Monkey Shines

On her album, “Live At Last”, Bette Midler told the story of her encounter with a woman walking down 42nd street.

The lady was humongous and wore a big, blue house dress peppered all over with little white daisies. She was almost bald but sitting on her forehead was a fried egg.  Bette went on to say that she thought of that lady every day.

“Oh God,” she’d say to herself, “Oh God, don’t let me wake up tomorrow and want to put a fried egg on my head. Oh God.”    Then she’d say real fast, “Oh God, if by chance I should wind up with a fried egg on my head (cause sometimes you can’t help those things you know, you can’t), don’t let anybody notice.”   And then she’d say real fast after that, “If they do notice that I’m carrying something that’s not quite right and they want to talk about it, let ‘em talk about it but don’t let ‘em talk so I can hear, I don’t want to hear it, because the truth about fried eggs, you can call it a fried egg, you can call it anything you like, but everybody gets one, some people wear ‘em on the outside, some people they wear ‘em on the inside.”

A number of years ago, early, early one Saturday morning, I was shopping at my neighborhood grocery store.  As I headed one way up the aisle, a woman headed the other way toward me, shopping in the opposite direction. She was talking loudly, waving her hands and pushing her shopping basket with her stomach.

“Hmmmph,” I thought, “Crazy woman.”  I headed to the next aisle and there she was again, moving the opposite direction toward me, talking a blue streak, waving her arms about, belly bumping her buggy. I smiled and nodded at her as she passed. Three aisles later, I realized she had an earplug in her ear and was talking on her cell phone. It was the first time I had ever seen someone use an earplug. Not crazy. Normal.

Used to be, it wasn’t hard to tell the crazy people from “the rest of us”. A fried egg would be a great clue, but usually, the crazy people dressed weird and talked to themselves.

Take a look almost anywhere these days – in schools, in businesses, even in churches, and the whole world looks like it has gone crazy. Nowadays, everyone is talking in public while standing alone. Some are on cell phones, some are off their nut. Who can tell the difference?

People one cell phones talk so loud you can’t help but be drawn into their conversation. Most of the time, it is easy to figure out the other half of the conversation is. “What time will you be home?…..I’m on my way to the parking garage……Domino’s. No anchovies.”  No brainer.

Other times,  you are left with the strange suspicion that they could be planning a bank heist or hostile takeover. “The purple fog lands tonight.” “I’ll swank the voles at the dog pond.”  “Izzy fizzy on the dizzy.”  What??

I work in an office in a 12-story building. It is not uncommon to be on the elevator with a pal or two on the way to lunch only to have some boob with a cellphone jammed to his ear get on from another floor talking loudly. Any conversation you may have been conducting is immediately interrupted. We tend to be respectful when other people are talking on the phone. Not me, anymore. I put my foot down. If I have been talking,  I keep on talking. I’m guess turning into a cranky old lady with a bad attitude.

Speaking of bad attitude, when did clothing get to be optional?

It has been the bizarre fashion in the past few years for some young men and a few woman to wear their pants so baggy that they hang down off their hips. Usually, this outfit is accompanied by an oversized shirt. The kids usually have one hand or both in their pockets, hitching up their drawers to keep them from plummeting to the floor.  

The other day, I saw a tall kid wearing a white sleeveless t-shirt tucked into his black boxer shorts. The top of his jeans didn’t even cover his rear end which was  hanging out over his belt.  He could hardly walk. The same thing happened in a restaurant recently. The busboy’s pants kept threatening to fall of him. As he moved from table to table, filling customer’s iced tea and water glasses, he hitched his pants up over his bum.  Maybe it’s  just me, but I dont want someone serving food to me after his hand has been on his backside.

It’s not just the guys. I have seen more bra straps and thong straps than I can count. Between crop tops and low slung jeans, there is no hiding the nickel bank view that used to be the sole proprietorship of those in the plumbing trade. Add a tattooed lower back, sometimes called a “tramp stamp” or a “slag tag”. There are some women who can pull this off – mostly tiny, little waifs who eat one Cheerio for dinner.  Much of the time, however, the view is decidedly unappealing. And what is with this fashion of wearing tights with an oversized shirt? To me, tights are like pantyhose. If you wear them with just a shirt, it looks to me like you forgot to put your pants on.

I am sorely tempted to don that big, old daisy-printed housedress. I will shave half my head, slap a fried egg on it and walk down the street. I don’t think anyone will even give me a second look.

Donna