On Costumes and Creativity...and Motherhood

I’m a working mama. I’m a mother who works outside the home. And while I have no time for Pinterest projects, I’ve said from the very 9-years-ago beginning (before there was Pinterest, thankyouverymuch) that there are two things I’ll do: bake and decorate the birthday cakes from scratch and make their Halloween costumes myself.

Because I want to.

Those that know me know my career field has wonky deadlines and can have long hours. I’ve pulled more all-nighters in one - ahem - active - working year than I ever pulled in college. And yet, I refuse to fall for the store bought cake or costume. It frustrates the bejeezus out of H. Every year, as I stay up too late in the days before Halloween, tacking tulle onto an evil queen skirt out or stitching a Batman symbol onto a black leotard, he laments, “Next year, we’re buying them.”

But we never do. Truth is, and especially as this blog has taken a backseat to life changes, my creative outlets are few and far between. I admit fully and heartily that I’m using the Beans as an excuse to take time to create. I tell myself that it’s because it’s important for them, that they’ll remember when they grow up. They might. I do. I remember that my mommy made our costumes from scratch when we were little, and I know that my baking talents come from her. I know that they love giving me a cake theme “order” and watching it come alive because I made it. I know that they enjoy and deliberate over their costume choice right up to the October 1 deadline I give them - in theory because I’m going to take all month to make it (I’m fairly certain I’ve never really worked on a single costume before the week right up to Halloween).

And then, a few months ago, dear friends gave the Bean a flamenco dress their daughter had gotten from other friends. It even has a big, dramatic hair flower. I offered to make a mantilla, at least. (Please let me make something, child. Let me make anything.) She threw me a bone: “I’ll be a dead flamenco dancer, Mama. You can do a dead face with makeup, right?”

“I know what I’m going to be for Halloween. I’m going to be Harper.” My Philly-area heart dropped deeper than my mama heart. Not only is my baby boy a Nats fan through and through, but he’d ditched his Ninjago green/gold ninja (that I would’ve had to Google to copy, but that’s the fun part) in favor of a costume for which we already owned all of the parts. He has multiple Nats hats, white baseball pants, red baseball socks, and, the crowning glory to which I succumbed at the late-season game we saw together, his white Harper jersey. He even has Nats eye black stickers.

I don’t have to make a single thing. I don’t have to sew a stitch. I don’t have to stay up late, trying to follow a pattern that’s more confusing than the worst IKEA directions ever. I can stay up late working on a dayjob deadline with no mama-guilt whatsoever. Zero.

When pajama day and Halloween Week at dance class collide.

And yet, the mama-guilt, though I’m not entirely sure that’s what it is, is strong in this one. That force, the force is strong. I’m itching to open up my sewing kit, but have no purpose. I’d hoped for this day, in a lot of ways, when they get excited about creating their own costumes. I have fond memories of putting my costumes together from things we had in our dressup box. That day is here, but I’m sad. I admit fully, I’m sad. I took pride in their joy and in their glee. I took pride in making their visions come to life.

Those are my feelings, though, and have absolutely nothing to do with their excitement around what is a fun, creative, and silly holiday. My feelings have no part in their experience, and shouldn’t. They’re there, and I’m acknowledging them here. I suppose this is what The Older Parents talk about when they tell us “one day, you’ll wish they weren’t growing up so fast,” when we Younger Parents complain about toddler tantrums or having to tie a shoe for the 10,000th time. They’re growing up. We’re doing our job.

So this year they’ll don their self-designed and self-created costumes. I’ll smear on a little ghoulish makeup; I know that next year, it’s likely she won’t even allow me to do that, that she’ll want to do it herself. I’ll relish this year for what it is. I’ll post pictures. It’s what we do.

And then I’ll go bake a complicated cake. A mama’s gotta have something, after all.

Lighter than...

air?

Lighter.

I feel lighter today. There’s a weight that’s lifted off my shoulders and my neck. I can turn my head more freely, to look around me and see my world. I can stand taller. I feel cleaner. I feel clearer.

The deadlines I write of still loom. In my business, they always do. The boxes still sit from our move, some unpacked, some not, some opened, but still full, sticking their proverbial noses out at me. We have a guest coming for three weeks, and nothing’s ready.

But I feel lighter.

On the surface, it’s my hair. I went to Jae today, and when she asked, “Just a trim?” per usual, I told her I was feeling a little antsy. “Do whatever you want,” I said. After...jeez...20 years? of cutting my hair, I trust her. She knows me.

She talked me out of my itch to put in a colored streak. Just a little one, tucked under, at the nape of my neck, where you really couldn’t see it. “But is it me pushing 42 and trying too hard to be young?” I asked her. She paused. A long time. Got it.

So I read a silly magazine, and we caught up. She worked her magic, quickly, efficiently. With each snip, I felt cleaner and lighter.

Cut, all Jae Woo at Franz Sebastian Salon, Bethesda. Color, all mine.

It’s a little shorter and a little edgier than my recent long cut. I’m a sucker for long hair. I love being able to put it up, and I love feeling it fall down my back. It’s glamorous, and I have a naturally covetable hair color. Truth be told, though? While it had been a bit too long since my last cut, I was particularly lazy on hair maintenance this time around. I’m a once-a-week washer, at best (thank the lord for dry shampoo). I can blow dry my hair well, but I don’t. Even if I could find my dryer in the boxes, I’m lazy, and only blow it out once in a while. So my hair loses...something.

“You look good!” No.2 said when he saw me afterwards. “But it’s too crazy and poofy.” They like what they like - and what they’re used to.

So do we. We like what we like. We like what we’re used to. We like our habits. But today, I took a total of an hour, including the drive and parking, as Jae’s the fastest stylist in town, and let someone alter a little thing (because let’s face it, she knows me, and the cut just isn’t that radical) lift me up and out.

I took care of myself today, and honored myself by maintaining my physical appearance. I let go of whatever had been hanging on in my lazy hair: that overwhelmed feeling that doesn’t let me feel like I can wash it, that reluctance to “bother” with something so trivial when I have so many other things to do, that focus on everything else.

Wash. Wash. Wash.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Poof. Poof. Poof.

One hour. Lighter.

Being on the Edge

Lately, I’ve been scared. I’ve been scared of the edges of a lot of things: new beginnings, old weights, things I can do, things I think I can’t do. I’ve even been scared of using things I know help me through the Scared, like writing and running and reaching out.

I have a couple of safe spaces with people - women, mostly - I trust implicitly. Even there, though, I’m hesitant. I’ll ‘fess up, look for sympathy, hear their support and advice. Then I blow past it, turning to unhealthy habits and hiding under physical and emotional covers, piling on the layers of protection.

And then, as it does (and has been trying to do recently - remember this?), the Universe started shouting at me again. While I haven’t even been able to bring myself to hide from my worries in books - my escape as long as I can remember - the reading I have been doing, on the Interwebs, poked at me again this morning.

Maria Popova’s Brain Pickings is one of my favorite places on the Interwebs. She has an incredible knack for finding the most apt observations - written and otherwise created - from recent and distant artists and writers. As a writer, that her pieces often speak to creativity and how our brains may or may not process and work speaks to me. Over my second cup of coffee, first at my DayJob desk, and procrastinating from starting a challenging day of “racking and stacking,” of “blocking and tackling” to get through the deadlines between me and next Wednesday, I read this.

I read it after this.

The sweet Scary Mommy piece left me wistful over my own 5 and a half year old. I’ve been lucky enough to spend the last few days with only him. His big sister is away at my mommy’s, so it’s just us. Yesterday, after an indulgent couple of hours at a mall chain restaurant and toy store, he crashed out, thrilled beyond belief that he could wear his new skeleton PJs, which he’s been wanting for ages. That they may not glow in the dark like he wanted might not be relevant. And I might be buying a new pair that does. But that’s for another indulgent day.

As I found him an hour after he went to bed in ours, completely relaxed and vulnerable, I marveled at his state of mind. I wished for his openness. I wished for that, as Libby Galin wrote in “20 Reasons 5 and a Half Rules," ”The willingness to wear a t-shirt with a jar of peanut butter wielding a butter knife fighting a jar of jelly brandishing a spoon, with no sense of irony at all.” (But number 6? The one about the joy of butt and farts? Got that one. Never lost it.)

I fell asleep early, but not as early as I’d have liked, worrying about the deadlines looming, and having wandered from cabinet to fridge to cabinet in my kitchen, looking for something just the right sweet-fat ratio to dull my worries. On edge, I walked away with an unsatisfying glass of cold water and went to bed.

So when I watched Bianca Giaever’s film this morning, smiling and nodding at the 6 year old view of a story that needed to be told, I got a little blindsided. I’d ignored the title, you see. “The Scared is scared” slipped by me, then crept back up after the bear and the mouse had to leave the pool after a not long enough visit because it closed.

the Scared is scared from Bianca Giaever on Vimeo.

“The Scared is scared of what you like.”

We adults wrap ourselves in layer after layer of worry and fear of the fear. I’m in that place right now. I know what works to help myself out of it, and yet I’m allowing myself to be in that space, oddly happy at the shield I’ve built, despite the frustration and shadow hovering. I know they’re there. I can feel them, and I can see the deep grey cloud at the edges of my world. I know what I like. I know my Scared is scared of it, and I know that’s why I won’t pick up a pen like I didn’t last night and write. If I did that, you see, I’d have to allow the frustration and shadow to creep past the edge. I’d have to allow them not in, but out of hiding, and acknowledge them.

5 and a half year olds and 6 year olds know how to do fear and edges. They may not have the words, but they know that they can cry and even scream to voice those emotions. They may not have the words to name those emotions, but they can acknowledge them. Especially if a grownup is there to listen, they can be in that space. It’s our job - my job, as a mother - to help them be there. As an adult, though, I have to be that for myself. I have to know that it’s not only ok to name and acknowledge the emotions, fear especially, but that it’s healthy to notice and observe where I am. I have to give the Scared a name and let it be there a bit.

That edge is a scary place. If I can name that place, then, and only then, will I, the grownup, be able to lift a pen or lace up my sneakers and let what I like chase the Scared away.

The Joy of a Break

2015’s going to be a big year. I can feel it. Even before changes were afoot in our family and with our friends, things were just brewing. So when it came to be that both H and I are not only changing jobs, but taking interesting, challenging steps (lord, how grown up of us), I wasn’t surprised.

He’s already on his self-imposed break, much deserved and very needed. He has a list of Things, but part of it is to just hang out with our Beans more, work on his Voice audition song, and take a breather. I’m done this phase of my career this Friday. I’ve got a few days “to myself” before we take a little getaway and then return to start the new phase.

We have laundry to fold. We have food to cook and stock in the freezer. We have boxes to sort, piles to donate. We have doctors appointments to schedule and make. Then there’s the list of things I need to do for me.

1. I need to read a book

2. I need to get a haircut

3. I need to get a mani/pedi for the first time in I don’t know how many months

4. I need to go for a run

5. I need to take a nap

6. I need to buy some new black pumps...and maybe some red ones

7. I need to have lunch with my man

I know I won’t be able to get all of the Things in. I also know that these things are really “needs.” They’re things I know will grant me a little space and a little freedom to just be.

And I can’t wait.

Style Dilemma Solved: 10 Pieces, 10 Days

The Alexandria Stylebook team called for volunteers to join their “10 for 10” experiment: 10 pieces of clothing for 10 days. Accessories, shoes, and outerwear? Up to each participant how “hardcore” they wanted to be.

“I don’t have time. I don’t have clean clothes. I don’t like my clean clothes.”

Then I thought about it for a few seconds, without the excuses.

Truth of it is, I’m in a funk. The DayJob is demanding. The Beans have their own demands. Exercise and even eating well, which got me to my #healthyme goal a little over 2 years ago (first post in the series here, and all of them here), aren’t just in the back seat, they’re in the “way back.” I’m up 10-15 pounds from my fit, happy place, where I feel strong and sleek. My closet is full of clothes that fit the strong, sleek me much better than the now me, if at all. I have a few pieces that are more forgiving than others, and I rewear them. Over and over and over.

“So why not?” I thought. I do it anyway.

“But you don’t have time to pick out the 10 pieces,” my scaredy-cat self protested. I was up to the wall with deadlines as it started. I didn’t even know where in our house some of my “old reliable” pieces were hiding.

On that first Friday, though, I got out of bed, got the Beans ready, made my green smoothie, and got dressed. I thought carefully about what I would wear on that casual Friday that wasn’t completely casual (I had meetings).

That first Friday, I picked a simple black sweater (old, a v-neck version here), navy skinny “jeans” (old, but these would give a similar effect) a heathered blazer (similar), and riding boots (similar). I accessorized with a scarf (similar). I figured that I could rewear these three pieces with just about anything in my wardrobe. We’d see.

Saturday, we went skiing, so I “cheated” with cold weather workout wear. Then Sunday, even as I donned my church clothes, I was back to it. I added another piece (a pink shirt, old, but this army green would be a great option), but used the blazer and pants again, building to four.

As I've had most of these pieces in my closet forever, they're not available any longer, but Banana Republic always has a good grey trouser and pencil skirt, and I wore my Aerin booties from The Shoe Hive practically daily.

As the week progressed, I added a piece or two a day, until I was up to the ten. I opted to keep the outerwear, accessories, and footwear out of the count, though in the end, I wore a number of those pieces repeatedly. When it’s freezing cold, for example, I will only wear my one blue wool coat. My riding boots were a staple, and my sole pair (pun not at all intended) of black shoes - black suede booties - even garnered a “You’ve been wearing those shoes a lot,” from H.

I suppose I’m lucky. I work in two different offices, and had at least one day with meetings entirely outside of the office, so no one group of people saw me in the same clothes, even if I wore them 2 days in a row. (I do wonder if other people really would notice duplicate ensembles. Perhaps that’s another experiment.) As early as a couple of days in, I welcomed the limited choices. Not having to go through a full closet of things I didn’t want to or couldn’t wear every morning? The lack of choice felt like pure, comfortable luxury.

Capsule wardrobes are in. Stylists preach “quality over quantity.” Magazines publish article after article about the 5, 10, 15 basic pieces every woman needs to anchor her closet. I agree with all of them. While I love me a good Target find (and will “splurge” on a silly, fun piece like a Grinch Christmas sweater), for years I’ve considered possible new purchases as they fit both into my existing closet with other items and into my lifestyle. Yet somehow I ended up with a closet full of things I didn’t feel I could wear, and found myself freed by the 10 for 10 exercise.

Having 10 pieces of clothing for 10 days (if you can do the math, which I can’t, any longer, there are exponential combinations) was a relief. For where I am right now, having fewer - and carefully considered - choices let me focus on other things (like getting my makeup on daily, though washing my hair is another story) each morning. Looking back, this sort of closet should be a no-brainer for me. I’m the sort of person who can juggle a lot - as long as I maintain certain systems, like putting my purse, keys, and gloves in the exact same place every single time I come in the house. It makes perfect, logical, head-slapping sense that limiting my wardrobe choices when I’ve got a particularly full plate would work well.

Did I feel amazing in every combination? No, I didn’t. I did, however, feel polished and sleek. I felt considered, professional, and elegant. Even on weekends, when normally I’d err on the side of jeans and a T, I turned to my darker, dressier wash (albeit boyfriend) jeans and that original black sweater or one of two button downs I’d added within a few days. By the end of the 10 days, I also realized that I’d turned to menswear. I used a black skirt and a grey and black dress, but those button downs and jackets were straight up off a boy. My favorite ensemble, the one in which I felt the most kick-ass? Chalk that up to the the day when I channeled both Lauren Bacall and Lauren Hutton (and Kate Hepburn, my original trousers-wearing-idol) in a perfectly slouchy silky pink button down and tailored grey trousers.

I started the exercise as a bit of a lark. It became a tool to navigate a stressful time, and emerged as confirmation of my personal style. What I wore is what I love best - it’s what I feel best in, style-wise. In the end, you can take the girl out of...well, you can take the girl out of it, and give her boys’ clothes, but she’ll always add sparkly earrings and kick your ass while wearing red lips. At least this one will.

Would you do a “10 for 10?” What would be in your capsule? What would you consider as you selected pieces?

Bean Style: Sketches From Her Spring/Summer 2014 Collection

I sometimes worry that I'm pushing my love of fashion on her. And then I remember that she's very much her own person, growing and exploring. And that copying her mama is part of that exploration.

So whether she's doing it because of me, or of her own accord, I couldn't be prouder. I'm not proud because she's "doing fashion," but because she's taking something available to her and making it her own.

OK, who am I kidding? I'm in love with the "patteren," as she calls them, and the gloves. Oh, the gloves. Here's just a sneak peak of her newest collection and personal style.

Style Inspiration: Defining Your Style Using Pinterest

"You have a lot of dresses."

"This is so ladylike, I want to sex it up a bit."

"You like earth, don't you?"

All three of these statements came out of DC Style Factory's Rosana - directed at me - last Wednesday afternoon.

As we plowed through my overflowing, unmanageable closet, things made themselves clear. There's more to share, and I'll give more of a blow-by-blow on our experience (hint: we. had. so. much. fun.) soon, I promise, but the crux of it is:

Now that my closet is culled, I can see clearly.

I can see clearly what speaks to me - or rather, what has already spoken to me. It's in my closet. Perhaps I'm an unusual client, in that respect, as I do have a sense of what I like. That being said, I didn't think I knew myself as well as I apparently do. Not only is it on my hangers and in my drawers, but it's also on my boards. Even as I started to pin things for my emerging #healthyme body last year, I knew. I may not have known what size would fit, and I may not have known which new silhouettes I could try, but I knew what I was drawn to.

Then I looked at my Pinterest boards. It was all there. Right here. I have  loads more boards, but the essence of it is there, methinks. (Rosana might take issue with these, but I'll let her tell me I'm wrong.)

So if you're starting to redefine - or even define - your style, my biggest piece of advice, akin to the old-school "cut-pictures-out-of-magazines-and-take-them-to-your-salon" schtick? It's in four parts:

1) Get thee to Pinterest and start a board for your new style, your new closet, your new drawers. Whatever you want to call it, your New You.

2) Pin. Pin anything that catches your eye. But here's the catch: make sure you don't just pin with wild abandon. Note in that comment field what speaks to you. Is it the cut? The fabric? The color(s)? The overall sense of the picture? I usually use a simple formula - literally - to note it (like + like = like).

3) Step away. Don't pin for a while. A few days, a week...let it stew.

4) Look at your boards again. Notice what's there. What pieces, what colors, what broad styles show up? For me, I realized that, after the closet culling, it comes down to 6 elements. Maybe that's too many, but it's a start for me.

When I looked, these boards weren't all together. As I looked through things, and remembered what Rosana said, I saw where my style heart was pulling me:

"Buy Less, Choose Well," a la Vivienne Westwood: This is my new closet mantra, and will, from here forward, define my "Creating a New Closet" pursuits.

Weekends Around Town: I need and want to look and feel good on the weekends as well as during the work week.

One and Done: Dresses: See Rosana's comment above. Dresses are an overworked mama's best friend, with virtually no thinking involved (provided you've shaved your legs recently, of course).

Rocker Chic(k): Personally, I'm drawn to leather and punk. I'm drawn to concert Ts and jeans. This is my indulgence, so to speak. It may not be yours.

Borrowed from the Boys: It may be trendy, but when Rosana asked me to name my style icon, I paused ever-so-briefly, and said "Katharine Hepburn." Need I say more?

Ladylike: I was kind of surprised when Rosana called me out on this. A bunch of the pieces I tried on for her needed "sexing up" or "toughening up" to balance their girly, ladylike look. Then I looked at my Pinterest boards, and there it was. [Hand slaps forhead.]

For me, this exercise alone - using Pinterest to notice my own personal trends - has been helpful. Try it, and let me know if it's working for you. Or if you've found another "style definition" trick, share with us, please?

Confessions of That Skinny Mommy at Kindergarten Pickup

The Bean's kindergarten class threw us one of the Mother's Day parties that were all over facebook and Instagram. You know, the ones where we all snapped the "selfie" of us with our adorable children?

The one with the gifts we'll one day wonder whether we should toss or not? Mine's a marigold that hasn't yet sprouted and a clay bird.

There were bagels (cut in quarters) with cream cheese. There were pretzels. There was fruit salad. There was lemonade and water.

Then there was cake.

The Beans were instructed to serve us our beverage of choice and to get a plate of food for us to share. The Bean did.

There was cake.

As I sat at a table with 2 other mamas, trying desperately not to eat The Cake (I failed), lamenting the cake, one of them said to me,

"But you're so skinny you can afford to eat cake."

I would've stopped dead in my tracks if I'd been walking.

As I told her "It's hard-fought. Very hard fought," and then we went on to talk a little about my Weight Watchers journey, my left-hand column was going a mile a minute: I'm that mommy. I'm the skinny mommy in skinny jeans at pickup the other mommies "hate" because she's effortlessly skinny.

I felt embarrassed. Or was it guilty?

I "hated" me not that long ago.

The other mommy relaxed a bit after I told her about Weight Watchers. She'd thought, she said, that I was one of those people who worked out 2 hours a day. She'd thought I was That Mommy. But once I told her that I struggled - am still struggling (see earlier statement about The Cake) - she felt better. Visibly.

What is it about weight and body image that makes us feel better when we know we're all in the same boat? Why would it not have been ok - or at least less ok - if I were That Mommy Who Plays Tennis and Lunches and Is Skinny?

Why is it more ok that I'm struggling with this #healthyme journey of mine?

I suppose the answer is, at least partially, that we all like to feel alike. We like, as a society, and especially as  American women, to feel like we're all "in it together." No matter how much we say we want to be different, we don't like it when "one of these things is not like the other." Especially when that one thing is us.

One of the reasons I chose to write about my journey here on my fashion blog is for exactly that reason. I, like so many others, struggle with my weight and my health. At a seemingly superficial level, I struggle to fit into the beautiful, fun, and interesting fashions I admire daily on the interwebs. At a less superficial level, I wanted - want - to like how I look and to be That Mommy.

My initial steps in the journey have been faster than many. In my Weight Watchers Online community (and my unfailing support through this whole venture), I've "met" people who have struggled with their health for much longer than I have, and are still fighting to lose even a few pounds, when I've hit my goal weight in less than a year.

But part of what this journey and this community have taught me is that it is all relative. We all have our struggles and battles and have to fight them as we are able. We have to be ready to fight them. Just over a year ago, I was. I was ready. So I started My Fight. The person next to me may not be ready for years - or ever. What is a battle for me may not be a battle my neighbor is even interested in fighting.

We judge so much in our world (yup, going high-falutin' for a few). We judge others. We judge ourselves. We judge ourselves in comparison to others. What we really need, though, is more patience. It's one of the hardest things to find, I think, yet one of the most useful and rewarding practices. "Be patient with yourself" and "be kind to yourself" are two comments that fly readily in the Weight Watchers Online community that has become yet another online home for me. Often, we're not. Often, I'm not. When we're not patient with ourselves, we get frustrated and become unproductively negative. When we are patient with ourselves, we begin to make choices, one-by-one, towards whatever goal we've set.

I'm not good at it. No one is, I think. But I will keep telling myself to be patient with myself - and with others. Then maybe being That Skinny Mommy won't be so scary. To me or to others.

Style Inspiration: Definition of a Princess

A friend posted this facebook status update this morning. The 3 year old and 5 year old are, for the record, rough-and-tumble, t-ball-playing, Stillers-loving boys.

Upon seeing mommy wearing a dress this morning, the following conversation ensued:

3yr old: "Mommy, you're a princess!"

5yr old: "No. Her dress doesn't touch her toes. She's not a princess."

3yr old angered and defensive: "YES. MOMMY IS A PRINCESS."

Me: Remains silent, but twirls, much to the 3yr old's delight.

Yeah, Mommy is going to side with the 3yr old on this. I twirled, therefore, yes, I am a princess.

What's making YOU a princess today?

Image via

Summer Style: Summer Picks to Get Through a Slow Spring

You know me, I'm a Winter Girl, capital "W," capital "G." But I can't help hoping, wishing, and dreaming for our annual weeks Down Tha Shore. While I haven't gotten around to actually really thinking about shopping (though I do need a new bikini or three. And maybe a good, old-fashioned maillot, perhaps with a plunging neckline?), I am daydreaming about our relaxed, easy life at the beach (and how wonderful it would be if it were, you know, Our Life All the Time).

Getting there means packing everything under the sun, despite my dreams of traveling light. But maybe this year I'll get some actual, you know, maps for The Beans to follow along and mark places we've been. Photo via.

This is one of the entrances to the Sea Isle City Beach, oh, you know, about 1000 yards from our place. And yes, it is that peaceful. At least in the off season. My own photo, also here.

We have a jumble of haphazard, unmatching beach towels. And random old sheets. How wonderful would this big bright beach blanket be? Boo. Looks like the site no longer carries this gem, but it does mean that I just discovered Ten Over 6. Bad news for my wallet.

Those COLORS. I'm obsessed with the vividness of this shot, and wonder if I could pull it off. It would be perfectly marvelous for dressing up a relaxed summer look. Photo via.

This is the year I buy a vintagey beach bike. And tool around town. Oh, and maybe buy a beach-y print or two from Ms. Cardinalli, who inked this sweet image.

Ripped, torn, painted, frayed, tied, and relaxed. That'll be me, albeit perhaps a tad less sultry. Photo via.

What are your summer dreams for 2013?

5 Things Every Girl Should Have in Her Closet

This list is not like the rest you'll read about "closet staples." I can't remember the exact origin, but I do remember adding "post re 5 things: silly underwear, fitted concert T..." to my blogging to-do list. I was headed up in the office elevator (I use Out of Milk to track all of this stuff. Or pretend to).

I'm fairly sure I was wearing superhero underwear that morning. On purpose.

So my list of 5 Things Every Girl Should Have in Her Closet goes something like this:

A fitted concert T: Most bands (but not all, oddly) sell them now, and yes, you should spend the dough and get one. At least one. You can wear it with just. about. everything. It's a perfect way to spice up your weekend wardrobe. I wear mine all the time. And, oh, if you can't find a fitted one, maybe you can make one. That's what I tell myself about the PiL T sitting in my closet awaiting my scissors, needle, and thread.

Clockwise, from top left: my Ts, vintage-looking because they're throwback covers, but get repeated play in my weekend wardrobe; Target's a great place to find concert Ts, like this Def Leppard one, and a David Bowie 1974 one I also wanted to put in the post, but it would've been over-the-top, so I'm not including it; Wonder Woman, in comfortable cotton, will still give you kickass power no one else can see; my beloved, and I do mean beloved, Stuart Weitzman Platswoons (I have a similar one in python, and very well might get All the Colors); the Nordstrom waffle weave robe that hangs in my closet; a stack of my own two vintage signet rings, one was my dad's (bottom), and one my parents gave me for high school graduation, having been sitting in a friend's grandparent's jewelry store display case for literally decades with my initials on it (the best of coincidences); a bigger-than-I'd-ever-buy-for-myself necklace H's godmother gave me when we visited her the year we got married, and I now wear in it's Greecian goddess glory).

Silly underwear: I recommend that of the superhero variety. Lots of bloggers will tell you that pretty underpinnings are important. I agree. I also know for a fact that there's nothing better than knowing you have the power of the Webslinger, the Bat, or the Amazons with you while you face some sort of major office demon. Also, as a mama, the Beans get a real kick out of "matching" mama. (We have no derth of superhero stuff in our abode.)

Black patent pumps: again, there are lots of recommendations for a "pair of good black pumps." I'm going to change that. Patent makes everything better. It's sleeker, fancier, saucier, and badass-er. For H's 20th reunion, I tried on a whole shoe department's worth of options (bless the Bloomingdales' shoe man), and settled on the pricey, but perfect, in my opinion (and lots of it has to do with fit, so this one may or may not work for you) Stuart Weitzman Platswoon. From jeans to skirts to dresses...they do it all. Literally.

A robe: A good robe, I should say. Not the one you had in college (I still have the one My Mommy bought me to go to Austria so I'd be both warm and decent living in other people's homes as an exchange student), but one that's all-weather, doesn't drag on the floor, and in which you'd feel comfortable answering the door. Because sometimes you have to. My recommendation? The now-not-as-rare Italian-style waffle weave, which is warm and cool and wicking.

Vintage: This one, again, shows up on list after list. There are lots of us, though, who have neither the time nor patience for in-person or e-bay vintage shopping. Some of us don't have the bodies, either (my shoulders will never, ever fit into a vintage shirtdress, try as I might). Instead, dig out the ring or necklace someone passed to you and you stuffed in a drawer, thinking it wasn't your style. Pull out the ascot you kept because it means something, but never thought you'd wear. Wear something vintage, but wear it with meaning.

Boo! to You! A Peek into Our Halloween

When we live life at the pace we do, we often don't get to relish the moments. With The Holidays coming, I know I won't get to it all. But this year, starting with Halloween, I will.

Halloween might be The Best Holiday Ever. It's childlike, it's imagination, it's vibrancy, it's gleeful, it's creativity. At least it is in my house - always has been. We grew up with My Mommy making our costumes, and then creating them ourselves. I was Wonder Woman, I was a gypsy. When H and I met much later in life, and we threw two massive Studio 54 parties, I was a costume-changing 70s harlot (I had three different ensembles each party. H had at least that many.)

So even in our crazy lives, when I don't get to do All The Mommy Things, I do two things: I bake their birthday cakes, and I make their Halloween costumes. Up til this year, it's meant a quick tulle skirt, an appropriately colored leotard and tights - oila, it's a flower princess, it's Thomas (of Tom & Jerry), it's Tinkerbell! Bean No. 2 hasn't been up late enough yet to bother.

This year, he was unequivocal: Batman. She started with Alice in Wonderland, and I was to be the White Rabbit. That would've required an actual pattern. Needless to say, when we were flipping through the Martha Stewart Living October issue she'd asked in the grocery line if she could buy, and she fell for the makeup on the grownup evil queen demo ("I wanna be that, Mama!"), I was thrilled. And proud. And so, with a lunchtime trip to Joann's Fabric and Craft to buy the fabric and notions, began the creation of the Evil Queen.

She's been practicing her evil laugh and her evil commands. Batman assures me that, if the Evil Queen puts me in jail, he'll shoot her and save me.

"Pumpkin" sugar cookies for the playground bake sale; the flower princess skirt repurposed for the ballet princess at Saturday's class, when they were allowed to wear something other than their ballet uniforms (and we were allowed to watch); a neighborhood home All Done Up (taken by The Bean out the car window)

Creating her crown; the beginnings of the Batsuit; the start of the skirt

Batman's first fitting; the Evil Queen's cape fitting; Grandmom's sewing kit, still in some of the original packaging and the Sucrets tins she used

The skirt nearly final; Batman's final fitting (he wouldn't take it off); the Evil Queen's final fitting (pose all very much her own)

And Mama? I love Halloween (and my Beans) so much that I let them pick: "What should Mama be for Halloween?"

"You witch, Mama," piped up No. 2.

I've got my hat, complete with spidery veil. And you?

Boo!

Personal Style: Wear Your Happy

A friend emailed me the other day, “OK, I admit it, I really like watching Isaac Mizrahi on QVC. It's one of my guilty pleasures...after the kids go to bed, and [my husband] is working away on his computer, I sit and watch QVC.”

First, this gave me pause. I love me some good Isaac, but I had never thought about watching QVC. I have a vision of salespeople (remember that one just a few weeks ago where the co-anchor just went on talking as his colleague collapsed on camera?). It’s oddly a “hometown company” for me, headquartered in West Chester, PA, near where I grew up. One of my babysitters worked there during high school, and even auditioned for a sales job. They had to talk about a pencil - an old school, yellow, No. 2 pencil - for 5 minutes.

But the real reason she emailed me was a coat. Isaac was hawking a coat, and she thought maybe, just maybe, she wanted it.

Now, this friend is (though she’ll demure this description) one of the most stylish people I know, and I’m using “stylish” to mean that I think she regularly expresses herself well with her clothing and accessory choices, and then how she chooses to put them together. Not to mention I continually envy (in the nicest of ways) her hair, which is often in the cutest pixie cut, and when not short, it’s got the curls this non-curly, non-straight-haired girl always wanted.

So when she sent me the link, unsure whether or not to buy a coat she really liked, I was fairly sure I’d love it. She wrote, “I saw this coat recently, and I'm seriously considering it. I like it for a couple of reasons...first of all, that cute bow/scarf. Second, I like the nice, straight lines. Not too super-big, puffy. Third, it seems to be a good ‘mid-weight.’”

Even on my phone, I clicked through.

Isaac Mizrahi Live! Quilted Coat with Adjustable Scarf in Rio Red, image via

Seriously? Love. But that's not really the point.

I wrote back that I liked it, loved the color (she was also considering the grey, which I nixed, if only because, well, hello, a red coat with a bow), and asked about their return policy, since she was still unsure. The policy is apparently ok, but not great (you have to pay for return shipping). My response:

“If it makes you happy, then check the measurement charts carefully (one of my fave side effects of WW is knowing your measurements), and go for it! I think it might make you happy!”

You see, I could just tell from her emails that she loved it. She’s a creative, joyful person at heart, even if strangers wouldn’t see that immediately because she’s fairly reserved. She’s been pushing at her own style boundaries lately (she lost her kid weight just before I did), like when I pretty much forced her to buy skinny jeans that she didn’t think she could wear. (For the record, she now adores them, and doesn’t even feel the need to wear a tunic to cover up what she perceives to be a problem area. For another record, it’s not a problem.)

At this point, I don’t know whether or not she bought the coat. But what this whole exchange reminds me of is that, trends, a chosen personal style, or appropriateness aside, we all need to wear what makes us happy. Sometimes that has to do with a state of mind, sometimes it has to do with a pattern, texture, or color plain old making us smile.

Sure, you need to try things on and look in the mirror. Sure, there are colors that look better on one person than others. And sure, there’s a time and a place for certain pieces.

But go - look through your closet tonight (Lord knows we’ll probably all be looking for stuff to do, what with this #Frankenstorm of a Hurricane Sandy bearing down on us). Make 2 piles: one for pieces that work just fine, and one for pieces that make you smile and grin. Then, take a second look at that first pile, and see what decisions you can make about your closet.

Lastly, go find Isaac on QVC. I know I will be. As a blog experiment. Really. [Runs to set recurring program on DVR at said friend’s suggestion.]

Healthy Style: Learning How to Walk

I originally posted this on my Weight Watchers blog after a TrainerJen workout last week that made me think (ok, most of them make me think, which is part of why I love them so much). There are obvious ties to knowing and understanding who you are, which, in my mind, extrapolate into knowing and understanding your style. See, of course, Stacy London's musings on the topic of understanding yourself and where you are in that moment first before leaping into style considerations. In my mind, there are all sorts of connections in here, particularly when I get to the "foundational" and "pitching forward on my face" parts. But you're all human, so without further ado, I'll let you form your own impressions. So here's the post...

Last week I was all proud of myself for getting my rear end to the gym and doing a solo playdate, a la TrainerJen - but without TrainerJen.

Yeah, that still stands. I saw her for yoga yesterday (all sorts of awesome ujjayi breath and flows from warrior 1 through tree to warrior 3), and then again this morning for our now regularly scheduled 1x/week session. “How are you?” she asked, and I started to blabber on about my a.ss and how I must’ve done more leg work than I thought on Tuesday because it still hurts. Then I stopped and said, “I’m fine, thanks for asking. And how are you doing?” Much more polite and present to do that than blather on about myself, right?

Anywho, we went straight into a workout, complete with pullups (leaning ones, not full ones, thankyouverymuch), pushups, 2-footed block flying (jumping up steps) and frog leaping, farmer walks, and some tortuous overhead pressy things. I was sweating. It was good.

Then she walked us towards the stairs (the cardio equipment is up there, as well as the studios). I breathed a sigh of relief (and didn’t say a word because I know if I said something, she’s say “oh, good idea, let’s do that”) when we walked up the stairs instead of stopping and running up and down said stairs, as she’s wont to make me do.

Over to the treadmill.

Hmmm.

TrainerJen more or less doesn’t believe in old skool cardio. Even when we’re using the treadmill, elliptical trainer, stair machine, or rowing machine, it’s as a 10 minute warm-up at the beginning of a workout - and even that we haven’t done for ages.

On we go. I walk. She pushes incline and speed buttons as I walk. (She never has me run.)

Then she starts to guide me into leaning forward, shortening my too-forward stride, and moving my upper body and arms. Apparently, I don’t know how to walk.

Image via

Or rather, I walk like a girl. We women, it seems, have some weird notions about how to stand “straight.” Sticking out our chests, holding our heads “high,” as I know I thought I was taught to do, well, that just makes us stick out our a.sses. The boys might like the whole T+A show, but it wrecks havoc on our lower backs.

So I spent 15 minutes alternately walking uphill at a slower pace (during which the incline pretty much forced my torso forward to where it should be), trying to release my pelvis (and therefore my lower back) and walking faster at a lower incline (during which I was “practicing” the whole pitching my face forward while I walked thing - because that’s what it feels like). I also attempted to loosen my upper body enough to just bounce it along and swing and reach my elbows and feet back far enough to get any use out of them. I’m not so good at that letting go.

It was a remarkable 15 minutes. I was re-learning to walk. I seem to be re-learning a lot of things lately. In fact, when someone asks me about Weight Watchers, that’s what I tell them: “I’m relearning how to eat well and live well.” What I hadn’t noticed, quite frankly, but it hit me in the face this morning, is that our journey to relearn our lives is as basic as re-learning to walk. It is foundational, and if we get that right, then the rest of it - whatever “it” may be for each of us, will follow. The journey, as basic as it is, is not always simple, and breaking habits to return to our foundations (some of which some of us never had to start) is often heart-wrenching, but it is a basic journey that, if we manage to plod through it and acknowledge what we’re building, we cannot help but be successful.

Crazy Week, Crazy Mama, Crazy Style

It's been, well, a bit insane (yes, I've typed that pretty much every week recently), with quite a few ups and downs. But in between the mama duties and the DayJob, I have managed a little bit of style. So because I'm looking forward to my weekend with excrutiating enthusiasm, here's a look back at my week.

But before we get to my week, let's look ahead at next. There are some pretty cool style events, namely the opening of a Brand New Nordstrom Rack in Tyson's and the District Sample Sale. I'm hoping I can make it to the former's opening/blogger preview on Monday, though it's a haul for me from the DayJob, as I lurv me some Nordstrom Rack. Tuesday's been on the calendar forever, and I had my calendar reminder set to buy my DSS VIP ticket as soon as they went on sale. Watch this space over the weekend or Monday for a "how to DSS like a pro" post.

Lastly, don't forget the Swap N' Shop next Saturday. I did a quick post earlier this week on Dewdrop's most-sought-after-swap event. Be sure and check it out.

Top row, L-R: Prompted by TrainerJen's newsletter article and my friend's guest post while we were away, about updating your workout gear, I did (via Target, of course), and then was shocked at the guns I had; the guns spurred me to try my boots with skinnies, which I hadn't been able to do, ever; The Bean, my own personal Supergirl, is a happy kindergartner; my event "pregame" has changed: a nutrition-packed smoothie before heading out for the night

Middle row, L-R: A cicada wing The Bean found, which I expected would be her favorite part of the day, but wasn't - it was "chasing the boys on the playground;" my first "dressy shorts" venture, which was a huge hit, thanks to more Target style and some vintage touches; the set up for a Suri's Burn Book book party PR shot; my +1 for the book party, dear friend @travelinjames, rockin' the retro glam (and paying for our parking meter before our lovely Kaz Sushi dinner)

Bottom row, L-R: all smiles as he showed me his seat from his first partial day at preschool (the #sadmama #proudmama tweets were abundant this week); The Bean and her dear friend walking home from school, lead by Bean No.2, all with umbrellas against the sun; my pile o' sleeping babes in our bed, so we could break down his crib and assemble the Big Boy Bed in its place last night (more #sadmama #proudmama); this morning's colors, in the hopes of getting through today's insanity