Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jennifer OConnell
Besides, my parents would let us get whatever we wanted for dinner (McDonaldâs for my brother, Hardyâs for me), so their Saturday night plans were hardly something to complain about.
I couldnât tell you where they went on those nightsâout to dinner or over to a friendâs house or just to catch a movie. But I can recall with total clarity how my mother stood in front of her bathroom mirror while I sat on the edge of the toilet lid (complete with shaggy rug cover) and watched her get ready for a night on the town. I scrutinized her selection of eye shadow, dipped my fingers in pots of brilliant pink blush, and sat mesmerized by the wondrous transformation taking place before meâa person turning from my mom into a woman who seemed beautiful and sophisticated and so, well, unmotherly.
I can tell you the name of the lipstick my mother wore and describe the slim gold fluted tube that I loved so much I carry my own in my purse today (Estee Lauder Starlit Pink). I canât walk by a bottle of Charlie at my local drugstore and resist the temptation to take one short sniff of the glass bottle with the familiar manâs name etched in script across the front. And when I inhale, itâs not the old perfume commercials I see, with the sassy models flipping their blonde Farrah hair as they cross the street and a man sings about how they call her Charlie. No, I see my mom staring into the mirror, her image illuminated by the brilliant lightbulbs dotting her reflection, like a movie star preparing to walk on stage.
Judy Blume moments are the ones that keep you going to the Estee Lauder counter long after youâre sure no one else is wearing Starlit Pink, simply because it reminds you of your mom and the possibility of a Saturday night.
We looked through a pile of nighties before we found one made of two layers of the softest nylon. The top layer was pink and the underneath was purple so when you moved it around it had a sort of lavender look to it.
âItâs perfect!â Janet said, holding it up to me.
âWhat do you think Deenie?â Midge asked.
âItâs beautiful!â I said.
âDeenie
My nightgown was blue. Baby blue, to be exact. Paler than a robinâs egg but darker than the light blue eye shadow I hoped to some day wear on my lids like Olivia Newton-John in Grease. And, like Deenie, my nightgown was purchased for a special event. My first slumber party.
I couldnât tell you what it felt like to wear the yellow tea-length dress I selected for my junior prom; nor could I tell you that I felt anything special when donning a white cap and gown for my high school graduation. But I can instantly describe how I felt dressed in that cotton floor-length nightgown with matching robe, can recall every detail. The small embroidered roses around the neckline, the kind that curl around the edges when they come out of the wash and never seem to flatten out again. My nightie was sleeveless, and the robe had loose ruffles that skimmed my shoulders, like pale blue fairy wings. It buttoned up the back, small white spheres like pearls.
A nightgown. Not my first slumber party or who attended or the games we played. (Iâm sure light as a feather, stiff as a board must have been attempted at least once that night.) What stays with me is a pale blue cotton nightgown with matching robe that probably ended up in a Hefty bag headed for Goodwill when it no longer fit me.
A Judy Blume moment makes a girl feel like a princess in a blue cotton nightgown long after the slumber party ends and the Ouija board is put away.
Sally couldnât fall asleep. She tossed and turned trying out different positions. Legs outside the bed sheet, arms at her sides; arms outside the sheet, legs inside. One leg out, one arm out; curled in a ball; spread eagled on her stomach. Nothing worked. I need a story, she thought.
âStarring Sally J. Freedman As Herself
I canât sleep. And when I
I couldnât tell you where they went on those nightsâout to dinner or over to a friendâs house or just to catch a movie. But I can recall with total clarity how my mother stood in front of her bathroom mirror while I sat on the edge of the toilet lid (complete with shaggy rug cover) and watched her get ready for a night on the town. I scrutinized her selection of eye shadow, dipped my fingers in pots of brilliant pink blush, and sat mesmerized by the wondrous transformation taking place before meâa person turning from my mom into a woman who seemed beautiful and sophisticated and so, well, unmotherly.
I can tell you the name of the lipstick my mother wore and describe the slim gold fluted tube that I loved so much I carry my own in my purse today (Estee Lauder Starlit Pink). I canât walk by a bottle of Charlie at my local drugstore and resist the temptation to take one short sniff of the glass bottle with the familiar manâs name etched in script across the front. And when I inhale, itâs not the old perfume commercials I see, with the sassy models flipping their blonde Farrah hair as they cross the street and a man sings about how they call her Charlie. No, I see my mom staring into the mirror, her image illuminated by the brilliant lightbulbs dotting her reflection, like a movie star preparing to walk on stage.
Judy Blume moments are the ones that keep you going to the Estee Lauder counter long after youâre sure no one else is wearing Starlit Pink, simply because it reminds you of your mom and the possibility of a Saturday night.
We looked through a pile of nighties before we found one made of two layers of the softest nylon. The top layer was pink and the underneath was purple so when you moved it around it had a sort of lavender look to it.
âItâs perfect!â Janet said, holding it up to me.
âWhat do you think Deenie?â Midge asked.
âItâs beautiful!â I said.
âDeenie
My nightgown was blue. Baby blue, to be exact. Paler than a robinâs egg but darker than the light blue eye shadow I hoped to some day wear on my lids like Olivia Newton-John in Grease. And, like Deenie, my nightgown was purchased for a special event. My first slumber party.
I couldnât tell you what it felt like to wear the yellow tea-length dress I selected for my junior prom; nor could I tell you that I felt anything special when donning a white cap and gown for my high school graduation. But I can instantly describe how I felt dressed in that cotton floor-length nightgown with matching robe, can recall every detail. The small embroidered roses around the neckline, the kind that curl around the edges when they come out of the wash and never seem to flatten out again. My nightie was sleeveless, and the robe had loose ruffles that skimmed my shoulders, like pale blue fairy wings. It buttoned up the back, small white spheres like pearls.
A nightgown. Not my first slumber party or who attended or the games we played. (Iâm sure light as a feather, stiff as a board must have been attempted at least once that night.) What stays with me is a pale blue cotton nightgown with matching robe that probably ended up in a Hefty bag headed for Goodwill when it no longer fit me.
A Judy Blume moment makes a girl feel like a princess in a blue cotton nightgown long after the slumber party ends and the Ouija board is put away.
Sally couldnât fall asleep. She tossed and turned trying out different positions. Legs outside the bed sheet, arms at her sides; arms outside the sheet, legs inside. One leg out, one arm out; curled in a ball; spread eagled on her stomach. Nothing worked. I need a story, she thought.
âStarring Sally J. Freedman As Herself
I canât sleep. And when I
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