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?

Fashion on Middle Earth

I work on middle earth. I have just finished watching the Lord of the Rings film trilogy with my seven year old son and he is obsessed with the idea of middle earth. You know that place where the people are dead but not really dead? The no-man’s land between heaven and hell? Here but not here, there but not there? That’s where I work. It’s no less profitable and certainly more manageable than corporate America but from a fashion standpoint it is downright confounding.

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

The Great American Apparel Diet Goes Live Today!

The Great American Apparel Diet, what is it?  We are a group of women who have decided to go on a diet of sorts.  A fast really.  We are completely eliminating  “new apparel” from our diets for one year.   Yes, the next time you see us sporting new togs it will be Sept. 2, 2010.  Sound easy?  Well think again.  This is going to be a stretch for most of us.  You see, like most women we are attached to our wardrobes in some form or another.  In fact buying a new something-or-other is as natural as a dark choclate pick-me-up.  We all have our reasons for embarking on this project but it all gets down to this…who are we without something hip and new in our closets?  We shall see.

Check it out: www.thegreatamericanappareldiet.com.

Driving while texting?

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.

To shoe or not to shoe while on the diet?

I have had mixed responses on my attempt to enroll friends and family into The Great American Apparel Diet.   I think I have signed up at least ten women so far, (no men yet, perhaps their egos aren’t tied to the clothes they buy?). 

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.

The Great American Apparel Diet, Want to Join?

I have been kicking around an idea (in a great pair of clogs) for a while now.  It goes like this….no clothing purchases for a year.  Could I do it?  Could you do it? 

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.

Weather Whiners

This summer the Pacific Northwest has been gorgeous.  Last week we hit record highs in Seattle at 103 degrees.  My seven year old son found the idea of record breaking weather fascinating and told anyone who would listen, “It is the hottest day in the whole wide world in Seattle.”   Following three days of his never ending proclamation I gave him a geography lesson.

 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. 

The Name Tag Project

I attended the BlogHer conference in Chicago last week.  For those of you who have never heard of BlogHer, it’s the largest women’s blogging organization in the whole wide world.  It was tons of fun and very informative.  I met all kinds of bloggers; crafters, juicers, political junkies, stepmothers, the list goes on and on.   I am left wondering if there is a BlogHim conference somewhere—probably Vegas.

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.”

Where are your manners?

I have recently received some strange social invitations that have had me longing for the practical and old fashioned wisdom of Emily Post. 

I was standing there at the market knocking on watermelons to check for ripeness when a woman I am friendly with approached me.  “Hey, what are you guys doing tonight?  We have tickets to Cowboy Junkies and Sun Volt at the Zoo Tunes.  Do you want to go?” 

 What an invitation I thought.  I had been meaning to buy tickets for that very same show earlier in the season but didn’t get around to it until they were completely sold out—they went fast. 

 “Sure we’d love to go.”  I responded, thinking she was offering tickets for my husband and I or at the very least offering to sell us her spare tickets. 

 “Well, she said, you’ll have to scalp some tickets but I am sure you can get some at the entrance.” 

 Hmmm.  I felt like I had just been let in on a bad joke.  I don’t want to scalp tickets for anything.  I am a 40—something year-old woman and the idea of getting a babysitter lined up “just in case” I can covertly scam a few tickets to a concert doesn’t sound like fun to me.  I politely declined, “no, on second thought we’re busy tonight.” 

 I think she could have said something like this instead.  “Hey, we’re going to the zoo concert tonight.  I know it’s kind of a risk, but if you and Mark (my husband) want to try and go I think you might be able to scalp tickets.  We’d love to see you there.” 

 About a week later another friend asked my husband and I, “Hey do you guys like theater? We have two tickets to the 5th Ave. theater tomorrow.”   My husband and I both responded at the same time, “Yes,” I said.  “No,” he said.   “I’ll take them I said, I would love to see the play.  I’ll invite one of my friends if he doesn’t want to go.”  Now in my mind I was doing them a favor, taking the two tickets that might not otherwise be used, off their hands. 

 “O.K.,” she said awkwardly, “well we were hoping that we could do dinner first.”   It was then that I realized that they wanted us to attend the play “with” them.  I suddenly realized that they didn’t want just one of us they wanted the two of us or the plan was a no go.  It was uncomfortable and weird but I squirmed my way out of the invitation and I am hopeful that they found another heterosexual couple to share the tickets with. 

 Now why didn’t this woman say, “My husband and I are going to the theater and we have two extra tickets.  Would two like to attend and join us for dinner beforehand?”

 It was the third invite that really stumped me.  A good friend of mine called to say she had an extra ticket to a concert  because her husband was traveling and couldn’t make the show.  She asked if I would like to attend with her.  I jumped at the chance.  Following the concert she asked that if I could pay her for the ticket.  Huh?  I was shocked and surprised.  I thought I was going as her guest.  Weird!

 What has happened to good old fashioned communication, to etiquette, to manners?  I think what we need is a little Emily to the rescue!

Recessions Make Strange Bedfellows

I was staring down at the clumps of cat hair and runaway legos that my old Hoover kept spitting up when it occurred to me that what I really needed in order to clean my own house was a fancy schmancy vacuum—I had my eyes on the Dyson 25 model retailing for 500 smackers, exactly the same amount we spent per month on our cleaning lady before we decided to “scale back” and clean the house ourselves.

The original idea for the “do it yourself” model was to save money, a wise strategy since I’m not making much dough these days in my “real” job, (very lucrative in days gone by).  So, given our new, self-imposed, “fallen-on-hard-times” household spending strategy, forking out half a grand on a vacuum seemed downright schizophrenic.  What was I thinking?

Later that night I mentioned my vacuum lust to my husband Mark.  Known to foam at the mouth at the mere mention of technology, his eyes lit up.  “You know, a capital investment in the latest vacuum innovation would save us time, money and back pain.” But, even with his convincing logic and my desire for the fashionable and efficient yellow and black Dyson, I couldn’t justify the cost (one of us needed to be strong). 

Thus I began my Dyson25 search online (which will be referred to here as D25).  The search ended up being a lot easier than I had anticipated.  Within minutes of plugging the word “Dyson” into Craig’s List I found two new D25s priced at $330 and $370. 

The first person I contacted was advertising a “lightly used,” D25 for $330.  I called the number listed and left an enthusiastic message with a heavily accented voice mail.  They must have sold it because I never heard back.

The other posting advertised a brand new D25, in box, (that’s “NIB” for those of you who don’t speak fluent E-Bay) for $370 cash.  The NIB D25 was owned by a guy named Guy.  I asked him via text, “why are you getting rid of it?” He responded via voice mail, in a cloudy dope smoker tone, “I got in a three-wheel accident and I won’t be vacuuming for a while.”  My mind went immediately to Tom Cruise in Born on the 4th of July, replete with wheelchair, catheter and do-rag.   The least I could do for the guy was to take the D25 off his hands.  

I offered him via text $330 for the vacuum.  He responded that his floor was $370 and he had another buyer.  I wished him luck and went back to my old Hoover.    

 Five days later, on our way to church, I got a text from Guy. 

 “Other deal fell through; I will sell you Dyson for $340 cash today.”

“I’ll take it.”  I texted back.

“Meet tonight, Shell station in Sumner, 7pm.

For those of you who are not from Seattle, Sumner is so far south it may as well be Portland Oregon.  With gas and road snacks I’d probably be better off buying my D25 at Best Buy and saving myself the hassle.     

 “Sumner is too far to go for a $340 D25.”   I texted back.

“Can you do Jet Chevrolet, South Federal Way instead, 7:00pm?”  (Still a 30 mile schlep but given the fact that the guy was disabled I acquiesced.)

“Yes.  See you then.”

 When we returned from church I called Paige our effervescent, overachieving, APP high school babysitter to see if she could watch our six year old prodigy while we made the trek to South Federal Way that evening.  She enthusiastically took me up on opportunity.   

 At 6:15pm my husband and I, headed south on I-5 in our Toyota Prius to rescue our D25 and to save some money.  After 45 minutes in weekend traffic we finally came upon Jet Chevrolet, a beacon in the vast arterial littered with fast food joints and big box retailers. Excited to get the deal over with, we pulled up to the front of the deserted dealership in our foreign, gas saving car to conspicuously wait for our dealer to hand off the goods.   

Sseconds after of turning off the ignition we were descended upon by seven hungry man-wolves looking to sell some cars from their newly bankrupt supplier.  “We’re just waiting for a friend,” Mark said sheepishly when one of the guys tapped on the window. 

 At 7:10, I texted Guy asking him where he was.  “Be there in 5,” he texted back.  “Look for red Toyota Forerunner.”  A few minutes later Mark saw in the rearview mirror a red SUV pulling into the back of the car lot, “that’s him.”   We followed him as he sped down the gravel road behind the dealership. At my insistence Mark honked the horn to let him know we were there. “He doesn’t know it’s us,” I said to Mark.  “No, he knows we’re here,” he snapped nervously. Finally, after what felt like a Law and Order chase scene Guy stopped his car abruptly, blinding us with gravel and dust. 

Within seconds a wiry fortyish man who looked like he had smoked too many cigarettes in his time, jumped out of the car, all four limbs surprisingly intact.   He had longish, salt and pepper hair that stopped at his shoulder and a tooth or two missing. He was dressed in jeans, and a sweatshirt with a hood.  “You Sally?” he asked.  “That’s me!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, clapping my hands and smiling. I could see through the tinted window that he had a long haired female passenger in the car and lots of electronics in boxes shoved against the back window.   

“I have your Dyson.”  He said, pulling a long rectangular box out of the back of his car.

“Can I take a look inside?” asked Mark. 

“You open it and it’s yours.” He cautioned. 

“Well, we need to make sure it does in fact have a vacuum inside,” explained Mark defensively. 

“What do you think I’d do, lie to ya?” 

 Mark reflexively opened the box relieved to find a brand new Dyson with the tags still on it.  On the outside of the box was a UPC code from a major retail chain. 

“It looks like it’s in good shape,” said Mark. 

“Brand new, just like I said,” growled Guy. 

“Well that’s one hot Dyson,” I said.  With that I handed him the $340 cash. 

Turning away I asked, “Why are you selling it again?”

“I got a new vacuum, a Sebo X4.”   

“Ah ha, I see.” 

 Mark and I put our brand new Dyson, including warranty, in the back of our car and followed Guy out of the lot.  At the stop light we pulled up behind him. “Should I write down his license plate?” I asked Mark.   “It wouldn’t hurt.”  As soon as I found a pen Guy floored the engine and sped away, burning some rubber for effect.  I couldn’t help but feel that he was trying to get away from us.  I would be lying if I told you we weren’t a little anxious to get away from him too. 

 When we got home we tried out our new vacuum, put our prodigy to bed and had a light dinner. 

 A few days later I retold the story to a friend of mine.  I said, “It was so dark, I felt like we were in a drug deal.”  And he said, “Sally, I think you were.” 

 Recessions make strange bedfellows.