It was 6th Grade, and I insisted upon doing my own hair for picture day–the oxford and blazer were part of the uniform, but the hair? All mine. I was arguing with my mother about it out the door, and I know what Lane-has-been-crying face looks like–that’s it. I remember standing in line for my picture and realizing that all the other girls, from the neck up, looked like they’d been styled for a wedding. From the neck down, we looked like a Green and White episode of Facts of Life the Middle School Years. One of the teachers asked me if my mother had forgotten it was picture day. The photographer pulled out a comb and made a tent flap in my bangs so that my eyes would show. I felt a sting of regret. My mother had been right. I should have let her fix my hair. But, I wasn’t going down like that. Oh no. I held my wooby, little head high and said I meant to look that way, and that I liked it. Pride. Proud. Defiant. When the pictures came home, my mother was grim. It was the only time in my life that she ever asked for retakes. She called the school and asked for retakes. For what it’s worth, I look back on the day with pride. Still proud. Still defiant. I was twelve, and I had hot rollers. Don’t give a kid hot rollers, if you don’t want her to use them. It’s also funny how dark the picture is. My hair looks auburn, and my blazer looks black. My hair was strawberry blonde, and my blazer was a medium green. Today is picture day at Thor’s school. Last night, after telling me he’d like me to go buy him a black suit, white shirt, and fancy tie to wear (far too late in the day to even think of making that happen), and after going through several mental wardrobe changes until we got down to shorts and a polo shirt, he woke up asking for a tie. He had to wear a tie. It didn’t matter that it didn’t match. It didn’t matter that it was too long. It didn’t matter that he was wearing it with a polo shirt. He. had. to. wear. a. tie. I put one of B’s ties on him, and it was like turning on the Christmas lights. That kid was proud. Delighted. He stood in front of the mirror for a long time, declared himself very cool, wetted down and tamed his own cowlick, then went to find his shoes. Of all the shoes he could choose, he came out of his room with his plaid Vans. Proud. Delighted. I did point out the problem with mixing a white, blue, and pink striped shirt, with a navy, gold, and olive dotted tie, and red, white, and blue plaid shoes. He said, “I think I look cool.” I thought, “He’s watched too much Doctor Who.” I said, “You are cool.” He said, “You need to call me Mr. B because of the tie.” I said, “All right, Mr. B, grab your backpack and let’s go. Your close-up awaits you.” When he looks back at today’s picture in 30 years, I want him to be able to say, “That was such a great morning.” It’s his school picture. He should be happy. We’ll be going to buy him a tie that fits. 
He does look cool.
Tag: fashion
It was 6th Grade, and I insisted upon doing my own hair for picture day–the oxford and blazer were part of the uniform, but the hair? All mine. I was arguing with my mother about it out the door, and I know what Lane-has-been-crying face looks like–that’s it. I remember standing in line for my picture and realizing that all the other girls, from the neck up, looked like they’d been styled for a wedding. From the neck down, we looked like a Green and White episode of Facts of Life the Middle School Years.
One of the teachers asked me if my mother had forgotten it was picture day. The photographer pulled out a comb and made a tent flap in my bangs so that my eyes would show. I felt a sting of regret. My mother had been right. I should have let her fix my hair. But, I wasn’t going down like that. Oh no. I held my wooby, little head high and said I meant to look that way, and that I liked it. Pride. Proud. Defiant.
When the pictures came home, my mother was grim. It was the only time in my life that she ever asked for retakes. She called the school and asked for retakes.
For what it’s worth, I look back on the day with pride. Still proud. Still defiant. I was twelve, and I had hot rollers. Don’t give a kid hot rollers, if you don’t want her to use them.
It’s also funny how dark the picture is. My hair looks auburn, and my blazer looks black. My hair was strawberry blonde, and my blazer was a medium green.
Today is picture day at Thor’s school. Last night, after telling me he’d like me to go buy him a black suit, white shirt, and fancy tie to wear (far too late in the day to even think of making that happen), and after going through several mental wardrobe changes until we got down to shorts and a polo shirt, he woke up asking for a tie. He had to wear a tie.
It didn’t matter that it didn’t match. It didn’t matter that it was too long. It didn’t matter that he was wearing it with a polo shirt. He. had. to. wear. a. tie.
I put one of B’s ties on him, and it was like turning on the Christmas lights. That kid was proud. Delighted.
He stood in front of the mirror for a long time, declared himself very cool, wetted down and tamed his own cowlick, then went to find his shoes.
Of all the shoes he could choose, he came out of his room with his plaid Vans. Proud. Delighted.
I did point out the problem with mixing a white, blue, and pink striped shirt, with a navy, gold, and olive dotted tie, and red, white, and blue plaid shoes. He said, “I think I look cool.” I thought, “He’s watched too much Doctor Who.” I said, “You are cool.” He said, “You need to call me Mr. B because of the tie.” I said, “All right, Mr. B, grab your backpack and let’s go. Your close-up awaits you.”
When he looks back at today’s picture in 30 years, I want him to be able to say, “That was such a great morning.”
It’s his school picture. He should be happy. We’ll be going to buy him a tie that fits.
He does look cool.
Hot Mama
Anyone who has ever done the school run in the morning can tell you that some moms look like they have just given up on life. Anyone who has ever tried to get a child to school on time has probably felt like giving up on life, so who can blame them when their sartorial choices reflect having had to chase a child around the house cajoling, begging, issuing warnings and threats until finally shuttling them into a vehicle to transport them to school?
I am sick. Sick, sick, sick. Swallowing feels like I have hemorrhoids in my throat. So, for the second time this year already, I have given up on getting dressed to drive Thor to school. Please note my outfit:
I am wearing B’s windshirt, which is 4 sizes too large, over my green nightgown, over cropped leggings, with a pair of children’s Hungry Caterpillar socks (so stretchy!), black ballet flats, and Birth Control glasses. I look hot. Hot like I am running a fever and need to be quarantined.
This is one of the things I love about Polyvore: No matter what I am wearing, so long as I can find a picture of it, I can build a set to show you what I am wearing. It’s like paper dolls, only you are your own doll.
Mixing It Up
Want to see what I am wearing today?
Let’s talk clothes.
I’ve been mixing prints for a while now. I grew up in a world where you wore print as an accent, and always with a solid, never mixing stripes with dots, or plaid with florals, but I think all those cute little, mixed-print dresses you see in the Zulilly type ads for girls seeped into my brain and suddenly, I find myself actively seeking prints to mix.
For me, the trick to mixing prints is color and size of print. Your colors have to match or blend impeccably, and your prints need to be of very different sizes. For example, I wouldn’t match a big floral to a big plaid. I would match a tiny floral to a big plaid, or a big floral to a tiny plaid. I probably wouldn’t match florals and plaids at all, actually, unless I was using the floral as an accent on the plaid. I could see a floral necktie, or waistband/belt on a plaid jumper dress, but not a floral top with a plaid skirt. Chloe Sevigny? She can see that, and it looks good on her. Not on me.
The other night, to the play, I wore a mixed-stripe cardigan over a floral dress. I liked it. Thor approved of it. It certainly got some looks. Whether or not other people liked looking at it is up for grabs, but I was happy wearing it, and that’s really what matters.
Fit, when you’re wearing prints, is also very important. If it is a rosebud, you don’t want it stretched out to the point it looks more like a carnation. (I used to have this glorious gored skirt–it was white with huge pink rosebuds on it. Apropos of nothing, other than that I love rosebud prints.) Now, I am not one of those “never wear horizontal stripes unless you are thin” people, however I am a “wear white whenever you want to” person, so take my opinion for what you think it is worth. If you are going to wear horizontal stripes across your hips, make sure the fabric drapes smoothly from the widest part of your hip, otherwise you can end up looking like you have big rubber bands wrapped around your body. My look, today, comes courtesy of teensy stars and chevron stripes, and the Misses and Maternity section–my skirt is a maternity skirt. No, I’m not pregnant, I just like some maternity clothes. I think it is actually a well kept secret that the only difference between maternity pants and skirts, and regular pants and skirts is the waistband, and the ease across the hips and thighs. There is some cute stuff in the maternity section! Maternity pants/skirts are cut to fit an expanding belly (by offering stretchy, often fold over waistbands–think about your favorite yoga pants), and wider hips and thighs (by offering a more relaxed cut across the bum.) Thus, if you’re looking for a fit that accommodates some junk in the trunk, and you don’t mind a more casual waistband, the maternity section might have something for you. This is especially true if you aren’t quite big enough to fit well into a Plus Sized cut, but are a skosh too big to be comfortable in a Misses Sized cut. (Now, if someone will just make a button down shirt that fits a big bust without looking like a button down tarp…)
The Ugly 70s
I finally finished reading Girls Like Us, and I’ve got 5 stars for it. I won’t write a proper review of it right now because I’ve only just put it down about half an hour ago, but a little conversation I’ve been having on Facebook has outgrown its venue and I am moving it over here. And that conversation? The ugliness of the 70s.
This is where my Facebook conversation started: Even attractive people were not attractive in the 70s. It was impossible to be truly attractive from about 1970 through about 1986. The 70s were to American style what the ages of 12 to 16 are to most children. Awkward. Pimply. Greasy. Brace-faced. Gross.
I was born in 1970. The year of the Dog is right. Dog ugly. Everything was vinyl and polyester. The most fashionable colors were avocado, harvest gold, apricot, and brown–even in summertime! People wore bell bottoms, leisure suits, terry cloth, and collars so long and pointed they could touch the edges of their shoulders. Carpets and hair had the same shag styling. Miss America looked like this and Elvis was fat.
The 70s was a sweaty decade. Everyone always looked slightly overheated. In part, due to the grotesquely shimmery makeup that was popular, and in part due to the fact that the most popular fabric was a non-breathing synthetic. You couldn’t help but sweat. You couldn’t help but look like you needed a shower. And the hair…oh, the hair.
70s hair is infinitely worse than 80s hair. Yes, 80s hair is large and overprocessed, but 80s hair is also largely clean–or, at least it is easier to hide a greasy scalp behind 3 inches of teased bangs. In the 70s, with everything parted down the middle, you could just–yuck. Okay?
And on television? Was there an attractive man on television? I know there were attractive women because I watched Charlie’s Angels and Wonder Woman with a religious fervor, but think how much better looking those shows would have been, had they been initially produced today! I mean, Farrah? Farrah in her prime taken outside the 70s? She would have been too much for television. In a way, I suppose we were fortunate that the burgundy blush, and frosted eyeshadows toned down her hotness. We’d have been all sweaty for a different reason.
I did have crushes on David and Shawn Cassidy, Andy and Barry Gibb, and Dirk Benedict (as Starbuck–the only Starbuck, thank you.) But even as a child I understood that their pants were freakishly tight, their hair unflattering, and their satin Members Only jackets gauche. You worked with what you had in the 70s, and what I had was poofy-headed, tight, sateen pant wearing, hairy-chested pretty boys.
This post… I started this post 3 hours ago, then went searching for a picture from a yearbook. I got sucked into classmates.com, where there are yearbooks online, then ancestry.com, which is like crack cocaine to me. I couldn’t find my Kindergarten yearbook picture, then I remembered that my picture was so bad, it was not included in the Kindergarten section of the book. I had a massive cold sore that ran from inside my lower lip, halfway down my chin, covering the entire lower left side of my mouth. They took my picture in profile and it was still visible. I sport a lovely scar which is nicely apparent when I get overheated. I guess the school didn’t want people to think they let lepers go to class.
My first grade yearbook isn’t online. Thus and so, I give you my second grade picture, taken in 1978. I look really happy to be there, don’t I? Oh, there’s a story behind that one. But not for tonight. I need to get off this computer before I turn into one!
The Outside Lane 
