“You’re Tall” Restating the Obvious Never Felt so Good

My son Cameron is nine, but looks twelve.  He’s tall for his age. He is reminded of this everyday whether it is the barista at Starbucks, the next door neighbor or the mail man. “You are a tall kid,” they’ll say enthusiastically as if he had grown a foot overnight and had somehow missed it.  This statement is usually follwed by, “How tall are you anyway?”  (He knows how tall he is because we’re the kind of parents who like to deface our closet door with bi-annual measurements of our children’s heights).

I am pleased to say Cam has always responded good naturedly, making the person feel as though they are imparting some unexpected good news rather than simply restating the obvious. He has never snapped “really, you think so?”  Or worse, “duh, tell me something I don’t know.”   Instead he smiles politely glad to be singled out in a crowd. He’s that kind of guy.  I am just hopeful that he doesn’t think it’s o.k. to say to an obese person, “Hey you’re fat!  Tippin the scales in at 250?”

I think for most  it’s a conversation starter. I only wish people had more material.  Something like, “How’s the weather up there,” or “them’s some big feet.” I think for Cam’s sake it might be good for him to have to talk about something else like the square root of his height or how may Cameron’s would it take to make a mile?  That’s some new material I can get behind.

But Cameron doesn’t mind the constant reminder that he is some how “special” or “different,” in fact I think it makes him feel important. If someone stopped me everyday to enthusiastically comment on my “person” I might begin to think I was all that too. It’s no wonder the “tall” people of the world are more confident, more successful and and become presidents–people have been preparing them for their rise to eminence since they first grew out of their onesies.

Kobe Bryant and His Ugly Antics

I am not a fan.  I don’t care how high the guy can jump, how much money he makes or what he drives.  All I know is that this is a badly behaved boy man who is held high esteem by sports fans of all ages.  The guys a creep.  His latest antics, “homophobic slurs” further cement the fact that this ungrateful basketball phenom believes he is above it all.  I don’t know any other profession that would allow such behavior and continue to honor and adore the perpetrator.

Top 10 Benefits of a Tall Husband

OK, so here’s the deal.  I have always been attracted to tall, dark, handsome men.  It also helps if they are smart, witty and laugh at my jokes.   Let me clarify, when I say tall, dark and handsome I’m talkin’ 6’2”+, darker brown to black hair, brown eyes and skin that doesn’t turn red at the mere mention of “sunshine.”  I think my attraction…ok, ok, let’s call it obsession, dates back to sixth grade when I had a painful crush on my dreamy 6’6” English teacher.  Every romantic interest since then has looked eerily like Mr. Sanders. Eventually I ended up marrying his younger double who happens to now run a shirt company specifically for tall, lean men, www.longshotapparel.com.

I am, for the record, blond, fair skinned (I char at the mention of sunshine) shortish (5’5”tall) with “athletic thighs,” that’s code for speed skater legs.  Naturally, when I decided it was time to get married I searched for someone who was tall, dark, and handsome with skinny, long legs.  Low and behold I found him.  We now have a super tall eight year old that wears skinny jeans (hallelujah) and eats anything I cook.  Oh happy day!

The top ten benefits of being married to a tall man, in my opinion are…..

1. I am a rare and delicate flower next to him.
2. He never asks to borrow my clothes.
3. Nefarious muggers leave us alone, no matter what neighborhood we’re in.
4. He can reach the top shelf in the kitchen where we store the rarely used Christmas China and the stuff we don’t want the kids to see.
5. He carries a huge umbrella so when it’s raining I can tuck under his arm and stay dry.
6. Besides watching basketball on television eating is his favorite sport, which is mine too.
7. When Armageddon hits he will be able to carry my rare and delicate body across the hot desert to safety.
8. In a crowded venue he can anticipate oncoming danger long before his shorter brethren.
9. He spawns big kids who eat anything and everything I cook with enthusiasm.
10. Big hands, big feet, you know what they say…

Threadbare is the New Black

When I was pregnant with my son I wore some god awful clothes.  I only know this because I have pictures to prove it.  I wasn’t myself.  In fact I don’t know who that blond, pregnant lady in the cantaloupe sized flower print Capri pants is in the photo staring back at me.  I see the resemblance but anyone who knows me understands that I would never be caught dead in such a fashion disaster.  Perhaps that woman in the picture is an imposter?  And yet, as I scan through the box of photos I realize that it is me—and I am wearing the same pair of loud pants in nearly every photo. It’s not that I made the mistake once, that would be forgivable, but I wore those hideous wallpaper print pants nearly everyday in my third trimester—I had two identical pair.  If the photos weren’t “keepsake” images that document my son’s early life in the belly I would gladly run them through the shredder.  My only scrap of redemption is the fact that the week following my son’s birth I wadded up those hideous shower curtain pants and tossed them in the trash.  Trust me—they were not suitable hand-me-downs for anyone.  I wouldn’t let another blisfully blind pregnant woman make the same mistake.

 As I cringe upon reflection I do remember how exhausting it was to find clothes that fit during that time.  Perhaps I had just given up all style sense in lieu of something that was comfortable. In all the pictures of that time I appear to be oblivious to my fashion faux pas.  I look blissfully happy, regardless of the bad outfits.  Imagine that?

Fast forward to today, I sit here typing in a pair of patched up hippie jeans with worn out knees and thighs.  I have patched these holes with brightly colored 60s inspired patches that say “love,” and “peace” and of course I have a  smiley face.  It’s just a matter of time before someone mistakes me for an old hippie.  I have been wearing these jeans consistently at least 4 days a week for over a year now.  They are threadbare.  Surprisingly, it feels good to have worn, and I mean really worn, something to the point that its life as a piece of clothing is nearly over.  May you rest in peace come September 1st.  I am certain that the future for these well loved, well worn and well traveled pants lies at the bottom of a recycling bin.  Like my pregnancy pants they are not hand-me-downable anymore.

Though I am wearing less than desirable clothes these days I am certain that I will look back on my TGAAD year with fond memories—the year I focused on what I was doing and not what I was wearing.   But unfortunately for me we have been digitally documenting our son’s 8th year with rabid enthusiasm, hard evidence of the bad fashion decisions I have been sporting this year.  One day I will look back at these images of my son, sitting on my patched up, well worn lap and wonder…what the hell was I thinking.

Is a Tatoo Ever Just a Tatoo?

Last week I had the honor of being a critic at the Seattle Central Community College photography portfolio review. I came away absolutely overcome and somewhat intimidated by the creativity, energy and unstoppable confidence the students had. It is wonderful to see creative people transcending their mediums and becoming adept in all forms of artwork whether that is photography, film or design. Technology has changed the business for the better and these students are taking full advantage of that fact.

Some of the most astounding creativity, the part I wasn’t there to officially critique but naturally did given my interest in sociology and design, was in the tattoos and piercings I saw on display. All but two of the young women I met with were either pierced or tattooed or both. Not just a little nose ring here or a dainty butterfly there. I’m talkin’ full on graphic novels from shoulder to wrist; chest tattoos covering cleavage and clavicle, elaborate license plates aka: trampstamps peeking out of low cut jeans, eye brow piercings, tongue piercings, nose, lip, cheek, you name it, I saw it and it was tatted and pierced. Let me restate once more, these were lovely young women with gorgeous skin, nice figures and beautiful hair. The same girls, who in my day babysat for extra money, ate Sunday dinner with grandma and wrote thank you notes with smiley faces—regular, girl next door girls with modern day fairy-tales and cheap jewels adorning their nubile bodies.

At first I had a hard time focusing on the work in the portfolios, I was distracted by the colorful narratives decorating forearms, knuckles and neck napes. A woman talked enthusiastically about her work and all I could see was the jewel above her lip moving in sync with her expressions. “That must hurt,” was all I could think. “How does it stay in place I wondered? Is there a back to it, like an earring? What happens if it gets infected?” I worried. “And if she gets bored with the piercing or suddenly finds it inappropriate will it haunt her with an unsightly gaping hole?” These were the things I pondered while this woman—this talented woman was presenting the work she had labored over for two years.I tried to focus. I told myself I was dated, old; a fuddy-duddy but I couldn’t take my eyes off the jewel bobbing above her lip.

Another woman, a Natalie Portman look-a-like had a goolish story sleeve on one arm. It made me wonder if the other arm, the one without the tattoos, got cold sometimes. “What will happen,” I projected, “when her arms get flabby and the stretched out sleeve starts to pill? Clearly there will be a cosmetic remedy for that? Maybe a business idea for me?” Finally I focused. I forced myself look at the work. I was impressed again and again. Eventually I lost sight of the tattoos and the piercings and began to see the work for what it was…fresh, pure, skilled and original, not unlike what I saw on lips, chests, calves and wrists.

Later that evening when I got home I dug the business cards out of my purse that I had collected from the group of hungry budding photographers. I wrote notes on each card to remind me about who did what and what I liked about each of their portfolios. I chicken scratched details of what each person looked like so I could put a face to the work. Naturally I noted who had what tattoo and who had what piercing—clear markers to help me identify each one.

This got me thinking….what are tattoos and piercings all about anyway? Is it a generation’s attempt to create their individual identity? Is it a form of promoting a storyline like people do on Facebook and twitter? Has this culture of ours become so generic in our Gap and Old Navy fashion that we can no longer make a statement with our clothes and instead we are moved to stand out on the canvas of the skin? Or are tattoos just modern day war paint signifying the battle of a homogenous conformity? Or simply this generation’s attempt at anti conformists conforming? I asked my fifteen year old stepson what he thought tattooing and body piercing was all about. I ran a couple of my sociological theories up the flag pole with him. He shrugged and said “you’re over thinking it, sometimes a tattoo is just a tattoo. It’s like art, you buy a painting you like and you hang it on a wall. It’s no more complicated than that.”

But I don’t agree. Like shopping, when shopping is never really about shopping, piercing and tatooing are never as simple as just hanging a piece of art on the surface of your skin; it’s so much more than that. If there is one thing I have learned from The Great American Apparel Diet it is that presenting oneself in the sea of people is vastly more complicated than getting dressed in the morning or buying a new ensemble in a store. Self expression, regardless of your medium, is an attempt to prove you matter in a larger world. Tatooing and piercing, I am conviced, is just one other form of doing that. These artists are once again trancending their medium and expressing themselves in anyway they know how–there is real beauty in that.

Sex in The City, A Real Review from a Fashion Hungry Girl

A few weeks ago I saw Sex in the City2 with a group of girlfriends.  We LOVED it.  Heeee-larious!  And the clothing—frickin’ wow-A!  Loved it. Now, that said, I have read so many reviews that pan this movie as “politically incorrect,” “offensive,” “raunchy,” “blah, blah, blah.”  Many of these reviewers are men and are the same people who heralded movies and television like The Hangover, The Wedding Crashers, The Office and Arrested Development.  Talk about Politically Incorrect, Offensive and HILARIOUS!  Is this a double standard for female comedy?  Men can get away with scatological, sexist, stupid humor yet women have to play it safe?  Another reviewer said it was strange to take the foursome to the Middle East to unfold the story.  Can you say “willing suspension of disbelief”?  Well, all I can say is it was much more believable than many other movies that require you to forget all about reality, e.g. Avatar, Ocean’s 11, Thelma and Louise.  Sex and the City 2 reminded me of a feel good movie that entertains, along the lines of Jack Lemmon, Tony Cutis and Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot, or Shirley McClain and Bob Hope in The Apartment.  These movies are meant to make you laugh out loud.   

I loved my girls on the big screen; I loved their fashion, their raunchy talk and their touching conversations (sometimes motherhood just sucks).  I say “back off boys” and suspend disbelief because this movie rocks, especially for those girls jonesin’ for a fashion pick-me-up!

I Whole Heartedly Recommend: What to Wear for the Rest of Your Life, Ageless Secrets of Style

Last week while riding the stair stepper at the gym and thumbing through the latest People Magazine (don’t tell anyone, it was the health club’s copy) I came upon a book review for a new book called What to Wear for the Rest of Your Life, Ageless Secrets of Style,  by Kim Johnson Gross.  Now, I am not one to read style books, largely because when you’ve read one, you’ve read ‘em all.  But something about the review intrigued me. 

 ”Our lives evolve and often our wardrobes do not…books like this help us relax and enjoy who we are, giving us permission to be stylish, feminine and sexy at any age.”   Sigrid Olsen, artist and Designer.

After I left the gym I went to my local bookstore and bought the book.  I just finished it…It was great!

The book is never bossy or pedantic like you might suspect a “style maven’s” book to be.  Instead Kim Johnson Gross is a friendly voice, one that is more apt to empathize than admonish (not like those Skinny Bitches).  As a vetran of the unforgiving fashion industry, Johnson Gross weaves her own tale of a mid-life bodychange that challenged not only her wardrobe but her sense of self.   She gives great advice to fellow aging fashionistas and offers up practical soloutions to “closet problems.”  Chapters include: Closet Betrayal, the Lying Mirror, Shop Smart for the Rest of your Life, How to Wear a Shirt When You No Longer Have a Waist and Other Closet Dramas. 

I was grateful that this book found me as I was sweating off the extra glass of wine from the night before and pouring over the news about Sandra Bullock’s new baby.  I can truly say that it was meant to be, particularly as I contemplate my new spending, apparel wearing, and shopping habits that are set to resume soon (121 days).  Hopefully the author’s advice, reflection, humor and stories will help to inform my new and improved ways. 

A solid thumbs up.  A keeper.  This is not your standard fashion advice book  I only wish I would have written it myself!

Regretting The Great American Apparel Diet

Some context here:  For those of you who don’t know, I have given up all new apparel puchases for one year, for more info on that effot see www.thegreatamericanappareldiet.com.  Knowing this will put this little story in context.

Last night I was out with a good friend I haven’t seen in a while—it’s a schedule issue really.  My friend, she’s fabulous.  She’s married, no kids, big corporate VP job with all the accolades, notoriety and wardrobe that go along with the job.  She picked me up wearing a chic skirt, which later I learned she bought in London while on a four-city whirl wind business trip.  She had on the latest laced knee high boots and a super snappy pancho that she could pull over her head when she felt a drop of rain. 

Flash to me, older mom barely holding it together and deprived of a “new wardrobe.”  For a living?  Well, I manage to piece together a paycheck as I toggle from home to the office to school.  I am not above taking conference calls from the bedroom closet, (lest my clients detect that I am home with kids and two rambunctious cats), or writing marketing plans in the doctor’s office or from the bleachers of a baseball game.

I greet my friend at the door wearing the same jeans I have been wearing for the last 5 days (and by the way they have gotten a little baggy from the wear which somehow makes me feel thin).   Under last year’s black wrap-around sweater coat I wear a stained oatmeal colored crewneck sweater that has seen better days.   On my feet I wear my favorite pair of black Dansko clogs because everything else just hurts.  The good news is I have a fresh application of lipstick on . The bad news?  it’s  all the makeup I have on.  Upstairs, before the doorbell rang, I gave myself a cursory glance in the floor length mirror that hangs behind the closet.  I could have sworn I looked good, but once I see my friend on the doorstep it becomes painfully clear that I do not.

My friend smells good.  She has her fancy rings on her fingers and the latest watch on her wrist.  I notice her bling as I reach up to my ear and realize I forgot to put my earrings on all together. My friend says she had to “Escape from work.” In her words, “They will just have to move forward without me.”  I long to be in such hot demand from someone taller than my shoulder.  My friend told her people that she had a prior commitment and had to leave the office early.  No corporate mukety muck would understand the point of going out with a girlfriend at 5:30pm on a Monday night.  But my babysitter has a curfew and I have to be home by 10pm at the very latest.  This is standard operating procedure for me and my mommy friends who are often buzzed by 7pm and in bed by 10pm. 

When I am with my friend sans children and the big career I feel like The Great American Apparel Diet is stupid.  Like I have set myself up for frumpsville.  I feel like my career of juggling kids, a business and the occasional trip to the gym is just an excuse for a distracted and sometimes unattractive scattered existence.   What I wear is a long way down the  list of things I worry about these days, partially because I have taken up the new and brave effort to consciously consume or simply to not consume.  Seeing my friend makes me want to go to Barneys and spend like Katie Holmes.  I am moved to buy things that I know I will hate in a year, clothes that are conspicuously fashionable and expensive and well beyond my credit line.  I want clothing that says “she’s a risk taker!”   Clothes can do that you know. 

My fashionable and important, high profile friend and I  had a good time noshing on sushi and sipping saki. We skipped the movie in lieu of conversation and caramelized bananas.   I eventually forgot what I was wearing and I stopped coveting my friend’s outfit.  We discussed cancer, death and dying.  We talked about her and her husband’s effort to adopt a child, about my ever changing career and the shifting sands of the advertising business. 

After dinner my friend drove me home  just in time to relieve Rachel the babysitter (before she morphed into a winter squash). We hugged in the car and promised to get together “sooner than later.”  

Inside I chatted with Rachel and paid her in cash for watching my proidgy.  As she loaded her backpack and put on her shoes she said, “Hey, I like your sweater, where’d you get it?”   It made me laugh.  “It’s from last year…Nordstrom,” I offered, knowing that she’d never find it this year and glad that someone was coveting my wardrobe.

Competitive Eating

Have you ever been to a competitive eating prize fight? No, not a pie eating contest, not an animal house food fight, but a real life, heavyweight fight to the death for pizza, ice cream, Gatorade, orange juice or bread with butter? 

If you’ve never been lucky enough to witness such an event please, you’re welcome to play the role of spectator at our house. Your first time is free but don’t expect to get fed.  Three times a day the ravenous contenders step into the ring hoping for a comeback title or a TKO.  As the only woman in the house the role of referee naturally falls to me.  You see, I am less inclined to draw blood in a contest for the last piece of something-or-other. 

We have some serious heavy weight champions among us.  But the fiercest and most stealth is Kai Hoyt, a quiet but intimidating opponent. KH, has been known to fill his plate with six pieces of pizza to ensure his take of the prize, lest his younger brother Kalen, weighing in at 200 lbs. and 6’1” throws him a hook and steals the goods.  Cameron, a light weight but ferocious amateur has controversial behavior both inside and outside the ring—screaming obscenities (Mooooommmmmmm) and calling out for help, (Daaaaaddddddd).   Using mind games and unprecedented strategy the small boxer is often disqualified and sent out of the ring.   “That kid has a future,” says four time champion Kalen Tindall, “with maturity, growth and training he’s sure to master his talent and become a formidable challenger, a regular Evander Holyfield.  But until then, what the kid leaves unguarded on his plate is fair game.” 

Care to join?

Kindle Regret

My mom just got a Kindle.  I find it kind of depressing.  My brother bought it for her as a thank you gift for a trip she hosted for our family last summer.  It was a smarty-pants, show stopping gift to end all gifts.  Now I don’t know what to get her for birthdays and holidays.  A certificate for an e-book?  Call me old fashioned, but in my opinion giving an e-book electronically just isn’t right.  I am sure that Miss Manners would concur.  My brother wasn’t thinking long term when he decided to go big or go home and pony up for the $300 book killer (that’s including tax and shipping).   At the very least he wasn’t thinking about me or my other siblings.  The Kindle completely takes books wrapped in beautiful paper, Museum branded book bags and fancy reading lamps from Sharper Image off the “gift option” table.  Now what I am left with? Broaches?