Bonne Bell Lip Smackers saved my life, in a very real and literal sense. I was a smoker until Fall of 2000, and in those days before you could call an 800 number and get free patches I used those little tubes of rich lip-smacking goodness to help break myself of that habit. To this day I keep some kind of flavored lip gloss on hand at all times. I go through the damn things like water, but Louie doesn’t mind as long as it keeps me away from cigarettes (and as I continue to lose the weight that quitting smoking put on, they also keep me away from the junk food machines and anyone selling candy for their kids’ badminton birdie drive or whatever.)
The Bonne Bell Lip Smacker is nearly iconic, even nowadays when they’re really the puny grandchild of a Titan. When they first came out they were immense things, nearly an inch wide by four inches long, on a colorful cord to sport around the neck like a lavalier, and were nearly almost as valuable where I grew up, as they were difficult to obtain. You could always tell who had money in the Village—they were they girls who rocked three or four different ones at once. The nuns who taught us let it go, despite the bright colors that might otherwise have driven them to send us to confession. It was still Western New York; the winters were still harsh; and like it or not, the little lippies were good for the lips under those conditions. In the name of health they veiled themselves to the Balkanizing of their classes.
Alden is so far remote from Buffalo that as I was growing up I was hard pressed to call it a suburb. It is roughly midway between Buffalo and Batavia, so either could claim it. It is now being developed with Planned Communities and new roads and businesses as if just recently discovered; but in the 70’s and 80’s, it was rural and slightly less cosmopolitan than Mayberry, and felt like a distant fort at the very edge of the frontier. In my early youth, we had a Bells Market and a variety store called Arlotta’s, which ultimately became a Valu Hardware and a “Bargain Store” (forerunner to places like Shopper’s Choice and Ollie’s) respectively; there was a convenience market that existed primarily for cigarettes, beer and cheap candy; and the village pharmacy where I developed a twisted relationship with a jug of Emeraude. It was a jubilee day when the doors of the Ames Department Store opened, and Tops shortly thereafter (despite my having been tailed by the Ames manager as an accused thief even into my 20’s, the little jerk) because it meant we didn’t have to drive into Depew for anything more substantial than a Coke. The Ames introduced me to clothing that wasn’t pant suits from Two Guys, and to L’Oreal, which was looked upon as insanely expensive and therefore it was either The Lawyer’s Daughter who bought it, or the local Bad Girls who stole it.
You still had to go the distance to get your lips around some Bonne Bell, though, and when you lived in Alden and didn’t have a car just about anywhere was the distance. In our case, it was Eastern Hills Mall, where my family rarely descended. Once in a blue moon I got to watch my brother get his new clothing there (all the while I’m standing there wearing that women’s pant suit from Two Guys and wondering why, at the age of twelve, I had old men groping me) but most of the time I emerged empty handed. The day I was able to squeeze out from the glass under which my mother kept me, and go into JC Penney’s (!!!OHMAHGAHD BY MYSELF!!!) was a day of triumph.
Bonne Bell was apparently swanky enough to merit a glass counter in the makeup department at Penney’s (just about anything locked up in a glass counter was swanky at that point) and I eagerly parted with the changed I had either gleaned or groveled for in the past few months for one precious, fragrant, sweet Sugar Plum Lip Smacker on a green and purple cord, and I walked out on a cloud. I was able to do it by myself, previously thought impossible under a mother whose rule was that I was only allowed in the front yard for half an hour at a time. I was called Miss by the young lady behind the counter in her neat little smock, not Pig by someone in an ugly parochial uniform. THIS was my equalizer, that put me on par with The Lawyer’s Daughter and her clique. Not my school uniform, because anyone who is honest is going to admit that the uniform is no more democratizing than putting a supermodel naked next to the fat lady from the freak shows in similar undress—no amount nor style of clothing (or lack thereof) is going to make the playing field level.
Of course I couldn’t kid myself. I remember not the approval but the looks down the collective noses of the clique, my head-hanging retreat to the steps of the church where nobody went during recess, one of The Lawyer’s Daughter’s hangers-on stage-whispering “SHE went to the mall???” Because the playing field would never really be equal. In the choice between the fat lady and the supermodel, it is easy to tell who generally wins.
It would be years before I understood that what I took for belittling was surprise, and that the status symbol of my childhood was not wrapped up in a brand name nor tied up in a brightly-colored cord. My family were not socially inclined and rarely entertained; they did not stop to speak with parishioners after Mass; they did not hang out at the mall nor the department stores Downtown, going out instead for groceries once or twice a month with clothing purchases even more rare; and they were inclined to keep me behind closed doors while my brother was allowed to ramble about town. The bulky Lip Smackers on cords were so precious to us because it meant we could actually escape Alden and its quiet remoteness for a few hours. Precious to me because, for once in my life, I merited a Miss.
The Bonne Bell Lip Smacker is nearly iconic, even nowadays when they’re really the puny grandchild of a Titan. When they first came out they were immense things, nearly an inch wide by four inches long, on a colorful cord to sport around the neck like a lavalier, and were nearly almost as valuable where I grew up, as they were difficult to obtain. You could always tell who had money in the Village—they were they girls who rocked three or four different ones at once. The nuns who taught us let it go, despite the bright colors that might otherwise have driven them to send us to confession. It was still Western New York; the winters were still harsh; and like it or not, the little lippies were good for the lips under those conditions. In the name of health they veiled themselves to the Balkanizing of their classes.
Alden is so far remote from Buffalo that as I was growing up I was hard pressed to call it a suburb. It is roughly midway between Buffalo and Batavia, so either could claim it. It is now being developed with Planned Communities and new roads and businesses as if just recently discovered; but in the 70’s and 80’s, it was rural and slightly less cosmopolitan than Mayberry, and felt like a distant fort at the very edge of the frontier. In my early youth, we had a Bells Market and a variety store called Arlotta’s, which ultimately became a Valu Hardware and a “Bargain Store” (forerunner to places like Shopper’s Choice and Ollie’s) respectively; there was a convenience market that existed primarily for cigarettes, beer and cheap candy; and the village pharmacy where I developed a twisted relationship with a jug of Emeraude. It was a jubilee day when the doors of the Ames Department Store opened, and Tops shortly thereafter (despite my having been tailed by the Ames manager as an accused thief even into my 20’s, the little jerk) because it meant we didn’t have to drive into Depew for anything more substantial than a Coke. The Ames introduced me to clothing that wasn’t pant suits from Two Guys, and to L’Oreal, which was looked upon as insanely expensive and therefore it was either The Lawyer’s Daughter who bought it, or the local Bad Girls who stole it.
You still had to go the distance to get your lips around some Bonne Bell, though, and when you lived in Alden and didn’t have a car just about anywhere was the distance. In our case, it was Eastern Hills Mall, where my family rarely descended. Once in a blue moon I got to watch my brother get his new clothing there (all the while I’m standing there wearing that women’s pant suit from Two Guys and wondering why, at the age of twelve, I had old men groping me) but most of the time I emerged empty handed. The day I was able to squeeze out from the glass under which my mother kept me, and go into JC Penney’s (!!!OHMAHGAHD BY MYSELF!!!) was a day of triumph.
Bonne Bell was apparently swanky enough to merit a glass counter in the makeup department at Penney’s (just about anything locked up in a glass counter was swanky at that point) and I eagerly parted with the changed I had either gleaned or groveled for in the past few months for one precious, fragrant, sweet Sugar Plum Lip Smacker on a green and purple cord, and I walked out on a cloud. I was able to do it by myself, previously thought impossible under a mother whose rule was that I was only allowed in the front yard for half an hour at a time. I was called Miss by the young lady behind the counter in her neat little smock, not Pig by someone in an ugly parochial uniform. THIS was my equalizer, that put me on par with The Lawyer’s Daughter and her clique. Not my school uniform, because anyone who is honest is going to admit that the uniform is no more democratizing than putting a supermodel naked next to the fat lady from the freak shows in similar undress—no amount nor style of clothing (or lack thereof) is going to make the playing field level.
Of course I couldn’t kid myself. I remember not the approval but the looks down the collective noses of the clique, my head-hanging retreat to the steps of the church where nobody went during recess, one of The Lawyer’s Daughter’s hangers-on stage-whispering “SHE went to the mall???” Because the playing field would never really be equal. In the choice between the fat lady and the supermodel, it is easy to tell who generally wins.
It would be years before I understood that what I took for belittling was surprise, and that the status symbol of my childhood was not wrapped up in a brand name nor tied up in a brightly-colored cord. My family were not socially inclined and rarely entertained; they did not stop to speak with parishioners after Mass; they did not hang out at the mall nor the department stores Downtown, going out instead for groceries once or twice a month with clothing purchases even more rare; and they were inclined to keep me behind closed doors while my brother was allowed to ramble about town. The bulky Lip Smackers on cords were so precious to us because it meant we could actually escape Alden and its quiet remoteness for a few hours. Precious to me because, for once in my life, I merited a Miss.