Bum blog

While Christmas shopping the other day, I was reminded of a 2004 visit with family in England for the holiday. Most of my time there is spent with my Aunty Chris and Uncle Ron, a loving couple in their mid-60's who live in Birmingham. Packing up for a long drive to London to visit other family, my Aunt called to me from the car, "Jenn, babe, can you ask your Uncle Ron to bring my bum bag?"

Um, bum bag?

I went into their cozy little house to find Uncle Ron putting the final touches on our sandwiches for the ride (these are people who survived the Battle of Britain - there's no stopping for food on the way when there's plenty to be packed from home). "Um, Uncle Ron? Aunty Chris wants her bum bag," I said, suppressing laughter. He reached into a closet and handed me a fanny pack.

"Ohhhhh," I said, realizing yet another funny British-to-American translation. "In the States, we call these 'fanny packs.'"

"You WHAT?"

"Fanny packs."

"Go tell your Aunty Chris that. She'll love it."

So, off to the car I raced, bum bag/fanny pack in hand. I recounted the story for her and she howled with laughter until tears ran down her cheeks. What could be funnier than the act of actually wearing a fanny pack?

"Oh, Jenn! Do you know what a 'fanny' is in England?"

"Your butt?"

"No, it's your vagina! And it's not a nice word for vagina, either!"

And, so, that's how I learned "pussy" equals "fanny" and not "arse" in England. I thought of this story with fondness as I stood 15-people deep in line at Macy's in Brooklyn the other day (they have a very strict hiring policy: no IQs over 50). In my arms were two LeSportsac fanny packs.

For everyone born after 1930, there awaits a fate that seems as inescapable as BINGO: the fanny pack. What seems open for negotiation is when we decide to start wearing said utilitarian belt. For some, it comes with retirement age; for others (like my good friend Paula), it comes in your 20's shortly after the birth of a child. For me, it looks like it may be as soon as next summer.

While rummaging through the LeSportsac bin at Macy's, I came across a fun, colorful little number called "Frida Vibe." I held it up for inspection and then tossed it back in the pile with disdain: it was, after all, a fanny pack.

Then I thought of Paula, rushing around Coral Gables with her well-worn Gucci fanny pack bursting at the sides with papers, cell phones, keys. "This would make a great Christmas present for her," I thought (ignoring the fact that Paula is a practicing Jew). And so, off I went to purchase the curious item.

The line for the cashier was long so I had plenty of time to ponder the pack. I thought of the song "Camel Toe" by Fanny Pack, a group from Brooklyn that seemed intent on single-handedly making the fanny pack cool just by virtue of their name (note: none of them actually wear a fanny pack).



Then, I was reminded of another group now flying under the radar whose determination to bring back all things gross is a big as its girth: Leslie and the LYs. I couldn't remember if I've seen Leslie rockin' a fanny pack, although it's a very strong possibility. The woman loves gold lame, fringe and your grandmother's sweaters - so why not? Maybe fanny packs are the next big, ugly thing in fashion?


I vote Leslie and the LYs most likely to use Glamour Shots for album covers. Their "Blame the Booty" remix is in heavy rotation on my iPod.

And then the mixture of counter-culture cool and Paula's explanation of the pack's usefulness fused in my brain: perhaps I should have one of these ugly things, too? Why should only Disney tourists and aging queers have them? I examined the pack in my hand and thought of everything I could store in it while say, riding a bike in Central Park (what? I've done it!) or taking in a game?

So, I politely asked the angry customer behind me to hold my place in line while I went back for another pack. I worked quickly not because I worried about losing my spot but because I was afraid to think about what I was doing. I was about to buy a fanny pack, for me.

As I write this, I'm wearing the fanny pack, you know, just to see if I can do it. My man says I look like a gay carpenter.


Me and my new fanny pack (or pussy pack for those in the British Isles).

I'm still unsure of how I feel and wonder if I can manage this in public? The rest of my outfit will have to be really cool so people don't get the wrong idea about me (no black socks with flip flops that day!). Watch for my fanny pack's debut next summer, friends (my man has already warned that no less than 5 feet will be between he and I at all times).

While parading through the apartment just now, I noticed that wearing the fanny pack doesn't make me feel old or gay (like I was afraid it might). And, I now believe that somewhere deep in our Anglo DNA, Americans know that a fanny isn't a butt. How else to explain why we instinctively wear it in the front?

The youngest old person

I visit South FL once every 3-4 months without much fanfare (I pick myself up from the airport) and yet, every time I come, this place manages to find a new way to freak me out -- this after living here for nearly 25 years.

I landed in Ft. Lauderdale last night around 5 and by 6, I was already rushing my rental car west toward dinner with my Aunt, Uncle, Cousin and Dad. They'd decided on the Olive Garden in Coral Springs because some awful person had given my Aunt a gift card to the place.

On the cell phone while waiting for my luggage, they asked, "do you know where it is?" Of course. It was where I first waited tables back in '92.

The outside of the place is still the same box (fitting since most of the "authentic Italian food" is delivered in boxes, too). Upon entering, however, the inside has been completely gutted (unless they singled out the Coral Springs one for special interior design treatment, I imagine the same thing has happened to all Olive Gardens?).

I felt like one of the old farts who used to come into Lundy's, a landmark seafood restaurant in Brooklyn where I last waited tables in '02. At least once a day, elderly customers would wax nostalgic to me about the 80-year-old restaurant, "I used to come here as a kid. Back then, only negroes waited tables here and the biscuits were always so light and fluffy..."

So, there I was, telling the young server that, like her, I peddled General Mills' own brand of "Hospitaliano" 16 years ago. Leaning in like a senior citizen about to let a whipper snapper in on a secret, I told her about the scam we ran during the bottomless soup/salad lunch rush (dropping the same check at different tables and pocketing any who paid with cash).

She laughed, saying they still did the same scam. "Imagine: I was only 5 years old then!" she observed, bouncing off to greet a new table.

Christ on a stick. I really am one of those old farts now.

It was surreal but things got even weirder after dinner. I dragged my cousin Frankie down to Galaxy Skateway in Davie for Round 2 of "Adult Skate Night in the Land that Time Forgot" (see "Time Travel to Another Galaxy" blog entry).

While shuffling to Clay D's "Boot the Booty," I spotted an Asian man who looked familar. By the third time I passed him, I was certain I knew him from somewhere but couldn't figure out where (a common occurance since alcohol morphed my memory into Swiss cheese).

By the time the DJ was mixing "Egypt, Egypt," I remembered who he was: the token attractive Asian guy at the Coral Springs Roller Rink. He was probably in his late teens/early 20's then but everyone in my middle school used to sweat him. I'm sure I knew his name when I was 12, watching eagerly as he laced up his speed skates, but my mind was now blank. I remembered only muscles.

I skated over to him and said, "hey, did you used to skate at the Coral Springs rink back in the day?" He smiled widely and said he used to go every weekend before it became a Pep Boys. That's when the editor in my head went on a "stay-cation."

"I knew it was you," I replied. "You used to be really built," I said, motioning to where his rippling muscles once were, now replaced by a sunken chest and middle-aged arms. I should've noticed the expression on his face (it was probably the same one I had when the server told me she was 5 back when I was a fresh-faced 20-year-old working at the Olive Garden) but I continued.

"You used to wear white tank tops all the time to show off your muscles." For some inexplicable reason, the asshole in me left the "what happened?" part unsaid.

So, that was yesterday. Feeling old and sorry for myself, I decided to do the only thing I can at this point to feel better: hang out with people way older than me.

My Dad lives in a retirement community (I'm proud to say he was one of the first Baby Boomers to infiltrate these particular condos) so today I made my way to one of its many pools, where a cluster of alligator-skinned senior citizens was floating in the mid-day sun.

From the moment I entered the gated pool area, all eyes were on me. "Who is that young person?" "Who does she think she is, being young here?" I propped my relatively-nubile body on a sun chair and fed myself grapes while reading, feeling quite happy to be the youngest person in a 1-mile radius.

Out of the corner of my eye, a lizard caught my attention, winking at me from where it was perched on the fence. It was a small, young lizard and seemed to be saying, "we're all animals, but at least you and I are the youngest."


At the Petco near my house in Brooklyn, these critters go for $14 a pop but they're as common as flies in South FL (maybe I should stuff a few in my carry-on?).

Goodbye, 18-34

So, today is my 35th birthday. [thud]

That was my ego collapsing into a hot old mess on the floor.

No, I'll be fine. As long as I don't LOOK my age, I'm cool with it (incidentally, if you didn't get me a present or card, it's okay as long as you tell me I look 12). And as my friends will attest, I certainly don't ACT my age.

So, what then is the point of counting up the years if it's only to see how many candles to put on the cake? (At this point, I'd need a cake the size of a twin mattress.)

Well, I guess there are some biological reasons why age is important. In fact, turning 35 is especially traumatic because of them. When I turned 30, my Mom said, "I hope you don't plan on waiting much longer to have children because after 35, the risk of having a child with Down's Syndrome increases 50%." Yeah, it's times like that when you wish your Mom wasn't an RN.

Birth defects aside, I think I'm most afraid of filling out surveys and forms now. Goddamn whoever invented "age brackets." I dread the first time I have to check "35-44" instead of "18-34." [Ugh. Did somebody just close a window? I need air!]

Here's a word of advice to all my 18-34 friends: live every minute like a fucking rock star.

I didn't believe the old people when they first told me but it's true: life really does start to speed up as you get older. Days and weeks become months and then years faster than Seth Rogen churns out movies.

One day you're in high school and the next, you're 3 years away from the 20-year reunion ('sup, class of '91). The only thing that remains besides hazy memories and crappy yearbooks is student loan debt (at this rate, my grandkids will inherit mine).

In honor of birthdays and the years when 35 seemed like retirement age, here's a trailer from one of my favorite movies, 1984's Sixteen Candles...enjoy!


The most quotable movie EVER!