People seem to like it when I talk about growing up in NYC in the 70s and 80s, so I thought I’d start a series.
I’m torn between Wayback Wednesday* and Frowback Friday.
My concern about Frowback Friday is that people will pronounce the “Frow” part like it rhymes with “now.” And if I spell it Froback, it should be all about ‘fros. Like, the hairdo. I have stick-straight hair, so I’m unqualified to write even about Jew ‘fros. And let’s not get started on the wrongness of me writing a series on any other kind of ‘fro. All I have to offer in a discussion of non-white hair (oh god, I think I’m treading in dangerous water already) is that from the Lexington Avenue bus I used to take down to Bloomingdales to buy too many pairs of Complements Jeans by Girbaud on my mother’s credit card, I would always spy a hair salon called:
Black Hair Is…
Black Hair Is what? Finish the sentence, please! Because I really don’t know, and I’d like to. I’m interested. Or am I not supposed to ask that? Maybe the rest of the name is …A Privileged Topic So Don’t Even. Whoops.
Another store I’d note from the bus window was a store for fat-lady clothes called…
The Forgotten Woman.
Who wants to carry a shopping bag with that on it? Like it isn’t insult enough that nobody makes cute clothes for your size, your chiffon caftan comes from a place that reminds you nobody thinks about you? “Oh, hey, big mama. Hilarious, I totally forgot you existed! How long you been standing there? Nice sequined top.”
I’m so slick. I segued right into what I wanted to write about, another store that no longer exists:
The Erotic Baker.
There were two of them, one on Amsterdam Avenue and one on 83rd between Columbus and Central Park West. This is the one I used to walk by, because it was on the same block as my synagogue and Hebrew school. I hated Hebrew school, but getting to walk past The Erotic Baker was almost enough incentive to go every Wednesday and endure the worst teacher ever, a woman named Rivka who threw chalkboard erasers at us and yelled “SHECHET!” which means “shut the f up” in Hebrew.
The Erotic Baker had curtains in the window which were never pulled quite all the way across. There was no subtle way to peek in, you really had to press your nose to the glass to get a glimpse of the titty- and penis-cakes. But it was worth it. Even if the rabbi caught you, which he once did. “Shalom! Window shopping?” he asked as he passed me and my friend, who were gaping at a hairy-balls cake. Instead of playing it cool, we ran away, which is always awkward when you’re double strapping it with a big, loose JanSport backpack full of textbooks on the Holocaust.
When we had Secret Santa in 10th Grade at my all-girls school, I gave my gift-ee a bag full of penis lollipops (both white and dark chocolate) from The Erotic Baker. It took guts to go in there, and I thought it was a gift anyone would love. But when she opened it, she gagged. I think I never revealed my identity. Let her Secret Pervert remain anonymous. She’s now a lesbian, which may or may not be at all relevant to her being grossed out by a bag full of candy dicks.
Both locations of The Erotic Baker are long gone from the Upper West Side.
I googled it just now, and found that there’s a place in Forest Hills, Queens, which I don’t think is connected but they make erotic cakes. The first review on Yelp is from a very pleased customer named Judy who had to get a butt cake for her boss. Because of course. She includes a picture of the butt cake, which has actual PORES. And who wouldn’t want to eat a closeup of ass made of frosting? Fine, I’ll include a screen shot.
Note where the finger in the picture is going. Judy, you need to talk to a rabbi.
As for the cake, all I can say is, they don’t make ’em like they used to.
*Did you think I was losing my mind titling a post Wayback Wednesday when it’s Thursday? Guess what, I am. I totally thought today was Wednesday.
Now you.
What stores do you remember from growing up? Or what weird stores do you still see around?
Or, fine, just tell me anything. What did you do last weekend?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS.
Holy Crap! “The Forgotten Woman”!! There’s a similar store for the heavy set in the mall near me called Torrid, which I thought was the worst possible name ever since it’s only one letter away from horrid, but I was oh so wrong.
candy dicks 🙂
Torrid! Torrid! That’s so wrong and so awesome.
A) I seem to recall the hairy-ball cake had chocolate sprinkles for the hair, am I right? Or, wait. Were they curled chocolate shavings? Fancy.
B) Excuse me, what? The boss asked her to get a butt cake for his OWN birthday?
C) I remember thinking it was wrong to giggle at the erotic baker. Like, the bakers and the grown-ups who shopped there took their genitalia confections very seriously.
D) Laughing at all the above.
I’d bet there’s a choice about the ball hair: would you like that just shaved, shaved two weeks ago, or full-on wooly willy?
Laura, between your post and your readers comments, I keep laughing. To Lane Bryant’s post…does this mean Laura comes off as a tough New Yorker? To Bruce—well done you, I can just see you stumping that teacher, with a sincere and innocent look.
I learn so much just reading Laura’s posts…I had no idea such lollipops were made. Were they a one size fits all? Or did they promote the idea that big is better?
I have no clue what hour it is let along day. I have to check my calendar and macbook pro to know either as well as where I am supposed to be showing up. I won’t go into the occasional days I am so immersed, I forget to check either.
I would not realize your post was technically due yesterday (Wednesday) I just welcome it whenever it shows up…and read it.
Oh, and thank goodness you reminded me it is Thursday….I forgot.
Jul’s, my favorite part is that you just called her Lane Bryant. Or maybe that was intentional.
I’m glad I was able to teach you something about phallic lollipops! They weren’t big enough to support the “bigger is better” position.
“…a bag full of candy dicks” – Laura, you’re my hero.
Thank you, Mary. For being so nice, you win a bag of…well, you know.
Since it’s always about me, I’m going to connect yesterday’s post with today’s.
Lane Bryant. Yes. And I DON’T appreciate it when the connection with my name brings you to a store that sells tops that are apparently made for someone who’s 5 feet tall and 4 feet wide. I used to occasionally shop there for my sister, who at the time was closer to 6 feet tall and only about 3 feet wide. The shirts were always midriff on her. Which, by the way, if you’re someone who’s signed up for gastric by-pass, that’s not always a great look.
P.S. I think I would have been scared of you if I knew you when I was younger and I’m quite sure that you would have made my life hell in some way or another.
I don’t think the Lane Bryant midriff top is a great look AFTER bypass, either. Two words, and they’re not pleasant: Loose. Skin.
As for your ps, you’ve got me all wrong. I was not the meanie. I was the mean-ee.
Haha!! SOOO true! Only my sister had all that loose shit cut off, so she actually does look good now!
No…I was the mean one, but filled with OCD anxiety. You’re NYC savvy self would have completely intimidated me. Penis lollipops? No hail Mary’s would have erased that from my brain!
I’m reminded of a Hebrew school memory.
As a child I was deeply enamored of the phrase “drop dead.” It never failed to crack me up and it also succinctly expressed what I was most likely thinking regarding just about every figure of authority I encountered. I probably first heard this two word combination in a routine from Abbott & Costello’s TV show. In this scene, Bud and Lou are excessively polite to a man at an employment agency who was previously rude to them. They are so flattering to him that he now wants to help them in any capacity. He asks “Is there anything I can do for you?” And Costello replies “You can drop dead, we just got a job across the hall.” And, of course, this phrase was used to great comic effect by Buddy Hackett in “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.” When he addresses all his competitors in the race for the buried treasure he says “And may the best man win.” Then he turns to Ethel Merman, who plays a horrid mother-in-law, and says “Except you, lady. May you just…DROP…DEAD!!!”
I loved the phrase so much that when I was in high school I had a t-shirt made up with a smiling image of Felix the Cat and the words “Drop Dead” pasted above him. I wore it almost daily for years.
But back to Hebrew school. When I was in the 7th grade, I saw a book in the school library that I at first thought was entitled “Drop Dead.” But on closer examination I saw that it was called “Dorp Dead.” To this day I have no idea what this title meant. I think I assumed that it was about a character named Dorp and that he was dead.
A short time later I had a test in Hebrew school. The teacher wasn’t one of those screaming, hysterical old biddies who barked “Shecket!” every chance she got but rather a lanky, bearded guy in his 30’s. But he was still incredibly dull and lacking in humor. So at the top of my test paper I wrote the words “Dorp Dead.”
When I got the test paper back the teacher wanted to speak with me after class. He demanded to know how I could dare write “Drop Dead” to him. I kindly informed him that I absolutely did not write “drop dead” but rather “Dorp Dead.” He asked me what that meant. I explained that it’s the name of a very important book which he should be aware of. I believe he had no response to that.
That is the best story. Can you change your company name to Dorp Dead Productions? Or make it your spinoff company some day. And your Felix T-Shirt should’ve said Dorp Dead. Issue that and I’ll buy it, for sure.
Spencer’s used to be a popular store in the mall by me–it was a mish mosh of anything a teen could want. It included clothes, halloween costumes, gag gifts and candy–talk about variety! It was scandalous when they got the “panties for 2” in stock. (I actually think they might have been edible, too.) Anyway, it’s still in the same mall but now it’s more like the store Hot Topic, catering to the local goths. I remember the moment that store jumped the shark and no one went to it anymore–we were too busy getting drinks at Orange Julius. Jeez, I feel like I’m dating myself lol
I loved Spencer’s! The naughty store in the mall. They sold games like SexCapades, a board game of some kind which someone gave my parents for their 15th anniversary or something, and remained in the closet for years. I saw it at Spencers and felt like I was home.