Riches to Rags

Stemming from an incident with my father, on which I will not elaborate, my mother established a rule in our house that once clothing had been consigned to the "polish tin" (ie. was only useful for polishing shoes) it could not be retrieved. Along those lines, I feel that my husband's fleece, which I have just spent the last 20 minutes debobbling with an electric shaver, has lived a good life and must be replaced. But my husband thinks otherwise.

Once, he actually asked me to darn his socks! His $5/3 pairs Target socks no less. If it's a small hole - or minor pilling - sure, I'll have a go but where do you draw the line on repairing clothing? What is the effort:result ratio I should be pursuing?

This winter I have inexplicably gone through the toes of every pair of dark socks I own. My feet haven't busted through like the Incredible Hulk, but it is weird that they all went at the same time. They are so bad that I didn't even consider darning them, even if I knew how. Anyway, nobody wants a sock bump. I'll have to go and buy a slew more and throw the others out, wasteful or not.

Maybe I'll be green and keep them for sock puppets (NOT).

Clothes Encounters

We were invited to a family party two weekends back - no, I'm sorry, per the invitation it was an "event" - and far too late to do anything about it, we discovered that our older daughter has absolutely NOTHING to wear except sweats. We cobbled something together out of clothes of mine that shrank in the wash (I swear) and vowed to go shopping together the following weekend.

So last Saturday we went to the mall. The problem was, neither of us knew where to shop anymore. Gap was too "young" for her (really? 'cos you're 10), Crewcuts was too fussy and designed for stick figures, and Justice was just plain nasty (my eyes actually hurt from all the tacky colors).

Finally, we found Abercrombie and, as I would have been at her age, my daughter was in heaven: Skinny, stretch jeans, plaid shirts, cute cardies, tiered skirts, Justin Bieber blaring (Baby, Baby, Baby, Oh!), a miasma of perfume wafting through the air!

We grabbed armfuls of clothes and headed for the changing rooms where we were stopped short by a very ditsy shop assistant who informed us that only one person was allowed in the changing room at a time.

"But I'm her mother and I want to see how everything fits!" I spluttered.

"It's store policy ma'am" (Oh no you didn't!).

The policy is probably aimed at tweens/teens on a shoplifting spree but this girl clearly couldn't work out the difference and I didn't feel like pushing it. She said what she was told to say. I guess a store that sells padded bikini tops to seven-year-olds really has a pretty twisted view of the world.

Of course, we'll go back.

One-Piece, Won Peace

It's pool club season. Time to make peace with the whole bathing suit thing. I'm not just talking about me and and any issues I have with my body and being in a bathing suit. I also have to get used to seeing other people in theirs.

I grew up in the city. We spent our summers at our country house (passing grey poupon, natch). The people I saw at the beach I only knew from the beach. Seeing them in bathing suits each summer seemed totally normal.

Now I go to the pool with some of my nearest and dearest friends, along with some hi-bye friends and some people I only vaguely recognize from town. For most of the year I see all these people fully clothed: winter coats, scarves, big bulky sweaters, jeans, boots. Now, all of a sudden, we're all in bathing suits.

It feels more naked somehow.

Are You Looking At My Bum, You Cheeky Monkey?

Call me old-fashioned, but I never really understood the appeal of those short/pants with writing on the backside. Do we really need to be drawing sicko attention to this fairly private area? I remember laughing hysterically with my father when we saw a girl with 'PINK' splashed across her bum and he said, 'Well, at least it isn't 'BROWN'! (Sorry UPS). Not the effect she was after I'm sure.

Once, at the gym, I saw a very heavy woman wearing a pair of shorts that said 'Rhand' on the back. Hmm, I thought, I'm not familiar with that school, I wonder where it is. Then she bent over to extract something from her gym bag - an image which, in and of itself will forever haunt me - and I saw the full picture: Rhode Island.

Welcome to Jamaica. Have a Nice Day!

Warming Up

All winter long I miss my summer clothes. Day after day it’s the same story: sweater, jeans, boots. Oh sure, I might change it up here and there and wear—gasp!—cords; but, really, by the end of December I’m practically on auto-pilot. Sweater, jeans, boots.

But, what’s this? It was 70 degrees here the other day. I raced to bust out the flip flops. And then I was like, wait-- what the hell did I wear all last summer? After spending 25 minutes trying to find something, ANYTHING, to put on my body, I had the same wake-up call that I have every spring: the one nice thing about my winter wardrobe is that it hides a multitude of sins (muffin top, lazy shaving habits and scary toes, to name a few). Ugh. And it all looks even better with pasty white skin. The groundhog would see me, go snowblind, and stumble back into his hole.

So, I got my pedicure, my waxing, and a new diet plan (deets on that to come). I pulled out the bins of cute dresses and skirts and tops (how I missed you black Carve from-poolside-to-dinner-out dress…). Presto. I’m all geared up for warm weather.

The only problem is that we’re back to 50 degrees. Yup. Sweater, jeans, boots. That’s okay. It’s coming. And I’m ready. I do love summer.