Fashion

May6Mrs. Vitale? Please! Call Me Paula! Or, Actually, Mrs. Vitale is Fine.
Paula

I have done a few things that could be categorized as “very suburban” over the past few weeks.  I met with “Bill” from the oil company, “Georges” about ripping out my dead hedges, “Julio” the plumber about my leaking dishwasher, “Jimmy” the chimney guy, and “Percival” the alarm system man.  Each one of these gentlemen has called me “Mrs. Vitale.”  You know the cliché where you turn around and look for your mother-in-law when someone calls you that?  I didn’t do that.  I grinned big.  I suddenly felt like I was wearing a well-ironed shirt dress, classic pearls and trailing around in the scent of “Shalimar” or maybe “L’Air du Temps.”  In reality, right after our move I rarely washed my clothes and frequently forgot to apply deodorant or brush my teeth.  Glamorous!

This woman might be way prettier, and have better clothes than me, but can she spot a Tiffany diamond from across the room?  Actually, she probably can.  Photo courtesy of HBO.

I kind of get off on being called “Mrs.”, and previous to our move, the ONLY other person who has called me “Mrs. Vitale” is Tonya and Ken’s son Pierce (they are raising him right people!).  Tonya knows I think formal stuff like this is funny-but-secretly-and -totally-enjoy-it she taught Pierce to call me “Mrs. Vitale” at the tender age of two.  Okay, so he’d only do it once in awhile – but when he did it I was extremely pleased.  I know this is not very feminist of me, but being called Mrs. Vitale makes me feel like part of a family. . . . and yeah, it also makes me feel like a 1960’s housewife who smokes, has beautiful clothes and wears red lipstick which is much more appealing than the clog wearing/American apparel t-shirt situation I’ve currently got going on.  It’s just so pleasantly old-fashioned.  Hey, has anyone seen my Manhattan??!!  I still remember the horror I felt when Sex and the City was ending and those t-shirts were being sold. . . “I’m a Carrie.” Etc. etc.  It was then that I realized Oh My God, if forced at gunpoint to purchase one of these t-shirts by a deranged souvenir salesman, I’d be a god damn Charlotte.  I covet pre-war apartments, will happily discuss china patterns for hours and can identify a Tiffany solitaire diamond from clear across a room (a rare but worthless talent I admit).  You’d never know I’m a Charlotte by looking at me, but inside I crave a little bit of that old school elegance and decorum (probably because I only had one set of sheets until I was 29.  I’m serious).  I don’t actually want or expect anyone to call me Mrs. Vitale, that does seem a bit much, but I admit that I like the idea that this level of formality still exists somewhere – like in my kitchen.  While I will continue telling people that they should call me Paula – I’ll also make an extra effort to make sure I’m a little more respectful too.  While I don’t think I’ll be busting out the red lipstick, I have a feeling that if I spend some time with my inner-Charlotte, she might have some ideas about what falls between worn out clogs and Manolos.

Filed Under: Fashion, Manners
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Apr20Do I Have Any Taste? Any Taste At All?
Paula

My husband and I went on an actual date last Saturday.  And I have to say it might have been the best one we’ve been on in ages.  There was no fancy restaurant involved. . . no reservations.  What we did turned out to be much more fun.

I was tired, and so close to saying “Can’t we just stay in?  It’s raining!” that I hadn’t even bothered to ask where we were going.  Turns out we were seeing a movie.  Yeah okay.  I remember those.  I was kind of suspicious that the theatre was full of people who fit into that mysterious age bracket known as “the tween.”  I asked my husband if there was a new Twilight movie out.  He told me we were seeing a scary movie called “Insidious”, but not to worry, because it was only PG-13.  ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME?  This is how you use our precious babysitter time?  This is what I am thinking, but I don’t say it because I’m too busy shoving popcorn in my mouth.  My husband can read my mind (really, he can, it’s spooky) and he tells me he swears it will be good and if it isn’t he will buy me some sort of present.  Long story short, the movie is horrifying, but in a super fun way.  I actually scream.  Scream!  But then I am laughing because it’s hilarious that I am so scared that I’m screaming.  I am jumping in my husbands lap out of terror.  I now see why that theatre is full of 13 year olds.  Being scared is fun.  I know it seems weird, but it’s true.  Just ask the theatre full of eighth graders.

It’s been a few days since we’ve seen Insidious and we’re still scared of certain parts of our house.  I made my husband stand next to me in the bathroom while I brushed my teeth that night.  We couldn’t believe how much we enjoyed the movie.  But then we were wondering if it wasn’t the movie as much as it was us, and our lack of exposure to the world at large.  I mean hello?  The theatre was full of “tweens.”  We never managed to see The King’s Speech!  We are totally out of touch!  Are we at risk of falling into that horrible place where we’re just completely out of it?  Did we like this movie because it’s simply been so long since we’ve actually seen one?  What’s next?  Not changing our hairstyles for the next thirty years?

This toddler, who is making an “insidious” face, has seen way more movies than her parents, who are basically total losers.

And speaking of style. . I had a frightening experience at the mall earlier that very day involving a pair of designer jeans.  Since I’m smaller than I was when my daughter was born, I wondered if I could finally stuff myself into those fancy $200 jeans.  It turns out I kind of can, some of them anyway, but the ones I could get into LOOKED AWFUL.  I’m not talking about a muffin top situation I’m talking 100% pure muffin.  I like to think I have enough fashion sense to know to “just say no” to a pair of ill fitting pants – even if they are ONE FOR ALL MANKIND OF THE WORLD or whatever.  However, my friend, and some skinny sales girl were absolutely convinced I should buy them.  “Tighter is better” they kept saying, “it makes you look thinner.”  Yeah, I get that. . . “EXCEPT WHEN IT MAKES YOU LOOK FATTER.”  I hate that I’m second guessing myself.  Shouldn’t you be more confident with your choices as you get older?  Is this how we portray mothers?  As unfashionable, totally out of it, senseless, and so uncool to the point where I’m not going to let myself think I have enough sense to know what kind of movies I like or what kind of pants look good on me?  The sales girl said “you’ll be back for those jeans.”  I won’t be.  Unless I loose about twenty pounds, and if getting older has taught me a anything at all, it’s that I look just fine the way I do, and I’m not going to let some Tween convince me otherwise.

Filed Under: Fashion, Fear, Worries
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Apr11My Standard Issue Mommy-form and How I Tried To Change It
Carrie

On Saturday morning, the family and I set out to attend an outdoor activity. We were excited for this one–it was called Touch-a-Truck.  For $5.00, kids were allowed to climb aboard firetrucks, cement mixers, cherry pickers, garbage trucks and all types of cars. For my son, this was, essentially like Beatlemania. It turns out (shocker!) there were only about 7,500 other kids with the same fantasy. It was a madhouse. The scene: long lines with a soundtrack of horns operated by three year olds and tormented screams by kids who waited in the backs of lines that stretched 30-minutes long.

As I stood shoulder-to-shoulder, diaper bag-to-diaper bag with the other parents from my neighborhood, I was greeted by a gruesome sight: hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of other moms and dads who…looked…exactly…like us. I felt like I was in a  mirror-filled funhouse, running into slightly distorted versions of myself with the same mom uniform. Big Sunglasses, Ponytails. Big Sunglasses, Ponytails. Big Sunglasses, Ponytails. It was creepy. And unnatural. And identity-crisis inducing.

That afternoon, I left the house for my usual weekend solo jaunt into the city. I was spooked by seeing one million me’s at the Touch-A-Truck. When I got off the train, I was in a trance. I wandered into my favorite stores and started trying on all sorts of freaky stuff–trying to break out of my mom mold.

I tried on not one, but two strapless jumpsuits. Heart-shaped sunglasses. Neon checkered vans. Cropped leather jackets. Lace vintage blazers. Tiger-patterned parachute pants. I was all over the map, and it wasn’t pretty. I was desperately trying to shed my Mommy-form. And what was I trading it in for? An outfit that made me look like an aging crystal meth addict from 1984?

What..had..I…become? I succumbed to the wave of my existential crisis. There was no original thought. There is no free will. We are rats in a maze. Ghosts in the machine. Spirits in a material world? (Wait–why have The Police invaded my brain? Has all this Eighties fashion driven me into the arms of Sting???)

I hadn’t felt this way since, well, 1986 when I went to a Howard Jones concert in what I thought was a unique outfit with an oversized fedora perched on the very back of my head. I arrived, greeted by the sight of 2,000 other 14 year olds wearing the same hat.

So maybe this wasn’t so bad! If it had happened to me when I was 14 and if it’s happening now when I’m 38, maybe things haven’t changed so much at all? Maybe I’m going with the flow. Maybe I’m tapping into the zeitgeist. Maybe I’m exactly where I should be?

But maybe a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses would help me see myself and others with a little more love in my heart? A little flair didn’t do any harm, now did it?

Filed Under: ad hoc CHIC, Fashion, Fear
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Mar1And The Oscar Goes To…Wait…What Are You Wearing?
Tonya

I should be studying for my upcoming GRE but instead I’m cruising the internets, mainly the OK Magazine website, and ogling the photos of celebs in their finery at the Vanity Fair Oscars party.  I started to feel guilty about putting aside my plans for a future and any earning potential just to sit on my high horse and judge what the filthy rich can afford to spend crazy sums on, so, I decided to do both: study vocab AND judge the famous. Really, there’s no down side.

Camilla Alves and Matthew McConaughey:

Poor Camilla. Her deleterious dress is covered in mold; black mold no less and it’s choking her around the throat! It’s like Snakes on a Motherfucking Plane! Run Camiila! Run!

I don’t care what sort of clothes Matthew puts on, he always looks puerile, it’s like the fabric  – any fabric — is giving him a serious groin rash. If it ain’t a swim up bar with a Tiki hut motif McConaughey shouldn’t be there!

Deleterious: unexpectedly harmful

Puerile: silly

Lourdes and Madonna:

My eyes are screaming at me: “look away, for god sakes, look away!” My brain is trying desperately to figure out what is going on with this desultory pair. Perhaps renovations were being made at some old folks home nearby one of the Ciccone’s many mansions so Madge and her mini-me swooped in and grabbed as much of the various shower curtains as possible? And then probably put a team of Malawians to work? Oh, and also, didn’t the Material Girl used to have a black Labrador?  Well, not anymore! He’s been made into some sort of Rachel Zoe fur vest reject. I was also going to add that Madonna looks a bit hoary but apparently it doesn’t mean what I think it does…but I think it still fits nevertheless.

Desultory: disconnected

Hoary: very old

Hilary Swank:

Oh Hilary, I think you’ve been walking down the black snow and dog shit encrusted streets of Brooklyn. You’ve got something on your dress, dear. I would hazard to guess that she had to ford her way across NYC to get to this dinner in time, except it’s in LA, so maybe she hopped a plane after walking from the Bronx to Queens? Or sat on the wing which then, apparently, hit a flock of geese traveling to Florida for Spring Break. Or she might be taking her love of The Black Swan to a whole new level:

“Am I good? Am I bad? I did leave Chad Lowe? Which was bad. But then I also won an Oscar. Which was good. I was in The Next Karate Kid and Beverly Hills 90210, bad. But then I did Million Dollar Baby and Boys Don’t Cry, good. But there’s also P.S. I Love You, bad. And Amelia, meh…Oh, hell, I’ll let the dress decide!”

Ford: to wade

Claire Danes:

It seems that Ms. Danes forgot she jettisoned her ball gown whilst at the hospital getting her yearly pap. Can someone please tell her she’s still wearing the infirmary gown? Also, she appears to have stolen some poor nurse’s shoes. Has she been hanging out with Lilo?

Jettison: to discard

Ginnifer Goodwin:

This dress would make a perfect tablecloth in a bordello.  The meretricious fabric is strangely belied by the 1950’s-meets-first-time-sewing-project tailoring. I will give Ms. Goodwin the benefit of the doubt and assume that her kind-hearted, 10 year old niece made this for her just before she and Goodwin’s brother and sister-in-law were whisked away into witness protection.

Meretricious: tawdry

Emma Stone:

I can only assume that the showbiz life is getting to poor little Emma. It is clear from this dress that she is in the midst of a psychotic break and that this maelstrom must receive immediate attention. STAT! Quick, lady in the background, run and get help! Emma’s hair screams Dolly Pardon in Working 9-5 while her dress…is that a dress?? What’s left of a dress? I think she took a pair of scissors, a bedazzler, and a hot glue gun and just went bat shit crazy.  I need to sit down…I’m feeling nauseous. Does anyone else feel the room spinning?

Maelstrom: agitated state of mind

Lea Michele:

At first, I didn’t realize that this was the star of Glee! I was sure it was a rehabbed Liza Minnelli or Elton John in drag! Lea, where, oh where, have you gone?? Perhaps she is being expurgated for all of her recent scantily clad magazine covers? Even so, I’m pretty sure no one deserves to be forced to wear one of the dresses Dustin Hoffman donned in Tootsie.

Expurgate: to censor

I think I’m ready for the verbal portion of the test, I just hope that the definition questions come with little pics of Pam Anderson, Charlie Sheen, and LiLo to help me out!

Filed Under: Entertainment, Fashion
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Feb9Sometimes No Schedule is the Best Schedule
Paula

I’m not proud to admit this, but it fills me with dread (yeah, I said dread) and anxiety to know I’m spending a day at home with my daughter without a Plan.  I’m just not the kind of mom who can do things on the fly.  I’m not good at impromptu activities . . . like, I dunno, making igloos out of sugar cubes or designing homemade paper dolls featuring the complete cast of 90210.  I like a schedule, even if it’s filled with dull ordinary tasks like buying q-tips and juice.  So I was positively fearful for my life when I realized I had no plans whatsoever today, because as those of you with toddlers know, this pretty much means that anything can happen.  My husband could come home at 7:30 to find me tied to a chair, or maybe our entire apartment would be empty – our daughter having systematically sold all of our belongings on Craig’s list.  Who knows?  And all because I didn’t bother to take her to the library?

Desperate times call for desperate measures.  We call this game PROJECT RUNWAY.

Fearing the worst I started frantically googling activities and lucky me, I found a sing-a-long.  We were off to a good start, as this took up half of the morning.  Just as I was trying to figure out how to kill the afternoon I got an email from Carrie.  We could come over and play at her house later that afternoon.  HALLELUHA HALLELUHA my day was saved.  June and I went home, ate lunch, and began the charade that has become the afternoon nap.  This involves her rearranging her bedroom furniture for twenty minutes and then coming out of her room, often naked, announcing ‘I DON’T WANT TO NAP” and then I usually lay on the floor and cry.  But today, while she was rearranging the furniture, I fell asleep.  I woke up TWO HOURS LATER, went into the bedroom, found my daughter fast asleep, with all the lights on, in pj’s and two pull-ups which she had decided to put on herself.  She took a nap.  Even better, so did I.  My phone started buzzing.  It was another friend in the hood whose son is also an infrequent napper.  He was also semi-comatose and they too were going to miss the play date at Carrie’s.  They came over an hour later, had dinner – and we were even joined by the dads and had adult take-out to accompany the kids and their chicken nuggets.  Cocktails were had.  This portion of the day was most definitely NOT on the schedule, but it was a most welcome addition indeed.   Clearly the next time I don’t have plans with my kid I shouldn’t act like such a freak – sometimes fun ensues!  But seriously, I’m just so grateful for the nap and the bonus time with a friend.  The next time I get an invite from Carrie, more likely than not, I’ll be the first one there.

Filed Under: Fashion, Motherhood: Fun?, Motherhood: The Job, Musings
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