Fashion Emergency

Dear Carters, Gymboree, and the rest of Y'all: 

My husband used to be a Korean translator, so he traveled to Asia fairly often in his younger days.

He's been to Japan at least twice, and has always been amazed and...stunned by the creative applications of the English language.

Don't get me wrong. If I was writing anything in Japanese, it would be a disaster. Big ups to the Japanese for even making the effort. Nevertheless, the mangled results are often funny, or just plain weird.

This is typical.

As is this.

Paul reports that it wouldn't be unusual to see a large billboard saying something like, "Elephant Fuck." No further explanation given, or apparently needed.

I thought of this today as Joel and I enjoyed a refreshing beverage together:

My mother bought him this shirt, and I find it quite dashing indeed. But also confusing. Don't alligators eat squirrels and people and fish? I imagine they would eschew kale or brussel sprouts with a swift barrel roll and a bite to the jugular.

Maybe I'm over-thinking this.

I'm not opposed to dressing children in silly outfits for my own amusement:

Owen's shirt says, "Hi, I'm new here."  Joel is dressed as a giraffe. And LOVING it.

Although I personally wouldn't do it, I can see the humor in shirts like this. Because I'm secretly a twelve-year-old boy:

Also, I'm all about newborn clothing that says, "I love Mommy." After all, when the little beastie projectile vomits unspeakable things at three AM, it's good to have a reminder.

I just ask, clothing designers, for a bit of logic.  I mean, I just don't get how "Good Boy" and a stegosaurus go together.

And while you're at it? You can stop taunting mothers who have only boys with things like this:

Love,

Me

Sundays in My City: Foundational Undergarments

When I first moved to my rural county, one of the first questions out of my mouth was, "Where is the mall?"

It's not so much that I was a slave to fashion, it's just that I had grown up in suburbia, where there are malls, and there are movie theaters with stadium seating, and there are chain restaurants. That's just the way I've always known things to be. The sun will rise, the winds will blow, babies will be born, people will pass away, and there will be large shopping malls.

So, you can imagine my surprise when people said, "The closest mall is in Annapolis, which is about an hour and a half drive away."

I felt like I had moved to a lunar outpost.

Seven years later, I can say that I've managed to do just fine. I can find most of what I need online or in  regular stores. If I do go to the mall, it's maybe once a year. And, since living in the country has made me less patient with crowds, trafffic, and general tomfoolery, once a year is plenty.

Nevertheless, I went to the mall yesterday with a good friend, because we both needed some time away. I bought a few items, and we had lunch. It was all quite fantastic.

However, I must share my thoughts about bras. I went to Victoria's Secret specifically because they have the magic bra with the straps that move around. I wanted to wear tank tops and halter tops and other such things. Sadly, though, my days of letting the girls fly free are behind me. So, I was off to purchase the magic seven-way bra. Onward!

I went in and got measured. I must say that Oprah failed me. She had a show a few years back talking about how most women wear ill-fitting bras that add pounds or discomfort or other terrible things. My hero Tim Gunn has also opined about the necessity of foundational undergarments. I was sold, and prepared to let a stranger measure my chest.

Alas, on Oprah and Tim Gunn's shows, the women profiled were told that their cup sizes were too small. They were told that they had been constricting their bosoms. Let the girls loose! Give 'em breathing room!

No such luck for me.

They measured me and gave me tiny bras that could probably support a Cabbage Patch Doll. I asked, tentatively, hopefully, "Do you think I need a larger bra?"

The salesgirl shook her head quickly, "Oh, no. Definitely not. Not even close."

I didn't ask anymore questions because I was afraid the ladies would re-direct me to Gymboree for My First Foundational Undergarment.

***
I didn't take any pictures for Sundays in My City in the mall, because I think you've all seen a mall. Also, I would guess that brandishing my camera phone in Victoria's Secret could very well be misconstrued.

Therefore, here are some completely unrelated shots of the kids at the beach:

Thanks to Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City! Come visit her to see how you can share your city each Sunday.

Who says I don't listen?

The Purse:

 

Made from gum wrappers. BEAST, I tell you. 

Clothing Allowance

I took the boys to Old Navy today--60% off all summer essentials! Since,in my mind, it's still going to be summer for a bit, I was curious to learn what "essentials" I was missing.

I loaded my cart with several skirts (including a large one from the children's department, that in a moment of lunacy, I thought would fit), a sundress, tank tops, and blouses. After much foolishness in the dressing room, I settled on a pair of loose capri pants.

I didn't choose the pants because they were cute. I didn't choose them because they were cheap. I selected them because they were as comfortable as the cut-off sweatpants I wore to the store, paired with a tank top purchased sometime during the Clinton administration.

It's an ugly thing when you compare new clothing to the clothing you actually own. I put on the Old Navy stuff and suddenly had an actual figure. Then, like a bizarro makeover show, I returned to my actual clothing and got hit by the fugly stick.

Here's the worst part. As I walked up to the counter, holding the comfortable capri pants and two MATCHING Superman T-shirts for the boys (Squeeeee!), I debated the expense, worried that we would be living on Top Ramen and hose water until the next paycheck. I feared that Paul would scratch his head and sigh deeply, as he is wont to do when fretting about money.

I asked the lady to scan the shirts. $10.50 each. I decided that the shirts weren't 22 dollars worth of cute. I asked her to scan the pants. And, while comfortable, they weren't $17.00 worth of comfortable.

I left empty handed, wearing my dumpy outfit, feeling a bit foolish for spending a hour trying on clothes for nothing.I felt stupid that I lack a real job--instead of making my mark on the world, I window shop. I felt silly and unsubstantial, because I was letting something as petty as a pair of pants get me down. I was upset that I didn't buy the pants, and I was upset that I cared about the dumb pants in the first place.

I told Paul about the experience, and he looked me up and down and said, "I'm burning those pants. You should have spent the money."

I started in on my I-don't-see-adults-so-who-cares-what-I-look-like whinefest. He stopped me mid-sentence and said, very gently, "You are allowed to take care of yourself."

Tomorrow, I'm going to put on lipstick, comb my hair, and wear clean clothing that makes me feel good. After all, I'm allowed.

Fashion Victim

My friend Coby gave me the perfect answer for the "Why is he/she black/brown/tall/short/fat/skinny/etc?" question:

"Because it pleased God to make him/her that way."

Ta-da! Brilliant!

This is why people should talk about race more often instead of tiptoeing on eggshells (because walking on eggshells is too direct for most people, myself included).

In related (you'll see soon enough) news, I went shopping today with my friend Jen, who deserves a medal for answering the question, "Are these pants too tight?" fifteen gazallion trillion times. I needed to go shopping because I tossed all of my shorts and summer clothes out in a post-partum cleaning frenzy last September.

When shopping, I repeatedly asked Jen, "Who are these extra long T-shirts designed for?" They only look good on six foot tall people without hips. In other words, not me. It could be Ann Taylor, The Gap, or Macy's---no matter where I went, it was the same hobo-length shirt, with my birthin' hips destroying the clean lines I so desired.

I mean---Every. Shirt. Looked. Like. Ass. (Except for the forty-four dollar tank top that I was too cheap to buy, because, HELLO! It's a forty-four dollar tank top!)

Don't even get me started on the idea that I am supposed to buy numerous shirts or tank tops and then artfully layer them. I can barely get one shirt on, let alone several.

And good grief, WHY am I supposed to wear a FRICKIN' SCARF with my artfully arranged tank tops or something called a "lightweight summer cardigan"? Why, Fashion Gods, Why?

I would drown my sorrows in Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream, except that it would add additional poundage to my HIPS. BAH!

I suppose this would be a good time to point out that my hips look like this because it pleased God to make them this way.

Fine. The hips aren't the problem. The fashion designers, on the other hand, need to get a fucking clue. The End.

Here's what I ended up purchasing:
Don't say I don't take risks. That's THREE different shades of khaki there, baby.

I also bought this:
I'm actually very pleased and happy with this purchase. Poor Jen was asked to drive to Ann Taylor Loft for the third time in one shopping trip because I was not going to buy this, then I was, then I wasn't sure...then I finally bought it.

Joel's take on all this?
Hey, Mom, quit yer bitching. At least you get to wear clothes.

As for Owen?
Don't mind me, I'm just making towers out of toothpicks and mini-marshmallows, because of my mother's spiritual crafts quest.

Now, really, THE END.

You've Been Served

I shouldn't watch South Park, but I do. One of my favorite episodes was a take-off of the dance movie, You've Been Served. Basically, roving dance gangs have dance-offs. The less-awesome dancers, when defeated, have thus been "served." And nobody, nobody wants to be served.

Nevertheless, I've been served several times today.

After writing an entry about how my mother never buys me any clothes, because she only buys clothes for the boys, I get a package with three cute blouses in it from (you guessed it) my mom. There's no way that she did a rush shopping job in response to the blog---it was in the mail when I wrote it. Yes, I've been served. By my mom.

Since it's been awhile since I've discussed Owen's excrement, here's his newest. After doing his business, he looked down at the finished product and declared, "That's the chicken I ate." Chicken, consider yourself served.

I was trying to teach Owen to recognize the letters of his name (which he does). We then worked on Joel, Mommy and Daddy, to less success. For fun, I asked Owen to tell me his middle name (he had just told me that my "real name" is Nancy and Daddy's "real name" is Paul.) He started laughing, and said, "Mommy, middle names are not for sharing."

We gave him the middle name of Kenneth, which is perfectly respectful--he's named after his great-grandfather. I do, however, understand that some middle names are perhaps not for sharing. I'm recall our confirmation in 8th grade. We're all standing in front of the church, getting a blessing, and the pastor says, "Ryan Leroy H--" (protecting the innocent). Never, ever would we have suspected that we had a Leroy in our midst. The solemn moment of blessing was sullied by the titters and outright guffaws of snotty adolescents. Poor Ryan Leroy.

Middle names--you've been served by a two year old. Middle names are not for sharing.

I was reading that the film Slumdog Millionare has been nominated for Best Picture. I haven't seen it yet, but I understand that it talks about the harsh poverty and circumstances in the slums of India. Despite the dreary location, it's supposed to be a good, entertaining film. I'm looking forward to seeing it. So Bollywood films and Bangalore call centers---I hope that this movie is a success, and India is served. Perhaps, something will be done to improve the miserable existences of the lower/working classes in India. Of course, if I am talking out of ignorance, I hope that I am served by another's thoughtful perspective.

I stumble up the stairs at six am to get Joel. When he sees me, his face erupts into a beatific smile and his whole body thrashes with joy--arms flapping, legs kicking. Mommy has arrived. Exhaustion, you've been served. It's worth getting out of bed for this.

We're eating breakfast, and I find myself asking Owen, "Do you think Mommy's pretty?" Needy much?

Later on, we're driving home from the playground, and Owen says, "Mommy, talk about how I'm a good other brother." Needy? Perhaps. Is this a bad thing? Maybe not. We all have the need to hear good things, to feel validated and loved. I'm grateful that I can lean on Owen when I'm feeling ugly, and he has a mother that will tell him he's a good older brother--again.

Game face? You've been served. When you love somebody, you let them need you.

Crisis at the Mall

I wasn't sure that I liked Michelle Obama's yellow gown when I first saw it on CNN this morning. I guess I figured she would wear a jewel tone---an emerald or fuschia. The yellow/gold color surprised me. The more I looked at it, the more I liked it--and apparently, all the fashionistas have declared it to be a success.

Really, I don't know why I even try to talk about clothing and fashion. I am not a clothes horse. I have begged---begged---friends, acquaintances, strangers to submit my name to TLC's What Not To Wear. I would take all sorts of abuse to have Clinton and Stacy dump my pathetic wardrobe in the trash can, then set me loose on the streets of NYC with a 5,000 gift card. I really, really need it, because I have no idea how to dress myself.

I, like most women in America, have body issues. I also get overwhelmed way too easily. So, set me loose in a store and I freak out. There are too many colors, too many styles. Good Grief, jeans alone have a vocabulary that drives me to drink. Skinny? Boot Cut? Boyfriend Cut? What the hell? Apparently, there are jeans designed to be worn with heels. Who knew? I. Just. Hate. It.

If I manage to wade through the clusterfuck (which is a new favorite word of mine--sorry Mom) of labels, brands, and designs, I still need to find something that fits. Which brings back the body issues. If something doesn't fit, or if I see the tell-tale muffin top spill over the hem of the jeans, I generally say, "Fuck it," and go home empty handed, instead of trying a different size or style. See no evil, hear no evil. Denial is a wonderful place to live.

Except---I have no clothes. I only get clothes when my mother buys them for me. Now that I've reproduced, Mom has channeled her shopping energy into the boys, leaving me to fend for myself. And, since I've said the f-word TWICE in a single post, I won't be getting ANYTHING, unless they start making clothes my size at Gymboree.

Thus, I wear a University of Arizona sweatshirt and torn jeans five days a week. It's just easier to avoid the whole nightmare.

Friends think I'm joking when I say that I need them to take me shopping and tell me what to wear. It's no joke. I am an adult that cannot function in a dressing room.

Instead, I'll sit in the living room, wearing the blue and red U of A hoodie with pajama bottoms, judging Michelle Obama's style.

The idea of a girl, interrupted.

I really, really, really am happy about having boys. Truly. I had my weekend where I laid to rest the idea of Little Julia or Olivia, and I've chosen to move on. Now that I've held Joel, I'm in love. I would never trade him or Owen in for anything.

However...I do melt a bit when the girly world intersects with mine. For example, my friend, Jen, had her daughter in polka dotted tights. Oh. My. I. Was. Swooning. Easter dresses, Brownie uniforms, frilly swim suits...they all stir up, in the words of Lightening McQueen, "Feelings that I myself do not totally understand."

I'm not a girly girl myself, and I understand that clothes are mere window dressing, just fluff. I am, however, a confident woman. I survived adolescence and some of the less-than-stellar choices of my college years, and came out intact. I have the scars to prove it.

So, I regret the fact that I will never be able to talk to Julia or Olivia about inner strength, about confidence, about the power of being comfortable in one's own skin. I regret that these ghost daughters will never see me complete a race, take pride in my work, or walk confidently into a room.

I know that the flip side of this is that Owen and Joel will learn, from our example, what a loving marriage looks like. When they look for future partners in life, I hope that they see beyond the fluff and marry women who love themselves and expect their husbands to love and respect them unequivocally.

It's not so much the loss of a dream as the realization that the dream is just different.

That being said, I totally dressed up my two boys in matching green bear sweaters yesterday.