March 1, 2006

From The Mail Box 3: Dirty Drew

To: Mrs. Pankey
From: Anne Glamore
Re: Two Things: Book, Shirt

Mrs. Pankey,

Thanks so much for sending home books that do not deal with monkeys and are not easily memorized and chanted. It has been a great relief.

Also, I owe you an apology. I noticed this afternoon that Drew was wearing the same brown shirt he put on after his bath last night and slept in, and then I remembered that he wore that exact shirt to school yesterday. After intense questioning and the threat of withheld Goldfish, he admitted that he wore that shirt the day before yesterday, too.

I know you probably wonder how something like this could happen. I started to wonder the same thing, but I didn’t wonder very long, because I don’t actually focus on what my kids are wearing in the morning. I’m more interested in making sure they don’t drip syrup on my newspaper, which makes the pages hard to turn, or let the dog run out of the house where he’ll roam the neighborhood and frighten away the mailman, preventing timely delivery of my New Yorker.

Anyway, I know the shirt is a mess, and I’ve already confiscated it and hidden it in the depths of the laundry basket. I’ll try to do a better job of monitoring Drew’s appearance in the morning, and I’m sorry if he stank up your classroom.

Sincere apologies,

Anne Glamore

November 21, 2005

Let’s Flickr!

You might have thought that I was trying to be sexy in my last post. I was– just not in the way you probably imagine. You see, anyone can put on a pair of pink leopard print pajama bottoms and a well-padded black camisole and look “stunning” and “incredible” (your words). The compliments were certainly gratifying.

But what I was really proud of was not the content of the photo, but the fact that the photo made it onto the blog at all. It proves that I lucked out have mastered Flickr, the program that allowed me to post the picture in the first place. I’d been noticing bloggers near and far posting pictures to their sites using the service, and I decided it was time I availed myself of the new technology.

There was a time, not long ago, when my husband Bill would have been like you, and would have focused more on what was in the picture, rather than the existence of the picture. He thought those pajamas were pretty sexy, and he thoroughly enjoyed
watching me parade around in them during the show.
(I didn’t get to keep the pants, but I did find a reasonable facsimile called Snugglebutts. I love them. They are thicker and softer than the ones I modeled, but they have that undeniable jungle quality.)

Then one morning, I came into the kitchen wearing my leopard print Snugglebutts. Bill saw them and made that lecherous leopard purr that men make when they like what they see.

“Get a load of your mama in her leopard pants, boys!” he hollered.

Finn came over and peered at my pants closely.

“Actually, Dad, those look much more like jaguar spots than leopard spots. See how there’s sort of a spot within a spot? Leopards just have the one big spot. And jaguars don’t make that sound you just did. They make a distinct coughing sound.”

“They do?” I asked, pouring some coffee.

“Yep. Also, even though jaguars are part of the cat family, they actually like to swim,” he continued, as he opened the pantry and stared at the contents. “They don’t chase their prey, like cheetahs. They stalk their prey at night,” he added.

Bill and I looked at each other. I certainly didn’t want Bill playing grab-ass while making distinct coughing sounds. Suddenly the Snugglebutts didn’t seem so hot anymore. After Finn “Discovery Channel” Glamore ruined the allure of the pajamas, it didn’t take long for Bill to identify something else he found arousing.

As I spent more time blogging, I started using exotic words and phrases that hadn’t been heard in the Glamore house before. At first it was small things: “I’ve got to figure out how to link other URLs,” I’d mutter, or “Damn, the stat counter is disabled!”

Bill, whose computer knowledge is limited to the ability to get email, check the weather and surf to SI.com, would just look at me funny or ignore me completely.

Then I got serious about the blog, and so did my vocabulary.

“Honey, when I saved my post, TypePad only saved it in HTML, not in regular words, so I can’t read it,” I complained one night.

“I’m upgrading to a Plus account,” I announced later. “I can customize my colors and template.”

And then the Flickr talk started. I’d get into bed at night and say to Bill, “You know, honey, I think it’s time to get a Flickr account for my blog.”

The first time I said this, Bill got a funny look on his face like I was considering linking to a porn service to increase my traffic. Incredibly, once I explained the concept of Flickr to him, he still had that look on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s just so damn sexy the way you can do stuff on the computer. I don’t know my hard drive from my ass. And you’re just spouting off all these terms like it’s nothing. What was that code you were talking about the other night?” he asked.

“HTML?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “And you talked about a platform–”

“Moveable Type?” I asked.

“That’s it,” he said. “Say all those words again.”

“HTML, Moveable Type,” I repeated.

“And you know what all that stuff is and how it works?” he asked.

“Not really, but I use them everyday,” I answered. Then I leaned over and whispered in his ear,”Moveable Type, HTML, Flickr.”

“Man, that is hot,” he said. And then he made a jaguar-like move.

So you see, while all of you were admiring my “kicky” hairstyle (thanks!) and fake breasts (hooray for NuBra!), Bill and I were over here making googly eyes at each other over the fact that I’d finally Flickred.

Was it good for you?

November 19, 2005

Anne Glamore: Supermodel!

Some of you may recall that last spring I had an exciting experience– I modeled in a fashion show for one of my friends who owns a chic boutique in town. Let me make it very clear that I am not a model, I have never been a model, and I was tickled to death to get to play one for a day.

Last week, a local magazine came out, and there was a picture of me in it. It is the only known picture of Anne Glamore modeling (sleepwear, no less!) and I felt I had a duty to share it.

Before you view the exciting photo, you should read the story about when Dee called to ask me to participate in the show, and my resulting frantic preparations (or freak-out, as Bill would describe it) and then the story of the fashion show itself, which was quite amusing, except for the tornadic winds which interfered with my lip gloss.

I was not a completely nice person that day; someone like Amalah, for example, who shares my love of beauty products, and was in a situation like Mrs. Preggers, might have found my behavior at Meditation to have been despicable, and I would have a hard time disagreeing. But wow! the makeup was fabulous!

Once you’re up to date on the whole event, this picture will be a whole lot more meaningful…

November 16, 2005

Cleaning Out My Closet

“Do you wear this outside the house, or is it ‘exercise-wear’?” my sister asked, holding up a stretchy T-shirt festooned with a picture of the Eiffel Tower and other French landmarks, all accented with gold sequins at intermittent intervals. I didn’t have the guts to confess that the shirt was not one I wore to the gym. In its heydey, I wore it to fancy restaurants and parties.

We were cleaning out my closet– something I hadn’t done in years. It’s an activity best conducted with a special person. She needs to be tactful enough to convince you that a five year old pair of pants is hideous, not fashionable, without pissing you off. At the same time, she should be stylish enough that you believe her when she says she’d never let a certain piece of clothing touch her body.

I needed her help. I tend to reason that most clothes are worth holding on to. If ponchos and gauchos are back, I can’t think of any trend that’s too ugly to make a comeback. Consequently, my closet is full of clothes dating back to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” days. I am drawn to colors and patterns. Also, it’s been well-documented that I walk the line between trashy and trendy, and often I need someone to tell me when I’ve gone too far.

My sister is always well-dressed, and has a knack for organization combined with enough OCD to allow her to be ruthless in discarding the unwearable, after which she hangs everything on matching hangers facing in the same direction in a complicated closet classification system.

She pulled a striped miniskirt from the closet and looked at it apprehensively.

“You know, Anne,” she said, “There’s just an age where you have to draw the line at skirts of a certain length.”

“Are you saying I’ve reached that age?” I asked meekly.

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

“Well, I’ll try it on and you tell me if it is too short,” I proposed.

I stripped off my jeans, put on the miniskirt, and posed. She laughed in disbelief.

“Have you worn that out of the house lately?” she asked.

I knew good and well that this was code for “Who’s been dressing you– Lil Kim?”

“Have you seen my legs?” I retorted. “I’m the queen of the baseball field when I wear this,” I said as I wiggled out of the skirt.

She took it from me delicately and tossed it in the “Donate” pile.

“Wait!” I shrieked. “That’s much more than a skirt that is too short. Bill picked it out for my birthday several years ago. All by himself. He gets all hot and bothered when I wear it.”

“Okay,” she relented. “It can go in the ‘For Romance Only’ pile,” she conceded, “but you have to swear you won’t wear it out of the bedroom.”

“I promise,” I agreed.

After she had left, and all my clothes (or what remained of them) were hanging neatly, categorized and subdivided by sleeve length and color, I thought about our conversation. I know the general rules of fashion here– white only between Easter and Labor Day (although the temperature may hover in the 80’s until November), no velvet after Valentine’s Day, and so forth.

But the rules about changing your look as you age are far murkier. When do you admit to yourself that you’re not getting any younger, and that perhaps you should be shopping at Banana Republic instead of Express? Until now, I’ve stayed away from Banana Republic. I could always find a fabulous top (preferably with beading or sequins) at Express that suited me just fine.

A couple of days ago, I went into Banana Republic, just to see what would happen. Most of the clothes were solids, but I didn’t let that scare me. And when I walked out, I had created an outfit, one that my sister would be proud of. I paired a solid cranberry blouse with a pair of solid gray pants. I put them on with my new shoes, threw on a bunch of necklaces, and wore the whole thing two days in a row. I didn’t look all soccer-momish, or matronly. I looked chic.

I’m sure my sister would have done it differently– she would have worn flats, not shiny dancing shoes, and her jewelry would have been subdued, and of course her hair would have been all one color, rather than the three I have going right now.

But I’m going to attribute those differences to personal style, not inappropriate fashion choices on my part. Am I finally growing up?

October 20, 2005

Don’t You (Forget About Me)

The class of 1985 held its 20th high school reunion this past weekend. In the weeks leading up to the event, I experienced a fair amount of angst over how best to present myself to people I hadn’t seen in twenty years. What did I have to show for all that time? I didn’t have a Grammy, a corner office, or a fancy car. I still didn’t have boobs, real or fake. I have some new scars, three boys and a husband, and a paid off minivan. How would I measure up?

I read an article recently in which a man who interviews a lot of job applicants says he always asks interviewees to describe themselves in high school. He thinks that the way people say that they used to be in high school is actually the way they see themselves now. I had a hard time believing that when I first read it.


In high school, I dressed like Madonna in the “Borderline” days, complete with fishnet hose, stilettos and fingerless lace gloves. I was boy-crazy. I was on the dance team– we wore sparkly leotards and gold boots and performed at the football games. I had lots of friends, but I didn’t belong to any particular clique. My drinks of choice were Riunite or Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. I was smart and took several Advanced Placement classes. My favorite subject was English. I was a leader, and I was going places. I’ve changed a lot since then.

Friday night we gathered together for the first time in twenty years. Almost everyone was there:

The tall, beautiful brunette who’s still tall and beautiful, and also has five boys. I don’t know how she’s managed to do both.

The guy who says he’s discovered the perfect martini.

The girl who works for the State Department AND sings and plays guitar in a band.

The girl who’s living in L.A. and takes pole dancing lessons as a hobby.

The idea of pole dancing as a hobby garnered lots of interest from the attendees. Because I am a faithful US Weekly reader, I was well aware that pole dancing is not just for strippers anymore. It’s a bona fide form of exercise, at least on the West Coast, although a lot of the Southerners had to be convinced of that.

Everyone ogled the pole dancing girl and agreed that pole dancing does provide physical benefits. I heard one man ask his wife if she’d consider canceling her gym membership if he had a pole installed in their bedroom.

(That night I did a little pole dancing research and discovered that there are companies that teach pole dancing, and businesses that supply the accouterments. Apparently anyone can do it, although the sport can be risky, especially if you have breast implants.)

Saturday there was a gathering for graduates and their families at the high school to “see how much it had changed.” I wasn’t fooled by the invitation. I knew no one wanted to see the new baseball fields. The point of the lunch was to show up with your spouse and children to prove that in family life, at least, you had been successful.

I didn’t let the fact that both Drew and Finn had fever stop me from participating in the show. I put all three boys in clean shirts and made them brush their teeth in the middle of the day, which caused a great amount of consternation in the Glamore house.
I impressed upon them the importance of looking my fellow classmates in the eye, saying yes ma’am and no ma’am, and shaking hands. No boogers were to be removed from noses and all farts were to remain in bottoms and released only inside a bathroom. Once I was satisfied that my boys were going to act like proper denizens of the Tiny Kingdom, we departed.

Seeing my fellow classmates with spouses and offspring was surreal. All the kids ran around, threw footballs and jumped in an inflatable moonwalk while the adults caught up on what everyone had been doing the last two decades.

Some developments were not surprising. The boy who was always called upon to fix the film projector when it broke is now a successful software engineer. Others had taken surprising career paths, like the quiet girl who runs a lobbying firm. Some had exotic jobs– one of my oldest friends lives in Paris and arranges walking tours of the city.

My boys behaved like gentlemen. Bill was his usual sexy self. I, on the other hand, apparently listened to “Private Dancer” too many times while getting dressed. My denim miniskirt was entirely too short, and I was showing a lot more skin than any other graduate there. It was my good fortune that the organizers did not hand out an award for “Most Whorish Housewife.”

Saturday night the adults assembled one last time for a band party. The 80’s cover band ground out “My Sharona,” “I Will Follow,” and “Jessie’s Girl.” We danced and drank and talked some more. The discussion turned to what we were glad to leave behind from high school, including:

–Boy George

–Bad taste in men

–Certain people

–Datelessness

–Hormonally spawned feelings of inadequacy

–Fake IDs

–Physics

Overall everyone seemed very happy, and most spoke of their friends and families, not their cars or houses. I’m sure some people have corner offices, but they weren’t discussing them. They debated Pampers vs. Huggies, the cost of ballet recital costumes, and sleep schedules.

After I got home, I thought about myself, then and now. Maybe the job interviewer is right– in some ways I’ve changed, but in some ways I’m just the same.

The Riunite and wine coolers have given way to gin and tonics and wine, but I relive my dancing years everyday in Jazzercise. I confess that lots of times I find myself in the gym, pretending I’m wearing gold glitter boots instead of sensible aerobic shoes. I dance and smile at the wall as though I was in front of a stadium full of screaming fans.

I continue to make bad fashion choices. I’m still an English geek and I may have lost a few brain cells along the way, but I persist in thinking that I’m intelligent.

And of course, I’m still boy-crazy. But now it’s better than ever. The boys whose love I crave are not only attainable, but undeniably mine: true love always.