Style Memories: Betsey Was My First

I’ve realized in the past few days that I misspoke.

On my “Who's That Girl” page, I say that Michael, Michael Kors, that is, was my first.

I was wrong.

Betsey was my first. She was my first self-purchased designer ensemble.

I remember like it was yesterday. Of course.

I was living in a group house in Takoma Park, MD, with 3 other Terps. I was working for a non-profit, doing reasonably well, financially, but not that well. A dear Australian friend came to visit me on one of her long trips to the States.

I couldn’t tell you why we went to Pentagon City mall. Maybe just ‘cause. Maybe one of us was on the hunt for something. Maybe to show her a True American Shopping Experience.

I also couldn’t tell you why we stopped in Betsey Johnson. It was probably me. Nim just isn’t the Betsey type. Nor was I, really, at the time. I’m much more prone to pattern and sequins now than I was at 23 or 24. Back then, I was a jeans girl, through and through.

Somehow, though, I was drawn to the coat. It was - still is, as it still hangs in my closet - a deep red crushed velvet. Faux fur, in a sort of distressed, matted, 90s grungy way. As grunge as Betsey gets, that is. I’m guessing it appealed to my dramatic, Romantic side, the side that still pines over romance novels that disguise themselves as historical fiction, the side that has a soft spot for anything vampire, anything gothic.

Next to it hung a sleek black jersey gown. Much less dramatic, the gown has pretty little appliqué flowers on the straps, making spaghetti straps not spaghetti. The gown is still easy to wear, even though I now have to don a strapless bra. I didn’t have to at 24.

I hemmed and hawed. I wasn’t yet 25, had a 25-year-old type salary, and no real reason to own this ensemble. It was somewhere around $700, even back then. It was, I fully admit, the beginning of the end of a bad financial stage in my life, a stage in which I used an American Express card irresponsibly. At 38, I’m finally clear of the mess I made.

But that ensemble was, I think, well worth the $700. I wore it to death, every time I could. I wore the dress under a turtleneck sweater when I wanted to “dress it down.” I wore it with black knee high boots I sought for ages, finally finding them in Cambridge, UK. I took it to Bremen, Germany, with me for the year.

I wore it on our second date. That would be the second date I had with H. I hadn’t yet fallen for him - but apparently he had for me. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, just that I needed to dress “cool.” Out came the Betsey.

I also kinda figured it out. I don’t remember what else he told me that tipped me off, but I figured out that we were going to Blues Alley. We saw The Roy Hargrove Quintet. We went back to Blues Alley so many times I can’t count. That first time we went, it was chilly. The Betsey was perfect. But when he surprised me again, 6 years later, with a Carribean Jazz Project show and a pretty little box, it was summer. I wasn’t wearing the Betsey. In fact, the coat had been relegated to the back of my closet. It didn’t fit. 6 years of my 20s+ dating + world travels without enough exercise meant that my beloved Betsey was just waiting.

Until 3 weeks ago, when I pushed my own style limits and held a little personal fashion show, trying on all sorts of stuff for the week that was All About H. On a whim, I pulled on the coat over a cami and jeans that now fit again.

It fit.

I’m still in love.

I then tried on the dress.

It fit. With a bra, of course, but it fit.

I didn’t end up wearing it to the WW Club we attended that week, but it’s back out of the back of my closet.

The sad part is, of course, that just as I’m able to wear Betsey again, she’s shuttering her doors. I don’t know the whole story. There’s not much in the press. There’s speculation about who will fill the retail gap (Michael Kors, MSN Money? Really? The same consumer? I. Don’t. Think. So.) Betsey’s all that we hope a designer to be - especially an American designer. She’s vibrant, she’s eccentric.

She’s a pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps kinda gal. She’s a cancer survivor. She is, in some ways, the Amercian Dream. I’m sure I’m not alone in hoping, wishing, and dreaming, that this Chapter 11 is just a temporary restructuring strategy. Businesses do that, you know.

Because I can’t wait to wear more Betsey.

All About H: The Culmination

Last week, I posted about the Three Events we had to attend, which were All About H.

I'm a Very Lucky Lady.

Really.

With H, I've done and seen more than a girl could ever expect. It started with our first date to a DC United playoff game (back in the day, when they regularly made the playoffs), continued with our second date to DC's legendary jazz club, Blues Alley. I wore Betsey Johnson and black knee-high boots I bought while visiting my dear friend in England the year before.

Thank you, #healthyme, for getting me back into an ensemble chock full o' memories.

We threw parties (we still do, occasionally), then literally legendary. If you’re Of Our Age, maybe you were at our Studio 54 parties? Maybe? We would meet random people at bars who’d partied in our cleared-out-group-house-let’s-add-velvet-ropes-this-year fetes. I painted huge "54s" and giant crescent moons with coke spoons on drop cloths. We dug through Goodwill stores and closets to find stunners like the butterfly top I found a copy of at Forever XXI and wore to a very 2012 speakeasy.

Just after this photo was taken with sosarahsays, H split for the hills, having had enough of the twitterscene. Well, the bar at Chadwick's down the street, where I found him with kcellis & crew about 30 minutes later.

But really, it’s all about H.

H is a Music Guy, among other things. It’s not unusual for us to have one of the artsy cable channels on on a Saturday afternoon. The Beans are regularly exposed to - and must learn about - vintage concerts, from Billy Idol (The Bean does a mean Idol impression) to Chuck Berry (when we played the "Hail! Hail! Rock 'n' Roll" documentary again yesterday, Bean No. 2 started tappin’ his foot and bobbin’ his head, then went, “oh!” and made a beeline for the music drawer in their room, bringing back his guitar to jam along).

Back in the day, we spent multiple New Years afterparties with Ahmad Jamal at Blues Alley. We got ridiculously excited when Bohemian Caverns finally reopened. He popped the question by sliding a pretty little velvet box across the teeny table up against the wall while The Carribean Jazz Project was jamming on stage. We have regular conversations about how and when we’re going to take The Beans to Jazz Fest. And Metallica concerts.

So it’s not a surprise that H was contemplating a road trip to St. Louis just to see Chuck Berry at one of his now monthly concerts. Chuck Berry is, well, a Music God. When you watch other musicians - no slouches themselves - like, oh, Keith Richards and Eric Clapton talk about him, you can’t help but be humbled.

So a very thoughtful friend called one day. He’d just bought 4 tickets to Chuck Berry’s show at The New Historic Howard Theater. He and H have talked about H’s road trip plans, and he thought maybe, just maybe, we’d be interested in 2 of the tickets.

Well, duh.

So Saturday night, we met these Hip Cool Friends in their Hip Cool Apartment in their Hip Cool Neighborhood, literally steps from the theater. We walked over and took a seat right as it opened, opting for a balcony booth table. We were, to say the least, excited. We ordered leisurely, with a saavy and honest bartender-turned-waitress, looking forward to sharing a bottle of Argentine malbec and that Marcus Samuelsson-designed menu. International geeks that we are, the conversation turned to the Middle East travels. We were having a lovely evening over good wine and good food.

And then the band walked on stage.

And then Chuck Berry walked on stage.

If you’ve seen him in the last few years, you know. You know that the 85-year-old legend sometimes plays off key. He sometimes forgets songs and song lyrics. He changes key whenever the heck he feels like it (but has been doing that, well, always. He’s a stinker like that. Just ask Keith Richards.) His band manages him and his goodnatured bullheadedness brilliantly.

And he’s amazing. Positively amazing.

Pardon the dark pic, but really, it's Chuck Berry, people. Chuck Berry.

I won’t bore you with a description of the theater (incredible rennovation) or the menu. I won’t share our post-concert drinks with other friends (hel-LO Wardrobe Oxygen ladies!). I will just remind you, as H said during one of the last songs,

“You hear that? You hear that sound? Chuck Berry invented that.”

And changed Rock & Roll forever.