Cranky Is The New Perky

Archive for the ‘Fashion’ Category

‘cause an 80’s revival won’t stop (thanks Belgian Waffle for getting that song stuck in my head). 

My lovely friend who I will call by one of her fond nicknames Marzipan, or Mars for short (not that she is saccharine sweet or composed of almond paste) sent me an email showing rompers.  For women.  In dreaded terry even (I haven’t the courage to go back and confirm this).  I won’t name the company as they will probably sue me and we would lose our new hitch hauler and my spouse would be most unhappy.  Let us just say they are called “City-type Clothing-purveyors”.  I retaliated in this fashion war by sending her a link to a pair of white, cigarette cut, calf zip denim capris.  For $178 bucks.  Sadly, I was in a store this weekend wandering around and stroking and looking fondly at the clothes (it’s what I do since I have no actual money to spend) and I saw the dark version of those capri zip jeans.  I was alternately fascinated and repelled and found myself reaching out for them.  “Stop it Jessica” I said (possibly out loud) “You threw these out in 1984 when you went all punk/goth/ whatever.  $178 buck!  Remember the electric bill.  Think of the children.” 

I suspect mine were acid washed, or at least artistically faded.

I am waiting for them to bring back those braided headbands that you wore across your forehead.  I had quite the collection.  I remember one pair that was white leather, white suede, and gold lame.  My mother has a picture of me meeting Coretta Scott King, tragically marred by the fact that I am wearing one of these creations.

And knickers (no, not Brit underpants).  Those cropped pants, often in corduroy, that came to and buttoned under the knee.  Try being an ultra tall, bean pole skinny, white chick on the #96 or the #70 bus and see what the comedians of the back row (every bus has them along with the same soda bottle that has been rolling around in the back for decades) do to you.  I recall them asking when the Mayflower was coming (among other things).

I know everything comes around again, and nostalgia is my drug of choice, but as much as I enjoy reliving the past I also like moving forward.  I have several large boxes of letters, cards, photos, journals that have made every move with me.  Most (all except 1 new one) of my friends are from elementary school to the college years.  I love Facebook because it has enabled me to find and reconnect with certain people again.  But like all real friendships the conversations can continue off the webpage and into real life.  Some of them I will be seeing in the flesh this summer.  And those who are farther away I will be visiting as soon as I can.

I went to DC to see The Damned in May – birthday celebration graciously provided by Mars and P.  and Mars was on her East Coast tour (slogan to be announced).  At the show Mars and I were obnoxious lunatics, not drunk on alcohol as much as adrenaline and joy and the sheer perversity of us and the way we egg each other on.  It was great seeing so many people who had not aged or changed for the worse.  Being back in a dark, noisy (no longer smoky) club felt as real and natural as my day to day life and job.  Considering I spent the formative years of 16-28 in clubs listening to loud music it should.  I was ecstatically, brilliantly happy.  It wasn’t reliving the past that made me euphoric – it was reconnecting and the possibility of all the shared future memories.  The past is inspiration and not the endpoint.

            

Mothership tagged me for this.  I don’t know any other bloggers to tag (new girl here) but Reader, feel free to do it.

1.What are your current obsessions?

A pair of Doc Martens with sequins I have been craving for 6 months now.  And a gray bustle mac from Miss Selfridges (they do international delivery).  The boots will replace my beloved purple ones (gone many years ago).  Miss S. reminds me of the weekend in the B&B in Cardiff after the dig in Wales when we first discovered the beauty and magic of that store and my whole year in London.  The real bat skull necklace from Loved to Death.  Nemo in Slumberland in hardcover.  Every volume of Louise Gluck’s poetry.  They are all on my birthday list. 

2. Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?

My grey trouser jeans from Joes (subverting the dress code here as they are cut like trousers so can’t be jeans) and any one of my t-shirts by Velvet.  Velvet is having a sale and I have been browsing their site like porn.  Adding the Lucca dress in Kiln to the list.
3. Last dream you had?

I dreamed that the sister of an old friend of mine had a massive apartment in Kalorama and all her possessions were being auctioned off.  But a lot of them were my things.  That’s my Klimt poster of The Kiss!  That’s my bat carved dressing table!  My old friend and her friends were giggling and laughing at my despair and wouldn’t help.  Waking up,  realized that most of these things were sold/given away over the years.  I still dream of my grandmother’s house and everything in it, down to the wallpaper and the smell of the closets.
4. Last thing you bought?

For the ten year old’s birthday: dog that jumps in the air and does flips, remote control flying saucer, pirate finger puppets (I kept 2), galatic space blaster, a tiny trebuchet, Bakugan (we are singlehandedly supporting the Japanese toy industry), scented pencils, Dogwood ts.

5. What are you listening to?

Rites of Spring (the DC band, not Stravinsky).  Remembering the shows, the being mashed against the stage, the dragging boot of the stage diver hitting my head, the intensity, the camaderie, the sweat.
6. If you were a god/goddess who would you be?

Athena.  Smart, independent, very vengeful, liked to be alone.
7. Favourite holiday spots?

Our place in Maine on Harpswell Neck.   I could watch the colors of the water and the sky change all day for the rest of my life.  And the smell – of salt, pinetrees, seaweed, drying mussels in the pools.
8. Reading right now?

Microbiology, Anna Karenina, The Making of a Marchioness.
9. Four words to describe yourself.

Stubborn, driven, easily bored, loyal.
10. Guilty pleasure?

Bad tv (Bravo, the Style Channel).  Forensic crime shows.  Going into boutiques and trying on clothes.  Chocolate in small quantities.  Playing with my miniatures.
11. Who or what makes you laugh until you’re weak?

I work hard at my job and rarely take my breaks.  What keeps me going is the email chains between my friends M, P, and me.  Recent topics: whether Kate Mosses curtains match her drapes, why it’s all Amanda’s fault, our top 4 criteria, the joys of cattiness.  In fact, I am going to use bits of them as my rotating blog taglines.  Their comebacks and comments are so good I find myself snorting with laughter and hiding my head under my desk.
12. Favourite spring thing to do?

Not cleaning, although I do it.  It is the only time I like taking the kids to the beach, before the crowds and the heat.
13. When you die, what would you like people to say about you at your funeral?

She looks just like a Bauhaus video.
14. Best thing you ate or drank lately?

After Valentines day, a gorgeous steak with blue cheese.  Tender and perfect.
15. When did you last go for a night out?

In February we went to see our friend Patrick Tracey read from his book “Stalking Irish Madness”.  I was in a bar, in DC, with friends and my beloved husband, I had a cider, I heard good writing.  I was euphoric.
16. Favourite ever film?

Just one?  I used to know Betty Blue by heart.  I love Cinema Paradisio.  And Breakfast at Tiffany’s.  And Rear Window.
17. Care to share some wisdom?

If someone says they love you, but then try to change everything about who you are, they don’t love you at all.
18. Song you can’t get out of your head?

“Love Song” by the Damned.
19. Thing you are looking forward to?

DC, the Damned, seeing people I haven’t seen in 14 years.  Not just looking forward to it, living for it. 
20. If money were no object, which designer would you wear?

Right now, Rag and Bone.  I love those razor slim jackets and trousers.
Rules of the game. Respond and rework. Answer questions on your own blog (or facebok page). Replace one question. Add one question. Tag 6 people.

            

A strange thing happened to me on the way back from the library.   I had gone to pick up some books (spring break next week, I want to go wild and read fiction all night) and read back copies of Vogue.  Mass purchase of shiny fashion magazines is not in the budget and I would never get a chance to enjoy it at home.  There are the interruptions and the noise and must of all the harsh illustration of the difference between the beautiful dream-like world of Vogue and my own reality.  When I say my house is falling down around me, that is not hyperbole.  It is a shrine to unfinished projects and my own bad housekeeping.

I had this rush of hope and excitement. I was imagining this poufy, strapless, layered plaid dress I had seen in a shop.  I saw it over jeans or leggings, with the black leather jacket I saw once and am still searching for (thin, narrow armed, fitted to the body, glove-soft).  I got distracted, clutching my books to me, and nearly walked into traffic. 

There is a difference between the world in my head and the 42 year old reality that will confront me when I eventually look in the mirror.  I don’t mean that in a bad way.   I don’t have a lot of issues with growing older.  Due to financial constraints and personal preference, I don’t spend a lot of time and money on beauty regimes or anti-aging.   I am low maintenance to the point of slovenliness.  I forget that what would have looked great on my 27 year old self wouldn’t work now.

I spend the time I can escape from the office and from the family wandering around shops, preferably little boutiques with nice people who have the same insane love of fashion and design.   I look at shiny things and cute tops.  I don’t buy (again the budget) but I look and I dream and I try on and I style outfits in my head.

My love affair with Vogue (sometimes open, sometimes secret) began in the tiny library on the lonely top floor of a failing school in a forgotten neighborhood of DC.  I would finish my day’s worth of schoolwork easily and early.   They would send me to the library rather than try to teach me anything more.  At school, and at home, which was a library in itself, I worked my way through anything I could get my hands on, War and Peace, Vanity Fair, The Odyssey, whether I understood it or not.

The first time I opened the heavy, glossy covers of Vogue I stepped into a world of beauty and creativity I never knew existed, stuck in a still-small southern city in the late 1970s.  Later, as a punk rock girl, I tried to deny my love of fashion.  I soon found it was just another way to express it.   I assembled outfits of Victorian bed jackets, homemade long black skirts, corsets from the Dor Ne Corset shop.  I wore an Edwardian dress to a show on my 19^th birthday and the lace was so old that by the end of the day it hung in tattered strings from the silk under dress, which thankfully remained intact.  Lisa took me to get sewn in extensions in a squat in Notting Hill and Nina Hagen showed up.   I couldn’t turn my head to see her.  I spent hours haunting the designer floor of Woodies downtown, stroking the Donna Karan (literally), ignored by the salesclerks, followed by security.  I worked at Dream Dresser (never underestimate the power of a little black latex dress).  And then Betsey Johnson (where we spent more than we made, crackheads working in a cocaine factory).  In London, I mainlined outfits.  I can remember every item of clothing I ever owned, but I have trouble recalling ex-lovers.  In each item I purchased I thought I was purchasing the power of transformation and adventure.

What I had a glimpse of the other day before I jaywalked into the road was the joy inherent in playing and trying.   I don’t mean just clothes.   Playing with and transforming how I look was just one of the ways I dealt with the soul sucking dramas of my youth and the joyless twin overlords boredom and frustration.  What I was riding was the rush that comes from inspiration and the mad urge to do something creative and fun.  The foul mouthed cross stitch samplers my friends and I dreamed up the other night had me all riled up like a three year old on a sugar binge. 

Someone asked me why I wanted to make my writing public.  I write everyday in case as Bukowski said, “being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder.”  But to write to myself anymore is not enough.  I fear I will end up wandering the streets of this seaside town muttering lines of poetry to myself (I memorize poems – it gives your mind something to do in bad or boring moments).

I still have some of my old partners in crime.  We got dressed up and went to shows, finding other misfits.  We made friendships that still last where we can speak in inside jokes and random memories.  Or we suffered through elementary, middle or high school together.  We shared the powerlessness of childhood and the suffocated frustration of adolescence, where everything is desired but little is possible.

I promise it wont be all doom (but if you expect perkiness and positivity, move along, you’ve got the wrong girl).  There will be humor (dark, the only kind I do) and visuals and odd stories (I have some good ones, I bet you have too).

In the words of Dante (re-read the Inferno, it is new and amazing every time):

“Abandon all hope all ye who enter here (but wear a good outfit).”