Erin Moonyeen Haley

Tween Spa Parties - Ideas and How Tos

2009-01-29T12:40:00.000-08:00

All About the Addams Family

2009-01-29T12:37:00.000-08:00

Kitschy Culture LA Style

2008-10-07T19:41:00.001-07:00

THE Margarita

2008-10-06T23:32:00.000-07:00

My mother used to be a bohemian; but this was before I was old enough to appreciate what that meant.

This was back when bubble-gum was a favorite Tupperware color and voodoo and Ouija boards were the rage among suburban housewives who purchased anything that had a tag that read 'ethnic' at the local Pier 1.

My mother denies her bohemian past. It's no longer in fashion. I think she's ashamed of it. I'm not. When I close my eyes and dream of my mother, I see her as she was in my childhood, when she wore dominating necklaces that looked as if they should have been worn only by great Aztec queens; when her hair was a wild tumbleweed of frosted hair and her earrings were the size of Christmas ornaments.

She was a gypsy then, my mother. Her earrings sang when she walked. They made a spontaneous tune that was warm and unsettled.

Yes indeed, my mother was a gypsy back then. She had a loose, uncultured rhythm to her step, an irratic, c'est la vie staccato that was a Pied Piper call to anyone in need of love or happiness or ridiculous, childish fun.

I can see those earrings in my sleep, and when I see them, I see my mother in her white shirt, with the ties up the front, her lips a coral rosette and her face framed by her wild hair and her earrings that are as big as solar systems.

That woman is a stranger. She is not my mother. She is whoever my mother was before I existed.

She is the woman who thrived, wild and wanton, before she longed for diamonds for her birthday, which she eventually received.

Now she only wears diamonds, and studs, and earrings the size of periods at the end of a sentence.

No one believes me when I say that my mother was once a gypsy, a genuine bohemian who wore earrings that were more about noise than sparkle; no one believes me when I say that my mother once cherished turquoise more than gold, no matter the carat.

Sometimes, when my mother tucks her cropped auburn hair behind her ear, and those diamonds wink at me....I almost....almost forget that my mother was a gypsy with wild hair and radical earrings.

Almost.

Two Moons, A Margarita and the rest of the Jalapenos

2008-10-06T21:47:00.000-07:00

A MOON

Moonyeen McGee always looks like she's dressed for Mardi Gras.

She loves red. Crimson, scarlet, and fever-red...they are all her signature colors. She owns the color red. It is her property, her cloak. When she dies, her wings will not be white or silver; they will be red, like wings of a phoenix rising from some disaster towards something more glorious.

Every outfit that she wears is ethnically correct. For instance, she'll wear a black jacket with a mandarin collar that grandpa bought her in Hong Kong, (out of every man I have ever know, he is the only one who always gets a woman's size correct), and on her feet will be black slippers from Singapore. And when she wears her blouse purchased from a Madrid market - the one with the slightly Elizabethan gold-on-red collar - you can bet her shoes will be from Seville, their thick wooden heels making a flamenco dancer's tattoo whether there is music or not.

Moonyeen McGee has more jewels than a Venetian bride.

Raiding her lacquered jewelry box is like raiding a pirate's treasure chest. One flick of the brass lock and - gasp - behold the sight of rings that are a beehive of apple-green jasper nestled in thick silver bands; brooches with tiger-eye gems that gaze wide-eyed. Behold sterling silver bracelets that flash in the light like clean rivulets of quicksilver, and earrings that are an intertwining vine of ruby and jade.

I am the only one who can claim a favorite piece of jewelry. Everyone else is dumbstruck upon seeing her buccaneer's loot, but I am the only one who can single out the best piece of all: A brooch made to look like a scarlet ibis. Its supple neck is set with faceted garnets, (my birthstone and hers), and it has nubs of coral for the eyes. It is a funny looking bird - petite body, elongated beak - unless viewed from certain angles. Then it is the most elegant of all birds.

Moonyeen McGee always smells like spiced roses.

She has a special tea-rose perfume that comes in lotions, powders and facial creams. She applies it every day, right after she says the rosary and right before she starts brewing coffee.

Moonyeen McGee is a Spanish/Swedish hybrid that resulted in giving her big bones, a petite frame, skin that turns the color of cocoa in the sun, and black hair.

"From the back, I look like Rita Morena," she likes to say.

No one can disagree.

I was christened after my grandma Moon, so now there are two Moons in the family. And that is all there is room for.

When I was about to be born, my birthday was going to either fall on Granny Moon's birthday or her Mother's birthday. Not since Alva and Consuelo Vanderbilt were such a mother and daughter at odds. After all, Granny Moon's mother wore pearls and cameo brooches, and smelled like old ladies always smelled. Granny Moon, however, wore the kind of jewelry that a burlesque star would wear, and she smelled like far-off places and adventure.

My mother made a deal: Whoever birthday I was born on, I would be named after the other person. It just so happened that I was born on my great-grandmother's - Carolyn's - birthday, and so my middle name was automatically Moonyeen.

And I am partial to garnets, awkward birds, and all things red.

When I would say my full name in school, everyone, (teachers and kids alike), would ask how to spell it.

"M-O-O-N-Y-E-E-N," I would say, adding that the 'y' was silent.

"So, your parents are hippies?" was always the next question.

"No," I would say, sighing. "I'm named after my grandmother."

"Oh."

A pause and then: "So was she a hippie?"

It is no use to explain. Hippies are named Skye or Rainbow, not Moonyeen. Moonyeen is the name of women in red, of daring women who can change history by just smiling in a certain way.

But, I guess only Granny Moon and I are savvy enough to know that.

Gypsies' Puppets.....Intro

2008-10-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

A Warning....

Beware the gypsies who fold the hands of time

Beware the gypsies who speak in rhythm

and rhyme.

Beware the gypsies with eyes like jewels

As they laugh and burn and sight the fool.

And beware the gypsies if you possess

A rare talent that separates you

from the rest.

For it might be you the gypsies come to find

One quiet and clam and moonlit night.

Los Angeles Literary Life

2008-10-06T12:43:00.001-07:00

Kid-Friendly LA

2008-10-06T12:38:00.000-07:00

Where the Wild Things Are in LA

2008-10-06T12:37:00.000-07:00