I've had the time of my life...

Here it is, my last Our Lives column for the Raleigh News and Observer.

Last tale before goodbye
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BY LEIGH ANN FRINK - CORRESPONDENT
Tags: family_community | ourlives
The scene: A ninth-grade civics classroom at West Brunswick High School in coastal Shallotte.

It was 1984 and my friend Robert had just told me Duran Duran were coming to play the Greensboro Coliseum.

"Get off the floor, Leigh Ann," Mrs. Grissett said, trying to regain control of her classroom after my outburst.

"I need to go use the phone, it's an emergency!" I pleaded.

"Sit down, Leigh Ann," she replied.

I have no idea what was taught that day -- must have been something about the Department of the Interior, because to this day I don't know what that particular branch of government does.

I was a Duran Duran- crazed 14-year-old girl who'd never had a boyfriend, and I believed with all my heart that if I could be in the same room with the band, Nick Rhodes would see me in the crowd and sweep me away to live in a castle in England.

"Please Daddy, please Daddy, please," I begged over the school's one pay phone during my lunch period.

Surely, he would understand that, as I said, I would just up and die otherwise. Or, as I implied, "whine and badger you until you can't take it anymore."

Three months later, Daddy, my kid sister and I drove four hours away on a school night to see the objects of my adolescent obsession live and in person. I wore my best parachute pants and had my standard 30-plus
Duran Duran buttons pinned to my jacket.

When the house lights went down, my dear Southern, good ol' boy daddy stayed in his seat, arms laden with Duran Duran merchandise I'd purchased with saved-up baby-sitting money. I grabbed my sister's hand
and fled down to the edge of our upper tier to send mental signals to mybeloved for the duration of the two- hour set.

On the drive home, my daddy did his best to deal with my shrieking sobs of unrequited love mixed with bliss that only a star-struck, 14-year-old girl can feel.

Daddy was sensitive enough to wait until I'd graduated college and no longer had Duran Duran posters plastered all over my walls to start reminding me of my teenaged proclamation that they would be bigger than the Beatles.

Last year, I wrote some words for a promotion with N.C. State University. As a result, I got a pair of on-court tickets for a basketball game. My daddy bred me in red, so instead of calling my English husband, I
immediately called my daddy.

"Hey, what are you doing Saturday?" I asked.

"I don't know, probably fishing," he replied.

"Would you rather come up here and watch your Wolfpack play from the floor?"

I could hear the sound of pickup truck tires screeching.

We got to sit at a table on the court, just feet from the goal, and we felt like total rock stars. We could see and hear everything our Wolfpack and Coach Lowe were doing, along with every grunt and sneaker squeak. We yelled ourselves hoarse and grinned like idiots throughout the game.

We ducked when the players rushed the basket feet from us, though both of us would love the irony of smiling down and seeing the cause of deaths in our obits read: "Trampled by a 7-foot-tall N.C. State basketball player."


And State won.

I don't know how to compare a 14-year-old girl's complete passion for a poncy British boy-band to a 60-something-year-old man's utter joy at seeing his alma mater team kick butt from a floor seat. There's no gauge. But those two moments are in the top of my list of great times. And I got to share them both with my daddy.

I'm glad I got to share the story with you in this, my last "Our Lives" column. I've had a blast telling silly tales and hearing from so many warm, wonderful people from across the Triangle. Thanks for all the kind words
and well wishes. I hope you'll stop by my blog, thatgirlfromshallotte.blogspot.com, and say hello.
frinkink@gmail.com


------------
I want to thank my husband, Steve, and family from Shallotte for their patience and senses of humor as I threw stories about them out to readers all over the Triangle, and for giving me so much great material to work with. :)
Thanks to Adrienne Johnson-Martin, pop culture editor at the N&O, for giving me a slot on the roster. I can't begin to express my eternal gratitude to Emmy, Kathy and Frankie, the best friends and personal editors a girl could wish for, for putting up with my bad habit of waiting until the last minute to write anything and taking the time to help me polish my prose anyway.
But my hugest, sincerest thanks go to all the wonderful people who read me and took the time to drop me e-mails. Each and every note brightened my days.
Thank you
*This story was partially excerpted from a love letter I wrote about Duran Duran last year: I Practiced Writing Mrs. Nick Rhodes Over and Over

Act now!

This month's News and Observer column is a very special offer.

Where are they now: Dr. Pepper Guy

Steve proclaimed the other morning, "I will not be threatened by a walking meatloaf!"

"Huh?," I asked. The look on his face told me I'd totally burst his bubble and disappointed him.

"It's from 'American Werewolf in London!," he said, "Only the best horror comedy ever made."

"Oh yeah," I replied, "I remember seeing that on HBO when I was a kid. First pee-pee I ever saw in a movie. Freaked me out."

And Steve was horrified that I only took away the image of a nekkid man from what he considers a work of cinematic genius.

"He was the Dr. Pepper guy," I explained to my foreign-born husband as I brushed my teeth. Still brushing, I attempted to sing, "I'm a pepper, you're a pepper, he's a pepper, she's a pepper, wouldn't you like to be a pepper too?"

Steve was completely nonplussed. So I got in the shower, went to work, and forgot all about the conversation. Until later in the day, when fuzzy images of watching "Solid Gold" or doing my best shuffle-skate moves at the rink started fading in and out of my mind. It took me most of the day to assemble the memories into a coherent image, but the payoff was worth it: David Naughton, the naked Dr. Pepper guy, gave us the roller-disco classic, "Makin' It."

Vive le David Naughton!

Gather around, children, and let me tell you about the boom days in the 90s

Those were debauched, heady days when there was endless money to be made. The dot com revolution was set to change the world and nothing could possibly go wrong!

I was still in my 20s, living out a rock and roll fantasy, working in a national advertising agency. I never had to wear pantyhose and could sport pink or blue hair and wear plaid, bondage outfits and shit-kicker boots to meetings with clients. 

We had a pool table in the middle of the "town hall" area, plasma televisions mounted all around and beer on Fridays. Two-hour martini lunches were the norm, real bands played our parties and Malcolm Gladwell stopped by to read from "The Tipping Point" during his book tour. Our benefits included an account to pay for yoga, massage and house-cleaning. I was given a Royal Caribbean cruise (they were a client) and never took it (blech, not my idea of a good time). 

Our jobs were to do anything to impress and please our clients. For me, at one point, it included sitting around a liquor-filled conference table tasting different combinations of Disaronno Amaretto and other spirits as we invented new drinks to be advertised on table tents in bars. At four in the afternoon that day, I was throwing up in the bathroom with a colleague. But the agency gave us car service home.

I spent most of my time working on the Audi of America/Audi Canada print and collateral account. Each year as we'd kick off creative, my job included going undercover to acquire competition samples from luxury car brands. So my colleague/buddy Rick and I would borrow one of the company A8s or TTs and pretend to be a successful young couple shopping for Mercedes, BMWs or Lexuses (Lexi?). If we'd gone out in our own cars, we wouldn't have been given the time of day, but as soon as we pulled into the lot in the high-end Audi, car salespeople were tripping over each other to open the doors for us.

Car brochures are very expensive to print and for the dealers to buy, so they don't just hand them out gleefully. Rick and I were tasked with acquiring them and bringing them back to work, but we felt guilty about tricking people who made their livings on commissions into thinking we were actually going to buy something. So we invented "fighting couple." As fighting couple, we'd go in, ask about a car, and then pretend to get in a fight. I'd make a crack about size and storm out. Rick and the salesman (it was usually a man) would share a, "Women. What can you do?" moment and the salesman would sympathetically give Rick a brochure, thinking he'd be back to buy a car that cost two years' salary.

I won't -- can't-- say that using the stereotypical girl routine caused me remorse. It made my job easy, and I was pretending anyway. Like the time I called a Mercedes dealership to inquire about the cubic square feet of the passenger side of a particular model. Poor guy put me on hold and probably had to ask his manager. He finally came back on the line to tell me he wasn't sure, then asked why it was important. "My husband was wondering," I replied. I had no husband or scruples back then.

Few of us had any scruples. We were rock stars. Rick was entrusted with the keys to an A8L when the VP it was given to was out of town once. "Let's take it out at lunch," Ben, our producer suggested. "I don't think that's a good idea," Rick replied. We did it anyway, Ferris Bueller-style, Ben driving, me in the passenger seat and Rick in the backseat worrying as we took it out on the highway to see what it could do on our way to a total joint on the outskirts of town (best barbeque in the state for $4 a plate).

When we paid for our own lunches, we little fish cheaped out. But when the client paid, we lived like emperors. I didn't travel all that much compared to other people there, maybe five weeks out of the year for press checks. And I slept in five-star hotels where a night's stay cost as much as my mortgage payment. The first time I went, not only had I never had a hotel room all to myself, I had never even been aware that people were actually paid to come and turn entire rooms down for the night, and I was embarrassed. The first night. By the third night, I was appalled that my room hadn't been turned down before I entered it and sat clad in a house-provided, Egyptian cotton robe on the sofa by the fireplace, drinking red wine and watching television as I ignored the three people scurrying around my room to prepare it for my slumber.

In real life, I didn't really get to prepare for my slumber because I grabbed sleep when I could, often at the office. We worked all the time, even on weekends. I remember watching the series finale of "Seinfeld" as I sat in the studio waiting for legal copy we had to insert to meet a New York Times deadline. 

Because we spent all of our time together and didn't have time to really hang out with other people, we became our own sociological microcosm. We all headed to the same bar across the street when we could get out, then spent what was left of the evening together, talking about work. Four years in, my best girlfriend, roommate and boyfriend were all co-workers.

Then the bubble burst. The dot com clients went away. The dot com millions company that bought the agency imploded along with employees' stock options and fabulous benefits. I speculated wildly with friends for months about who would be laid off, then had to hide my guilt and grief after seeing some of those friends walk out with banker boxes. I worked on the bread and butter account, and it stayed around when the agency was bought by a French advertising conglomerate.

I got even tighter with the people on my account after the layoffs. And I was getting out of my car in the parking deck when one of them told me that she'd just heard a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. She and I were standing speechless in the town hall area with all the 100 of us minutes later when we watched in real time as the second plane hit, and one of our co-workers, whose father and brother were New York City firemen at the time saw the first images of the NYFD in peril and fainted.

We all got a call on a Saturday night not long after that, and we all picked it up expecting to be told to come in on Sunday. But we were told the CEO had been killed in a car accident and not to speak to the media. And to be present first thing Monday morning for a mandatory town hall meeting.

At the meeting, we were briefed on how to protect the brand. The CEO was driving an A8L. Drunken and without a seatbelt, but still, we had to push the safety of the cars.

In the six months that followed, stress built on stress built on stress. My entire world was wrapped up in my job, and my world was not one I wanted to be defined by or trapped in anymore. 

So I quit. I gave two weeks' notice and smiled through it. Then, three days before my five-year anniversary when I would have acquired an entire week of new vacation (that I could cash out at the end of the year after not being able to take it), I jumped right off the diving board into uncertainty, as I hadn't secured a job. 

I was unemployed for three weeks before I landed my first freelance gig. I got that job through contacts I made at the agency. I've been doing it ever since, sleeping until 9 a.m. and being home by 5 p.m. every night. Because I had time to date, I found a husband -- who has never worked at an advertising agency.

I miss agency life, sure. But I miss it the same way I miss my club-girl lifestyle or certain ex-boyfriends. I was young, it was fun, but I never want to do that again.

Just remember to throw my ashes in the Shallotte River

Because right now, I could just lie down and die.

Seriously.

Yeah yeah yeah, I've never hidden my Obamania around here. And like everybody else, I will always have a permastamp memory of watching the inauguration yesterday and witnessing history being made. How amazing was it?

But I can't stop watching their first dance (and I've only ever heard one Beyonce song in my life). They're in front of the entire world, talking to and laughing at each other. Just like Steve and I did in front of 60 people at our wedding reception when we had our first dance to the Roxy Music song I picked out 25 years earlier.

They were talking to and laughing at each other. Just like most of us do with our partners.

Just like most of us.

Gonna watch this again and cry a few more happy tears like I did during my wedding dance.

The marriage of Ouiser Boudreaux and the Minister of Silly Walks

In this month's Raleigh News and Observer column, I turn my husband and myself into total stereotypes. Sadly (or not!), I didn't exaggerate all that much.

Due to copyfitting issues, the paper ran a condensed version of the piece (above the fold!). Here's the original, revealing more of my redneck roots.

-------------------------------------------------

With the exception of a college semester at the University of London 20 years ago, I've lived in North Carolina my entire life. I've been in Raleigh for 17 years now and my kid sister lives in Vermont. But every time we talk on the phone, our Brunswick County accents come out from dormancy loud and proud.

We love hearing ourselves slip effortlessly into the dulcet tones of home. It's the auditory equivalent of honey dripping off razor wire; the sound of people who know which forks to use at a dinner party and also enjoy domestic beer (from a glass, of course, drinking from a can would be tacky).

I can hear my own Southern accent, but I don't notice my husband's Northampton, England, intonations. It is, after all, the voice I hear all the time at home, even when I'm not really paying attention. But I'm reminded how nice it is every time someone says, "I could listen to Steve talk all day" or asks us where we're from after overhearing him.

Steve and I communicate through a common language, but we speak entirely different tongues. Though the vernacular is different, some basic sentiments are expressed in similar ways.

For instance, I always bless someone's heart before gossiping about him or her. Steve is inclined to gossip first, then bless the subject's little cotton socks.

My female relatives still "swannie" in frustration. These steel magnolias reared me to appear to be a nice Southern lady, so I always try to remember to scream "bless America" after taking the Lord's name in public. Steve occasionally slips back into his native dialect and adds "blarmey" after doing the same thing.

English cursing sounds downright adorable. Steve can let out an entire string of adjectives that sound innocuous – even charming – and wouldn't be banned on television here, but have entirely different meanings across the pond. Never ask a proper English granny if "bugger" is a real bad word, not a fake one like "fudge." I made that mistake.

We mastered our language differences early on. We're only one month apart in age, so we share many of the same pop-cultural reference points from childhood. We both watched American cartoons and listened to British new wave on the radio when we were kids. But common pop culture was about the only experience we shared.

I have never shifted gears with my left hand. Steve has never driven a Camaro. I never had to wear a uniform to school. Steve never wore a pair of parachute pants or Ocean Pacific shorts. Boys from my hometown surfed. Boys from Northampton played football with a round ball instead of a pigskin.

I have never seen a badger, so I always crack up when I see the "Badgers!" warning signs on the M1 when we're driving from London to Northampton. I can't help but conjure up images of chubby, furry mammals brandishing pistols like highwaymen menacing the roadways of England.

Steve had never seen an opossum before the day we watched one cross the power line over the main road behind us and settle into a holly tree in our backyard one afternoon. He grabbed his camera and got within 4 feet of it to snap shots of this exotic creature to send to the lads back home.

"Honey," I called from the deck when I saw that Steve was getting too close to the possum, "It's out in broad daylight, so something's wrong with that thing. I don't want you to get rabies."

Steve has developed, since joining my Brunswick County family, a taste for collard greens. I now not only know what a parsnip is, it's become my favorite part of an English Sunday Roast.

My husband will get nowhere near an oyster, which pains me, as my hometown hosts North Carolina's annual Oyster Festival. I do, however, leave the room when a jar of piccalilli (an English condiment made from onions, green tomatoes, cabbage and vinegar) is being unscrewed.

We're good, though. We can both rhapsodize endlessly about our love for bacon, which, we agree, tastes and smells like heaven. It's a love that knows no bounds and unifies people.

People like a girl from Shallotte and a bloke from England. Bless our hearts and little cotton socks.

Happy David Bowie's birthday!

Even if we can't take the day off work, we CAN be heroes just for one day.