I have made it no secret that I was a tween and a teen during that magical musical time known as the eighties. Back in my day, we had fabulous magazines like Teen Beat and Tiger Beat and Bop!. The sole purpose of these fine periodicals was to deliver glossy photos of hot young movie stars, hot young TV stars, and hot young musicians. The teenage girls into whose hands these hot young photos were delivered would immediately cut those images out and tack them to their walls. I was one of those girls. It seemed to be a required step in the puberty process.

I’m sure, if you’ve ever read this blog before, you can guess who was on my wall: Duran Duran, the cast of The Outsiders, more Duran Duran. But also Adam Ant, The Pet Shop Boys, and this funny British guy with crooked teeth.

Yes, that is David Bowie. Why is he holding a cat? Who knows? I didn't care. Keep in mind that I was still a tween. I loved my British pop stars, but I also loved kitties. I might have had this photo framed.

I’d love to tell you that I admired Bowie because of his voice: so instantly recognizable, yet ever-changing; or his expansive talents—actor, artist, space alien. But I was a young, hormonal girl. Here’s what I loved: his hair, his eyes, and his teeth. He was hot.

His hair, because it always looked perfectly spikily coiffed, something that (despite my best efforts with Dep gel and Aqua Net) I could never achieve. His eyes, because they were not only two different colors, but one pupil was permanently dilated, and thus endlessly fascinating. And his teeth, because they weren’t perfect. (I had never been self-conscious about my teeth until a dentist suggested I have my front uppers and lowers capped to straighten them out. I didn’t do it—up until that very moment, I had never given their crookedness a second thought—but now I am painfully aware of my jack-’o-lantern smile.) Famous people with imperfect teeth hold a special place in my heart (Ethan Hawke, I salute you). If they don’t care about their haphazard grins, why should I?

My point is, as a teenager, I thought David Bowie was handsome and sexy and enigmatic. 

Eventually, I got through puberty and grew up. And happily, as an adult, I found David Bowie to be brilliant and crazy and bizarre and beautiful.

David Bowie was always part of the backdrop as I aged. While I was agonizing over pimples and bad dates and bad marriages and a mortgage, he was singing and acting and reinventing himself over, and over, and over. And in every interview, every video, every movie he popped up in, I thought Hey, there’s my old friend, David Bowie! I love that guy! And once: Hey, what the—did he fix his teeth? How could he?

Waking up Monday morning to the news that David Bowie had left the proverbial building was saddening in a way I wasn’t prepared for. My old friend was gone. His absence was immediate and huge.

Except . . . it isn’t. I have a lot of Bowie on my iPhone, and played his music all week while driving or at my desk. I put on Basquiat Monday night and watched him play one of my other favorite artists, Andy Warhol. Social media and the online sites have been posting tributes all week to this amazing man. And even scrolling through some of my old blog posts, I found references to Bowie that I’d forgotten—my love of his duet with Bing Crosby, only because it’s David Bowie. My love of Labyrinth, even though, let’s be honest, it’s not the best movie in the world. References to “Space Oddity” and “Changes” occasionally made because I’d assumed everybody knew these songs and would get the reference.

I have one coworker that is as deep in mourning as I am over the loss of Ziggy Stardust. We started talking about how absolutely brilliant he was to release Blackstar so close to his death. His swan song has skyrocketed in sales this week, and there has been endless speculation and interpretation around the lyrics and videos he left us with.

“Typical Bowie,” my coworker said. “Leaving us all guessing and wanting more.”

This is true. Typical Bowie—in that he never did the typical or expected.

I’ll miss you, old friend. 

I’m off to put on my red shoes and dance the blues.    
__
This week from The Storyside:
Fabulous free fiction: "That Sounds Familiar" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
An overview of how to get your book written and published: "From Idea to Printed Page, Part 1" by Ursula Wong

I’m pretty sure, given my lifelong love affair for all things Duran Duran, that it’s no secret I grew up in the 1980s. It was a simpler, more fluorescent time then. So many things happened that influenced who Gen Xers are today. I’m not talking about the fall of the Berlin Wall, or Reaganomics, or the development of the modern Internet. I’m talking about the fine selection of horror films being produced for consumption by young, impressionable minds during that time period. Here are some valuable life lessons we all learned from those instructive films:

1. To kill a leprechaun, you must slingshot a four-leaf clover down his gullet. However, don’t expect him to stay dead. He’ll be back, at least five more times, and he wants his gold.

2. Don’t build your home on a Native American burial ground. Also, stuffed clowns are a terrible birthday gift idea. You might as well put out a doormat that reads POLTERGEISTS WELCOME HERE.

3. Speaking of bad birthday gifts, put that Good Guy doll right back on the shelf. You can’t be sure the spirit of a serial killer doesn’t possess that thing. Need a good gift? That puppet master down the road had some cool toys in his window.

4. To kill a bloodthirsty, machete-wielding murderer in a hockey mask, you need to put an axe through his head, kill him with his own machete, chain him to the bottom of the lake where he initially drowned, drag him back to the bottom of the lake again after he escapes, blow him up with a grenade, stab him with a mystical dagger, freeze him in cryonic suspension, or eject him into space. Of course, he’ll still come back. You thought the leprechaun was bad? He was child’s play compared to this guy!

5. Things to avoid: April Fool’s Day, prom night, graduation day, sleepaway camp, trolls, chopping malls, Motel Hell, and critters.

6. Speaking of malls: if there’s a zombie apocalypse happening all around you, do not go to the mall. Also not recommended: living in an underground military bunker where a commander whose mental state is questionable at best is conducting experiments on zombies; living near a cemetery.

7.  If your dad is offered a job as caretaker for the winter at a Colorado hotel, try to talk him out of it. If he’s truly taken a shine to the place, maybe you can live with friends for the winter or something. I’m sure Isaac and Malachai have room.

8. To fight vampires, you need stakes, holy water, and two Coreys. Though really, why fight them? If Keifer Sutherland and Jason Patric taught us nothing else, they did prove that vampires are sexy.

9. When buying a home, maybe avoid Elm Street. You thought the hockey mask guy was hard to kill? Ha! The only way to avoid Freddy Krueger is to take hypnocil and move the hell away from Elm Street. What about that nice split-level ranch in Haddonfield?

 10. Anything can be used as a murder weapon. Paper clips, horsehead bookends, chalkboard erasers, an eggplant . . . the possibilities are endless.

Kids today have no idea how hard it was to survive an ’80s horror movie. These days, they think if something’s not working for them, they can just reboot it. 

Pinheads.

Let me just say for the record that I love my current job, and just as importantly, my current commute. The job is fun, my coworkers are nice, and the commute is half as long as my last one. I still have about 40 minutes each way to think about deep, important things. Am I polishing up my latest novel in my head, or solving world problems as I drive? You be the judge. Here's what went through my head today as I drove:

• It's rain, people, not snow. Learn how to drive!
• The guy in front of me has a bumper sticker that looks like a hot air balloon and says "FAT" on it. What does that mean? Seems vaguely insulting. Maybe I'll honk at him.
• Ugh. If you're going to hit a squirrel, make sure you kill it. That's all I'm saying.
• My bad knee hurts this morning. Is this due to the rain, or due to the three pounds I've put on this week thanks to the arrival of Hostess Halloween Glo Balls™ in stores now? Am I fat? Really, if nobody gets your stupid fat hot air balloon bumper sticker, why have it on your car at all?
• Are there still people in the world who think OJ didn't do it? How does Marcia Clark deal with that?
• Wow, the lead singer Jimi Jamison of Survivor just died, and he was fairly young. Only 63 . . . You know who I love? Survivor winner Richard Hatch.
• Catchy tune. "I'm all about that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble." Why did I give up playing the cello?
• The guy in the car next to me can't be more than 30. That's a shame, because he's got a terrible comb-over going on, which, trust me, is the least attractive hairstyle in the world. I'm tempted to roll down my window and scream "Shave it all OFF, man!" Could I get arrested for that?
• You know who hated being arrested? Richard Hatch.
• There's something unpleasant I must acknowledge about getting older. I hate to do it, but it has to be said. While it's true that Nick Rhodes has always been my favorite member of Duran Duran, out of all of them, John Taylor is really aging the best. My sister was right: he's still hot. And, let's face it, Roger Taylor looks darn good these days. Who would've predicted that?
• Oh, Dylan McDermott has a new show out this fall according to the radio? He was in Steel Magnolias, a movie I could quote endlessly. Like Young Frankenstein. I quote that movie all the time. "Werewolf?" "There wolf! There castle!" Ha ha! Seriously, people, it's RAIN, not sleet!
• Did I comb my hair this morning?
• I'm sure there's a story I can write about the snapping turtle hatchery we've got going on right now. Hmmm . . . using turtles as a murder weapon . . . an unhapp—oh, look! I didn't know there was a Whole Foods there!
• They're repaving this part of the highway. Jeez, that tar stinks . . . I wish chunky black boots would come back in style. I mean, I still wear them, but it would be nice if they were actually in style.
• What, are we not in Connecticut? Yellow means floor it, people!

As you can clearly see, I've been quite busy philosophizing and solving the issues of the world during my morning commute. Clearly, there's Aristotle, Nietzsche, and me. My planned musings for the drive home this afternoon: More squirrels, whether or not rain has been proven to lower driving IQs, Pepperidge Farms snickerdoodles, and a little debate in my mind about whether or not Richard Hatch was truly the best Survivor player ever. (Answer: yes.)


Available now! Insanity Tales, a collaboration with my writers' group, featuring me, David Daniel, Dale T. Phillips, Vlad V., and Ursula Wong! Order ten copies today!

If you've ever met me, then you know that I've met Survivor winner Richard Hatch, because it's something I like to work into the first twenty seconds of every conversation I have. I've actually met a lot of celebrities, pseudo-celebrities, and local personalities, but Mr. Hatch ranks in my Top Five (the other four being Duran Duran, Dee Snider, "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan, and Tony Goldwyn, if you were wondering. Oh, and Jake "The Snake" Roberts. Top Six. Whatever.) But why do I insist on gushing about Richard Hatch so much? I think the only way you'll see what a kind, decent, generous, and funny human being he was is if I recreate our meeting for you. (Disclaimer: the following recreation might not be exactly how it went. But close.)

The setting: Rhode Island Comic Con, November 1, 2013. STACEY LONGO and author ROB WATTS are walking up and down the aisles as the vendors begin to unpack. The show hasn't opened yet, but because JASON HARRIS made them arrive three hours early to set up a table display that takes 25 minutes to prepare, they have some time to kill.

As they round the corner past the Batmobile display, STACEY spots a veeeery familiar face.

STACEY: Oh my God. That's Richard Hatch. I'm going to go talk to him.

ROB: Don't you want to wait until he takes off his coat, at least? It looks like he just arriv--

STACEY: (approaching Richard Hatch) Hi! Ohmahgerd, I love you! Last year they said Richard Hatch was going to be here but it turned out to be some old guy from Battlestar Galactica. I was so mad that it wasn't you, I pouted all weekend! ROB, remember how upset I was?

ROB: Um, sure.

RICHARD HATCH: Er, hi. You don't seem weird or stalkerish at all. Sometimes I get the other Richard Hatch's mail.

STACEY: Honestly, and don't tell Tommy Howell this, but you were, like, the only person I wanted to meet here this weekend. I just love you!

RICHARD HATCH: You know I'm gay, right?

STACEY: Oh, I'm not hitting on you. I'm married. (RICHARD HATCH looks at ROB WATTS apologetically.) Not to him, either (motions towards ROB). My husband is at our vendor table, lint rolling our tablecloth. He's going to be sooo mad that I met you already! We own the first season of Survivor on DVD and I've made him watch it, like, seventeen times. Have you seen it, ROB? Do you want to borrow it? (ROB WATTS shakes head, smiles apologetically at RICHARD HATCH.)

RICHARD HATCH: Oh, you have a table here? What are you selling?

STACEY: Books. We're horror writers (points to herself and ROB WATTS, then shoves ROB aside). Here's a copy of my short story collection. It would be my honor to give you a copy. Also, I mention you in every single story.

RICHARD HATCH: Surprisingly, that is still not creepy or stalkerish at all. I'd be honored! (Takes book.)

STACEY: Wow, you don't seem like an obnoxious jerk at all. I guess you really can't believe everything you see on television. I've been bamboozled! (Laughs nervously.) Get it? Like you said on Survivor: Borneo? Bamboozled? Er . . .

RICHARD HATCH: Yes, I remember. Very clever. And it's always nice to hear that I'm not really an a**hole.

STACEY: Listen, I have to go gush to my husband that I met you. I'll probably get all weepy and breathless, and I don't want you to see that. Would it be okay if I stopped by your table 46 more times over the weekend and pick your brain about who's going to win this season of Survivor,  and about how jail was, and what Jeff Probst's dimples really look like up close?

RICHARD HATCH: Why, that sounds delightful. I look forward to it!

Yes, gentle reader, I did in fact spend 80% of my time that weekend at Mr. Hatch's table. He was kind enough to tolerate me, and I learned that jail was awful (though he got a lot of reading done), Richard won't speculate on who will win any given season of Survivor (though we agreed that Vytas was pretty clever on the season that was airing at the time), and that Jeff Probst's dimples are even deeper than they appear on television. Overall, it was one of the most pleasant experiences of my life, which is why, as you'll now understand, I try to mention it as much as possible. Over dinner, during job interviews, while waiting in line at the grocery store . . . incidentally, none of my friends have wanted to hang out with me since November. Including my sister.

They're all just jealous.

I’ve finally adjusted to my commute, which is over an hour long. Remember, I used to live so close to my job on Block Island that I could walk there (though I never did, which might explain why I was fat). Since others might also be experiencing the joys of a long commute, here’s a list of fun games I’ve made up to play on your ride to and from work:

1. What’s That Noise?
This fun time-killer will have you going crazy in no time. Possible thoughts will include Do I have a flat tire? or Am I behind a gravel truck? and Is there a rabid weasel attached to the undercarriage of my car?
Not to be confused with . . .

2. What’s That Smell?
An entertaining variant of What’s That Noise?, this game will have you wondering Is my engine on fire? or Did I pack rotten eggs in my lunch this morning?

3. Hello, Fellow Commuters
You’ll soon realize that you’re seeing some of the same people every day during your drive. I’ve learned, for instance, that the blue van that speeds down Route 2 every morning with the sign reading Carrying School Children should not be. Then there’s the car with the license plate IKESMA who likes to travel at 50 m.p.h. in the left lane. I hate her, not just for her annoying traveling habits, but because she named her kid after a cartoon character on South Park.

4. Test your Bluetooth Commands
If you’re driving, you should have a Bluetooth. Take this time to learn what that gadget can do! My Bluetooth, for instance, recognizes “Find the nearest gas station” as the command for “call 9-1-1.” Fun times!

5. Stalk the Traffic Reporter Guy
In Connecticut, there seems to be just one guy in the whole state who reports on traffic for every station across the radio dial. His name is Mark. I like to follow him across the radio. He starts off on 96.5 TIC as "Mark the Shark," then hops over to 100.5 WRCH as "Mark Christopher." Sometimes I catch him on WTIC 1080 AM, and then I lose him. But I'll find him, sooner or later. I've got time.

6. Match up your CDs to your Commute
It's fun to try and figure out which of your CDs will line up perfectly with your commute. After stalking Mark for a while, I take the information he's given me (accident on 84 East, say, or Mark lives in Glastonbury) and choose the appropriate CD. Light traffic means I can get in the entire Violent Femmes' Viva Wisconsin! album; a jackknifed tractor trailer means it's time for the Beatles' 1 album. Duran Duran's Greatest CD works best when traffic is moving along but slowing up by the Glastonbury exit.

7. Play 'Dodge-the-Pothole'
Most of my time is split up between What's That Noise? and this game. You will quickly learn which lanes along which routes have the worst potholes, and drive accordingly. I'm sure to the drivers behind me it looks like I'm trying to dodge velociraptors in the kitchen, but trust me, those swerves are necessary. The biggest challenge happens around Hartford, when I have to avoid the potholes without getting stuck behind Ike's mother. I award myself points for every blown out tire I see along the side of the road (one point each, but if you spot a whole tire, including rim, like I did today, that's worth at least ten). When you reach 100 points (and you will, quickly) your reward is a greater appreciation for your vehicle and its tires.

There you have it. These fun on-the-road games will help your commute pass by in no time! 

Another year has passed, and you're probably wondering how my 2013 was. Wonder no more: Here are my highlights from the past year!

January: January 23rd came and went without any injuries to my knees. Since it was January 23, 2011, that I fell while ice skating and tore my MCL and chipped my knee cap, I tend to dread this date now. Also, I turned 40 this month. My family and friends plied me with lots of chocolate cake, so it wasn't so bad.

February: This was the month that I failed miserably at my attempt to follow the Atkins Diet in what will forever be known as "The Great Chocolate Mousse Cake Intervention." After recovering from my sugar withdrawal, I decided it would be healthier and safer for all involved if I ditched the diet and just bought bigger pants.

March: A low point in my year. Yes, I ate chocolate cake on my sister's birthday, but I had a sinus infection for most of the month. This was the month when I discovered home remedies for illness don't work that well. Also, if you chug apple cider vinegar, it will make you vomit.

April: This was the month we filed our taxes. Also, we realized we could no longer afford chocolate cake. I thought March was bad? Hah!

May: My addiction to Downton Abbey began in May. My mother and sister forced me to start watching this series (by mentioning that it was good) and my life was changed forever. Side effects have included talking in a mangled British accent and dressing like the Dowager Countess. Withdrawal symptoms can be easily managed by re-watching seasons over and over again on Netflix.

June: This month, I wrote an introspective letter to my teenage self. Highlights: I still love Duran Duran, and I have turned into my mother.

July: I went to see Stephen King at the Bushnell. He failed to acknowledge my existence. Hack.

August: This month, I listed the top ten sexiest actors ever. People universally hailed my list as "shallow" and "ridiculous."

September: Jason and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary by watching Sharknado and eating chocolate cake. Mmm, cake.

October: My book, Secret Things, came out this month. Hooray! This enabled me to brag that I had a book out, and meant that 3/4 of my Christmas shopping list was done. Didn't get a copy of Secret Things for Christmas? When's your birthday?

November: On November 2nd, I fulfilled a lifelong dream (or at least a dream I've had since the first season of Survivor aired) and met Richard Hatch. Now, besides bragging about having a book out, I could brag about meeting Richard Hatch. Life is good.

December: With every good thing that happens (see: meeting Richard Hatch) life has to throw a few dirty snowballs at you to keep things even. I had to sit through no less than seven crappy holiday specials this month, including Santa Claus is Coming to Town (insipid), Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (wishy-washy), and 'Twas the Night Before Christmas (nauseating). Also, because of all the cookies, there was no chocolate cake. But at least I got to meet Richard Hatch. 

Here's hoping for a fabulous 2014! And more Richard Hatch!

I've met a lot of famous people over the years, for which I'm thankful. These encounters don't always go as planned. Here are some real-life encounters I've had, how I'd hoped they would go, and how they really went.

Christopher Walken
I had the opportunity about 10 years ago to deliver a Fedex package to Christopher Walken. Here's how I imagined it would go:
Me: Mr. Walken, it's an honor to meet you. I know you're more famous for movies like The Deer Hunter, but I have to say your comedic timing is spot-on. I thought you were brilliant on the Saturday Night Live 25th anniversary special.
Christopher Walken: You're brilliant. Let's have dinner.

That's not exactly how it went in real life. Here's what happened when I pulled into his driveway:
Christopher Walken: Who are you? You're not the regular FedEx driver. I'm calling the cops.
Me: No, wait! The Fedex guy got a flat tire and I'm his wife. Here! (Thrusts package into his chest, causing him to fall backwards.)
Christopher Walken: Thanks, I guess. Go away now.
Me (beaming like an idiot): No, thank you! (Runs for the car to call sister and brag about meeting Christopher Walken.)

Tom Brady
The famous Patriots quarterback once vacationed on Block Island. Here's how I thought it would go:
Me: Hey, I know you. Did we go to high school together or something?
Tom Brady: You mean you have no idea who I am? How refreshing! Let me dump my supermodel girlfriend and we'll have dinner.

The reality was a little different. First of all, I watched this jerk refuse to sign an autograph for an 8-year-old because he was on vacation and "didn't want to draw attention" to himself. Then he proceeded to take off his shirt and toss a football with his supermodel girlfriend right in the center of New Harbor. So here's how our meeting went:
Tom Brady (flexing and posing shirtless): Please, I just want to enjoy my vacation. (Spikes a football at the edge of Payne's Dock.)
Me (driving by in a pickup truck with unidentifiable plates): You throw like a girl!

Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran
This was the man of my dreams for many, many years. When my sister won backstage passes to meet Duran Duran in 2007, it was the highlight of my life. Here's how I imagined it would go:
Me: Nick! Can you please pose for a picture with me?
Nick Rhodes: Of course I can.
Me: This is so exciting. You don't understand. I was going to be the mother of your children.
Nick Rhodes: Yes, I can see you're clearly the woman of my dreams. Screw dinner; let's get married.

Here's what actually happened:
Me: Nick! Can you please pose for a picture with me?
Nick Rhodes: Of course I can.
Me: This is so exciting. You don't understand. I was going to be the mother of your children.
Nick Rhodes: Security!

So you see, you can plan and plan for your famous celebrity interaction, but you really never know how it will go. This weekend, I'll be at Rhode Island Comicon, where my teenage crush, C. Thomas "Tommy" Howell will also be. Will I be running off to Hollywood with Ponyboy? Probably not. But a girl can dream, can't she?

Jason and I have been married for exactly five years today. Had you asked me seven years ago if I would ever marry again, I probably would have spit on you. But my hubby tricked me into it somehow, and here we are, still together.
Marriage is hard. And I'm not talking about the finances, or big decisions like having children and where to spend Christmas. I can deal with that stuff. It's the little things, like perhaps my spouse's inability to put a single dish in the dishwasher, even though it is right next to the sink. THAT's the kind of example that makes me daydream about how happy I was when I was single.
I'll admit it, though: I'm no cup of easy street either. For instance, I am a rabid, raging harpy until I get at least half a pot of coffee in me. It's in these early hours of the morning that I'm most likely to say "You know what would be nice? If you moved back in with your parents." 
Also, I can hold a grudge. For a looong time. About things that one might never realize I'm upset about.

Jason: We haven't had chicken and dumplings in, like . . . ever.
Me: I think you know darn well why I will never make you chicken and dumplings.
Jason: Huh?
Me: Remember on June 3, 2007? In the Bisquick aisle at the grocery store? When you said maybe I should read a recipe on how to make chicken and dumplings? How DARE you imply that I need a recipe? You can choke on your dumplings, pal!
Jason: Huh?

Also, there are a couple of traits we both have that don't always mesh together well. Jason, for instance, does not like to order new foods, but he likes to try and sample whatever is on my plate. I, on the other hand, am not good at sharing. Oh, sure, my parents taught me to share at an early age, making me split everything with my sister. And you know what? I am GREAT at sharing with my sister. We'll share bowls of chowder, slices of cake, members of Duran Duran . . . but I am not so good at sharing with Jason. After spending 15 minutes listening to him gripe about how there's nothing on the menu he likes, then watching him order chicken fingers (in an italian restaurant) while I opt for the steak gorgonzola over fettuccine, I am not particularly tolerant when I see his fork slowly creeping towards my plate for a taste. That's often when we playfully engage in a game I like to call "Move Your Hand Closer So I Can Stab You." He also has an uncanny knack of doing this at every meal when I'm on Weight Watchers. (I'm eating steak gorgonzola over fettuccine, people. Of course I need to go on a diet.) Note to all of you married men out there: When your wife is on a strict diet of 1200 calories a day, don't even think about taking one little mouthful of our carefully measured-out food away from us. We'll kill you, and no jury in the world will convict us.

Sure, the man can't wash a dish, or cook, and I often refer to myself as Dobby the House Elf when I'm feeling put upon. But he does do a couple of things that make up for it. Jason is always urging me to get more of my writing out there, and when I do send out stories that get accepted, he's tireless about promoting me and bragging about me. If my novel is rejected, he's the first one to tell me the publisher is clearly a tasteless, illiterate idiot, and he won't let me dwell on that rejection, but will suggest other markets to send it to next. And he's great about knowing how to cheer me up. He loves to surprise me by running to the library and renting a terrible B-movie if I'm feeling blue. A couple of weeks ago, I was depressed over a big project that's been overwhelming me. There was Jason, beaming: "Look, honey! Sharknado!" And you know what? It did cheer me up!

So for those of you thinking about getting married, my only advice is to make sure you two know all of the ugly details about each other before tying the knot. Jason was fully aware of my caffeine addiction prior to the wedding, and to his credit, he didn't run when I threatened to shave "Cream, two Splenda" into the side of the cat so he'd remember how I like my coffee. I knew prior to tying the knot that Jason was incapable of cooking anything more then ramen noodles in the kitchen (and, disgustingly enough, he microwaves them). It's okay. Because you know what? This marriage thing is working for us. So far.

Happy Anniversary, Jason!

Dear Stacey at 15,

Hey you! Yes, you there, the one putting a hole in the ozone layer with all that Aqua Net you're spraying in an effort to make your bangs stand up straight! It's me--you at 40. Boo!
How are you doing? You seem a little angst-ridden. Why don't you turn off that music? Yes, I know the Violent Femmes rock, but they're awfully depressing, and since you will eventually be diagnosed with clinical depression, they certainly can't be helping. You know what you like to listen to now as you're be-bopping down the highway? That's right, Duran Duran. THAT's how cool you're gonna be at 40.
Right now, you're probably thinking about how you're going to meet Megan in the girls' bathroom for a cigarette before your first class. Guess who you don't speak to at all anymore? That's right, Megan. We don't even know what state she lives in. Stop worrying so much about being BFFs. And see this turkey neck? Those cigarettes gave us this. Quit now!
What's that, you ask? How could we have possibly lost touch with Meegs? Take a careful look at your friends. We don't see any of them anymore, except on Facebook, which I don't even want to explain to you right now. You know who you do get together with a couple times a year? Alicia and Laura. That's about it. People grow up and grow apart. Stop worrying so much about your friends' dramas and worry more about getting that chemistry grade up.
The good news is you'll never forget your English teacher right now, Ms. Lacosse. Be nicer to her--she will have a huge influence on your career path. And you know your secret dream to own a bookstore and read all day? We get to do that! Except for the reading all day part. Businesses take a lot of work, you know.
Hear your mother out in the kitchen, telling you to get a move on before you miss your bus? Know how everyone always says you two don't look anything alike? That'll change. You're pretty much her blonde twin now. That's right--you, too, will soon carry a big purse and wear sensible shoes. You won't care at all about how silly you look. And no, sadly, Converse All-Stars do not constitute sensible shoes. But you will occasionally throw some arch supports into your Cons and wear them for nostalgia's sake. We haven't totally changed, you know.
You and Mom are even friends now, can you believe it? Being an adult isn't so bad. You know who your best friend in the whole world is? That's right, your big sister. That hasn't changed. Awesome, right?
You should be nicer to your aunts, by the way. Three of them will be rather influential role models for you as you get older. What's that? Why did I say three, and not four? You're going to lose one when she's fairly young. I'm not going to tell you which one. That way, you can be more appreciative of the four you have now.
Why are you sighing and rolling your eyes at me? What do you mean, I just don't understand you? I WAS you, stupid. Let's get a few things straight: first of all, you're not fat. One day, you're going to make it your personal weight loss goal to stay under 170 pounds. That's about 40 pounds heavier than you are now. Shut up and put on a bikini. I do wish we'd worn those more when we could.
Second of all, know that guy who you get all crazy and giggly around when you pass him in the hallway? Yeah, we don't even remember his name anymore. He's not the love of your life. In fact, pretty much everyone you've ever dated isn't the love of your life or even good enough for you. You'll meet a guy your senior year that actually knows who Roald Dahl is. Date him. Date that guy.
I know right now you're thinking that nothing could ever be more important than whether or not Amie's pregnant, or if whatshisname will notice the cool tie-dye you're wearing today, or when you will finally be able to escape the farm and live on your own. You're so wrong. Here are the answers: Amie's not pregnant; nope, whatshisname doesn't know or care that you're alive; and someday, you'll miss both the farm and not having to worry about a mortgage. 
The most important people in your life now are your family, a guy you won't meet for another couple of decades, and a handful of friends you haven't even met yet. And some kids who haven't been born yet. No, not ours. We haven't completely lost our minds. But you do have a sister and will have in-laws that will be inclined to reproduce. It won't be as terrible as you think. You'll actually like your nephews and niece. Because you're going to be the coolest aunt ever.
Take another look around your room. Take note of that poster of Nick Rhodes rolled up in the corner; those Jack Ketchum and Stephen King books on your shelves; that old snapshot of Gordie Howe you have taped to your mirror. Good news: you're going to meet every one of those people at some point in your life. Yes, even Nick Rhodes. I'll allow you a little teenage scream for a moment. And know how you're a closet wrestling fan? You're going to have the best time hanging out with Jake "the Snake" Roberts when you're thirty-nine. I know. Sooo cool.
I wish I could tell you more, but it's time for me to go. There's so much more I want to tell you--like which college you should pick, and which marriage proposal to turn down, and a million other things, but I know you still need to make those choices and mistakes on your own.  Good luck. You're not alone.
Oh, and if you could play these Powerball numbers on February 14, 2007, that would be helpful: 
35 01 15 37 45 32 3

Love,
You at 40.

I am a child of the ‘80s.  I find it perfectly reasonable when actors want to be politicians.  I cried when Corey Haim died.  I do not apologize for this; it was not a bad time to grow up, and had a big influence on who I am today.  Would I be as fun-loving as an adult if I hadn’t had a Cabbage Patch Kid as a child?  Could I relate to these kids today with their Twilight crap if I hadn’t had a similar obsession with Duran Duran at their age...and as an adult?  (How is it that John Taylor manages to look better every year when he was so good looking to start with?)

Are YOU a child of the ‘80s?  Take a look and see if any (or all) of these describe you:
  

• You can remember a time when Bret Michaels didn’t wear a bandana, did wear lipstick, and you thought “Talk Dirty to Me” was the sexiest song ever.
• You thought Wacky Packages were hilarious.
• Your school had a smoking area.
• Michael J. Fox was famous only for playing Alex P. Keaton, and Johnny Depp was known only as the cute guy on 21 Jump Street.
• When you got in to a car, was no such thing as a seatbelt law or child car seat requirements, and only rich people had electric windows.
• You can recite the words to the Facts of Life theme song.
• You realized with horror that the hole in the ozone layer meant impending doom – not for the planet, but for your beloved Aqua Net.
• You remember when MTV was created, and all it aired were music videos and the occasional break for MTV News.
• Only preppies wore Izod shirts and Reeboks.  The cool kids were wearing sweatshirts with ripped shoulders and jelly bracelets, all in fluorescent.
• Your biggest headache of the week was trying to find a replacement needle for your record player.
• Coolest Concert EVER:  Band Aid.

Perhaps you laugh.  Perhaps you want to debate with me whether “Feed the World” was better or worse than “We are the World.”  But the truth is, the horrible things that Baby Boomers think Generation X will remember – the cold war ending, Reaganomics, Rock Hudson dying of AIDS – aren’t necessarily what we as adults think about when we reminisce about our childhoods.  We like to remember the good times – when David Bowie crooned “Let’s Dance” and felt fedoras were all the rage.  (Were they all the rage?  Now that I’m thirty years out of the 80’s, my memory’s not so good.)  I like to remember a time when if you weren’t sure if you liked a cereal, you could ask Mikey to try it. When said cereals came with a real prize inside.  And, of course, whenall the radio stations played Duran Duran – not just the oldies station.