Christmas Quiet

Last year's handmade card from my girl and boy

Wednesday night before Christmas. Just returned home from a long workday to a hauntingly quiet house. I can almost hear the crickets chirping. The kids left for their dad's today and won't be home till 2:00 Christmas day. It's been six years since their dad and I separated, and this year he got prime Christmas time (we alternate) — Eve and morning. After six years you'd think I'd be used to this. But there's the tree — lovingly decorated with traditional German ornaments and little gems created by the kids over the years. The table's decked out with red runner and candles nestled in advent wreath. Pine tree clippings decoratively scattered about the house and homemade cookies from last weekend's cookie decorating party ready and waiting. The proverbial Christmas lights are on, and no one's home.

Fact is, if the kids were here, I don't know if I'd be getting much warm and fuzzy from them anyway, due to the fact that they're teenagers and just a little too cool for all the kid stuff. Our Christmas traditions are fun, but my girl and boy no longer approach them with childlike excitement from days of old. We go through the motions and all agree on the cute factor. But I'd give anything to go back to the days when belief in Santa held precedence over anything we did this time of year.

I guess married couples with families also experience this phenomenon. But at least hubby and wife have each other. Dang if it isn't hard to come home to an empty house, kids gone, and no one to talk to. There's nothing on TV and I'm too wiped out to read a book. No one's posting anything good on Facebook. I didn't sign up for this.

My thoughts have hitched a ride on my funk and turn to a pre-Christmas seven years ago. Back then I was under the impression we were a happy family. Hubby and son had been working on a project in the neglected sunroom behind our garage since October — I was informed it was my Christmas present and not to go in there. I honored their request, and on Christmas Eve, my family escorted me — blindfolded — to the room: A carpeted oasis complete with heated jacuzzi spa, framed prints of tropical scenes, potted plants, surround sound stereo, lit candles, new slippers and a fuzzy robe hanging in the corner — the best present I'd ever received. If this isn't proof your husband loves you, I don't know what is. Four months later I discovered the horrible truth. I've been a single mom — God I hate that term — ever since.

I hardly ever go back to that day in my life — and the disastrous year that followed. Things are so much better now. And this Christmas I can celebrate the fact that because of all that's happened, I've made room for good things in my life. Like wonderful friends, old and new, who have been loving and consistent beyond belief; a good man who loves and appreciates me for exactly who I am; a deep and complete connection with my creator; and a renewed appreciation for my own worth and talent. Best of all, these two amazing children who I love more than life itself, and who should be here with me tonight drinking eggnog and laughing at my lame jokes. God willing, this will come to pass in 2 1/2 days, although I can't guarantee the laughing at my jokes part. They're a tough audience lately!

If you have made it this far, thank you for allowing me my forum to lament. I feel a lot better.

Yuletide greetings, all. Look around, the gifts abound.

Back of card. I believe the formula's correct, but have never actually checked my son's math to verify this.
Why would I?

Third Advent

Today, Third Advent, my heart is full of warmth and gratitude.





The lovely choral rendition is by the San Francisco Girl's Chorus.

a healing garden

"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends. To appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded." 
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

Rosie: The queen of the castle

My compliments to cultivator.

Avec musique:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofk9JyCQqKs

a.m. workout

Before you begin:  Wake up too early, consume two cups of coffee; throw on some sweats and a hat that covers your ears; and this is crucial: select ideal i-pod playlist.

1. Begin with slow warm up

2. Pick up pace, change direction

3. Increase water intake

4. ... and your heart rate

5. Stretch

6. Illuminate from within

7. Bend downward

8. Move forward with intensity

9. Don't bother the other athletes

10. Remember good posture

11. Breathe in

12. Breathe out

13. Listen to your inner voice

14. Cool down with a little slow spinning

15. Lower your heart rate

16. Stop and smell the flowers


Repeat 10 times: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oqi7-2EPGv8

happy birthday, art carney!

When you're stuck in the routine, depressed, slightly peeved, or just plain bored, nothing will snap you out of it like a dose of good comedy. And by good I mean, of course, The Honeymooners. This clip's wonderful in its entirety, but if you're in a hurry, skip to 1:10 — best physical comedy ever! Art Carney/Ed Norton, I salute you! (oh, and Jackie Gleason, you're not so bad yourself!)

kids' night out

It's Friday night. Son (17) drove daughter (14) into town — a 45-minute commute. Before they left, they called me at work, politely asking for advances on babysitting income, gas money, dinner funds. I mean, really. Do I only exist to prepare balanced meals, pack lunches, and shell out the bucks? Nah. I love that they like to hang out together, and that big bro will look out for little sis. They'll have a blast. They work hard and deserve this. Downside: mom spends Friday night solo eating chips & dip for dinner and, uh, pouring more drivel into her blog page.

But I miss them. Yes, I worry ... and I'm hugging them a little tighter this week. My son's friend was in a  car wreck the other day. He and his passenger were lucky to crawl from the car unscathed, but the kid (a really good boy) will lose his license for a year for being underage and driving a minor. Another acquaintance is dealing with a teenage pregnancy. Yet my children are both in good places right now. My son has embarked on his first romantic relationship. This girl's parents won't let her date or go to dances, so the two pretty much see each other at school and talk on the phone — the ideal girlfriend, in my book! When her cell phone died, he valiantly made arrangements to get her a replacement, confirming my inherent belief he is just a good boy, through and through. And now I know he has the capacity to feel true love (or something like it). Heartwarming to see the boy so happy — he actually has a little kick in his step (for my son, this is saying a lot!) Another milestone in the life of a boy who only yesterday was told he was going to have a baby sister. He vetoed our suggestions for child-to-be names in favor of his pick: "Zuzu." We had a conversation the other day that included the word condom. I took it as a personal victory.

My daughter — I've said it before and I'll say it again — is a ray of sunshine. She was recently voted freshman homecoming princess. I don't hold much stake in that title — in my high school days this honor was reserved for the hottest, bitchiest girl in school who'd just die if forced to speak to someone in my lowly circles. But the internal light my daughter possesses is infectious, and her classmates have surely experienced it too. I love that when I drove her to the game in her sparkling dress and straight-from-the-salon up-do, she directed me not to the football field where all the action was, but to the other side of parking lot to meet her best friend — not the most glamorous girl on campus, but most likely the sweetest and most genuine. Together they would trek to the festivities from there. If I've raised my girl to value kindness over snobbery in choosing her friends, I think I've done a pretty good job. She's the real deal and I couldn't be more proud.

Treasured moments with each of them come fewer and further between these days. But I hold on to these truths: My son WILL watch an entire Christopher Guest movie with me. My daughter and I WILL shop 'till we drop together. And there's always the dinner table. These random snapshots are precious — and all to soon will be nothing but sweet memories. Just gotta make sure they're all recorded on the memory card as they happen. For now, I sit, wait, and worry.

Just noticed it's raining out there. Make that WORRY ...

Toxic

I always had a more than competent man in my life to handle things like automobile maintenance, indoor plumbing, broken door knobs, a bad fuse. But on my own it's a  major challenge just mounting a frame on a wall — I'm deathly afraid of my own power drill.

The ultimate feeble single mom moment came last week. It was we-haul-away-everything trash day and I had a dewsy. Months earlier (could it even have been a year?) I sorted through boxes of family photographs for choice images to scan and put on a photo disc. The task was happily completed, but what to do with all of the rejects? I started to throw them away, but the rubbermaid container I dumped them in was soooo heavy. Also it'd be like throwing away memories — not the picture-perfect ones — but memories just the same. And where to put it? I have a small living space: no garage, and only a small storage closet on the side of my house, currently overflowing with Christmas and Halloween decorations. It sat under my back porch for, um, over a year.

Months ago I was in the backyard, noticed the container, and lifted the lid. It was just after a hard rain and water had seeped in. The pics were ruined, and the box was really heavy. Why I didn't deal with it at the time, I don't know, but I reduced the situation to a note to self: drain container and put out on big-item trash day.

Three big-item trash days later was Thursday of last week. I wish I could describe the stench that eluded from that rubbermaid container as I tipped it over in the backyard. Who knew that a combination of acetate and standing water could create something so toxic? It filled the yard and house, I couldn't get it off my hands, and the kids were gagging. I hauled the noxious two-ton container the edge of the curb. Surely the trashmen would permanently remove it from our lives.  I got some on my pants and shoes and smelled it all day.

Later that morning I get a call at work from my property manager. Mission Disposal informed my landlords they wouldn't pick up the potentially toxic material. The property manager said the owners wanted me to know never to put anything like that out in the trash again and suggested I take it to a toxic waste facility. Yeah, like when will I have time to do that? I was sure they were all convinced I was operating a meth lab from my home.  I sat there at my desk and cried. I was mad at myself, my situation. Toxic seemed a most accurate term for everything in my life at that particular moment in time.

After writing this shitty first draft last night, I got up, turned around, and noticed a framed photo of my brother —  his high school senior portrait. Gosh, I miss him! Here I am whining about taking out the trash, when he was forced to endure toxicities of the most horrible kind. Living with full blown AIDS for almost 10 years, he transitioned from one "cocktail" to the next when the drugs became ineffective, brought his oxygen tank to work just so he could function, and endured months at a time of not working when the disease became really bad — all pretty much on his own with a couple of major heartbreaks along the way. In the end, along with the frustrations of his rapidly deteriorating mind and body and loss of independence (by nature he was independent to a fault), he had to come to terms with his inevitable demise — where would he be when this was all over?

So I wonder, who's more oppressed? The sufferers of AIDS, cancer, heart conditions, physical abuse, etc. etc. who are going through more than their share of hell on earth? Or we, the survivors, who must  exhibit strength during their pain, and in worse-case-scenario carry on feeling the constant void of their absence? I'm thinking the former. Life is rough and sometimes all I can do is cry at my desk. But I have my health, and for some reason my God's given me the the means to enjoy awesome sunset at the end of the day, a cool glass of wine, the daily joys my children give me, family that's there for me no matter what, creative outlets, romance, meaningful chats with my girlfriends, good food, great music. I think it's called grace.

I called the toxic waste facility and asked if they'd accept the stinky package. "That's just acetate. We don't consider it toxic," he said, "Just put it in a sealed bag in your regular trash can and they'll take it." Which they did when I put it out a few days ago (in an anonymous dumpster in town, haha!)

So NOT toxic. Sometimes words of wisdom from come from the unlikeliest of sources. Thanks for the reality check, toxic waste facility guy.

Seventeen Stringent Requirements

Hollywood's finest example

So many blog topics have crossed my brain this week, many of them bordering on profound. Ah, the untapped potential of the unwritten blog! But as I finally have time to sit here and purge, it's come to down to my favorite guilty pleasure next to chocolate and white wine. You see there's this guy ...

I run the risk of gushing like "13-year-old girl with first crush" in describing how high above the water he walks. It's been a year-and-a half and he continues to be everything I haven't settled for in past relationships. But I must use caution in adding masculine presences into my own personal world — I've been third-degree burned more than once. Yet, thanks to this man — and a couple of really nice guys I dated before him — I know exactly what I want in a significant other. I'll even grant a worthy nod to my less-than-stellar exes for helping me confirm what I don't want. To this end, I present the following in no particular order:

17 Man Musts:

1. He must build me up, not tear me down. Tearing down doesn't necessarily refer to blatant bad behavior like intense physical or verbal abuse, although those things are certainly included. It's more day-to-day little jabs, often disguised in humor, where I am the butt of the joke. Not cool.

2. He must be honest with me. He understands I'm too intelligent to be told white lies to spare my feelings. He knows I need to be able to trust him completely.

3. He must be cool. Not trying to prove to the world that he's cool, but actually cool. And believe it himself.

4. He must be smart. I'm talking way above average intelligence. And although he might be angered by people who profess wisdom without the facts to back themselves up (narrow-mindedness) — he must never make me or anyone else feel they are of inferior intelligence.

5. He's gotta make me laugh. Intelligent humor edges out silliness, but both are welcomed. Ability to laugh at himself is a plus. He laughs with me, not at me.

6. He must be generous. He is a giver, not a taker. He gives generously to charities and puts others above himself, especially those less fortunate.

7. He must be passionate, creative, and inspired on a daily basis. He seeks new experiences to expand his passions. He must have an awesome iTunes library.

8. He must respect me completely and is kind to my friends and family.

9. He speaks well of me to his friends and family. He would never think to put me down.

10. He must be handsome and know he's attractive without being conceited. He takes good care of his mind and body without compulsion. As gorgeous as he is, he makes me feel I'm the pretty one in the relationship.

11. He lets me express my need for him without making me feel I'm needy.

12. He supports my plight and listens when I need to vent. He is always on my side, and seizes opportunities to assist when I'm in need.

13. He lets me know he appreciates the little things I do for him.

14. He is not afraid to admit his fears and insecurities. He trusts me enough to share them with me on a deeper level.

15. He works to maintain his friendships and is always there for his family.

16. He seeks ways to get closer to his God and make sense of his place in the world.

17. Like my own father, he must be a beautiful man. I don't really know how to describe this, but I know it when I see it.


Come to think of it, I've always possessed an internal man list similar to this one. But because of what really amounts to my own insecurities, I've settled for way less than the above ideal, hoping the man in my life would just somehow "evolve" into the man of my dreams. No, no one is perfect, but after 46 years of making the same mistake, I'm here to tell you: stick to your list. Add to it if you must. And if someone steps up to the plate lacking an item or two, don't let him play. You're better off solo. Life is too short to be with a guy who makes you curl up into a ball and cry on the bathroom floor.

Weighing in at Marshall's

Thanks to my good friend denial I'm relatively sane most of the time. Stupidly happy really works for me. But in my quest for all things positive, I've also been guilty of failing to deal with some significant, somber truths in my world. Major case in point: pretending my marriage of 15 years was great, when in actually, it was crumbling from the start. But I digress in the first paragraph.

Ever since I can remember I've been under the assumption I can take pretty much anything I like off the rack in a department store and it will look good on me. I'm far from athletic, but I have been blessed with a little height and good metabolism, and I exercise damn near daily. No big deal if I gain a pound or ten.  And I prefer shopping in the juniors department — everyone knows clothes are cuter and trendier there.

That's how it's always been. That is, until last week. After a three-month bender of more than a single glass of wine after work; ample supplies of chips, mashed potatoes, cookies, truffles after dinner, chocolate in desk drawer, dinners out — not to mention my new love affair with exotic cheeses — I felt  (in search of a better descriptive term) FAT.

I was school clothes shopping with my extremely cute and skinny 14-year-old daughter, who can pretty much wear a pencil cozy and look adorable in it. We decided to split up at the store — each of us finding clothes for ourselves. But I may as well have wandered over to the camping aisle to find a family-sized tent —every garment in the store was clearly designed to outfit the cast of "America's Top Model." Visions of futile attempts to squeeze into skinny jeans and spaghetti arms bulging from tight t-shirts were just too much for me to take this day. Where was reliable denial when I needed her? The time had come to face facts: I'm 46, and should now dress appropriately for my age — and girth.

I switched gears. Gave up on finding clothes for myself and started on a mad quest for things that would look stunning on my daughter. Size 3 jeans, fitted tank tops, short shorts — no worries. It was liberating, really. That's when I made the crossover. Saturday, August 21 ... at Marshall's.

Later that day we went to a mall. (The girl didn't see a thing she liked at Marshall's.)  We ended up at one of those sparsely-lit stores with loud, thumping rap music and black walls. They spotlight the clothes who are screaming, "see me,  buy me." Awesome marketing strategy that works like a charm as evidenced by the long lines at the dressing rooms and cash register. My every instinct told me to get out of there (I really hate loud, thumping rap music!), until one of my great joys in life — people-watching — kicked in. Moms and daughters. Or should I say, fat moms and skinny daughters. Fat moms frantically toiling in their desperate attempts to find just the right outfits for their pencil-thin offspring. Servicing their girls in the dressing rooms. Waiting in line. Paying. Oh God, I'd become one of them — about an hour earlier at a store called Marshall's.

"What size am I?" she says holding a pair of jeans at the black store. "I think you're now a size 5," I say. I wait for her to try them on like the fat, patient mom I am. (In this store I'd be a size 305!) She comes out and says, "They didn't fit." "Really? The size 5?" I say. "No, I tried on a 3." ... The cycle of denial continues ...

eighties greaties

So glad I rediscovered this. For a time just after high school, this one was heavy on my playlist. Randomly concise lyrics, no accompaniment needed. And what a voice! Sweet, simple, haunting. I love that MTV considered it hip enough to include it on regular rotation. They also put out a boombox music mix of Tom's Diner, which I gotta admit was cool, but nothing can compare to the bare-bones original. Sublime.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z66rDVkaK4w

Tom's Diner by Suzanne Vega

eighties greaties

Love the movie love the song. Even owned the cassette tape version of the soundtrack. Huge, huge crush on Andrew McCarthy! Twenty-four years later I offer my best advice for high school girls in Andie's situation: GO WITH DUCKIE! 


P.S. James Spader plays the most excellent sleazy rich boy preppie!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcSMDqXT52s

eighties greaties

Shamelelss plug for the concert the kids & I are gonna see tonight. Trekking up to Santa Cruz to see 80s alt band They Might be Giants at the Rio Theater. This band reached its peak a little after my early 80s musical glory days — but are nevertheless very much vintage 80s. The best part, my son's really into them. Sure, the bulk of their audience sports thick rimmed glasses and pocket protectors and the songs are just plain silly. But listen to the lyrics. Deep poetic content here. Ahead of their time? Major understatement. 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEjutUbgpH8

"I don't want the world, I just want your half"

dad's letter

My American dad and German mother met in 1957 on a Europe-bound cruise ship. When dad arrived in Germany with his California buddies, he visited her, and they wrote letters back and forth for two years before she came to the States and they were married. Dad passed away five years ago this week, and my mother is now remarried and very happy. But I am lucky enough to have received all of those glorious letters. If my home were on fire and I was only able to grab a few items, these letters would be among them, for without them I wouldn't be. I hold on to them as proof positive of my parent's love for each other. Their relationship turned out to be rocky to say the least, but they remained married until dad died. What kept it together? Lord only knows. Maybe deep down they both believed in fairy tales, at least their own. You'd think after my divorce and a couple of failed relationships I'd put that kind of nonsense aside. But like my dreamer-of-a-father, I still believe. Here's his letter to my mother's parents dated August 20, 1959, where he asks for their blessing. I love it. I love my dad. And I miss him dearly...

Dear Capt. and Mrs. Jeschonnek,

This will no doubt be one of the most difficult letters that I will ever have to write, although everything I want to say is very clear and organized within me. I hope you will bear with me while I stumble through it on paper.

Let me begin by thanking both of you for making it possible for Inge's and my dream of two years to come true this summer. Every minute of her stay was very much worthwhile. As you know, it turned out to be a story that one finds only in fairy tales.

Nevertheless we found ourselves very clearly in love and positive that our "fairy tale" is genuine. We both feel that it always will be.

As you may realize, for the past two years I have been in love with Inge's image — which has represented a sort of refuge from everything unhappy and unpleasant to me. I  was overwhelmed when she stepped of the plane as the girl I thought she would eventually develop into, not already be. It wasn't long after that we began talking about going through life together.  Believe me, we talked very seriously and objectively, although there were several times when we wanted to believe in only the moment.

I must admit, however, that one of my biggest weaknesses is that often I'm inclined to let my emotions and emotional desires run away from my intellect. But I feel that because I was obsessed with the importance of such a huge step, I was able to stop, think, and control my emotions.  I often thought that love alone could provide fuel for a while — but more realistically, our future security will depend on the foundations I am building now. Since it is solely up to me to establish a financial and material future, I don't think it would be wise to waste the first of our most productive and progressive years toward our eventual goals, on an extended honeymoon.

Although in two years I still won't have financial security, I feel that this won't depend on money as much as being in a position to bargain for it. Today in America this position can only be attained by having a college degree.

This is the basic reason for our decision to wait until we both finish  our education, although there are others as well. I feel that I owe it to Inge, both you and my parents, as well as myself. My parents think that it is best we wait and I'm confident you will agree — if you approve at all. I realize that it isn't fair to ask for your sanction as you don't even know me, let alone my parents. I would, though, like to know your reaction, thoughts and opinions.

After talking the situation over with Inge and my parents, we decided to have the wedding in Europe— France or Germany. This would be the only fair and proper way, where you would have an opportunity to judge me and my family for yourself. My parents said that they would do everything they could to make the trip. Don't you agree that this is best?

This letter must sound to you like I'm trying to "railroad" something through (another reason for waiting), but it's only because I love Inge so very much. I often wonder why I had to go to the other side of the world to find my heart. I realize that this does and will create many problems. But still the fact remains that we are honestly in love and there could never be anybody else.

I hope that I haven't confused you as to my actual feelings with my plebeian ways of expressing myself. I've never been in a situation such as this before and I want to do what is right for everybody concerned. Could both of you give me your feelings and advice?

Thank you mille fois for everything.

Very sincerely,
Tim

eighties greaties

It's Friday — time for a whirl back to yesteryear. I've spent more than an acceptable amount of time this week perusing youtube for my next selection from the new wave treasure trove. Ended up with this one. Think of it as a tribute to the end of Summer '10. (Where did those 3 months go?) Corny? Hell, yes! Also concrete evidence that it was once cool to wear cropped overalls (extra cool = one strap open), baggy pleated pants, bobby socks w/loafers, and permed bleached hair wrapped in a scarf. Gag me with a spoon!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPNhV1gF008

Not a “hate my ex” letter

January 7, 2010

I don’t hate ate my ex-husband. He’s done the best he’s able to do with the tools he’s been given in life. His kids adore him and he says he loves them every chance he gets. What could be better?

But (you knew there’d be a but!) why would a dad who only sees his kids one night a week and every other weekend want to REDUCE that amount of time? I mean, I can’t imagine not being with these guys on a daily basis — we’re a family for godsakes! My educated guess: It’s a long, 45-minute drive to Cambria from Paso Robles. But that’s what the man’s chosen to do — despite our “parenting agreement.” Tonight would’ve been his night with them. My one responsibility-free night has turned into just another meal I have to prepare after a long workday. Damn him! 

So I prayed. Asked God to take the anger and turn it into something meaningful. Next thing I know I’m at Cookie Crock market buying pork chops and applesauce (a favorite) for tonight’s meal.Home at 5:30 from an uninspiring day at work — last thing I want to do is cook — but I throw it all together. We break into the routine: Melissa, set the table. (We ARE eating at the dinner table). Cliffie, pour the milk and put on some dinner music. Plates on the table. Prayer. Plus a little one to myself: “just let me listen.” 

Melissa first. She’s frustrated with certain teachers at school — so am I. Hang in there, I say. If I were to go back in time, the last place I’d want to visit is junior high as an 8th grader. But she’s handling it all with such grace, style, and levelheadedness — secure with who she is and kind to everyone — with a maturity beyond her years. Miles ahead of her mom at that age. Funny thing is, she’s very much like her (gulp) father — in a good way!

We get to talking about Cliffie’s Mock Trial. And deadlne for SATs is tomorrow — better sign up. I’ve been encouraging him to sign up for a college tour that many of the students from his class will be attending. One of the schools is UC Davis, the one he’s most excited about. “Why aren’t you more interested in this tour?” I ask. He says, “the kids that are going will just want to party.” “Like, drink?” I say. “Probably,” he says. How on God’s earth was I lucky enough to end up with a kid who’s anti-party? I’m thinking this as I begin planning our own personal college tour in my head.

I stopped listening for a while to tell him that, even though we’re in “financial need,” not to rule out beginning at a four-year college. Any college would be lucky to have you, I say — not the other way around. You'll receive scholarships. We’ll get loans. We’ll make it work. He seemed to be listening.

Well, that was certainly a quality evening. And to think we would have missed out on all of it had their dad trekked into town. But I was the lucky one tonight. You get what you pray for —and then some. 

eighties greaties

Happy weekend! I have decided this shall be a regular feature here. Don't know about you but not much makes me happier than delving back into the archives of my musical youth, specifically for me '82-'83. Back when music was fun. And cool. And there was a corny MTV video for each catchy tune. Anyone out there grow up in LA/Orange county and listen to KROQ? That station was on permanent play at high volume in my sky blue vw bug. Love it love it!

Selection 1: LA band The Plimsouls. Saw them in '82 at Cal State Fullerton and have been a Peter Case fan ever since. This band was featured in the quintessential 80s film "Valley Girl." Delighted to find this HQ video of "A Million Miles Away," complete w/pool party, big hair girl in leopard skin dress, and road trip to Mexico!  Enjoy!

 The Plimsouls: A Million Miles Away