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.

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.

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!

Is That Someone’s Liver I Smell?

I got a promotional e-mail today from Desert Sun. They are celebrating Cinco de Mayo and their four year anniversary with an amazing offer, a free tan with a ten tan punch card. I don’t know if premature death is worth it. It’s dangerous business,

Four years ago Desert Sun, opened across the street from my office. I watched the opening festivities from afar; balloons, and streamers festooned the entrance, the neon logo shone like a beacon in the gray mist of February. Scantily clad Pamela Anderson look-alike’s managed the door wearing little more than bikinis and cover ups to show off their bronzed bodies. If a person wasn’t familiar with the new retail on the block they might have mistaken the excitement for an adult only movie premiere. Or a casting call for a new reality porn show. Oversized sandwich boards and six foot banners gave potential customers incentives to Sun Your Buns. Ten Tans Free with the Purchase of a Lifetime Membership. What would that person look like when their life was over I wondered? Free Bronzing Lotion with Ten Tan Package. Special lotion? Can’t a person just pack their own Nivea?

This tanning phenomena has been troubling me since the place opened. It’s May and everyone in my neighborhood is Tan. Or rather all the people in my neighborhood under the age of fifty are tan and have been every day since the rain set in last November. It wouldn’t be something to notice if I lived say, in Palm Dessert or Miami Beach, but I don’t. I live in Seattle, where the old saying goes “in Seattle people don’t tan…they rust.” And for the record, in 2009 so far, we have had approx. 5 sunny days with temperatures over fifty degrees, the rest has been rainy and cold, but who’s counting? Nasty weather combined with the recession, swine flu and the increasingly popular “staycation” I doubt anyone is traveling to get a tan.

The tannies are ubiquitous; they’re in the grocery store, at the local Starbucks and at the school auction. It’s all I can do to keep myself from pulling our favorite babysitter aside and giving her a lecture…something akin to…”listen missy, lay off that tanning bed you’re starting to look like an Umpa Lumpa. I want to grab that cute little check-out girl in the market by the cheeks and tell her “sure you look cute now but how about in ten years when your sun kissed face looks like a wrinkled Louis Vuitton handbag.” And then there’s the twentyish barista who can’t stop himself from calling me, “Hon.” He’s so tan I can smell it.

When I mention the smell to my friend Diana she tells me a story that sounds more urban myth than fact. Something about a very tan woman, let’s call her Laurena, waking up one day to the smell of tangy, burnt flesh. On close inspection Laurena discovers that the odor is emanating from her very tan body. Naturally, she goes to see her Doctor. He sniffs Laurena’s body, pokes and prods her abdomen and finally breaks the news to her that all that tanning has actually melted her innards—which explains the stench. I ask Diana, “Did she die?” She responds, “Not really sure, she was a friend of a friend’s cat sitter. I don’t really know her personally. But it’s true.”

Hmmm. Since hearing that story I notice that my local Starbucks barista smells suspiciously like cooked liver.

P.S. Lying in a tanning bed damages your skin and can lead to skin cancer. Now you know. Check out the skin cancer physicians website for more information on the dangers of tanning.

Vegan Schmeegan

Today I met my friends Portia and Sean at a little vegan haunt in the trendy Fremont neighborhood of Seattle. It was a morning coffee date which in my mind means a chai tea latte paired with some sort of bread item. When I got to the joint (which by the way I did not suggest we go there, my yoga teacher friend Sean made that call). Anyway, when I got there, I found myself drooling behind the glass barrier that protected the freshly baked, hyper healthy, gluten free, hand crafted baked goods from said droolers. There were macaroons, cookies and cakes, “off limits before noon” I told myself. There were fat thumbprints oozing with organic, naturally sweetened jam, carrot muffins with certified gluten free oats and tea biscuits decorated with organic and local seasonal berries. With so many mouth watering options I had a difficult time choosing. Finally I opted for the small, grapefruit sized loaf of bread made with organic brown rice and garbanzo bean flour. I was envisioning a warm slice slathered in butter and honey with plenty left over to share with my friends. Up at the register I was greeted by a friendly, fresh faced woman who totaled my bill for the loaf and chai tea at $11.75. I tucked my $5 bill back into my purse and dug out my debit card. “How much is the little loaf of bread?” I inquired. “$7.95,” she said, I sensed she was incensed from her tone. The loaf was on my side of the counter and on a plate which made changing my mind a little weird at that point. There were people in line behind me and I was feeling the pressure to just hand her my card—so I did. As she was running my plastic through the little debit machine I asked her, “Oh, can I get some butter too?” “We don’t have butter here,” she replied as if I had asked for a side of bloody flank steak.

With bread and tea in hand, I walked over to the table where my friends had been watching me ponder the treats behind the glass barrier. “Hey guys, want a bite of bread? “It looks like something that fell out of the sky,” said my friend Sean. “No thank you,” said Portia who was on her second bite of a wonderful looking carrot muffin.” I had order envy as I took a bite of the grainy bread like substance. I chewed it slowly waiting for the expensive-but-worth-it flavor to surprise me with something sweet or salty. No such luck, it tasted like it looked—hideous in the way that Taro root or Poi is hideous. “Who eats this stuff,” I asked a little too loudly, “I wouldn’t feed this to my enemy.” My friend Sean said, “It’s Vegan?” As if that would explain why a person would pay nearly $9 (with tax) for a loaf of bread that weighed as much as my head and tasted like warm sponge. “Vegan-Schmeegan,” I said, again a little too loudly, “I’ve been robbed and the vegan emperor has no tastebuds!”

Frittering the Time Away Twittering

I just signed up for www.twitter.com. Just the name itself makes me think I might be frittering the time away twittering. That said, I now have a presence on, www.twitter.com; www.facebook.com; www.linkedin.com; www.sallybjornsenwrites.com; www.sallyreps.com; www.sallyreps.blogspot.com; www.sassystepmother.com; www.friendfeed.com; www.blogcatalog.com the list goes on and on. I think I’m covered. Whew! I hope that’s it for a while. Not sure I want to learn anything new after all that registering, posting and pass-wording.

I am not entirely sure why I am in all these “cyber places.” I guess it’s because all the voices—the talking heads, the magazines, the blogs, my tech savvy husband, my tech obsessed teenage boys, my painfully young IT guy, tell me that I should be. I’m not convinced that all this posting, “social networking” and twit, twit, twittering will pay off, but I’m there, here, here, there anyway—for insurance. After all, the last thing I want is to miss the speeding techno bus. For now, my presence on the socialnetworking-twitterorama- blogosphere makes me feel….secure? Vulnerable? Exposed? Over exposed? Lemming-ish?

Last week my wet-behind-the-ears tech guy almost feel off his chair when I asked him “what exactly does a twitter do.” He tried to convince me that somehow I was tragically missing out on the opportunity to keep all my followers, business contacts and friends up to speed on the daily moments of my life (I hate to disappoint). So whether or not using twitter and all that other stuff makes me money, makes me known or makes me overexposed, at least for now, my tech guy will be happy.

The Silpat® Party

Yesterday, as a favor to my friend, I went to a Sunday afternoon Silpat® party, (think Tupperware meets Mary Kay). Before I headed out the door I told my husband I would be back in an hour and wouldn’t spend a dime. If you don’t know what a Silpat® is, don’t worry, you will. It’s a hot new gourmet trend, from France (of course), that is sweeping the nation. It is heralded in some circles as the second coming in cookware, (for the record the first coming was the non-stick frying pan).

The party was a hoot with women of all ages oohhhhing and aahhhing about the many possibilities of the latest cooking technology while the sparkling sales women convinced us that our lives would never be the same without a Silpat® in our cupboard, (sipping white wine, we were easy targets). Our hostess, who was promised a special gift and discounts from the Demarle company (parent of Silpat®) if her friends ordered products “today, but no pressure,” worked hard in the kitchen demonstrating the ease at which she could crank out gourmet sweet potato fries, fish sticks, meat-loaf and brownies all on the same Silpat® sheet.

“The Silpat® is so much more than a glorified cookie sheet ladies,” implored the sales woman. “You will never look back on this decision with regret, and all products are guaranteed to retain their non-stick quality for life.” Not bad, considering my ten year old cookie sheets look like they’ve been to Iraq and back. It occurred to me as I was noshing on Silpat® brownies and pouring over the glossy Demarle catalog that I would probably enjoy life more if I could make the perfect cookie, as the literature promised. Times are tough, the stock market is in the tank and unemployment is at a record high…but…the perfect cookie? Now there’s something I could spend some time thinking about: Molasses Sprinkles, Mexican Wedding Cookies, Shortbread Thumbprints, and of course the classic Choclate Chip Walnut cookie. The possibilities were endless I told myself. And with that thought, I opened my wallet and wrote a check for $120, (including shipping and handling), for my Silpat® starter kit, including: one large Silpat® non-stick cooking sheet; one Siltray® baking tray (the Silpat® doesn’t work without it); and one Flexipan® non-stick flexible bakware mold.

I will let you know when I perfect the most expensive but perfect peanut butter cookie.

What is Work? Where is Work?

Today my six year old son made a pronouncement, “I figured out what work is?” My husband and I looked at him with curiosity, since neither one of us is entirely sure what we actually do. “Work is talking on the phone, sending e-mails, texting, making estimates, going to meetings, and having conference calls—sometimes with the phone on mute for five hours.”

Well, I guess you could say that about sums it up.

In the not so olden days, when work was somewhere else other than a laptop on the kitchen table or the screen on an i-phone, it was easier to understand. My dad left the house every morning, dressed in a suit and a cloud of aftershave and didn’t return until 6pm. He went to work—a mysterious place, in a big building, behind a big desk decorated with pictures of me and my siblings in awkward stages of our youth.

Occasionally, on the rare Saturday when Dad needed to tie up some loose ends, we were allowed into the inner-sanctum of his office. With the promise of “it’ll be just a sec.,” my brother and sisters and I fondled paper weights, shot staples at each other and made rubber band slingshots while we waited for dad to finish whatever he was doing. Eventually, tired of flying paperclips landing on his desk Dad sent us to the copier room for some real fun. There we smashed our faces and hands on the Xerox machine photocopying ourselves for hours. It’s no wonder that I ended up in the “photography” business.

If at six years old I was asked what my dad did everyday at his job I would have said, “He wears a dark suit, goes to a big building with a copier machine in it and bosses people around. Sometimes he goes away on an airplane for a few days, which is great because when he’s gone we eat weenie wraps and waffles for dinner. When his friends from work come to our house they like to drink, smoke cigarettes, and stay up really late.”

Now, when either my husband or I say we’re going to work my son isn’t sure where or what that means. It could imply that in pajamas one of us is going into the bathroom to talk to a man about a horse and to send a text. It could also connote going up to the bedroom where the wireless signal is better than it is in the kitchen to crank out an e-mail in bed. Or it could imply a trip to the market with that weird thing in our ear, or it could suggest going into the “den” and closing the door for an eternal conference call. Regardless of which room the “work” takes place, it means a lot of shushing and hand waving indicating that silence is required.

They say, those people who say things, that kids tend to follow their parents lead when it comes to career choices. I can imagine Cameron, our little guy confessing to a school counselor, “When I get big I want to be an e-mailing estimator who takes conference calls in pajamas, sends texts at the park and makes deals with a weird thing in my ear while driving the car to a little league game.