Olympic migraines*

So, we arrive in Santa Cruz last night and my in-laws were watching the opening ceremonies for the Beijing Olympics. Cool. We unloaded the car (ok, Chris unloaded the car) and settled in in front of Bob’s big screen TV. We had missed a lot of it, but what we saw was pretty awesome. But then came the Parade of Nations. And all I have to say is wtf Olympics? Why are all those wonderful athletes forced to dress like color-blind airline employees? Didn't the women look like flight attendants? And what is with all the hats? Is there some kind of un-written Olympic rule that you have to not only wear some god awful suit-like attire in hideous colors, but you must top it with a jaunty hat?! Are fedoras the national chapeau of 90% of the countries on this planet? How did I miss that little tidbit of trivia? And some of those patterns caused me to want to poke my eyes out. I pretty sure Hungary was trying to kill me!

It was getting late, but we stayed up long enough to see the US team, who looked rather subdued with their navy blazers, white slacks, and obligatory caps. At least the women weren’t forced into skirts and ugly pumps. God bless America.

I was informed that the US team’s outfits were designed by Ralph Lauren. So there you go. And suddenly I began to twitch. For I too was once forced to wear Ralph Lauren by an evil overlord. Or the co-owner of the Rattlesnake Club in Detroit, who was from California, and wore ocelot boots to the grand opening. The staff at the new riverfront restaurant had to wear pink button-down Polo shirt, khakis, deck shoes and a very colorful bowtie. I’m wondering if there wasn’t a belt too, one that might have matched the bowtie. Either way, we sure looked dandy. I’m surprised those preppy threads didn’t give me a rash.

The Sain’t, me, and several of our friends were part of the original staff when the restaurant opened 20 years ago. And the only reason I know the actual year is that last month Kim told the Sain’t that she was going to attend the restaurant’s 20 year anniversary celebration. And this is where we again encounter “bad math”. Math that ages me. Math that if done properly states that I was 22 years old when I worked there. Sweet mother of Barry Gibb how did I get this old?!

And to place you squarely in 1988, the music piped into the restaurant was a mix of Roxy Music and Sade. Suh-weet.


*Although I have had headaches the last 2 mornings, I’m happy to report they were not even close to Olympic in size or grandeur. More like a small regional qualifying events at best.