Awesome Day Out, Part 1: AIRPLANES!!! WATER!!

I think Aaron and I were probably the best-behaved kids ever in airports--no running around screaming or endless "I'm boooorrrrrred!!" whining from us. No, Aaron and I could spend all day watching the airplanes take off and land.

We were born to an Air Force officer, after all.

From time to time, I have fascinating discussions with my dad that consist of me asking a ton of questions about airports, airplanes, and air traffic control and him spewing his considerable knowledge of these things, and usually some cool anecdotes from his Air Force days thrown in for grins.

Air travel fascinates me.

Just think--100 years ago, flight was still new.  We didn't have air forces and airliners. No 747s, no trans-Atlantic jaunts.

Think about it. How far air travel has come in 107 years. And think about what it takes to hurtle a huge metal tube with a couple of wings stuffed full of fuel, a fuselage stuffed with people and their tons and tons of stuff, a few ready-to-eat meals and endless bags of pretzels, and to take all that dead weight and actually get it off the ground. I'm not a big fan of physics but that is damned impressive.

Anyway, all this rambling is my lead-in to an awesome day out I had with Summer today. A few weeks ago she told me she had an event she had to attend for work in Burlingame, just south of San Francisco. If I was up for hanging out at the hotel for an hour, we could go to Half Moon Bay when she was done and bum around that darling little town.

My immediate response was, "Count me in! OCEAN FIX!!"

She mentioned that the hotel was on the water, and figured I'd be perfectly happy hanging around, taking pictures, for that hour while she attended to business. The hotel had a Starbucks. When we pulled into the parking lot, I realized it also had something much, much cooler: a front-row-seat view of three of the runways at San Francisco International Airport (SFO).

I was like a kid in a candy shop, about ten seconds from jumping up and down in place and squealing, "Airplanes! AIRPLANES!!" I only just managed to refrain because ten years of friendship leaves me unwilling to embarrass Summer like that.

Summer just smiled at me. "I figured you'd like being near the water."

"YES! And airplanes, Summer! I love watching airplanes take off and land!" Turns out this is something she didn't know about me.

Summer left to attend to her business inside, and I set off towards a small public path, just in time to see a taxiing airplane turn and take position for take-off. The plane was still and quiet, waiting for clearance. When clearance was given, a mighty roar blasted from the engines and the plane accelerated down the runway and hurtled into the sky. I giggled and watched with some awe--it doesn't matter how many times I have flown in my life (a lot), I still have so much awe and respect for the pure art of a plane that is leaving land and climbing into the sky.

I took a couple of videos, not caring that people on the path behind me could hear me narrating them as I filmed. The first one is four minutes long and focuses on one plane as it taxis and takes off. Another plane landed on the next runway over while I watched. Pardon my cheesy, "Hell. Yeah." as the plane starts to accelerate. I couldn't help myself.



The second video is short but sweet--one plane landing, another taking off.



I also took a ton of still shots, of course, some with a certain little rubber duck, in honor of my Swimmy friends. (Sparty Swimmy of Michigan met Timmy Swimmy of England in London yesterday. Israeli Swimmy went out in NYC today, and I don't know what Eendje--Dutch for "duck"--Swimmy was up to. Cali Swimmy and I had a grand time.)

Looking towards SFO

Mr. Swimmy

Landing

This plane was taking off.

Silly Girl with Duck and Blue Hair (clip-in extensions)

Silly Girl Who Doesn't Care Who Might Be Watching

Swimmy is wistful--he can't fly.

Yay, sign pictures!

The cold drove me indoors for a few minutes, where Swimmy and I enjoyed some hot chocolate.

Then it was back outside--thank goodness I had my Keane scarf!

Lift-off!

Taxiing

After my Starbucks stop, I stayed close to the part of the hotel where I'd seen a bunch of professionally-dressed people, figuring that's where I'd eventually find Summer. Sure enough, after an hour or so of plane-watching, I heard, "Hey, there you are!" Summer changed from business clothes to jeans and shortly after that, we were on our way to Half Moon Bay, which is, of course, where the next post will start.

Snow White

This week has marked the third year in a row that I have participated in the St. John's Pops Choir, a fun part of the St. John's Chamber Music Festival, an annual event here in Stockton.

In 2009, the director, Paul, came to a Chorale rehearsal to ask for singers. I thought it sounded like fun, and signed up. At the first rehearsal, Paul heard me singing as he stood near the soprano section and later told me, "You have such a sexy voice!" (He didn't mean anything untoward by it, it was just his way of saying, "Damn, girl! Listen to you!") He asked if I'd like a solo and I told him I'd love to sing the Sebastian solo in our Disney medley (from the song "Kiss the Girl").  It's traditionally a male solo, but Paul agreed to let me do it, and he loved the results.

Last year, I went back and he immediately asked if I'd sing a little solo in the Beatles medley we were to perform.

This year, I showed up on Monday night and Paul offered me, right away, a heftier solo, from "A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes." It's a lovely little solo, and it's right in my passaggio. You know, that part of the voice that I've learned, over the last several years, to sing through--and it's the part of my voice that promptly gets really shaky when I'm nervous!

But I did well enough tonight. I received many compliments after the show, from audience members and fellow singers alike. Before we sang the song, Paul told the audience, "Every year I send out an email to people who have sung this in the past, and every year, I hope Megan C----- will reply that she's singing with us." He gave a big grin and gestured to me. "Well, she did."

I have a funny time responding to compliments about my singing. On the one hand, I know I have a beautiful voice--too many people who know a lot more about singing than I do have told me I have a naturally beautiful quality to my voice. I've also worked my butt off to be even better than "naturally beautiful" sounding. I have studied ear training so that I can sing on pitch and in tune. I have practiced--endlessly--breathing exercises so that I can sustain long phrases and get the best possible sound out. I have listened to my teachers, I have done all the little tricks to access notes, and I have worked my range to a point where I can access a high C# (a year ago, that wasn't possible). So yes, from a purely technical standpoint, I know I can sing. And I don't think it's cocky of me to say so.

On the other hand, I never take for granted that an audience will enjoy my singing. There's a responsibility that comes with singing to not only sound technically correct, but also to give a performance. One of our soloists tonight sang "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friends." Technically, she was a very weak singer--she had pitch problems and her rhythm could have been stronger. But she gave the audience a ton of sass and she absolutely went for it--they ate it up.

So hearing that my solo was appreciated tonight was testament to my ability to perform--not just technically, but to put a certain amount of wistfulness and emotion into the song, as well.

But the best compliment I received at the end of the evening was from the lady who told me, "You sounded so lovely...and you look like you could be Snow White."

Dark, curled hair? Check. Ruby red lips? Check. Pale skin? Check. Yeah, I guess I can see the resemblance!

So now I'm home. The makeup has been showered off. My hair has lost most of the curl. I'm in pajamas instead of Concert Black.

Snow White has left the building.

So Grown Up

About a month ago, my friend Maayan and I got the idea in our heads that we ought to try to go to Coachella this year.

I had a sneaking suspicion, which turned out to be right, that Mumford and Sons would be there. When it was announced that they would be, "try to" turned to "WE ARE GOING!"

Which, today, turned into, "Know what? I just can't do this."

Sad but true--both of us are in financial spots where raising $500 each in the next couple of months (Coachella is in April) is nearly impossible. The cheapest option for accomadations, car camping, is sold out to scalpers who are profiting on eBay as I type this. Tickets themselves have gone up a bit in price because now you are required to buy a shuttle pass with the three-day festival pass. All area hotels are sold out for that weekend.

So after three hours on the phone this morning, burning the wires between California and New York (and with Nebraska asking us, the Wall of Sound, to keep it down, please) as we discussed the pros, the cons, the "yes, I can manage that, but I can't manage that" and the endless money woes that come with being unemployed music teachers or up-and-coming actresses in the Big Apple, we made the very difficult and very grown-up decision to not make financial matters harder on ourselves by forcing Coachella to happen.

Instead, we've turned our attention to the Outside Lands festival in San Francisco, which is smaller and less likely to be visited by our beloved Mumford boys, but also way less expensive, and closer to Stockton, leaving out the long hours in the car driving to Indio.

It's also in August, giving us more time to plan, save money for tickets and accomodations, and we can still have what Maayan referred to as an epic First Friend Date (seeing as how we haven't actually met in person yet--kind of crazy and shocking).

We're both disappointed, for sure--it would have been a blast to go to Coachella, with its amazing lineup this year--but also optimistic that our big adventure will still happen, just later and not in the middle of a California desert.

And who knows, maybe I'll even get to New York this year. : )

Librarian

So a few weeks ago, I took over as librarian for Chorale. I was flattered to be asked and the job appeals to me because it requires organizing things, making lists and allows me to be a total control freak without people thinking I'm a total snot.

At our first rehearsal this month (after a few weeks off for the holidays), we got two pieces: a Vivaldi score that each person in Chorale has to pay for (and therefore it is not Chorale property but that individual singer's, forever and ever, AMEN) and a photocopy of some of Mendelssohn's "Elijah," which is public domain and therefore can be photocopied many times without copyright violations.

At the second rehearsal, we got two more public domain pieces, both by Haydn.

With old singers not returning and new singers auditioning and coming in, it's been a bit confusing, so we've run out of Vivaldi scores.

Tonight, it was my duty to give out the rest of the music--four pieces, giving us a total of eight for the next concert--and three of these are Chorale-owned sheet music pieces that MUST be returned after the March concert.

It's simple enough, but good God, you would think I'd asked people to donate a kidney.

First there's the confused folk:

"OH MEGAN I DON'T HAVE THAT PIECE! I NEED THAT PIECE! YOU GAVE HER ONE, WHERE'S MINE?"

*deep breath* "Were you here last week?"
"YES."

"We passed this piece out last week." *smile*

"OH. SO I HAVE IT?"

"You should..." *hopeful smile*

"Oh, okay." Then they pootle off to chat with friends while a new singer approaches, looking completely confused and scared of me.

Of course, we ran out of Vivaldi scores, so I've had several people telling me, repeatedly, that they don't have it, while I smile and verrrry patiently remind them that we need to get more and they will have one next week, I PROMISE. Here, have my first-born with that promise.

Tonight, the task was simple enough. I had a manila envelope for each singer. Each singer has a number. Find your name/number on the list. Initial it, please, so I know you have your music. Meanwhile, I take the music out of the envelope (which I'm keeping because I don't trust people to return them) and hand it over.

This is just way too confusing.

Then, of course, people with folder numbers 73 and up don't have one piece because we ordered 100 and 72 arrived--the rest are on back order.

"WHY DON'T I HAVE THE TOCH PIECE? HE HAS A TOCH, I DON'T!!"

"I promise you, you will have it next week. The sheet music company sent us 72 of the 100 we ordered."

"HOW WILL YOU KNOW I NEED ONE?!"

"I have a list of who has them and who doesn't."

"OH YOU'RE SO ORGANIZED!!"
*smile* "I call it 'control freak,' but thank you, yes, I am."

At break time, I stood up and let the whole choir--The Whole Choir--know where we stand:

"You should have the three parts of 'Elijah,' the two Haydn pieces, the Hogan, the 'Hear My Prayer.' Everyone has those. If you do NOT have the Vivaldi, I left a list on that table [I even pointed to it!] and I need to you print your name on it so that I know who to give Vivaldi scores to next week.

I have a list of the people who are missing the Toch. You will get that next week. For tonight, we're sharing."

At the end of the break, ONE person had signed my "Needs Vivaldi" list. ONE. I got an extra back and gave it to her. So next week, when people come to me demanding a Vivaldi, I'm going to smile prettily and say, "Oh, you didn't sign my list at break time last week." Then I'll oh-so-nicely give them a photocopy of the score.

They can live with that.

Don't even get me started on the people who came in, walked right by the long line of people getting new music, and got halfway through rehearsal only to tell me, "You didn't give me new music!"

For the most part, the job is not that frustrating. I like being useful, and many, many people, including our director, Magen, have thanked me profusely and complimented my organizational skills. It's really not rocket science, and Magen, upon learning my system muttered, "That's how it's supposed to be done." It hasn't been done this way in a long time, which is why I'm still sorting out Christmas music and wondering who the hell checked out White Christmas #37 and other such pressing problems.

So if you need me, I'll be up to my eyeballs in music. Ever a Music Nerd and Singing Fool...that's me.

Tuesday Tea Time: I Love Tea Cups

The trick to drinking tea the "proper" way is to drink it in a proper vessel. My English Mum Kathy liked to say that you must drink tea from bone china; to this day, my favorite tea mugs (beakers, as they'd be called in England) are bone china mugs I've picked up in various places. There's the flowered mug from Butchart Gardens in Victoria, or the wonderful Pride and Prejudice mug I bought at the Jane Austen Center in Bath.

For more special occasions, I love using fancy tea cups with saucers. So today, I'm sharing some wonderful tea cups I found via a simple Google search. They're all unique, and they all make me happy.

Monday Music: Mumford & Sons, Laura Marling, and The Dharohar Project

Mumford and Sons, English "nu folk" singer Laura Marling and India's The Dharohar Project put together an EP that released recently. I absolutely love it. It combines that almost Irish sound of Mumford with traditional Indian music, which is, of course, quite different. The result is amazing. I can't stop listening to the four songs from the project.


This video is from Laura Marling's Official YouTube.

Perfect

As someone who has gone through the whole range of emotions that come with gaining weight through my twenties and rather quickly losing it in my early 30s, believe me, there has been a lot of self-reflection.

I was adored growing up--I never doubted that. Even when Mom and Dad were frustrated with me, there was always, always, and underlying love and in my mind, the knowledge that no matter what I did, they couldn't stop loving me.

But no matter how much your parents adore you, no matter how much they strive to build you up, there is this huge world out there that can so easily tear you down. I see it all the time in my friends, in my students, and in myself. For me it was acne, a pudgy body, a love of playing in marching band. It was letting two boys hurt me in college and then feeling like that was it--if they couldn't love me, who would? And I got so tired of feeling that way about myself. I think that, above anything else, was the driving force behind losing weight--I was so tired of thinking I couldn't take better care of myself.

Earlier this week, I saw a few friends on Facebook post a video for Pink's new song, "F***ing Perfect." I vaguely thought I should watch it but didn't get to it until tonight, when one of my Keane friends posted it somewhere and I clicked play.

It made me cry.

Just about every girl and woman I know is this song. Oh, not everyone cuts themselves--but every single one of us has that inner voice that doubts herself, and before I found this video tonight, I saw it plainly in my young Keane friend--a gorgeous girl who has so many self-doubts that she can't see how gorgeous, how special she really is. She's a 19-year-old who regularly chats with a bunch of 30-somethings. Her maturity, humor and kindess radiate from deep in her...and yet, she allows the voices in her head to be mean to her.

So I'm posting this on my blog for every girl and woman I know and love. You are perfect to me. I wish you knew that.

Wrapping Up Remembories Week...A Most Poignant Remembory

My dad was a career Air Force man; an officer and a gentleman. I spent my first eight years of life as an Air Force Brat. This meant moving, and it meant that Dad was sometimes gone.

It was worse for Aaron--he was older, he was a boy who needed his father. He had it longer than I did--fifteen years--and he struggled more. But fuzzy memories do come back to me sometimes, especially those involved with Dad's assignment in Turkey.

The Turkey assignment was unaccompanied, so Dad was gone for about eighteen months while Mom, Aaron and I settled into our new home in Rancho Cordova, just northeast of my moms parents' place in Sacramento. I was only three when Dad left, but a few things stand out.

I remember bits and pieces of the saga of the broken leg--when I was three and the shopping cart I was riding in tipped over. I can remember an ambulance, and I can remember the hospital. I can remember a heavy cast and being carried everywhere.

I remember Aaron standing in front of the fireplace at our Rancho Cordova house after one of Dad's too-short visits, crying his eyes out because Daddy had to leave again.

I remember sitting in front of the tape player in the living room, hearing Dad's voice from the cassette reading to me as I followed along in the book he'd mailed with the tape. "Turn the page, Megan," he'd tell me from thousands of miles away.

I remember him coming home to visit and crouching down in front of me to give me a present--a red purse with Bert and Ernie on it. He hung it around my neck. I wish I still had that purse.

I remember asking him--more than once--if he really was home "forever" when his assignment in Turkey was finished and he was stationed, finally, at Mather in Rancho Cordova. Hearing him reassure me.

I don't remember running along a glass partition at San Francisco International, a partition that separated the incoming travellers from their families on the other side. I don't remember following my daddy along that partition, but he does, and it's a story he relates fondly.

I remember Dad's military career being Big and Important, and I remember his retirement. It wouldn't be 'til I was an adult that I'd be proud of our history as a military family. At the time, it's just what was.

At least, that's how I remember it.

Things I Loved

Ask any child of the 80s what they remember and be prepared for a long list of fondly remembered toys, games, and cartoons. My own personal list is long and filled with nostalgia.

By the time I was finished, I had ten--yes, ten--Cabbage Patch Dolls. I still have eight of them, packed away in a box here in my apartment (four come out each Christmas). I sold one on eBay a few years ago (it was one of my later ones that wasn't very special) and I got rid of my "water baby" CPK eons ago because I can't imagine that she was anything but mold-infested inside.

My "Cabbies" were my favorite toys for many years--my children, really. Together with my best friend, Christina, I hauled them around in doll strollers, tucked them into special doll beds, and dressed them in any one of about a gazillion doll outfits I had. I once left Theodore in a hotel in Salt Lake City and was heartbroken until I received word that Grandma Cooper had gone to rescue him for me. I was a very happy girl the day the package containing Theodore arrived at our house.

Ariana (Christmas, age 8)

Tabitha (Christmas, age 9)

Besides my beloved Cabbies, I had some interest in Barbie, a few bajillion My Little Pony toys, Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake dolls, and other assorted fads that no self-respecting child of the 80s could be without.

Like the Get In Shape, Girl! Rhythm and Ribbons:



God only knows what happened to the cassette tape, but the ribbon got some play time.

I was also into Voltron and even had the action figures.



You know, robotic lion things that come together to make a big evil-fighting robot. There's nothing absurd about it.

And cartoons...oh, the cartoons! If you ask me, the 80s were the decade for cartoons. As evidence, I present:

The Jetsons:

Who didn't dream that someday our cars would fly and fold up into tiny briefcases?

The Flintstones

Yabba-Dabba-Dooo!

Scooby Doo


Fraggle Rock, The Smurfs, The Littles, Heathcliff, Ducktails (woo-oo!) and so many others.

And let's not forget Fat Albert!



This isn't even taking the Peanuts and Garfield specials that came on from time to time.
I rest my case.

Family Pictures

Mom, Dad, Aaron and I by the American River in Rancho Cordova. When people wonder why a 5'2" woman walks as fast as I do, I explain that it's because I had to keep up with my brother--who has pretty much always had at least a foot on me.

Grandma and Grandpa Bean, my mom's parents, at our house in Folsom.

Brownie Uniform! Aaron and I in our Rancho Cordova House.

Aaron, Mom and I at Knott's Berry Farm in Southern California.

Over the River And Through the Woods

I wasn't born a California Girl. I didn't actually live in California until the age of two, but once we moved here, to be near Mom's parents, we stayed. So many of my best childhood memories revolve around the most comforting place in the whole world: Grandma's House.

Aaron and I spent a lot of time with our grandparents, and we were lucky to have them as long as we did. Going to Grandma and Grandpa's house meant a talking Snoopy doll, baths in the kitchen sink (when I was very little), and whatever we wanted for dinner. Aaron always wanted noodles with butter. Grandma always provided.

Grandma and Grandpa's house meant barbecue--Grandpa loved to grill and had a huge brick barbecue built in an indoor/outdoor addition to the house. No matter what he was grilling, he always threw a couple of slices of bologna on for Aaron and me.

Spending the night at Grandma and Grandpa's house meant watching Grandpa use his shoe horn to remove his shoes, eating popcorn and watching "The Dukes of Hazard" or "Love Boat" with Grandma in the living room. Sitting on Grandma's foot stool and getting back scratches. Taking over the living room with our giant box of Legos. Walking to the baseball field down the street to collect cans and bottles, and going to the recycling center with Grandpa, who always let Aaron and I split the cash. Fires in the fireplace during the winter, and watching the train, several blocks away, go by from the living room window.

Grandma and Grandpa's house was never too cold or too hot. The beds were just right. The hugs were plentiful.

There's no place like home...and there's no place like Grandma and Grandpa's house.



The last time I went in that house was in 1994, after Grandma died. We cleared out the house and put it on the market. It sold and someone else moved in. In the few times I've driven by in the years since, I've never been able to think of it as someone else's house. That's Grandma and Grandpa's house. It's my memories.

Little Wordy Girl

Communication for me has always been easier in written form. When I talk I am fast, I am loud, and I am sometimes downright obnoxious about it. I don't mean to be, it's just my passion coming forth. Fortunately, I've cultivated friendships with people who are similar to me in this.

I also hate direct confrontation. Why look someone in the eye and say, "I'm angry" when you can, you know, slip a note on Mom and Dad's pillow letting them know just how things stand in their household?

And then there's Dad's old favorite:

Apparently, I was an entertaining child.

Future Music Nerd

If you had told seven-year-old Yours Truly, at that very first piano recital, that I'd grow up to major in music and actually care about stuff like scales and modes and secondary dominant chords and what Beethoven ate for breakfast, I would have laughed you out of the room and, perhaps, beat you over the head with my plastic baton. Funny how life works out.

P.S. Look how straight my little wrists were! Excellent form.

Remembories Week: Wordless Wednesday

A picture really is worth a thousand words.

Majorette Dreams

I was always a bit of a performer.

My bed was my stage, and my hairbrush a microphone. I would slip my Cyndi Lauper cassette into the tape player and sing along to "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" while bopping around on my bed.

When my two best friends, Meegan and Christina, took up baton-twirling, how I envied them their shiny, proper batons. All I had was a silly plastic one with streamers coming out the ends. We made up elaborate routines on the large back deck of Christina's house, always ending with a flourish: Christina and Meegan would do cartwheels while I would twirl around and end up down on one knee with my arms extended and my best majorette smile on my face. I never did master the art of cart-wheeling.

A couple months before my 7th birthday, my parents announced a big surprise. They had signed me up for piano lessons!

I wasn't nearly as excited by this as they were. I wanted baton-twirling, not stupid piano lessons. I pouted, I refused, I cried. I behaved like an utter brat. And I went to piano lessons, once a week.

Meegan and Christina continued their twirling for a while but gradually found other interests. I continued piano lessons right up 'til the end of high school, and the only reason I stopped was because I was leaving for college. You all know the rest of the story--obviously, at some point, it began to stick and I no longer had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to my weekly lessons.

But part of me still wishes I had the ability to toss a baton in the air and not freak out as it comes back down--on my head.

Songs of Childhood

When I think back on how music of the 1980s affected my childhood, five artists/bands always spring to mind first: Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Michael Jackson, Irene Cara and Air Supply.

I can't tell you how many times I bopped around my bedroom to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," or how much I adored (and still adore, now I'm in my thirties) "Crazy For You."  I don't know how I got away with listening to "Like A Virgin" so much--I guess my parents figured I didn't yet know what "virgin" meant (and I didn't).

"Flashdance (What A Feeling)" was the song that would make me a star, and "Thriller" was, well, thrilling. I remember how cool it was to watch the video, and how I always got a little bit scared by it. And for some reason, Air Supply was a favorite, too.

MTV was a new entity--it actually showed music videos back then, how novel--and we were still a few years off from that new-fangled compact disc. iTunes? I wouldn't download iTunes and buy an iPod until 2006. Computers weren't even part of my daily life yet.

And these songs were the soundtrack of my life--the songs I danced around my bedroom to, the songs I sang off-key in my little girl voice, the songs I dreamed to.

Not much has changed, really, except for the soundtrack itself. ; )

Some other songs I loved:


(The hair! The tiger shirt!)




(THE CLOTHES! THE DANCING!! God, the Eighties were insane.)

Princess Foo-Foo Is NOT Amused

I love everything about this picture. Everything. The pouty face (as I recall, my brother Aaron was taking the picture and I was mad at him about something or other), the crossed arms, the bangs I wore for most of my childhood. The tie-died shirt, and the black miniskirt that had been part of a Halloween costume and became my favorite wardrobe staple (though thankfully, Mom never let me out of the house in it that I can recall).

I can still make that face, and I'm sure I do quite often.

Remembories Week Tuesday Tea Time

To tie my Tuesday Tea Time posts into Remembories Week, I set out to find tea sets that feature some favorite things from my childhood.

I don't recall ever having fancy tea parties as a kid, but I'm sure I had some sort of ritual. If I'd had any of these tea sets, I'm sure I would have adored them.

From top to bottom: Strawberry Shortcake, Cabbage Patch Kids, Snoopy, My Little Pony.