Pink Izods and the Galleria; or, Deborah Foreman, Where Are You?

Let me first just say that Nick Cage and that insufferable "duh" expression do not seem to to deserve the absolute rapt enchantment on Deborah Foreman (aka Julie Richmond)'s face. Does she think she's looking at a Rick Springfield poster?

When I was still teetering around on my Strawberry Shortcake training wheels,the blonde high school girl across the street had a pink-lighted dressing-table mirror, a ruffly white canopy bed and a boyfriend with a black Camaro. I used to watch her skip out of the garage and hop in that shuddering charcoal machine, headed for uncertain destinations and mysterious teenage dalliances.

The bouncy 1983 flick Valley Girl is deliciously nostalgic like that; as pop-culturally-fascinating as Sloane Peterson's white fringed leather jacket (I so coveted that thing) and those over-the-top Can't Buy Me Love house parties (speaking of white fringed leather apparel - is this a pattern?).

Deborah Foreman is Julie Richmond, in pastel sweaters, a teeny red bikini, mirrored sunglasses and that universally unflattering early-80s shag haircut. (Sue Ellen Ewing, anyone?) She has hippie parents and snobby friends who hang out at sleepovers in their underwear. The underwear is, of course, cute, and no one is scary-thin. Ruffles and Oreos are eaten, Modern English and Men at Work are played. Julie wears a Jessica McClintock dress to the prom - remember those? - and there is, obviously, plenty of Moon Zappa-esque Val-speak. I could watch the movie for an undetermined amount of repeats; it's like a hot-pink, glittery valentine to the 80s.

I have no idea where Ms. Foreman is now, but she needs to finagle a comeback. Like fer sure.

“When I get the mean reds, I just hop in a cab and go to Tiffany's. . .”

Recently I got it in my head that I needed a Tiffany key necklace. And, as my husband Joe knows all too well (and deigns to point out on a regular basis, at least too regular for my taste), once I get an idea in my head, I just really need to go through with it. Unfortunately, like Holly Golightly, about the only thing I could afford at Tiffany's is that stupid sterling silver telephone dialer. Sigh. But, oh, how I love those nonsensical keys. Tiffany's could coat a tampon in platinum, call it kitschy and cute, and I would probably wear it around my neck. (On the 25-inch matching platinum chain, please).
So, on a recent anniversary trip to Door County, my aforementioned darling husband bought me a similar bauble, albeit not of the Tiffany variety. I found a charmingly rusted old skeleton key in a bead shop run by some hippy-dippy chick in a Mia Farrow haircut, leather choker and la-la land. Mia put the key on a thin leather strand, added some particularly special sterling bead (it's from Tibet? I have no idea) and, voila, I have my dream necklace, or a semblance of it. Check it out – I'm partial to the mystery engravings on the back. Holly would be proud. Maybe I can start calling Joe “Fred”.

Thirteen-inch calves? Shut the hell up.

So, I'm fairly educated, a voracious reader, a bit of a history buff, etc. I understand that, once upon a time, before the advent of pizza delivery and the KFC Double Down, people were just smaller and, in relation, probably healthier. I get it. (Hey, it's 1920 and we don't get botulism anymore! Thanks, modern canned goods!). But thanks to my new favorite website, enokiworld, there must be a bigger sea of skinny fashion divas out there than I previously assumed.
Ok - if you haven't been to www.enokiworld.com, please, by all means, put down whatever you are doing and look right now. It's an online treasure trove of vintage clothing and accessories. It's gorgeous. It takes my breath away. It makes me wish I were spectacularly rich and spectrally thin, both of which I am definitely not. It also makes me feel like a gargantuan freak, because those fabulous 1960s Courreges vinyl boots have a measly calf circumference of 12.5 inches. Maybe, if I can scrounge up the $300, I can wear them on my forearms. Thanks for nothin', Twiggy.

Are you there, Tori Spelling? It's me, Amanda.

I have an iPod and several burned CDs scattered around the glove compartment of my car, and amongst those scratched silver discs lurks. . . GASP!. . . Tori Spelling's second book! On compact disc! Noooo!
But seriously, I bought it. Myself. (At the time I did have a four-hour, hungover drive to make, so that excuses the audio version). It's unfortunately titled Mommywood, but it is fortunately awesome.
I never paid any attention to Tori Spelling. I vaguely remember scanning some gossipy 90s-era tabloid article (Tori Spelling wears nail polish containing real gold dust?!) in the checkout line at the grocery store. But other than that, the comings and goings of Donna Martin held little interest for me. Until now, my dears.
Unless you live under a rock, you'll know that La Tori has had a bit of a comeback these last few years - two marriages, two babies and several reality shows. I read her first book, StoriTelling - I borrowed it, ok? - watched the ubiquitous "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" and was immediately smitten. I am begrudgingly ready to admit it - I love Tori Spelling.
Possibly because I'm going through the steps to become a mom myself, but listening to that audio CD of Mommywood is strangely comforting. Yes, she discusses lame-o cliches that make her annoyingly Hollywood-trendy - skinny jeans, "gay husbands", Fred Segal. But her dirty diaper and ultrasound stories make her endearing; she is navigating life and parenthood just like everyone else.
For awhile, I had a little ritual during long-ish car trips: I would buy a bag of All-Natural Cheetos, a Coke Zero, and pop in that damned book-on CD. Re-listening to the audio book is like watching a favorite TV Land rerun, and those Cheetos are like crack. Maybe Tori Spelling will read this and take me to Fred Segal with her.