A woman in a man's store.

I wanted to post this as a follow up to my entry on “glamping” from my other blog.

Last night Mike and I went on a date: thrift stores, dinner, and a movie. In between Goodwill and Salvation Army Mike noticed the massive sign of Gander Mountain glowing in the night.

In attempt to win some girl friend points, I volunteered to go in with him. After stepping two feet into the bright fluorescent man’s world, and discovering a pile of small bottles containing lady deer piss, I realized I was a little out of my element.

I live in Wisconsin, and many of my aunts and cousins cross “gender boundaries” and engage in the male typified activities of hunting, fishing, and camping. I myself always did enjoy camping, but I failed archery in gym class and never wore blaze orange.

So I decided to spend my time photographing my discoveries.

There were actually as many women in the store as there were men. A lot of the merchandise had transformed its violent purpose with a bright shade of “breast cancer awareness” pink.

Pink wasn’t the only woman-targeted marketing ploy.

There were times when the merchandise seemed a bit subversive, and once or twice it seemed as though I was in some kind of sex shop. I was like, is that a camouflaged gimp suit?

And of course the whole time I was thinking, I totally need to blog about this.  But as a warning to everyone else out there: taking pictures with a bright pink i-Phone while clunking around in high heeled cowboy boots and shimmery lipstick is a really great way to get noticed in a store like Gander Mountain.

Glamping in Milan

I posted a miniature memoir to my fashion & style blog.
Although I didn't want to repost it in its entirety, I thought I should still share it with these readers.

I explain my personal relationship with the "low culture" of the midwest, and how it is being appropriated by the "high culture" of the world's thriving fashion metropolises.

I talk about mullets and hunting and haute couture.

Enjoy!

I kind of miss getting crap faced.

Do you want to know why teen-agers are always the most sullen, awkward people at family gatherings? Because they’re too old to be intoxicated by the bright shiny lights and presents, and too young to get drunk. There’s this growing up moment when you realize it’s 11:00 am, and someone is passing out hot buttered rums.  They casually ask if you want one. Now, finally, you understand why this is fun for the adults. They had to stay up until four in the morning wrapping gifts (far more expensive than the ones their parents gave them), and the reward is getting kind of lit in the A.M.  You get kind of buzzed and eat all this great food.  Suddenly you are noticing how delightfully kitschy your overly opinionated uncle’s moustache is.  It’s Christmas and you actually have fun for the first time since you grew boobs and started worrying about being cool.

Yeah, I am from Wisconsin, and I have a lot of relatives. My family tree has so many roots and branches it looks like a bucket of fishing bait wearing a giant clown wig. (That is not be a metaphor for the quality of my genetics, I just couldn’t think of any other image with as many twisting, growing lines.)  Every year I have a minimum of 5 distinct Family Christmas Celebrations, one of which requires the use of a Days Inn Convention Center. The older women get drunk, talk loudly, and bask in the feast their working hands have wrought.

The first time I got drunk, I was sipping good whiskey around a bonfire in the unused field of a cemetery. Me and the other Academic Decathlon team members and a few yearbook staff. The nerdiest kids at East High felt as cool as a group of misfits out of a John Hughes film. Then there was college, and I became a connoisseur of heavy beers and fine silver tequilas. I got A’s in all my English courses, because really what do you think English majors do? We have long conversations and even longer parties. My early twenties was spent being brilliant, feeling brilliant.

And then I got sick, and a little bit older. I quit drinking.  I got a little boring.

Now, make no mistake: I understand alcoholism. One of the most painful experiences of my adult life involved a “break up” with my closest friend, whose alcoholism had made him a greater burden than a new puppy. New puppies are a lot of fun, but god they are exhausting. And I was the one cleaning up after the puppy, while everyone else just rubbed its ears. Yeah, clearly I’ve been there. But a lot of people aren’t alcoholics; they work hard and enjoy a good hot buttered rum before noon on Christmas.

And god, do I miss that. I had a few glasses of champagne on my Birthday, and I danced around for hours on a cloud. But for two days afterward my blood was replaced with lead. I was not the same invincible college student, taking shots of tequila with her dad after her grandfather’s funeral.

Alcohol isn’t necessary. Neither is whip cream on your pie, but it can be nice. It makes things feel special. And come on, for many responsible and healthy adults, it’s fun. It has transformed many otherwise uninteresting situations into the best of parties, the best of youth.

Now I eat ice cream and go to bed early. Lately I’ve been slowly walking across the bottom of the public pool of life. I can’t help but be nostalgic for times that were never simpler, but always lively. Maybe diving into the pool got me here, but it was a lot more fun than dipping my toe.

It's what all the best poets do, when they are young.