In the Mood for Retro

I'm a huge fan of modern, contemporary style.  I also like old things.  There's something classic and unique about them.  From vintage jewelry to furniture, I'm all about a great find.  

Modern Home magazine recently did a feature piece on a Miami-based designer, Doug Meyer.  He renovated a 1950s classic ranch style home and let it bleed retro.  His trick?  He painted mid-century modern pieces with lacquer paint--fun colors like orange and grass green.  The lacquer paint gives it a new, crisp clean finish, if done with a steady hand.  Remember those traditional-looking chairs from your grandma's 1960s dinning room?  He recovered them with a plastic-like vinyl green fabric and painted the chairs the same color.

I just love the creative mix of old and new, but I also love the strain it takes off the environment.  With a little imagination, we can all be a bit greener and learn to see things a little differently.  

Love the shabby chic look?  Look for an older piece of furniture with good lines.  French country or even older American are good curvy styles that look great when painted.  Try sanding off the paint in areas to give it that rustic, shabby look, and finish with an oil seal.  All it takes is a little sweat effort, some imagination, and time.  You'll save money, help save the environment, feel good about a job well done.  

Then again, you could always hire someone to do it for you!

Better Chance of Being Struck by Lightning than Attacked by a Shark

Apparently Oklahoma City gets a double whammy.  It may see its fair share of lightning strikes, but now, the shark attack is on!  Jessica Alba is on the hunt in Oklahoma City.  She is staying downtown during the filming of The Killer Inside Me with co-stars Kate Hudson and Casey Affleck.  Trying to bring a little green awareness to Oklahoma, Alba apparently ticked off the Oklahoma City Parks and Recreation Department.  She glued a bunch of posters with pictures of great white sharks, absent of any verbiage about the significance.  The posters are from a conservation group, White Mike, which Alba is involved in, trying to increase shark awareness. 

Quite a sight on the streets of Oklahoma City, about as far away from an ocean as it gets in this grand old country.  The city is calling it vandalism.  Jessica glued the posters to walls, utility boxes, and even a United Way sign downtown.  The glue is apparently very good glue, and city workers are having a hard time dismantling her "public art."

So a Hollywood star comes to Oklahoma City and decides to express herself by placing giant posters of sharks all over the city?  Perhaps Alba is trying to get into her role a little better, really letting go of the killer inside her.  Personally, I am excited to hear that the filming of a major flick is happening right around the corner, but, Oklahoma City officials are calling her a "high maintenance guest."  She didn't exactly make a good impression, did she?  A United Way sign? One of the biggest non-profit organizations in the world?  Covered with an evil shark poster?  

It seems that Jessica felt our landlocked city needed a little piece of the sea.  One thing is for sure, objective achieved: shark awareness has definitely infiltrated into Oklahoma City.  The semi-scared-of-sharks Sooners are now deathly afraid of the carnivorous beasts and have cancelled all water-front resort vacations.  One resident says he prefers to take his chances with lightning.  

Proud to be American

I, like many Americans, have always been under the impression that the French hate us. Sure, the French government voices a strong opinion against American politics, but do the French people really dislike Americans?

Today is June 7, 2009, and the small towns off the Normandy coast of France are still celebrating the liberation of their towns in 1944. For four days now, I have toured towns like Ste Marie Eglis, Bayeux, and Saint Lo where the French are commemorating the brave fight that started with a treacherous landing on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th. It is thought that this could be the last big anniversary in which American vets will be able to make the trip over to France. World War II survivors are passing rapidly, and the ones that do make the trip are battling every health problem imaginable to keep their old hearts beating.

The local French approach these veterans they see hobbling around, dressed in their original uniforms, and thank them profusely. Many ask them to sign something, a picture of their town on liberation day or a journal account from a relative during the time. These vets are treated like celebrities, and here, Americans are heroes.

I spoke with a few men that landed on the beaches on D-Day in the past few days, and I saw the destruction wrought on the ancient buildings of the area. On this anniversary, some of the men chose to be near a church, or a town square, where they stood holding a French flag on liberation day 65 years ago. Veteran Marion Gray embraced me and quoted text from his published accounts of his experiences. As a soldier and a medic, he did things that a surgeon today cannot perform legally. He told me that for 50 years, he never spoke of the war; no one even knew that he was ever in the service. That’s a common thread that weaves through these men. They are only recently, at the urging of their relatives, telling their stories.

The question that has been on my mind for days is what made these men willingly risk their lives for the liberation of France. D-Day was a massacre, and many knew it before they arrived on the beach. The Germans looked down from a bluff, the perfect place for defense, onto approaching soldiers, many of whom never even made it across the sand. Now, my intention is not to get into the details of the day, exactly what happened, strategy, and outcome. Instead, I wonder what was going through the minds of these men. Marion told me that before he unloaded from his carrier onto the LST boat, his commanding officer told the crew, “Look to your left and look to your right. You may not see this man again.”

And the men still charged. Back then, officers had their ranks painted on their helmets, and the Germans targeted them first. So these American men, without direction, took it upon themselves—loaded with willpower and fueled by an anger told and pounded into them—to carry out their mission. They were boys, turned quickly into men. For most, this was their first time away from home. And this is how they met the world…with bloodshed.

I don’t know what kept these men motivated to liberate a country they’d never seen and people they’d never met. Perhaps it was the motivation to stay alive. Perhaps it was human compassion.

Twenty-five firework shows lined the beaches of Normandy to celebrate what the Allied Forces did during those bloody days. I stood right under one, sparks landing on the streets near my feet. Needless to say, it wasn’t shameful to be an American.

Girls, They Wanna Have Fun

The eighties are back.  I admit that the return of stretch pants and side pony tails didn't exactly light my fire, but I think it only took a few aesthetic details to send me swinging--swinging back to my birth era, that is.

It first hit me in the store of all stores.  You might know it: Forever 21, the fashion spot where the threads on your treads start unraveling before you get out the door.  I picked up a short hot pink t-shirt dress with a wild, 80s rock silhouette printed on the front.  I shoved it back into the rack as quickly as possible.  After all, I used to sit and flip through photo albums of my parents and their friends, and giggle about how ridiculous they looked.

But soon, the 80s started to grow on me.  Talking to a friend about my new fondness, she said, "If you wore it the first time, you can't wear it the second time."  I was a kid, so it doesn't count.

For me, I think the clothes are a part of a bigger whole.  There's an elusive endearment hanging over the entire era.

Perhaps it's the music.  During adolescence, I was always self-conscious about dancing.  I never knew what I had in me.  But, now when I hear the twisty, jumpy, 80s tunes, my adrenaline gets going and I can't stand still.  I spin and twist until I notice that my heels have been piercing the skin on my big toe.  I feel a rhythm in my soul that moves me, both in a literal sense and a figurative, more mental state.  

Of course I've heard these songs since, well, early childhood, but I've only recently developed a real curiosity for the sounds and the inspiration behind them.  The music of the 80s screams fun, and I can't help but think that the sounds must have inspired the 80s "look," or vice versa. What I used to see as a ridiculous style, I now see as too much fun.  The colors, the childlike hairstyles, the ribbons, and even the way tight clothing shows off a body you're proud to own. It looks like a blast because it was!

When I put on the clothes (in small doses) I feel like I'm stepping into the great big party that was the 80s.  The mix of bright colors and the whimsical patterns inspire something creative in me. 

So now I can't stop dancing.  I can't wait until Friday and Saturday, when I can put on a tight dress and blue eye shadow and, well, dance.  I've even gotten my, shall I say, hesitant, boyfriend to enjoy dancing, where it used to be something he did for me out of obligation.  

One of my best friends, Heidi, and I were were sharing a moment together at the end of her father's memorial service.  We were looking at a picture of her mother, who died at the close of the 80s, singing in her father's band, probably sometime near 1984.  She was wearing the most 80s outfit you can dream up--stretchy and poofy all in the same ensemble. My friend looked at me and said, "Wasn't she cool?"

Yes, she was.  She was the epitome of the 80s, and in may ways the "woman" I think I try to be when I step into stretchy pants and wild colors.  I feel lighter.  I'm swept over by a "can do" attitude.  Nothing is beyond me.  I finally let go.