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.

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?

When I say I work on middle earth this is what I mean. I have my own business that requires me to occasionally meet with clients in various cities around the country. Day to day, however, I shuttle from home to my little office in Fremont to my son’s school up the block. I spend a fair amount of time working in my car or at my son’s soccer practice when my blue tooth cooperates. I think a lot of women, at least a lot of the women I know, work on middle earth too. Corporate America does not tend to be (there are some exceptions) conducive to mothers or father’s who need flexibility. So many of us women/moms have traded in our office jobs or careers for middle earth—a strange but more accommodating place.

But the pressing question for me is not how to juggle it all on middle earth but more importantly, what to wear while there? This question, this quandary is largely responsible for my overspending and unending confusion when I glance into my overstuffed and mismatched closet. I am left wondering what the appropriate wardrobe is for middle earth. I know it is somewhere between pajamas and a suit. The vast divide is difficult navigate.

I’m not quite sure what the Ann Taylor suit is doing in my wardrobe but it’s there…in case? Those up-tight but fabulous looking pumps at the far end of the shoe rack—definitely not for middle earth but maybe, just maybe appropriate for the next business trip to New York.

When I mention the middle earth concept to my husband he starts rattling off these terms as if to remedy my confusion. Business Casual: casual but no denim. Casual Friday: jeans allowed (in Seattle this includes shorts and Birkenstocks with socks). Business Formal: jeans? Don’t even think about it. Tie? Probably.

On middle earth it’s more like this. Casual Friday: Pajamas until noon. Business Casual: bra, clean jeans, a presentable t-shirt or blouse, hip jacket and clogs. Business Formal: Panic! Yikes! Go buy something new! And that’s when a sales girl takes advantage of the casually dressed vulnerability of the middle earth inhabitants. They, the middle earthians, invariably walk away with an expensive suit or a stiff blouse that they will never wear again.

Where does the middle earth population get its fashion inspiration? It’s certainly not in the fashion magazines. The glossy rags are still promoting the street-walker look for the evening and suits or dresses for the workday. The idea of shuttling back and forth from work to home to my son’s school in a dress is laughable. I often look at the well dressed, well pressed and perfumed women at my son’s school with envy. That used to me with a corporate job and a dress code. They look so put together and inspired to “change the world.” Me on the other hand, in my ripped jeans, butchy Frye boots and denim jacket look like someone who could be holding the yield sign at a construction site. Welcome to middle earth girls

Check it out: www.thegreatamericanappareldiet.com.

Has anyone noticed how weird driving has become lately?   I live on Queen Anne in Seattle. The place is a buzz with  busy parents chauffeuring their kids around to camps, play dates, doctor’s appointments, barber shops and whatnot (which happens to be my favorite place).  And, I got-a say—run for cover, it’s dangerous out there. 

Lately I have been walking a lot (since the weather is nice) which seems slightly safer than getting behind the wheel.   When I do have to drive, which is several times a day, I stick to the main arterials to avoid the texting mom or dad careening down side streets with a SUV full of kids.  Just the other day I sat behind a woman at a stop sign for about three minutes.  Her head was down and I could tell she was in deep with her i-phone.  Didn’t we decide that was against the law? 

Anyway, I am here to tell you—driving isn’t what it used to be.   So, be on the lookout before you get smashed or smash into a texting parent on the way to the market.  Now that’s advice you can use.

Anyway, some participants think the shoe and accessories exception is a loophole,  “the accessories thing?” they ask, “ that’s like saying I’m going on the wagon but I can still drink champagne.”

Here’s my thinking around shoes and accessory exception.  Many people buy for many different reasons.  I want to see if the shoe and or accessory angle becomes a new focus for some people (think Amelda Marcos or Isadora Duncan).  Others may find that when they say “no buying for a year,” it means simply no buying. 

Those of you who have scoffed at the “shoe and accesory loophole,” will thank me when you need a fix. 

You officially have 14 days to stock up on anything you might need for the winter.   By the way, the over the knee boot is in…if you really need a pant fix you can always go with that.

I think giving up wine or chocolate might be easier for me.  You see I love to shop and I love to buy.   There is nothing quite like the feeling of a new blouse or pair of jeans wrapped in fancy tissue paper at the bottom of an expensive shopping bag.  “Ta ta,” I say, waving to the sales girl following a satisfying transaction. 

There are times when I peek into my closet and out of sheer laziness, lack of creativity or simply a need to satisfy my consumer craving; I see nothing suitable to wear.   I convince myself that the only way to solve that problem is to go out and buy something new—fast!   Invariably I end up with an item that looks surprisingly like something I already own, (for the record I have twelve black sweaters). 

I am famous for talking myself into buying something “newer and better” or “hipper and cooler,” rather than rediscovering last year’s ”newer and better” or “hipper and cooler” item at the back of my closet.   Studies say that women wear about 20% of what is in their closets.  That’s sort of embarrassing, but true for me.   

So the burning question is—what would happen to me, or you, if we didn’t buy any new clothing for a year? 

Would you have a mental breakdown?  Would you look like a schlump?   Would your confidence be shattered?  Would you become an overeater or worse yet an alcoholic, crack addict or bag lady? 

Or would you have a fatter wallet? More time? More creativity in your life?  Would you spend your time admiring patterns in nature instead of patterns in polyesters?  Would you be driven to swap the September issue of Vogue for The Utne Reader?   Would you spend the money you saved on books, events, classes, vacations, savings? 

We’ll see.  

 As of September 1st 2009 I am giving up purchasing apparel for myself for a year. 

Anyone want to join me? 

Of course I will blog about it along the way.  Giving up apparel purchases as a community, in solidarity with a group of women who are interested in saving the earth, saving themselves or simply saving their money will make it all that more interesting. 

I will plan to blog about our collective and individual cravings, missteps, temptations, excuses, innovations, ideas and triumphs.  But most importantly I’ll blog about how we as individuals feel about ourselves while on the Great American Clothing Diet. 

 And next year, on September 2, 2010   I’ll blog about what it feels like to break the restraints, let loose and buy again.   Will your spending habits have changed after a year on the wagon?  Will you be more selective, more impulsive or exactly the same as you are today?   Stay tuned, follow along, join in and you are sure to find out. 

 Here are the ground rules:

1. This contest applies to apparel you purchase for yourself only (you can still buy clothing for your family).  Apparel includes any type of clothing, including coats, athletic apparel, pajamas etc.  It does not include underwear or bras. 
2. The contest does not include shoes or accessories (you can go nuts with scarves,clogs,  handbags, sunglasses and watches).
3. You can beg and borrow apparel from your friends.  You cannot buy (that is transact money) for anything that falls into the category of apparel. 
4. You can trade, consign, swap or re-make something but no purchases. 
5. You can receive unsuspecting, unsolicited gifts of apparel.

Write soon and let me know that you’re in.   Also, pass this along if you think one of your friends or relatives would like to join in too.

 I heard a lot of moaning and complaining about the heat last week. I cringed when someone said, “Geez, this heat is killing me.”  I resisted the impulse to put my sweaty hand over mouths before grumbling words slipped out.  Or, responding with a firm “man up!”  (To steal a phrase from my 14 year old).

All this kvetching about the heat makes me superstitious.  Every winter we Seattleites drone on and on about the miserable, dark, cold, damp, well of winter we find ourselves in six and sometimes eight months out of the year–this whining about the heat can only jinx us.  Once and for all, in the history of the whole wide world in Seattle, we are given the weather we travel to Mexico for in February and we’re whining?  That’s got-a come back to bite us.

If there is a God she is looking down at Seattle and shaking her head.  “People, people, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I give you Southern California beach babe weather and you’re not happy?  Arghhhh! Well, if it’s any comfort I have buckets of damp, dark, wet, rain right around the corner.”

By the way, on avearge we have 226 cloudy days a year in Seattle. 

My friend Lian and I, that would be Lian Dolan from Satellite Sisters and Chaos Chronicles, palled around the Sheraton trying to come up with a new, “high concept” idea for a new blog/book and movie deal.  You know like Alex, the Seattle performance artist who wore the same brown dress for a year and then built a following by blogging about it. And Julie Powell, the woman who attempted to cook all the recipes in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, that’s 524 recipes in 365 days.  After chronicling her day to day cooking escapades on her blog Powell landed a book deal and a movie deal starring Meryl Streep.  

 My idea, the one that I just couldn’t shake, which got a lot of laughs from Lian, was the “name tag project.” 

“What would happen,” I asked Lian, who is a self professed name tag lover, “if I wore a name tag for a year—never took it off?  365 days, 24 hours a day.”  She laughed as I continued to describe my high concept.  “I suppose if the name tag got soiled you could replace it with a new one.  Regardless, the idea is I would wear it everywhere, you know swimming, running, Pilates, taking my son to school, my husband’s Christmas party, grocery shopping.”   We both laughed out loud while I continued to imagine the reactions the “name tag project” would evoke from my immediate public. 

“Maybe I would change my name everyday; you know work up some real doozies.  Like Wanda May Jones, Pepper LaBeija, or Gas Ambrosia (this is a real name according to my friend who is a teacher in a colorful neighborhood). 

 When I got home I pitched the concept to my husband and kids.  They snickered and told me I was crazy.  My husband, while trying to feign support, said he’d tire of the experiment quickly, especially in bed.  My seven year old son told me he’d be really embarrassed especially when we had sleepovers at our house. 

   “You people don’t have vision,” I complained loudly.   “I’ll have the last laugh when the Avery label people offer me a lucrative sponsorship.  And after that I am sure I’ll land a book deal maybe even a movie.” 

 “Who will act out your part?”  My husband asked? 

 “I don’t know, it’s a toss up, maybe Katie Holmes or Meryl Streep.  Who ever shows the most enthusiasm for the project.”