I am sitting here at my home computer in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. I don’t usually have the pleasure of lolling around the house mid week, but with a signed marriage license comes a little freedom to self indulge. At least in my case.
You see, I put in almost two full years at my job without any vacations to speak of, so I had racked up enough PTO to really marry in style. And here I am, a married woman enjoying a week at home followed by a week in the Mexican Riviera.
I have settled back into the tiny 750 square foot (mostly vertical space) apartment that I share with my husband which looks like an episode of Hoarders; with my clothes spilling out of my dresser and still-boxed wedding gifts wedged into every corner of free space (A word of advice to any would be renters: please don’t let a sexy West Loop loft with a huge kitchen and a wide open floor plan fool you. You will end up cursing your lack of walls when all the areas of your home life sort of bleed together and you can’t close the door to your messy room when you have company. Because there is no door). And all my plans to launch myself into a flurry of housekeeping are quickly slipping through my fingers as the departure date for our honeymoon approaches. But as we await our Mexican fiesta in our disorderly home (which I swear will soon be spotless), I can’t help but reminisce about our recent wedding weekend.
Where do I even start? I can tell you that my husband and I, with so many out of town guests and our two big Jewish families, opted for a sort of extended affair. Celebration began Friday evening June 4th with a lovely brisket and potato dinner (I think there were a couple varieties of salad, but I tend to just avoid all that) at my family’s synagogue in Northfield, followed by an aufruf. For those who aren’t already familiar with the term, an aufruf occurs during Shabbat services and basically consists of the congregation chucking Sunkist Fruit Gems - in varying stages of staleness - at the couple to be married that weekend. I believe this practice of pelting the soon-to-be married couple with kosher gummy candy is meant to symbolize the congregants’ wish for the couple to enjoy a sweet start, or a bountiful start. It was a painful initiation into our life as a married couple, but I was content to nurse my wounds by stuffing my face with grapefruit flavored Fruit Gems during the remainder of the service.
The aufruf was followed by a very full Saturday. My mother swung by the hotel at 9 am to drive me and some of the other female guests to a private jazz class at the Deerfield Park District. The vast majority of us were wildly over caffeinated, which is good in terms of motivation when it comes to jazz dance. I should note that I came prepared, wearing black yoga pants with a flashy hot pink leopard print fold-over waist.
So we passed our morning doing ridiculous jazz stretches; gripping the barre and bending forward, sticking our asses way out behind us, squatting down between our own legs like dogs preparing to do . . . what dogs do best. The whole affair ended quite wonderfully with my mother and I next to each other on the ground in Savasana, holding hands and weeping openly to a Pretenders song that one of my mother’s jazz classmates (also a radio DJ on XRT) had dedicated to us, to be played at our private class. Somewhere in between the stretching and Savasana, there were definitely big white top-hats popping off of our curly heads over and over again to the tune of One Singular Sensation. It was, in short, a gas.
Before our rehearsal dinner and after One Singular Sensation, I had time to attend the famous basketball game which occurs at all of my husband’s family get-togethers. Invariably, the Southern contingent attempts to score higher than the Northern contingent but their victory never materializes. The games are intensely competitive, unsettlingly violent and often occur during the joyous occasion of a wedding. In the grand tradition of brides about to enter my husband’s family, I attended the game with a tight jaw and squinted eyes, waiting every moment for my husband’s mangled body to be delivered into my arms, just one day before the wedding.
My husband made it through the game blessedly unharmed, and crowing about how fit he had become over the last year in preparation for the wedding. He scored at least one point, and felt he had successfully defended his manhood. I was thrilled he displayed no black eyes, obvious bruising or broken bones.
So while my husband showered the thick layer of salt out of his full rug of body hair, I dressed in the outfit I had picked out for the rehearsal dinner and waited so many long months to wear. It was an off white silk button down blouse with puff sleeves and a bow at the neck, paired with a confection of a big gray bubble hemmed skirt. The skirt is by one of my favorite local designers, Shernett Swaby (plug - go check out her shop in wicker park, she does free alterations for life on all of her pieces!), and boasted big tucks and folds in the fabric with rows of pleats in loops all around the skirt, running around it like train tracks. I wore my favorite shoes, a delicious pair of royal blue patent leather Stuart Weitzman peep toe pumps with wooden spike heels. They are the color of a blue raspberry Jolly Rancher and I love them. My husband looked absolutely dashing in a pair of charcoal gray custom tailored dress pants, a light blue french cuff shirt and a deep purple tie with cufflinks to match.
We arrived at Di Pescara in Northbrook Court Mall in good spirits and, once inside, were immediately handed mini grilled cheese sandwiches balanced atop espresso cups filled with tomato bisque. As an unabashed lover of grilled cheese, it is difficult for me to imagine a better way to be greeted.
Because our rehearsal dinner menu was - in my opinion - both delicious and plentiful, we felt justified in subjecting our guests to both a photo montage and a loooong series of uproarious toasts (or more accurately roasts) given by friends and family. There were some hilarious parallels to be drawn from the pictures of my husband and I as children: round oversized glasses, a prominent spray of freckles dominating the middle region of our faces, and a particularly funny pair of softball team head shots in which my husband and I were - by chance - manipulated into the same ridiculous pose with bats swung over our shoulders and outsized baseball caps riding low on our foreheads. Unfortunately, I think I looked about 20% tougher than him. But such is life.
There was blessedly little mention of the fact that while I was being bat mitzvahed, my husband was most likely graduating college.
And I will never tell another soul (who hasn’t already heard) about my husband’s childhood amateur science experiments. Only that they involved zip lock bags. And a freezer.
5.17.2010
Shower Scene
For some time now, since my first bridal shower actually, I have wanted to sit down and write a post about the experience of being showered. As it were.
But nothing came.
So I waited, hoping that by the time my second shower rolled around, I would be ready to put pen to paper. As it were. And here I am, post-second shower, feeling a little rudderless but determined nonetheless to share the experience with my 6-ish readers.
I will admit I was very nervous Sunday morning, April 18th in the hours before my first bridal shower. Something about imminent schmoozing always tightens my ribcage a little bit. I drove myself North to Deerbrook Mall, where my mother and our family friend Babette waited behind the locked doors of Connie Pagano salon – opened early just for the three of us. I walked from the parking lot to the salon with my hand held high over my head, the weight of my shower dress in its garment bag working a nasty knot into my right shoulder. I banged on the door until our hairdresser let me in, and before my mother had the chance to hug me, I saw the tightness in her face and the sharp intake of breath. We are both fantastically skilled at carrying our anxiety in our bodies.
We sat there kibitzing with Babette and Setta (the hairdresser), laughing at the fact that my mother and Babette now sit once a week in the salon to have their hair styled – just like their mothers did in the 60s. And periodically, a very serious look would settle over my mother’s face - or my own - as we remembered some other piece of wedding planning we had neglected, or just the simple fact that in a few hours a room full of expectant faces would be turned toward us . . . well . . . expectantly.
I applied my own makeup in one of the giant salon mirrors as the hairdresser tamed my mother’s Ashkenazic mane.
And then it was time. We raced to my parent’s Deerfield home to jump into our shower dresses. My mother wore a stunning Etro knee length sheath dress with a muted paisley print and one lone ruffle running down the front of the skirt. I wore a bright reverse border print dress with a fitted bust and an explosive box-pleated skirt (with pockets!).
Upon arriving at Green Acres Country Club, we walked into the dining room where the hostesses awaited us and the rest of our guests. As I entered, they turned towards me one by one as if in an old film, smiling fantastically with their arms outstretched. And I felt, in a way - and please excuse the dated reference - like a deb at her coming out ball. You see, most of the hostesses have known me for many years, if not since I was a small child. They have seen the tough times, the lack of self-care and withdrawn discomfort that must have surely read as supreme self-absorption. And it was easier facing them than I thought it would be, in my crisp dress and carefully coiffed hair. Because even as they all complimented me on the look of my straightened locks, I was loving my natural curls and my unpainted face and my sometimes messy insides that aren’t as scary as I thought they were. And it was me wearing the beautiful dress, not the other way around.
So there I was, hugging my old friends and laughing at myself and loving my fiancé right out loud.
And about a month later, I burst into the dining room at Idlewild Country Club with a furiously insistent growling in my belly that needed quieting before I could even think of playing nice. Judy, one of my future mother-in-law’s good friends, walked up to hug me and I latched onto her open arms with what must have been a death grip. When she offered to show me where the washroom was located, I told her that first I needed mixed nuts or some crackers. ANYTHING. NOW. So while she looked frantically for something to stabilize my dangerously low blood sugar, I tried my best to calm the crazed look in my eyes and avoid crying like a child as I balanced on my precarious four inch heels.
Like I said, I’m still a little messy sometimes.
When she returned with a martini glass full of mixed nuts, I was curled up in a chair in the Country Club’s lobby, licking my wounds, with the crumbs from a decimated pack of oyster crackers – brought to me by the club’s gracious manager - covering my lap. I looked up at her and smiled sheepishly, crossing my Stewart Weitzman clad feet daintily in front of me and apologizing for my Oscar-worthy entrance. Thankfully she laughed in the most sincere way and told me not to worry, that she had been there herself many times.
And this is what I love about spending time with my future in-laws and their friends. They seem to understand - much like my own family - that no matter how friendly or well adjusted you may be; you can still have your . . . moments. So I recovered as gracefully as possible, put away my claws and rejoined the human race.
The shower was intimate and beautiful. And each woman gave to me, tucked into a binder with a lemon motif on the cover, a family recipe and the story attached to it. My future mother-in-law presented me with her mother’s recipe for white cake with mocha icing, which is famous in the family and called “Shasha Cake” in deference to the woman who created it. And she warned me that baking the cake can be an undertaking, and that my newly acquired family will surely and firmly judge the results.
The passing of this recipe to me warmed my heart more than I can possibly say. Because I have seen the pictures of my fiancé eating the last real Shasha Cake ever made. And I have sat with my future in-laws eating this aunt’s or that aunt’s Shasha cake, ruthlessly grading its success against the genuine article while everyone invariably recounts stories about Shasha herself. And it scares me to know that someday soon, I will be the one whose baking prowess is ruthlessly graded. But I will rise to the occasion, hoping that the woman who I never had a chance to meet would have been proud of the results.
And the man with whom I am so deeply in love - and whose name I will soon carry - will smile up at me, belly full of memories.
But nothing came.
So I waited, hoping that by the time my second shower rolled around, I would be ready to put pen to paper. As it were. And here I am, post-second shower, feeling a little rudderless but determined nonetheless to share the experience with my 6-ish readers.
I will admit I was very nervous Sunday morning, April 18th in the hours before my first bridal shower. Something about imminent schmoozing always tightens my ribcage a little bit. I drove myself North to Deerbrook Mall, where my mother and our family friend Babette waited behind the locked doors of Connie Pagano salon – opened early just for the three of us. I walked from the parking lot to the salon with my hand held high over my head, the weight of my shower dress in its garment bag working a nasty knot into my right shoulder. I banged on the door until our hairdresser let me in, and before my mother had the chance to hug me, I saw the tightness in her face and the sharp intake of breath. We are both fantastically skilled at carrying our anxiety in our bodies.
We sat there kibitzing with Babette and Setta (the hairdresser), laughing at the fact that my mother and Babette now sit once a week in the salon to have their hair styled – just like their mothers did in the 60s. And periodically, a very serious look would settle over my mother’s face - or my own - as we remembered some other piece of wedding planning we had neglected, or just the simple fact that in a few hours a room full of expectant faces would be turned toward us . . . well . . . expectantly.
I applied my own makeup in one of the giant salon mirrors as the hairdresser tamed my mother’s Ashkenazic mane.
And then it was time. We raced to my parent’s Deerfield home to jump into our shower dresses. My mother wore a stunning Etro knee length sheath dress with a muted paisley print and one lone ruffle running down the front of the skirt. I wore a bright reverse border print dress with a fitted bust and an explosive box-pleated skirt (with pockets!).
Upon arriving at Green Acres Country Club, we walked into the dining room where the hostesses awaited us and the rest of our guests. As I entered, they turned towards me one by one as if in an old film, smiling fantastically with their arms outstretched. And I felt, in a way - and please excuse the dated reference - like a deb at her coming out ball. You see, most of the hostesses have known me for many years, if not since I was a small child. They have seen the tough times, the lack of self-care and withdrawn discomfort that must have surely read as supreme self-absorption. And it was easier facing them than I thought it would be, in my crisp dress and carefully coiffed hair. Because even as they all complimented me on the look of my straightened locks, I was loving my natural curls and my unpainted face and my sometimes messy insides that aren’t as scary as I thought they were. And it was me wearing the beautiful dress, not the other way around.
So there I was, hugging my old friends and laughing at myself and loving my fiancé right out loud.
And about a month later, I burst into the dining room at Idlewild Country Club with a furiously insistent growling in my belly that needed quieting before I could even think of playing nice. Judy, one of my future mother-in-law’s good friends, walked up to hug me and I latched onto her open arms with what must have been a death grip. When she offered to show me where the washroom was located, I told her that first I needed mixed nuts or some crackers. ANYTHING. NOW. So while she looked frantically for something to stabilize my dangerously low blood sugar, I tried my best to calm the crazed look in my eyes and avoid crying like a child as I balanced on my precarious four inch heels.
Like I said, I’m still a little messy sometimes.
When she returned with a martini glass full of mixed nuts, I was curled up in a chair in the Country Club’s lobby, licking my wounds, with the crumbs from a decimated pack of oyster crackers – brought to me by the club’s gracious manager - covering my lap. I looked up at her and smiled sheepishly, crossing my Stewart Weitzman clad feet daintily in front of me and apologizing for my Oscar-worthy entrance. Thankfully she laughed in the most sincere way and told me not to worry, that she had been there herself many times.
And this is what I love about spending time with my future in-laws and their friends. They seem to understand - much like my own family - that no matter how friendly or well adjusted you may be; you can still have your . . . moments. So I recovered as gracefully as possible, put away my claws and rejoined the human race.
The shower was intimate and beautiful. And each woman gave to me, tucked into a binder with a lemon motif on the cover, a family recipe and the story attached to it. My future mother-in-law presented me with her mother’s recipe for white cake with mocha icing, which is famous in the family and called “Shasha Cake” in deference to the woman who created it. And she warned me that baking the cake can be an undertaking, and that my newly acquired family will surely and firmly judge the results.
The passing of this recipe to me warmed my heart more than I can possibly say. Because I have seen the pictures of my fiancé eating the last real Shasha Cake ever made. And I have sat with my future in-laws eating this aunt’s or that aunt’s Shasha cake, ruthlessly grading its success against the genuine article while everyone invariably recounts stories about Shasha herself. And it scares me to know that someday soon, I will be the one whose baking prowess is ruthlessly graded. But I will rise to the occasion, hoping that the woman who I never had a chance to meet would have been proud of the results.
And the man with whom I am so deeply in love - and whose name I will soon carry - will smile up at me, belly full of memories.
4.28.2010
Change of A Dress
Saturday, April 17th at 10:00 am, I arrived at Dimitras Bridal with a half eaten granola bar from Starbucks shoved hastily into my clutch purse and too much coffee in my system. I also carried with me: a necklace fashioned from the sapphires and diamond in my great grandmother’s engagement ring and a Stuart Weitzman bag, and inside that a box and inside that a protective pouch and inside that a pair of pewter Chantelle pumps wrapped in tissue paper like exquisite candy.
My maid of honor, Colleen and I waited outside the shop for my mother and grandmother to arrive, glamorously rumpled in a yellow cab. In a matter of minutes, the cab rolled to a stop in front of us and my grandmother pulled herself up from the back seat, already misty eyed. My mother followed, and for no less than 30 minutes we hugged each other in varying patterns: mother - daughter, granddaughter - grandmother, mother - mother in law, grandmother - maid of honor, group hug . . . you get the idea. It is the Jewish way.
Now some of you may remember that in my post about Myron and Phil’s, I made a passing reference to my grandmother’s career as a lounge singer. If you don’t remember, here’s the background: my grandmother’s career as a lounge singer in mostly Chicago but also Vegas blossomed only in her 40’s when she had launched all three of her children out of their family home. The origin of this shift in her life is still unclear to me. Did she wake up one morning with an empty nest and a husband married to his job and think to herself: Today I am going to start singing professionally? I really can’t even imagine how the idea occurred to her.
In any case, she ended up nurturing a nice little name for herself and has retained the most gregarious of personalities. In terms of wide-eyed gasps of joy and uncontrolled sobbing, I knew she wouldn’t disappoint.
So we all piled into the rickety elevator at 1011 North Rush Street and swayed our way to the 3rd floor where my wedding gown and copious boxes of tissue awaited us. The seamstress met us at the door and ushered us to the North facing side of the small shop where they house the evening wear, away from the hustle and (cue rim shot) bustle of the first time bridal appointments. She pulled me into a dressing room, strapped a medieval looking white bustier on me and then zipped me into my Enzoani gown with a fitted bodice and a beautiful lace bolero.
And then came my absolute favorite part of the very few bridal appointments at which I have been guest of honor. The seamstress reached down to pick up my Stuart Weitzman pewter Chantelle pumps which I had extracted from bag, box, protective pouch and tissue paper. I bent forward slightly, picking up the heavy layers of my dress to expose one ridiculously small—and now red from so much standing—foot. This is when she, poised on the ground in front of me, slipped my foot into the shoe and then motioned her hand for the other foot. I placed it in her care and received my other shoe. How could any women, even the ones who didn’t dream of their wedding as a little girl (like me . . . surprised?), not love this moment? The bodice of your wedding gown grasps your waist and your shoulders curve over gently as you pick up your skirt, and your perfect wedding shoe pops onto your foot—aided by the seamstress. Are you not - in this moment if never again - Cinderella awaiting the prince’s ball, stomach aflutter? There is just something magical about wearing a gown so fantastic, so full of heavy silk and crinoline that you can’t even put on your own shoes.
The seamstress stood up and blessedly, like a pro, looked at me like she had never seen a woman in a wedding gown before. She beamed and exclaimed, clucked her tongue and repeated over and over again that I looked so beautiful. And I thought, who cares if they train the employees at Dimitras to moon over every bride like this? I’m going with it!
We walked out of the dressing room together and my grandmother, never one to disappoint any audience, nearly fainted.
As I stood up on the platform so that the seamstress could pin my gown to fit my statuesque 5’3” stature, my grandmother made a series of throaty noises and clutched her hands in front of her chest excitedly. She then said: “What are you, deformed? You look like you had liposuction!” (I must clarify; I am absolutely sure this was intended as a compliment). Colleen stood behind her, holding her cell phone in front of her face - as if to take pictures of me - in order to hide her shaking shoulders and hysterical laughter.
Then my 82 year old grandmother said, in a bridal salon at 10:30 in the morning: “You look like I did when I was a singer. They used to say to me: ‘If you had tits, you’d be dangerous!’ and I told them ‘Honey, I might not have tits but I am dangerous!’” And if I hadn’t been stuck on that platform with pins littering the floor in front of me, I would have walked over and squeezed her. Because who, really, gets to hear their grandmother say things like that?
And hats off to Colleen, who – if she couldn’t hold it together – at least had the poise to hide her face.
My maid of honor, Colleen and I waited outside the shop for my mother and grandmother to arrive, glamorously rumpled in a yellow cab. In a matter of minutes, the cab rolled to a stop in front of us and my grandmother pulled herself up from the back seat, already misty eyed. My mother followed, and for no less than 30 minutes we hugged each other in varying patterns: mother - daughter, granddaughter - grandmother, mother - mother in law, grandmother - maid of honor, group hug . . . you get the idea. It is the Jewish way.
Now some of you may remember that in my post about Myron and Phil’s, I made a passing reference to my grandmother’s career as a lounge singer. If you don’t remember, here’s the background: my grandmother’s career as a lounge singer in mostly Chicago but also Vegas blossomed only in her 40’s when she had launched all three of her children out of their family home. The origin of this shift in her life is still unclear to me. Did she wake up one morning with an empty nest and a husband married to his job and think to herself: Today I am going to start singing professionally? I really can’t even imagine how the idea occurred to her.
In any case, she ended up nurturing a nice little name for herself and has retained the most gregarious of personalities. In terms of wide-eyed gasps of joy and uncontrolled sobbing, I knew she wouldn’t disappoint.
So we all piled into the rickety elevator at 1011 North Rush Street and swayed our way to the 3rd floor where my wedding gown and copious boxes of tissue awaited us. The seamstress met us at the door and ushered us to the North facing side of the small shop where they house the evening wear, away from the hustle and (cue rim shot) bustle of the first time bridal appointments. She pulled me into a dressing room, strapped a medieval looking white bustier on me and then zipped me into my Enzoani gown with a fitted bodice and a beautiful lace bolero.
And then came my absolute favorite part of the very few bridal appointments at which I have been guest of honor. The seamstress reached down to pick up my Stuart Weitzman pewter Chantelle pumps which I had extracted from bag, box, protective pouch and tissue paper. I bent forward slightly, picking up the heavy layers of my dress to expose one ridiculously small—and now red from so much standing—foot. This is when she, poised on the ground in front of me, slipped my foot into the shoe and then motioned her hand for the other foot. I placed it in her care and received my other shoe. How could any women, even the ones who didn’t dream of their wedding as a little girl (like me . . . surprised?), not love this moment? The bodice of your wedding gown grasps your waist and your shoulders curve over gently as you pick up your skirt, and your perfect wedding shoe pops onto your foot—aided by the seamstress. Are you not - in this moment if never again - Cinderella awaiting the prince’s ball, stomach aflutter? There is just something magical about wearing a gown so fantastic, so full of heavy silk and crinoline that you can’t even put on your own shoes.
The seamstress stood up and blessedly, like a pro, looked at me like she had never seen a woman in a wedding gown before. She beamed and exclaimed, clucked her tongue and repeated over and over again that I looked so beautiful. And I thought, who cares if they train the employees at Dimitras to moon over every bride like this? I’m going with it!
We walked out of the dressing room together and my grandmother, never one to disappoint any audience, nearly fainted.
As I stood up on the platform so that the seamstress could pin my gown to fit my statuesque 5’3” stature, my grandmother made a series of throaty noises and clutched her hands in front of her chest excitedly. She then said: “What are you, deformed? You look like you had liposuction!” (I must clarify; I am absolutely sure this was intended as a compliment). Colleen stood behind her, holding her cell phone in front of her face - as if to take pictures of me - in order to hide her shaking shoulders and hysterical laughter.
Then my 82 year old grandmother said, in a bridal salon at 10:30 in the morning: “You look like I did when I was a singer. They used to say to me: ‘If you had tits, you’d be dangerous!’ and I told them ‘Honey, I might not have tits but I am dangerous!’” And if I hadn’t been stuck on that platform with pins littering the floor in front of me, I would have walked over and squeezed her. Because who, really, gets to hear their grandmother say things like that?
And hats off to Colleen, who – if she couldn’t hold it together – at least had the poise to hide her face.
4.26.2010
In The Trenches
This Saturday I will be attending my bachelorette party. My fiancé will be holed up in a log cabin for the weekend, planning to rip his groomsmen to shreds with a paintball gun.
I thought I might work with my Maid of Honor to plan something a little more civilized. Something that wouldn’t necessarily require the use of a tarp. So, we reserved a table for the 8:30 show at The Baton - which is rumored to employ the best female impersonators in Chicago.
With the inevitable scrutiny involved in spending my bachelorette evening with sharp witted drag queens, I of course began planning my outfit early. It was necessary for my emotional safety.
I began with a beautifully simple Leifsdottir bandage knit black mini dress that I convinced myself to buy on sale. This dress has been hanging in my closet since I purchased it, waiting for the perfect occasion to be woken from dormancy and paraded out for, let’s say, a bridal party and the very particular female impersonators of The Baton.
And I know it will work because the stretch knit fabric feels just so delicious against my skin, like a tee shirt really. And the allover rouching makes this very tight mini dress actually wearable. As most of you ladies already know, rouching forgives the body like almost no other dressmaker detail. The neckline is a wide v-neck that is just the tiniest bit asymmetrical, and the shoulders of the dress have about a half inch of extra gathered fabric, creating a wonderful touch of volume. The dress is, in a word, bitchy. And I love it. Not to mention - paired with bronze platform cutout booties – the dress makes my legs look like the Meryl Streep of legs. In that everyone loves them, they have received many accolades, but have only ever been recognized for their supporting roles and have never won the Oscar they really deserve.
So I had the dress and the shoes all figured out, but I needed the perfect completer piece. I hit Nordstrom Rack in search of some kind of outwear that would look great with the black dress and the bronze heels. I tried on many cropped moto jackets, which are very in right now, but nothing really worked. And then I found, tucked into an overcrowded rack of Trina Turk clothing, a trench coat bolero from Pink Tartan’s ’09 spring / summer line.
The bolero was made in that beautiful tan color of a traditional trench and had all the great details of a traditional trench: the belted sleeves, flaps at the bust, and shiny pewter buttons. But, it was cropped to the perfect length. The jacket hit right above the natural waist, and while the front was boxy in a pleasant way, the back was vented so it opened like a swing coat. The thing I loved most about the jacket is that it was perfectly in line with the cropped outerwear trend, but it carried enough classic detailing to look chic rather than trendy and disposable.
So I agonized over whether or not to purchase the jacket. While it was only a quarter of its original cost, it was still more of an investment than the moto jackets I had tried on. I visited The Rack a number of times over the following week, each time pulling out the bolero to look at it again, trying it on, and then hiding it on some rack where it didn’t belong – mixed in with mom jeans and August Silk.
I even once - on my way to see my makeup artist - popped into the store to visit my bolero, walked back out and then spent five minutes bouncing from the entrance of the store to the corner of State and Washington like a crazed pinball, convincing myself alternately to just purchase the damn thing and that I really didn’t need to be spending the money anyway.
In the end, it was mine.
I walked through the doors of Nordstrom Rack at the tail end of a Wednesday lunch hour and made a bee-line for the last rack on which I had hidden my bolero. It. Wasn’t. There.
In a frantic last ditch effort, I looked through the rack where I had originally found the jacket and, buried between hangers and hangers of inferior trench coats, there it was. I ripped it off the hanger, and with only the faintest blush of guilt, carried it victoriously to the register.
And now it hangs in my closet, waiting patiently for its big debut.
And it ain’t a tarp, but at least it’s water resistant.
I thought I might work with my Maid of Honor to plan something a little more civilized. Something that wouldn’t necessarily require the use of a tarp. So, we reserved a table for the 8:30 show at The Baton - which is rumored to employ the best female impersonators in Chicago.
With the inevitable scrutiny involved in spending my bachelorette evening with sharp witted drag queens, I of course began planning my outfit early. It was necessary for my emotional safety.
I began with a beautifully simple Leifsdottir bandage knit black mini dress that I convinced myself to buy on sale. This dress has been hanging in my closet since I purchased it, waiting for the perfect occasion to be woken from dormancy and paraded out for, let’s say, a bridal party and the very particular female impersonators of The Baton.
And I know it will work because the stretch knit fabric feels just so delicious against my skin, like a tee shirt really. And the allover rouching makes this very tight mini dress actually wearable. As most of you ladies already know, rouching forgives the body like almost no other dressmaker detail. The neckline is a wide v-neck that is just the tiniest bit asymmetrical, and the shoulders of the dress have about a half inch of extra gathered fabric, creating a wonderful touch of volume. The dress is, in a word, bitchy. And I love it. Not to mention - paired with bronze platform cutout booties – the dress makes my legs look like the Meryl Streep of legs. In that everyone loves them, they have received many accolades, but have only ever been recognized for their supporting roles and have never won the Oscar they really deserve.
So I had the dress and the shoes all figured out, but I needed the perfect completer piece. I hit Nordstrom Rack in search of some kind of outwear that would look great with the black dress and the bronze heels. I tried on many cropped moto jackets, which are very in right now, but nothing really worked. And then I found, tucked into an overcrowded rack of Trina Turk clothing, a trench coat bolero from Pink Tartan’s ’09 spring / summer line.
The bolero was made in that beautiful tan color of a traditional trench and had all the great details of a traditional trench: the belted sleeves, flaps at the bust, and shiny pewter buttons. But, it was cropped to the perfect length. The jacket hit right above the natural waist, and while the front was boxy in a pleasant way, the back was vented so it opened like a swing coat. The thing I loved most about the jacket is that it was perfectly in line with the cropped outerwear trend, but it carried enough classic detailing to look chic rather than trendy and disposable.
So I agonized over whether or not to purchase the jacket. While it was only a quarter of its original cost, it was still more of an investment than the moto jackets I had tried on. I visited The Rack a number of times over the following week, each time pulling out the bolero to look at it again, trying it on, and then hiding it on some rack where it didn’t belong – mixed in with mom jeans and August Silk.
I even once - on my way to see my makeup artist - popped into the store to visit my bolero, walked back out and then spent five minutes bouncing from the entrance of the store to the corner of State and Washington like a crazed pinball, convincing myself alternately to just purchase the damn thing and that I really didn’t need to be spending the money anyway.
In the end, it was mine.
I walked through the doors of Nordstrom Rack at the tail end of a Wednesday lunch hour and made a bee-line for the last rack on which I had hidden my bolero. It. Wasn’t. There.
In a frantic last ditch effort, I looked through the rack where I had originally found the jacket and, buried between hangers and hangers of inferior trench coats, there it was. I ripped it off the hanger, and with only the faintest blush of guilt, carried it victoriously to the register.
And now it hangs in my closet, waiting patiently for its big debut.
And it ain’t a tarp, but at least it’s water resistant.
4.13.2010
Let Them Eat Cake . . . And Chopped Liver Too
With the wedding date getting closer, I almost forgot that I have a birthday in April. April 12th to be exact.
I hadn’t really thought much about how I would like to celebrate said birthday, as my primary focus has been trained on things like minute variations of color in different species of rose, or chargers for our reception place settings. So when the time came to really figure something out, I initially thought I would request dinner at 160 Blue, a fantastic restaurant in Chicago at which many of my birthdays have been celebrated. But then 160 Blue just didn’t seem right, so I called my fiancé maybe 20 times suggesting different restaurants and finally begging him for help (he is particularly adept at choosing restaurants with the most delicious fare).
And then it dawned on me. Myron and Phil’s.
For those of you who are either Northsiders at heart, or grew up Jewish in the Chicagoland Area at any time during the last . . . let’s say . . . three or four decades, your mouth is probably already watering. The images of dim lighting and dark wood walls are already flooding your brain. You can recall dining chairs upholstered in chocolate brown leather with grommets running along the top and the incredibly tacky signed photographs of B and C List stars that have dined in this Chicago institution.
For those of you who are not Northsiders and didn’t grow up Jewish in the Chicagoland Area within the last three or four decades, Myron and Phil’s is an old Chicago steak house located on Devon where it intersects Crawford Avenue. At Myron and Phil’s they serve steak, seafood, steak, potatoes, steak, creamed spinach, steak, and chopped chicken livers with bits of hardboiled egg and raw onion. And THAT’S IT. If you aren’t satisfied by the menu at Myron and Phil’s, you are either a vegetarian or dead.
In any case, as soon as I thought of Myron and Phil’s, the phantom smell of skirt steak with burnt onions filled my nostrils. I called everyone involved. They were amenable to the suggestion.
My fiancé and I were the last to arrive at the restaurant, even after my maid of honor had taken some extra time to get lost and retrace her steps (I am beginning to suspect that this is actually her primary method of memorization when it comes to Chicago’s roadways). Everyone seemed to be in good spirits.
We had just barely gotten ourselves seated at our table when the waitress dropped off menus with a bowl of new pickles and pickled tomatillos, a bread basket filled with fresh challah rolls and two heaping scoops of chopped liver. My fiancé tore into the chopped liver like a wild animal, and as I watched the horrible carnage, I imagined him doing the exact same thing in 50 years. The strength of his affinity for chopped liver is outdone only by the oldest, most curmudgeonly Zayde (that’s Grandpa in Yiddish).
I perused the menu half-heartedly, already trying to decide between fried perch and one of the obscenely large broiled lobster tails I had only ever gazed upon longingly. I went with the perch. Don’t ask me why. Alright, because it’s a guilty pleasure. I love the crispy breading surrounding the flaky fish that just sort of melts away. And that tartar sauce with bits of gherkin mixed in? Gets me every time! On this particular night, the perch fillets were the size of butternut squash and deep fried to perfection.
If you are curious, my mother ordered whitefish, my maid of honor the fried perch, my fiancé a filet mignon, and my father ordered beef ribs that—we would all soon discover—were not really beef ribs at all but, instead, had clearly been ripped straight out of a wooly mammoth.
And while we waited for our food, my parents proceeded to tell the stories of my birth. And amidst tales of how my mother’s best friend--across town in a class--intuited the moment my mother started having contractions, and what a tiny and beautifully formed infant I was, my mother said—of the labor itself and my refusal to be born without a fight: everything was coming out of me but you!
It was magical. In my embellished fantasy of this moment, there was a record playing—something my grandmother would have sung in her lounge singing days—and it slammed to a screeching halt, leaving the dining room silent with my mother’s words ringing in the diners’ ears.
I fully expected my fiance to put down the chopped liver. He didn’t.
And while he and my father mused over whether my refusal to be born easily was an early sign of stubbornness or tenacity, our food finally arrived. And it was good. I felt like the long bike ride I had taken in our workout room earlier in the evening entitled me to really slather on the tartar sauce. So I did. And throughout the meal, I began to notice that everyone’s leftovers seemed to appear, all wrapped up in little doggie bags, in front of my fiance. When the waitress came by to drop off the obligatory free-of-charge mediocre chocolate desert with a pink candle shoved in its scoop of vanilla ice cream, she looked at my fiancé, laughed, and asked if she had fed him sufficiently.
That was when the mariachis appeared.
The sound of their blaring trumpets reverberated through Myron and Phil’s small dining room. I stared at my still lit birthday candle wide-eyed, fearing I had failed to eliminate the incriminating evidence in time. My head sank down into my neck as I watched the mariachis, in their gigantic sombreros and black pants with silver embroidery down the sides, cart their instruments toward our table. With each step they took in our direction, my heart beat louder and faster.
Imagine my relief when they passed right by our table and kept walking into the restaurant’s private party room.
Apparently, the mariachis had been hired to honor one of Myron and Phil’s kitchen staff who had just retired. We all smiled and clapped when the manager announced this, staring at each other from across the table with looks that clearly intimated: this can’t last all night, can it? For a 45 minute stretch, whenever anyone would utter a word, the mariachi music that had previously died down would suddenly start up again, the trumpets wailing so aggressively that they drowned out any other noise.
“So, how is work . . . WWWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH”
“It’s alright, the other day . . . WWWWAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH”
“So these two guys go to this costume party where you have to dress up as an emotion . . . WWWAAAAHHHHH”
But in the end, if you’re heading home with a stretched out belly and an entire carload of leftover beef ribs and chopped chicken livers, who cares what you were trying to say anyway?
I hadn’t really thought much about how I would like to celebrate said birthday, as my primary focus has been trained on things like minute variations of color in different species of rose, or chargers for our reception place settings. So when the time came to really figure something out, I initially thought I would request dinner at 160 Blue, a fantastic restaurant in Chicago at which many of my birthdays have been celebrated. But then 160 Blue just didn’t seem right, so I called my fiancé maybe 20 times suggesting different restaurants and finally begging him for help (he is particularly adept at choosing restaurants with the most delicious fare).
And then it dawned on me. Myron and Phil’s.
For those of you who are either Northsiders at heart, or grew up Jewish in the Chicagoland Area at any time during the last . . . let’s say . . . three or four decades, your mouth is probably already watering. The images of dim lighting and dark wood walls are already flooding your brain. You can recall dining chairs upholstered in chocolate brown leather with grommets running along the top and the incredibly tacky signed photographs of B and C List stars that have dined in this Chicago institution.
For those of you who are not Northsiders and didn’t grow up Jewish in the Chicagoland Area within the last three or four decades, Myron and Phil’s is an old Chicago steak house located on Devon where it intersects Crawford Avenue. At Myron and Phil’s they serve steak, seafood, steak, potatoes, steak, creamed spinach, steak, and chopped chicken livers with bits of hardboiled egg and raw onion. And THAT’S IT. If you aren’t satisfied by the menu at Myron and Phil’s, you are either a vegetarian or dead.
In any case, as soon as I thought of Myron and Phil’s, the phantom smell of skirt steak with burnt onions filled my nostrils. I called everyone involved. They were amenable to the suggestion.
My fiancé and I were the last to arrive at the restaurant, even after my maid of honor had taken some extra time to get lost and retrace her steps (I am beginning to suspect that this is actually her primary method of memorization when it comes to Chicago’s roadways). Everyone seemed to be in good spirits.
We had just barely gotten ourselves seated at our table when the waitress dropped off menus with a bowl of new pickles and pickled tomatillos, a bread basket filled with fresh challah rolls and two heaping scoops of chopped liver. My fiancé tore into the chopped liver like a wild animal, and as I watched the horrible carnage, I imagined him doing the exact same thing in 50 years. The strength of his affinity for chopped liver is outdone only by the oldest, most curmudgeonly Zayde (that’s Grandpa in Yiddish).
I perused the menu half-heartedly, already trying to decide between fried perch and one of the obscenely large broiled lobster tails I had only ever gazed upon longingly. I went with the perch. Don’t ask me why. Alright, because it’s a guilty pleasure. I love the crispy breading surrounding the flaky fish that just sort of melts away. And that tartar sauce with bits of gherkin mixed in? Gets me every time! On this particular night, the perch fillets were the size of butternut squash and deep fried to perfection.
If you are curious, my mother ordered whitefish, my maid of honor the fried perch, my fiancé a filet mignon, and my father ordered beef ribs that—we would all soon discover—were not really beef ribs at all but, instead, had clearly been ripped straight out of a wooly mammoth.
And while we waited for our food, my parents proceeded to tell the stories of my birth. And amidst tales of how my mother’s best friend--across town in a class--intuited the moment my mother started having contractions, and what a tiny and beautifully formed infant I was, my mother said—of the labor itself and my refusal to be born without a fight: everything was coming out of me but you!
It was magical. In my embellished fantasy of this moment, there was a record playing—something my grandmother would have sung in her lounge singing days—and it slammed to a screeching halt, leaving the dining room silent with my mother’s words ringing in the diners’ ears.
I fully expected my fiance to put down the chopped liver. He didn’t.
And while he and my father mused over whether my refusal to be born easily was an early sign of stubbornness or tenacity, our food finally arrived. And it was good. I felt like the long bike ride I had taken in our workout room earlier in the evening entitled me to really slather on the tartar sauce. So I did. And throughout the meal, I began to notice that everyone’s leftovers seemed to appear, all wrapped up in little doggie bags, in front of my fiance. When the waitress came by to drop off the obligatory free-of-charge mediocre chocolate desert with a pink candle shoved in its scoop of vanilla ice cream, she looked at my fiancé, laughed, and asked if she had fed him sufficiently.
That was when the mariachis appeared.
The sound of their blaring trumpets reverberated through Myron and Phil’s small dining room. I stared at my still lit birthday candle wide-eyed, fearing I had failed to eliminate the incriminating evidence in time. My head sank down into my neck as I watched the mariachis, in their gigantic sombreros and black pants with silver embroidery down the sides, cart their instruments toward our table. With each step they took in our direction, my heart beat louder and faster.
Imagine my relief when they passed right by our table and kept walking into the restaurant’s private party room.
Apparently, the mariachis had been hired to honor one of Myron and Phil’s kitchen staff who had just retired. We all smiled and clapped when the manager announced this, staring at each other from across the table with looks that clearly intimated: this can’t last all night, can it? For a 45 minute stretch, whenever anyone would utter a word, the mariachi music that had previously died down would suddenly start up again, the trumpets wailing so aggressively that they drowned out any other noise.
“So, how is work . . . WWWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH”
“It’s alright, the other day . . . WWWWAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH”
“So these two guys go to this costume party where you have to dress up as an emotion . . . WWWAAAAHHHHH”
But in the end, if you’re heading home with a stretched out belly and an entire carload of leftover beef ribs and chopped chicken livers, who cares what you were trying to say anyway?
4.08.2010
Tie-ing the Knot
It all began with my father’s idea to have a suit custom made for the wedding. He scheduled an appointment on a weeknight at 5:15 so I could accompany him to the custom clothier down the street from my office. I distinctly remember my heels tapping against pavement as I walked north up LaSalle Street to Balani Custom.
After being swallowed up by the massive lobby at 10 South LaSalle, the intimately sized Balani Custom was a welcome surprise. I was greeted by a comfortable seating area with plump leather couches, a beautiful granite counter at which the surprisingly young clothier conducts his business, and—in the center of all of this--a big round table boasting rows and rows of ties.
If you know me very well at all (which most of you probably do at this point, as I gather my readership hasn’t reached very far beyond my inner circle…yet), you know that when I was a girl, my father let me select his ties before he left for work in the big city. He would lay out three or four choices on my parents’ bed and I would hold them up against his suit, meticulously selecting the best match.
I carried something of this experience with me into adult life, and I am now and forever desperately in love with ties. I love the patterns and the infinite variations of color and texture. I pride myself on being able to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to ties, and on being able to select the perfect tie for any outfit.
But I’m biased. And I digress.
You see, the big round table won me over with its rows and rows of ties lined up like spokes in a bicycle wheel. I mentally added Balani Custom to my list of happy places (which includes, but is not limited to: Whole Foods, Nordstrom Rack, The Zodiac Room and Myron and Phil’s).
My father and I sat at the counter with Joe (the clothier), poring over his books of fabric swatches. We picked out a gorgeous midnight navy fabric with a subtle ivory stripe. The end result was fantastic. Needless to say, my fiancé and I were walking back through the door a few weeks later.
I think the best part about bringing my fiancé to Balani for his wedding suit is the fact that he actually loved the experience. You see, he’s the kind of guy that knows quality clothing when he sees it, but is perfectly content to sit back and allow someone else to select said clothing for him. This is, of course, an arrangement I find perfectly gratifying. So when I saw my beloved actively flipping through fabric swatches with me, and yucking it up with Joe, I couldn’t have been caught more off guard. I had figured I would have to put up with the requisite signals--you know the ones--a sudden widening of the eyes when the salesperson turns his back, followed by a gentle coaxing nudge in the direction of the exit as if to say “We can run now, right now! While he’s looking away!”
In the end, my fiancé found a fabric that he really loves. A deep dark charcoal sharkskin weave that absolutely sings against his light brown hair and the monogrammed ivory French-cuff shirt we had made to match my wedding dress. When I finally had the chance to see him in his perfectly fitted custom suit and dress shirt, I couldn’t have felt more impressed. My fiancé? He’s one tall drink of water, and he looks damn fine in his deep dark charcoal wedding suit.
I saw him standing there, in front of the big mirror at Balani, with Joe fretting over tiny alterations. And it was easy to imagine him waiting at the end of an aisle. It was easy to see him weaving through tables topped with gorgeous silk linens and explosive floral arrangements with his arm around my waist. So I just looked, and allowed myself to enjoy looking. And I thought: lucky me.
Soon we will drive up North to visit a shop that--my father claims--carries the best ties you can find. And I am sure I will walk around the shop with a hawk eye, picking up a tie here and there and holding it up to my fiance’s neck. And I will cock my head to one side, examining the pattern meticulously, and remember being a girl.
After being swallowed up by the massive lobby at 10 South LaSalle, the intimately sized Balani Custom was a welcome surprise. I was greeted by a comfortable seating area with plump leather couches, a beautiful granite counter at which the surprisingly young clothier conducts his business, and—in the center of all of this--a big round table boasting rows and rows of ties.
If you know me very well at all (which most of you probably do at this point, as I gather my readership hasn’t reached very far beyond my inner circle…yet), you know that when I was a girl, my father let me select his ties before he left for work in the big city. He would lay out three or four choices on my parents’ bed and I would hold them up against his suit, meticulously selecting the best match.
I carried something of this experience with me into adult life, and I am now and forever desperately in love with ties. I love the patterns and the infinite variations of color and texture. I pride myself on being able to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to ties, and on being able to select the perfect tie for any outfit.
But I’m biased. And I digress.
You see, the big round table won me over with its rows and rows of ties lined up like spokes in a bicycle wheel. I mentally added Balani Custom to my list of happy places (which includes, but is not limited to: Whole Foods, Nordstrom Rack, The Zodiac Room and Myron and Phil’s).
My father and I sat at the counter with Joe (the clothier), poring over his books of fabric swatches. We picked out a gorgeous midnight navy fabric with a subtle ivory stripe. The end result was fantastic. Needless to say, my fiancé and I were walking back through the door a few weeks later.
I think the best part about bringing my fiancé to Balani for his wedding suit is the fact that he actually loved the experience. You see, he’s the kind of guy that knows quality clothing when he sees it, but is perfectly content to sit back and allow someone else to select said clothing for him. This is, of course, an arrangement I find perfectly gratifying. So when I saw my beloved actively flipping through fabric swatches with me, and yucking it up with Joe, I couldn’t have been caught more off guard. I had figured I would have to put up with the requisite signals--you know the ones--a sudden widening of the eyes when the salesperson turns his back, followed by a gentle coaxing nudge in the direction of the exit as if to say “We can run now, right now! While he’s looking away!”
In the end, my fiancé found a fabric that he really loves. A deep dark charcoal sharkskin weave that absolutely sings against his light brown hair and the monogrammed ivory French-cuff shirt we had made to match my wedding dress. When I finally had the chance to see him in his perfectly fitted custom suit and dress shirt, I couldn’t have felt more impressed. My fiancé? He’s one tall drink of water, and he looks damn fine in his deep dark charcoal wedding suit.
I saw him standing there, in front of the big mirror at Balani, with Joe fretting over tiny alterations. And it was easy to imagine him waiting at the end of an aisle. It was easy to see him weaving through tables topped with gorgeous silk linens and explosive floral arrangements with his arm around my waist. So I just looked, and allowed myself to enjoy looking. And I thought: lucky me.
Soon we will drive up North to visit a shop that--my father claims--carries the best ties you can find. And I am sure I will walk around the shop with a hawk eye, picking up a tie here and there and holding it up to my fiance’s neck. And I will cock my head to one side, examining the pattern meticulously, and remember being a girl.
3.31.2010
I spent this Sunday afternoon sitting on the floor with my legs curled under me at my parent’s painfully low set family room table (a blessedly short-lived foray into Asian style home décor). I was making Seder puzzle pieces out of poster board and watching The September Issue.
As I agonized over how to depict--in the most child friendly way-- the Ten Plagues, my kitchen-addled brain slowly registered how much I like Grace Coddington. Of course I knew from the outset that I would love watching Anna Wintour edit the living shit out of Vogue’s 2007 September issue. The ever poised Ms. Wintour, hovering at just half a decibel below bitchy, did not disappoint. But Grace Coddington, of whom I knew nothing, was completely entrancing.
Let me begin, please, with exhibit A: the hair. Oh the hair! Unbelievably long and as orange as a creamsicle. Grace Coddington’s hair is the perfect frizzy foil to Anna Wintour’s smoothed bob. It trails behind her in a frenzy through the offices of American Vogue, everywhere making a mockery of Ms. Wintour’s tightly-held leaky red pen.
Her unabashedly ornate photo spreads are full of little fuzzy dogs and severe black wigs, leaping models and pot bellied photographers caught in front of the camera. One gets the sense that this very serious woman has, deep down, a fully intact sense of play and a refreshingly childlike approach to revealing the artistry in fashion.
In the immortal words of Liz Lemon; I want to go to there.
There is something so satisfying about allowing the imagination to wander where it desires. Sometimes, I will admit, I spend hours fantasizing about outfits. I will hook into the stationary bike in our workout room, and as my little legs spin furiously against the wheel’s resistance, I let my mind drift to…oh…let’s say the upcoming all class reunion at my high school.
I will naturally be having a great hair day. My lazy waves will swish against my back as I walk through the old halls in a ridiculous pair of nude patent leather high heeled pumps. I will be wearing a dove gray rouched pencil skirt paired with an impossibly delicate, nude lace blouse with flutter sleeves and a bow at the waist. And the kicker? A royal blue clutch purse; the iris in a field of wheat. Minimal makeup will surely convince people that I barely made an effort to pull myself together. Anyone I ever had a crush on will be quietly and unshakably wowed. The diamonds on my left hand will sparkle greatly, as will the very handsome husband on my arm.
Grandiose, I know. But this is where my mind goes.
And I feel strange about revealing this because it seems both so private and so vain. And if you see me, you’ll think that spacey look in my eyes means I am in the process of envisioning myself sitting on a white cloud, wrapped in Hermes scarves (really, I’m just spacey…a product of ever present diffuse anxiety mixed with ever present sleepiness). But to my surprise, I am going to let you know this about myself. I like to picture what I will wear on any given occasion. It helps me feel like I can walk into a room and not completely implode under the weight of my insecurity. And there is the other thing; the delicious feeling of granting yourself a little vanity. I hope you do it too. I’d like to think that my very hard working mother with a PhD in education spends a little time during the day just thinking about how luminous she is. Because she is luminous. And I’d like to think that my incredible Maid of Honor has started to realize how captivating she will look at the wedding in her chocolate brown pencil dress. I just have the nagging feeling that this stuff isn’t so trivial.
So I will continue to let myself play. To think of that orange haired terror of Vogue Magazine, and the very intelligent mentor who reminded her to always keep her eyes open to the world and its brilliant, fantastical beauty.
As I agonized over how to depict--in the most child friendly way-- the Ten Plagues, my kitchen-addled brain slowly registered how much I like Grace Coddington. Of course I knew from the outset that I would love watching Anna Wintour edit the living shit out of Vogue’s 2007 September issue. The ever poised Ms. Wintour, hovering at just half a decibel below bitchy, did not disappoint. But Grace Coddington, of whom I knew nothing, was completely entrancing.
Let me begin, please, with exhibit A: the hair. Oh the hair! Unbelievably long and as orange as a creamsicle. Grace Coddington’s hair is the perfect frizzy foil to Anna Wintour’s smoothed bob. It trails behind her in a frenzy through the offices of American Vogue, everywhere making a mockery of Ms. Wintour’s tightly-held leaky red pen.
Her unabashedly ornate photo spreads are full of little fuzzy dogs and severe black wigs, leaping models and pot bellied photographers caught in front of the camera. One gets the sense that this very serious woman has, deep down, a fully intact sense of play and a refreshingly childlike approach to revealing the artistry in fashion.
In the immortal words of Liz Lemon; I want to go to there.
There is something so satisfying about allowing the imagination to wander where it desires. Sometimes, I will admit, I spend hours fantasizing about outfits. I will hook into the stationary bike in our workout room, and as my little legs spin furiously against the wheel’s resistance, I let my mind drift to…oh…let’s say the upcoming all class reunion at my high school.
I will naturally be having a great hair day. My lazy waves will swish against my back as I walk through the old halls in a ridiculous pair of nude patent leather high heeled pumps. I will be wearing a dove gray rouched pencil skirt paired with an impossibly delicate, nude lace blouse with flutter sleeves and a bow at the waist. And the kicker? A royal blue clutch purse; the iris in a field of wheat. Minimal makeup will surely convince people that I barely made an effort to pull myself together. Anyone I ever had a crush on will be quietly and unshakably wowed. The diamonds on my left hand will sparkle greatly, as will the very handsome husband on my arm.
Grandiose, I know. But this is where my mind goes.
And I feel strange about revealing this because it seems both so private and so vain. And if you see me, you’ll think that spacey look in my eyes means I am in the process of envisioning myself sitting on a white cloud, wrapped in Hermes scarves (really, I’m just spacey…a product of ever present diffuse anxiety mixed with ever present sleepiness). But to my surprise, I am going to let you know this about myself. I like to picture what I will wear on any given occasion. It helps me feel like I can walk into a room and not completely implode under the weight of my insecurity. And there is the other thing; the delicious feeling of granting yourself a little vanity. I hope you do it too. I’d like to think that my very hard working mother with a PhD in education spends a little time during the day just thinking about how luminous she is. Because she is luminous. And I’d like to think that my incredible Maid of Honor has started to realize how captivating she will look at the wedding in her chocolate brown pencil dress. I just have the nagging feeling that this stuff isn’t so trivial.
So I will continue to let myself play. To think of that orange haired terror of Vogue Magazine, and the very intelligent mentor who reminded her to always keep her eyes open to the world and its brilliant, fantastical beauty.
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