Entertainment Tonight
Heaven forbid I should ever criticize anyone’s taste.
Different things appeal to different people, and who am I to say one preference is better than another?
Except.
My husband’s taste in TV.
Now that I spend all evening with my laptop writing my blog or designing outfits on Polyvore (and I have a 10th place finish in the 200th contest I entered, and I got a little badge for my webpage, so it is certainly a very good use of my time), I have relinquished control of the remote.
I used to decide all our TV viewing, and my husband mostly snored away.
And now he gets to choose.
Do you know that with 400 channels he has an incredible knack for finding the most horrible shows ever?
GUY SHOWS.
Like:
“Dual Survival” – Two survival experts show you how not to die if you get lost in the desert or mountains. One guy has braids about as thick as capellini and he’s always barefoot. Hey dude, here’s a tip on surviving: Put on some friggin’ shoes!
“Pawn Stars” – a classic Moe, Larry and Curly trio of father, son, and grandson. Their shop is in Las Vegas, and customers are hocking their most cherished family possessions so they can gamble a little longer. If the appraisal comes in at $900, these guys offer the schmuck about $47 bucks.
“Gold Rush” – This is my husband’s favorite show. Guys who have abandoned their families destroy 5,000 acres of virgin Alaskan wilderness in pursuit of 7 ounces of gold.
“Ice Truckers” – Guys drive trucks in the Arctic. It’s icy. Roads are bad. Entire plot. Every single episode. But hey, the cameramen are there anyway, shooting “Gold Rush,” “Deadliest Catch,” Flying Wild Alaska.” and next year probably. “Pawn Shop Tattoo Alaska.”
“Overhaulin'” – Guys tell some unwitting (synonym for witless) dude that his car has been totaled, when they are really just fixing it all up with a new headliner, sound system and awesome flames. You’d be surprised how often these dudes cry – especially because I would be more tempted to throw a few punches. And call my attorney.
“Modern Marvels” – Monotone descriptions of backhoe mechanics and candy cane bending.
“Lock-Up, Wherever” – I can’t tell you too much about these shows. There are mean people who look very scary. (On the other hand, I just love “Project Runway”, where there are mean people who look very scary.)
“American Pickers” – Abbott and Costello visit insane hoarders and buy rusty old signs and broken toys. I actually kind of like this one, since, despite stagey back-stories, the pickers demonstrate some real delight in their discoveries and always respect the crazy loons they meet.
and finally –
“Dancing With The Stars” – No, hubby is not a dance enthusiast, nor a fan of C-list has-beens. No. His fascination is specific: Extra-skimpy costumes.
And now that he controls our TV viewing, he is enjoying our evenings ever so much more.
Yoga Porn
I may be known – (okay … famous) for spending too much on jeans and purses and haircuts.
But I just can’t shell out a lot of money for exercise clothes.
It’s not that I don’t want to look hot during hot yoga. But sweating into expensive duds just goes against my all my fashion beliefs. (Why, I considered swiping my deodorant over my whole body before putting on my wedding gown – regardless of the fact that I bought a sample dress and paid half-price.)
But they have cute clothes in TJ Maxx and Target that I can sweat into without guilt. $19.99 is good. $12.99 is better.
Now some women say that cheap workout clothes won’t hold up in the wash. But I have a pair of Jockey brand yoga capris that I have been wearing for eight years. They were stretchy enough to accommodate my thighs when I was a bit chubby – and they still have enough stretch to not fall off of me now that I am thinner. (Yup, I have managed to mention my weight loss yet again- thank you for your patience.)
I did buy some good yoga leggings recently. I had a coupon from Groupon and bought a very nice pair of $48.00 Gaiam leggings for $24.00, so they were just a little over my $19.99 threshold. And the first week I wore them, my senile cat made a nice big snag in the knee, as he tried to get my attention during a particularly interesting round of Words With Friends.
The top of the line in yoga clothes is Lululemon. Lululemon’s leggings go for $98.00. And though I think it is just nuts to spend that much to sweat, the Lululemon brand is wildly popular amongst the cute-while-sweating set. High-fashion, high-quality – and the adorable little logo on the back of your calf tells the world you have good taste – and more money than sense.
So I read with fascination this week that Lululemon is recalling their best-selling leggings. The reason – they are much sheerer than acceptable. And this is not the first time that Lululemon has had an over-exposure problem.
God – in a rare moment of sweet compassion – created the human body in such a way that you can’t see your own ass.
But yoga teachers in the trendier studios noticed that they were getting a much clearer image during downward dog that they were comfortable with. But for the most part, they didn’t comment. Yoga instructors are not judgmental, as a rule.
However, these yoga fashionistas like to wear their Lululmenon leggings out in the real world. (That calf-logo is still there, after all.) And so out to lunch went these logo-laden ladies with sheer behinds. And shopping. And to pick up their little progeny at school. And eventually, someone noticed.
And I – in a rare moment of sweet compassion – would like to offer this comment to these unfortunately over-exposed fellow yoginis:
“Ha ha on you!”
Please Don’t Come Back – Part Two
Last Spring I had the honor and infamy to be Freshly Pressed when I posted a picture of myself from 1977. (Please Don’t Come Back)
I had an unshakable sense of style, but unfortunately, 1977 styles were quite shaky.
1977
I didn’t think I was overly brave publishing that horrible picture. If a hundred or so people saw me in my regrettable fashion choices – how bad could that be? Then WordPress played a practical joke, and decided to award me the coveted publicity of Freshly Pressed. And 100 people became 11,000.
Well, so you’ve all seen me at my worst.
Or so I thought.
This week I found a photo from about eight years later.
Oh my God, it got worse.
Do you remember the mid-80’s?
Oh what an interesting fashion era.
Women could be super tough – with huge shoulder pads and huger hair – and at the same time could be super girly – with as many lacy scarves and bracelets as you could pile on.
And I adopted it all – apparently.
I don’t remember myself as over-the-top.
I just remember being fabulously stylish. And racing home from Happy Hour on Friday night to watch “Miami Vice.”
Why can’t I be young now? I love today’s style –
whether it’s skinny leather jeans with ankle boots-
Or a great crazy combination of casual tee and sparkly skirt – with purple high heels thrown in for good measure:
I would love to be at my style peak today.
I was born too soon.
**
Or maybe too late.
I would look great in a full skirt, gloves, and kitten heels – a la Audrey Hepburn in the fifties:
Or I could go back even further – with Gibson Girl hair and high collars – that’s my Grandpa and Grandma on the left:
But no.
I had to peak in 1985:
Oh Yeah. Shiny makeup, spiky hair, droopy sweater (though it had shoulder pads) and lacy scarf. With a big floral skirt. And although you can’t see my legs, rest assured the stockings were white.
Help Wanted
I am interviewing again.
The last time I had an open position, I researched the latest advice on evaluating candidates. Recent studies demonstrated that a person’s smell was just as good an indicator of character as a personality test (Snow White and the Smelly Dwarfs). That took the selection process to a whole new level.
So now that I have another position to fill, I am doing my homework again. I’ve learned that typically, people tend to hire someone exactly like them. But experts advise that for an effective, efficient and creative work environment, you are better off hiring someone different from you.
So.
I have to think about what kind of person I am, and then look for just the opposite.
So.
Who am I?
Looking at myself totally objectively (yeah, right) I am:
Smart
Funny
Liberal
– and, of course –
Stylish.
So.
I need a stupid, serious, conservative, frumpy person.
Now obviously, I can’t hire someone stupid. For one thing, I skipped one attribute of mine – Lazy. I am much too lazy to cover for a stupid employee. So instead of lazy, I’ll look for someone industrious.
And organized. I’m pretty disorganized, so someone who can find shit that I have misplaced would be a big help.
And I guess serious is okay. In Accounting, it’s a good thing to want stuff to balance. “Close Enough” is not always the right attitude.
Conservative is tough for me. I am an old Woodstock hippie. But since almost no one else is, I have learned to keep my opinions to myself anyway. (Well, I sort of try.)
Frumpy is easy in Connecticut (Oh my, did I include Snarky in my list of attributes? Feel free to add it in.) The easiest way to find my opposite here is to just hire a man.
So.
There it is. Where can I find a diligent, organized, serious, conservative man?
I got it.
Pope Benedict is looking for work.
No wait.
He’s so stylish.
Pope Benedict, CPA
New York Fashion Report
Well, I went to New York City this week, and as your fashion correspondent from East Bumf**k, let me reassure you that skinny jeans are still in style.
It was good news for me, at least, because I only recently invested in a few pair. And I’d like to think I can wear them at least until they go through the washing machine twice.
Yes, Skinny pants are still big in the Big Apple. With boots (which I will discuss further below).
When we got to Grand Central Terminal, I thought for a second that I was in that old Superbowl commercial where all the identical zombie executives are marching off to work. Everyone this year has a black coat. And I mean EVERYONE. Me too. I was in style and I didn’t even know it. Up here in rural northwest Connecticut, bright ski jackets are popular. I thought that my black parka was a real standout. But no. The good news is that I am hip to New York Style. The bad news is that I am just another zombie.
Handbags are huge, and getting huger.
You don’t need a suitcase when you travel anymore. As a matter of fact, if you missed your plane, you could crawl inside, like a sleeping bag. They are cute though. And my husband could see how infatuated I was, so he bought me the miniature size – the smallest one in the store. I used it today, and I after I put all my stuff in, I could still fit a full-sized accordion. So I am thinking of taking music lessons.
Makeup is fantastic right now. Lots of eyeliner but a natural cheek and lip. This is me to a tee. And it means I don’t have to sharpen my liner pencil very often. It can be a thick stubby blunt crayon that draws a line 5/8 of an inch, and it’ll be perfect.
And I don’t like dark lipstick anyway. I have tiny lips and dark lipstick makes me look like Lillian Gish. She was quite a beauty in her day, but her day was 1915.
And now the boots.
I wore pointy ankle booties.
Like these. Only these are $1,045, and mine were about $965 less. Close though.
Despite the pointy toes and skinny heels, these boots are very comfortable, and I figured they’d be perfect for New York.
It was snowy, rainy and windy. But I did my best to keep my balance through the slippery slush. I looked great – if unsteady.
But no one else was wearing these stylish ankle booties with their skinny jeans.
They were all wearing knee-high, flat heeled, rubber boots.
Rubber Boots
Can you believe it? Practical boots in bad weather in New York?
I was shocked. And impressed. They were very cool – in army green, and yellow, and red, and even bright floral prints. With skinny jeans tucked in, they looked so urban sophisticated. (And you could muck out the barn too.)
Yes, as your fashion expert, I can assure you that these boots have an amazing coolness factor.
And I have proof.
As my husband and I followed a woman in mustard yellow knee-high rubber boots, my husband whispered to me, “Boy, are those boots stupid!”
I want some.
Hailing a cab – next year.
The Family Album
Last year, I wrote that I am among the most patient people in the world. (Just You Wait)
I love traffic jams and long lines at the grocery store. For me, waiting is permission to be lazy. The plane is late? Great. I have an excuse to do nothing. It’s not my fault.
But I realized recently that I’m not always patient (and not just when I have to pee and the traffic isn’t moving).
Last week during dinner with my Mom (Subway this time – she’s such a cheap date), I was using my iPhone to show Mom the latest Facebook pictures of her great-grandchildren. It was slow going.
“Cripe,” I said – as I never swear in front of my mother – “Facebook takes forever to load.”
But driving home, as I was saying the real swear words I had stifled – (I believe you have to let them out so you don’t explode) – I realized how crazy it is to think that my iPhone was slow.
When I was a little girl, photography was expensive. And VERY slow.
You saved up to buy a film. Mostly, you could only afford a 12-exposure film. A film that allowed for 24 shots was cheaper by the print, but you often couldn’t come up with that kind of up-front cash. And black-and-white of course. Only a special event called for the expense of color film and color processing.
And you hoarded those 12 pictures. No taking pictures of nothing. An “Occasion” only. Which was really a pretty good idea when you think about it. I am not really that interested in what my Facebook friends are having for dinner. (not that I haven’t done that myself of course… but my meals are fascinating….right?)
You’d load that film, carefully threading the beginning of the film through the little sprockets – in the dark of course. If you missed a sprocket, the film would pop off, and you couldn’t advance the film, and you’d go back to your darkened room to see if you could fix it, which you usually could not.
And you’d wait for a family event and line everyone up, and take ONE picture. Maybe two, just in case.
Graduation party, 1961. Trying to fit everyone in one shot, and not quite succeeding. I am in the front,distracted by my silly cousins, with a red headband. (And how about the bosoms on those ladies? Shouldn’t I have inherited some of those genes?)
And using a flash on an indoor shot was even more expensive. And 78% of the time, the flash didn’t work. So you wound the camera back (yeah, you wound the film), and shot over the flash-flop picture , because you didn’t want to waste the frame. What you got was usually a weird surprise. No wonder people believe that ghosts appear in old photos.
Once you took all twelve shots – you usually took thirteen, because something you could squeeze in one more, and you wouldn’t want to waste that, although usually that meant you got half a picture – a few months had often passed by, because you were so stingy about taking out the camera. Sometimes you couldn’t even remember what was on the roll, so much time had gone by.
So you went into your dimly lit room, and carefully took the film off its little sprockets and wrapped it really tight, and put it in a light-proof box. And you brought it to the drugstore.
And waited for a week.
Or two.
(Yeah, Facebook photos on your iPhone are SO SLOW.)
Our local drugstore would kindly only charge you for the prints that came out. But their interpretation of “came out” was very liberal. Your thumb over the lens was still a good picture – of your thumb. And headless people (which my mother was famous for) still had bodies, didn’t they?
Out of 12 (and a half) pictures, you were lucky if you had three shots where everyone had his eyes open.
And you had no way of knowing ahead of time. You’d open your Kodak envelope right in the drugstore – (yeah, that’s what soda fountains were for) – only to see two headless shots, one thumb shot, four “squinties” (you posed people FACING the sun), three total blinks, one with your brother looking especially dorky, one of your foot, and one half of a shot that would have been perfect – had you not run out of film.
And you kept them all. No delete button. You put the good ones in an album and the bad ones in a box. You had a very full box of headless, blinking relatives. And thumbs.
And you kept the negatives too. Envelopes of negatives – none of them labeled.
Today we have lost the value of photography. We can take 60 shots and toss 59 and just keep the one that looks good. (I do that, of course…just look at my profile picture.)
Old family photos are precious. Expensive and unique, impossible to recreate. There was no going back to that one moment to see if you could get a better shot. A picture was one second in time, closed eyes and all, and all the more sweet because of it.
Birthday Party, 1953. I’m the little one in the front, wearing what appears to be a full-length plastic bib, watching the camera, not the cake.
Wastin’ Time
“I’m just sittin’ on the dock of EBay…. Wastin’ Time…”
Well, not exactly. But close.
For the last month, I have become addicted to something other than blogging.
It all started with Pinterest.
I couldn’t imagine what anyone would use this for.
Then while browsing on a shopping site, I saw a sweater I kind of liked, but wasn’t sure I wanted to buy. So I started a board to hold the possible purchase for me. Then I saw a fabulous pair of ballet flats that were way too expensive, but I wanted to remind myself to look for a knockoff. Then a necklace and earrings that I considered dropping big hints to my husband about for Christmas.
And Whoa; this is what people use Pinterest for. I don’t need a memory after all.
And so I started looking to see what other people were keeping on their board instead of in their brain.
And of course, I was looking at Fashion, and Jewelry, and Makeup.
Do you know that thousands of people are pinning cute clothes?
And more and more, I found cute outfits that referred back to something called Polyvore.
So I logged onto Polyvore.com.
OMG, as they say two generations below me. (Or perhaps they say something new now… how the hell do I know?)
Polyvore is a website where you build outfits. They have shitloads of tees and sweaters and jackets and pants and skirts and shoes and dresses and handbags and jewelry. Plus backgrounds and colors and fonts. And you can pull them together and make any outfit you want. You can combine a $2,480 designer skirt with a $13 Mickey Mouse Tee. And you can search for a specific detail, like ruffles, or sort by brand or color.
And in case there are not enough choices (one day I scrolled through 133 pages of cardigans – and there are 20 per page)… well you can upload your own finds through a nifty and easy to use app.
And there are contests!
Every day there are contests from Polyvore and from hundreds of subgroups that you can join.
Design something for Valentine’s Day. Design an outfit around this blouse. An outfit with high-heeled boots. An outfit inspired by fruit. There is no end to the contests.
(And of course you can buy all the things you choose…of course, of course… they have links right to the website with the $5,285 Alexander McQueen clutch that you just so nicely paired with the $5.99 earrings from Etsy.)
One of my favorite past-times as a kid was playing paper-dolls.
I am so there again. The internet form of paper-dolls.
For hours and hours. And hours and hours. Every day. To hell with my blog and my novel.
For instance, here’s my entry in the Valentine’s Day outfit contest:
I did not win.
And here’s my entry in the Graphic Print contest:
I did not win.
I know I have missed my calling. I was meant to be a fashion consultant.
But no one else seems to recognize my talent.
If you are reading this, you are probably a blogger, so you know how addicting ‘Likes’ are. Even Facebook ‘Likes’ are sweet. When I enter a contest, I get maybe 4 ‘Likes’. A person posting about the same time often gets 87 ‘Likes’ in the first hour. I’m not kidding. I don’t know where all those Likes come from. Those people certainly have big families.
But I know that I will soon gain a following. Lots of those 87-Liked outfits are pretty crappy. I’m at least as crappy as they are.
And Followers.
I joined a month ago. I have 24 followers. A fellow designer (whose work I rather ‘like’) joined six months ago. She has 2,879 followers.
(And to think that it has taken me 18 months to get 500 followers on my blog. For real popularity, you just need to pair brocade shorts with a dolman sleeve tee.)
But I am on my way.
I had someone ‘Like’ 13 of my outfits. And she sent me a message, complimenting me on my skill.
I was excited and encouraged. I went to her page to see what her stuff was like and to check out her bio.
She’s eleven.
My first fan.
The Wiggles
Two months ago my Zumba teacher surprised us.
She turned on the music and tied on a coin scarf.
You know what I mean: the scarf that belly dancers wear around their hips – the kind with coins or bells that jangle when they swing their hips.
I thought it was odd – even a little silly. Zumba instructors are more likely to dress in hip-hop style than hip jangling style.
And the next week she wore it again.
And so did one of my Zumba-mates.
I love Zumba and my Zumba teacher and my Zumba-mates, so I did my best not to feel to superior.
But clearly: jangly scarves do not go with bike shorts and sneakers.
The following week there were five women a-jingling.
“You’ve got a hip-scarf,” I said to the woman standing to my left – just in case she was not aware of the multitude of shiny stuff shimmering from her shimmying hips.
“It makes me feel different. A little sexy. And they’re really cheap,” she said. “Amazon.”
Hmmm.
A little sexy.
That’s not such a bad way to feel when you are dancing away to Latin music.
Later in the week, even though I was still snickering a little, I checked online. $2.99 for a belly-dancing scarf.
Hell, I just threw away ten times that much by stopping at the drugstore for ‘just’ dental floss. Even if I only used the scarf for Halloween (or for a cat toy, although in that case it would last about 23 seconds), it wasn’t much of a risk.
So I ordered one. They come in every neon color imaginable, but I ordered basic black. I wouldn’t want a $2.99 belly dancing scarf to look cheap.
And five days later it arrived:
I tied it around my jeans and sweater and modeled it for my husband.
“Is that to wear with your bikini at the beach?”
Yup. That’s it.
At my next Zumba class, I got a nice smile from the teacher when I whipped my scarf out of my gym bag and tied it around my hips at a charmingly rakish angle.
Even though I mention it as often as I can, I guess I momentarily forgot while tying my scarf that now – that my hips and my butt are quite a bit smaller than they used to be. When I started to dance my scarf fell down around my ankles – sort of like my garter belt when I was twelve. Unlike the garter belt incident, however, I was not mortified. I mean – being too skinny to keep your hip scarf in place is hardly a bad thing. I kicked it to the back of the room with a definite pride.
It was better than wearing a shirt emblazoned with the word SKINNY. (which I’ve thought about making.)
But I tried again the following week. I tied my scarf a bit higher – knotting it well and then giving it a good tug to make sure it would stay.
I was ready for some sexy dancing.
Nobody told my hips.
You need to wiggle your hips and fanny to get those coins to jingle.
And my hips don’t wiggle.
I thought they did. I thought my Zumba was already pretty sexy.
But that scarf was awfully quiet.
I think I will embroider that shirt after all.
Filler – (While Distracted)
I have a new obsession that is stealing all my time away from blogging.
I am going to blog about it.
But right now I am too busy with my latest time-waster to find the time to blog about my latest time-waster.
Give me a little while to let boredom creep in, and I’ll be back typing and drawing away.
In the meantime, I wouldn’t want you to forget me.
So here are two snippets from my adorable mother.
Snippet #1.
She went shopping recently but forgot her reading glasses. So she couldn’t read the price tags on anything. So she went to the Accessories Department and borrowed some glasses from the display. She did all her shopping and then put the glasses back.
“I had the tag hanging down my face, but I don’t think anyone noticed.”
Snippet #2.
Tonight at our weekly dinner (toasted pastrami and cheese sandwiches – yum), she told me that her favorite morning TV show has a new segment where they replay the funniest internet videos of the day.
“These videos have all gone virus on Face Tube.”
No wonder I love her.
Mom Shops – a la Minnie Pearl
When Nineteen Was Far Away
I’m sixty-two today.
It’s true what they say about time passing more quickly as you get older. The last twenty years especially are like a book that I just skimmed through. I wish I had read every line more carefully. I may had missed some hidden meaning in my race to the next chapter.
There was a time, though, when I thought being grown up was so very far away.
My cousin recently shared a photo that I had never seen before.
It’s me at eight:
I love this picture. I love my ragamuffin hair, my Bristol Girls’ Club sweatshirt, my blue sneakers with droopy socks. I even love the plaid shorts with matching shirt – because it reminds me of my mother, who loved to dress me in plaid, which I hated. I remember that shorts set. The shirt was a white polo with a plaid collar and placket.
I especially love the eight-year-old sweetness I see in my crossed hands and pigeon-toed self-consciousness.
That little girl with the shy smile thought she would never grow up.
I recall exactly what I thought grown up was.
Nineteen.
I couldn’t even fathom twenty.
But nineteen. Oh my.
I knew what happened when you were nineteen. Because I had witnessed it.
On September 6, 1958, I watched the Miss America pageant. Mary Ann Mobley was crowned Miss America 1959. She was the prettiest woman I had ever seen.
And she was nineteen.
That’s when I knew what I wanted to be.
Nineteen.
But it was so very far away.
The next summer at the penny arcade at Lake Compounce Amusement Park, I memorialized my goal. There was an engraving machine that made little medallions. It was very expensive – fifty cents I think. But I had saved for this occasion.
I spent a lot of time at that machine selecting the letters that were stamped onto the outer circle of the aluminum ring:
Yes, 1970. So distant I could hardly imagine it. I would be nineteen. I would be Miss America.
I kept that charm for a very long time. (My mother believes that she still has it in a drawer somewhere — maybe with her autographed Frank Sinatra record.)
But somehow 1970 got by me. And many subsequent years. Forty-three since I was nineteen.
And fifty-four years since I was that little elf-child who wanted to be Miss America.
But with my enduring and complete adoration of the accoutrements of beauty: makeup, fashion, hair – I realize that I am still that little girl, still dreaming of being Miss America.
Maybe sixty-two will be my year.
notquiteold 