Category: Style

2the9s, Style

Lashing Out

the outside lane

I have been gabbling about getting eyelash extensions since I knew such a thing existed, but who has $250 to spend on fake lashes? Other than the cast of True Blood, whose ladies’ lashes look like they might be wearing four or five sets a piece. Last month, Groupon ran a coupon I couldn’t resist, and I snapped up a full set of extensions, plus a lash tint for $89.

In the wild, my lashes are a very good length, but they are so blonde they might as well be transparent. See:

I very rarely leave the house without mascara. Nothing against rabbits–I just don’t like looking like one.

The lash tint took about 10 minutes, and was fine. My technician, Vanessa at the Lash Lounge, daubed my lower lids with vaseline and stuck eyepads to them to keep tint from staining my skin. I closed my eyes onto the eyepads, and she went to work painting tint onto my lashes. I blinked and got a little tint in my eye, and it burned like the dickens, but she rinsed me out with saline solution and all was well with the world.

Once my lashes had some color, eyepads replaced with fresh ones, I closed my eyes and chatted with Vanessa while she laid in lashes one at a time. It was comfortable and pleasant, and I dozed off a couple of times. If the client across from me hadn’t had an unhappy dog in her purse (what puppy wants to sit in a purse at a lash salon for two hours?), I might have gotten a nap.

Some of the lashes going in tickled. Once or twice I felt a poke, as if being pricked by a tiny broomstick, but otherwise, it just felt like someone was playing in my eyelashes.

The result? Definitely worth the Groupon and most likely worth follow up appointments.

Lancient History, Style

Chairs, Children, and Feet

the outside lane

Lest you think I only buy clothes at Ross, here is a picture of our new chair. My in-laws graciously gifted me with a nice-sized Ross gift card for Christmas, and I used it toward the purchase of the chair and ottoman. After seeing so many people in my living room with no place to sit, I decided it was time. Ross had a chair that matched the color and texture, if not exact style of our loveseat, so I bought it. The ottoman has storage space, and I’ve put a couple of our lap throws in there. We are a family who loves blankets.

The throw on the chair was a wedding or Christmas gift–I don’t remember which. We have used that thing like crazy! If you’re reading this, and recognize it as a gift you gave, THANK YOU! BLESS YOU! Who knew how much you could love a throw?

You see a little red carpet on the floor. We don’t have a dining room table in our townhouse, so we use the coffee table for dinner. Thor has a wee, miniature leather dining room chair that sits on that carpet. That way, if he has a spill, we can just clean it up easily. That is his abandoned breakfast milk on the table. I love that kid.

So, I bought the new chair and ottoman, and I also bought a pair of boots.

When I was small, we lived in Virginia. Right there where the A is, though the treeline was much less robust 30 years ago. Geez! 30 years ago. Anyway.

You see the water line behind the treeline? We had a dock that slipped out into the water, and that water ran a ring around our entire neighborhood. It was lengthy. And, in the winter, it often froze over.

Once, when I was eight or nine (it was the 70s, there weren’t daycares or drop-in care gyms on every corner), Mom was forced to leave me at home during a stretch of snow days. She came home to check me on her lunch hour, and called frequently, and an elderly neighbor was keeping an eye out that I didn’t burn down the house, but otherwise, she had no choice but to trust me (now, a mother myself, my heart really goes out to her.) I was pretty fearless, and also pretty stupid. I thought it would be fun to play in the snow barefooted. I also thought it would be fun to go walking on the frozen water. After my naked toed explorations, and after having fallen through the ice twice, yes, twice, I ended up with some frostbite on my feet. Not bad, and nothing that required immediate attention, but I didn’t even tell Mom about it until years later, so she couldn’t have taken me to see a doctor anyway.

Thirty-some-odd years later, I am still suffering for those poor choices. Three toes on my right foot, and two on my left are always much colder than the others. Frequently, my feet are so cold it actually hurts. In the winter, my feet ache with the cold. You will not see me without socks or slippers when temperatures drop below 75, unless I’ve just gotten out of a foot defrosting, hot bath. I thank God for the person who created microwaveable slippers and socks!

In the winter, I really don’t care how ugly the footwear is. If it is warm, and if it will keep my toes from feeling like they are about to snap off, I will wear it. I have a hideous pair of knock-off Uggs, and responded to a Jezebel.com story about those with the comment, “I don’t care how ugly they are. You can pry them off my warm, toasty, dead feet.” I’ve almost worn those $12 beauties out though. So, last night, when I saw what looked like warm boots, I went to inspect.

I am now the happy owner of a pair of Skecher Shape Up Boots. I do not care if they shape or don’t. They have a thick sole that will keep my feet far from the cold ground, have a thick inner lining, and are also surprisingly comfortable. And warm. Oh, they are warm!

What they are not, is pretty.

That fur cuff rolls up, and that’s how I am wearing mine as I type.

Come March, I will find myself in a strange funk, and I will realize (as I have done for years) that it is because I have been wearing ugly shoes for too many months in a row. I will try (as I have done for years) to find shoes or boots that are as pretty as they are warm. Maybe one day… Until then, I will just walk around in boots or shoes that make my feet look like stuffed animal hooves. And I will be warm.

2the9s, Style

Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s Only 39 for a few More Hours

the outside lane

Tomorrow is my birthday. I am turning 40. I’ve never been the type to shy away from my age, or from aging. My life has only gotten better as I have gotten older. I wouldn’t trade the arse I had at 17 for any of the knowledge I have now, even though that was one glorious arse. A casting director liked it well enough to put it in a pair of Lee jeans for advertisement. (Your friends never believe you when you point out a random, faceless backside and yelp, “That’s my butt!”)

My teens were the usual random horrors. My twenties were spent confused, hurt, and misguided. My thirties were fantastic. I spent seven years out of my thirties married to B, and two more dating him. I’ve had Thor for the last half of the previous decade, and nothing will spice up your life like a Thor. In the last couple of years, I have regained the self-confidence I lost somewhere around 21.

I am still surprised to realize that I’m not 17. I am surprised when my body won’t give me the output it did just ten years ago. I am surprised when it hits home that I am the adult with a child, not the child hanging out with adults. It’s funny to think that when my mother was 40, I was 12. I’m 40 and Thor is 5. I got a late start!

Oh, I am always taken aback when I look down and see these grown-up hands. But none of that is bad. It is all very, very good.

I feel like I am young enough to still do the things I want to do, but mature enough to properly estimate the level of importance to place on each desire. I am good at prioritizing, and good at keeping balanced. My memory is going south, and that’s a fact, so I need to start doing brain teasers or something to stimulate it. I’m looking forward to the next ten years.

And as a Hobbit style birthday present from me to Kim, here’s what I’m wearing today.
The shoes are actually a different style by Maripe, but are very similar to the Maripes pictured. Mine have a pointy toe and the buckle strap runs vertical to the ankle. Obviously, my earrings and ring are not nearly so expensive as those pictured, but one style is quite like the other.

2the9s, Style

Waist Not, Want Lot

the outside lane

I think I may have posted about the difficulties of changing your wardrobe along with changing jobs, but I don’t remember. Once it’s written down, it’s gone. No recollection. Actually, these days, once it is spoken it’s gone. I repeated the same thing to my husband last night without blinking. He said I used very similar inflection. I’m like a droid with a malfunctioning chip.

I digress.

When I left Posh Car Company, I was two years invested in a high profile business casual wardrobe. That meant I had a lot of really nice heels, good dresses, skirts, and trousers. Laid off from that job, I realized the folly of having rarely purchased anything that would not double for work wear. I invested in maxi dresses (the fashionable woman’s caftan) and lost my waist. You don’t realize how much your waistband works as an appetite suppresant until you spend two months in a muu-muu, then try to zip up your jeans. Oi!

My next job was at the Frat House, where the dress code was jeans and elderly metal band t-shirts. 4″ heels worn with wiggle dresses did not blend. And there was that whole 10lbs of jiggle I had added to my wiggle during the layoff. I bought some jeans and a few casual tops, enough to last for the few months of my contract there, but I never quite got my wardrobe under control.

I spent another two months on the job market, this time wearing my jeans because a) it was winter, and b) I wasn’t making the no-waistband mistake again! I went to work for Best Bank in Town, and that was decidedly professional. Hose required. Well, none of my pre-maxi dress debacle clothes fit me anymore. I had to transition again. With the help of Ross and the Norma Kamali line at WalMart, I did okay. I had just gotten my clothes into the shape I prefer when we started our move, and I started a new job.

Guess what? Business casual.

Once again, I find myself looking through my things wondering, “What am I supposed to do with my Joan Harris Hollaway dresses now?” Because I like to blend in to my office environment, not stand out like my former high school Vice Principal, who was known for her wearing of tea-length, spangled versions of Stevie Nicks style gowns, nosebleed high heels, and prom hair to do her walk throughs during lunch hours in the cafeteria. But I also want to feel purty.

Another issue is that it is winter again, and I am freezing, and I don’t care about being cute when I am cold. I only care about being comfortable. If cute happens to happen, bully for me, but my main concern is that my toes are warm.

All that to say, I am culling my wardrobe again, trying to find what works. So far, I’ve got it down to a few nice pair of trousers, and a couple of tops. I need more tops, but I have to find what works best on me. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

Meanwhile, today I am wearing a grape colored twin set over gray trousers, with pewter maryjanes on a 2″ heel.

Style

Clotheswhores

the outside lane

BODY { BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; FONT-SIZE: 10pt; MARGIN: 4% 10%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; DIRECTION: ltr; LINE-HEIGHT: 1.2; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; FONT-FAMILY: verdana; BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffffff } TABLE { FONT-SIZE: 10pt }

I think I have mentioned the penchant I had for dressing like a baby streetwalker in my late teens, yes?  Yes.  Well, between Hottie Fired Banker’s cleavage and Miley Cyrus’ crotch, I’ve been thinking a lot about clothes and what they mean lately.

All of us judge books by their covers.  Most of our initial attractions and reactions to people have everything to do with the way those people look.  When the scruffy looking guy on the corner starts walking to my car, I assume he is going to ask for money because my experience tells me that scruffy looking guys on corners are frequently panhandlers.  When the man with the frosted tips and Ed Hardy shirt approaches, I expect him to be unsavory and full of himself.  I expect the cute girl with the plum colored hair and nose ring to be able to tell me the hottest indie bands.  I expect the beefy guy in the hockey jersey to know sports.  I expect the girl with the Dior bag and Pucci shift to know fashion.  I expect the bleach blonde with the crunchy perm and tube top to sing some white trash version of Shania karaoke. 

I expect these things in the same way I expect a uniformed police officer to protect and serve, a uniformed fire fighter to fight fires, a uniformed soldier to know how to put together a rifle.  I expect these things in the same way I expect a WalMart greeter to greet, a Starbucks barista to barist, or a black bedecked Toni & Guy stylist to know how to razor cut.

It is wrong, of course.  Uniforms tell you what someone is paid to do, so the expectation is fair.  You expect someone who is hired to do a job, to be able to do it.  Personal clothing choices may only tell you what was the last thing clean on laundry day, but the expectations still exist.  That you would select a particular item of clothing from all the available options speaks to your likes, and your likes speak to your dislikes, and with strong enough choices, one shirt can speak of you as a perceived whole.  (Which is why my mother would never let me wear slogan t-shirts.)

Our sartorial choices tell a story.  Our style places us.  Our clothing gives a Cliff’s Notes version of who we are.  (Anyone who ever tried to pass a college course on The Divine Comedy using Cliff’s Notes knows exactly how ineffective those can be.  Don’t ask me how I know.  I got a D, all right?)  And I write that to make the next statement:

I have said before in Arwen’s blog, regarding professional dress codes, that no matter how unprofessionally a coworker dresses, your responsibility is to remain professional in your response to the coworker.  There are acceptable and unacceptable ways of reacting to the looks and attire of the people around us.  You don’t get to make an ass of yourself just because you can see half of someone elses.   

No matter what our fashion-based expectations are, there are standards of conduct to which we must hold ourselves. 

For example, no matter how much like Julia Roberts in the opening scene of Pretty Woman a girl might look, she is not "asking for it".  (Unless a woman actually "asks you for it", you should assume that she does not want "it".)

My response to Bai Ling’s states of undress, to Travis Barker’s tattoos, to Taylor Swift’s sequins will tell you a lot more about me than Bai’s exposed nipples will ever tell you about her.

I invite you to watch me on that wise.