in no mood to help. I'm (mildly) proud to say that I did decide to help her turn it and we got it into a parking lot. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember that but that memory had me laughing through the rest of the game, which the Cubs won (please, please, please be a good omen for this season)!

We live in a small world. The likes of the Instagram and the Facebooks make it even smaller. Those forums serve as a "Trapper Keeper" for the memories we capture today. It was good to meander through a slew of memories this weekend. I'm still smiling.

Oh my...

The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML has embarked on a massive project to digitize the myriad photographs that we have sitting around, albeit neatly in our storage room, in photo albums. I'm not kidding when I say it's massive and my wife has thrown herself into it with her usual tenacity and laser-like focus on getting the J-O-B done.

These pictures chronicle our more than twenty-six years together and the family that we've created. It's been a lot of fun to see all these images again. The memories are wonderful! We've laughed a lot as we've relived them. Tucked in these pictures, however, are some not so fun images. These are images from my own awkward growing up years that remind us, painfully so, just what a cruel mistress puberty can be. The choice is now yours to take a look into my past...

6th Grade 

I'd like to thank the creators of the 'Peter Brady Stone Cold Cool Pre-Teen Boy' collection for my shirt and to the Wright Brothers for inspiring the designers of the shirt to make a wing structurecollar that would allow me to take flight, literally, during dust storms in Arizona.

8th Grade

Because apparently I mistook my last year before high school as an opportunity to impress on everyone that I had a future career as a lawyer/banker/insurance salesman.

High School Junior Prom

So you would think that things would have gotten better for me in high school. Yeah, me too, but they didn't. Glasses version 4.0, which darkened in the sunlight, did nothing for the 'cool' factor. Nothing. The plaid was a nice touch though, or at least that's what was dictated by the powers that be in 1983.

Senior Photo

This photo has appeared in the blog before. Just a man-boy in his shorty shorts, helmet hair, bleached polo shirt, and his water ski. Nothing says 'I'm a proud high school graduate!' than this. Nothing. People, seriously, this was one of three in the "High School Graduate" series for which I posed. 

Freshman Year of College

Finally, in my freshman year at university, it appears from this photo that I may have finally been able to slip free from the cruel clutches of teenage angst and its evil overseer, the previously mentioned puberty. From this picture, taken in the lobby of one of our dorms, which has long since been torn down (a dagger, a dagger to my heart!), me and the swirly faces were having a good time. There I was sockless, sporting a Swatch watch (one of many from the collection I had at the time), and a smile. I'm proud to say I think I was shaving four days a week at this point! Bottom line, I was still a dork, albeit a happy one.

A few years later, at that same university, I was now a happy, grown up dork, shaving every day, twice (take that puberty!) if I had to take a test late in the day at the Testing Center / Hall of Judgement. I would soon stumble across a beautiful young woman, who while we were dating would get a picture of me at the height of my awkward years from my mother, upon which Mom wrote, "If you can love him like this, you can love him any time" or something to that affect, and love me she did and still does.

I'm a better man because of that love. Heaven knows, I'm still a dork. And now, instead of my pictures being mucked up by the cruel mistress of puberty, I now am fighting the malevolent middle-age monster and all that means. I better go make sure I don't have some freaky hair protruding from my ear now. I'm out.