Shut UP, no WAY!
That's what my niece said to me four or five years ago when I told her that Miley Cyrus would be wearing Munki Munki pajamas - the yoga print - on the Hannah Montana show. When the image later became a part of the shows opening credits I was, in the eyes of my then middle school niece and her elementary school aged sister, SOMEBODY.
But, as Hannahs sparkly little star began to fade, I feared for my own public image in the eyes of my tween nieces. The girls are older now, and harder to impress. And I am older, and finding it harder to be hip, at least in the eyes of the young. You can imagine my glee, then, at the news that one of the many Hannah Montana dolls on the market currently is proudly donning a pair of yoga print Munki Munki pajamas, which has created nice little bump on my "hip" meter over at my sisters house.
Actually, lets be honest, nobody thinks I'm hip, including me. Which is (Stephen) the real reason why I haven't moved to Brooklyn yet. Its too hip for me. We tried, we went and looked at an apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn that a friend of our had described as "amazing". Williamsburg is the type of neighborhood that has a bar whose specialty is throwing rock and roll birthday parties for toddlers. I was there having lunch once when a seven year old Kate Moss in motorcycle boots and a tutu pulled over her low slung New Religion jeans climbed up on a bar stool and ordered something called a "Pet Peeve". And people smoke in public there, too, without the furtive and shameful expressions seen on the faces of doorway and alcove smokers all over Manhattan. And breakfast is not served until 11 o'clock. We know this because we arrived for our appointment early and starving. We did find a place that was sort of open at 10:30, but the waiter left us alone with our thoughts until 11. My thoughts, which I was happy to share out loud with TC, included: "This place is cold. Does this place feel cold to you?" and "The music in here is too loud. Don't you think the music in here is too loud?". Also, in reference to our waiter, "How many tattoos does one need, exactly?" and, once our food had arrived: "my eggs are cold. Are your eggs cold?" When we finally did see the apartment, which was an expensive, dark cave that came with some ferocious looking cats (bonus rodent control), TC didn't even bother to evaluate the place with me because, as he put it, "You are 85 years old in Williamsburg."
We settled on the Financial District, in lower Manhattan, where we can afford a real kitchen. Its a bit like having moved to Chicago: everyone is polite and average looking (thank God, I always felt like such an ogre among the beautiful people in our old neighborhood) and it is extremely windy. We don't have a Bloomingdales in this neighborhood, we have a Benetton.
I like it here because it is, undeniably, unhip. I even appeared publicly (with my dog) this morning wearing my Munki Munki pajamas. Just like Hanna Montana.