Pink Pony Club

I have spent countless nights dancing my feet off at The Abbey in West Hollywood, the famous gay nightclub Chappell Roan celebrates in her hit song, Pink Pony Club. The Abbey is designed like a church, but Madonna's Confessions on a Dance Floor is the closest you'll get to redemption. I once won a foot race outside at The Abbey, and all of us wore heels. I was dressed in a sexy cop costume and stilettos, competing against drag queens - giving yet another meaning to Drag Race. I've spent countless late nights there, with flashing lights and go-go dancers, but it's also a community space where I've had meetings and reunions over a boozy brunch or iced tea, and I'll admit I lean toward the latter these days.

My son was the first to unceremoniously usher me into a new kind of club. It bears no official name, but it's often referred to in code, like Just for Men. Austin pointed at my head and said he didn't like the white. I was dressed head to toe in black, so I flipped my head over, thinking I didn't properly blend my dry shampoo. But when I stood up, looked in the mirror I saw the culprit. A new shock of silvered hair just above my right eyebrow, just like the white stripe that news anchor Colleen Williams sported in the '80s. I tried to tuck it in, and dab it with brown eye shadow, but it just made my scalp look dirty.

So much drama, but have I gone to get my roots done? No. Have I done a single thing about it? Not yet. Could I really that busy, or am I just losing my vanity? I feel an involuntarily pull in a direction that feels unfamiliar. I want simplicity, and ease in my life. I want to go to a concert and cheer on the artist from a comfy chair. I want to skip the stairs, and ride up and down floors while sitting in a little seat, just like the seniors in the commercials. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe it's perimenopause.

Even my social media viewing habits are changing. I shake my head as I scroll, thinking "they sure don't make them like they used to."

This phrase would've had me rolling my eyes in my twenties. But lately, I marvel at videos of intricate vintage appliances, the craftsmanship of old buildings and clothing, and spend hours watching the restoration of rusted toys. Could you even imagine today's toys being restored? Sturdy metal trucks have been replaced by mass-produced plastic parts, appliances are meant to be replaced, and most clothing is made out of polyester instead of natural fibers. We won't be passing down our Shein sweaters.

I must confess, it's not just about quality. It's also about nostalgia. I love a bougie candle, and real perfume over the Dossier dupe, but nothing will ever measure up to the intoxicating scent of my Strawberry Shortcake doll from the '80s.

My nostalgic cravings only intensify at Christmastime. I want to be surrounded by fading, dusty, bits and bobs that remind me of childhood. I turn into a sentimental wreck and watch Hoarders with sympathy for the collectors who only have issues narrowing down their choices.

The moment I "dropped my basket" or "the switch flipped" came during a bout of homesickness. I was living across the country in Atlanta, Georgia as a news reporter. It was August, and I found myself browsing EBay for Christmas decorations. I ordered a white plastic Christmas tree and dozens of boxes of vintage ornaments and put them up as soon as they arrived. It helped! It's never too early to celebrate the holidays.

This holiday season, my yard is decorated with Blo Molds. Like five, okay? But let's talk about my latest finds. Last weekend, I discovered two 1960s Jewelbrite ornaments at the Sherman Oaks Antique Mall. Holding the tiny scenes in my hands transported me to decorating our family tree in the '80s. I loved the dioramas of birds perched in fake snow, or the nativity, and Santa with his sack of presents. Remember the shoebox dioramas we built in school? Do kids even do that anymore? It’s not like we’re short on boxes these days, thanks to daily deliveries.

If you wait long enough, what's old is new again. Before the earth-tone monochrome trend, we were living fifty shades of brown in the '80s. I’d polish our wood-paneled walls and kitchen cabinets with Lemon Pledge until they gleamed. We walked on taupe tile floors and wooly brown carpet, while cream-colored cottage cheese ceilings offered the only break from the brown.

Inside our home, I remember lots of goose art. Hand-painted wooden geese on the walls, or geese tucked into dusty blue plaid baskets that sat on the ground, and my mom wearing her Dooney & Bourke purses. One brown and cream, the other navy and brown, to liven things up.

But the real star of the '80S home was the stereo. Towering speakers flanked the television, and master control sat protected behind glass like a treasure in an art museum. Tap the magnetized metal and pop that baby open and shut. Sleek, but never simple, with fat volume knobs, chunky radio dials, cassette decks, and a CD player, all kept spotless with weekly wipes of Windex. We listened and admired from overstuffed brown leather couches, while our pool table waited for company to come over.

But at Christmastime, the house grew warmer, and not just because of the Santa Anas. The lights made everything more colorful and joyful, it wasn't thanks to Santa Claus. It was the women of the house. My dad was a mechanic, and had no interest in working with his hands at home, so my mom and I were on our own. We were a team, stringing endless strands of lights and adding too many layers of ornaments to the tree - loads of shiny glass balls, my parents’ first garland, and ornaments handmade by us kids.  

If she was upset that dad didn't help, I never knew. She loved to "do around the house," and wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty. She once got a hernia after digging a hole, picking up and planting a tree by herself.

I’ve never pushed myself that far, but I’ve come close. For many years, I stood on a ladder for hours, armed with a staple gun like Clark Griswold, carefully securing dozens of strands of lights. It was satisfying to make sure the staples clamped the wire without piercing it, like the precise bite of vampire teeth. At night, the house glowed with a warm haze, and inside, life felt a more beautiful. Each foam angel, satin ornament, and sweet hymn blurred the edges of reality and filled me with hope.

Have you noticed nostalgia is everywhere this season? I went through the Taco Bell drive-thru the other day, and my Diet Pepsi was decorated with a monochromatic '80s label. My heart skipped a beat. I can still remember the taste of the waxy rim of the paper cups, unrolling the edges with my teeth. But alas, like so many other things, this new cup is plastic.

They sure don’t make them like they used to.

But if I need a pick me up this holiday season, I know The Abbey is waiting for me on Santa Monica Blvd. in WeHo, where the music is bumping, the lights are low, and none of the go-go dancers would care that I am a newly crowned member of the silver haired club.

Pink Pony Club

I'm gonna keep on dancing at the

Pink Pony Club

I'm gonna keep on dancing down in

West Hollywood

I'm gonna keep on dancing at the

Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club

I'm gonna keep on dancing

Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw famously said, "Youth is wasted on the young," but I believe the true gift of aging lies in savoring the memories of youth, which can be nearly as fun as creating new ones.