Carla Ives, Author at Old Busted Hotness

Carla Ives

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WTF is a Roller Skate Key?

Life's Little Observations No Responses »

May 192016

The somewhat inelegant title of this article is a comment I saw on a social media network when someone posted the You Tube video for the song Brand New Key by Melanie. It was released in 1971. Which got me to thinking. . . . I know. Dangerous, eh?

My first thought was, “Whaddya mean you don’t know WTF a roller skate key is?” And then it hit me that it’s probably been a long time since kids strapped on those metal skates and tightened them onto their PF Flyers with a key. Let’s see what else I remember from my childhood days of yore.

>I had an original Barbie doll.
>I had an original Hula Hoop.
>I was married by the time the first Atari ping pong ball jumped the cyber net.
>I was married when Beta and/or VHS movies became *the thing* to watch at home.
>I got my first cell phone at 49.

And the beat goes on.

Okay, okay, I’ve got it. I quality for Certified Old Fart status.

In my own defense, though, I should point out that I had a computer in 1985. It was a Radio Shack TRS 80, lovingly called a TRASH 80 by its aficionados. For what I paid for that machine back then, I could get one today that could run your life, right down to cooking your eggs sunny side up. It used huge 8″ floppy disks (two of them!) and it was slow. S-L-O-W. How slow? Thanks for asking. My old joke was that you could give it a command, go cook dinner, have dessert, wash and put away the dishes and you might. . . . might come back to a finished task.

Today’s younguns have grown up on technology. That’s both good and bad. They can run circles around me techwise, but will they ever know the extreme thrill of getting royally pissed and slamming a heavy black telephone receiver down in an attempt to shatter the ear drum of the person on the other end of the line? Can they jump Double Dutch? Do they know what Olly Olly Oxen Free means? Well, quite frankly, I had to look that one up for the exact meaning. . . but my pronunciation was first rate!

And, unfortunately, most of them will never know the thrill of tightening your skates with a skate key and taking off down the sidewalk or the back alley with the wind in your hair. It’s sad, really.

The children of today have all new entertainment, some of it good and some of it not so good. I applaud the new and the good, but I mourn the passing of the old.

Now where did I put that skate key?

OBH over and out.

November 22, 1963: A day that lives on in my own personal infamy

Musings No Responses »

Nov 222015

They say that our oldest folks remember where they were and what they were doing on the day Franklin Delano Roosevelt died. Younger folks remember where they were and what they were doing on September 11, 2001. Folks in my generation, they say, remember were they were and what they were doing on November 22, 1963, the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I remember.

I was days away from my 11th birthday and I was having a great school year. Why? I had my first black teacher and I was so excited. This may seem a strange statement nowadays, but in 1963 it caused quite a stir in the school district. Many had withdrawn their children from that school because of it. Her name was Mrs. Johnson and she was the best teacher I remember from elementary school. I can still see her when I close my eyes. She was tall and beautiful and, like me, she loved history.

On that fateful day, the PA system crackled as all teachers were ordered to report to the office. We were given an assignment and told to wait for Mrs. Johnson to come back. We all sat there and did our work without a monitor. There was someone patrolling the halls in case of emergency and the doors were left open. My class sat there and dutifully did the assignment. Things were very different back then.

When Mrs. Johnson walked back into class, you could see that she was crying although she was trying to hide it. We were really worried now. The teacher was crying? All we were told, all she was allowed to tell us was that something terrible had happened for our country and we were being dismissed. We were supposed to ask our parents to explain it. There were a bunch of scared kids in that classroom, let me tell you! To this day, I wish she would have been allowed to tell us what was up. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who was imagining the end of the world on my way home.

Because of the unexpected dismissal, no buses were running. My parents were both working and I couldn’t get a ride. So. . . I walked the five miles home. It seemed like it took me forever. I was not the athletic type so it probably did. When I got home and burst through the door, my mom, dad and grandparents were sitting in front of the new color TV my dad had proudly purchased a week or so before. They weren’t even notified that the school had dismissed us. That was the level of shell shock America experienced on that day.

I quickly learned what happened and was very upset, as was the entire country. But I was 11 years old. My upsetment was two-fold. Yes, I was upset that our president was dead. . . . murdered. But there was something else and it didn’t hit me hard until the funeral.

Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg and I share a birthday. She is five years younger than me, but we were born on the same day. Every year since Kennedy’s election, my family made a big thing out of the fact that my birthday was Caroline’s birthday, too. This little girl was less than a week away from her 6th birthday. And there she stood at her father’s casket. I was so upset for her! I kept thinking to myself, “This shouldn’t be! She shouldn’t have lost her daddy days before her birthday.”

I remember being glued to that TV set through the whole funeral, not exactly a fun thing to do for an 11-year-old. And I kept staring at Caroline, wishing her to be okay. John-John famously saluted the casket. He was three. I didn’t think he understood, but I knew Caroline did.

I cried for her that day and for many years after. We are both old ladies now, but I still can see that small child desperately trying not to cry despite the realization that she would never see her father again. And I can still feel what I felt for her on that day, the sadness and the grief that no one who is almost six years old should have to feel. To me, it was okay for the country to mourn, but Caroline shouldn’t have had to.

Many years have gone by since that fateful day. My memory is not what it once was but, for that brief moment in time, John F. Kennedy’s funeral stands frozen in my mind. And I still think of Caroline. Her dad, mom and brother are now gone. And although I have seen many pictures of the older woman she’s become, to me she will always be that little girl standing in the funeral procession trying so hard not to cry.

Sparkling Boobs

Musings No Responses »

Nov 062015

Most folks associate the word sparkling with champagne, right? Not boobs. Not hardly. Up until recently, I did, too.

It was time for the annual boob squish. I dutifully made my appointment and, on the day appointed, headed over to the diagnostic imaging place. The lady who called me back was very nice, professional yet sweet, and answered my questions. She even explained about the fancy, schmancy new, 3-D machine she was going to use, how it worked and she showed me how it was so much better than prior models.

And then we got down to it. She had me as delicately placed as one can be between the killer plates when I hear her gasp. Hey, wait a minute! She didn’t even take any pics yet. What gives?

I hear a giggle and then I hear, “Carla, you have sparkling boobs.” I’m like. . . . HUH? She is still giggling as she comes over and gets me out of the machine. She brings me back behind the screen to show me the preview and, sure enough, there are little glowing spots all over my boob!

She asked me if I had used any perfume with sparkles (on my boobs?), or maybe sparkling bath stuff. I’m not exactly the Sparkle Plenty type, so I told her no. We couldn’t figure out what was going on, but we had to get the mission accomplished. She sent me into the bathroom with wipes and instructions to wash thoroughly. I washed. The pictures got taken, sans sparkle.

When I got home, I just HAD to know, so. . . . off to the bathroom I went testing all my bath products. Not a sparkle or a glow in any of them. Since it came off in the wash room, it definitely wasn’t my sparkling personality. What had I used?

And then it hit me. Body spray. I love body spray. Sure enough, under the light I saw very minute sparkles in the body spray. I sprayed my hand and put it under the light, just to make sure. Busted! It was the body spray.

Word to the wise: Before going for a mammogram or any other imaging study, I would think, do NOT use anything that has any type of residue at all. It will show up on the film. And, after all, who the hell wants sparkling boobs?

Pass the champagne, please.

Some People Should Be Seen And Definitely NOT Heard

Rants No Responses »

Aug 282015

The magic of social media has brought us many great things, like the ability to keep in almost constant touch with family and friends. Sadly, it’s also brought out a whole load of people who should seriously be seen and definitely NOT heard. Cyberbullying has become a problem of epic proportions. People hide behind a keyboard and say things they’d never ever dream of saying to someone’s face. It’s ugly.

Fans of Dancing With the Stars will remember last season’s champion, Rumer Willis, tearfully recalling how she was called vile names in the press because she was not as pretty as her mother, actress Demi Moore. She related how all three of the daughters of Moore and Bruce Willis had terrible, hateful things said about their looks. It should be noted that Rumer has a body that some would kill for; however, she doesn’t have the face to go with it and, therefore, she is open to criticism and hate. One must have it all in Hollywood, right?

The latest instance of internet hate came to light this morning, once again, via the beautiful and talented Zendaya. What can you call Zendaya out on? The former Disney star and all around fantastic performer doesn’t leave much to criticize. So. . . . they went for her parents. Her parents? Oh, yeah.

Zendaya is the daughter of Claire Stoermer, who is white, and Kazembe Ajamu, who is black. They are teachers, both very tall and. . . . shock, horror, gasp!. . . don’t look like Kardashians or whatever is thought to be beautiful today (and which could easily change tomorrow). One photo was captioned, “They made a gorgeous ass child lol.” That was one of the nicer ones. Most called them ugly and one tweeter ever went so far as to say he or she “would cry” if his or her parents looked like Zendaya’s.

Zendaya loves her parents and her parents love her. They were in the audience every single week as she danced on DWTS, cheering her on. They have been with her every step of her journey, even giving up good careers of their own and moving so their baby could have the best. Here’s what the lovely (and smart) Zendaya shot back at her parents’ detractors.

“While you’re so concerned about what my parents look like, please know that these are two of the most selfless people in the world. They have chosen to spend their entire life, not worried about trivial things such as looks and insulting people’s parents on Twitter, but instead became educators who have dedicated their lives to teaching, cultivating and filling young shallow minds.”

She followed this up with, “Please, log out, go to school, hug a teacher and read a textbook…and while you’re at it, go look in the mirror and know that you too are beautiful, because such hateful things only stem from internal struggles. Bless you.”

I say, “Right on, Zendaya!” Her parents did indeed make a “gorgeous ass child.” What’s more important, though, is that they made a smart child with her priorities in the right place and a good dose of common sense.

And this isn’t the first time Zendaya has come under criticism. Zendaya wore her hair in dreadlocks for the Academy Awards last February and Fashion Police’s Julia Rancic took exception to it, saying that Zendaya’s hair must have smelled of “patchouli” and “weed.” Zendaya came back on that one, too, and quite respectfully put Ms. Rancic in her place, garnering an apology. You can read that beautifully-crafted response HERE.

Something I’ve often wondered. . . where is it written that the internet gives you permission to make fun of people for whatever you feel is the issue of the day? Zendaya and Rumer Willis live in the public eye so it’s right out there for all to see. But what about all the everyday people that suffer these slings and arrows daily? Do they fight back? I’m sure some do. What about the ones who keep getting trashed and hide? And what about the ones who do the unthinkable? And for what? Someone else’s opinion of them?

Folks, if you stop and think before you shoot your mouth off in public, try and do the same before you get a case of diarrhea of the fingers online. They used to say sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me. NOT TRUE. Words hurt, and oftentimes more than physical blows.

Can we start showing just a little bit of class out there?

QUOTE SOURCE: People magazine

Memories in Song

Musings No Responses »

Aug 172015

I read an article this morning about a gun range in the back of a church. The article opened with the words, “Praise the Lord. . . . and pass the ammunition.” All of a sudden, the old WWII song of the same name flooded my brain and now it’s stuck there. I’m old, but not quite WWII vintage. Where did that song come from? It didn’t take too long to remember.

My Grandmother.

I grew up with my beloved Grandmom singing to me. She sang the songs she knew, songs of WWI, WWII and the world she grew up in. I got lots of strange looks in elementary school when I would walk around quietly singing How you Gonna Keep ‘Em Down on the Farm After They’ve Seen Paree?

(Where’s Paree, Grandmom?)

In fact, until I was an adult, it never dawned on me that Over There was a WWI song (along with Paree). I just thought it was one of those great old songs I saw in the black and white movies I enjoyed with Grandpop on the weekends.

The memories are flooding back now.

Grandmom taught me about the Easter Parade and wearing a proper bonnet.

(What’s a frill, Grandmom?)

She taught me all about a bicycle built for two, although I’d never seen one in my childhood. Not the most coordinated of young girls, I had enough trouble learning to ride a bicycle built for one.

(Why would I look sweet on a bicycle built for two, Grandmom?)

She taught me about being short with blue eyes. My Grandmom was short with green eyes, barely 4’8, actually, but I always thought that beautiful song about the 5 Foot Two dame was written for her.

(How do you coo, Grandmom?)

When she sang about those horrible Depression years, I always wanted to run and get her a dime. I knew I could spare it even if Buddy couldn’t.

And guess who was probably the only first grader in 1950s Philadelphia who could beast the Charleston? We did that in the basement on rainy days.

Grandmom’s been gone for a while now. I was so blessed to have this remarkable woman in my life for 51 years. Few are so privileged. Most of the songs she taught me are also long gone, except when they live briefly in the old movies on AMC and TCM.

Most adults today wonder what the hell I’m humming when the memories come over me. They don’t know. I do. I remember. And that’s when the better parts of my childhood, in the guise of a very tiny tiny lady with blonde hair and green eyes, overtake me.

I miss you, Grandmom. But don’t worry. I’ll always Keep the Home Fires Burning for you.

Until we meet again. . .

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