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.

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.

Tales from a White Collar Recession or is it a Depression?

A recession is when your neighbor loses his job. A depression is when you lose your job.   (Anonymous Economist)

Last week a friend of mine was laid off from her high paying management job.  It sucks. With three kids in tow and a husband who is an entrepreneur it will be hard for her to make up for that loss. Firing the cleaning lady, laying off the nanny and eating mac and cheese isn’t going to cover the missing six figure income. 

Another friend of mine, in her mid-fifties, just got laid off from the world’s largest software company.  She is the lead bread winner in her family and has made a lot of dough in the past.   Her husband has been Mr. Mom most of their married life due to a serious, ongoing but manageable illness.  She has two teenagers, one in a swank private school and the other heading off to college shortly.  It sucks.

Houses are popping up for sale in our coveted white collar neighborhood like pimples on a teenager.  It leaves me to wonder “is everyone getting laid off?”   It rattles my nerves to hear the stories about well educated, well heeled friends, and friends of friends who have been given “pink slips.”  They are people like me who thought that somehow they would be sheltered from the economic downturn.   

The talking heads on the networks and cable stations are advising people to “retrench,” and “hunker down.”  Let me remind you…these are war terms.   With mortgage payments equaling 50% of a household income…people may have to retrench or hunker down in a different neighborhood.   

I know Obama and his peeps are saying this is a recession but when I see my hard working neighbors putting their houses up for sale because someone lost a job it makes me wonder if it isn’t a little worse than we’re being told.   

Good article if you’re wondering if this is a recession or a depression.

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!”

And the Whales Kept on Swimmin’

I recently returned from a seven day trip to the Sea of Cortez. Well actually, some people prefer to call it the Gulf of California but I think that’s kind of misleading, especially for those who are geographically challenged and equate the Gulf of California with The OC, Sea World and South Coast Plaza.

The sea of Cortez deserves its exotic name for many reasons, least of all it’s lack of shopping malls, fake boobs and man—made glamour. For those of you who want to specifically put this place on the map, it is the body of water that separates the Baja California Peninsula from the Mexican mainland and it is absolutely paradise!

Geography aside, it was a trip of a lifetime. We saw so many dolphins, whales and sea lions that on the forth day at sea my first grade son complained, “I’m tired of whales.” We saw Blue–Footed boobies, Pelicans, Vultures, Egrets and Osprey. We snorkeled with baby sea lions, kayaked in mangroves, ate s’mores on the beach and found new constellations in the sky.

But the best part of the trip was the fact that we did not have access to radios, newspapers, blackberries or televisions. We barely had internet service and when we did it required a lot of money and patience with very little reward. While Obama was giving his speech to congress about the fragile financial precipice that we are perched upon we were adjusting shutter speeds to capture a blue whale’s enormous fluke, (by the way, the blue whale is the largest mammal to have ever lived on earth!) When the stock market hit 7,000 we were high-fivin’ the rare sight of a 70,000 lb. mother Gray whale nuzzling her 15 foot, 3 ton bambino. I was on an unintentional technology vacation and a CNN fast. I cleansed the nasty talking head toxins from my brain, banished my blackberry reflex and ousted my online obsession. And you know what…I was fine. No jitters, cold sweats or hallucinations. No one died, the world didn’t end and the giant whales…well, they just kept on swimming. http://www.expeditions.com/Destination44.asp?Destination=287