The Police, with an '80s chestnut:
I had a Roxanne in my life in the way-wayback. My Roxanne was my girlfriend during my senior year in high school and for a brief time after that. Roxy was, quite literally, a Teen-Age Beauty Queen. By that I mean the girl was a veteran beauty pageant contestant by the time she... we... were in high school. That was prolly the most interesting thing about the girl, and she had the looks to prove it. The least-interesting thing about her was her mother, who was the stereotypical stage mother... a woman who had an entire room in her house dedicated to Roxy's trophies, framed 8x10 glossies, dried flowers, tiaras, gowns, and every-frickin'-thing one can imagine about beauty pageants, dating back to Roxy's first competition when she couldn't have been more than a few months out of diapers. The room was like a shrine and left me rather awe-struck the first time I saw it. But back to the mother...
Roxy's mom was a German war-bride, a fading beauty with that signature guttural German accent (that makes EVERYthing seem ominous and/or evil) who'd gone to seed quite a few years before I met her. The woman also hated me with an unexplained passion; she made this quite plain and took no steps to conceal her contempt for me; insults were frequent and not at all that subtle. As a matter of fact, Roxy's mom could have been modeled on Ilsa, whose image is at right; just add 30 pounds around the waistline and that's HER. The woman was enough of a (w)itch that visits to the family home were painful and therefore quite rare. Roxy and I spent most of our time together at my house or "out." But we persevered, she and I, Mom be damned.
Well, we persevered until about two months after I left to join the Air Force. I received my very first "Dear John" letter from Roxy the month I arrived at Keesler Airplane Patch after basic training. I'm pretty sure Roxy went on to become a successful call girl; I'm just glad she ran into Sting. Things could have ended badly, otherwise.
Roxanne
You don't have to wear that dress tonight
Walk the streets for money
You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right
Roxanne
You don't have to put on the red light
Roxanne
You don't have to put on the red light
I had a Roxanne in my life in the way-wayback. My Roxanne was my girlfriend during my senior year in high school and for a brief time after that. Roxy was, quite literally, a Teen-Age Beauty Queen. By that I mean the girl was a veteran beauty pageant contestant by the time she... we... were in high school. That was prolly the most interesting thing about the girl, and she had the looks to prove it. The least-interesting thing about her was her mother, who was the stereotypical stage mother... a woman who had an entire room in her house dedicated to Roxy's trophies, framed 8x10 glossies, dried flowers, tiaras, gowns, and every-frickin'-thing one can imagine about beauty pageants, dating back to Roxy's first competition when she couldn't have been more than a few months out of diapers. The room was like a shrine and left me rather awe-struck the first time I saw it. But back to the mother... Roxy's mom was a German war-bride, a fading beauty with that signature guttural German accent (that makes EVERYthing seem ominous and/or evil) who'd gone to seed quite a few years before I met her. The woman also hated me with an unexplained passion; she made this quite plain and took no steps to conceal her contempt for me; insults were frequent and not at all that subtle. As a matter of fact, Roxy's mom could have been modeled on Ilsa, whose image is at right; just add 30 pounds around the waistline and that's HER. The woman was enough of a (w)itch that visits to the family home were painful and therefore quite rare. Roxy and I spent most of our time together at my house or "out." But we persevered, she and I, Mom be damned.
Well, we persevered until about two months after I left to join the Air Force. I received my very first "Dear John" letter from Roxy the month I arrived at Keesler Airplane Patch after basic training. I'm pretty sure Roxy went on to become a successful call girl; I'm just glad she ran into Sting. Things could have ended badly, otherwise.
My mother was the first in the family to be born French. Their town was given to France after WW#1. She had a beautiful French accent, but whenever she gave us kids discipline, she quickly fell to German. It's such a functional language...
ReplyDeleteI met my first love at the swimming pool, we dated for a whole year. Her mother liked me a lot, and the more she liked me, the less my girlfriend did. Some sort of female dynamics going on there, that was way above my pay grade.
I have known two ladies named Roxanne.
ReplyDeleteThat is, I have been acquainted.
They were both a little rough around the edges in different ways and neither one threw like a girl.
Each was fun to be around and they were good employees.
@ Krauts: I absolutely LOVE women with French accents. Women with accents... no matter what sort... are a definite turn-on for me, but French is the best. The "female dynamics" you mention are most certainly strange.
ReplyDelete@ Skip: I think "neither one threw like a girl" sounds like code. ;-)
It could be ...but isn't.
DeleteOne of my favorite songs.
ReplyDeleteTrue story about my New Orleans Roxanne: There is a bar in N.O. on "uptown" oppo Tulane U. at the corner of Calhoun and S. Miro just off Claiborne Ave. that is a family owned neighborhood bar of longstanding (circa 1933, iirc) in a small shopping center called Roberts Bar. There used to be a crack whore named Roxanne who dressed ONLY in all black (many called her The Black Widow) who frequented the place. She plied her "trade" in the Quarter, then would hit Roberts usually sometime after midnight. She had gone to H.S. with many of the "locals' and would usually engage in spirited banter. She was fairly good looking with a vicious sense of humor and very quick-witted indeed. Example: One Halloween she came in dressed as a construction worker (one of the few times she was not dressed in black) with friends all dressed up as The Village People. She had a yellow hard hat on, white T-Shirt, yellow "tape-measure" cloth suspenders, workman's shorts and boots, plus tool-belt w. tools. She carried a plastic squirt gun in her hand. I was standing by the juke-box feeding it quarters. She walked over to me (by now we were as old friends, lol) and, putting one hand on a screw-driver in her tool-belt and menacing me with her pistol, said: ""Ya got a choice: I can either shoot ya or I can screw ya, take your pick!" LOL!
Roxanne, Part II
ReplyDeleteIt was Mardis Gras in the early evening on Sat night before the Endyemion Parade was scheduled (iirc) she walked into Roberts dressed like a S.F. Madame with long black skirt, black lace top w. shawl her haif done up high with a red comb (Spanish flamenco style on top, red button fold-over high-heeled "spats" and carrying a real bull-whip in her hand. She paced up and down muttering "Assume NOTHING, assume THE POSITION." over and over as she looked for local character and child-hood friend, a wild Basque named "Tut." (first name). Once located at the back as he arrived thru the rear door by chance she gave him the required mock whipping, then dragged him to the front and a set of double doors,, threw them open wide, handed Tut the whip, then stood in the entryway with her hands raised holding onto the door frame, wriggled her ass suggestively, looked over her shoulder and once again exclaimed "Assume NOTHING, assume......THE POSITION" with a final wriggle of her hips, whereupon Tut dutifully administered her punishment to great cheers all-round. She then retrieved the whip, strode to her SUV (ALL black, natch) and roared off into the night.LOL!
Now that it's way too late to matter, it's become clear to me that any weirdness between a girl/woman and her mother is gonna devolve on you sooner or later. By the time you start to notice you've already become just another pawn in their game.
ReplyDeleteNow if I'd just figured that out 60 years ago.....
What you say is MORE than true. My Ol' Man used to tell me "look at the mother" by the time I got old enough to know what was what. I didn't listen to him, though. BIG-ass sigh.
DeleteRoxanne, Part III:
ReplyDeleteLater that same night I was sitting at the bar at 2:30 am waiting to meet Tut at three, being a little early. He had gone to a local members only pvt costume party of old childhood friends (now mostly professionals) called the "Screw Ball." While waiting whose black SUV comes screeching to a stop at the frond curb oppo the side double doors? Yes, you win the cupie doll. It's our gal, but this time changed into a black beret, black stretch top w. bare midriff, skin-tight black capri slacks and black flats. "Where's Tut" she demanded, and getting no satisfactory answer from anyone, she started beating everyone with her beret in frustration, then, finally giving up and sensing Tut wouldn't show (he actually did shortly thereafter)
she hopped into her SUV again, did a double whifferdill in the Teds Frostop across the street to change direction, then roared off into the night up Claiborne headed further uptown, LOL. Just "a day in the life..."
Thanks for these, Virgil. You have the BEST stories!
DeleteHey! How'd THAT happen?
ReplyDeleteHow did WHAT happen?
Delete